#literally like this hurts more than when i broke a vertebrae

[bisexualalienss]

truly if cis men had cramps i think they would think they were dying

[skelanonymous]

Killermare/Nightkiller - Soul Mates

Hey! I finished the prompt person who made a request like a month ago! I literally do not want to even look at this anymore. I’ve been picking away at it all month between shifts and breaks and I’m beginning to hate it by virtue of seeing it too much. 

The beginning has been edited and now has some nsfw soul-mating and some after effect scenes!

Words: 6.1K

-

“Are you sure you want this? With me?” Nightmare wouldn’t meet Killer’s eyes. He stood in front of one of his room’s many arched windows, moonlight shimmering over his blackened form. His tentacles had curled in on him, arms crossed, an uncharacteristic sign of vulnerability that Killer had only seen inside of this room.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Killer, too, let his eternally present grin fall. This matter meant too much, and Nightmare’s insecurity fell heavily on him, on them. 

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“I have an idea, but I want to hear the specifics. ‘s important.” Killer crossed his own arms to match, to hold back the urge to touch his moon until he finished his thoughts.

“Soul mating is to share all that you are with another.” Nightmare turned to face out over the darkened wilds his castle oversaw. “It’s to be unified on every level and live as one until we cease to be. I am not afraid of being unified with you myself; I have centuries of existence and a power to shake the multiverse, and while I’m certain that I will be affected by you, as I am even now when we’re separate, I am also sure of my ability to handle it as I have everything else.”

“It’s me you don’t trust to deal.” Killer sighed, frown downturning further. Nightmare whirled around in an instant.

“I trust you with my life Killer.” He hurried across the room to hold his beloved’s face, a concerned eye looking into Killer’s, begging him to understand. “I would not humor this for anyone else, I would not want this with anyone else. To be joined with you is a dream I wish for. But…” His thumbs wiped away the streaks of liquid hate on Killer’s face. “To be joined to me is my namesake. You will know misery on a level you have never known.”

Killer reached up to hold Nightmare’s hands. He smiled with a short laugh.

“I think I’ve known some pretty deep fucking misery Night.” Killer let go to reach out for Nightmare’s jacket, pulling him closer. “I’m not fragile. You worry too much. ‘Sleeping near me might give you nightmares’ and ‘if I lose control during sex, I could hurt you’ and, my favorite, ‘I am the guardian of negativity, I cannot love you back.’ Yet we’re here.” He took a nice deep breath, sinking into the comfort that was Nightmare pressed to his chest. Nightmare’s fingers clutched at his back.

“Not like this Killer, never like this.” Cyan tears welled up, hands vice gripped onto his hoodie. “I am not minimizing your suffering, I have felt it firsthand, but mine is long and continuous. It bores into your soul and lives there. You mention that I have always worried and you have overcome, but yet, I still worry. Negativity is at the root of me.”

His tentacles reached out like more arms. The fear was palpable, flavoring the air and thick on their tongues. Nightmare could never forsake what he was. He could not undo what had been done.

“And to join you with that? I’m afraid of what this could do to you. Will you gain my corruption? Will I lose you like I lost myself for all those years? How much of you must be traded for us to experience this pinnacle of connection?” Night’s words flooded from his mouth, crying bitterly at the thought of turning Killer away, all for his sake. “Every single thing others can have, I must first pay a cost. To just exist without punishment cost my life, my home, my family. And even then, I did not escape punishment, I merely gained the ability to fight back!”

“Nightlight…look at me.” And he listened. Killer tapped his teeth to his.

“Killer…” Nightmare tapped back, kissing him deeply with wet cheeks. The tension of the room could be cut with a knife, Killer could feel it in the line of Night’s back, and he knew how to work that out. When they broke apart, Killer didn’t move back an inch.

“Remember when you confessed?” His voice rough and heavy against Night’s teeth, Killer’s eyes went half lidded. “You looked so shocked, like you couldn’t believe it.”

“I still don’t.” Nightmare’s voice dropped low, shaky but wanting.

“Moon, are you happy, being with me?” Night’s tentacles clutched him tight, Nightmare pressing up tight to him with another kiss, their faces still millimeters apart.

