#it’s hard to mop up human soup

[cosssmicthing]

“who’s got you smiling like that” shut the hell up. nobody. no one. look away. now look into my eyes. you are going to walk away - hey, keep looking at me. you are going to walk away slowly and i will watch you carefully, any wrong step and you’re a goner, okay? you will pretend you saw nothing, and we’ll continue life as normal. you’ll never catch me smiling over *anyone*, got that?

i luuuuuv donnie :3 long snout donnie is frankly underrated, he’s just a little guy. but one day ill try to draw a future donnie and ill try to make him look hot and stuff, watch out for that!

(my sister drew the comically small cat)

[drowning-in-cacophony]

what a shame

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 241: Hour Of Denial

[Summary: if only she could stop living in denial]

She lies for the whole hour.

Perhaps she doesn’t see it as lies. A veritable river of them, falling like a waterfall gone rancid. Once pure waters now tainted forever, a sticky dark sludge that, left unchecked, would run to pollute the world. It had, for a while, before they’d come in, stopped this.

This hour had had high hopes, some sort of confession, the answers they need. When she looks at them with bright, feverish eyes and tells them, again and again, that it wasn’t her, that she doesn’t actually know what they want. Perhaps that’s a lie that she’s spun for herself. It wasn’t her that grabbed the land with an iron fist, clenched the fingers in so hard the ground burst and wept, like mothers losing their young babies. It wasn’t her who dragged people through the streets and clapped them in chains so strong it’d ache just to look at them. She doesn’t wear that name anymore, Empress. She’s been reduced back down, like a soup set to too high a simmer, the base syrup in the bottom of the pan. Below all who she hurt before; it wasn’t her who did it all.

Delusion, denial. The human mind will resort to many things to keep secrets buried, to spare punishment.

They’d hoped for candour, though. Something that could help them build the land back up better, with all the keys from her reign. The answers to the riddles left baked into twisting towers, the solutions to the bubbling acid forest pools had been turned to. Otherwise, they’d be set back years, mopping up the mess she’d left, but of course. Of course she’d keep this last easy step from them, her last deliverance across the land in revenge for them catching her.

The clock ticks on, seconds down a tube, the hour wasting to endless denial. It wasn’t her, she repeats endlessly, like her throat will never go dry. It wasn’t her, it was just her face, but isn’t that truly the same thing? Half of them tune it out in the end, only keeping their ears perked for actual answers as they repeat the questions. How do defeat the sphinx crossed the main travel path? How to unspell the library doors to release the knowledge? Where are the twenty two hundred men who passed through these halls, never to be seen again?

The same questions; the same answers.

Perhaps it is them in denial. Others had decried this a pointless endeavour. Do you really think she would do anything to help? they had said, shaking their heads. Anything she says will be lies. Perhaps they had been too earnest, too hopeful, too optimistic. Yet they had to try, if only for the land’s sake. To restore it as quickly as possible; is that not the ultimate goal? The answers are locked inside that skull of hers, held prisoner by a pathetic mouth.

If you let me explain- she tries to say, but they understand it well enough.

The hour drips to its final minutes. Tension rackets through their shoulders, so they press in for one more hopeful dive. They ask her to stop the lies, to think of the land. Doesn’t she want to try redeeming herself? Isn’t what they’d give her, a small token for her willingness, enough to buy her answers? Lying only guarantees the worst for her, and surely she understands that.

Her fingers curve around the chair’s handles, bond white, teeth gritted as she hisses, again and again, I can’t tell you what you want because it wasn’t me.

But that’s just a lie, so when the last moments drizzle away, they all step back with a sigh.

It’s a shame she couldn’t get over her denial. She’ll have to live with that thought for the rest of her miserable existence.

And that, at least, is a truth. There’s not going to be anything good about what follows next.

[winterbrrrd]

World Famous Sam G

Sweet Sam takes me down

To his place by the highway

And it’s hard to find the portal

So you’d better go the right way.

And his hair is long and silver

Like Salvation Army givers.

And he takes what he is given

And he finds in it a kingdom

Of sweet faces made of soup cans

And long hair of mops and ribbon.

And I find him in the 40s,

In his 50s, starts to shiver

At the cold wind from the north

Blowing from home way down to Georgia,

Where he stands there in that doorway,

Framed by statues like at Biltmore,

But not stoic like a rich man’s,

More like whimsical and magic,

More like robots built of trash cans,

More like beauty in the outcasts,

More like home for someone like me,

Someone alien,

Discarded,

Someone made of trash and junk

Like broken toasters and old washers,

Someone made by Sam’s own hands,

The son of Sam,

Sam’s only daughter.

And I swear I’m not a killer

And my father isn’t either

But he’ll rearrange your furniture

If you mess with him

Or hurt his holy daughters.

Please, Sam, don’t be alarmed

By these words I weave like afghans

Crowding my small living room

In search of small morsels of comfort.

It’s a metaphor,

Open front door

Your paintings by the masters,

Not like Rembrandt

But like dancers

Who just dance because they have to,

Like possessed by something other,

Like an alien abduction

Never leaving your own bedroom,

Only rearranging bedsheets,

Only rearranging pillows,

Leaving you in upside down land

Where the smiles turn to frowns

But then you stand back on your head,

Remember evil dies as dead

As your goodwill.

So be good,

Be good like Sam is,

Be good, goodness,

Go and love him.

But take no shit from the monkeys

In your head

Or the post office

And when Christians cut your hair

When hair was down below your elbows,

Simply ask how much you owe them,

Pay the 15 dollar charges.

Don’t let them raise the hell

They swear they saw in you -

That’s their own haughty sin.

Sam down by the highway

Tells me his most cherished stories

And I tell him some of mine

And we meet beside the doorways

Of the angels like sweet Junior

With his castle made of marbles

With the words born in his head

Just like an unstoppable weather,

Like a storm of good and evil,

Like a storm of god and Satan,

Like a storm of seeing visions

That the world ain’t entertainin.

And in Junior and in Sam,

I see my father and grandfather,

Souls connected like orange freckles

Forming peaches like in Georgia,

Where sweet Sam stands in his doorway

And his dog runs out to chase us,

Takes a ball from Backyard Terrors

And with teeth, she does deflate us,

But the magic of such moments

Is that magic comes from moments

And there’s art in each deflation,

Art in every single turning

Of the big mill wheels of chance

That brought me here to Sam’s own doorway

Where I breathe in his creations

Like an incense straight from China

And I look around in awe

At this small world that he has forged

With his own hands

And his quick mind

And with the love and disappointment in his heart.

Oh Sam,

I cannot stress the full extent of our connection,

Cannot paint the perfect gods I saw rise up in your direction,

Cannot craft the perfect poem to capture how, with you,

I felt like I was home.

Love is not a dollar,

Love is not a Supercenter,

Love is not a finite resource

Like crude oil or trees or rivers.

Love is everywhere you look

If you can look in the right places.

Love is in the naked mannequins,

The robots and the faces.

And the love is there cuz Sam is

And Sam loves because he has to,

Despite all the disappointment,

All the cold misunderstandings.

I think Sam loves cuz he knows the opposite of light is frigid

And it’s dark down there and soulless and he’s been there on that boat,

Yes he has rowed within the darkness,

In the ravages of human,

In the sea of crying souls,

In the screaming out for Jesus.

And Sam found his little lighthouse,

Realized it was a river the whole time.

He dragged his boat ashore

And made some people out of oars

And he spoke to them so kindly

And, like Wilson, he adored them,

And they taught him then what love is,

Love is realizing you’ve always been home.

Sam is in his home now,

Curled with Mama kitty, likely,

He’s reflecting on his day,

Arranging inspiration nightly

Like a yard museum of love,

Of everlasting, aching love

That will withstand every bulldozer

And live on in those who know him.

Sam’s love will live on in me

And will live on in my own daughter,

Will live on in wooden scraps that

He gives out to his familiars.

I’ll carry Sam now with me daily

Til the day that I move onward,

And I’ll love him like an angel,

I will love him like a father,

I will love him because love is all we’re left with

When they tear the forests down.

Sam heard it and so I did

Because I heard Sam so fully

And I mourn for his lost trees,

But I know that he will surely

Find a way to plant another

And another and another

And soon trees will grow like love

In every son and every mother,

Like this single mother staring

At the paintings on the wall,

Knowing that I am here with love

And love is here with me,

For love is all we are.

[ahungeringknife]

January 5

Usually when a star child pops out they’re beautiful. Etheric. Graceful. They take after their exo parent more than their human one. It’s just how the genes roll. The home across the stars always finds them so interesting. A marvel of biology that two species from different star systems could reproduce and make something that was the best of the sum of its parts. There aren’t many of them and they always end up as minor celebrities on whatever world they decide to call home, lavished by elite and invited into the inner circle of those of status.

And then there’s me.

I’m the spitting image of my human father’s sister except for the eyes. Everyone always assures me the eyes are enough. They’re crystalline. The worst aspect I could have inherited living on Earth. Earthlings usually find the crystalline eyes of their Ozea friends to be unsettling. You can’t watch the eyes and know what they’re thinking they say. And everything else about me is bog standard human. Thick brown hair, thin and fragile skin, and with none of my mother’s height or elegant features. Not that she even cares. Not that she doesn’t always call me her little miracle anyway. So at least to someone I’m a marvel of biology, even if its only to my parents.

Growing up was weird. Kids didn’t know what to bully me over. If they even could bully me for something. I don’t have any siblings, most star children don’t, but I got enough Ozea cousins to make school yard bullies nervous. Especially ones that were in the same school as me. In my cousins’ minds the only people allowed to tease me about my crystalline eyes or that I look like aunty Jennifer is them. Which. That’s fair I guess. I like making fun of their pea soup colored skin or their weird webbed hands or how Lajoak has purple bumps on his arms or Gasgri’shla’s little tuft of hair she’s so proud of makes her look like a 20th century Troll Doll.

Now I just wear sunglasses wherever I go and my life is that of a perfectly normal human. Marvel of biology and the sunglasses are prescription. Most star children have human like eyes so their eyesight is impeccable. Ozea eyes don’t see the best in open air and neither do mine. So I need glasses to correct for them. At least people don’t ask about them once I say their prescription other than the curious ‘why not just get them fixed?’. Lasect doesn’t work on crystalline eyes and Ozea never developed the need for corrective eye surgery. Their eyesight doesn’t degrade except out of water or high moisture atmospheres like their home world.

I went to college and got a job. My name’s known in the circles of other star children but they never invite me to anything. I don’t look like them. I don’t look special. So there’s nothing to celebrate. After watching more than one crash and burn out in the lime light I’m glad I can just scoot under the radar. No one looks too hard at me and my boss gives anyone who tries to make me remove my glasses out of ‘professionalism’ the ass chewing of their lives. Something like his second cousin is married to a Ozea. No baby but that’s not a surprise. Marvel of biology and rarer than anything else.

I live alone near work. The job pays well enough I can get somewhere nice. There’s a coffee shop nearby I always go to and they know my order. It makes me happy when I walk in and they already have my order rung up and half made. Makes me feel like a little celebrity.

There’s a new cashier today. I’ve never seen him before and he’s staring at the POS like it will tell him the secrets of the universe. Who knows, maybe it will. Either way his trainer isn’t around. He looks my age, maybe a bit older. His skin has a strange quality to it I can’t place. It’s dark and shiny but not like how a black person would over moisturize or even cover themselves in baby oil. He’s also wearing tinted glasses hidden under a mop of hair and a hat he has to wear. But he smiles when I come up and asks for my order.

“Just ring them up with a medium latte,” the barista calls from down the counter as they’re foaming some milk for my drink. “I already got it made.”

I smile. “A- yeah- okay,” he fumbles and quickly punches in the order. I pay normally. “Is it bright out today?” he asks to make casual conversation as the barista is finishing my drink. “It was dark when I started my shift,” he sighs.

“It’s a little overcast,” I say.

“Oh. I figured it’d be sunny out,” and he casually adjusts his glasses. They aren’t tinted as darkly as mine, more amber than black.

I decide he’s cute enough to startle as his coworker brings over my latte. “Nope. Candice has a brighter smile than outside,” I say as I take the latte. Candice beams at me and I lower my sunglasses just enough to wink at him, showing my crystalline eyes. He just gapes at me while Candice goes ‘ohhhh’ like I did something particularly impressive. Then before I can leave with smug knowledge I surprised him he snatches the glasses off his own face and it’s my turn to stare.

Crystalline eyes stare back at me. I’ve never seen another star child who takes after their human parent except the eyes. But he’s a little older than me. His ‘marvel of biology’ of a birth would have been all over the news before I was even born. And it explains the sheen to his skin. I didn’t get that from my mom but plenty of other star children do. How’d I miss that?

He puts his glasses back on and covers his crystalline eyes. “Have a nice day,” he says like he didn’t just turn my life inside out.

“You too,” I say and leave the cafe to Candice giving him grief for being weird to a customer. How am I supposed to go about the rest of my day without thinking about that guy with eyes like mine? I hope he’s at least as half distracted about it as I will be. I’m already thinking up excuses for my boss about my lack of productivity today as I head to work.

Deep Water Prompt #2868

Star children are half human, half elsewhere. The lucky ones find fame on their second planet. The unlucky ones end up like me. 

[justavulcan]

Make Your Tieflings Fiendish (3)

The final part of the project, for now.  Mordenkainen’s Tome of Foes gave us a huge assortment of fiends to work with, so what if your grandparent was one of them?  I’m leaving off the demon lords and unique or archdevils on the basis of their being unique individuals, but that still leaves an absolute bestiary’s worth.  So, what if your fiendish grandparent was a…

 Akilith Demon? You’re either weedy and thin or absolutely massive, bulky like you grew to fill the space around you. Your skin looks greenish and mossy somehow, and always seems to glisten with a thin sheen of sweat that leaves a sharp chemical smell in the air.  If you’re lucky you’re proportioned like the mortal side; if not, your limbs might be different lengths as though they grew until they couldn’t fit.  Your eyes are likely stark red, and you may have a useless extra one or two spotted about.

 Armanite Demon? You might be easily mistaken for a centaur; if you are, your lower body is tawny and hardy, and your hooves seep with something dark and ichorous; you may or may not leave a trail wherever you trot.  If you haven’t your grandparent’s hindquarters, your legs are certainly still equine, powerful and muscled through the thigh and ending in a dark hoof.  Your horns curve out from your temples and back to meet near the crown of your head.

 Bulezau Demon? Your face is likely goatlike, with some mix of long pointed ears, horizontal pupils, a thick ruff about your neck, and a billy’s beard and horns.  You’re wiry no matter your strength, and your cloven hooved feet find natural purchase on sheer surfaces.  If you got the worst of your grandparent, you’re given to taking ill, and often show the marks of some illness or other- boils, scars, pox marks, and other such features mar your greyish, pallid skin.

 Dybbuk Demon? You’ve the look of a rotting corpse about you, or worse show your grandparent’s true face.  If you’ve the corpse, you look dead walking, bloated or shriveled to nothing like a body well on its way to decomposition, with the coloration to match.  If you were less lucky, you look like your grandparent in their own form- a ghastly pallor tints your skin, which might even be translucent to show the working parts beneath.  Your hair is long and grows thin and tangled, forming natural dreadlocks or tendrils. You’re far too flexible in either case, with hypermobile joints all over your body.

 Maurezhi Demon?  Your skin hangs slightly loose on your frame, as if it were too large for you.  While this is strange to look upon at rest, you can pull and contort it into shape, giving you a fair range of flexibility with your features.  Your teeth are hard to hide, though; stout, bone-cracking things, and too many for your mortal parent’s side to account.

 Molydeus Demon? You tower over your mortal parents’ kind, with skin the red of fresh blood or new red earth, and you’re solidly built, thick through the trunk, thighs, and shoulders.  Below the neck, you’ve little hair; above it, your face is nearly hidden behind a thick gray wolf’s coat of fur, and you might even have the snout and nose to go with it.  The beginnings of a second head sprouts from one collarbone- either the barest peek of a snake’s snout, or the whole first foot of a serpent body, long enough to wear tied as a necklace and withered to uselessness.

 Nabassu Demon? Your inky-black skin is scaly and lustrous like an oil slick.  Glowing yellow eyes and short horned nubs leave little doubt of your heritage, and your shoulders are thick with the muscle to support the vestigial wings or remains thereof.  You have a hunger in you for something hard to name, and demons and some other tieflings feel a momentary chill looking upon your face.

 Rutterkin Demon? You were a mistake, and you look it. While your body isn’t as twisted, random, and nonsensical as your ancestor’s, it’s still just wrong to look at- arms with extra joints, mismatched limbs, odd lumps and twists in your skin and bone, and misplaced fingers, teeth, nails, and non-functioning eyes tell the tale of your abyssal heritage loudly.  You grow little hair, and your skin varies wildly in color across your body, as if your sculptor couldn’t decide what would be the most fitting tone.

 Sibriex Demon? Your head is the best-developed part of you, and that’s not a good thing.  Your mouth is uneven, your nose crooked, and your eyes heterochromatic if they’re not even more distinctly differentiated by mismatched size, shape, or pupil type.  Bloated and misshapen, you bear the marks on your flesh of chains that you’ve never worn. Boils, spurs, discolorations, and random patches of thick, coarse hair litter your whole body randomly, and below the neck your body feels like an afterthought, added on after the artist’s work was done on your head.  Fused fingers and toes, uneven limb lengths, loose flaps of skin, misplaced bits of nail or scale, and a generally varying skin color mean that even if you have siblings of the same ancestor, you look little alike.

 Wastrilith Demon? Your most striking feature are the spined fins sprouting from your head like a lionfish in place of hair.  They’re scattered across your body, down your spine especially and perhaps at your elbows and knees.  Your skin is hairless, scaly and a sick lavender-maroon shade, and your hands have thick yellow nails that run to claws if you’re not careful to keep them trimmed.  You might have webbed hands or fused fingers.  You’re built long and lithe, with bulky back muscles and shoulders that make you a natural swimmer.

 Abishai Devil? You could be mistaken for chromatic dragonborn, but your arms are too long, almost to your knees, and you’re far too lean to be a full-blood dragonborn.  You have bulky back muscles as though you were meant to have wings, but if you do, they’re useless for flight, and mostly get in the way.  Your tail, if you have one, is long and active.  Rather than proper hair, you might have a head full of tendrils forming a messy mop about your shoulders.

 Amnizu Devil? Your rubbery pea-soup green skin is the greatest mark of your ancestry.  Your mouth is perhaps a bit wide for your mortal parent’s side, and you can’t grow any hair at all, but otherwise you could easily be mistaken for any other mortal. It’s your bearing that sets you apart- you radiate authority like someone in a position of power, and your demeanor seems effortlessly, seemingly supernaturally charming.

 Merregon Devil? You’re built like a soldier, tall and sturdy with a straight spine and dark gray skin.  Your face is oddly ill-defined, as though someone didn’t care to give you real facial features, but it sits well because you have an instinctive urge to cover your face.  Your voice is soft and may be ill-used- your grandparent’s blood leaves you with a distinctly nonverbal tendency for communication.

 Narzugon Devil? You were born to the saddle, and your body tells the story ably.  You’re small and light like a jockey, and you likely have bow legs and have since you were born.  Your skin is an ashen color and your eyes the red of flame, and if you’ve a tail or horns, they’re stubby and ill-defined.  When you ride, you draw the eye, a subtle hint of your grandparent’s command.

 Nupperibo Devil?  Your grandparent did you few favors by managing to reproduce.  Your head is tiny in proportion to your body, and you have the kind of broad, clumsy bone structure that makes it difficult to move.  Flies and other buzzing insects find you appealing, and so you are constantly bothered by them.  You’re nearsighted, hard of hearing, or both, but your senses of smell and taste are sharp as a blade, which helps you fill your endless hunger.

 Orthon Devil?  You are built like a barrel, with a thick torso and matching arms and legs- indeed, you are almost as wide as you are tall, with thick, elephantine legs and arms like tree trunks.  Your skin is ashen or sallow but basically a normal human skin tone, and you grow little hair.  Your most dominating facial feature is your tusks- your lower canines are long enough to protrude from your jaw when your mouth is closed, and you have an underbite.

 Howler?  Your face is fairly skeletal; naturally lighter skin covers your face, making your eyes and mouth stand out.  Your eyes are like as not black through the sclera and red in the iris.  Your throat is a dark, sullen red and you may even have a throat pouch you can use to make your voice really boom or carry.  The rest of you is top-heavy, with stout shoulders, a narrow waist, powerful thighs, and a short, naked tail it’s best to wear wrapped around your waist. You’ve no hair, but may have a line of thin spines from the crown of your head down your back.

 Canoloth Yugoloth? Your features are fairly bestial, from back-bent knees like a dog’s to a distinct snout and thick jaw full of stout, sharp teeth.  Your most distinct feature is your tongue, which is at least a foot long and is covered in small thorny protrusions; your sense of taste is supernaturally acute. Your skin is stark crimson, a muddy yellow, or somewhere in between.  Built like a bulldog, with a thick neck, stout shoulders, and barrel-like body, you’re not large so much as you are wide, almost as wide as tall.

 Dhergoloth Yugoloth? You have more arms than you ought to. Not working ones, mind, your fiendish blood doesn’t run strong enough for that, so arms three through five are an encumbrance rather than a blessing, and must be worn under clothes or lopped off to keep them out of the way.  Your shoulders and torso are oddly shaped to account for the extras, sort of a lumpy, squashed pentagram.  Your skin’s an olive-green color and faintly iridescent if not chitinous.  While you’ve no horns and little hair, hiding your pure red compound eyes is a challenge. Thankfully you probably didn’t end up with mandibles.

 Hydroloth Yugoloth? Your skin is pebbled and rough like a toad’s, and that same look marks your face, which is wide and set on a neck that seems too short and wide.  The effect overall is that you have no neck, and your wide mouth and broadly-set eyes add to the toad-like look.  Your fingers and toes are webbed and long, and your thighs are thick as tree trunks to spur long jumps.  Your memory is excellent, bordering on photographic, and you sometimes wake from dreams of lying on the bottom of a dark river, feeling comforted.

 Merrenoloth Yugoloth? You’re a gaunt one, and pale too.  Your face is sunken, with hollow cheeks, deep-set eyes, and drawn lips, giving you a profoundly skeletal look.  If you grow hair, it’s only around the sides, never on the top of your head, although a long but thin moustache or beard grows naturally.  You never get seasick, and the feel of planks under your feet, swaying gently with current or tide, feels more natural than the motionlessness of solid ground.

 Oinoloth Yugoloth? Your skin, already an unhealthy bruise color, is often pocked with boils or buboes, which while harmless to you are unsettling to others.  You otherwise always seem ill somehow, with a persistent cough, constant sweat, or low fever.  You have horns that curl out and forward slightly from your temples, and your nails are long and a natural crimson color- they also grow like weeds, forcing you to chew or clip them constantly.

 Yagnoloth Yugoloth? You’re distinctly lopsided to look at- the fact of the matter is that one arm is much larger and stronger than the other.  Curiously, it’s not the one you use for writing- that hand is small and delicate, slender for fine work like writing contracts.  Whatever the case, your shoulder and pectoral on the larger side are similarly bulkier, which may lend your torso a bit of an unnatural twist.

 See the original post here and the second post here.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Holiday Feast (Good Omens Fic)

As part of @do-it-with-style-events Ineffable Gift exchange, a fanfic for @5ftjewishcactus who requested Ineffable Wives, South Downs cottage, Jewish Omens, Ace, and Crowley with chronic pain. I hope you like the result!

(Full fic available on AO3)

--

“Is that all of it?” Crowley asked, setting down the last bag of groceries and trying to discreetly rub the small of her back.

“Yes, I think so.” Aziraphale was already hard at work transforming the cottage kitchen into one of her trademark chaotic messes. The grocery bags were mixed with more bags from every curiosity shop and fancy boutique in the village, and the angel flitted from one to the next, tossing everything she needed—and a number of things she didn’t—onto the counter.

Flour, oil, eggs, yeast, sugar, butter, boxes, bags, jars of jam and honey. Over the next few hours, she would diligently transform the jumble of ingredients into an entirely different chaotic mess, spilled powders and broken shells and sticky finger marks on every surface. But while the kitchen became a nightmare, the dining room would be filled with latkes and sufganiyot, rugelach and knishes, kugel and challah and roasted chicken with matzo ball soup on the side.

Aziraphale adored holiday cooking, or really any excuse to cook, but she went really wild when she had a theme. She’d spent most of the last month hunting down every Jewish recipe she could find, planning a meal for the first night of Hanukkah that could have fed a dozen humans.

