#kept on reading fics

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Part 2/2

By the time Stanley had realized he wasn't as alone as he believed himself to be entrapped in this ravenous abyss; he had honestly begun to suspect that he was finally starting to properly lose his mind.

In all the ceaseless miles that Stanley had journeyed during his apparent permanent residence within the dark devouring void, not once had he encountered another conscious, walking, talking being similar to himself. Every other formerly living creature that he had crossed paths with had been so... silent. Empty. Dead, in every sense of the word. It was as though the very essence of life itself had been sucked out of their bodies with a straw, their forms slowly falling apart piece by piece under the vicious gluttony of the darkness that surrounded them. They looked like they actually were supposed to be there, unmoving and comatose, unlike him.

So, when Stanley first began to encounter the twins, all of a sudden, he wasn't the only one in the dark.

When meeting the first pair of them, he found himself standing in a lake.

He hadn't even noticed the changes at first. It felt as though he had been walking for weeks on end, his body moving purely on autopilot and his aching legs leading him towards a destination only it knew. A thick fog of forgetfulness and flickering memories had descended upon his brain like a heavy blanket of numbing static as he had traveled. In this absentminded state, he hadn't even realized that the ever-present undulating, buzzing darkness surrounding him had begun to gradually shift and morph to form a horizon line; stretching into tall looming cliffsides that almost seemed to close in on him. Once the nonexistent floor beneath his soles abruptly began to ripple and warp, like the disturbed surface of a shallow puddle; only then did he finally notice his transformed environment.

The transition was seamless, almost dream-like. One moment, he was still surrounded by that filthy, overwhelming abyss; and the next, his boots were suddenly plunged deep into the cold, dark lake water.

The silence didn't leave, however. It still choked and stuffed its way into Stanley's ears to clog up his mind with thick cotton; the eerie quiet not quite matching the calm, almost serene scenery the void seemed to have abruptly transformed itself into. Like a movie with its sound cut off; leaving only the unsettling hum of the projector to fill the empty air.

It was odd. The lake was surely incredibly deep. He could obviously tell from how thin and pathetically small the shores appeared all the way from where he now unceremoniously stood in the middle of the lake. Stan could look down and see the darkness below his feet swallow what meager light that managed to break through the murky waters. The overwhelming black almost seemed to beckon him, gaping and haunting; a bottomless underwater pit of pitch black that never seemed to end.

And yet, he didn't sink. Stanley remained perfectly level, the almost ink like waters stopping just at ankle level, as though he were held up just above the surface by some invisible force. Even the writhing waves seemed small and low, as though the waters were shy to climb up his legs further than that. It was odd, so very odd.

However, it wasn't nowhere near as odd as the sight that greeted him when he finally lifted his eyes from the waters.

Stanley had crossed paths with truly unbelievable sights in this strange somewhere; from bursting, collapsing stars; to the imploding heat death of entire universes, but none of them seemed to hold the candle to what he saw then when he lifted his eyes:

Children.

Two, to be exact. Two, nearly identical looking children stood motionless before him; completely soaked through to the bone as though they had taken a plunge into the frigid water that pooled around their ankles. It was a girl and a boy, both adorned with twin expressions utterly devoid of emotion, their wide eyed stare seeming to burn holes into his thin jacket. Their drenched clothes sagged off of their scrawny frames; thin rivulets of water dirpping off of them and disturbing the glassy surface of the water at their feet. The little girl's hair had messily stuck to her face in thin sodden strands, her cheeks still full and round with youth just like the boy's. They looked young. Too young to be in a place such as this.

Oh, but their eyes; their eyes.

They burned with such anger; such injustice, brighter than any dying star or galaxies he had ever seen. Anger towards the world, to fate, to whatever cruel deity that had deemed them fit to be sent to this wretched place so prematurely. They were too young to be here; to be entrapped like he was amongst this hungry darkness. And yet, here they were, sheer denial against their own untimely deaths being the only thing keeping them awake and conscious amongst the dead and rotting. A show of juvenile defiance to nature itself so vehement even the all-consumign darkness seemed hesitant to devour them whole just yet.

It saddened him. It saddened him to know that they belonged there, that they were supposed to be there. He could see it, he could feel it; they were dead. No amount of determination could deny that universal fact.

When they spoke, Stanley could hear anger:

Stan chuckled in a futile attempt to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere that threatened to crush him whole. "A lake monster? You kids and your imagination," he teased, hoping to somehow rid the poor kids of the haunted look that seemed to whirl in their glares. No child should have been burdened with such a knowing look; such eyes that looked like they had seen everything there was to see about the world, the horrid and the good.

Clearly, it had been the wrong thing to say, and Stanley's faux pas was rewarded with a scowl from the little boy. A world's worth of sour contempt etched into every contorted groove that his grimace seemed to dig into his much too young face. Stan suddenly felt guilt squeeze at his weary bones for having caused that.

"That's what they all said," the boy spat out, eyes shining with a sheen of wetness Stan wasn't sure he was prepared to deal with.

Stan left that first interaction with the twins with the feeling of guilt and sorrow still clining to him.

He couldn't have known, at the time. He couldn't have known that this wouldn't be anywhere near the last time that he would meet the pair. He hadn't realised just how many of them there were. After that first pair, his endless journeying within the Abyss was hardly be spent alone anymore. Countless more times, he came face to face with the exact same two young and impossibly worn faces; forced to meet one pair of beaten and bruised kids after another.

Not one pair had died the same death as another. Some had gotten lost, prey to whatever threat that had snatched them up out in the open; some had fallen from high up; some had been crushed under an incredible weight; some had burned; some eaten alive; some zombified. Some didn't even seem physically harmed at all, body perfectly intact, and yet that same faraway, distrubed look in their eyes remained.

He thought the worst ones were the ones he found alone. A little girl or a little boy, left all lonesome without their other half there. Twins, he remembered a pair of them telling him once.

Once, he had come across a town full of silent, stone statues. It was a rustic, shabby, almost nostalgic looking town- odd and strangely familiar. The sight of it had tugged at an aged memory that had long since wasted away in the back of his mind. It was serene, almost deceptively so. The sun shone; the air smelled crisp and fresh; numerous waterfalls continued to crash down from the tall cliffsides; and a soft nonexistent breeze whistled through the thicket of pine trees that blanketed the outskirts of the town. None of it seemed to match the gruesome scene of the hundred wailing statues that littered every inch of the town.

He had found the boy's statue on the other side of town, deep within the green forest and toppled over the gnarled roots of a towering tree. Like the rest of the townsfolk, he too, was frozen mid-shriek; his stone face twisted and contorted into a mock impression of a silent scream as his body lay paused in a writhing struggle. He made sure to be gentle when he carried the boy's statue over to place it beside the girl's, whose statue stood far deeper into the forest, sporting the same rictus grimace of terror as her brother's. It somehow felt wrong for them to have been so far apart from one another, even in death.

He had come to dread meeting of the twins. He hated every second he had to confront yet another pair of dead children that did not belong here, but fate had decided they did. He despised having to listen to their tales of woe as they wept about the injustice of the world, of having died young; he despised himself for being unable to do more than weep with them.

"We don't belong here, Grunkle Stan," he would listen to the little girl weep, calling him a title he didn't recognize. He never remembered if they had ever told him their name, but they all seem to know his, without a fail. "If we're dead, then what about you? What about Grunkle Ford? Mom? Dad? What about them? We can't be dead, we can't be," they would say, confusion and frustration written all over their faces. They didn't understand. They didn't understand why they had come to the darkness so early, so unfairly.