“Of course. Idiot...” His eye glanced wistfully at the bookshelves on the wall, expression serious and hesitant. Killer chuckled softly at the worry. He wiped his god’s tears away.

“Then why couldn’t I be happy joined with you?” Night’s body sparked with magic underneath his fingertips. “If even the god of negativity can be happy with the one he loves, why couldn’t I do the same with a piece of him living in my soul?” Killer licked his teeth, tongue touching his moon’s at this distance, groaning at the catch in Nightmare’s breath.

“You could.”

Killer crushed Night up against him, the smaller hands fisting in the loose blue hoodie in their passion. Kissing Nightmare always got his motor running. His dark tentacles sought out every surface to lavish attention on Killer’s body, three times the stimulation of any other partner and a hell of a lot more interesting.

“Let me have ya then.” His pointer finger slid down the black cheek, catching softly on his jaw, over his sensitive throat, and leaving a hot trail of need down his sternum before halting. Right over Night’s soul. “Mate with me Moon.”

Night reached out slowly for Killer’s soul, always within reach but rarely so bright, tapping the surface with a fond smile. Killer felt the weight of his words resonate across his being.

“Promise I won’t lose you?” Killer grinned widely.

“Promise.” The tenseness dropped from Night’s back, arms slung around Killer’s shoulders with a more confident look.

“Then take me Killer.”

Killer had a slight height advantage, but Night made up for it with vigor. The black fingers pulled at the hoodie, growling when Killer laughed at him for its slow removal.

“My soul’s not inside my ribcage Moonlight. Did ya forget?” He chuckled until Nightmare pulled their faces together again, groaning into Night’s mouth, tasting and teasing the cyan tongue until he felt Night’s fingers loosen. He took the opportunity to run a phalange up from Night’s back to his sternum, tracing a rib. Night broke off to shiver.

“Are you trying to rush?” Nightmare traced the outer edge of the target shaped soul. It snapped into a heart shape for the second go around. “There you are.”

“I just like when ya touch me.” Killer winked, grinding up against Night’s pelvis. Night bucked against the bulge in front of him. He kept rubbing the tiny heart in his hands while Killer nuzzled into his throat to nip and lick at the sensitive vertebrae there. “Fucking delicious. Can’t wait to have ya.” Killer took a deep breath in, lost in the scent of Nightmare. 

Night didn’t respond, only kissed the soul in his hands, trying to impart what he couldn’t say. I’m the lucky one. That you want me, it matters more than anything else. 

Killer’s mouth licked haphazardly. The warm buzz of emotion from Night seeped into his body, unfurling the little anxieties building in the peripheral of their relationship. Killer put on a grandiose show, playing the part of the cocky bastard to his moon’s calm stoic, but Nightmare very rarely opened up this far. His moon cried less than Killer had fingers on one hand. He spoke seldomly about the past in anything but factual recounts. The fact he’d been so honest, that he could feel that pure emotion through the contact, put him in a drunken euphoria. 

“Moooooon, you’re wearing too many clothes.” He pushed the hoodie off Night’s shoulders, caught on his elbows. “Come to the bed.” Killer slid his hands up to hold Night’s hands, soul dropped and returned to its place.

Killer led him towards the bed, but let him go with a sly grin. He stripped off his shirt with a twirl, revealing his ribs with hungry eyes, dropping his shorts in the next moment to persuade his love to do the same.

“Eager, are you?” Nightmare’s voice betrayed nothing, but the slow shrug off of his sweater spoke volumes.

“Already missing that touch of yours.” He gestured to his soul. “I could get off from just that.”

A peace offering, a way to back out, to build to this piece by piece. Night stepped closer to his love leaned back on the bed.

With a determined eye, he skimmed over the bulge of Killer’s cock, meeting Killer’s captivated gaze with ferocity. He only broke it to remove his suffocating shirt.

“Ignoring my needs? What type of mate do you plan to be?” Killer’s eyelights popped into existence while Nightmare seated himself on his lap. “I thought you said you’d never disappoint me…” He almost fell off when Killer sat up to meet him, smashing their teeth together.

Killer dove in, not leaving room for Nightmare to fight back, overwhelming his small lover with how much he could explore with his eyes closed. They were both pantless by the time Nightmare’s senses returned, breathless but alive with energy.