Of course, there weren’t a dozen humans coming, just one angel and one demon enjoying their blissful retirement, but Crowley didn’t mind. Everything the angel prepared with her own hands was delicious, brimming over with the taste of her love.

What she did mind was cleaning up afterwards. Miracles always missed something, so she’d have to spend half the night sweeping and scrubbing and mopping up spills, scouring the countertops before the detritus of cooking could turn hard and irremovable. Already she’d spent half the day dragging herself through shop after shop, trailing behind Aziraphale on her endless search for creative recipes and the perfect cheese and ever more useless kitsch to clutter up their home—

Taking a deep breath, Crowley pressed a little more firmly on the base of her spine. It made the sharp pinch worse, but the pressure lessened, the feeling that her pelvis was being crushed like a soda can. The tendons in her hips seemed stretched out, exhausted from hours of trying to angle her legs so she could approximate a regular human stride. Now there were pains shooting down her left thigh towards her knee, and the right felt as though someone had reached in and given everything a good twist.

But none of that was Aziraphale’s fault. She didn’t know Crowley had woken up today with her ever-present pain elevated from a two to a six. She didn’t know that the bench outside the market was too hard and made her legs cramp up worse. She didn’t know how every step for the last hour had felt like knives in her feet and legs and back.

And she wasn’t going to know.

Crowley pasted on her most brilliant smile and slid her arms around her wife’s waist, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “I’m gonna catch a few episodes of that Golden Girls marathon while you cook. Anything you need before I go?”

“No… no, I think this is everything.” She turned to give Crowley a quick peck at the corner of her mouth. “Thank you, dearest, for indulging me today. I’m afraid I did get rather carried away.”

“Nah. How did we ever survive without angel salt and pepper shakers? Or a dozen felted sheep?” One more kiss to her angel’s head and Crowley turned gratefully towards the sofa and at least an hour of blissful boneless sprawl–

“Oh! I almost forgot. Can you get down the menorah and candles? I can set them up in the dining room while the dough rises.”

Biting back a groan, Crowley glared at the far wall, counting to ten to keep the annoyance out of her voice. She didn’t quite succeed. “What’s wrong with the four you bought today?”

“Crowley! Be serious. I can’t use a menorah made from a plastic dinosaur for the actual candle-lighting. We’ll need the proper hanukkiyah, that nice silver one. It’s on the bottom shelf. And make sure you get those new blue candles.”

“Ffffffffffine.” She turned stiffly and smiled. “Love you, Angel.”

But Aziraphale was already busy spilling flour everywhere. “Love you too, dearest.”

The little pantry stood between the kitchen and the living room, with food and collectibles and books shoved in every cupboard with absolutely no rhyme or reason. The menorahs were, indeed, tucked in the corner of a bottom shelf in one of the cupboards under the counter. But, because the universe never failed to give Crowley a hard time, the candles were on a shelf well over her head.

She glared up at them, at least a dozen boxes lying on their sides, trying to pick out the one with blue candles. Probably that one on the left.

It would be easier to crouch down and get out the menorah. Might even feel good. But then she’d never want to stand again. Just curl up on the cool floor…

“For Sssomeone’ss sssake!” she hissed at herself impatiently. “Jussst get the damn box and get it over with.”

As soon as she lifted her arm, she felt the muscle tugging back to her spine, adding a little bit extra to the day’s pain. It was fine, though. Fine. She braced her other hand on the countertop, rose up on her toes, and stretched out, reaching—

The pain in her back flared, a line of fire briefly racing from knee to shoulder—

“Fuck!”

(Read the rest on AO3)

[whump-cravings]

Enthralled - 4

previous

1,391 words | Original work

Content: partial nudity (non sexual), pain, imprisonment, fear, vomiting (brief), drinking blood (vampire), profanity, worrying about transphobia and fantasy racism

Tseth breathed in. He... hurt. Dry mouth carefully parted, he breathed out. He was blearily aware of sheets, a bed, blankets, beneath and atop his still form. He smelled like venom.

Several minutes passed before he could force his laden eyes open. A white wall greeted him. He closed his eyes, the movement pressing tears free to sting down a cheek and off his nose.

The scent of blood kept him from slipping back into a haze. Slowly, every movement a battle, the dhampire pulled blankets aside. He laid there on his side for a minute more before working up the will to roll onto his other side and confront his situation.

The room was small and unadorned. A small nightstand was next to the bed, with two red plastic cups resting on top. As he pushed himself upright on a trembling arm, he saw soup in one and a few ounces of blood in the other. Getting settled, he picked up the broth and smelled it. Chicken. Probably unadulterated. He took a careful sip.

It was cold and hit unpleasantly, making Tseth's stomach growl angrily and cramp. He shut his eyes, holding down nausea. Once the wave had passed, he set the cup down, rubbing his eyes.

Looking around again, he saw a small adjoining room with no door. A half bathroom laid beyond. It was a good thing he didn't need to use the toilet, because he wasn't sure he could make it there. He glanced up, noticing two cameras watched him from different corners of the room, recessed into the walls.

He shook his head, returning his attention to the cups. Maybe if he could eat something more, he would feel better. He just had to get it down. Bracing himself on the counter, he poured some of the broth into the blood to make a 3:1 ratio. Then, after working up a little bit of strength, he tossed the mixture back.

He set the empty cup down. Only a few seconds later, he stumbled off the bed, knees hitting a wooden floor as his legs buckled. Everything came back up, burning on the way. Ow, fuck. Tears dripped from his nose onto the ground as he heaved a few times before he could crawl away.

He was only able to get a few feet away before his strength gave out and he collapsed. The taste of bile lingered, and he shook as if he was freezing but his entire body was flush with heat and sweat.

Soon, a lock clicked and the door opened. Tseth's eyes snapped open and he tried pushing himself upright.

It was the vampire in the doorway. Fangs, that was the name he'd given Tseth. Ridiculous—as if anybody would ever name their vampire kid "Fangs."

"Don't move," he said, dark eyes impassive.

Not like Tseth was having much success, anyways. He fell back down, warily watching.

Satisfied, Fangs moved inwards. He held a bucket in one hand. Going down on a knee near the mess, he methodically took cleaning supplies out of the bucket before lining it with a plastic bag. He snapped on some gloves.

"You can't just chuck back when you haven't eaten in days," the vampire chastised while mopping up with paper towels.

Tseth bit back a hot retort, instead electing to not respond, tucking his head down.

The vampire peeled off the gloves and tied the bag shut when he was finished. He dropped it off to the side before reloading the bucket. Then he looked up at Tseth and stood, taking a step closer.

Alarm jolted up Tseth's spine. He pushed himself back while hissing wordlessly, spine hitting the nightstand.

Fangs stopped, hands up and open. "You look like you need help getting to the shower." The vampire seemed genuine, and that he didn't immediately forced Tseth into being manhandled was a point in his favor.

Tseth wavered with indecision. Had he been given any kind of bath while he was out? He didn't know. All he could smell was the venom in his sweat. It would be so nice to shower. But it would also mean getting naked, wouldn't it? Or at least being wet and not having anything dry to change into. He had boxers on—his own boxers, even. Had they been on when he was strapped to the table? Had they seen him naked? Did they know? Did they understand what the scars on his chest meant? Would they care? But he couldn't take the risk that it would make the situation worse, could he?

He shook his head, trying to get upright again. With the help of the nightstand, he was able to sit up. Swallowing, trying to erase the burning in his throat, he said, "What did my grandparents say?" His brow was creased with effort it took to form the words.

Fang's mask slipped momentarily, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "Grandparents?" He fetched something out of his pocket, tossing it into Tseth's lap.

The dhampire flinched, too slow to move before the thing had already settled. Hands weak and shaking, he found the oral anesthetic. It took him only a moment to decide to get some on his finger and onto his gums. The action gave him time to think, and fortunately it helped clear away the taste of sickness.

His grandparents were the ones with money. That had to be the reason he was kidnapped, right? They found out somehow... Vlad overheard something while he was talking to them? Somehow connected him.

Grandma was right, he reflected miserably. I shouldn't have left home.

"The ransom demand," he said, feeling the numbing agent immediately start its work. Some tension eased from his shoulders, agonizing pain fractionally reduced. "Have they responded? How much did you ask for?" He didn't actually know how much his grandparents had, but it was like a lot. Not billionaire a lot, but a lot.

"I can't tell you that," Fangs said, face clear again. "Do Tylenol or ibuprofen work for you?"

Frustration built at the man's answer and change of subject. But he wouldn't turn down the opportunity for non-venom painkillers. Pulling his legs to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them. "A dose and a half of Ibuprofen. Please."

"And do you like chicken or beef more?"

Also not a question that hurt to answer. Eating was important. "Beef, and I eat green smoothies for other nutrient requirements. No milk." As Fangs nodded, Tseth pressed his luck. "Please, can't you tell me anything? Who's your boss?"

Fangs bent to pick up the bucket and trash bag. "Be back in a few." He left, lock clicking behind him.

Tseth leaned his head back in frustration. He couldn't get a read on the man. The other one had seemed more than willing to hurt Tseth into compliance, but Fangs... Were they doing good cop bad cop, maybe?

Worry scratched at the back of his mind. Was it standard to maim a ransom victim right off the bat? You only did that when you sent the body parts to horrify people into paying, right? I've got to stop getting my criminal knowledge from action movies.

His grandparents would pay for him in a heartbeat if they could afford it, he had no doubt. Or send a private rescue team or some shit, but either way, they would get him out.

But Fangs had seemed confused. Was it possible he wasn't here because of money?

He wiped his forehead, nervous. Only one other thing set him apart from the general populace.

Half-breed. His hands tightened on his legs. Was that a slur when he was the only one he knew about? Vlad had certainly said it that way. Betrayal ached in his chest. His roommate had never been particularly chummy, but never in a million years would he have imagined...

He swallowed, tears in his eyes again. You knew a vampire called Vlad was sketchy, moron. It was just so hard to find people chill about a vampire roommate.

If he was here because he was half-vampire half-human—

It's got to be because of money, he told himself, running a hand through his hair. Please let it be about money.

He didn't think about the fact that he'd already seen the face of one of his captors.

taglist: @lettuceknighted

next

[gureishi]

day 4: first time in the longest time

Here’s day 4 of the Human Again prompts. For the master list of all the ficlets, click here.

SaeyoungXReader, T (innuendo and general flirty shenanigans), words: 1790

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜

You can’t sit still. 

The hotel room is excessively large—more of a suite, really, with its own little dining nook nestled against a bay window. It’s objectively larger and nicer than anywhere else you’ve lived recently—or maybe ever. But it’s still very much a hotel.

When was the last time I stayed somewhere that felt like home?

You pace the perimeter of the room several times. You sit on the bed, stand again, smooth out the wrinkles in the blanket. You go to the window, open the curtains, look out, close the curtains.

You wonder how much time has passed. You check your phone. Ugh. Three minutes.

Perching on the edge of one of the chairs, you stare at nothing, trying not to chew your nails or look at your phone again.

Any minute now.

The last time you saw him was breathless, desperate, fleeting. He came unexpectedly, early in the morning, and he didn’t tell you what he was planning to do, but of course you knew.

“We might not get to see each other for a while,” he said then.

“It’s okay,” you responded, because what else were you supposed to say? You kissed him hard, and he kissed you back like he was trying to absorb you.

It feels like forever ago.

Thanks to Jumin, you’ve been living in this almost uncomfortably lavish hotel instead of the apartment, which—though now free of bombs—is full of confusing memories.

And the hotel really is nice. The rest of the RFA has been coming to see you. Things are peaceful. But…

But you’ve been going, going, going for so long that the idleness feels unsettling. And you’ve missed him. Oh, how you’ve missed him.

He’s protecting everyone, as always—keeping Saeran safe from the emotional burden of seeing you, keeping you safe from whatever danger Saeran still presents to you. He calls a lot, sometimes in the middle of the night. But you’ve gotten so used to feeling his body curled against yours at night, and the hotel bed feels gigantic. You keep thinking you see his reflection in the windows.

Your phone buzzes in your hand, and you promptly drop it. 

“Here,” his text says, followed by a string of hearts.

You trip over yourself trying to get out of the chair and can’t help but laugh. You can only imagine what you look like, hopping on one foot as you try to get on your other shoe, stuff both arms into your coat, and grab your bag all at the same time.

The trip downstairs in the elevator (packed with people in suits—Jumin did pick this hotel, after all) feels like it takes an eternity. You force yourself to cross the lobby at a measured pace and push open the heavy door to the outside. You scan the street and, amidst all the taxis and black luxury cars, there is his insane souped-up silver Lamborghini.

You take a few careful steps and then think, oh, screw it, and break into a run. The driver’s-side door opens and you catch a momentary glimpse of his mop of red hair before you catapult yourself into his arms.

He laughs gleefully, and the familiar sound fills you up like a warm drink. He easily scoops you up and you wrap your legs around his waist and bury your head in his shoulder.

“Hi,” he murmurs into your hair.

“Mmph,” you say in response, your mouth pressed against his neck. You drink in the scent of honey and salt and that special sweet-spicy aroma that isn’t anything in particular, just Saeyoung scent.

He giggles and, one arm around your waist, nudges your face up with his other hand. He’s got on some unnecessarily fancy sunglasses, which you push up on top of his head before pressing your lips firmly against his.

He kisses you back fervently, wrapping his arms tighter around your waist and pulling you into him; your feet still haven’t touched the ground. You part your lips the tiniest bit and he bites your bottom lip, tugging it with his teeth. Your heart does a somersault.

Finally, you pull away to catch your breath and take him in: his cheeks are pink and he’s got this hazy look in his eyes, like he doesn’t quite know where he is. You know the feeling.

Saeyoung lets you down, giving your thighs a tight squeeze as you slide out of his arms and onto the sidewalk.

“Miss me?” he asks, flashing you a brilliant smile.

You smack his arm. “What do you think?

“I think you missed your God Seven soooo much,” he sings, bending over to kiss the tip of your nose. “What’s a poor girl to do without her Defender of Justice at her beck and call?”

“Slowly disintegrate into a pile of goo,” you say seriously, holding onto his hoodie strings. He nods sagely.

“A common side effect,” he replies, his hands skating over your hips.

“Mmmm.” You close your eyes and lean in for another kiss and he meets you eagerly, pulling you into his chest with both hands on your waist.

It’s easy to get lost in him. Everything about him is intoxicating to you—his scent and his grip on your waist and the concrete evidence that he’s real and he’s here and he’s holding you.

Loud honking breaks the spell, and you reluctantly pull away, panting.

“Awww,” Saeyoung whines, gazing down at you. “I could make out with you in the street all day.”

“We can make out any day, anywhere, babe,” you respond, casting a self-conscious glance around you. There are a lot of people here.

Saeyoung leans down, and you automatically rise to your tiptoes, expecting another kiss. Instead, he nuzzles your ear with his nose. “I’m gonna hold you to that,” he whispers. Then he bites your earlobe.

You squirm, your body responding instantly. Heat pools in your belly, and you relinquish your self-restraint, reaching for him. He grins wickedly and dodges you, skipping around the car to hold open the passenger-side door.

“Patience, my darling,” he sings, and you want to smack him again or possibly tackle him to the ground right there.

Instead, you follow him around and slide into the polished leather seat as gracefully as you can.

“You better drive fast,” you say, and his face breaks into a wide grin.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜

Saeyoung drives on the highway one-handed, his other hand resting on your thigh. He plays the radio loud and sings along, and you watch the particular way the afternoon sun hits his jawline.

“It feels kind of nostalgic, being in the car with you,” you say, leaning back into the sun-warmed leather.

“I was thinking that too,” he says, squeezing your leg.

You reach over and brush a stray curl from his forehead.

“I really, really, really missed you,” you say.

He swallows. He keeps his eyes on the road, but you can practically see the thoughts buzzing around in his brain. “I don’t wanna ever be apart again,” he says firmly. “Is that okay?”

Easy question. “Yes.”

He beams. “I mean it.” He wiggles his eyebrows, which makes you laugh.

“Even when I’m going to the bathroom?” you ask.

“Yep, even then,” he says.

“What if I’m doing my taxes?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Clipping my toenails?”

“Clearly a group activity.”

“Um, doing laundry?”

“I’ll be on the other side of the room, but I’ll be watching.”

You laugh, shaking your head.

“I like this idea,” you say. “But Saeyoung, I’m going to have to go back to the hotel at some point, you know.”

He glances at you, and there’s a complicated look in his eyes.

“Why?” he asks.

“Um.” What? “Well, I don’t actually have another place that I’m living, you know. And I can’t exactly just stay at your house forever. Saeran—”

“May not be ready for that yet, I know,” Saeyoung says. His fingers restlessly tap against the steering wheel. “But he’ll get to know you. And I—I mean, eventually, I—” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Would you want to—” He cuts himself off, groaning in frustration. “Never mind! I didn’t mean to bring this up while I was driving. Let’s just…can you forget I said anything?”

“You haven’t really said anything yet, babe.” You toy with the cuff of his sweatshirt. You’re fiddlers, both of you. More so when you’re nervous.

“Can we please talk about it later?”

You sigh. “I kind of want to know what you were going to say now.”

Tap tap tap. Saeyoung takes a deep breath, and his grip on your leg tightens. 

“Okay. So, listen. You and Saeran need to get to know each other, and I don’t know how long that will take. But he’s ready to try, and I—I’d really like it if—what I mean is, in a little while…would you want to move in? Uh. With us?”

Oh my god.

It’s not like his awkward preamble wasn’t a bit of a tip-off. But, given everything, you haven’t even allowed yourself to fantasize about this. You’ve gotten somewhat accustomed to your reality, never quite settling in anywhere. Recently, you’d felt that you’d feel at home anywhere (a car, a cabin, a campsite) as long as you were with him.

You hadn’t thought, yet, about what it would be like to actually have a home with him.

“Um. What do you think?” Saeyoung peers at you out of the corner of his eye.

Another easy question. Way too easy.

“Of course I wanna live with you, dummy,” you say, grinning.

“Really?! I wouldn’t live with me if I were you!” He talks fast, stumbling over his words. “I live in a super high security bunker. It doesn’t even have windows! I have really weird decorations. I’m messy! I don’t sleep at normal times. I have terrible eating habits! I even—”

You cut him off, reaching over to place a finger on his lips.

“It’s approximately two minutes too late to change my mind,” you say.

“Thank god,” he says, sighing. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you’d said no.” Then he bites your finger.

You yelp, and he cackles, effortlessly guiding the car off the freeway and onto a tree-lined road.

“It still might be a little while,” he cautions. “Saeran’s doing really well, but still—”

“I know.”

“If it were up to me, you’d move in today.”

You giggle. “Me too.”

Saeyoung’s fingers dance over your thigh. “You really want to—?”

“Saeyoung.” You put on your sternest voice, and he quiets. His lips twitch—he’s trying not to smile. “Please take me home.”

[lady-of-the-lotus]

Looking through a paperman's eyes, Xiao Xingchen can suddenly see again.

See Chengmei's face.

Xue Yang's face...

His mind split between multiple papermen, Xingchen fractures.

Xue Yang breaks with him.

E - Xuexiao - Read on AO3! - Head the tags! ; ) The art here is only tonally appropriate for this chapter... Chapter 2

Chapter 1 of 2

They walk for an hour and a half, cross-country. Rumor of a new threat had found its way to their corner of Yi City. Disappearing people, strange sightings, the usual, except there have been none of the normal signs of demonic activity.

Chengmei, impatient as always, had wanted to fly, but Xiao Xingchen had insisted they get some exercise.

“The weather is nice, and there’s no need to rush home,” he says. “A-Qing has gone off again.” Every few months, A-Qing’s restlessness resurfaces and she disappears for a few days, making Xiao Xingchen worry until he hears the tap-tap-tap of her stick on the stone of the courtyard.

“She’ll be fine,” Chengmei says. “She was on her own her whole life.”

“I know, but…”

“She was doing better than you were, my friend.” Chengmei laughs, touching his elbow, sending a little spark up Xingchen’s arm. “I still can’t believe you gave her your coin purse.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Well, if you’d asked me—”

Xiao Xingchen smiles in anticipation of whatever he’s going to say, but Chengmei breaks off abruptly with a low whistle.

“We’re here. A burial mound. Or rather, a mass grave.”

Xiao Xingchen’s sword is already out. “The resentful energy is quite strong.”

Chengmei snorts, something Xiao Xingchen has learned is his way of rolling his eyes so Xiao Xingchen can hear. Xingchen smiles to himself. He does this on purpose sometimes, winds Chengmei up, ruffles him. He delights in how expressive Chengmei’s voice is, how he wears his emotions on his sleeve, good or bad.

“‘Quite strong’?” Chengmei teases. “It almost bowled me the fu—the hell—no that doesn’t work—”

Now Xiao Xingchen does laugh. He can’t see Chengmei’s face, but hears the smile in his voice.

“Bowled me the fig over,” Chengmei finishes.

“A good save.”

“I know, right?” A creak of leather as Chengmei crouches. “There’s a stone headstone type thing here. I can’t quite make it out in this light.” Another creak as he seats himself on what seems to be a small cenotaph. "Probably from the war."

Xiao Xingchen frowns at him.

“How did you know I sat on it?” Chengmei shuffles his feet in the grass as if he’s risen, but he remains seated on the cenotaph.

“I know you too well, I suppose.”

Chengmei laughs. “You really are something else, daozhang.”

Xiao Xingchen waits for him to expand on that. He’s long since learned that Chengmei does that sometimes, throws out a non sequitur or random statement, sometimes to get a reaction, sometimes to change the subject, without really thinking it through.

Xiao Xingchen likes it, usually. Keeps things interesting. Often just by his remaining silent, as if uninterested, Chengmei will immediately follow up with something even wilder.

Tonight, however, his companion is silent, as if lost in thought.

“Get up, Chengmei, please. Let’s at least try not to anger malevolent spirits this time.”

A creak as Chengmei rises. “Still mad about what happened last week, I see.”

“That ghost almost killed you, all because you had to make fun of her fingernails, of all things!”

“You should have seen them. Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you can’t be well-groomed.” 

“Chengmei…” He sighs, but he can’t contain a smile. “Describe what’s around us. What are we looking at? …You looking at,” he corrects himself before Chengmei can.

“Bones, all over the place. Scattered over the burial mound. Rather homey.”

“Human bones?”

“Human and animal, by the look of things. This reminds me of the time at this little inn in Bianzhuang, where the soup had the most suspicious-looking pieces of—”

A bellowing sound cuts him off. “On your left!” he hisses, but Shuanghua is already up.

A crashing of underbrush, a foul stench of rotting meat, a rattle of displaced bones. The earth shakes beneath the creature’s hooves, he hears the rush of air around a supernaturally huge monster, but there’s not a hint of demonic energy, and for the first time since he lost his eyes, Xiao Xingchen is afraid. 

Chengmei is reckless—

He lashes out, aiming at the sound. He hits something solid, and the beast roars, enraged. A cry from Chengmei and Xingchen is flung out of the way, tumbling to the rocky ground, out of the path of the charging beast.

The all-too-familiar sound of something piercing flesh. The scent of blood.

Xiao Xingchen slashes at the smell, aiming far enough away from the sound to avoid striking Chengmei. Shuanghua strikes flesh, hits bone, and is almost jerked out of his hands by the bucking creature. It turns and charges at him, dragging Chengmei along with it, by the sound of his tangled curses—

He ducks out of the way at the last moment. A crash as it thunders through the underbrush, turns again—

Chengmei’s voice, raised, half-choked: “Fuck you, stay away from him—” A stabbing sound, an angry cry, and something strikes him hard in the midriff, sending him slamming into a rock.

Blood again

His blood—

A bellow of pain. Distant, echoing. Chengmei’s shout, the whistle of a blade through the air.

A stabbing sound.

More blood, blooming thickly on the warm night air.

Xiao Xingchen passes out.

* * * *

 At first, the only way he knows he’s alive is the blinding pain in his skull.

Blinding pain. Ha. That’s funny. Something Chengmei would have teased him for saying—

Memory rushes back to him. Patting around for his sword, he tries to get up but falls out of bed.

He’s safe at home in the Coffin House, on the floor beside Chengmei’s bed. He recognizes the creak of floorboard, the scent of the drying herbs strung from the rafters, the melancholy whistle of wind through the gaps in the walls.

“Daozhang!” A hand at his elbow, guiding him back into bed. “You’re awake!”

“What happened?”

“You saved my life. The usual.”

“What was it?”

“Hell if I know. Some kind of boar monster. Take more than some pig to kill me, though.”

“What time is it?”

“Still night.”

Xiao Xingchen struggles to marshal his thoughts. “You almost died.”