He never knew what to say, he'd never been good with words.

All he could do was kneel down to their levels and engulf them in his arms, hoping he could somehow squeeze the pain straight out of their bodies in his embrace. He hugged them, because what else could he do?

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

So @lloydskywalkers made a post and I laughed so hard for so long and couldn't stop thinking about it so thanks for bringing me joy lloydskywalkers bro have ten seconds of absolute nonsense

[voice work done by me too pls do not repost/reuse audio]

[keferon]

......I found the new fic to lose my sleep over

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One

The drive's short one. 

Steve gets out of his car, opening the passenger door for Chrissy and escorting her up to the house, quietly envisioning what Jason would look like if a real monster got him.

What would he say, staring down the crazy, five-starred head, filled with teeth and drool? Would he turn back? Or run?

(Steve swears he doesn't take great pleasure in imagining Carver getting eaten, but he'll admit to taking a little.)  

"Chrissy do you have any idea--oh." Mrs. Cunningham startles, grasping her robe at the front as she spots Steve standing next to her daughter.  

"Hi Miss Cunningham." He says.

"Hello." She says suspiciously. "And who are you?"

"I'm Steve Harrington, ma'am." He watches as her mother straightens immediately at his name, and sinks right into the ol' Harrington charm, knowing instantly it will work. "I know you were expecting Jason, but I'm afraid he wasn't able to drive Chrissy home." 

"Oh, Steve! It's so late I almost didn't recognize you." She titters, suspicion gone. "Your mother and I are on the same charity board." 

Of course they were.

"I thought you were dating that nice Nancy girl." She says with a squint that mimics Chrissy's, because even in the midst of a crisis he can't escape the gossip that is Hawkins upper echelon. 

"Nance is waiting in the car." Steve lies smoothly. "I just wanted to make sure Chrissy got home safe." 

"What happened?" Chrissy's father appears, ushering them both in while blatantly peering around them, eyes sweeping the street before closing the door.

Steve recognizes the move. He's checking for nosy neighbors. 

"Jason and I broke up." Chrissy admits.

"What?" 

"We..." She falters in front of her parents. 

"What happened to Jason?" Her father asks, tuning back in once they're safely away from peering eyes.

"I'm afraid Jason and some of his friends brought beer to the party." Steve steps in to explain.  

"Oh Chrissy, it's a high school party. That's no reason to break up with him." Her mother fusses, face flushing in embarrassment. Her eyes dart from her daughter to Steve and back, and Steve knows he needs to start damage control. 

If he plays it right he can burn Jason while he's at it. 

"He was horrible, mom. Just awful." Chrissy says, but Steve can tell she's shrinking under her mothers gaze. 

"He drank quite a lot, Miss Cunningham." With a theatrical wince, Steve turns to face Chrissy's dad, lowers his voice and says "I'm going to have to talk to Coach about it." 

He gets the intended response, which is a raised eyebrow. "That bad, huh?" 

Steve nods once, painting a pained smile on his face. "He made a real fool of himself tonight, Sir. The basketball team has a reputation to uphold." 

"Oh." Mrs. Cunningham says, hand fluttering in front of her face. "I never would have thought…"

"He's normally a good guy. I don't know what got into him." Steve has them both eating out of the palm of his hand, attention neatly off Chrissy and onto the story he's feeding them. 

Its worth it to see her shoulders relax. 

"I couldn't let him take Chrissy home in the state he was in Sir, and he got very…" 

Steve pauses. 

Fills his voice with tempered disappointment, channeling his dad. "Belligerent. Said some nasty things."  

"Really?" Mr. Cunningham says, with a low whistle, and Steve knows by his tone alone that he's bought in.

Hook, line, sinker.

Steve nods once. "I have to get back to my girlfriend, but Chrissy'" He turns earnestly here, to let her know he's not faking this next bit. "Let me know if Jason bothers you at school. I'll set him straight again if I have to." 

"Thank you Steve." Mr. Cunningham says, as Chrissy's mom hustles her daughter towards the kitchen. 

Steve shakes his hand, then waves at Crissy as she calls her own thank you over her shoulder, before disappearing out the door and back to his car.

The same one where Nancy very much isn't. 

That's a problem for tomorrow Steve.

xXx

Tomorrow Steve gets into an argument with Nancy. 

She can't recall that Jonathan took her home, or that he's bullshit, their whole relationship, bullshit--

But she also can't tell him she loves him.

So Steve snaps at her. Storms off.

 Play’s more basketball.

It takes less than two hours for him to get mopey and another three for him to spiral into deciding he was wrong somehow.

That's what his mom said all the time anyway, wasn't it? The man's always wrong Steven, and he's the man here so…

He gets flowers, chocolates, and fucking waylaid (by Dustin Henderson with his Grow a Monster) and things go sideways from there.

 Train tracks and a junkyard and demodogs make time speed up. An encounter with Billy and a dinner plate causes Steve's recollection of the evening to be fuzzy. 

He just knows that in the middle of dodging death, he has the realization that Nance wants to break up with him.

That he should let her. 

Even if it hurts, even if he doesn't want to. 

She wants to be let go.

So Steve does. He respects her, and when he has a moment after its all over, he tells her to go with Jonathan.

(At least he permanently gets the squirts out if this. Or at least everyone but Mike.

Even if most of them are shitheads and one of them's Hargrove's step sister.

It's--something.

But when Dustin keeps pestering him, demanding Steve drive him all over Hawkins and then drags him to the movies, well.

It might be the best something Steve's had in his life so far. )

xXx

"Oh shit. Is that from Caver?" Eddie asks, popping up near Steve's car like the clown in a jack in the box. 

"Carver can't hit for shit. This was Hargrove." Steve replies, attempting an eyeroll before remembering that his entire face is a bruise. 

One, giant, never ending bruise. 

"I guess his step sister gave him the slip to come hang out with these kids I watch sometimes. I didn't know she wasn't supposed to be there." Steve shrugs, because it's the technical truth. 

If you turn it sideways and squint anyway. 

"Asshole tried to threaten the kid Max is into by slamming him into a wall and screaming shit, so I stepped in, and--" He waves at his face. 

The same one he's already getting looks for. 

"I was winning." Steve sighs theatrically. "He broke a plate over my head."

The story seemed to freeze Eddie but he recovers with a quick shake of his head. 

"You poor thing." He tuts. "Let me guess--you were more worried about the hair than the wound?" 

Eddie's hands flutter like he's going to touch Steve's head but he seems to contain himself at the last minute.

The hospital threatened to buzz it for stitches." Steve says darkly, playing into the bit. 

(He had not gone to a hospital. 

None of them had.)  

"What would our King be without his crown of hair?" Eddie laments, in a falsetto that was half insult half oddly sincere. It was jarring in that it was hard to get a read on, but the more Steve was around the guy the less it seemed malicious and the more it came off  as just….goofy.

Eddie Munson, Steve decided, was not a freak.

 He was a dorky little weirdo, just like all the other kids Steve now hung out with. 

Just older, and with slightly better hair. 

"Hey Eddie." Another boy calls out, approaching cautiously. 

He's got a leather jacket on, and if Steve thinks hard enough he can sort of conjure up a memory of the guy at Eddie's lunch table, throwing a piece of bread at a pale sophomore decked out in plaid. "You good man?" 

"Yeah Jeff, just checkin' in on the Hair here." Eddie sticks a thumb towards Steve, who raises his hand and waves. 