“If you’re feeling needy, we’ll focus on you then.” Nightmare had no ecto formed yet, Killer instead reaching up into his chest for the dark apple soul he’d never been allowed to touch. His hand hesitated before tapping the blackened surface. “Last chance Nightmare.” And when all he got was silence, he took it out and held it up to his face.

Unlike his own soul, the black apple sat calmly in his hand. It had little give, the dark peel a thin barrier to protect it from the outside world, everlasting and unbroken until this very moment.

“Didn’t expect that.” Killer ran his thumbs over the surface, testing the limits of the shell and Night in one swoop. His moon sat unaffected except by a blush.

“I’m sorry it’s not what you expected.” He could read Night’s hesitation in his body language, but not from the soul seated in his hands, its aura as calm on the exterior as its owner. He wanted in. Killer gently bit down on the apple, not wanting to go clean through, but maybe create a little breach. When Night didn’t react, he bit down harder. His ectobody formed instantly, boosting him up on Killer’s lap.

“OooooooH!” He broke the skin, a small cut through the outer barrier. Night hadn’t ripped it away yet, so Killer turned it over until he could work his tongue into the hole.

“KiLLeR.” Night’s thighs tightened on his legs, hips bucking down wantonly while his cyan tongue lolled out of his mouth. Killer kept working and tasting, getting deeper and deeper into the soul. “STARS, Killer, please. Fuck me!”

Tentacles curled up every limb stroking and teasing. They sought out Killer like a moth to the flame, knowing who was pleasing their master, eager to return the favor. Killer appreciated their caress, but focused in on the torrent of emotion pouring into his mouth from the apple. Night’s composure seldom broke outside of the bedroom, and even here, he was not driven to utmost debauchery, often just more openly honest about his desires. Licking directly into his core, Killer could taste how much Night was holding back. He sucked out some of the wet flavor with a slurp.

“God ya want this so bad. Good, me too.” Killer worked two fingers into the break to Night’s wrecked gasps. “My soul can’t fit in here love. Gunna have to make room for me inside ya.” 

“I need you inside me, right now.” Night’s tentacles readjusted them quickly for his red cock to slide up and down Night’s already wet folds. “I love you, connect with me, I’ve got so much room for you…” Killer heard the wet squelch of Night stretching himself open with a tentacle in preparation, making his cock twitch in anticipation. He forced his tongue in around the three fingers he’d worked into Night’s soul. His reward was instantaneous. 

“AAH!” Night’s knees knocked on his waist, his eye wide and hazy, which Killer took advantage of by pulling Night further onto him and starting to sink into his soaked pussy along with the slicked tentacle still stuffed inside. 

“Oh FUCK!” Night’s cyan eye rolled into his skull, trembling apart at the seams. “T-they fit?”

“They sure do.” Killer pulled his soul up to the opening in Night’s. “You ready for the second squeeze?” He flexed his hips making Nightmare scream.

“Stuff me full Killer, hah, please!” 

With a gentle push, his soul tapped against the inside of Night’s, the opening worked large enough for the entire thing to fit along it on one side. He watched fascinated. Normal soulmating, you could hold two souls together and they’d combine, no work required but the desire to do so, but he had to try at getting his moon open enough to reach the savory core. They sat against each other for an instant, Killer anxious if he’d gone about it wrong and Night if he could even do this at all, before Killer’s entire soul slid directly inside, combining them in a flash of color.

The red apple hung between them pleasantly. Killer’s eyelights glowed bright as Night’s went deep purple.

“Moon?” The words echoed in his mind, though it felt like he spoke them. He didn’t need to say anything, Night was him and he was Night, but his sudden desire to hear Nightmare overrode logic.

“My darling soul.” Hands rested on his face. Night’s locked eyes with his, faces moving closer, but even an inch felt too far. It was slow deliberate love, that first kiss, the taste of their soulmate for the very first time.

But then Night shifted to get a little closer and the thickness inside him sparked the desire.