He can almost feel Chengmei’s shrug. “Not the first time, and it won’t be the last time. Well, the ‘almost’ part might be the last time; I might actually bite it next time.”

Xiao Xingchen doesn’t bother trying to parse that one out. “Are you hurt?”

“Nothing serious.”

Xiao Xingchen frowns. “Come here.”

“Come…”

“I can’t get up. Come here.”

Hesitating, Chengmei crawls into bed beside him.

“Take off your clothes.”

Normally this would elicit an off-color joke that would have Xiao Xingchen frowning at him and blushing, but now Chengmei hesitates again.

“I…well…”

“You are hurt!” Xiao Xingchen pats him down, forgetting his headache in the sudden flurry of panic. He should have reacted faster last night, should have killed the beast with his first blow, should have protected Chengmei—

Bandages beneath his fingertips, bare skin, a slight stickiness.

“The tusks!”

“Ruined a good robe, having to cut it off,” Chengmei says, back to his usual casual, flippant self. “Not sure even you can sew it back up. The robes, I mean, not my side.”

Xiao Xingchen’s heart is beating so fast he feels dizzy. “You almost died, Chengmei—”

“So did you.”

Xiao Xingchen pinches his temples. “You shouldn’t have shoved me out of the way. The boar—the boar gored you—”

“Just a flesh wound.”

“We—we should go back to its lair when we’re better, bury the bones—”

Chengmei snickers. “ ‘Lair’?”

“As soon as you’re stronger, we’ll go back.”

“I’m fine now.”

“How many stitches did you need?” An inane question, but something simple he can use to ground himself. It’s starting to sink in now, his mind fully clearing: his blindness in the face of the beast, the boar’s agonized bellow, the fear in Chengmei’s voice—

He had almost lost him tonight. All because Xingchen had insisted on going night-hunting, continuing to push his own egotistical agenda on Chengmei despite the fact that he couldn’t see, selfishly endangering everyone around him. What had he expected to happen?

“Didn’t exactly stitch myself up,” Chengmei says. Lost in his own thoughts, Xingchen had almost forgotten his own question. “I sealed up my meridians, so it’s just pain, and I can handle pain.”

Xiao Xingchen reaches out again, touching Chengmei’s arm, and Chengmei inhales sharply.

“Your arm!”

He imagines Chengmei wrinkling his nose. “Well, the boar did a poor job of killing me, but an excellent job of shattering my arm. You know how it is.”

“I certainly don’t know how it is!”

“Left arm,” says Chengmei, as if that makes it better.

Xiao Xingchen is not a hugger, but he has a sudden overwhelming urge to fold Chengmei in his arms, hold him till Chengmei understands that this is not a normal way to react to grievous bodily injury.

“Not the first time it’s happened, and not the last,” Chengmei says, and Xiao Xingchen reaches out to take his good hand.

“I’m going to set your arm and stitch you up,” he says, “and then you are going to eat and go to sleep.”

“Fine, have it your way,” says Chengmei, teasing, but Xiao Xingchen does not smile.

He does not smile as he fashions a splint for Chengmei’s arm, or mops the blood from Chengmei’s torso, stitches the deep gashes in Chengmei’s side, or as he fastens the bandages around Chengmei’s middle.

“—nasty-looking bugger; I think it was some kind of boar crossed with a wolf, twisted and bloated by some kind of magic—it was powerful enough to mask its energy; that’s probably why Shuanghua didn’t sense it—”

Xiao Xingchen barely hears him. His heart is beating fast, and he’s so distracted by the fact that Chengmei almost died trying to save his life that he reaches up to adjust his blindfold and leaves a smear of wetness across his cheek.

The last of his clean blindfolds.

Another inane thought.

He’ll have to wash it out in the morning—

“All done? It was nothing, really.” Chengmei’s hand is on his arm. He’s very close to Xiao Xingchen as they sit on the edge of the bed, so close Xiao Xingchen can feel the brush of his shoulder against his. He radiates warmth, and Xiao Xingchen, perpetually cold, is seized again by a fierce desire to wrap him in his arms, curl into his heat, whisper to him that of course it matters if his arm is broken—

“You need to be more careful,” is all that comes out.

“I give you my solemn word that next time we go night-hunting, I won’t let you get knocked out again.”

Xiao Xingchen isn’t sure if he’s baiting him on purpose or if he genuinely means it. “I mean you need to take care of yourself.”

“Bathe more often. Got it.”

“Can’t you be serious for once?” Xiao Xingchen's voice is sharper than he intends, but it’s too late to take that back now. “If you were to be killed, I—”

“—would have one less mouth to feed.”

Xiao Xingchen grips Chengmei’s good wrist. “Chengmei—”

Chengmei laughs, bending his head slightly, his silky hair sliding over the gap in Xiao Xingchen’s open inner robe, tickling his chest.

“Chengmei, please be serious for once. If you were to be—”

“You look so pretty with blood on your face,” Chengmei interrupts, and that does something to Xingchen, sends a quivery rush of heat through his body. Chengmei slides to the floor, kneeling before him, trembling good hand resting lightly on his knee.

“I—”

Cheingmei's hand moves up his leg, finds Xingchen's hand gripping the blankets on the edge of the bed, strokes it gently, fingertip sliding over the sensitive skin between his fingers, over his palm.

Xiao Xingchen swallows hard. He’s trembling too now, heart pounding, the warmth flowing through his limbs gathering to pulse gently in one confusing, embarrassing place.

“Ever done this before?” Chengmei asks, almost murmurs. His voice is a mere shadow of its usual blunt, teasing self.

Xingchen twists at the sheets with his free hand, trying to keep his voice steady. He must be mistaken. Concussed, perhaps. Hallucinating. The pulse between his legs has become a throb, and that’s not helping his perception of things, either. “No, it’s not something I…get…get up, Chengmei, we were having a serious conversation. If you were to be seriously hurt, I don’t know what I’d—”

Again Chengmei cuts him off before he can finish. “You almost died tonight, daozhang. Let me take care of you.”

“That’s not what—” He gasps slightly as Chengmei’s hand moves back to his leg, creeps over his inner thigh, just grazing the half-hard flesh he wishes he could somehow hide.

Heat rises in his cheeks. He wants to pull away, cover it before Chengmei notices, but there’s a brush of fabric, a whisper of warmth breath, and then his half-hard—his half-hard cock is plunged in wet heat.

“I’m—I’m not—”

The wet heat disappears. “Is that a no?”

“It’s—” And suddenly all he wants is a return of the wet heat. Proof that Chengmei is still alive, still warm. “I’ll tell you when to stop,” he says. Trying to compensate for his inexperience, it comes out more commandingly than intended, but Chengmei gives a little whine and eases Xiao Xingchen’s knees farther apart, his bad arm wrapped around one leg, good hand wandering, slipping underneath him, brushing the soft, sensitive spot he’s never thought of touching before, fondling his—

“Not there,” he wants to say, but all that comes out is a little whimper that sets a flush of shame rising in his already-hot cheeks. Reflexively he digs his fingers in Chengmei’s hair, tugging it slightly, and Chengmei gives a little moan that sends vibrations over his painfully hard cock.

Chengmei’s head is moving now, up and down, tongue gliding along the sides of his cock, sucking hard on the sensitive nerve bundle beneath the tip, taking him deep into his throat. Xiao Xingchen forgets to breathe as he digs his finger deeper in his hair, tugging it again, and Chengmei full-on gasps, throat clenching around Xiao Xingchen in rhythmic convulsions. 

Xiao Xingchen comes, spilling deep into Chengmei’s throat. Chengmei swallows, an embarrassingly filthy wet choking sound, and Xiao Xingchen pulls his head off of his cock.

“I’m so sorry—” he starts, but then he’s on his back on the bed, and Chengmei is kissing a string of bruises into his throat, branding Xiao Xingchen.

“Good thing A-Qing isn’t home,” Chengmei whispers, and Xiao Xingchen laughs, shame gone.

“Let me try it,” he whispers. He feels like his bones have been ripped out, limbs calm and relaxed, but his heart is still fluttering.

The kisses stop. “Try what?”

“Lie down.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

“You want to?”

Xiao Xingchen’s heart thuds against his bruised ribcage. His hands are shaking slightly, and he hopes Chengmei doesn’t notice. “Yes.”

“I…”

“Let me try.”

And then Chengmei is on his back, and Xiao Xingchen is trailing his lips down his bruised chest, down his naval, working himself up to do the thing he’s afraid of wanting as much as he does. 

A tinge of shame returns. To want to do something like this—

But Chengmei is warm, Chengmei is alive, Chengmei is his.

He takes Chengmei’s cock in his hand, squeezing it gently, examining it with his fingers, rubbing his fingers along the hot, firm sides, smearing it with the little pearls of moisture leaking from the tip. He’s never been so close to another man’s cock before. A new pulse rises between his legs, prickles over his legs, clouds his thoughts with renewed need—

And then Chengmei’s cock is in Xiao Xingchen’s mouth, a living thing, silk-smooth and pulsing with life.

It fills more of his mouth than he’d expected. Thicker, hotter. Heavy on his tongue, pressing up against the back of his throat, making his eyes tear up and jaws ache. 

“You don’t have to—” Chengmei whispers, fingers of his good hand tracing the top of Xiao Xingchen’s blindfold, thumb stroking the bridge of his nose, and Xiao Xingchen makes a little humming sound to let him know that it’s all right, that he wants to do this—

Chengmei pulls him off his cock moments before he comes, ejaculating into his own hand.

A flash of disappointment, as if he’d wanted to take Chengmei deeper into him, swallow him down, ingest him, absorb him.

Bind him to him.

He bends down to lap at the wetness slicking Chengmei’s cock, cleaning it with his tongue. Chengmei gives a little whimper but doesn’t push him away. Xiao Xingchen licks at the cum, thoroughly cleaning him before turning to Chengmei’s hand.

Chengmei, who has been lying very still, breath coming in soft little starts, suddenly comes to life. “Don’t—”

“It’s fine.”

“But—”

“Shhh. I want to.”

Carefully, Xiao Xingchen runs his tongue over Chengmei’s palm. It tastes of blood and the salty tang of his cum. He cleans the palm, between the fingers, taking two fingers into his mouth when he’s done. He likes the feel of having Chengmei inside him again, even just his fingers. Warm, alive —

Chengmei raises his legs slightly, framing Xiao Xingchen between his thighs. He tilts his knee, sliding his foot under Xiao Xingchen’s groin. He moves his finger inside Xingchen’s mouth, sliding over Xiao Xingchen’s tongue, soft and slow. Xiao Xingchen sucks harder, rolling his hips into Chengmei’s ankle, one hand on his knee, the other on his hip.

He doesn’t quite come, not so soon after his last climax, but the friction feels good against his groin, Chengmei’s legs solid against his sides, the pain of his bruises reminding him of how fortunate he is to have Chengmei here, Chengmei beneath him.

He releases Chengmei’s finger and inches up to lie beside him. Chengmei rolls into him, nuzzling his throat with his nose.

“If your body is shattered in six places, we can’t do that again,” Xiao Xingchen murmurs into his hair. Chengmei’s heart, pounding against his chest, beats faster, but Chengmei’s tone is his usual flippant one as he asks, “Again?”

“If you promise to take better care of yourself. No more stunts.”

“I promise. Word of honor.”

“That’s what you said when you swore you’d stop teasing A-Qing.”

Chengmei laughs, the vibrations soothing Xiao Xingchen’s aching ribs. “Yeah, but I actually mean it this time.”

Shaking his head, but smiling to himself, Xiao Xingchen pulls him closer.

* * * *

Chengmei is up before him that afternoon. He’s prepared a meal of eggplant and rice he just saves from scorching, something he only manages about half the time. Xiao Xingchen isn’t sure what there is in the Coffin House to get diverted by, but Chengmei is easily distracted.

“And then I have a surprise for you,” he tells Xiao Xingchen. He rocks back and forth on his chair the whole meal—he’s never been good at sitting still—and jumps up to clear the dishes when Xiao Xingchen has finished eating.

Xiao Xingchen sits and lets him despite Chengmei’s broken arm, afraid of mentioning the injury and bringing up what had happened the night before. Everything is all so—so normal, and he’s afraid that if he so much as asks Chengmei how he’s feeling, the spell will break, or worse yet, last night will have been revealed to have been a dream.

“I brought you this,” Chengmei says when he’s finished, setting something down on the table. He takes Xiao Xingchen’s hand and lays it on the pouch set down on the table, then pulls his hand away quickly, as if the touch of Xingchen’s skin is something forbidden.

An awkward silence. The warmth of Chengmei’s touch lingers on Xiao Xingchen’s hand—

Xiao Xingchen reaches up, lays the hand on Chengmei’s elbow, and the awkwardness is dispelled as if it had never been there. Chengmei leans over his shoulder, reaching around him. His cheek grazes Xingchen’s, as warm as his hand had been.

“I removed the beast’s core last night,” he says. “It was a spirit beast, the first I’ve seen in years. The core is strong. You can—you know, take it, use it to make spiritual tools or whatever…” He pulls away, and Xiao Xingchen quickly turns to glance sightlessly up at him over his shoulder.

"A real core?"

"As real as they come."

It’s an impressive gift, the core. The spirit beast’s magical essence, it can be used in elixirs and spiritual tools. Xingchen has never encountered a beast with a core potent enough to do more than make healing draughts and powders, but he can sense the thrum of power clean through the containing pouch.

Instinctively he knows that this is more than a mere gift. That for someone like Chengmei—a survivor, a forager, a scrounger, a child of the streets—to give up such an advantage, something that he could use—

He rises, pouch in hand, and lays the other on Chengmei’s shoulder.   

“Thank you, A-Mei,” he says.

He has nothing to give Chengmei in return except for that—“A-Mei”—but it seems to be enough.

Silence. And then, “Well, I’d best be letting you play with your new toy,” says Chengmei. “Be careful with it. It’s got more malevolent energy than I’ve seen anywhere for a while. You wouldn’t want a corrupted spiritual tool killing you in your sleep, would you?”

“Could that actually happen?”

“I wouldn’t let it happen,” says Chengmei, a bit too emphatically, and he slips out of the house as if he’s said too much.

Xiao Xingchen sits back down. He wants to rush out after Chengmei, plead with him to be careful, to not exert himself with his wounded side and broken arm, but instead he smiles fondly after him, hoping he’s looking over his shoulder, and turns to the pouch.

After a moment he rises, rummages through Chengmei’s small store of things. Normally he would never look through his things—(“Look.” Ha. What would Chengmei have to say to that?) but this is going to be a gift for Chengmei, as he’s not so presumptuous to think a pet name is much of a gift.

But this will help him keep Chengmei safe, and he would do anything to keep Chengmei safe.

Carefully, he cuts a paperman out of Chengmei’s talisman paper and lays it flat on his hand.

He’d only done this once before, under Shifu’s supervision, and it had drained his spiritual powers for a week afterward.

He’s stronger now than he was then, but he still knows the dangers of being trapped outside his body, of fracturing his mind between two loci, of the damage to his psyche if the paperman is harmed while he’s still in it.

He hasn’t dared risk anything like this since losing his eyes. He’s relied too heavily on his spiritual energy to find his way around and defend himself to risk losing it for a week. Had no one to protect his body while he was in the paperman, keep him from the thousand dangers of the road.

But he has a home now, and he can rely on Chengmei to look after him if he drains his powers for a few days. And he doesn’t think he will drain them—the beauty of the core is that it will provide an alternate source of power for the consciousness transfer.

Or rather, consciousness splitting.

If all goes well, he can split his consciousness between his body and the paperman on night-hunts, seeing through the paperman’s eyes, being able to see threats, monsters, demons, beasts, defend himself and Chengmei, so that last night’s events will never be repeated.

And—he can’t help but blush at the thought—he’ll finally get to see what Chengmei looks like. It’s not as if it matters to him. Chengmei is Chengmei. He’s his, no matter what. He already knows he’s good looking, going by overheard scraps of conversation, but that had meant nothing to him as a blind man, and he knows it will mean nothing even after he sees his face.

But to be able to gaze upon his face as he lies next to him in bed, look across the table at him at dinner, see the light catching in his eye as he laughs, finally see the smile that sounds so very infectious—

It’s worth the risk involved in splitting his consciousness between his body and the paperman.

And the risk in using the malevolent core. Chengmei was right—there’s a strong dark energy in the deceptively bright and golden core.

But he can handle it. Use the light, leave the darkness in the pouch.

He wonders how long he has till Chengmei returns. He checks the shelf—so he took a basket with him, that must mean he was going to the market. Not something he should be doing in his state, but at least it gives Xiao Xingchen a bit more time before he’s expected back.

He sits cross-legged on the mediation mat beside his old coffin—they really ought to move that out, make more room in the house—what will they tell A-Qing?—he’ll leave that up to Chengmei—he doesn’t think she’ll care much, but they’ll have to swear to secrecy; he can’t imagine the neighbors will like having two cut-sleeves in their town—

He takes a deep breath, trying to order his thoughts, but for once they refuse to be calmed.

Is he a cut-sleeve? Is that what this is? Outside friendship, he'd never had so much as a flicker of interest in anyone before, man or woman, but he’d taken an innate interest in women for granted. He should go back and examine the last ten years of his life, recontextualize the last fifteen years of his life, see if there were signs, revisit his time with Song Lan—

Another deep breath. None of this matters now. What matters is that Chengmei will be home soon, and Xiao Xingchen wants to surprise him. And how now Xingchen willl be able to examine last night’s stitches, make sure the splint is in correctly place, ensure that Chengmei heals properly.

Eat dinner on the porch, watching the sunset together.

See the moon.

Lie on his back, looking up at the stars....

Best not think about that. Best not get his hopes up in case he fails—

He does not fail.

It’s like a red-hot razor is slicing slivers from his brain, carving it in half. He’s about to cry out when the agonizing pain is gone and only the heat remains.

His own face looks down at him, its wide mouth hanging open slightly, eyebrows raised above the blood-streaked blindfold.

He drops the paperman in shock, and the room dips and whirls around him. Dizzied by the sense of motion despite being still, he immediately bends down to snatch at the fluttering paperman, stop its fall. It eludes him as, nausesous, he watches his giant hand snatch at his paperman face like an enormous white hawk grasping at its prey—

He slams his head into the table and falls off his chair.

Sitting on the floor with the paperman tucked safely in his robe, queasy with motion sickness, he laughs to himself at his own clumsiness.

He can see.

He can see.

He can see.

Xingchen is about to rise, look around, examine every nook and cranny of his suddenly-new home, when he hears off-key whistling from outside.

His pulse quickens. Chengmei is home, sooner than expected—

Chengmei steps over the threshold.

“I’m back, daozhang!” he calls. “Where are you hiding? I bought you some fresh apples; I thought we could cook them in honey or something, maybe add some sweet wine—”

Xiao Xingchen gazes at him in mute horror through the paperman’s eyes.

It’s him.

That’s Chengmei’s voice. His familiar cheerful, irreverent voice.

But the face—

Xiao Xingchen leaps to his feet, stumbling backwards over the chair and falling in a tangle of limbs to the floor.

Chengmei—not Chengmei—the imposter—is beside him in a moment, apples rolling across the floor and smashed egg oozing from the dropped basket.

“Daozhang!” He lifts him to his feet with his customary combination of gentleness and roughness. “I knew I shouldn’t leave you alone with your head injury!”

Xiao Xingchen’s knees give way. “I’m—I’m—you—”

Chengmei—the imposter—Xue Yang’s—eyes are wide. “What is it?”

“I—you—”

“Lean on me, daozhang. I’ll help you to bed.” Looping Xiao Xingchen’s arm over his shoulder, Xue Yang half-carries him to bed. The paperman is nestled inside Xingchen’s robe, vibrating against his skin. “You just lie there, and I’ll peel you some apples. Perk you up a little. Maybe don’t go to sleep for a bit, I once half-cracked my skull, and I passed out in a ditch, and when I woke up I—”

Xiao Xingchen doesn’t hear the rest of his story. Weak with horror, he stares at Xue Yang as he slices apples at the table, holding the fruit steady with the elbow of his bad arm. 

Bad arm. The arm with the hand that—that—

He hadn’t felt the glove the night before. Xue Yang must have taken it off.

Taken it off when they had—

He rolls over on his side and vomits into the water jug.

 * * *

Like it? AO3

[secret-engima]

story-spinner

Having a bad day. You happen to have any HCs or snippets for Kings Skjald verse? You may not but your writing always seems to cheer me up so

Me: So sorry I missed this! I didn’t log in yesterday like- at ALL and I only just got the notification. I unfortunately do not have any snippets to share, but HCs I can do. :)

-In the aftermath of Souls of the Sea (Still Belong to Blue Tides) and everything that happened in there, a couple things happen. One of the big ones being that Ravus joins the Kingsglaive. It takes him a year of stubbornly arguing with his mother over it, because she does NOT want Ravus to go haring off to war, but in the end Ravus wins and joins up at 17.

-The glaives at first are not too sold on this idea. Because... prince. Tenebraen prince with a resting murder face. He’s probably a wimp. Or just a jerk. Will he even obey orders and work with us non-royal Galahdian/Lucian nobodies?

-Then they actually throw Ravus into boot camp and learn that this boy may have enough formal manners to perfectly blend in with Lucian high society but once you take him out of that environment and stick a sword in his hand he becomes a bundle of Feral Anger And Bloodlust with a side of Really Scary Cunning. Also he spent part of those months on the run being grilled by Gladiolus in how to fight (on top of the royal sword training he’d already been receiving pre-Tenebrae’s Fall obviously) and spent putting food on the camp grill for his mother and sister by Killing It Really Hard First.

-Basically he fits riigghhtt in with the rest of the feral, chip-on-their-shoulder-rookies.

-Also, Ravus may not be a Reborn Viking of Pure Awesome like Gladiolus, so he can’t stand toe to toe with Cor the Immortal or anything but like- in canon this boy was able to claw his way up the ranks of a foreign military that WOULDN’T HAVE WANTED HIM THERE (see: Uldor’s comments during the Ignis DLC, and that cutscene with Besithia making snide comments at Ravus in the main game) and eventually become SiC and then Supreme Commander. Kid has talent and the stubborn to back it up.

-Nyx is not a fan of being Braincelled by this younger, more aggressive Tenenbraen, especially when half the time Ravus is only in yelling range because he’s DOING THE DUMB RIGHT ALONGSIDE NYX.

-Luche and Libertus are both a Stress.

-Tredd finds it fun to wind the kid up even though it repeatedly gets him a broken nose.

-Anyway as a side effect of Ravus joining the Kingsglaive, Luna and Gladiolus both take an interest in the Kingsglaive as a whole, and of course, whatever THEY take an interest in, Noctis will take an interest in too.

-Cue Smol Prince following along whenever Luna comes to check on her brother (and secretly use her magic to heal them even though Mother Strictly Forbids Using Her Magic Outside Emergencies Until She’s Fully Trained) and Gladiolus making friends with people physically a lot older than him but not mentally. And maybe mopping the floor with anyone who dares challenge him to a spar (this is the year Gladiolus is finally good enough to win against Cor in a spar according to a previous HC of mine, sorry but the Glaives have no chance, they give it a good go though).

-Gladiolus may or may not accidentally teach the Kingsglaive how to swear in Old Norse.

-I really really want the other Astrals (minus Bahamut) to start noticing and taking an interest in Leviathan’s new “kid”, because no one has given blessings since Solheim’s fall and of all of them, LEVIATHAN was not the one they expected to buck the mold in that way (in other ways sure, but Blessing a human???? THEIR angry rage snek???). But I’m still working out how all that ... goes.

-Leviathan probably browbeats the others into keeping it a secret from Bahamut tho. Because she is protective of her child and there’s no way she’s letting Bahamut hurt her Chosen again, even by accident.

-Gladiolus, with his newfound abilities to breathe underwater and such, sometimes gets an itch to go swimming. Considering the ocean is miles away most of the time and the pool has chlorine that stings his lungs when he breathes it, he finds the Royal Aquarium with all its ocean fish a much better place to hang out for a few hours.

-Clarus, Juno, Regis, Ignis, Cor, and more than a few freaked out Crownsguard would like to STRONGLY DISAGREE.

-Gladiolus, who lost track of time swimming around with the Really Dangerous Fish that won’t bother him because they can sense Leviathan’s Blessing, is just like- sorry? I’ll warn you next time.

-Everybody: WHAT DO YOU MEAN NEXT TIME.