The falsetto comes back, somehow higher as the older boy swoons over Steves arm. "Soothing his poor soul after that brute Hargrove almost killed him." 

"Has anyone ever told you you're a lot like Bugs Bunny?" Steve asks, the thought leaving his mouth the instant he had it.

(He doesn't care, it's a legitimate question.) 

It has the effect of making Munson look downright chuffed. "I have actually, but only by my Uncle." 

"Why are you checking in?" Jeff interrupts, before seeming to realize he said it out loud. " Ah, I mean--"

"Oh he didn't tell you?" Steve says, as casually as he can muster. "Eddie claimed me and Chrissy at a party last weekend." 

See Munson? Two people could play the weird bit game. 

They've attracted more of Eddie's friends now, two more boys in leather jackets edging closer like frightened deer. 

(One of which is the aforementioned younger man Jeff threw bread at, and Steve vaguely thinks the guy's name starts with a g.) 

"Apparently we're his minions now." Steve tells Jeff in a rather put upon manner. 

"It was just you, the fair maiden chose otherwise." Eddie counters dismissively, voice dropping down low. 

Steve snorts. Hums a sarcastic; "Like you'd let us choose." 

Eddie finally abandons whatever voice that was supposed to be (a villain, Steve thinks, and wonders if it hurts Eddies throat to drop from a false high to a deep low that quickly.)  to say:

 "Mock me all you like, Harrington, but you can't deny the bit worked." 

Steve automatically went for another eye roll, and gets a flash of pain for it. "Who said I was mocking you, you dork? Just stating facts." 

Yet again, Eddie reacts weird to the comment. He looks almost bashful for a second, before he recovers, tugging his hair in front of his face as he plays with it.

The bell rings once in warning, and Steve makes a face towards the doors. 

"I gotta go, Mrs Clicks out to fail me. See you around, Eddie. Jeff." The way his eyes are bruised up he can't quite make out the face Jeff makes at that, but Steve's pretty sure the guys mouth was open. 

"She's a nasty one, my minion, best stay on your toes around her." Eddie calls, and Steve waves a hand in the air to show he heard. 

"What just happened?" Jeff asks, far too loudly for how close Steve still is. 

It makes him chuckle a bit, even as one of the other guys says something in a far quieter voice that has Munson squawking and flapping his arms like a bird. 

The winding little feelings in his chest squeeze his heart, and Steve shakes his head, refusing to be fond of Eddie Munson. 

xXx

College rejection letters come in, one after the another.

Steve could have made it into a few schools he's certain, except he hadn't really applied to any.

Not that any college other than Penn Hurst mattered. His dad wanted him to be a legacy, come hell or high water.

Steve's punishment was hand picked by his parents, and he gets the sailor outfit his new minimum wage job requires is supposed to be a part of it--that his dad made him apply because it was the most embarrassing thing he could think to subject Steve too-- but honestly? 

It's not that bad. 

Not even with Robin, the manager he met yesterday, and who positively, completely and totally, hates Steve’s guts.  

He figures he has time to win her over. 

All the time in the world, now that demons aren't trying to eat his, or any of the kid's, faces. He can focus on the small things. Build himself back up.

Figure out the person he wants to be, now that he's no longer King Steve. 

It’s the thought that kept him from attending any graduation parties. To go felt like backsliding into old habits. 

‘If the kids--if it comes back again--’ 

Getting drunk at night in a random house seemed almost irresponsible.

Particularly not with people Steve has history with, without anyone he really cares about being present. Certainly not Nance and Jonathan, who he wishes he didn’t know are at some end-of-year game night one of Nancy’s friends is hosting. 

(Steve can’t think about that for a number of reasons. 

When he does--because of course he does-- he makes sure to focus on the weirdness that is Jonathan Byers being someone he cares about, instead of the fact he can’t seem to kill his love for Nancy. 

Or that he's horrifically jealous of their relationship. 

That the best sleep he had ever had was between them, two nights after the lab, when they crammed themselves into Jonathan's bed because they all couldn't quite believe it was over.

That night had been so incredibly weird, but grouping together felt safer. Smarter.

Better.

Not in a way Steve wants to put into words. 

Not in a way he wants to confront at all.) 

His parents hadn’t been able to make it home to watch him walk at his graduation--his father landing a last minute meeting with some important person or other. 

Faked apologies were given, money transferred, and Steve, not wanting to sit in his too-huge house, had meandered to Family Video. 

Tried to forget his father’s cold voice in the background of his mother’s call, loudly announcing he’d have made it a priority to see Steve graduate-- if he’d gotten into Penn Hurst. 

Steve just shakes his head. Pushes those thoughts into the back of his head, into the same place all his other weird thoughts live.

The glare he gets from the tall, pimple-ridden guy working the rental counter was expected.

Chrissy Cunningham, was not. 

"I thought you’d be at one of the parties.” He tells her, when he turns down the romance aisle and finds her staring blankly at a shelf. 

She startles, before recognition flits over her face and a warm smile is directed his way. 

“I'm honestly not a fan of parties." She confides in him, hand clutching a tape in her hands."Not those kinds, anyway.” 

"More slumber parties, less keg stands your speed?" Steve guessed, blatantly turning his head sideways in order to read the title.

She awards him with a wider smile. "Exactly." 

"Chrissy Cunningham. Are you renting Jaws?" He teases, leaning in just a touch.

She flushes, but turns and squares up to him. Steve's delighted to see it. 

"Why yes I am. I'll do you one better and even admit it's one of my favorite movies." 

Steve grins at her, and sees the way she lights up on response, eyes bright. 

This is the Chrissy that Carver had tried to kill. The strength and pure fun that radiates off her enhances the beauty she has to something almost otherworldly. 

Steve has seen enough beauty in his life to recognize when it will stay. That Chrissy wil one day be 80 years old, with gray hair and knit sweaters, and she'll still be able to light up a room. 

"Like sharks killing people that much huh?” He teases. And it’s easy, slipping into this part of himself around her. The part he’s been trying to get back. 

The confidence that he walked with, before monsters crawled out of the ground, and Nancy put a hole in his heart.

"I'll let you in on a secret. ." Chrissy leans in, dropping her voice low enough that Steve has to lean in a bit too to hear. "My favorite character is the shark." 

Steve playfully gapes at her, and for the first  time in a long time, feels like things will be okay. 

He’ll be okay.

He won’t be King Steve. He’s not Nancy's Boyfriend Steve either--but someone else. Himself.

A Steve who exists outside of Hawkins High, outside his family name. 

He likes it.

"I told you that was his car. Steve!" A too familiar voice calls and Steve can't mask the despair that hits him as he turns to his (now least) favorite shithead, whose storming through Family Video’s doors. 

"Dustin." He identifies, with an edge to his voice he can only pray Chrissy doesn't pick up on. "Other brats. What are you doing?" 

Mike stands stubbornly at Dustin's right, Lucas nervous at his left. 

Will Byers is situated next to Mike but Steve's not as familiar with him, and has no idea how to interpret the kid. 

If he had to guess based on the face he’s being sent, Will’s more nervous then the rest--but equally determined. 

(This does not make Steve feel better. It in fact, somewhat convinces them they’ve run headfirst back into trouble.) 

"Well we were going to go to Lucas’s, but now, we're bumming a ride from you!" 

"I'm busy." He says flatly. 

"Ste~eeeve!" 

"I didn't know you had a brother." Chrissy says, hand covering her mouth. 

Looking back at her, Steve's pretty sure she's trying to physically hold back laughter. 