That spark quickly caught, burning through both of them with the intensity of sun, each thought echoing between their souls, escalating to a constant hum that drowned out the rest. Night slid forward to take Killer and his own appendage to the hilt. Killer moaned loudly before pulling Night up to his chest with a desperate kiss. He could barely get out any words.

“I love you.” It slurred from his teeth, feeling the tentacle inside of Night curl around his cock to make it stretch out Night wider. “You’ve got my soul inside yours, ya shouldn’t mind if I fill ya with my cum right?” He thrusted experimentally; Night wailed and slid down to meet his hips. His purple blush complimented the wrecked expression, staring into Killer’s eyes like a lifeline, before nodding with a broken moan. “Fuck you’re perfect.”

He started slow. Night winced at the end of the thrusts and Killer wasn’t so far gone as to not notice; to the contrary, he had never been more aware of his moon. The sound of his voice breaking on Killer’s name a symphony, the taste of his love’s tongue a banquet, all his senses awakened at the sight of his gorgeous soulmate. And through the bond, he could feel Night’s agreement.

“Please, please, please!” Oversensitive and at the emotional limit, Killer could feel his peak rapidly approaching, speeding up to slam into Night, clapping their ecto together between lewd pants and groans. He dropped his sweaty head against Night’s shoulder.

“God Night, come for me!” Night’s pussy clamped down tight with his orgasm. Killer rode it to his own finish.

“Fuck!” 

He slow thrusted through it, filling up Night with his red magic, sliding against each other with pleasant bonelessness. They fell back onto the bed in their embrace.

“Killer…”Night’s head rested on his chest, one hand rubbing over where he could see Killer’s cum inside himself. Killer felt tears drip onto his ribcage.

“Nightlight?” He cradled Night’s head. He held him tight, Night nuzzling his chest with the rarest of expressions.

“Thank you.” The genuine smile, soft and sweet, hit Killer right in their combined souls, overcome with their combined joy. He had it so bad. They readjusted to separate, sharing soft continuous kisses, settling into the blankets with unmatched contentment.

“We look pretty good together.” He stroked a finger over the red apple, both trembling with a soft sigh. “Can’t get rid of me now. No take-backs.”

“I can think of no better partner for eternity.” And that deep honesty flustered Killer. He hoped he’d get to see more of this side of his beloved moon now that they were one. Being one in all forms had unlocked more of himself than had existed before, parts he would adopt from Night starting to click in as extensions of his soul. Something dark ate at the back of Killer’s mind, but combined like this, it was held at bay effortlessly by Night’s calm thoughts and breathing.

“Let’s get some rest Nightlight. We have the rest of our lives tomorrow.” He pulled up a sheet to cover them, and placed one last kiss on Night’s teeth. 

“That we do.” With their combined souls hanging between them, they slipped in restful sleep. 

-

Killer woke up late. Looking around, he realized he’d been moved from Night’s bedroom to the study. He sat up (appropriately though not fully dressed) on the lounge that Nightmare had scooted closer to his desk.

“Good afternoon. How are you feeling?” Killer felt strangely apprehensive before realizing that the feeling wasn’t centered in his body. The immediacy lessoned the longer he thought about it, though the intensity of that wariness kept ratcheting up while he tried to speak.

“Is that you?” The sudden break in relief caused emotional whiplash and a spike of discomfort.

“Yes. My apologies, I wasn’t reigning in my reactions.” The normal calm came back, with a background fluttering of too many emotions to name. “It should be more manageable now.”

“Wow, I must be bothering the fuck outta you.” He laughed at the tinges of worry, indignation, and relief in turn. A glance at his own chest revealed only his own soul. They’d separated when sleeping it appeared.

“Always.” 

“Wow, this is what you’re actually feeling?” Each emotion felt so distinct and different, the deep fondness manifesting as a touch to the cheek and a soft smile, the yearning a waltz across a marble floor, remaining a respectable distance but waiting for a moment alone to close the distance. So caught in this tide, he didn’t notice the tentacle resting along his back.

“Yes. I hope you could see through the sarcasm beforehand. But focus for a moment.” The appendage slid up his spine, Killer shivering. “I’m syphoning my power out of you by force, but once I break contact, you will be hit with whatever my corruption has done to you.”

“Still worried?” Killer grinned with a tilt of his head, shit eating smile not calming Night in the slightest.