-Sylva becomes a major voice in Lucian noble circles in favor of the Kingsglaive and efforts to clean up the refugee sector. Because she may not be Lucian, but she is the ORACLE and her voice carries a LOT of weight and she’s lived through what the Galahdians and other refugee groups have suffered through. She knows the smell of your home burning and blood on your clothes as you run from MT units and pray they don’t find you. She knows what it’s like to flee to another country. What it’s like to be HUNGRY and SCARED. What it’s like to cling to the children at night on a Haven, cold and tired but unable to sleep because the daemons wander and scream only a few yards away, and while the mind says they cannot come onto the Haven, the heart and the instincts do not believe. She knows ALL OF THAT.

-She also knows what it’s like to be saved. To be found and sheltered and taken to safety by soldiers who are just like her, and know to give her and her children soup and soft foods, who know to approach from the front rather than the sides and to move slow and open, to always say what they’re doing before they do it. She knows what it’s like to be so grateful for those simple kindnesses that it takes all she can muster not to start crying, because if she starts she will not stop and then her children will start crying too.

-So whenever some Lucian noble makes contemptuous noises over the “necessity” of the Kingsglaive or the refugee sector, or makes a comment on how Insomnia is for LUCIANS and not ragged strays, she will look them in the eye and say something perfectly cool and polite and deadly. Something that sharply reminds the noble that SHE, the HOLY ORACLE, is a refugee just like all the other “ragged strays”. That she and hers were “found” by Kingsglaive and escorted safely home. That her SON is now part of that very same organization.

-But do go on and tell her how the Kingsglaive are a waste of money and refugees should be left to fend for themselves.

-Needless to say, between Sylva backing them politically, Luna healing them on the sly (and also Sylva does come heal the bad cases whenever she has time), and Ravus being his feral budding terrifying strategist self, the Kingsglaive and Little Galahd as a whole rapidly come to adore the Nox Fleuret family. These are their Oracles. No touchy. They will Fite You.

-And of course, Noctis adores Luna and tries to emulate her because she’s Cool, and also his Shield-Brother cares for the Kingsglaive, and Big Brother Ravus IS a Kingsglaive, so Noctis rolls up his little sleeves and tries to help too. He’s too young to have a voice in politics, but he can and will follow his dad around nagging that hey-hey Ravus says their shoes don’t fit and the quartermaster won’t give them potions even though IGNIS says they have the budget for it and hey hey hey- (Regis would like to know how Ignis the Eleven Year Old got his hands on the Kingsglaive budget, but Cor has been making dire noises along these lines already so he sighs and siccs the auditors on the quartermaster).

-Noctis also visits a lot, and tries to give the Glaives games and things because hey those make him feel better so maybe it’ll make the glaives not look so tired too.

-The Entire Kingsglaive as they proverbially (and sometimes literally) pick up Noctis: We’ve only known this princeling for a few months but if anything happened to him we would kill everyone in Niflheim and then ourselves.

-Gladiolus approves this feeling.

I think that’s all the HCs I got for the moment, I hope these made your day a little better. :)

[honeydots]

200. “He loves you, you know? He’s just afraid of admitting it.” ~~ This has some Vibes and I kinda like them so? I'd like 2 humbly request your take on this w/ shukita or akeshu if it's ok to ask for!! -- dorky-arsene (a sideblog)

“He loves you, you know? He’s just afraid of admitting it”

Hello no I didn’t forget about these I am just slower than a little baby turtle!!!!! Anyway

Summary: Goro’s new job leads him to discover that dealing with both a crush and an idiot while flipping burgers is, unarguably, the worst turn his life could’ve taken.

cw: sexual themes (+p5r spoilers)

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(ao3 link)

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“Hello! Would you like to try our Big Bang Special Combo Shot-Straight-Through Promotional Meal for ‘Thy Father of Corruption 2: The Daughter of Rejection’ for ¥850?”

Goro wanted to quit. 

You need this job. You need this job. He’d repeat to himself each time a customer decided they were feeling peckish. You will have no money if you quit and then you will have no home and then you will drop out of college and then you will die. 

He’d left the police department after graduating. With his past plans of an 18-year life expectancy having slipped down the drain, he hardly had a reason to stay. High school had been an uphill battle with cases of murder and robbery breathing down his neck, and he’d hesitated to even make an attempt at trying to juggle his priorities in university. Dropping the detective gig meant dropping the media attention, too, which gave him breathing room he certainly knew he needed, but never really had. 

The problem was, after three years of fading out of fame and living off his savings, he realized this wouldn’t stretch as far as he’d predicted. He hadn’t accounted nearly enough for the expenses that came with the unwelcome enforcement of trying to live as a proper human being. His bank account was growing meager. If he wanted to keep living (which was arguable) in the way that he was (which he did) he’d need an income. Almost anything would do, as long as it would bend and break to his schedule. 

And, all things considered, he technically had connections here. And ever since… that, the pay had actually increased to a respectable amount. The management had rehired, retrained, and improved. It was fast food, but it was livable. Nothing shameful about being livable. 

And god fucking dammit he had already done three interviews with no hires and he needed food other than half-cooked ramen noodles and bread slices. 

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” 

That didn’t mean he didn’t loathe every minute.

It was bad enough that he had a job at Big Bang Burger. And, bad enough that he’d been desperate to get it. It was bad enough that he had to bring in his homework like some anguished used-to-be honors student now getting barely passing marks. And christ, it was bad enough each time a customer would walk in, a hamburger-shaped icepick would slam itself into his frontal lobe, forever ingraining the memory of his premeditated brain murder of the former CEO of this very restaurant. 

All of that, and he couldn’t stress this more, was bad enough. It was entirely shitty all around. Completely awful, and damming, and humbling, though he hated to admit it. He’d like to say it couldn’t get any worse. That this was the end of the line, get off the train before it turns around, don’t get stuck in the never ending cycle of beef patties and sesame seed buns. 

But, god, of all the coworkers. 

“Ya know,” said Sakamoto, leaning down on the front counter after their customer had left,  “I dunno if clenching your teeth like you’ve got peanut butter stuck in there counts as ‘service with a smile.’” 

Sakamoto Ryuji. The boy who had the opposite of a filter, and more like a megaphone spewing recordings of every profanity in the Japanese language. He, who had walked in on Goro’s second day and loudly declared, ‘I thought I smelled something, what’s this a-hole doing here?’ Really, who else could he tolerate spending eight-hour shifts with; greasy stoves, piss poor customers, and the ruthless scent of lysol on tile included?

Ah, right. Anyone else. 

Goro pressed his lips together. “Hm. Well you know, I was almost certain that elbows on the counter was a fireable offense.” 

Sakamoto snatched himself up in a second, elbows up high. He hung there and looked around the empty restaurant. 

He pouted. “Not cool, dude. That’s only when there’s customers.”

Goro raised his eyebrows. He was really just going to stand there? He looked like an idiot, or a chicken. A hybrid that, if anyone could pull off, would be him. He was making a great show of it, too. 

Sakamoto narrowed his eyes. “Unless you’re a snitch.” 

Goro spoke in his most syrupy sweet voice. “Are you implying then, that your job is in my hands? An entertaining thought, Sakamoto.” If it were only that simple to really get him fired. Unfortunately, their manager seemed to love his enthusiasm. Every moment he spent enthusiastically mopping floors and singing into the handle was a moment Goro could’ve been writing soliloquies of his growing and newfound hatred for Carly Rae Jepsen. 

Sakamoto folded his arms in a huff. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, man! Look at that fake-ass smile.” He shook his head. “And I get customer service blows and stuff, but you use it for everything. Lighten up dude! Take a break.”

Sakamoto said things with such confidence, such surety. It made his teeth grind. 

“I’d prefer to keep my job,” Goro said, and gave him the sweet smile Sakamoto was arguing against. “Though, if you’d like to pay my rent for me, you’re more than welcome.” 

He acted like he hadn’t even heard him.“Maybe it’s ‘cause you’re so gloomy all the time, your face just doesn’t know how to work it. Look it, check me out.” Sakamoto pointed his thumb at himself and flashed a toothy smile. “Just like that! All natural, bro. It’s easy. Come on, you really try it this time.” 

Goro very clearly did not. He stared with his most obsolete and ‘stop-trying-to-have-a-conversation-with-me’ look he could muster. He’d communicate it telepathically, if given the chance. 

“That doesn’t look like trying to me,” Sakamoto said expectantly. 

Couldn’t they just sit in silence and wait for their fabrication of getting-along time when the next inevitable customer came in? “Perhaps, and please let me know if this is too complicated, I simply have no intention of trying, because I don’t believe there’s anything to fix.” 

“Nah, that’s not it,” replied Sakamoto, as if he was being thoughtful.

Another reason why he was completely obnoxious was because the longer they knew each other, the less that Goro’s flawless stone faced looks worked. Sakamoto kept spewing hot air. He’d gained some kind of tolerance, and it was tedious to work around. 

Sakamoto leaned back down, previous elbow warnings forgotten. “I bet you’re the kinda guy who’s super ticklish, so you act all boring so no one suspects it.”

“I’m not,” Goro snapped. 

“Quick reply there, buddy.” 

Goro didn’t answer to that. He didn’t owe it to him. This was pointless; why did Sakamoto find such pleasure in talking about pointless things? 

He slouched further down. “So it’s silent treatment now. You’re checking all the boxes over here.” He waved his finger through the air. “Check, n’ check, n’, check.” 

Goro was getting a headache. “I don’t want to talk about this.” 

“Betcha you’re super ticklish. And like, one of those cry-laughers.” 

“Sakamoto, did you hear what I just said.” 

He stretched up from his position on the counter. “Like if I poke you in the side, I bet it would make ya jump.” 

“Do not.” He could just try it. Goro would bend his finger back so far it’d break. He wondered if that would be a viable option to get him to stop talking sometime. 

“Didn’t say I was gonna.” He rested his arms behind his neck. “You’re just proving my point more, though.” 

Sakamoto was annoyingly stubborn at times. Once he found a niche with Goro, he’d hack his way in and grab on like a tick. Bother him like it was his last chance he’d ever get, as if they didn’t work shifts together four times a week. He was bound to get lyme disease at this rate.  

Goro felt like a very frustrated pair of tweezers.“Can we talk about anything else, please?”

Sakamoto went quiet. He was just looking at him now. Goro tensed up. Was he really going to try and poke him? He meant it, he’d break his hand. 

“Ya know, there is something I wanna talk to you about,” he said.

Goro did not like the sound of that. “Oh really.” He tried to sound like he was just told he was about to be given a lecture on the intricacies and details of lentil soup. Which, perhaps could be more interesting than whatever topic Sakamoto was about to pull out of his ass. 

Sakamoto sniffed. “Yup. It’s about Akira.” 

Oh, he really didn’t like where this was going. “Sakamoto, I—” 

“When’re ya gonna like, confess.” 

Goro visibly winced. Dammit. He knew he’d bring this up one day. He was absolutely infuriated Sakamoto knew about that, and he hadn’t even told him. He’d been making guesses and Goro had been just tired enough during his shift to let a hint of a sigh out, and Sakamoto had taken that to new heights. Another example of conversations being had that Goro would’ve just about died to get out of. 

Sakamoto was still staring at him. Didn’t he have anything better to do? Goro knew they didn’t at this good for nothing job, but what was so hard about just acting like you’re busy. You’re pretending then, at least, and that’s something. 

“Well, dude?” asked Sakamoto. 

Any conversation is better than that one.

Mother of fuck. 

“I…” Goro started, adjusting a piece of his hair, “I suppose I am a little ticklish.”

Sakamoto’s face lit up. “Dude, for real? Called it,” he said triumphantly. Had Goro not known him as well as he did, he’d think the divergence in conversation was a trick to get him to admit he was a bit… touchy. But he did know him, and he wasn’t one for games like that.

“Most people are, it shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s skin sensitivity, nothing more.” 

Sakamoto shrugged. “Still funny you admitted to it.” 

Sure. Very hilarious. Yet another fact Sakamoto now knows about him that he’d really have rather not shared under any circumstance. 

“Satisfied, now?” Goro asked, but it wasn’t really a question. He didn’t plan on expanding, this was embarrassing enough as it was. 

“Nope,” he replied, “cause that’s great and all, but I really gotta know the game plan.” He leaned in close to Goro, and he in turn leaned farther away.

“There’s no ‘game plan,’ Sakamoto. Please don’t get so close to me.” 

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.” He moved back, obviously not finished. “Come on, though, you gotta have something.” And back down on the counter he slouched. 

‘Something,’ he’d said. Yes, and that something was to keep his mouth shut and go about his life keeping each and every one of those mortifying feelings to himself. It was humiliating enough that Sakamoto knew. Telling Akira? He didn’t even want to imagine it. He’d rather face Okumura-san herself and ask her to buy one of their Shot-Straight-Through combo meals. 

“There’s nothing. And I don’t plan there to be anything. And, it’s not really much of your business, is it?” Goro could feel himself growing irritated. 

Sakamoto melted further into the counter. “I just don’t get why you’re not gonna ask him out if you like him. You might as well, man, it’ll be fine.” 

What simple ways of thinking. Do this, get that in return. Black and white, and right and wrong. Spill your fleeting moment of vulnerability and try not to think about the extensive hole of commitment you’re burying yourself in. One turn of phrase, one word, one misplaced breath to Akira would forever rupture the sorry excuse of acquaintanceship they’d been flip flopping through for the past three years. Akira was a blank slate and simultaneously the person he knew best. He knew him, but didn’t really, and he could never tell what he was thinking. Suddenly he was gambling again, and this time it came entirely unwelcome. Risks you face before death and risks that you’ll keep living through no matter the outcome tasted different. One was tangy and sweet and thrilling, the other was bitter  shit. Not to mention that Akira was too kind to him for his own good. He couldn’t even tell what was a lie. 

But, Sakamoto didn’t need to know all that. “You say that like there’s nothing to consider. As if I’ve never even given this thought. You do not belong in my head, Sakamoto. And I do not need to give you, an obvious outsider on the entire dilemma, any sort of justification for why I’m going to continue to abstain on something as trivial as a confession.” 

Sakamoto huffed at him. “What if I said that I gua-ran-tee he’s not gonna say no to you.”

Goro was already sick of this. What, had Sakamoto expected his heart to skip? His pulse to rise? That just the very thought of mutual feelings would send him into some flustered mess? Please. He told the tingling feeling going up through his legs and down his arms and up the back of his neck to shut the fuck up. 

He couldn’t stay quiet for long. Sakamoto could and would get ideas. “Then why doesn’t he just tell me that himself? Why are you playing wingman for him?” 

“Cause he’s not gonna say anything cause he’s got to be worried that he’s gonna freak you and your crazy attachment issues out!” 

Of course, there it was. The blind bet. Sakamoto’s one-way thinking at it again, and Goro would not have it. “I’m not going to start playing some game with him about the complexities of whatever idea of consent he has in his head. I don’t need his sympathy, and I am certainly not looking for it. I don’t have time for something messy and half-assed. I don’t want that, and surely he doesn’t, either. If he feels any way about me, he’d ought to tell me, because then maybe we’d find some kind of leeway. But I will not let him sit there and wait for me to make the first move, like a key element in his plan. This is not some teenage romance, and I am not a caricature of his love life. He can wait patiently all he’d like, but I’m perfectly content as I am now.” 

Sakamoto seemed a little stunned. 

“Man, he’s just…” He trailed off. They sat in silence. 

So ways still existed to get Sakamoto to stop rambling on. He was sure he’d regret saying this later, for a multitude of reasons. He didn’t hate Sakamoto, even saying dislike felt strong, but he always talked about things that Goro had no interest nor inclination to discuss. Maybe silence was for the best between them, for now. 

“He loves you, you know? He’s just afraid of admitting it. That’s all it is, dude,” said Sakamoto. 

Goro inhaled. So he wasn’t done, then. “Love… is an entirely different conversation.” 

“Okay, fine, you want me to say he ‘like-likes’ you like some fifth grader? Cause he does.” 

Goro didn’t reply. He’d made his point. 

“He isn’t playing one of your weirdo mind games,” Sakamoto continued. “I think you’re thinking too hard about this. He’s just a guy. He just wants to make sure you’re all comfortable and shit. Cause it’s not like we don’t all know the bullshit that was goin’ on for you.”

“I am not looking for his pity.” A fine thing to say while working at a Big Bang Burger in a bright yellow shirt and starred apron. It didn’t matter. He didn’t wear this with pride, per say, but he wouldn’t ask someone to feel sorry for him.

He didn’t exactly want to be seen, either. Especially not Akira, but of course he’d make habits of visiting. That was just like him, and it was just like his pity, too. 

Sakamoto looked frustrated. “He ain’t pitying you, man! He’s tryin’ to respect you! He knows you got things to go through on your own and he’s trying to give you space and everything.” 

Goro clicked his tongue. “If you know that’s his tactic, why are you trying to pressure me into this?” 

“Cause I don’t care, dude!” Sakamoto said, and then stopped himself, and promptly looked very guilty. “Well, okay. I do care. Like, I do. But sometimes…” He looked like he was trying to pick his words out carefully. He had an idea, just no way to form it.

He settled. “Sometimes, you just gotta get laid, man.” 

At this point, Goro found himself shocked that he wasn’t banging his own head against the counter. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You’re twenty one years old! Dude, I know you haven’t gotten any,” Sakamoto argued. “Your gay ass with emotional problems? Get outta here.” 

“This is not—”  

Sakamoto put his hands up nonshalontly. “And like, yeah, no judgey stuff, take your time if you gotta. But have you considered it? Tell me. I betcha you haven’t.”

Goro opened his mouth, expecting to reply with an incredibly well thought out ‘fuck off,’ but the automatic doors slid open, and suddenly Goro was all smiles and greetings, so what came out instead was, “Hello! Welcome to Big Bang Burger! Would you—ah.” 

Sakamoto snorted loudly, and Goro wanted to kick him so bad. 

And actually, what was stopping him? Sakamoto had earned this, and it’s not like this customer would care. 

Because, who else could’ve been just about summoned by the trouble than Kurusu Akira himself; strolling in so casually through the doors, like he hadn’t just become the most unpleasant topic of conversation Goro had ever had with Sakamoto. Speak of the devil was an understatement, or perhaps he was the devil himself. 

“What the eff, man!” 

“Hey you two,” said Akira, hands in his pockets and clearly bagless. He didn’t even register Goro’s kick, like that was just some normal occurrence. Somehow, that made him angrier. 

“Yo,” said Sakamoto, recovering annoyingly quickly. Goro wondered if he should’ve considered breaking his finger. 

Sakamoto reached out to Akira for a fist bump. “You don’t have the cat with ya?” 

Akira bumped him back. “Nope. Just me today.” 

“Sweet,”  Sakamoto replied, a smile growing wide. Goro hated the look. It was the hungriest and most dastardly shit-eating grin he’d ever seen him dare to make. So, knowing Sakamoto and his terrible poker face, he had thought up some idiotic ploy. 

“What’s up with you?” Akira asked, and thank god it wasn’t directed at Goro. Sakamoto’s obviousness did not go unnoticed. 

“Oh nothin’, nothin’,” said Sakamoto, entirely conspicuously, “I gotta go, though, grind never stops. Super secret stuff in the back.” 

Goro glared at him. So now he would pretend to be busy? 

“Burger secrets,” Akira said, and Ryuji gave him a finger gun in reply. He walked off without a word, but apparently felt the inclination to jerk his head back at Goro, as if he didn’t know what he was doing. 

He sighed. No amount of alone time would ever compel Goro to confess at a Big Bang Burger, of all places. At least Akira tended to be a little more bearable in conversation. He hoped he’d be an in and out customer. “Can I get you anything?” 

Akira looked at him for a moment. “You look flustered.” 

Goro felt himself twitch. He wasn’t flustered, like some preteen who can’t hear the word genital without bursting into laughter. If anything, Sakamoto had caught him off guard with his stupidity. He obviously was not one to be so affected by such a topic. He was an adult, and a professional. He would again not think about the fact he was wearing an orange visor right now. 

“I’m positive that isn’t a menu item,” he replied, keeping his pleasant smile plastered on, keeping any stray annoyance from showing. 

Akira examined him closer. “Do you have a fever or something? You look red.”

Goro drummed his fingers against the counter impatiently. What was he supposed to say? Sorry, Akira, Sakamoto just decided to kindly push the image of you railing me as a form of twisted therapy into the forefront of my consciousness. Would you like any drinks?

“I’m fine. I’m not the type to go to work sick,” he decided on instead. 

“Really?” He didn’t seem convinced. 

Goro folded his arms. “While living in a society where health is determined by the trust of the majority, I have no plans to spread my germs to an unsuspecting businessman, in that I expect the same from him.”

Akira considered that for a moment. “So you’re embarrassed, then.” 

Goro’s expression turned sour. He was not in the mood for a debate. “Everyone seems to be presuming things today, have I missed a memo?” 

Akira didn’t miss a beat. “Ryuji said something?” 

Goro dragged his fingernails into his palm. He was hardly being that obvious, he wasn’t a bumbling idiot who couldn’t keep a straight face. Akira was just acutely good at reading people, (namely, reading him) and it drove Goro up the wall. It was unfair, for one thing, since Akira continued to maintain blank expressions in the face of clowns and hookers, keeping his inner thoughts kept behind lock and key. And, as of more recently, he was the one person Goro really desperately wanted to hide every wandering emotion from possible. Just his luck, fall for the bastard who analyzes people as a side job for his savior-complex living. 

This was making him more frustrated. “Would you just order?” 

Akira looked at the menu, but Goro knew it was bullshit. He ordered the same thing every time— a shake and a burger, no tomatoes. He certainly already knew what he wanted, but was just causing trouble in the meantime. What an annoyance. Goro punched it in, and made no moves to go and cook. If Sakamoto was going to have his “business” in the back, then he could stay there and do his job. 

“Sit over there, we’ll bring it to you when it’s done,” he said, and Akira silently obliged. He gave a small smile before he turned, leaving Goro completely alone with his thoughts as he sat at his table and scrolled through his phone. 

He couldn’t believe the timing of Sakamoto’s distasteful comment to Akira’s unseasonable entrance. Things always seemed to fall into place with Goro, just not the right places. The right place, but a little down, and to the left, the left, he said. He wished Sakamoto would mind his own business, let him quietly pine until his untimely death; which kept getting put off, might he add. 

Sakamoto emerged from the back end of the restaurant. He was holding the bag of presumably Akira’s food, and his shake. He waved them enthusiastically. 

“Go on, dude,” he smirked. 

Goro was blunt. “No.” He’d pissed him off enough today. He wasn’t going to walk over there and serve the food. Sakamoto’s little idea of love, romance and marriage in a burger joint would have to wait. Ideally, it would get itself stuck in wet concrete, and drown way down under where no one could see it and where the light of day would never reach. 

Sakamoto seemed to catch his drift. “Jeez, fine. Huffy, huffy.” 

He walked over to Akira with a spring in his step, and they started chatting idly. Goro couldn’t hear. In all honesty, he was trying to tune them out. His headache was growing worse. Pounding in his head, every light too bright and repetitive music blurring together his thoughts. And of course there was the elephant in the room, who was whispering to him Sakamoto’s crude suggestions, and the irritating notion that maybe he was right, just a little bit.

He needed to get himself together. He was acting like some horny teenager. Get fucked, you raunchy elephant. 

Sakamoto left to let him eat, and made a show of going back to the other end of the restaurant, all while wiggling his eyebrows at Goro. In turn, Goro made a show of rolling his eyes and planting himself facing away from Akira. It made Sakamoto laugh, for whatever reason, and Goro just ignored him. 

He watched the door idly and tried to relax. He’d been clenching his teeth, and his jaw ached. He tried to focus to get his headache to fade into obscurity. He couldn’t find much to concentrate on, was his issue. Other than the obvious, which he would ignore without remorse. He wanted to go home. No lights too bright there, no sloppily cleaned windows, and especially no crush (the word left a bad taste in his mouth. Boy who has left him emotionally compromised after giving him no reason to deny he had worth in the world and keeps him up at night thinking about the way he really tried to will him back into existence when he could, god, have anything else in the world, and he wanted him. Was that a better option?) sitting out of view, chewing quietly and doing absolutely nothing to draw so much attention to himself.  At home he could drown it all out in a cold bath, and let himself think of nothing but his numbing toes and pruning fingers. 

“Hey, catch,” Akira said, suddenly there and startling Goro out of his bathlike daydream. He tossed something onto the counter. Goro did not catch it. 

It was a napkin, all folded up in a careful way. It didn’t hold the shape well, but the intention was pretty clear. “Um. A crane?” 

“Yup. Present for you.” he started, rubbing his neck, and he had the nerve to look bashful. “I got bored.”

Goro hadn’t noticed him making it. Which, alright, did make sense, he was purposefully keeping his neck away from that entire half of the restaurant. “Sorry we aren’t quite the height of entertainment here.” Goro lightly touched its head. He didn’t know Akira knew how to make these. “Well, thank you, I guess.”