If one could shoot lasers with their eyes, Steve would be nailing Dustin for ruining--whatever it was that was happening here. 

"He's a rescue" Steve says flatly. "It’s not working out though. We're planning on returning him to the shelter.” 

"Wow Steve." Dustin returns, offended. "First of all, if anyone's rescuing anyone I rescued you, or did you suddenly forget that you show up to family dinner every Thursday at my house like a sad orpha--mmpphh!" 

‘Mmpphh’ because Steve had taken several long strides across the store to smack his hand over Dustin's mouth. 

"Sorry Chrissy, it would appear the asshole children I am paid to babysit escaped whoever is supposed to be watching them." He shakes Dustins head, in lue of strangling him. “Hit me up later we’ll discuss the shark’s best kills.” 

“Will do.” Chrissy says, as Steve begins the process of shoving his four smaller friends out the door. “Drive safe!” 

“No you don’t, and you’re gonna prove it by swinging through McDonalds for us.” Dustin sing-songs, swinging himself into the passenger side of the Beemer. 

“You assholes owe me, big time.” Steve hisses, as Lucas and Mike instantly begin making kissy faces the second they’re out into the parking lot. "I had plans tonight!"

“Do you have McDonalds money?” Steve asks, only to immediately wince at himself because fuck did he just sound like a soccer mom. 

“I have money I took out of my mom’s wallet.” Mike says as he settles into the car with his friends.

“Fine.” Steve sighs in defeat, starting the car. 

He determinedly does not ask if the idiots walked here, because there is a suspicious lack of bicycles, if only because he hit his mom quota for the day and Steve refuses to say anything else that might edge out his cool persona.

The one he swears he still has.

Supposedly. 

("Does my mom really pay you to watch me?" Dustin asks a while later, when the other brats are distracted. His voice is painfully honest, and softer than it normally is. 

"In food, yes." Steve says, because he’s not that much of an asshole--and maybe, because Dustin is truly his only friend right now.

Steve honestly looks forward to those Thursday dinners, helping Ma Henderson and having her fuss over him in a way his parents never had. 

In a way no one ever had. 

Dustin lands a solid kick to his ankle, making Steve curse. "That's not payment you ass!"

"Ow, God Dustin--" 

"Just admit you're my actual friend, you dick!" 

"Language! I swear your mom stole you from wolves, you animal--" Steve swatted at him. 

Maybe, possibly later, he will go on to admit that yes, Dustin is his friend. 

He will even agree to making up a stupid handshake for it. 

It involves lightsabers and gore at least, which Steve insists is very cool.)

[isjasz]

[Day 53]

Ok quick ddd doodle tdy, fireworks for the bday man :DDD (he died after ofc)

[sorealis]

writing fics is so funny. writing ongoing ones is even more so

while no one owes me any comments, they're obviously nice to get. every single one, even if it's just hearts or something

i'm mostly amused by this, but i can't stop thinking about how often people write "can't wait to see what comes next" and then i post what comes next and they just... disappear. never come back. delete their bookmark and i see i've lost a subscriber who i assume was that person.

it just gets me wondering what was the thing that made them go "yeah nope actually i'm not finishing this"

[seance]

THE MUSKETEERS 10TH ANNIVERSARY REWATCH / fave episodes [3/?] ↳ SEASON 1, EPISODE 8 / the challenge

[titaniumions]

in my mind kakania would have little to no problem accepting the fact that she is into women. however the thought of her being into isolde is something that would absolutely vex her, i think. while they did start off as casual acquaintances and friends, isolde is still her patient, and to some level kakania winds up being responsible for isolde's wellbeing. with that in mind, kakania can hardly fathom the thought of burdening isolde with her feelings, which she feels absolutely selfish for even indulging in. even if those feelings were to be returned, it still wouldn't put kakania's mind at rest. it still wouldn't be enough to get kakania to convince herself that she's fine with feeling this way. ultimately it's not necessarily internalized homophobia nor societal pressure that troubles her, but rather her own ethical and psychological concerns

it'd be even worse for her if those feelings didn't exactly ... go away even after everything that happened in chapter 6. she'd be overwhelmed with guilt, and think to herself that the best course of action would be to distance herself from isolde, but the most painful part is that even after seeing isolde at her worst, she still can't help but want to love isolde. even after kakania herself had presumably tainted isolde's perception of her. so what if that's what was necessary at the moment. after leaving isolde broken and shattered, how could kakania even dare to think she deserves to love isolde? if it once felt horribly wrong for kakania to be in love with her, everything that has transpired between them only served to make it worse!

[hai-nae]

meant to post these sketches a few days ago? a week? but, well, life.

[lil-lemon-snails]

"I can't ignore what's under dancefloor boards, The rhythm of my heart a dead-as-disco beat, But I still move my feet, to slip out of this groove, I'm free" ~ 2econd 2ight 2eer, Will Wood, The Normal Album

I have been plagued with visions of LDR Sun every time I listen to this song and I NEEDED to get this out of my system @spadillelicious when do we get to smooch the boy pLEASE

v textless version and close ups under cut!! v

[rainychaoloveshack]

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟ 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝. 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐠.

shadow looks pretty nice in your t-shirt. 

**⋆°•☁︎ content. shadow x gn!reader, slightly ooc, couple antics, fluff ⚠️reader is implied to be a human, but its not specified⚠️

☂︎ wc. 1k ☂︎ a/n. i actually wrote another version of this weeks ago, but it was suggestive, and thought it ended up too cringy to post. buttt i really liked the concept and decided to make it sfw and fluffy instead :)

likes, reblogs, and especially comments are extremely appreciated!!! (i like chatting to you guys!)

“[Name], could you put the AC higher?” Shadow says abruptly from his cozy spot on the couch, sprawled out as the TV drones on endlessly, chattering on and on, though it’s more so on to serve as background noise instead of him actually watching it. You turn your head to the side, a bit confused at his statement. “It’s cold here.”

Ah, now that you notice it, there is a bit of a chill in the apartment. A shiver flows through your body at the sudden realization, forcing goosebumps to rise on your skin as you wince. If even he can register he chill with his fur, he’s definitely right. It must've been you just shutting out the problem subconsciously. You haven’t even told him about the problem with the AC…

“The AC’s broken?” Shadow looks over to you, a frown spreading onto his face as he gets on to complaining about it. “For how long? And you haven’t called a repairman by now?” He growls, sitting up from the couch before rising up onto his feet. “Hurry and get me something of yours then. It’s not like I can just wear my coat here.”

The thought of Shadow wearing his comfy trenchcoat does sound appealing, the brown coat always falling over his form nicely (And he looks so damn good in it), but it’s not cold enough in here for that kind of attire. Plus, who's wearing their trench coat inside anyway? With a small skip in your steps, you beckon Shadow over to your bedroom and push the door open, heading over to your dresser to rummage through the piece of furniture.

Well, you have a little something here and there, and here as well…

Ah. How about this one? You tug it out of its snug spot in your dresser, letting it unravel in front of him, and his eyes scan up and down the shirt. It’s nothing special by any means; a plain, oversized black t-shirt with one of your favorite bands (or singers!) plastered on the front. But it gets the job done by covering the soft chill in most rooms or homes, including this one. It looks badass too, even with the faded logo.

“Here.” Shadow says, taking the shirt from your grasp as he slips it over his head, having to shift around a bit to make sure his quills don’t pierce the fabric. It’s not like it would really matter if it did, but Shadow always tends to be over-cautious of your things, even if they hold little to no real value. Even if it’s something simple like a mug you really like, or a pair of pants you like to wear, you can tell how he gets a little tense while handling things like that, always making sure the mug is away from the kitchen counter’s edge when he makes you a cup of coffee or tea, or folding your pants in the best way to prevent wrinkles.