“I didn’t want you to wake up in whatever state this will put you in. There’s a difference from knowing it’s coming to waking up overwhelmed.” Killer rolled his shoulders to ready up, taking a few breaths before nodding confidently. 

“Hit me with it Nightlight.” 

The instant the words left his mouth, the weight of the corruption fell on his back. He gasped, choking on the weight of the atmosphere, hate spilling out of his eyes. His soul pulsed heavily, weighted and overwhelming, drowning in a pit of self-loathing and anger that he almost couldn’t see through. 

He fell off something. His hands scrambled along the floor, colliding with something that Killer clawed at until he was sat up again.

He trembled violently, bones clattering against his leverage. Sounded familiar though. Where had he heard it before? He focused on the sound to anchor himself in the moment, reflecting on it until the answer came to him suddenly. Nightmare’s desk, he’d had sex on enough times to remember the way wood sounded banging against bone.

Nightmare! He’d been with him before this.

Killer heaved in a few gulps of air. If he reached out with his magic, he could feel him, dark and powerful not too far away, and that helped get through the worst of the panic. The calm washed over him like soothing rain. It soaked into his joints until he laid back against the wood, completely still.

Amidst the black came a single bright ping of light. Hope lit in his chest like a lamp, illuminating his eyelights, finally able to see.

Feelings were too overwhelming to speak, but his staticky pupils stared at his moon’s face.

Nightmare forwent his usual propriety, his normally impassive face scrunched up in unease. His cyan pupil took in every movement, any motion or emotion he could see. Every tentacle hovered around him worriedly, barely restrained from touching Killer to sap the feeling away. He felt Night’s palms on his. He gripped them back with a tired grin.

He could see Nightmare trying to speak, but his ears hadn’t caught up to him yet, still roaring with the stress his body had gone through. He tugged on Nightmare’s arms, toppling the king to the ground into him. Pressed against his chest, he felt better already.

Oh look at his cute soulmate. God he loved him.

Night had been knocked down to kneeling over Killer’s collapsed form, sitting in his lap with flushed cyan cheeks, all right in reach of Killer. Night really should know who he was dealing with by now.

Killer kissed him fully, hands trailing to his shoulder joints to get his moon to huff and let him in. It felt incredible, their magic tongues sparking up pure passion between them through the bond. The fog from the shock of Night’s power was clearing, getting further and further away the more he touched his precious mate, measured in the volume of sounds finally reaching him. By the time they broke apart, Killer had his mind back enough to speak.

“I told you. You worry too much.” Killer grinned, eyes closed and amused. He nuzzled Night’s cheeks with his own. “If you think I was handsy before, you won’t be able to handle how much I want ya now.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Nightmare surged up into another kiss. The magical connection pulsed alive in their souls, swept away in the insatiable urge to be closer to each other. So enraptured that they only halted when they heard mumbling to the side.

“I’m not interrupting them Papyrus, they’ll take a break eventually…” Dust didn’t even flinch when their eyes snapped over to him.

“Didn’t take ya as a voyeur Dusty!” Killer laughed. Nightmare stood quickly, but didn’t move to take his place behind his desk.

“I suppose you’re reporting in on your latest assignment in Fellswap.” Night could compartmentalize like a pro, his face blank and unaffected in moments while Dust relayed his findings calmly. Killer had envied Night’s ability to sort away emotions and reject them, choosing to feel them instead of being overcome, but now that he had a direct link behind the facade, he found himself awed at his moon’s composure under enormous influence.

Calmed by the impromptu make out session, Killer searched inside himself for what was new.

The parts of the bond that came from Nightmare felt shiny, not like the pieces that had always been there. He could feel those rotting things from his own past had been broken in, worn to match the rest of him, unlike that which was added. Killer visualized Nightmare’s power like a tiny galaxy living in him. Dark and expansive, powerful and captivating, it crooked a finger at him to indulge in the negative in himself and in others around him. He could pull on it, indulge in the poisonous vapors, become more powerful in an instant. 

Tentacles slithered over his arms, lifting him carefully but pulling his back flush against Nightmare’s chest.