Akira pushed his glasses further up his nose. “You’re welcome to name him.”

“I think that I won’t.”

“That can be pretty trendy, too,” he replied. “I’ve gotta go. Class. Tell Ryuji I say bye.” 

“Bye, dude!” Sakamoto shouted from the back. There was that tiresome enthusiasm again. 

It made Akira smile.“Nevermind, then. See you.” 

Goro just barely lifted his hand by the wrist to wave. “Bye.” 

Akira turned, gave him a small trill of his fingers, and left. Sakamoto did not return to his exit, and Goro savored the moment. It was just him and the crane, now. 

It was pretty shoddy. Unfolding, and barely standing up on its own. Cheap paper napkins were not the ideal material for origami, it seemed. He watched it slowly fall apart, wings losing shape and the head relaxing into its neck. Akira had hardly stayed long, so that meant he was probably pretty good at this sort of thing. He wouldn’t have guessed. 

…He thought about how it might look on proper paper. The creases sharp and crisp, the ends pointed and still. What would Akira’s hands look like while they worked? He could hear the sounds of the folding, and the wedging, clean paper being bent and rippled. Delicate fingers, working through, meticulously checking every last inch. Sometimes a pinch, just where it’s needed. And then finished, folded tight, wrapped together in itself. Very quick work, with the touch of a hand. 

“The heck is that?” Sakamoto said, getting an actual jump out of Goro. 

“What?” he gasped, and took a second to collect his thoughts. At work. Sakamoto came back. In a Big Bang Burger. Headache present. Good fucking god. “It’s just…” He pressed his fingers into the side of his temple “It’s a paper crane. Akira made it.” 

Sakamoto let that sink in.“You tellin me you were just sitting here staring at the thing Akira made you?” 

“I wasn’t,” Goro replied, trying desperately to catch his breath as casually as possible. 

“Uh, you literally were.” Sakamoto got uncomfortably close to him again. Goro physically moved away, because now was not the time. 

It didn’t deter Sakamoto whatsoever. He put his hands on his hips and gave an annoying grin. “Bro, you gotta tell him… You’ve obviously got it preeetty bad.” 

Goro was fed up with this. This conversation needed to end, or he thought he might explode. “I don’t ‘have it bad,’ Sakamoto, stop bringing this up.” 

Sakamoto smirked at him. “You so do though, is the thing.” 

“I don’t. Leave me alone.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and kept his mouth shut. He was acting so haughty, like he’d won the argument. Which, he hadn’t, for the record. 

That stupid crane. All it’d done was make things worse. And what was it even doing? Sitting here crumbling away into uselessly folded paper. A cheap napkin made of other recycled cheap napkins. Clean and crisp paper was a long sought after dream, a fantasy and nothing more. 

You know, this was just it, really. This is what he meant. Akira would try and fold him up and he’d inevitably fall back down. He didn’t know just what fantastic method he’d try, but it wouldn’t matter— he was made of what he was made of, and nothing would hold him up. Trying was pointless, risking for naught, it would be better for everyone if he stayed just how he was and didn’t overstay his use. 

He would not fit into Akira’s plans or his pities. He couldn’t. 

“…Bruh. What does that even mean.” 

Ah? “What?“ No. He had not said that out loud. Sakamoto did not just hear all that nonsense. 

Sakamoto was giving him a funny look. “You’re not a napkin, man.” 

God, shit. Shit shit shit. “I— I know that, this is just—“ The unpleasant feeling of blood rushing to his face was just as intolerable as it was unpreventable. 

“For real? Cause you sure sounded like you were calling yourself a napkin.” 

Absolutely unbelievable. How unruly was he that he’d just spouted all that like it was nothing? He couldn’t believe he had to explain himself now, but letting him get ideas was undeniably worse. “It’s supposed to be… symbolic, Sakamoto.” 

He could practically see the gears turning in his head. That wasn’t something difficult to understand, you dunce. Every second of this humiliating scene felt like a knife turning in his back. 

“Why does your brain work in such effed up ways. You gotta work on that,” Sakamoto said, not letting up his judgemental look.

He crossed his arms, trying to make his mortification appear like annoyance. “Don’t you start with me. As if you ever have something useful to say. At least I’m— I’m thinking, here.” 

That riled him up a bit. “I’m thinkin’! I almost flunked literature so maybe I’m not so good at this analysis stuff, but you know what? Hear me out.” Goro did not want to hear him out. He continued despite that. “I get it, you got your problems. But I really don’t think you callin’ yourself some shitty crane is fair, you know? Like, you’re a whole guy.”

He did not appreciate how genuine Sakamoto was acting. It was odd, and it felt awkward coming from him. He didn’t want to feel guilty for being rude to him earlier, either. Just another topic to bother him to sleep. 

Sakamoto went on. “Gahhh, it feels weird sayin’ this but like, you’re not a napkin, okay! And Akira doesn’t think so either. You’re more… complicated. Napkins don’t pay taxes or anything.” 

Ah, alright. So it was mostly bullshit. He could ease the guilt away in one fell swoop. 

Goro’s disinterest seemed to show itself well to Sakamoto. “Just, okay. Lemme get my thoughts here. You gotta like… be your own first step. I didn’t get my own shit sorted out until I actually tried to. And I’m not sayin it’s easy to do. But Imma tell you right now your first step is gonna be to stop thinking you’re a napkin or a bucket or a plate of green beans or whatever else you come up with. And I mean it, man.”

Goro knew he had things to say to that. He had thought out replies and phrases that Sakamoto would need more headspace to begin to understand. But none of them came to him. So he decided to stay threateningly quiet. 

It was well received. “Okay okay, you’re gettin’ mad, I can tell. I’m gonna take my break,” Sakamoto relented, and turned on his heel. “I ain’t really trying to tell ya what to do but give it a thinking about, alright? ‘Least for Akira’s sake,” he said over his shoulder, and left Goro almost more alone than before. 

It wasn’t even Akira’s sake Goro was worried about. Not in the way Sakamoto seemed to think. And he didn’t need to be told he wasn’t some inanimate object, he wasn’t that out of mind. 

Any sort of sensible argument would have to come to him after the fact, apparently. To tell him this wouldn’t be a “first step,” more like a hundredth. How many paces did crawling out of the hole he’d buried himself in count for? How many miles had he gone by now, barefoot and bleeding all the way. 

Such a stupid conversation. Needless, too, since for whatever reason his filter decided to leave him to fend for himself. Just another addition to this embarrassing excuse of a shift today. 

The paper crane sat still on the counter, though it hardly resembled one anymore. He almost felt bad. He had his typical pit in his stomach, but nothing exactly to pinpoint it on. Was he wallowing in that much self-loathing? 

Perhaps. 

Goro adamantly refused to have any more dramatic revelations at his part time job, so any introspections would have to come later. 

He put the crumpled crane in his pocket. It was certainly not going to be a crane once he took it out again, but he didn’t really know what else to do with it. Throwing it away felt wrong, to him. Though he wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to do with it when he got home. 

Akira hadn’t given this to him in hopes of causing some mental anguish. Or at least, he assumed so. Sakamoto had said he didn’t play mind games, but if not those, what was he doing? It felt better to know it was a game, in that way there was something about Akira’s mystery of a consciousness he could pry through. 

Was he reading into things? For sure. Reading too deeply into anything had been a talent of his for as long as he could remember. It had saved his life before, many times and in the most difficult of times. 

This crane wasn’t life threatening, but it felt like it was. Not in the thrilling way, but in the shitty way. 

His shift was over soon. Which reminded him, Sakamoto had surely already taken his break. He was a dip, but Goro preferred his own thoughts to any conversation they’d had today. And that was saying something, since getting out of his own head was a much needed relief that he’d take almost any chance he got. 

He was overthinking, and there was nothing he could do about it. He would continue to overthink until someone stole his brain and dunked it in acid. Where was the enjoyment otherwise? It was all he knew how to do. 

And even he didn’t overthink this— if Akira had given this to him in earnest and in playfulness, and if Sakamoto hadn’t been overtly pulling his leg through their shifts today. There wasn’t even anything remarkable about it. If there was a chance that maybe things were just okay, and getting better, and he wasn’t a living metaphor for a tissue. Oh just, say he invited him out for coffee, and Akira surprised him with a new little creation, less spur of the moment and made something almost sweet. He’d never drop his pride so low as to ask for a lesson, but if he did, maybe he could learn to make something, too. And maybe he wouldn’t hate every moment of it, and maybe he’d like getting so close, and maybe he’d appreciate the mistakes as much as the praises. 

…Hm.

That was just a fantasy, of course. And surely, nothing was all that great about it. Anything could go wrong in any number of ways, his own interventions just one category. 

Maybe it was the headache, or the dragging on shift, or the terrible lights, or the distant humming of his coworker, but Goro must’ve been caught off guard today. Because otherwise, why else would he have thought, not long and not convincingly, but still a thought as present as can be, that maybe, despite everything. 

It could be nice. Just for a little bit. Maybe that didn’t sound quite so bad. 

Not so bad at all. 

[muchadoaboutbucky]

On the Run (oneshot)

Set after CA: The Winter Soldier: Bucky’s on his own, and with the majority of the Avengers in the spotlight, there’s only one person Steve trusts to track him down. 

PAIRING: Bucky x Native American!Reader WARNINGS: out-of-canon events, rough smut NOTE: 18+ only. Do not copy/repost on other sites.

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Bucky’s been in Bucharest for a little over a year. He’s gotten back to something close to stability, without all the creature comforts. He’s found a one-room apartment close to the market, where he can lay low, away from anything and everything. 

He’d spent the first month of his freedom traveling across Europe, breaking into old HYDRA bunkers and stealing whatever cash he could find. He’s got enough to get him a nicer place, but “nice” sticks out like a sore thumb. He’s better off rationing and staying where he can blend in. 

It’s hard to be alone, he finds. After first getting settled, he struggled to fit into the apartment. He hasn’t had a room or anything to call his own in several decades. He gets some plants, first. It’s easy to fall into a routine of watering them. His tomato plant prospers where he’s got it propped up in the window, but the flowers on the table wither and die within a week. 

His dreams are incredibly vivid. It’s as if seventy years of not dreaming has built up and exploded. He dreams of everything he’s missed… apple pie, the plum tree in the backyard at home, his childhood Border Collie, playing baseball in the dirt fields on breaks in the army… women.

God, he needs a woman. It’s not safe, though. Showing just any woman his non-human arm is sure to cause more than just raised eyebrows, and even if she’s okay with it the strength that’s come with the responsibility of being an enhanced soldier isn’t something an average human is capable of bearing.

In the end he settles for his right hand and calls it a day.

It’s summer, the first week of June, and he’s at the market in the late afternoon, taking shelter from the heat of the sun and hoping to fill his canvas bag with cherries and plums—the plums in Bucharest are the best he’s found. The baker's stall is open, and he can smell the fresh bread perfuming the air. It’s still in the season where nights are cool and it’s the perfect temperature for soup.

He’s just paid the fruit vendor when he turns, not looking where he’s going, and bumps into a woman. She stumbles, and instinctively he reaches out with his left arm and grabs her shoulder to keep her from falling.

“Sorry!” He says, helping her regain her balance. “Eşti bine?” he tries in Romanian first, “are you all right?”

She nods, taking a deep breath to settle herself. “I’m fine, thank you.”

American. Must be a tourist. 

“Good.” Bucky releases her and steps back, hoping she didn’t think anything of the odd firmness and strength of his metal fingers. She’s beautiful, messy hair tied up in a bun at the back of her head. “Sorry, again, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem,” she says, “just found who I was looking for.”

His stomach turns icy. “What?”

“I know who you are,” she replies, “your friend, Steve, he sent me to find you.”

The mention of Steve makes Bucky’s chest tighten, but he doesn’t let his guard down. “Who are you?” he asks. “How do you know Steve?”

“Y/N,” she answers. “He and I have been friends for a while. I’m kinda new to the team… I can go places without triggering the news outlets.”

He glances around, not knowing who could be watching. “Let’s walk,” he says, keeping his head low. She follows him down the avenue and into an alleyway, walking by his side until he stops behind a trash-filled dumpster. His fingers curl into the collar of her shirt, and she lets out an ‘oof!’ as he pushes her up against the wall.

“How long have you been following me?” he asks.

“Long enough to know where you live,” she replies calmly. “Look, I’m not here to cause any trouble, he was just… you went off the grid after Hydra went down, the only thing that told us where you were was a security camera outside the drugstore down the street. You might have a beard, but facial recognition is a bitch to kick.”

Bucky tightens his jaw. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because Steve’s paranoid about who he’s friends with and I’m good at spying on people.” Y/N chews on her lower lip. “Wouldn’t be here if he thought I’d do anything else.”

He takes a deep breath. “Come by later tonight. It’ll be safer to talk.” Turning and stalking back down the alleyway, he mutters, just loud enough so she can hear, “there’ll be soup.”

***

He finishes his shopping quickly and returns home as fast as he can. After locking the doors and windows, he stores all his purchases in the crappy fridge and sets about cleaning the table. He’s only got one good soup recipe, the beef stew his mother used to make on Sunday nights. It’s a long process, but he doesn’t mind. The methodical cooking eases his mind. 

He’s just finished dumping everything into a large pot when there’s a knock. He knows it’s Y/N, but he checks just to make sure before opening the door. 

“You’re early,” he says.

“You never specified a time,” she replies, turning to face him. She’s let her hair down and changed into straight-fit jeans and a tank top. No bra; he can faintly see her nipples through the fabric and it makes his gut tighten with arousal. 

“You know, you could have come to me,” she continues absentmindedly as he strides back to the stove, “I’m at the Epoque.”

“It’s safer here,” he says, “don’t need to be getting caught.”

She accepts that and gazes around the small apartment. His bed is just a mattress on the floor, one pillow that doesn’t match the thin comforter or the sheets. “Cozy.”

“It works.” He swallows, trying to focus on their dinner. “So… you must be special.”

“Special?”

“To be one of them,” he says, “one of the Avengers, or… whatever.”

Her boots click on the wooden floor as she steps around to survey his work. “I’ve got my powers. Nothing major, but I’m apparently a good asset in a fight. Not nearly as skilled as you.”

He sighs, barely able to look at her. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“I know.” She leans against the counter. “I’m strong. Not just lift-a-car-over-my-head strong, I can just… I can handle a beating, y’know? The last bad guy who punched me ended up with a shattered fist.”

“So you’re…”

“Relatively indestructible?” She shrugs. “I guess you could call it that.”

Food is on the table within ten minutes, and Y/N, surprised at the quality of her serving, digs in with gusto, mopping up the last of it with a chunk of fresh bread. Bucky eats slowly, keeping pace with her until their bowls are empty.

“So your powers,” he says, breaking the silence as they wash their dishes, “how did you get ‘em?”

“All I know is that I was born with them,” she replies. “First saw signs when I was five and my older brother accidentally knocked me off the playground. Fell six feet, and the ground caved under me. I didn’t have a scratch.”

Bucky watches her set her bowl on the drying rack and flexes his metal fingers. Titanium glints in the light of the overhead light. “So not even this?”

“I hope you’re not going to try and find out.” She grins and rests one hip against the counter, reaching out to run a fingertip over his wrist, along the border between two plates. “Men who hit without asking me first usually end up with broken arms and I’d hate to have to destroy this.”

Now she’s just being a tease. 

Her eyes flicker up to meet his, and he snaps. Moving close with a single step, he grabs her face with both hands and kisses her. She moves into it, responding with a shove of her hips against his. Metal fingers curl into her hair, and she lets out a whimper when her scalp aches.

Before she can say or do anything else, he rips her top down the middle and tosses the ruined fabric to the floor. Her cheeks flush, and her eyes sparkle with arousal. 

“You don’t play,” she murmurs, “you gonna finish the job or what?”

They strip each other in a matter of minutes. The minute Y/N jeans hit the ground, Bucky slides his hands under her ass and hauls her up, striding quickly to the mattress and lowering her down onto it. She’s wet, he can feel it against his bare cock, and she holds him tight in her hand, slowly moving the thick tip through her folds. He braces his hands on either side of her shoulders, lowering himself down to kiss her. 

For a split second he flashes back to being seventeen, lying between the legs of the prettiest girl he’d ever known and trying his best to make it through his first ever round of lovemaking.

Except now, he’s no fumbling virgin. He’s a grown man who knows exactly what he wants and almost exactly how he’s going to get it.

He enters her with a low groan that muffles against her lips. She moans, fingers digging into his back as her legs wrap around his waist. Her pussy’s warm and slick on his bare flesh, and it’s all he can do to remember some form of self control when he begins to move. He’s gentle at first, but when she rocks her hips up to meet his thrusts and he suddenly bottoms out, he gives way to lust. 

She cries out when his pelvis snaps against her ass. Her nails dig into his skin, the ache developing into a sting that only drives him on. His thrusts grow into strong, frantic beats that make the slap of skin on skin resound through the room. She tosses her head back, her moans unrestrained. When she arches up, her stomach rubs against his, and he gives her a teasing grind, humming against her mouth as she cranes her neck to kiss him again.

“Harder,” she whispers, “give me all you got.”

Bucky shudders when she hitches her knees on either side of his ribs, opening herself up more. It takes every ounce of strength not to look down at where he’s inside her, where soft meets hard. If he looks he’ll finish right there. Instead he buries his face in the crook of her neck, picking up his thrusts until she’s shaking and bouncing with the force of them. 

“Oh, fuck!” She gasps loudly, mouth open in a smiling cry of pleasure. “Right there… that’s it...”

Bucky can only grunt and pant in answer. He’s never felt so primal, chasing pleasure like it’s nothing. When he loses his rhythm and slips out of her, she doesn’t waste any time to take advantage of the situation. She rolls onto her stomach and arches her hips into the air, legs spread wide. He kneels up, kissing and nipping up her spine until he thrusts back in, hands squeezing at soft skin. Her body ripples when his hips smack into her, and when he brings his flesh hand down on her ass, fingers grabbing at the smooth roll of her hip, she clenches tight, mouth open in a whimper. 

He loses track of how long he fucks her. All he knows is warm skin, the scent of her sweat, her slick pussy tight around him, and the sound of her practically sobbing his name when he speeds up. He’s getting close, though, and he doesn’t have quite enough control to hold back. 

Reaching around her waist, he skims his fingers over her sex, rubbing quick circles that make her clench tight around him. She reaches back, taking his other wrist in her hand, and pulls him over her. His metal arm curls around her shoulders, holding her close as he ruts them both closer to orgasm.

She finishes first, a cry in her throat choking off as she writhes and squirms under him. He doesn’t wait for her orgasm to flame out, just shoves forward with a primal growl and lets his own release pour into her. He doesn’t let her go until she’s begging for air, gasping, and he leans back, watching her pull away. She’s swollen, the lips of her sex slick and slightly puffy, and she squeezes her thighs together as a trickle of white dribbles over the crease in her thigh.

“Jesus,” she sighs breathlessly, running trembling fingers through her hair, “how long have you been working that up?”

Bucky chuckles, reaching up to push one of the windowpanes open. “Longer than you’ve been alive.” He slumps down next to her, rolling onto his back as cool air washes over them. 

They stay there for several minutes in almost complete silence. When Y/N asks where the bathroom is, Bucky takes her into the shower, cramping together in the tiny stall as cool water washes over them. 

She stays the night, stretched out and naked on half the mattress while Bucky slumbers behind her. For the first time in months, he feels relaxed, all anxiety and tension drained out of him. 

She wakes sometime in the night, and he opens his eyes to find her rubbing up against him, lips pressed against the stubble on his jaw. He lets her crawl on top, finding him already hard and ready through the darkness. She sighs when he enters her, and Bucky, caught in the hazy middle of sleeping and waking, glides his hands over her hips to hold her as she rocks back and forth.

In the morning, they make potato cakes, bacon, and coffee. Bucky lends her a shirt, and she leans up against the counter, bare thighs peeking out from under the hem. She looks tired and worn out from the night before, but her smile is bright in the morning sun.

“Are they gonna come for me?” he asks, watching her nibble on a piece of bacon. “Steve, the others?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I made Steve promise not to come after you. He just wants to know that you’re alive, that’s all. He’s not here to recruit you back.”

Despite her words, Bucky’s stomach twinges. “I don’t know if I’m ready to see him. Or anyone.”

Y/N seems to catch onto his anxiety, because she sets her food down and locks her fingers in his metal ones. “You don’t have to,” she explains gently. “He won’t even know where you live. All I have to do is tell him that you’re alive and safe and—”

“That we slept together?” Bucky tries to joke. 

“Well, I’m definitely not going to headline it,” she laughs. “I’ll definitely be keeping that to myself.”

She leaves late that night, after a dinner of ordered pizza and crappy soda. Before she goes, she scribbles her private cell number on a scrap of paper pinned to the fridge, and he makes a note to salvage his old Blackberry that hasn’t been used in months. 

He kisses her goodbye and watches her drive off in a rented Mercedes. The apartment feels too quiet without her now. He wishes he could keep her with him, but her life must be busy if she’s with the Avengers… it’s selfish to keep her back. 

When the phone is charged, he sits back on the couch and tucks in to a rerun of an old nature program. It’s almost two in the morning when the phone buzzes with a new text. The number on the screen is hers, and he clumsily navigates the small device to see the message you sent.

> Back home. Call me when you get a chance. -Y/N :)

If you liked this, please reblog and leave a comment :)

[cosmic-zephyr]

Christmas/Birthday- (Karushuu Week 2019)

If Gakushuu is being honest, he didn't have any plans for Christmas this year, being too swamped with work. Maybe he would've refilled on his sleep or just laze around in his apartment and watch a Netflix movie or two.

Maybe he'd been generous enough to let Karma cuddle him on their couch as they watch the movies. Or maybe- well you get the gist of it. He'd have done many things in the week he had off for Christmas and new years but none of them included this.

This being a crowd of around 25 drunk, seemingly high adults camping in his living room as they laugh about things Gakushuu lost track of in the first two hours.

He doesn't even know where his boyfriend is, having lost sight of him when Nakamura tackled him in a chokehold for 'shipping the wrong ship'. Gakushuu doesn't really have a clue, and, in the ten years that he had bonded with Nakamura (and the eight he had been in a seemingly normal? Relationship with Karma) he had learned to not question it.

But it was 11:45 on Christmas Eve and Gakushuu wanted to be the first to wish his boyfriend a happy birthday as well as get the whole cake cutting ordeal that Kayano-er...Yukimura- insisted on out of the way so he can save some years of his lifespan by not worrying over any of the drunk people knocking the cake over on his expensive carpet.

So he casts a weary eye over the crowd, cautiously removes the wine bottle away from Terasaka's grappling hand and makes his way to the bedroom, hoping he finds his boyfriend there.

Thankfully that is the case. He finds Karma and Nagisa sipping wine as they chat on the bed, Karma leaning on the headboard while Nagisa rests on his elbow.

Karma looks over, gives him a small smile before returning to his conversation with Nagisa. Nagisa waves at him, too drunk to actually act proper and sit up. Gakushuu doesn't mind.

He leans against the closed door and observes as his boyfriend goes off on a tangent about Terasaka being an absolute dofus in the office.

Maybe it's the wine or the questionable soup Okuda brought in (the girl might be sweet and shy, her chemical concoctions certainly aren't) but Gakushuu, giddily, thinks that Karma looks especially handsome tonight and that he'd really like to make out with him right now. Yeah, its definitely the wine.

Once he has had enough of his dream make out with Karma, he calls for attention from the two best friends.

"Let's go cut your cake," he says, "It will save me few years in my lifespan to move that cake away from the living room."

Karma's eyes twinkle, the dim light in the room making them stand out more. His boyfriend grins, "C'mon Nagisa, I don't want him to die yet, I need someone to annoy."

Gakushuu throws a cushion at him as Nagisa sighs, "I don't think dealing with you extends anyone's life span. "

"How rude! You hurt me!"

"Okay," Gakushuu says before Karma can start a rant, "Let's get going."

------------------------

They cut the cake about three minutes early but no one is too bothered by the time precisions, instead jumping to get a piece of cake each as soon as Karma puts the knife down- Nakamura might be as much of a crackhead as Karma, but she is the Goddess of Sweets made human.

With everyone bustling around the cake, Gakushuu finally gets Karma to himself and he utilises the time well.

Karma is all glinting eyes and teasing grins when Gakushuu stalks up to him, standing in the corner with a slice of cake. Gakushuu is ashamed to note the lack of hesitancy on his part as he pulls on Karma's jacket and presses their lips together.

When they pull apart, Karma is still wearing a grin but this one is soft and gentle, fond- the one only he has the privilege to see.