“It’s big on me.” Yet he looks good nonetheless, as you expected. Shadow mumbles incoherently under his breath, pulling it in different ways in an attempt to make it more snug on him, but then he notices your interested stare. “... What's wrong? Do you want me to wear a different one?”

You shake your head the second he finishes his sentence, fixing the shirt's neckline around him, running your fingers through his chest fluff briefly to fix it up. For some reason, seeing him in such attire that’s unlike him wants you to make him look the very best he can be, even in an old band t-shirt.

Shadow lets out a small “hmm” noise as you do so, curious about your little fidgeting antics with his fur. “Am I your model for tonight?”

You hold back a small fit of laughter at the sudden (and odd) response to your behavior, a snicker making its way out as Shadow peers up at you, pleased at your reaction to his joke, especially since he doesn’t joke around often in the slightest. His chest puffs out ever so slightly, silently relishing in that feeling of achievement on making you laugh

It takes a fair bit of power inside you not to come up with something playful back, but you stay silent and take a step or two back, making a small rectangle with your fingers as you hold it up to his face, the smile on your face surely growing.

Shadow head cocks to the side at your gesture, but straightens up once he realizes what you’re doing.

“How do I look?” He murmurs, tugging on the neckline of the shirt to bring it down, before gazing back up at you.

As handsome as ever. Maybe he’ll even strike a little pose for you?

“Don’t test your luck.” Ah, as expected…

Then just like this would be fine, yes?

“[Name].” Shadow says sternly the moment you reach for your phone on the dresser, making your body tense up immediately at his tone of voice. “No pictures.” He hisses, walking up and swatting your hand away from your device. With a small pout, you cross your arms and glare at him. It’s not like you’re going to show anyone.

Anyone like Sonic, that is. Maybe another person.

“... Fine. Just one.”

⋆°•☁︎⋆°•☁︎⋆°•☁︎

“So, how bout’ it? A day out with me and Omega sounds nice, right? You can even bring [Name]. If you’d like.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, by the way; I saw that picture of you, lover boy. You should wear clothes like that more often. It suits you.”

“What?”

“That picture of you in that t-shirt. I didn’t know you were a fan of that band, Shadow. Or is it [Name]’s?”

“Rouge, what picture are you-”

Chills rise up your spine, a wince forming across your lips, and you silently refuse to turn around to meet that gaze currently piercing a hole right in your back.

Damn it. That loose-lipped bat…

“... I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

[skitskatdacat63]

Every time I read Fernando cursing in fic, I can only think about this clip and then my brain short-circuits

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[fishfingersandscarves]

lil scene from The Birthday of the Beast by @slythernim which is a fun little fic <3

[sernhuh]

Fav trope in fics Nureyev thinking something SO DOWN BAD about Juno and going "Let's file it away for future consideration."

[unknownarmageddon]

Christ Alive

a kross oneshot. in which they go to a party cackles

based on the song skeletone by bones uk rental suits au belongs to me and @psycho-chair

The parking lot was mostly empty, save for two, maybe three, cars. It was dark, the only thing visible in the black murk past the washed out lights of the gas station’s overhang was the passing specks of car headlights. 

    Cross leaned on the elbow he held propped on the counter, tried to tune out the mediocre mainstream music playing distantly over the store’s speakers, and watched the only customer inside idle about the shelves. 

The lights buzzed. two of the fridges against the back wall flickered every so often.

      The door chimed as it was opened, and another stranger entered. They wanted 50 dollars’ worth on pump three. And a pack of cigarettes. The door chimed again, then they were gone. 

The lights buzzed. The fridges flickered. Everything was delved in a cool colored haze. 

     The last remaining person in the store bought two drinks. With the dinging of the door as they left, a father and two kids entered. They piled their spoils, a mound of snacks, onto the counter.

      There were several minutes of vacancy. Nobody in the store but him. It felt like an eternity, always did. Cross fiddled with the shelves behind him to waste time. 

Buzzing lights. Uneven churring from the slushy machine in the back. 

        The door chimed. Footsteps, sneakers scuffing on tile. 

Cross turned, and could practically feel the grin boring into him.

Him again. 

    He was leaning forward over the counter with his arms crossed in front of him. His jacket had obtained a few new stains, both red and black. The faint, electric sound of music played from the chunky maroon headphones around his neck. 

Cross felt himself grin for a moment. He couldn’t help it.

“Hey pretty boy.” He looked at Cross with deep dark sockets. 

“Killer.” 

“Fancy seeing you here.” Killer quipped. 

    He pulled himself up to sit on the back edge of the counter, still facing Cross. Cross furrowed his brows. 

“I told you to stop sitting on the counter.”

Killer hardly considered moving. His soul hummed like even it was laughing. “You’re gonna have to make me, sweetheart.” 

Cross knew that wouldn’t have worked. And he didn’t really care, not enough to force him. 

“You miss me?” Killer quipped.

“I haven’t decided yet.” Cross replied. 

Killer laughed. “I’m wounded.” 

     Cross turned back to the shelf, and Killer slid off the counter to stand next to him. 

    “Ya got any plans tonight? Other than the blast you’re clearly havin’ already.” Killer murmured, hands shoved the pockets of his jacket. The fabric of he and Cross’s clothes brushed as they just almost touched, they were that close.

When did Cross ever have plans? He shook his head. 

Killer’s grin got wider. Cross narrowed his eyes at him. What was he planning.

     Killer hopped back over the counter and headed for one of the fridges in the back. Cross leaned over the counter on his elbows to watch him. 

“Y’know, there’s gonna be a party tonight. At ten.” Killer jerked open the door and crouched, now partially obscured by the shelf behind him. His voice came to Cross echoed by the distance.

“Where?”

“Some guy’s place in town, I dunno, all I’ve got is the address. He was really talkin’ a big talk, I wanna see if he’s full of shit or not.” Cross could tell he was grinning. He had that kinda voice. 

“And you want me to go with you.” Cross responded after a pause. 

From the fridge Killer retrieved two energy drinks. He stood and the door was closed with a shove from his foot. 

“Exactly.” 

He hesitated, apparently for dramatic effect knowing him, and waited for an answer.

“…I’m not going.” 

“C’monnn, you gotta get outta this boring ass gas station sometime. Have an actual good time.” Killer pressed.  

“I don’t do parties.”

“How bad could it possibly be?” 

“I doubt I would miss out on much.” Cross responded.

“You’d never know. Unless you go.” Killer persisted.

       Cross didn’t respond after that. He stared at the tile in front of Killer’s feet, turning the notion over in his mind. He knew damn well that if Killer wanted something he’d find a way to get it, so he doubted how much good resisting would do. 

      Killer weaved through the aisles to the middle of the store, then went for the far back. He cracked one of the energy drinks. 

“When are you gonna start paying for those?” Cross called to him. 

“You think about that party, ‘kay, pretty boy? Think about it.” Killer called back instead and pulled the headphones on. He vanished among the shelves. Cross saw the top of the storage room door as it opened, then closed.

      Cross was left alone in the store again. The trickle of costumers came and went, and he worked on autopilot. His mind was occupied by the party and the loiterer in the storage room.

     His first reaction was to not go. And he trusted that reaction. All he knew about it was that it would be loud and crammed with people he likely didn’t want to be around. And that he wouldn’t know anyone but Killer. He didn’t think— no he knew it wouldn’t be worth it. 