“Now where were we?” Night’s voice rumbled through the both of them. Killer stroked each appendage and licked the corner of Nightmare’s mouth.

“Almost to the good part.”

He was level 20. Right hand of the terror of the multiverse. Mated to the god of negativity. He’d killed plenty and taken what he wanted his entire life. 

Killer shut the power out of his mind. He’d take it in stride and learn to tame the damn thing. No need to throw away his sanity for more power than he already had, especially not at the cost of his moon. 

One stray hand to his pelvis and the thought was gone.

-

“How do ya deal with the cravings?” Killer’s hand clenched around his knife, breathing through his nose in metered breaths. Blood red magic ran from his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue at the last second.

“I indulge when it is safe to do so.” Night watched cautiously from the door to the training room.

“And when’s that?” Killer curled in on himself.

“Moments like right now.” 

He and Horror had been sparring, just like normal, taunting back and forth, when the corruption had reared its ugly head mid-sentence. 

“Can’t keep up? Maybe that’s why you couldn’t feed Pap-” Killer instantly ate his own words, teeth cutting clean through his tongue before Horror could do anything in retaliation. He didn’t even block the attack Horror had started. They weren’t fragile, god knows that they had tougher skin than most, but there were lines you did not cross, and Killer had sprinted straight past them without looking back. He hadn’t moved since.

“So you’re feeding off my fuckup? At least that’s something.” His shirt was wet against his sternum, stuck and soaked in the front, sticky and thick on his fingers tearing into the fabric.

Nightmare pulled down, sitting beside him on the floor. Every limb hovered over Killer’s form. Times like this, he almost detested Nightmare’s superior control, unable to see beyond that carefully neutral face and the wall Nightmare could pull between their bond with ease.

“I cannot help my nature. That doesn’t mean I wished for this.” Nightmare folded his hands in his lap, a picture of patience. “He has already forgiven you.”

“He fucking shouldn’t. I knew what the fuck saying that would do.” Killer sneered at the floor. Black dripped down to mix with the crimson staining his clothes. He was such a piece of shit, giving in like this was his first damn rodeo, like he’d never had to exert ANY fucking self control! He fell forward until his face met the floor.

“You’ve only had this power for a few weeks. It takes time.” Killer could feel his tentacles tentatively soothe him at the edges, pokes and pats soft enough to be shaken off should he decide to run. “I’m sorry.”

Killer’s eyelights flicked on at the tiny pulse of sadness. Night could hide a lot, but powerful swings couldn’t be hidden from your soulmate.

He turned over to stare at his moon. His face looked steady as always, but knowing the emotion beneath gave it away. Night met his gaze evenly, but his eye had gotten soft, rounded on the edges. If he looked closely, tension pulled Night’s arms taut, elbows pressed too hard into his lap, tiny tremors in the forearms from pushing his stress to a hidden place most wouldn’t notice. Really seeing it had Killer shuffling up to sit again.

“Moon, I don’t regret anything. I’m mad at myself but not at this.” He sought out Night’s folded hands, grasping them with his dirtied ones. “The only thing directed at you is that you still keep hiding from me.”

“It’s...a lot to handle. You already feel overwhelmed, so I…”

“I get to decide when it’s too much Nightlight. Tell me how ya really feel.” The revulsion from his actions faded away, patiently waiting for Night to let down the wall.

It dropped all at once, a dam cracked open over his psyche, Killer awash in a million emotions, many that didn’t have names but ate at him sharply. Another piece of him soaked it in, eating up all Night’s doubts and self-loathing with glee. Killer flinched.

“It feels weird as fuck to like when you’re upset.” Killer scrunched up his face. “I prefer you smilin’. Or moaning.” He gave Night a saucy wink. His reward, a light peal of laughter, lit his soul up like a glowstick. Night cupped his wet face with a soft smile.

“I’d like that too.” A chaste kiss melted the dark atmosphere away, Killer left besotted in the wave of fondness from his lovely moon. “I will always feed on the negative, but in this, I gain strength from our love too.” He hummed softly at Killer’s enamoured look. “In sickness and health, my soul.”

The kiss was warm, but not drawn out. They were still in the training room after all.