Gakushuu cups his cheek with his empty hand, offers a smile of his own and presses another kiss on the taller's lips, "Happy Birthday."

"Hmm." Karma hums, pulling him closer, "This is very unlike you, Mr. I-hate-all-kind-of-physical-affection."

"What can I say?", Gakushuu drawls, "My boyfriend looks extra fine today."

"Does he now?"

"I would suppose so, yes."

Karma snorts, but before he can comment, Terasaka yells at them to, and I quote, 'stop being so disgustingly in love and disrespect all the single people around.'

To which Karma only grins bigger before making a show of kissing Gakushuu. Gakushuu doesn't even blush anymore, too used Karma's shenanigans.

They do separate however, and join the rest. Gakushuu dutifully snaps hundreds of pictures of 3E and their devil genius, gets hundreds of pictures snapped with his devil rival-turned-boyfriend and eats too much sugar and finally drinks a whole bottle of wine by himself after Nakamura dares him to.

By the time they call it a night, or morning seeing as it was already 4am, Gakushuu is exhausted, wasted and way too nauseous. He bids them goodbye as Karma sways against him, giving one armed hugs to everyone.

Promptly both of them collapse on the couch and Karma rolls over until he is curled around Gakushuu. If it was a normal day, Gakushuu would have thrown him off or poked him hard enough to ache, but right now Gakushuu is drunk, exhausted to the bone and very Karma-starved. So he moves up the couch, let's Karma rest on his chest as he presses a sleepy kiss on the mop of fiery red hair and wrap his arms around his boyfriend.

"Merry Christmas," he says, before giving in and following Karma to dreamland, back ache be damned.

@karushuu--week :))

[grim-faux]

11- Too Alive

I’m not sure what sort of face I wore.  Somewhere between blank disbelief or utter horror, I didn’t register at first what was happening until his fist connected with my head, my bruised brow.  The second blow hit somewhere behind my ear, effectively stunning me.  Whoever the fuck he was, he was strong.  I lost count of how many times he pummeled me before I was soup, spilling out of that idiotwaiter.  I was barely conscious as he knelt over me, running his mouth.

“Hey, you’re that little shit priest’s guy, aren’t you?  His…witness, or whatever.  You must be exhausted.  Let’s take a break, huh, buddy?  The old two martini lunch, have a little confab.”

I already decided, I hated this guy.

He pulled me up by the lapels of my coat and flipped my body over his shoulder.  Miles.  Miles.  Focus, wake up.  I need to get away from this guy.  Have to get out, gotta find that way out and not get killed.  MILES!

My eyelids drooped as the world drifted away, my head was pounding and the room was spinning.  Or, he was turning before he flopped me down into a hard, uncomfortable chair.  I tried to find my limbs, my arms, my legs.  What was he doing?  He was saying something….

“…heavier than you look.  A little cardio wouldn’t kill you.” My head lolled back and turned uncomfortably on my neck, like a broken spring in a dull mechanism.  My jaw slacked, but I managed to clamp my mouth shut.  Keep your mouth shut around this guy.  If you have to pass out do so slumped forward, I was so muddled in the head I wasn’t sure if I could manage that.

What was he doing?  “Okay.  Here we go.  Arms and legs inside the car at all times.”  He tightened something around my wrists, and when I spun my head to see, I felt my heart skip a beat.

Restraints.  He leaned on my knee and gave a light heartened chuckle before he disappeared from sight.  Oh god.  This was bad.  This was indescribably bad. 

My head swayed as he gripped the handles of the wheelchair and spun me about.  Miles.  Get it the fuck together.  I need action, response.  I was certain I was trying to move, but my body was unresponsive and in pain.  I clinched my hand against the hard wristband, and turned my head a little more to view where we were going.  The man was quiet for now, only the howl of the storm and the irritating chirp of the wheels reverberated in the background.

I saw a steel countertop, blood, there was always blood.  Tall shelves, looked like for stacking something thin or flat.  Sinks, pots and pans.  Kitchen.  I closed my eyes feeling my brain flat line, no, stay awake.  Focus.  I can get out of this.  My head rolled back and I saw pale carpet, the colors looked horrible.  Walls burnt and damaged by fighting, or something.  The paint badly chipped, made everything look ancient and ugly.  Boarded up door, probably locked too.  An acrid scent twisted in my nose as I was reacquainted with soured aroma of the asylum all over again, the remaining lights seemed brighter than normal.

My head.  Everything was fuzzy, and everywhere all at once.  Was I supposed to be here?  Dead Murkoff, pools of blood, pieces of people scattered across the floor.  A surreal nightmare I couldn’t escape.  The surviving humans wore a mask, but their minds were fractured by the fiends that had run this place.  Something had been waiting for them in the mountains.  Was it Father Martin standing behind those bars, or…something else?  The Scales on Saul’s eyes were fear.  Miles.  Too deep Miles, I’ve gone too deep.  Please wake up.

I opened one eye to stare at the floor, and turned to check the walls of a glassed in office as the wheelchair rotated and backed up.  I was feeling sour in my gut, even when I shut my eyes the world still swirled around.  Horrible things nested in my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“Y’know, I love the mountain air up here at night.  You want to head out, take a stroll?”  He darted into my line of sight, sideways and nodded toward an open door labeled EXIT in friendly, bright red letters.  “Go ahead, I’ll wait here.”

A stroll did sound really nice, but I wasn’t sure how to do that.  I opened my other eye and fixed him with a glare.  “Go on, run free.”  As he carried out the E he gestured gaily with his arm.  “I’m in no hurry.”

He paused and noticed my look, his giddiness died somewhat.  But he brushed it off coolly with a small shrug.  “No?  Alright.  Nose to the grind stone, I like that.” 

I did want to go out, clear my mind.  But I couldn’t figure out how to get outside from here, it seemed somewhat complicated.  My elbow brushed the armrest awkwardly as I shifted, couldn’t get my arm free. 

“Okay then.  Right this way.”  He drew the wheelchair backwards, and I watched the shapes warp around my eyes.  The walls and floor distorted, I whined softly as the large exit became smaller and more distant.

He pulled the wheelchair back into a small room, the doors shut in front of us and he hit a panel.

An elevator Miles.  We’re in an elevator, going the opposite way of where we need to be.  I exhaled a small breath and fought not to cough, that smell of death was following us.  Where are we going?  I blinked a few times and gently turned my head left and right, just to feel it all settle back into place.  We were headed up a few floors, I lost count, too focused on other things.

This guy had a strange apparatus imbedded with his arm, looked like blood was traveling through it.  His blood?  But why?  Given his physique, horrendously gaunt, his skin stretched over muscle and bone, he might have collapsed arties, and this was a bypass.  Or, he was giving transfusions.  That thought frightened me more than it sickened. 

His fingernails were overgrown, and splintered.  He was nearly bald, but for the scraggly hair that grew from the back of his skull.  His fashion sense consisted of an apron fastened to his front, at least it was something.  Though, there was that strange monocle lens over his eye, and the remains of a rotted surgical mask. 

Oh shit.

The elevator came to a stop, and the doors scraped open.  He eased the wheelchair out, over bloodstained tile that had thick red lines identical to wheel tracks.  The man kept a steady pace, his casual indifference to his surroundings twisted in my thoughts.  I picked up the pained groans of people struggling with chains, and the distant moans.  The blood stains grew larger and thicker, with wide patterns across the dull and damaged floor.  He was following this trail.

He pushed the wheelchair past stained gurneys that lined the wall, and into a dark corridor where the sounds of anguish grew louder with our approach.  We passed through a segregation gate, broken and the door nowhere in sight.

“Kill me….Kill me.”

The chair slipped around a corner into a lit corridor, I felt the hair rising on the back of my neck.  A man tied to his bed made a valiant effort to break his bindings, his voice muffled despite his gaping black mouth.

“Shhhh…shh…shh…shhh!  You weren’t putting that tongue to any use anyway.”  I stared at him, and where a long line of decay had chiseled the plastered from the wall.  Blood was splattered on it near his face, and a black shape had formed in the mattress under his head. “Truth be told, I was just tired of licking my own stamps.”

Light poured from the open double doors in the walls side, he eased through them smoothly into a room of disarray.  Some sort of communion hospital room, beds lined the walls while others were shoved across the floor.  A few mattresses had been discarded around two large pillars off center of the room.  I stared as we continued through, toward a door with blood on the floor, on the walls, and a red mop leaned on the corroded plaster.  I groaned through my teeth and turned away, but that was only the beginning.  A sloppy handprint had been pressed by the doorframe, and thick black lines led back indicated a struggle in which the doomed was dragged.

That same reek from the dying patient room, stale urine and extensive amounts of old copper and rot.  I flinched and jerked at my wrists, trying to curse, but it came out as a stiff murmur.

“Here we are, then.”  As we entered, I saw bloody shoeprints in the little bit of light.  This guy was barefoot.

He spun the chair around and drew me deeper into this black room that smelled of death and pain.  He sighed, and said, “Thanks so much for coming by.  We’ll begin your consultation in a moment,” as he spoke he flipped the lights on from somewhere, and I was buried in full view of this horrific place. 

Blood splattered walls, thick pools of blood coated the tile floor.  Urinals lined the wall… was this a lavatory?  He was chopping people up in a restroom!  Ragged body pieces were scattered everywhere, to the side stood a small table cart with rusty tools lined out on its surface, behind it sat a pile of moldy arms and splint ribcages.  Fat insects scattered under the light.  The man, whoever he was, crushed them under his bare feet like they were crisp autumn leaves.  “I’ll just need a second to wash up and….”

As he trailed off, he reached for my belt undoing the snap and pulled my camera free.  “Oh…Home movies!” He posed with the camera, before turning his attention to a large wash basin behind him.  “…And it’ll give us a chance to talk.”

He set MY camera on the edge of a sink.  ON the EDGE of a SINK!  As he was washing his hands!

Yes, I know, this should be the least of my concerns…. But everything I’ve gone through, EVERYTHING!  Is. On. That. Camera!  I didn’t cart it through sewers and protect it from naked thugs, to have some wacko carelessly dump it in a sink of WATER while I’m tied up!

Break out of the restraints.  If I wriggle hard enough, they would come undone.  I wrench one way, then the other feeling the leather cut into my skin.  I hissed as I jerked my wrists back hard and….

“You know,” As I stared down, his bare feet and that ugly apron came into view.  I took a sharp breath and looked him in the face, “I’m a bit worried how much time you’ve spent with Father Martin.”  I recoil as he turns away.  “I know…”  And heads towards the table cart piled with rusted, bloody tools.  The one beside rotting human limbs.

“I hope you haven’t been letting him confuse you with all his holier-than-thou bible thumping.”  He began fiddling with the tools, turning one over or picking up the next and examined its jagged edge.

I have come to terms with how severely I am fucked.  It’s frigid, my coat is almost dry, but the powerful quivers that rip through my body stem from the way he’s casually walking over here with that long, jagged-edged blade.  My fingers dig harder at the armrest until my nails ache.  I need to get out of here, I need to survive….

“No offense to the man, but I sometimes worry he might just be,” He set the blade beside my neck, to where I could feel the tiny teeth cut into my skin.  I froze staring up into his eyes and felt…an unfamiliar wave of helplessness ripple through me.  Oh please…  “A little bit….crazy.”  I wince when he nicks me, and I withdraw from that side, even as he’s already returning to the cart. 

Halfheartedly I tugged at the restraints, more out of desperation than any attempt to escape.  My eyes followed his movements, my mind racing.  How fucked was I?  I was so fucked.  Completely at the mercy of a homicidal sociopath.  I couldn’t rip my hands free but I wasn’t exactly trying, I set my feet on the floor and he glanced my way causing me to set them back on their steps.  The wrist straps, I needed to loosen them.  Before he slit my throat.  All the blood spray on the walls!  He was—

“It’s understandable, people get scared,” he resumed, picking up what was definitely a bone saw.  A fuckin big one, too.  I swallowed and felt myself choke a bit on my tongue.  “They’re as likely to turn to God as anything else.” He examined it, setting it delicately over his fingers and turning the blade over, before he returned to me.  “God died with a gold standard.  We’re on to more concrete faiths now.”

He rested the end of the saw against my upper arm and resumed scrutinizing the blade, as though he had doubts it could cut through the tendons and cartilage of my shoulder.  Drool seeped out of the corner of my mouth as I drew my lips back in a grimace.  “You have to rob Paul to pay Peter, there is no other way.”  I clenched my fist tightly, and at this point he took an interest in my hand, lowering the knife.  I did not miss the wicked way it glint along the edge.  “Murder in its simplest form,” he gently touched the underside of my fist, effectively uncoiling my hand and examined it upon his.  “But what happens when all the money is gone?”  When he removed his hand and returned to the table cart, I clenched my fist once more and stared.

It felt like I made some sort of mistake.

“Well, money becomes a matter of faith.”  He sort of dumped the bone saw on the table, and went straight for a urinal….

Where a huge set of rusted shears sat, waiting.  “And that’s what I’m here for.”  My heart twisted behind my ribs as he drew near, snipping the grungy blades together. “To make you believe.”

Oh god.

A soft whimper escaped my throat as I tried to get up and pull my wrist back, but it was locked tight in the restraints. On impulse I struggle to get my feet down on the floor and shove away, but the floor was too slick with fluids.  My heels kicked out awkwardly, comically.  I seized up as the crazy fucker anchored his weight over my thighs with one knee, and leaned over my arm obscuring my sight.  No.  No.  He’s not, he can’t!  WAIT!  He gipped my right hand in his and with the other, he had the shears…he….

FUCKIN CHRIST!

A horrible crunch splint the air, fire surged through my forearm, scorching across my wrist. I gag and howled in pain as the blades cracked the bone, but didn’t quite tear through the skin, I don’t think. The lights dimmed as my consciousness spun, a sound I’d never heard myself make before spilled from my throat. I felt his weight lift from my legs and I tried to lift my foot, find the floor. It was too much for me as he worked.  My senses torn raw, remained locked on my compromised hand. He twisted the shears, but my finger was still attached. IT WAS! I felt it dangle loosely before he tore it off!

I sobbed in pain. My finger! Which one! I couldn’t see, couldn’t look. I COULDN’T FEEL MY FINGERS!

I turned my head to him, the agony still fresh as my vision dimmed. “You paying attention?” He pulled his arm up and swung out, smashing his bloody palm against my face. “Don’t pass out on me, there’s still a lot for you to absorb.” He snapped the scissors as he practically sat on my lap, and gripped my left hand same as the other. I tried to keep my fist clenched, but his jagged fingernails cut into my skin. He was ripping my hand apart!

NO! NO! YOU FUCKIN PSYCHO—

That grotesque crackle as my bone ruptured, and the flesh, I imagined the flesh ripping as he readjusted my hand. Keep it together Miles. Don’t pass out. I’ll get through this. I’ll survive and I’ll see this bastard die. But I felt my resolve diminish, I was barely hanging on as it was.

I choked as my voice caught in my throat, between a sob and groan. I leaned away, trying not to see what he was doing, though I felt the nerves erupt as their devastated ends were ravaged by a pair of blunt scissors. He had a better grip on my hand this time, or I didn’t struggle as much. I felt the odd sensation of my finger rubbing over the back of my hand before it was gone. My brain did a weird twist from processing it, and the sudden realization there was this wide gap in my hands where my fingers once held residence. I think it made the pain worse, or made it ignite in a finale as I bent my head back and moaned between my teeth.

My hands were covered in blood, dark rivers carving red paths over my sleeves. I yowled, and another incomprehensibly sound gurgled in the back of my throat. My fingers….

“There,” he cooed. “Better now, right?” He turned and strolled aside to collect the table cart, and braced the shears against the handle as he pushed it by. “Do you understand what we achieved here? We made the consumer into the means of productions.” I couldn’t keep track where he was, somewhere behind me? Everything was fuzzy, dark spots dotted my vision as I felt all the strength spill out of my guts. “This thing is going to sell itself.” I barely saw him head out the door, before it slammed shut.

I never saw what he did with my fingers.

ARGH! Hell, damnit all! My voice sounds strangled and sick, I try to get over the fact that I’ve been mutilated, that my fingers were gone. They were fucking gone. The ecstasy that I was somehow still alive clashed with the trauma, and the pain flared through my forearms. I let out another moan as I stretched my hands out to take in the damage.  It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe.  My legs were still pitifully weak and bent askew over the wheelchairs foot rests, where his weight had shoved them down. Water streaked down my cheeks and my stomach knotted.  Oh god, my fingers were really gone.

The index on my right hand, and my left hands ring finger. Gone. Where did they go? I attempted to quiet my whimpers, blood was just spilling out of the remaining stumps to mix with the layers of gore already dried on my pants and shoes, most of it spread under me in a thin crimson puddle. I needed to fix that. Had to get out. Had to get free. Shit. Oh god, oh shit.

I jerked at my wrists, grunting as the skin aggravated the raw nerves. Can’t stay here, don’t want to think about what he does next. Fingers first, then, then….

I jerk at my wrists, the loop was impossible to loosen due to its design. But I could drag my hand back, coated with my blood it was slick enough to slip free. I could do this, I didn’t have a choice if I wanted to walk out of here. Nausea swells in me as my hand folded in the loop, the pain in my knuckle and that space in my fingers. I try not to look as I work.

A sharp snap, and one hand rips free, then the other. Free. Gently, I drag my heels over the red puddle and steady my legs to what I can manage in my current state.  Then, push up, off the wheelchair without slipping. Everything in my body felt weak, my legs shook so bad I could barely keep my balance. I just lost a lot of blood in the short amount of time, and some psycho just chopped off two nice fingers! That bastard! That psychotic bastard! I would see him die, I would. I swear. For what he did—

 Recalling the experience, coupled with the stress, and the overwhelming stench of this foul room.  I collapse to my knees and flopped my arms up over the rim of the bloody sink, to keep from dropping to the filthy floor.  I try and avoid my pants as I expel the remains of my lunch from hours ago, in a murky mess of bile.  I’m not sure if I can stop as I heave up some more, till there’s nothing but convulsions wracking my trembling form. 

I try to push myself to my feet but this time I can’t do it, my body gives out and I slump sideways over the slick tile.  I’m barely able to avoid a thick puddle of blood as I crawl back to the wheelchair, the cleanest surface in the room.  Gingerly, I slip my hands over the seat and lay my head on my upper arm, I keep my mutilated hands raised while the blood still seeps.  My eyes focused on a nearly clean space on the wall as I zone out, I try and spit some of the lingering taste from my lips as my eyelids droop. 

 Calm down Miles, need to slow my heart rate.  I adjusted my legs under me to keep from pushing the chair away, mostly I wanted to get on my feet and get out of here.  He would be back, I doubt he left me for long.  But I was uncertain if my legs could carry me.  Another wave of nausea cut through me and I lean forward to the best of my ability just in case, but the sensation passed.  As I set my head down I noticed dampness on my sleeve, something dark from my face.  It took a moment for my mind to conjure up the recollection, he’d slapped me and this was my blood.  I lay my head down and let out a slow breath, concentrating on the way the damp coat crinkled over my ribs.  

My fingers were gone.

The lights flickered but I barely blinked, I struggled to come to terms with what has happened.  I don’t want this to affect me, I don’t want this to get me killed.  I didn’t want to die.  If I couldn’t cope, if I couldn’t get on my feet and move, I was dead.  He’ll find me lounging here and drive those shears through my face, that could be the only outcome.  My breath was labored, but I was all right, I kept telling myself this.  I lost two fingers, he could have done worse.  Most of it was psychological, I couldn’t let that wreck me.  I could still walk, but I had to get up.  I was going to survive, I was going to get out, and I would not die here.  Not after I came this far.  I would go further if I needed to, on my own feet.  I was going to walk out of this place, through those front doors.

My mind cleared more or less, the adrenalin flooding my veins would keep my senses sharp for a short time.  If I didn’t fuck it up again.  I slipped back to my knees and braced my elbows onto the hard seat of the wheelchair, pushing with my arms until I raised off one knee and then the other.  It was pathetic, my legs shook under my weight and I nearly fell as the chair slipped backwards but I managed to straighten up.  Carefully I spun around and staggered to the bloodied wash basin and lifted my camera off, I winced as the exposed bone on my index finger glanced its side.  As soon as I could, I needed to find a place to hide and recover better.

I took some time to temper myself to the fresh wounds and the eerie lacking digits, gently I checked through the cameras features pressing buttons with my middle finger and slipping the strap over my hand.  It ached but I had to do this now, there would be no second chances.  But the camera and strap would help protect my finger, once I had it on.

I checked the visor of the camera to find of course, it had caught everything.  For a second I pondered over what should be done, but I didn’t think over it long.  Rather go back and see what was recorded, I made the difficult decision, one I may come to regret.  I isolated the time segment where…this occurs, and lock it.  A small effort to prevent accidental deletion, and to discourage deletion should I change my mind.

This was real.  I might need this later.

I filmed a bit of the room, further adjusting myself to the space in my hand and their fresh sensitively to variation in temperature, and touch.  The bleeding had lessened considerably but blood still oozed in thick clots.  In the worst case scenario, my vulnerable hands would become a hindrance.  As it was now, staring at them made my vision foggy and I had to avert my eyes.  I doubt I’d find clean bandages and disinfectant, let alone utilize a steady hand in applying said dressings.  I vouched to leave them as they were, if I tried cleaning them it would aggravate the wounds and the bleeding needed to stop.  This entire facility was contaminated anyway, and I wouldn’t be able to flee as effectively if the bandages distracted me.

I took a sharp breath as I recalled what was beyond the door.  Everything I had fought to avoid, and I had to keep moving.  I had to get out of here while he was content to believe, I was still tied up and delirious with pain.  I tried the handle, relieved that it was unlocked, though it caught and I had to jiggle it.  I exchanged hands and decided to rely on my left, the ‘amputation’ was cleaner and I still hand that index finger.  My right hand was already swollen and difficult to work. 

 “Who’s there?  Is somebody there?  Come closer.”

A voice drifted from the next room.  I pushed the second door open and shut it softly behind me as I scanned the copious shadows.  The only source of light was a lamp standing beside a bed, where a body lay in a pool of blood.  I navigated between upturned beds, a few broken wheelchairs to the voice as it called out again.

“I’m not a patient.  I’m an executive.  Just like him.”  He groaned as he shifted in his restraints.  “Like Trager.”

He looked no different than the others, mangled and vivisection scars all over his body, he had endured the second phase of basement torture.  His head was cradled awkwardly in a cloth sling, and his limbs tied to the beds legs.

“But he got the treatment.  He’s too alive.  Filled with Wernicke’s nightmares.”  I carefully slipped the cameras loop over my hand and raised it to film his confession.  “It worked too well.  They couldn’t control it….”  He seemed to notice me, and the camera.

“And you can’t control it.  Nobody.  Nobody!  NOBODY!”  I backed away towards a set of beds beside the wrecked wall, while he began to thrash at his straps.  “He’ll find you!  He’ll kill you!  He’s coming right now!”

As instant after I jerked my head rather painfully, when a door cracked open and in strolled the Doctor.  “TRAAGER!  TRAAAAAGERR!”

I dropped down and shuffled under the nearest bed, keeping my camera propped in my hands as the psycho continued his even stride towards the shrieking man.

“Ah.  I see what’s happening here.  You’re bored, you want a little attention.  Perfectly understandable.”  He indicated the man with a finger, as though explaining a rudimentary point.  “I’m here for you.  I’ll give you very special attention.”

Then plunged the large shears into his stomach.  I could actually hear the ribs crinkle under his skin and the soft gurgle of fluid as guts and blood swirled.  The executive gave a final shriek as Trager twisted the weapon deeper, then wrenched it free.  A thick black puddled formed under the bed, and the man’s body went limp, his head still dangled in the sling.  Trager departed, from my position I couldn’t make out exactly where he was headed.  Just in the direction he had appeared from.

A door opened and shut.  The silence held for a few seconds.  I pulled the camera to my neck and strained to listen, while fighting to ignore the mild ache building in my finger as it pressed into my collar.  The soft slap of warm fluid on a puddle slowed.

“Fuck!  Fuck!  Really?  You’re gonna walk on ME?”  I tightened up into a small ball and shoved myself further back under the beds end.  The door rattled as Trager returned to the room, and slapped it shut behind him.  “If there is one thing I cannot GOD DAMN stand, it’s a quitter!  Come on!”  Somehow, I managed to curl up into an even smaller ball, with my head tucked under my knees.

“Alright…alright, you can figure this out.  Let’s…solve this little problem.”  The echoing rasp of the shears seemed magnified on the walls, as he moved around searching, snipping them every now and then.  I winced but relaxed all in the same instant when I realized he hadn’t found me, I raised my head to scan what was visible from where I lay and locate where he was.