     But who knew how well Killer would take that news. And he kind of had a point about getting out of the gas station. 

      Cross worked for three more hours. Occasionally he would watch Killer slink from the back to steal another energy drink or two, or a bag of chips. Cross pretended not to notice. Every time Killer passed the counter he would toss a smug grin at Cross. Meant only for Cross. The kind that loosely hid all the kinds of things he would say out loud if they were alone. Cross pretended not to notice those, too. 

        He would’ve stopped him, confronted him again for never paying for what he took. But Cross didn’t exactly want to be on the receiving end of that knife he flashed the night they met. And when Killer was around he had company, and the extra shitty customers never came back. It was a fair trade. So what if a few cans went missing here and there. 

        When Cross’s shift came to an end he left the counter in favor of the storage room. The smell of smoke flooded his nose the minute he pushed open the door. It wasn’t invasive, but it was noticeable enough whenever you walked in. It’d always smelled like smoke in here, after Killer showed up.

           The culprit sat on the floor in the corner beside the door. He had fully tucked himself into that corner, in the gap between boxes and freezers that lined a few of the walls. He had one leg propped on the other, and the magazine he held obscured his face. Cross could still hear Killer’s music blasting through his headphones even from where he stood. 

“My shift’s over. You gotta leave.” Cross greeted him.

Killer pulled the headphones down and looked up over the edge of the magazine. He hadn’t heard him.

“Shift’s over.” Cross repeated. 

The music cut off; the magazine was shoved under a shelf. “You got it, boss.”

He pulled himself to his feet and left his corner to push past Cross, who tailed him in return. 

     The gas station’s front door chimed for the last time as they exited out onto the pavement in front of it. It was cold, Cross zipped up his jacket. His breath clouded in front of him as he watched insects buzz around the precious glow of the station’s lights. 

     After a moment of standing he stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around at the vacant parking lot, awkwardly awaiting for whatever Killer was going to do. He didn’t trust him enough to leave first. 

His eyes landed on him. 

“What time’s it?” Killer asked.

Cross checked his phone. “Nine forty.” 

      Killer hopped off the slight incline of the pavement and moved through the darkness. To Cross he became a raccoon you’d see outside your garage. So blanketed in darkness it doesn’t look much like anything at all. Except, his soul provided a red halo around his silhouette. 

“You comin’?” Killer called over his shoulder and stopped. It was more of a request than a question. 

Hesitation. Cross glanced to his left, then back at Killer. “No?”

“You scared, sweetheart?” Killer replied. He could barely see him, but again Cross could tell he was grinning.

“No.” 

“C’mon, just this once. It’s just a party. One time’s not gonna hurt anything.” He said. More firmly, sharply. 

Killer gestured with his head, nodding, beckoning Cross to come with him.

“You always say that.”

“Am I wrong? Let’s live a little. Nothin’s gonna happen.” He spread out his arms, turning on his heel to look back at Cross. 

Cross scowled doubtfully. He’s known Killer for long enough to at least know going anywhere with him didn’t have any guarantees of anything. 

    Killer slunk back toward Cross and grabbed him firmly by the zipper of his jacket, pulling him down so their faces were level. His face was warmed by Killer’s breath. Killer looked him over, then dead on. 

Killer huffed a laugh. “You’re scared.”

     Cross paused for a long time. A car alarm started from somewhere distant in the dark. Then it was quiet again. 

“We’ll take the truck.” He decided eventually, flatly.

      Killer’s eyes widened. He released Cross and ran for said truck, which was parked back in front of the gas station. It was small, old, and white; one of those trucks that didn’t have back seats, and the front was one long singular bench with seatbelts that just went across the lap. 

      Killer was grinning, exclaiming to himself, in his triumph. He had gotten Cross to cave, andthey were taking the truck. 

      Killer rapped on the truck’s side with his palm as he stepped along it toward the door. He tried the door prematurely, eagerly. It was still locked. Then there was a click as Cross pressed a button on the interior of the driver side door and the rest of the doors unlocked. Killer jerked his open to slide into the passenger side; Cross got in after him, with less enthusiasm. 

The key met ignition and the vehicle grumbled to life like an aged animal. 

     Its beige leather seats were long worn, its paint was chipped in spots, it was overdo for a wash, and its windows were dusty and still functioned on a crank, but it served its purpose. 

     They left the parking lot. Cross heard Killer fighting with the window beside him, but he eventually got it open. Cold air streamed into the cab. Killer leaned against the door with his shoulder out the window. His feet were kicked up onto the dash. 

    In front of the windshield, dangling from the rear view mirror, hung a silver pendant on a chain and a long-expired air freshener. 

With each imperfection in the pavement they hit the cab bumped. 

“What’s the address?” Cross asked.

     A slip of paper was dug out of Killer’s pocket and examined. He put his legs down. 

“Left, up here.” He pointed, the turn signal clicked in time.

“Go for a bit,” He said now. “Here,” 

“Right, past here and down that road,”

     They drove for a while, mostly in silence save for Killer’s directions and occasional quips or broken humming.   Sometimes the headlights of a passing car or a lone streetlight would illuminate the cab; otherwise it was dark. 

Killer pointed at the windshield again. 

They were here. 

      What Cross saw was the front of an apartment building, one a few notches nicer than his own. That building immediately set the tone for the whole party in stone in Cross’s mind. It was fucking intimidating. He shouldn’t be here. 

   He glanced over at Killer, who was already slipping out of the truck. Cross inhaled and followed. 

———

       Upbeat music he’s heard everywhere a million times blasted through the apartment. Talking, laughing, shouting, all joined it. Lights everywhere, sounds everywhere. So many people were crammed in this single space.

     Cross was made hyper-aware of the presence of the other guests. The way they were dressed, the way they held themselves. They belonged here, he didn’t.

      He became Killer’s shadow. He kept his arms tight to his side, his eyes trained on his feet and Killer’s stride. He followed directly behind him as his companion sauntered through the apartment.

       They collected a few stares. What a sight they must be, two stupid boys wading through somewhere they shouldn’t be, one with stains on his clothes and one in a plain black jacket he’s had since high school. One with oil flowing from his eye sockets, one with an old rusted pickup. 

          Cross liked to imagine the things they whispered to themselves as the skeletons passed. Exclamations of surprise, of judgement. Eyes glued. 

     But, in reality, no one said anything. No one heckled them. He even doubted that many people were paying attention to them. Even still he was all too aware. 

      Finally, he and Killer breached the thick of the waves. Killer was saying something to another guest as he handed Cross a plastic cup of red liquid, which he accepted without much thought. 

“Whad’ya think?” Killer asked Cross and leaned against the table. He gestured with his free hand at everything around them like he was showing it all off. He held his own beverage in the other hand, Cross clutched his with both. 

    Cross didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to think. It was loud. There were way too many people. He’d decide eventually, he thought. 

     Killer lifted his cup to his mouth, then paused and lowered it. He deadpanned at it. 

“This tastes like shit.” 

Cross half-laughed, Killer grinned. 

      They stayed at that table for the duration of three, maybe four, songs. Killer did most of the talking. Cross only listened, offering the occasional hum in agreement or comment. Killer would point out people in the crowd he found notable for whatever reason to him. Made jokes, teased, rambled about menial things. He complained about the music, but he still tapped his finger against his cup in time. 

       Cross kept searching Killer, trying to figure him out. He wondered if he noticed how out of place they were. Or if he cared. But then he thought about it more, and he doubted he did.