He navigated the rooms perimeter checking over the broken beds stacked around the pillars, when it was obvious I wouldn’t be in plain sight he began stooping down to check under beds.

“All those bureaucrats with their corporate luncheons and golden parachutes.  Where are the survivors?  Where are the sharks?”  He wandered into the half of the room I was in and checked under a bed by the far wall.  “I’ve been chumming the water long enough.”

There was a door just beside the bed I was under.  While Trager lowered to check under the next bed, I took my chance and climbed out trying the knob.

Locked.

I crawled back under the bed, as Trager raised and sauntered to the next bed.  I didn’t bother to pause, and continued to the other side still crouched down as I hustled to the next bed.  I chided myself for being too noisy, for not keeping low enough.  I wanted–

“Hold up there buddy!”  Fuck.  I launched up to my feet, shoving off the bed post and ran for the large doors.  “I’ll be right with you!”

I dove out of the room turning, checking with the camera.  A dead end of medical tables and shelving.  Blocked.  We came through here, the trail of blood from the elevator was all over the floor.  The way out!

I dashed away, ignoring the patient thrashing in his bed shrieking at my appearance.  The noise elevated my anxiety, mind racing, I could scarcely recall my movement as images clashed with the short journey from the elevator.  I would be next, I was next.  I was in the process of becoming a victim! 

My shoes skid on the dried blood as I shot around the corner, the bright doors of the open elevator in full view.  Screw this!  I was out, so out!  I don’t give a fuck where Trager was, he couldn’t touch me once those doors shut.  The outdated lift shifted as I leapt inside and smashed the button without a second glance. 

Nothing happened.  What was wrong?  We had power! What could…  I touched the panel with my left hand, there was a thin slot beneath the buttons.  For a key most likely.

“Let me sell you the dream!”

“Argh!”  I lunged out of the elevator and twisted toward the only available route.  There was a gate with large shelving shoved against it, all on the other side.  My attention then went to a blood drenched gurney, and the wet vent dripping above it.  Without hesitation I sprung up the step, into the small space and dragged myself into the safety of the metal cradle. 

I hissed when I adjusted the camera, before I could drop it in the sudden black.  The bone sticking out on my index finger amplified every little bump, waves of heat rolled through my traumatized nerves with acute precision.  I had to deal with it, if I couldn’t do that then I might as well stop running now.  I didn’t pause as I roughly searched my way along, my free hand twisted sideways against the floor to ease the pain through my knuckles as I entrusted my weight on it.  I was more or less leaning forward, anxious to find a way out if that sick freak was able to follow me up.  It didn’t seem he could.  But it did look like someone had tried to escape the same route, with less than successful results.

The next flue was torn out, and I peered down trying to see as much of below as I could, and listened for movement and those shears.  Once I felt eased there was nothing living, I slipped down into the hall.  Light I recognized gleamed from an obstructed gate, scooting along the wall I glimpsed around the corner into the room with the elevator.  There had to be another way out, a set of stairs somewhere.  A gondola?

The floor creaked under my steps, it looked to be an older section of the asylum with outdated wood floors with evident gaps between the boards.  I gave my perimeter a quick scan, wondering where Trager had disappeared to when I had eluded him.  He could have been locked in that room now, unless he was strong enough to push the metal shelf aside.  The wheels were stationary, I doubt he’d get the leverage to push it over and aside.

I sat down on the floor with my back to the shelf, and set the camera beside me.  In the little light I reevaluated my hands.  They looked terrible, and the tremors had yet to diminish but I was probably in shock, or just scared out of my wits.  I pressed my palms together and focused on calming my nerves.  The asylum made strange sounds behind the walls, the groan of machinery I couldn’t comprehend and pipes gurgled.  And there was the trademark shriek of a man lost in this insane environment.  I felt drained, more than that, there wasn’t an accurate description for what I’d call what my body felt.  Transparent maybe?  It was vague, I felt fragile enough.  I was constantly reminded of my mortality via physical and mental abuse, and each time I received the threat the distance I ran from it shortened.  I pulled my arms around my sides and sat for a few minutes, examining the area.

A dark corridor loomed directly across from me, but of what I could make out, it might be another dead end.  To my left was a long hall with functioning lamps, a few beds stacked along the sides, and a small broken desk.  It wasn’t frigid as the lower levels had been, but in my damp coat I trembled.  I was on the verge of collapse.

 “TRAGER.  Sick fucker cut my fingers off.  Has tortured and mangled dozens of patients, I watch him murder another one, nothing I can do about it.  Talks like a white collar business school douchebag, probably has a set of golf clubs in the trunk of his Audi.  I’d bet the rest of my fingers he was Murkoff brass before whatever’s infected this place changed him.

 I want out of this place.  I want my fucking fingers back.  I want to see Trager die.”

I wrote this with all the conviction I could muster.  Though I doubted I’d get my wish, if given the opportunity, and I had a chance - a legitimate chance - I probably would try to murder him.  He needed to die, and that’s what I wanted.

The page had a few smears of blood and a couple fingerprints despite my efforts, I really didn’t bother to clean my remaining fingers before fumbling with it.  I carefully slipped these items back into the pocket and zipped it tight.  With my nerves smoothed out to some degree, I took up my camera before climbing to my feet and gazed into the lite hallway. My progress was excruciatingly slow, and every shift or sound that reached my ears was mistaken for footfalls or the scrape of grungy shears.  I imagined taking a few steps and blinking, and there he would be with that horrible weapon perched neatly behind his back as he waited for my brain to register his presence.

I realized my breath was labored, I tried to calm it but my heart was pounding.  It hurt too much to fight it, the anxiety only elevating the red seeping from what remained of my fingers.  For some time I stood staring into the hall without a prompt or objective, just waiting for a sound or something to happen, but nothing did.  I was on the brink of bolting, if the doctor or any other variant decided to reveal them self.  Where was I?  I was so fucking lost.  It was impossible to focus on a single objective, I couldn’t imagine myself moving on.

Yet I did.

The floor gave thunderous creak as I shifted and began forward, through a set of open doors that seemed irrelevant to the layout.  Hospitals had a lot of doors, but this wasn’t a legitimate hospital.  This was the hospital of hell.  Another pair were locked on my right, I fooled with the handles a bit shoving with my elbow where the doors met as they seemed flimsy from their age.  I crept close to the wall and tried the next set of doors, locked fast.  A sudden clatter caused me to pause, but I never figured out what it was or if I’d actually heard something.  Maybe just the shadow in my thoughts.

I didn’t feel comfortable in full view of the light as I continued, passing two large rooms on the left, each filled with beds and ‘hospital’ equipment.  From the doorway I could view very little with the dim light, but I wanted to save my batteries anyway.  The soft voices trickled from the gloom, moans and occasional sobbing.  In the second room, abandoned under a bright lamp was what remained of a man lying on a bloodied gurney, his leg bolted into some sort of brace.  Blood coated the metal device, spilling down his thigh.  A chill ran down my spine, and I turned to the end of the hall where two metal beds had been stacked, the one on top was flipped over with its sharp feet sticking up.  On it a few boxes and tools had been piled in.

“Aw, buddy.  What are you trying to do?”  I whirled about and crouched low, where the hell was he?  Where did he come from!  “I gave you a chance, didn’t I?  Didn’t old Rick try to give you a hand?”  There, concealed by shadows he emerged from the double doors that were previously locked.  I slunk backwards biting my lip to withhold a pitiful sound.  Oblivious to my shape, he turned the opposite way towards the shelving at the halls end.  “I can’t help somebody who doesn’t want to be helped.  You’re fired.”

I think the big ugly fucker made more sense than him.

I tried to mirror his movements as I slipped through the open door and backed up into the shadows, gaze locked on the golden rectangle the door cast.  I stumbled and pivoted when I had backed into a pillar, I used it to steady myself as I stood to shuffle around it.  The only light was in the ceiling, shining directly down on the man.  What was Trager trying to do?  This was nothing more than torture, cruel and pointless.  Two bags of blood were suspended beside his bed, they looked old and the contents an ugly chunky black consistency.

The patient gave an inconsolable wail and sat up, struggling with his leg.  “If you touch me again I swear to fucking Christ I will murder you with my mind.  Just fucking try it.  You sick motherfucker!  Try it!  Try it!”

I had stepped a little closer gawking at him.  I couldn’t help but feel a massive swell of pity, it was obvious he was hopelessly doomed.  Trager would keep performing his oper— Mutilations, until he was dead.  I wasn’t sure what I could do.  Not sure if I wanted to do anything, either.

“Buddy!”

I didn’t see where he was coming from, but it sounded like he was directly behind me.  I shot past the patient, skidding around his bed as Trager rounded on the other side.  We made another lap around before I sprint off toward the back off the room, dragging up the camera to keep from running into the numerous beds scattered about.  Nearly all of them were occupied by a patient, chained down in various conditions of mutilation.  The sharp bolt of rot hit me hard, informing that some had already expired.

When Trager caught up to me, he slung out the shears nearly catching my head as I ducked sideways over a bed.  I tumbled and swept up, leaping over an empty bed and ran for a door on one side of the room.  It resembled the one in the first room I escaped which had been locked, but this one snapped open easily.

I jerked the door after me, stumbling away as Trager slammed into it.  He gave me a displeased look as he reached down for the handle, I practically dropped my camera in my haste to take it and snap the door out of his grip. 

Rather fool around further, Trager lifted the shears and plunged them into the wood, I stumbled back as they pierced two feet before he withdrew them and smashed his bony shoulder against the wood.  I took a step back, picked up my camera, and ran.

That wouldn’t hold for long.

The connecting room was no bigger, but it was less crowded.  With patients, that is.  A few lamps were set up by cots, and swarms of roaches and flies hummed over the dried pools of blood and melting piles of innards.  My stomach wrenched as the insects crunched under shoe, oh god I hope it was bugs.  The sounds at the door had ceased, and I ducked under the nearest bed.

I struggled not to lie directly in a quivering mess of insects, but it was an impossible goal.  Several tense minutes wound by, I lay there tormented by the little buggers trying to crawl over me and my face.  When I thought Trager had entered, I pulled up the camera.  Something was pinching my finger, I looked through the visor to see a large roach camped on my sleeve, and EATING my finger.

“Somebody has to win and somebody has to lose here, I don’t make the rules.”

Cringing, I flecked the bug away and tucked my free hand against my neck.  Trager came from the other doorway, padding along the bloody tiled floor scanning the wary shadows for my form.  He snipped the scissors as he rotated, the lamp light caught his monocle making it glimmer like a silver disk, reminiscent to something from one of those sinister characters in a Japanese comic.

I heard something rattle, and turned the camera to view an arm chained at the bed post I was under.  Another patient, his hand gripped at the bar as he twitched.  I couldn’t decide if he was trying to reveal my position, or if he was just struggling to free himself.  Trager seemed oblivious to his actions, now focused on checking under beds.  The inhospitable nature of my location may have moved it next to last on his checklists of areas to search, or I was just lucky this time.

I slipped away from the insect nest and kept low, buried in shadows as the doctor continued in the other direction to check a patient that looked very dead.  The self-absorbed bastard could just be admiring his own work.  If he was distracted, all the better.  I paused to make sure he wasn’t looking my way, then slipped under a halo of light on the floor and out the open doors.

Back in the hall, without incident.  I still wasn’t any closer to figuring a way out of this area.  Let alone where exactly I was.  There was the gate in the dark corridor, maybe it was unlocked.  I doubted it, but it was the only area left unchecked.

I crept quietly back to the hall, using the NV to see where I was going.  There was a hall extending beyond the door a ways out of my cameras range, but the gate was locked.  Surprise, surprise.  Turning, I thought about the room I began in, beyond the shelf and gate.  The key could’ve been there, but it was evident it could just as easily be anywhere else.  Trager had access to it as he did the double doors, it was most likely somewhere safe.  But it couldn’t be on his person….

The sound of snipping drifted from the hall, and I spun to see Trager coming towards me.  I dashed into the dark corridor and tried the boarded door at the far end, though I knew damn well it was pointless.  I ducked behind a bed flipped sideways and shut off my camera.  I could see the end of the hall and the silhouette of Trager as he appeared, I put one hand over my mouth to smother my breathing.  He closed in on my location and I prepared to dash, but he halted a mere few feet away and snipped the shears in aggravation.

“I should have cut his feet first,” he sighed, and pivoted.  “Amateur move.”

I didn’t think he saw me, but he could’ve been fucking with me.  No sound flittered from the corridors end, was it possible for him to shut up for a minute?  I went ahead and moved, crawling around the overturned bed with the camera clutched in hand.  Reaching the shadows edge, I strained to see around while listening for his obnoxious voice.  No sign of Trager.

Oh, I did see him down the hall, heading into one of the rooms.  Looked like the first one, because there was that bed between the two and he was on my side.

Few options were open to me.  While Trager was elsewhere, I stood and braced myself to the metal shelf.  Blood was still slick over my palms, I made a small effort to scrub it off on my coat and not risk slipping and ripping my hands up further.  That sharp pain rippled up my side as I pushed, like an old friend I’d missed for years.  Hm. 

I was disappointed by how easily the door swept open, I don’t know why.  I wasn’t feeling too good at the current time, despite my outstanding health.  I shut the door and moved past the elevator with its welcoming light.  Damn, asylums, and their keys and locked doors.  There were too many locked doors in this place, and when they weren’t locked there was always something terrible and evil on the other side.

There was nothing in the dark corridors end, only a locked door and a poor man tied to his bed begging me to end his life.  I pretended I couldn’t understand what he was saying, and I didn’t film him either.  Revisiting the room where Trager had left me offered nothing, I didn’t expect it to either.  I was running out of places to search, though desperation was never an excuse for dumb theories. 

I had paused in the next room musing over matters while the peace held, and regarded the barred windows with some interest.  They were clearly outdated, when compared to the previous section of the asylum I had explored with the Plexiglas and thick chicken wire.  It didn’t enlighten me to my whereabouts, only that this section was built before 1970 before it was shut down, and Murkoff built the modern sections to suffice the needs of their ‘physicians’.

It looked like someone had already tried to tear the thick bars off, or shoot them off.  Bullets had punched through the windows accented with thin cracks, the plaster was somewhat crumbling from where they did hit the wall.  I gripped the bars in my hands and shook them, but they were locked solid in cement.

A small wood nightstand sat beside the bloodied bed.  I ignored the executive as I picked it up and returned to the window.  Poised a safe distance back, I heaved the small piece of furniture to smash against the bars.  The wood burst into pieces, and the window suffered some minor damage, another hairline crack.

There was an assortment of furniture and beds still piled around the pillars.  I selected a small table and threw it against the window, it bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor.  A piece of plywood was jammed through, tearing out the glass and let the rain pour in with a frigid gale.  I went back for a wheelchair, another side table, anything I could lift and throw was driven against the barred window.  I took the light from beside the dead patient and tore the cord from the socket it was plugged into, and smashed the lamp it against the bars over and over.  When it was in twisted pieces I threw it aside, and stepped up to the window staring into the dark night.

A crack of thunder bellowed forth and the lightening flashed over the asylum’s grounds.  I wanted out of this place so bad, it hurt somewhere deep in my body.  Everything that was me would die here if I couldn’t escape this hell.  Alone, crumpled in some corner, broken and waiting for death.  That would be me, if I stopped running.  If everything in me just stopped.

My face felt wet and I recalled the blood that was there.  I used my left hand to rub away at the mist but didn’t bother to look.  I had been in bad situations before, had my life threatened on several occasions.  Probably deserved it, too….

But this was impossible.  This was incomprehensible.  I slipped to my knees as I stared up into the night, the rain cast silver beads into the thin light of the room.  That same wave of helplessness crashed through my senses, unfamiliar and strange.  I’d never felt this way before.  Never in all my life.  Was this what it felt like to die?  I think so.  A few years ago I had been in an accident, hurt so bad I didn’t know who the people were that stared down at me screaming questions.  I was oblivious at the time, a massive concussion and some hemorrhaging.  As everything faded I thought I was dying.  I had surrendered to death.

With a twist I realized I had not been dying.  I was hurt, confused, but there were people that would not let me die.  What was different was my capacity to appreciate my current awareness, and witness myself crumble from the inside out.  In a sense I was dying, while I fought to see the end of this.  Somehow, I was doing the whole process backwards.  I’m pretty sure you weren’t meant to do that, which would explain my situation now.  I had the sudden urge to throw more furniture against the window, but couldn’t find the strength to rise.  I wanted to sit here and stare, and think, and enjoy the cool breeze from the outside as it teased my face.  There was so much I wanted.

The executive shifted in his restraints.  Immediately, my mind cued in on this redundant detail. 

The executive was dead.

[zombie-snape]

cannn I get 99% immunity for crowley and/or milking it with az? i need sick fix because i'm dying irl thanks love uuuu :*)

Sorry this took so long (I’m a slow writer)! I hope this cheers you up

~

It started out as a sneeze.

“Achoo!” The powerful sneeze forced Crowley to shut his eyes and the Bentley swerved into the other lane during his momentary lapse in concentration. Miraculously, the cars in the other lanes easily avoided them.

Crowley spared a glance at Aziraphale who was giving him a very suspicious look. 

“I’m fine, angel.” He grumbled.

“Uh huh.” Aziraphale sounded unconvinced. 

~

Angels, and therefore demons, can get human illnesses. Most of them didn’t because they hardly spent enough time on Earth to contract anything. Aziraphale and Crowley had both discovered the hard way that being around a bunch of sick humans typically got them sick too. Often, their illness were shorter and less deadly than the human varieties--humans were a very delicate creature after all. Both Aziraphale and Crowley came to loathe colds and flues, despite not getting them very often, because they would be forced to mop around in their own misery until the illness went away. Aziraphale suspected that being sick might be a bit easier if there was someone there to take care of you. 

~

Aziraphale and Crowley were supposed to be enjoying their usual afternoon stroll around St. James Park but Crowley had been experiencing a coughing fit for the last few seconds.

“Come on, dear boy. Sit down,” Aziraphale carefully maneuvered Crowley onto their customary bench. 

The coughing paused for a moment and Crowley looked like he was about to wheeze something out before it picked up again. He doubled over and pressed his face into the crook of his elbow. 

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale murmured worriedly. He couldn’t help but reach out a hand and rub it up and down Crowley’s back in an effort to soothe the poor man. Aziraphale still wasn’t sure about giving physical affection, after the Apocalypse That Wasn’t they had agreed to move their relationship into romantic territory but it was a rather new development.  

Crowley eventually calmed his coughing and Aziraphale finally removed his hand. 

“Thanks,” Crowley’s voice came out as a pathetic little rasp. 

“You should have told me you were under the weather, I would never had suggested a walk.” Aziraphale said.

“I’m not sick.” Crowley said. There was a stubborn gleam in his hazy eyes. 

“Of course not.” Aziraphale sighed.

“Just allergies.” 

Aziraphale didn’t bother to respond to that. Angels and demons might be able to get sick but they did not get allergies. 

“I think, perhaps, we should head back to the shop. I’ll make us some tea.” Aziraphale knew Crowley was far too stubborn to admit he was sick but perhaps Aziraphale could push him in the direction of taking it easy. 

“Nah, I think I’m going to head home. Water the plants, y’know?” Crowley was trying to sound casual but Aziraphale could tell he was holding back another coughing fit. 

“All right dear, drive safe.”

~

It had been a few days since their St. James stroll and Aziraphale had not heard anything from Crowley. He was starting to worry a bit. Aziraphale had picked up bits and pieces of conversations while out and about and it seemed like London was experiencing a nasty flu season. Aziraphale suspected that Crowley had been one of this season’s unfortunate victims. 

Aziraphale was currently wondering if he should go see his friend. They had never offered to help each other doing an illness before but they weren’t being watched anymore. Aziraphale wanted to be there for Crowley and ease his illness in anyway he could. He’d researched human flu remedies and had packed a little basket with some that sounded promising along with a lovely chicken noodle soup. Aziraphale finally decided that it wouldn’t hurt to just check up on Crowley and give him the basket, and if he wanted Aziraphale to stay then he would. 

~

Aziraphale knocked on Crowley’s front door and waited. There was no sound from within. However, Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s presence. Aziraphale knocked again. And again there was no answer. Aziraphale tried the door handle this time and miraculously the door swung open.

The apartment was dark and silent. Aziraphale glanced at the plants as he made his way through noticing that they were wilting ever so slightly. That wasn’t a good sign. 

Aziraphale checked the living room first and found it empty. The only other place Crowley could be was the bedroom. 

The bedroom was equally dark but not as silent. There was a distinctive lump of blankets laying in the middle of the bed that was wheezing pathetically. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was barely above a whisper. If Crowley was sleeping, he didn’t want to wake him. Sleeping was good for illnesses. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice was barely more than a rasp. 

“Yes, dear. It’s me.” Aziraphale set the basket down on the drawers and took a seat on the edge of the bed by the lump of blankets that Crowley’s voice had come from. “I was worried about you. I brought some chamomile and soup.”

Crowley peaked his head out from under the blankets. His hair was a mess and standing on end. He had dark circles under his eyes and his skin looked unusually pale.

“Didn’t have to,” he mumbled. His eyes were a bit glassy, Aziraphale noted. The angel placed a hand on Crowley’s forehead.

“You’re burning up!” Aziraphale said. 

“Feel like shit.” Crowley said. He nuzzled his face into Aziraphale’s hand. “Mmm, you’re warm.” 

“Would you like anything? Tea? Soup? Water?” Aziraphale asked as he stroked Crowley’s hair. 

“Cuddle.” Crowley mumbled so quietly Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly.

“What was that, darling?” 

“I’m cold. Cuddle me.” Crowley demanded louder this time.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle as he kicked off his shoes. “Of course.” He curled himself around Crowley and could feel him almost immediately drift off. Aziraphale would stay for as long as Crowley needed him.

~

If you have a Good Omens prompt, feel free to send it my way (but note I am a bit of a slow writer). 

Kofi

[breadcaaat]

part five

part five

Jeongguk x hybrid!reader

| part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six

Words: 5.4k

Genre: action, fluff, angst, violence... eventual smut

Warnings: buckets o’ blood, more nudity, foul language, discussion of human trafficking 

Jeongguk was on his knees, face mask and headband on, fat yellow sponge in hand, surrounded by rosy suds. He already knew he’d be throwing these clothes out at the end of the day. That was fine. He could buy new ones, especially now that he was financially set for the next few years.

Yes. You read that right.

On Y/N’s flight from the auction center, she’d crawled out a vent she had hid in to escape the guarddogs and dropped into an office, where a woman had been running cash through a money counter. One choke to unconsciousness later, and she’d packed away a full cargo of pure, fat, dirty cash from the sales that night into the backpack Jeongguk had spotted on the floor earlier.

“We can’t use this,” he’d said.

“Why not?”

“Because people were sold to make this money.”

“Not people; person, singular. About one moderately-priced hybrid.” 

Jeongguk looked at her uneasily. 

“Aish,” she muttered, “ - doesn’t matter. Think of it this way: we’re keeping their sellers from making profit and supporting one - ” she’d pointed at herself “ - of their products. Consider it ironic. And you can finally quit that job at the moving company.”

He still wasn’t sure where he stood on that topic, but for now his focus was simple. Leave no trace. 

There was blood on the tile (thankfully no more than a few spots on the carpet) but it hadn't dried yet and so was relatively easy to mop up. His biggest concern wasn’t the staining, though. Y/N had told him that most all these hybrid crime centers had guarddogs: dog hybrids with sharp noses that made sure nothing unauthorized left any of the sites alive. His tiger girl had left a big, fat, smelly trail leading down the streets, up the walls of his building, and straight into his apartment through the balcony, so if they had any chance of remaining undiscovered they needed to blast any and all traces of smelliness to the fucking exosphere.

So, while he scrubbed away, she ran to a convenience store (clean, not covered in blood anymore, with her hood up and some sunglasses on) with a fresh wad of cash to buy four big jugs of bleach.

By the time she returned, he was already packing away all the towels and the sponge he’d used to mop everything up into a trash bag. They worked quietly, efficiently. Next, the bleach.

His most immediate concern was the apartment and any smelliness that lingered about it, so he as he bleached down their living space, she climbed down the piping she’d clambered up in the first place and bleached away all traces of blood and any previous scent-markings. (She’d pouted a little at this, knowing it was necessary but mourning the loss.) They decided to work on the alley together.

It was about five o’clock - an hour and a half later - when she deemed the apartment sufficiently un-smelly, so Jeongguk packed up the trash bag with all the unsalvageable, bloody materials and packed it down to the alley.

Halfway down the first flight of stairs, he sighed and noticed something not totally interesting, but notable. It was fucking late. He’d been up late before, of course, with long work hours and everything, but never this late. Walking down the echoey, concrete stairwell made him feel like the only man on earth and it wasn’t… a bad feeling. He was starting to understand the appeal of late night walks. Maybe he should join her on her next one.

When he got down there, he could already smell the bleach. She’d uncapped a jug and was currently splashing it along the apartment-side wall, getting rid of any blood-smells or previous scent marks. He caught her attention by setting the bag near the dumpster and scooping up a jug for himself.

“We’ll have to burn that. I can smell us both on it. Ever lit a trash-fire?” she asked, and he found himself chuckling despite everything.

“Sure, I’ve lit things on fire. Most boys do.”

“Good. Dump it on top of that drain instead.”

He did, and it landed with a thump and a squish, which made his stomach twist a little. “Ew,” he muttered. Y/N handed him a matchbook and pulled out a tube of firestarter.

“It’s going to rain in the morning.” She uncapped the tube and doused the garbage bag.

“When?

“I’d say in the next hour or so.”

He nodded. That saved them from hosing away the bleach. It’d also - presumably - wash away any obvious bleachy or burnt scents left behind by their cleaning.

Finished with the tube, she tossed it on the pile. “Before we light this, I’m gonna clean up my trail back a couple blocks. We still have two and a half jugs and that should be enough.”

“It’d be good to burn the jugs too, is what you’re saying?”

“Exactly. Be right back. Check for any details we missed. The bleach is stinging my nose and I can’t smell anything.”

He nodded, and she lugged off the remaining jugs of bleach to clean the rest of her mess.

🐯

Jeongguk got the honor of flicking the match onto their little trash fire, and it took quickly. Unbidden, a sense of relief flooded him. This should be the last of it. All we do now is wait for the rain.

Y/N sat next to him, stripped down to her skivvies once again. Her clothes were in the pile right now. “They smell like I just cleaned up a crime scene,” she’d told him when he’d asked why she was stripping again. He’d decided to just shrug it away this time. It was alarming how quickly he was becoming desensitized to nudity and blood.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asked. The sounds around them were almost ambient; like a campfire near a road. Except this was an alleyway and the trash fire was lit to destroy evidence. Potato, tomato.

“No. Why?”

“You’re good at it.”

She scoffed incredulously. “I just crawled into your apartment early in the morning covered in blood - which I know makes you nauseous - after having committed three gruesome murders in which I tore two victims open by the rib cage and used their entrails to kill the last one, then also a major robbery of an organized crime syndicate and - ” she tipped her head to look at him, eyes gleaming with the peacock sheen of her cat’s-eye night vision “ - you commend me on how good I am at concealing the evidence?”

He scratched his nose. It did sound a little ridiculous. I’m probably in shock, so. “... Just thought it was clever how you burnt it over the grate so it doesn’t leave any ashes. I wouldn’t have thought to do that.”

She giggled. “You’re the ride or die type, huh?” There was a shuffle as she shifted to lean on him, tucking her head between his shoulder and neck. “I know I’ve put you through a lot of shit - and I’m sorry - but I’m glad it was you in the restaurant, and I’m glad you fell in the river.” She nipped at the column of his neck and he had to remind himself that It’s platonic, she’s part animal, animals nip at each other platonically. “I’d probably be dead of fever in an alleyway had you not taken me in.”

She wrapped her arm around his, and they stared down at the trash fire as it died away, burning away quickly.

“Thank you,” she finished with a murmur.

He didn’t answer, but set his head on top of hers. She chuffed, and a little purr rumbled up through her chest.

🐯

“I’m sorry Mrs. Gim,” Jeongguk rasped “ - but I can’t come in today.” His voice sounded downright pitiful. It might’ve been the fake coughing or the toilet paper stuffed up his nose that had her convinced and already fussing, but that’s not important. Was he actually sick? Absolutely not. Tired? Absolutely.

In order to wake up early enough to make this call and skip on his morning shift he’d had to set NO MORE than eight alarms, each two minutes apart, and really they hadn’t been what’d woken him up; Y/N had by biting his ear with a growl that’d rumbled through his skull, just hard enough to make him yelp.

“ - Should I bring you some soup? You weren’t out in the rain last night, were you? Tell me you didn’t go outside with an umbrella or so help me - ”

Jeongguk latched onto that last bit and faked a nervous laugh.

“Jeongguk,” the woman hissed, and he almost felt sorry for himself.

“I can call in Jaesoo to cover?” he whimpered, and Sunghyun hissed again (Aish! Sure. Stay in bed and don’t leave it.)

A few goodbyes and reassurances to take care of himself later, Jeongguk hung up the phone call, picked out the toilet paper, and flopped back into bed.

“Is Gim’s your only shift today?” Y/N asked.

He grunted a negative, voice rough in the morning-time.

“What else then?”

“Night shift at Gloss. Then I gotta go deposit the money so it can rack up interest, pay off our rent - and that’ll take a couple different accounts, maybe banks.”

“Why not just one?”

“That much cash is suspicious.” He giggled then. “It’ll look like I robbed an organized crime syndicate or something.” She growled and jabbed at his ribs, and he giggled a bit more before quieting down again.

More than anything, he wanted to go back to sleep. The past few weeks compounded upon last night had exhaustion dripping off his every bone and pore, but realistically he knew there were errands he had to run today. Last night’s trash fire wasn’t the end of their clean-up, though it’d felt like it. His sense of caution still flared. There were loose ends that needed clipping.

The money was probably the biggest. With his situation, there was no way he could’ve acquired it in the eyes of the bank without having robbed a place, and revealing Y/N’s existence was out of the question completely. He needed a good excuse. And better clothes.

An idea flickered to life, but he rushed to tamper that flame before he did something impulsive.

It was no secret that Yoongi - his boss and friend - had connections underground. Though Jeongguk hadn’t seen it with his own eyes he knew his hyung had done plenty of gang tattoos, and he was many a kingpin’s go-to. Gloss was not only neutral ground in all the territory-mongering that went on, but also Yoongi’s pseudonym. None of his clients knew his real name and that was for safety. That was the type of crowd he’d been surrounded by since fourteen, when he’d done that first tattoo.

He must’ve learned something through by osmosis through all those - what - eleven years? If Jeongguk confided in him, he could learn how to go about this clean-up neatly.

On the flip-side, Yoongi might also fire him and cut ties. Another safety precaution. He wouldn’t - couldn’t - blame him for it. That was Gloss’s tried and true method for making sure his shop stayed neutral through all the crime and conflict of Seoul’s underground, and he’d kept it up for his whole career.

There was a shuffle in the sheets beside him as Y/N shifted to look at him. She was laying on top of the covers - too hot - and he’d zoned out on her tail as it had curled up and thumped idly on the duvet in a steady rhythm.

“You’re juggling something.” It was an observation, not a question.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

“Penny for your thoughts then?”

“I was just thinking about all I have to do today.” He stared up at the ceiling, hand on his chest and index finger tapping a quiet beat.

“We,” she murmured quietly, and he smiled.

“I don’t know if you can help me in what I have to do. It’s all legal and money stuff. I’m just trying to figure out where to start, I guess.” They were silent for a moment as he debated telling her about Yoongi.

Well, what’s the harm, huh? “I know someone that might be able to help us. Just, advice-wise.”

She hummed and fluffed her pillow. “Tell me about him then.”

“His name’s Yoongi, but at the shop he’s called Gloss.”

“You work there, right?”

“Yeah. He’s pretty much run the place since he was a kid. Dropped out of high school to do it. Since he wasn’t trained professionally his tattoo operation is underground and I mean, the guy’s been tattooing gangsters since forever. He must know something, you know?”

She nodded thoughtfully, and her eyes drifted shut after a moment. “I bet you he’ll still know something in a couple hours so… it won’t hurt if we sleep a bit more.”

“Yeah, good idea.” He yawned. “I’m exhausted. Gotta call Jaesoo first…”

🐯

It was about ten now. An hour ago, he’d written up a resignation letter and had just delivered it to the moving company, now meandering his way over to Yoongi’s shop to start up what would probably be a fucking monumental disaster. He was having Y/N meet him in the alley near there, both having decided their story would probably be more believable with her presence. He just hoped things would go well. Jeongguk knew he was putting a lot of trust in Yoongi telling him all this - he’d have to rely on Gloss’s neutral nature to not let on about him to anyone who came asking, which was a risk.

“There it is,” he murmured to himself as he spotted the storefront, and drew in a deep breath, adjusting the strap of the back pack on his shoulder. Shit, this is making me nervous. He let the breath out as a loud sigh, not too unlike a war cry. Let’s go. We got this! Yoongi’s my friend and he’ll handle it somehow. We’ll be fine.

The bell jingled as he marched in.

Yoongi was currently at one of the stations giving a client a trim, and he looked up at the kid with the usual greeting for customers on his lips, fading off the moment he saw his face. Curiosity replaced it.

“Jeongguk?”

“Can we talk?” His eyebrows were furrowed and he looked like he was hyperfocusing on something.

Didn’t even say hi. “Mm. Sure. Meet me in the back, I gotta finish up here first.” This’ll be interesting. He turned back to the client.

Jeongguk nodded, and briskly strode into the hall at the back of the shop, eyebrows furrowed cutely. Yoongi idly counted his footsteps, only to hear a little screech of rubber on tile as Jeongguk stopped and skidded back into the main area. “Hi hyung!” A little wave, and he disappeared again. Yoongi smiled faintly and shook his head.

Down the hallway, Jeongguk bypassed Yoongi’s office and scooted further down the hallway to an iron door. It provided access into the alley out back and could only be opened from the inside. He pushed it open and ducked his head out.

Y/N was nowhere to be seen. Good. She’s stayed hidden.

Jeongguk whistled a small tune.

A shadow dropped down from the fire escape, near-silent, and slid past him into the building. “Good to see you. On the left,” he murmured, and she disappeared into Yoongi’s office right as the man turned the corner, wiping his hands after a quick wash.

Seeing Jeongguk, he asked, “Why are you here so early?”

“I had something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh? Are you quitting?”

“What? No.” He shook his head, opening the door for Yoongi who moved past him to his liquor cabinet, not noticing the figure lounging on his couch. “You might understand better why it is I took on a fourth part-time, though.”

“Oh yeah? Shoot.” He pulled out a crystal decanter of bourbon and poured them both a glass. “Two pinkies or three?” He didn’t notice how tense it was Jeongguk got then, or if he did, decided not to comment.

Jeongguk’s hand tightened around the strap of his pack. This is it. Tell him everything. He decided to just act first before he chickened out.

He unzipped it and upended the contents on Yoongi’s desk. Actions do speak louder than words, right?

Yoongi paused his pour.

He may have had his back turned, but the sound of tumbling money is something he’s familiar with. He decided to knock back the glass before pouring another refill. “That better not be what I think it is Jeongguk. That better be you spilling a stack of flyers for a poetry slam or some shit.” He knocked back the second glass and poured another. “Two or three pinkies, you goddamned punk?”

“Two please.”Jeongguk murmured.

Yoongi kneels and pulls out a second glass from the liquor cabinet. Y/N chooses then to speak up.

“I’ll take two also.”

There’s a clatter as he bangs his head on the cabinet, spinning around with the widest eyes Jeongguk’s ever seen on him. “Who the hell - ?”

“I let her in,” Jeongguk murmured, shifting to stand in front of the door to block Yoongi from making a run for it. “She’s a friend of mine. Yoongi, meet Y/N.”

There’s silence for a moment. The tiger girl sits soundlessly on the couch, completely covered from head to toe in clothing - her face is even concealed by a dark pair of shades and a face mask. Besides her name and voice, there’s little to differentiate whether she’s a boy or girl. Yoongi recovers his composure quickly, standing up from the ground and picking up two cups as he does.

“Alright, two pinkies each and four for me. Why’s she here Jeongguk, and who is she?”

“Well, uh, her name’s Y/N - ”

“We covered that already. Who is she, Jeongguk?” Finished with his pours, he handed him their drinks and took his own, sitting down at his desk. Jeongguk sank into the cushions next to Y/N and handed her her drink. Surprisingly, she decided to take charge of the conversation.

“Do you know what hybrids are, Mr. Yoongi?” Idly, she took a sip of the alcohol and grimaced, thinking better of it and handing to Jeongguk.

Yoongi leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankle over one of his knees. He sipped at his drink. A tense moment passed.

“Sure. I heard of ‘em.”

Jeongguk blinked. “You have, hyung?”

“Yeah, people talk. I keep my nose out of it though, and that’s for safety.” He sipped at his drink again, then narrowed his eyes a bit. “Why are you asking?”

“Well - ” she started, taking off her shades, face mask, and hood. “I am one.”

Yoongi’s face remained impassive, masked, calculated. It was his business face, the one he used with customers. Neither removed or engaged. He nodded, but made no effort to continue the conversation.

Y/N took the lead.

“I’ve been… this, for about four years now. Started out as a pet whore then demoted to a cagedog. You know what cagedoggers are?”

Yoongi nodded again, and Jeongguk felt the hair at the back of his neck prickle.

“So, I did that for three years. In the last four months before I got out of it - the cagedogging, I mean - I purposely lost fights so I’d get resold and resold to the cheapest cagedoggers. The last deal took place at night in a restaurant Jeongguk was eating at, and he helped me escape.”

“That was the day I broke up with Bora,” Jeongguk interjected, and Yoongi nodded thoughtfully. He didn’t really know exactly when that was since his presence in the kid’s life was minimal outside of Gloss - but it gave him a rough timeline. A little less than six weeks ago.

“ - Right,” she continued. “So, after that night I didn’t really have anywhere to go, so I just kinda…” a little blush, and her ears fluttered back, “... followed him around for a day. Figured I’d return the favor somehow, and I wanted to thank him but he’s so goddamn busy all the time it’s hard to get a word in.”

Yoongi chuckled a little, tipping back the rest of his drink.

“So then he fell in a river, and - ”

Yoongi choked on his drink. “What did he do?”

Jeongguk grimaced, and picked at his bangs guiltily. “Uh.”

“When did it happen?”

“A day after I escaped.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes at Jeongguk, who avoided making eye contact like the plague. Y/N rushed to move on with a heavy exhale before Yoongi started wasting time scolding him.

“Anyway,” she continued. “He fell in a river and I saved him. Brought him back to his apartment and ended up staying the night. We’ve been denning together since then.”

Jeongguk giggled a little. Denning. What a cute word choice.

“How’d you know where he lives again?” Yoongi asked, and Jeongguk perked up a little. He should’ve asked that question before and hadn’t, somehow. God, that’s such an important detail. I hope I haven’t skipped over anything else like that. He bit his lip in nervous thought, spaced out and distracted for a second.

“I’d been following him around, remember? The night at the restaurant, I circled back and made sure he got home safe. That’s how I learned where it was.”

Yoongi nodded a bit, satisfied.

“So,” he drawled, leaning forward to ruffle through the pile of cash on his desk. “Where the fuck did you get this?”

“I revisited an old auction site.”

“You’re talking abandoned storage auctions or slave auctions?”

“Slave auctions. Specifically hybrid.”

“Ah. Continue. Also, why?”

“I needed closure, I guess. It was the one place I solidly remember the location of.” She picked at the elastic strings on her facemask, uncomfortable showing any measure of vulnerability to someone not-Jeongguk. It’s okay, she assured herself despite wanting to swallow those words back up. He trusts him. I can trust him. Move on.

“So - ” she forced herself to look up, “ - there was a situation, and I hurt a few people and had to escape.”

“Y/N, you killed three people. They didn’t scrape their knees because you pushed them,” Jeongguk murmured, and Yoongi was surprised to hear the words come from his mouth more so than the fact Y/N had killed someone - he’d made a comment about murder so… casually.

“Right. Yeah. And, uh, on the way out I grabbed this. Now we’re here.”

There was silence for a moment as everyone digested the situation. Yoongi picked at the rubber band circling one of the cash bundles, evaluating the figures in front of him. Y/N sat still as a shadow, eyes on him. Jeongguk fidgeted with his bangs.

Yoongi took a deep breath.

“Why’d you come here?” he asked.

“... I’m in over my head, hyung.” Barely a whisper. Jeongguk wouldn’t meet his eyes, face flushed in shame. This isn’t going to work. I’m going to lose a friend today. “You’re the only person in Seoul I trust that can help us.”

Yoongi looked at him thoughtfully, poker face on in force. Jeongguk felt like he was being watched by a cat.

Finally, he let up with a sigh.

“Clean this up.”

Jeongguk’s heart sank.

Silently, and with a burning face, he scooped the cash back into the bag. Some of Yoongi’s sketches got pushed off with it and he scrambled to pick them up. “Ah - “ he put them back, disorganized, on the desk, “ - I, uh, sorry hyung. We’ll just… get going.” He zipped the last of it up.

“Alright,” Yoongi murmured. “Gimme that before you go.”

Unbidden, a small, suspicious growl crawled its way up from Y/N’s chest. Jeongguk, confused, asked, “Hyung?”

Yoongi sighed and took it from his hands, ignoring the snarl shot at him.

“I can tell you have no clue how to launder money, so I’m gonna do it for you. Can’t leave loose ends in business like this. Sloppiness’ll get you killed.”

She stopped snarling abruptly, and Jeongguk froze in surprise. “Hyung?”

Yoongi smirked, soft and a little bitter like he wanted to swat a younger sibling over the head for doing something troublesome. “I’m older than you, so it’s my job to take care of you. Pull some stupid shit like this again, though, and I’m tossing you in a closet or something.”

Wow. I honestly thought we were gonna get booted to the curb, Jeongguk thought. He was too speechless to say thank you, but Yoongi could see it in the way his eyes twinkled, watery at the edges.

Taking the bag, he made some space in his liquor cabinet and stashed it away. He’d deal with it after hours.

Still turned away, he said, “Go on, git. Don’t you have work, punk?”

“No. Off day.” Jeongguk paused, overcome with this immense sense of gratitude - he was so goddamn lucky to have the people in his life that he did. “Can… can I come in early?”

“Sure,” Yoongi grunted, with a soft smile. I hope this shit doesn’t get him killed. 

“Now git.”

They gitted.

🐯

The police station was having a quiet day, which was honestly the worst in Hoseok’s opinion. It made him jumpy and restless. He sat at his desk, tapping his pen across a notepad and bouncing his knee. And - with a glance at the clock - he realized it wasn’t even lunch time yet. He had a whole two hours until he could - what, eat more and get more energy? Run a lap around the station? Offer the chief a lap dance, just for the exercise?

Hoseok tossed the pen away, buried his head in his hands and moaned, blowing a long sherbert into his palms. The office remained not-busy - probably out of spite.

“You know, Jung - “ his partner commented idly from where he sat across from him, feet propped up on the desk with his nose buried in a racy hentai - some shameless tentacle number; “ - usually, it’s a good thing when we’re not busy.”

Hoseok moaned into his hands again.

Officer Ri Doyeon’s thin eyes flicked up at him over the rim of the book in his hands, and Hoseok started to make little tooting noises. A piece of Doyeon’s soul leaked out and slithered away when he recognized the tune as Darude’s “Sandstorm.”

“Dude,” he whispered in exasperation.

The tooting morphed into what sounded like “Fur Elise,” reaching a grand, existential crisis-inducing crescendo before fading off into one positively grand finale of a sherbert.

Doyeon was overcome by the impulse to choke out his partner with the tie around his neck. “Are you done?” he asked.

Hoseok didn’t answer, head still in his hands. Doyeon returned to his manga.

“Ri-sunbae?” Hoseok murmured after a moment. Doyeon hummed.

“Do you think kazoos like getting blown?”

“Out,” Doyeon hissed. The book in his hands clapped shut with the finality of a man driven to the edge of sanity. “Get - get out. Go take a smoke or a run or jack off in the bathrooms - whatever the fuck men in their twenties do - I don’t fucking care just burn some of this goddamn energy you fucking middle-schooler.”

“So that’s a no?”

Doyeon belted the book at poor, bored little Hoseok who broke the silence of the office with a yelp, scrabbling out of his chair. “A smoke, Hoseok!” Doyeon barked.

“Got it, got it,” he placated, retreating from the office. His grumpy partner huffed and circled the desk to snatch his manga back up from the floor, returning to his earlier position.

Hoseok wandered through the station, looking for something to do. Lately, this is all work had been for him. Boring. Unsatisfying. Unrushed.

The KNP's (Korean National Police’s) Sex Crimes Division was not a good place to work for someone like Hoseok because it was - due to multiple factors, none of them good - not very busy. The situation was not nearly as optimistic as Doyeon made it sound. There are still plenty of sex crimes in South Korea. So many it’s downright shameful. But this is a culture where we don’t talk about those things. No one reports anything, he thought sadly.

His mind wandered back to a case he’d been forced to drop last week. A woman, at a company dinner on her second day at a new job, had been lured away by a supervisor, raped, and then subjected to revenge lawsuits on the charges of defamation when she’d spoken up, yelled and worn into dropping all charges. Yesterday, he’d learned that she’d lost that job. Life ruined in a week. And he couldn’t help. I don’t blame them, I guess. The law doesn’t exactly do much to help. The thought was a bitter one.

His wandering lead him to the roof, and he stepped out with a sigh. I thought I’d be able to help more with this job.

I feel more useless than ever.

He gazed over the balcony, propping his elbows up on the railing. Maybe a bit lonely, too.

All his friends were busy and his family was based back in Gwangju, so he didn’t really get to socialize much anymore. Most of his time was spent with grumpy, middle-aged Doyeon, who was so inclined to social reclusion and coping with all of his failed marriages through nasty hentais that he wasn’t that fun to hang out with.

When was the last time Jeongguk and I hung out? As thoughts turned to his best friend from college, he flushed a little in guilt. Five weeks ago, Jeongguk had broken up with his girlfriend of a year and called him at midnight to cry and babble for a bit, only to hang up a few minutes later because he “... Gotta go, wan’ ramen…” (Sniff.) “Gunna get ramen… bye Hobi-hyung.” Those had been the last words he’d heard from him since - not counting the odd text here and there. I should be a better friend, sheesh.

“Let’s call him,” he murmured to himself, and pulled out his phone.

Jeongguk picked up after three rings. “Hyung?”

“Hey Ggukie!”

“Oh, hey! Haven’t heard from you in awhile.”

“Yeah, sorry for checking out as long as I did. Thought I’d check up on you.”

“Ah hyung, no worries. Seoul’s a busy place to live. Where are you?”

“The station, as usual. You?”

“The station.”

Hoseok perked up. “Wait - really?”

“Yeah, the train one.”

“Oh, you little pest. I got excited there for a second.”

“Aw,” Jeongguk bit out cheekily, and Hoseok could picture so clearly that competitive and endearing little smirk. “Has hyung missed Jeonggukie? Lil’ ol’ me, tiny little Ggukie? Bunny-boy Guk?”

“Oh shut it - I miss kicking your ass in Smash Bros, that’s all.”

“Aish! Shut up hyung - you literally only ever play as Waluigi or Kirby and I always win.”

“I love Waluigi and Kirby more than I love you.”

“Well then I’m a slut for Link. Glad everything’s in the open.” A giggle. “Love me a man in a tunic.”

Hoseok laughed, and they both relaxed into a comfortable pause - softly tuning into private thoughts and the sounds of each others’ environment.

“We should have a tournament again, me an’ you. Waluigi and Kirby vs. Link,” Hoseok joked. Opposite to what he expected, Jeongguk sighed in response. “Hey,” Hoseok murmured, brows knitting. “What’s up?”

“I had to pawn off my PlayStation last month for rent.”

There was a pause again, not as comfortable as the last. Hoseok frowned watched the street down below. He was realizing how far they’d grown apart in this last year, as he’d invested his time in becoming a policeman and Jeongguk had dropped out of college to escape the relentless, malicious rumors targeting him. Touchy subject, that last one.

The world is full of injustices.

By the day, Hoseok’s starting to feel more and more powerless to fix any of it.

“Hobi-hyung…” Jeongguk started, soft voice drawing them both out of their melancholy daze before they sank any further. “We can grab drinks later? If you like?”

He’s such a sweetheart, Hoseok thought.

“Sounds great, Guk,” he hummed. “Usual place?”

“Usual place.”

“When are you free?”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Works for me; text me when. I’ll see ya, Guk.”

“See ya then, hyung.”

They hung up, and Hoseok put his phone away to gaze at the skyline for awhile.

A/N: i have three-ish weeks until i disappear into the wilderness of alaska, so either i finish it in that time or organize an adminship with someone to post my updates. we’ll see

also, thanks for all the support!! yall’re lovely 💞

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