     The song changed; Cross didn’t recognize this one. It was slower, but not melancholy. Carried by a steady rhythm and smooth electric guitar. Like the pounding of rain on concrete at night. 

Killer glanced up. “Fuckin’ finally, something good.”

     He set his cup down and pulled away from the table. “Alright I’m tired of standin’.” 

He stood with his back turned a moment, surveying the crowd, thumbs jammed in his shorts pockets, before he swiveled to offer his hand to Cross. “C’mon, you gonna do me the honor?” 

    Cross retracted, set his cup down and put his hands in the pockets of his jacket like he was hiding them. 

“I don’t dance.”

Maybe he would, in any other circumstance. When there weren’t so many people.

“Fuck babe, what do you do?” Killer replied. The corner of his mouth ticked up. 

    He pulled back toward Cross to nudge him with his elbow like he was trying to push him forward. 

“Dude,” Cross laughed. 

“We’re at a party, you gotta dance at least once.” He argued. “It’ll just be me, don’t worry about them.”

Cross conceded. “Just for this song, alright?”

    Cross quickly learned that Killer didn’t know how to dance either. They devolved into a mess of movements, a tangle of limbs. Killer held a hand to Cross’s hip, Cross held one to Killer’s shoulder. Occasionally their hands would intertwine. 

      They exchanged steps off-rhythm. Killer was quick, Cross took strides to catch him. 

      Cross continued to be aware of the other dancers, even here. He couldn’t shake them from his mind. He wasn’t nearly as coordinated, and he had a habit of staying too stiff and rigid. But Killer had enough confidence for both of them.

       All Cross saw was the carpet, his eyes glued to their feet. Making his best effort not to trip. Or get stepped on. He risked a glance up at Killer’s face. He was grinning with the most actual enthusiasm Cross had seen from him tonight, and it became infectious. 

“You keepin’ up, pretty boy?” Killer asked, catching Cross and keeping him from looking back down. 

“You’re horrible at this.” Cross replied.

“And you dance like you’ve taken ballet since kindergarten.” Killer scowled, but his eyes were still grinning. 

     In the last remaining minute of the song they slowed, swayed, leaning into each other. They let the wave of other dancers surge around them. Killer hooked an arm around Cross’s neck, Cross laid his over his shoulders. Cross watched him, awaiting his next move silently. 

Killer took Cross’s left hand and pressed a slow kiss to his knuckles.

Cross decided this party wasn’t that bad, at least.

          Killer’s song ended. They untangled. Cross followed Killer as he slunk over to the apartment’s kitchen, where refreshments were strewn over the counters. The nearby balcony’s door was propped open, and Cross lingered there in the opening. Cool outside air hit his back. 

       Now Killer was chatting up another guy at the table. Like he always did when they went out anywhere. As if out of habit. Cross disregarded them; all he heard was Killer say “is that a challenge?”.  He would’ve dwelled on it more, been more bothered, but he put his attention on everyone else. He scanned the crowd like he expected to be jumped. 

   Beside him Killer returned and he felt him press up against him. He knew he was grinning. His hand wandered Cross’s arm, then his back. He smelled like smoke. What was he after. 

Cross’s face grew warm. His shoulders tensed. But he averted his eyes, kept his focus on the crowd. 

     His gaze landed on one woman in particular, not far from the table. She was surrounded by her own group of people, but for some reason she was staring directly at him, both of them. With this look in her eye.

      Her lips, which were covered in a red smothering of lipstick, ticked down in a grimace. 

What a sight they must be. 

      A wildfire of anger burst up through Cross. His bones grew hot, like he was being burned by it. She made him so fucking mad. He couldn’t process why.

      She hadn’t even said anything. Not yet. But he knew she would. It was a matter of time, with the way she was  looking at them. 

     Cross searched her, trying to gauge her. He knew these kinds of people all too well. 

   He returned her look in a blank stare. In it, he silently poured out every bit of desire he had to wipe that look off on the wall behind her. He doubted he’d actually do something, though. It wasn’t worth whatever hell would come of it. 

Still, it leaked into his voice.

“Someone’s staring.” He said, quietly, and Killer retracted slightly.

      He followed Cross’s gaze. His grin fell. The soul in front of his chest flickered, becoming an unstable ever-shifting shape far from a circle. To Cross it resembled a star nearing on a supernova. 

      He wasn’t being nearly as discrete as Cross; he glared back at her with just as much anger. If not more. Like a dog with teeth bared. 

 His voice dripped venom. “I’ll deal with ‘er.”

     Cross’s companion pulled away from the table and over to the woman. Each step carried a buried intention, buried fury, with it.

Cross felt like someone’s gonna die. 

     Cross blinked and Killer was already in front of her. She said something to him, and he heard Killer shout back at her. He blinked again and Killer’s fist was flying. The woman’s head skewed to the side unnaturally, awkwardly. Then she fell to a heap on the carpet; A painted lady sprawled across the floor like a body bag. 

       She struggled to her elbows, coughed blood onto the carpet. The tease of a grimace became a full-fledged snarl. Her pretty prim lipstick was smeared. 

Cross didn’t hear anything. Hardly even saw anything but Killer and the woman. Only the pounding of blood in his ears and flashing lights in the corner of his vision. 

A needle of sudden anxiety, anticipation, stabbed Cross. Nothing good was gonna come from this.

If they hadn’t been before, everyone was certainly staring now. 

     The few nearest were on Killer like a pack of wolves to a carcass.

Someone was gonna die. 

       The surge consumed Killer. Shouting roared over the music. Cross barely saw him as he clawed, fought, screamed. Grinned. The suddenness of it all startled Cross out of his anger. 

     Two attackers were thrown back, blood streaming from their noses. Two more took their place. 

       At some point Killer’s jacket slipped,  leaving shoulders exposed. And one of his sleeves was torn now. Bits of bleach-white bone were visible like Cross was peaking through a break in the blinds. 

         For a moment, he just stood and watched. Watched Killer fight like an animal. Admired the fluidity of his movements. Stared into the flames. 

God,

He couldn’t help it. 

Maybe this is what he came to this dumb party for. 

       Killer got tackled by two guys much larger than him and Cross, simultaneously, was thrown into the mess by someone behind him he didn’t see. It was like he was in a hornet’s nest. It was confusing, loud, violent. He didn’t know what to do, how to do it.

        Somehow, he gathered himself and he and Killer managed to push back the swarm. Everything broke like oil and water, if only for a moment. 

        Killer now stood on Cross’s right, clutching his wrist tight in his hand. On the other, his left, was a smear of red lipstick. He held it curled in a fist. 

Cross’s magic pounded in his ears.

    There was a single heartbeat of still, then they were on them again, just as quick. They tore at them, stampeded over them. Except now Cross was in the middle of it. And at that moment he wanted to be anywhere else. But he didn’t really, either. This was where Killer was. 

It became war.

     Like with dancing, Cross wasn’t as confident a fighter as Killer. And he doubted his skills. But he wasn’t harmless, he hoped. 

      He tried to stay close to Killer, to not lose him to it all. That became his only goal. To not lose Killer, and to survive. 

      Cross grabbed another guy by the shirt and pulled him off of Killer, then had to spin to push someone different back with a strike from the elbow. It was overwhelming, smothering. Everyone on every side at all times. 

        Occasionally he got glances of Killer as he would stumble backward, only to run back in, laughing. He never stayed in range of who he fought, always jumping in and back out. Circling, a wolf nipping at the ankles of an elk. But he hit hard, knew what he was doing. 

          Warm blood ran into Cross’s eye, obscuring his vision. He must’ve busted an eyebrow. 

         Even before that, his vision became blurred. All he saw were movements. He focused everything on not drowning. Where was Killer? He had lost sight of him at some point. But the thought was ripped from his mind as he sustained a kick to the back and staggered. He gritted his teeth and returned the hit, pushed someone he didn’t see long enough to identify away. He rammed someone else with his shoulder. 

      Then he took another, harder, blow. This time to the side of the head. He felt like his whole skull was jarred and he staggered again, almost falling this time. 

Someone grabbed his wrist. 

It was Killer.

     He ripped Cross from it all, fingers dug into his arm. Then they were running. He knew they were being followed. Killer shouted something. At some point they were in a stairwell, descending. Pounding in his skull was all he heard. 

Suddenly, cold night air.

They were outside. There was Cross’s truck.

       They ran to it and pulled the door’s open so hard he was surprised they weren’t thrown off their hinges. They were slammed closed just as hard.

       Cross stuck the keys in the ignition and turned as fast as he could manage. 

       Six remaining pursuers flooded from the apartment. They tried to follow, yelled curses and profanities. 

“Go, go, go!” Killer shouted.

“I’m trying!”

     They pulled out and ended back on the road. 

      Finally, things started to slow back down. But Cross still felt like he wasn’t there. He felt like he was still at that party, busting his knuckles on strangers out for his blood. He didn’t even feel relief yet, that they were in the safety of Cross’s truck now. He didn’t feel much of anything.

    The first thing Cross fully registered was Killer slamming his arm on the side of the door four times. “Holy shit!” 

He put his hand to his head. “Holy shit.” 

    He was making an expression Cross couldn’t read, or place. Was it excitement? Surprise? Detest? Fear? Maybe just adrenaline. He was grinning. But he always was. His eyes were wide. Like he had just gotten off a rollercoaster. 

Cross glanced at him again after checking the road. “You’re bleeding.”

He was, from the nose. 

“So’re you.” 

     Cross put a finger to his eyebrow and felt warm liquid. The wound stung, he just now noticed. He wouldn’t notice the rest of his pain until much later, when the adrenaline was out of his system. 

“Dude that was fucking insane.” Killer breathed. He almost laughed as he said it. 

“It was worth it, though.” He added. “God, getting to wipe that look off her face,” 

“Mm,” Cross hummed absently. Was it worth it? Part of him agreed silently. 

“Showed her. Fucking showed her.” Killer continued, mostly to himself.

      “You’re alright?” Cross asked, eyes pinned to the road. He still felt jittery. He hated having to sit here this long. 

“Oh, what, me? Yeah I’m fine, I’m fine. Nothin’ I can’t handle.” Killer replied. He wiped at his nose, then cleaned the remaining lipstick from his hand on his jacket. 

He was so… unaffected. Like this was an everyday occurrence for him. Maybe it was. 

      Cross rubbed the blood from his brow again. It hadn’t stopped bleeding yet. He wondered how bad it was. But he didn’t check the rearview mirror for his reflection. 

He felt Killer’s eyes on him.

“It’s a look, y’know.” Killer quipped. 

Cross laughed quietly. “What, having dried blood on my face?”

      They drove in silence for a while. Cross’s soul was still pounding. At some point he collected himself enough to remember to put on his seatbelt. He listened to the occasional clicking of the turn signal and Killer’s mindless tapping. It grounded him, pulled him away from the party. 

“I didn’t know you could fight like that.” Killer said eventually. “Didn’t think you had it in ya.” 

“I was just trying not to get killed.” Cross responded dryly, like it was a fact. He hadn’t thought it was that impressive. 

Killer laughed. Even though it was the truth.

“Wasn’t too bad, either. I could teach ya a thing or two, though. If you wanted.” 

Killer offered with a grin.

Cross considered it just for a moment. “I think I’m fine.”

“Your loss. You think about it, ‘kay?” Killer replied. “I’d love t’see what you could do if you knew what you were doin’” 

Cross just hoped he wouldn’t find himself in a situation where he needed to know what he was doing.

      Killer leaned forward to start messing with the truck’s radio. He flicked through stations and static. 

“I didn’t expect that many people to come after us.” Cross said. 

“Yeah, god, it was like everyone at that party was pissed.”

“What’d she say? I saw her say something to you.” Cross asked.

“What d’you think? Some stupid shit about us. I dunno, I don’t remember.” Killer said, scowling at the radio. Cross knew he remembered, but he didn’t press. 

Killer eventually found a station he was satisfied with and leaned back. Now a loud, quick, shouty rock song Cross hadn’t heard quietly filled the background of the cab. 

Killer stretched out his arms. “Well, I’d consider tonight a success.” 

Cross stared at him.

Killer laughed. “Eyes on the road, sweetheart,”

———

        After what felt like an eternity they ended up at Cross’s apartment. Cross fumbled with keys to unlock the door and they stumbled inside. Everything was dark, lit only by the lights of the street and a standing lamp near the door Cross bothered to flick on as they entered. 

        The first thing Cross did was go for the fridge in the conjoined kitchen. It was mostly empty, but he found a cold canned drink and tossed it to Killer. He pressed it to limbs, to his face, soothing the bruises he had acquired. 

         He had a faint, dark ring around one of his eye sockets in the start of a black eye. Cross took his wrist and slowly, firmly, guided his hand to the socket. 

“You caused a lot of trouble.” Cross murmured, sighing, as he held his hand there. 

“You saw the way she was looking at us.” Killer replied sharply.

Cross retracted his hand, stood there to look at him. “Still,” 

“She was basically just askin’ for it, anyway. No one else was gonna do it.” Killer argued.

“I think I’m gonna have a headache for a week. Thanks to you.” Cross said, though he was just barely smiling.

“You’re welcome.” Killer grinned.

“Mm.”

          After, the can was handed back to Cross. It was just barely warmer, just barely flecked with blood. He pressed it to his own bruises, and to his eyebrow. The start of a headache stabbed at him. 

            Cross watched Killer as he fixed his jacket from where it had fallen off his shoulders. Just as closely as when he had watched him fight.

He felt both of them linger there, unsure. Awkward. Mutually asking “what now?”

“Well, it’s been a hell of a night, but I better be gettin’ outta here. I’m a busy man, y’know.” Killer said finally, flicking up his hood over his head. 

“Already?” Cross asked. 

Of course.

“Don’t worry, you’re not gettin’ rid of me that easy. I’ll be back.” Killer said, brushed up against Cross as he headed for the door, grinning up at him. He caught Cross’s hand and held it in his for just a moment. 

      ‘I’ll be back’ could’ve meant a myriad of things. Cross could see him tomorrow. Maybe in a few hours, even. Or he could see him next in however many days.

      Cross’s mouth teased a smile and he shook his head. He followed him to the doorway, where Killer lingered, holding the door open with one hand. 

It sounded like it was raining outside. 

     For some reason, in that moment Cross remembered what Killer had said at the gas station, before they left. 

His eyes widened, then narrowed at him. “You’re such a liar. You said nothing would happen.” 

“Your favorite liar.” Killer grinned.

    He leaned farther through the doorway toward him and pressed a kiss to Cross’s teeth, as if it was some kind of weird apology. It tasted like smoke. And blood. Cross let it happen, didn’t want it to end as quick as it did. 

“We should do this again sometime.” 

Then it was over, Killer was gone, and all Cross saw was the door as it clicked closed.