“I guess I should clean up and apologize to Horror. Even if he forgives me, don’t mean I don’t have to apologize.” Killer stretched back. With a swing of his torso, he landed on his feet. Night stood to join him, resisting the urge to take him elsewhere for soft reassurances. “See ya tonight light?” Killer stuck his tongue out.

“It isn’t optional.” Night pulled him forward with a single hand by the collar of his hoodie. “I’d hunt you down if you tried to stay away.” His seductive smile made Killer purr.

“Hunt me down then Moonbeam. I look forward to it.” The pleasant shimmer of emotion under it all warmed his bones as he walked to his room for a change of clothes. Killer caught a glimpse of the hall mirror, taking in his wrecked appearance with little concern. With each day, he owned more and more of this new darkness, and one day soon, he’d have eternity left with Night. He flexed his arms to rest them behind his head.

“Now where is Horror?”

-

“Take Horror and get the fuck out of here.” Killer swung his blade through an ink stream. It deflected off to the side, narrowly missing Dust, who had Horror up over his shoulder.

“You can’t take Ink and Cross alone idiot.” Dust had started to back towards the exit anyway. He’d save two skins over one any day.

“Don’t need to take ‘em. Boss’s on his way, just gotta run out the clock.” His grin widened as he turned back to his opponents. The liquid hate began to pour from his sockets, dripping onto the floor, starting to puddle into pitch black pools. He slid his knife under the waterfall to coat it in the black sludge. “And I’ve gotten better at taking my time.” When he stepped forward, Cross stepped back.

“What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’re afraid.” 

“Not a bit.” Cross’s stance shifted to put his blade between them. He kept readjusting his grip on his weapon, anxiously preparing for whatever new tricks Killer had up his sleeve. “I’m not so easily shaken.” His white eye went gold.

“I don’t think that’ll make that much of a difference.” Killer flipped his knife with ease, taunting his favorite punching bag of the Stars. Internally, he checked his balance to dodge positivity arrows. “Whatcha gunna do? Stare at me?”

Cross swung confidently in a forward dash. Killer jumped out of the way.

“I’ve got positivity on my side.” Killer almost laughed, but a shot of ink missed his face by an inch. 

“And a little help!” Ink chuckled, setting himself up around the edges of Cross and Killer’s spar as inconvenient back up. Killer blocked a direct attack, focusing his energy to spread the corruption over to Cross’s blade at point of contact. The gold eyelight flickered until Cross whipped back.

“What the hell did he do to you?” Cross curved the sword to smash into the ground with a grimace. The sludge cracked and crumbled off.

“It’s better than the nothing Dream gave you.” Killer stuck out his tongue, enraging Cross into re-engaging. 

Cross hadn’t gotten much better. His stamina had increased, drastically so, but so had Killer’s, that wasn’t making the difference. Cross stepped into the sludge pool, sliding off balance. Killer pounced on the opening. The back up ink stream caught his shoulder. He growled at the shot of pain but poured that feeling into his spark, bouncing back before Cross could even react.

Even the help wasn’t making that much of a difference. Cross just wasn’t messing up as much as usual.

Cross had always left openings in his attacks, and Killer exploited them, which upset Cross, which made him fuck up more, which made him an easier target, ad naseum until he kicked his angry, self loathing ass. Looks like he’d gone and gotten with Dream to get over himself. Well mostly, because he was still fucking up, but each success powered the positivity and that weakened Killer now, even as his own worries ate at him. It was the world’s worst snowball effect. Too absorbed in his own head; he found himself backed into a wall.

“Look who’s cornered now?” Killer hated that smile on Cross. Well, he’d either have to take a scalding or a slice to get out of this. He leaned back to push out of the corner after the swing.

“Try not to get my face. Boss’ll have no eye candy at the castle.” 

“Well we can’t have that.” The sight of the tentacle gripping Cross’s knife made him swoon.

“W-what?” Cross’s eyesight dimmed back to white with Night’s touch. “How’d you get here so fast?!” Nightmare tilted his back towards Ink.

“Killer.”

“Yes Boss.” He took off towards the painter like a bolt, powered by the Night’s aura and the dread Cross eeked over the battlefield. He listened to Nightmare’s talk while easily keeping Ink busy.

“The better question, Cross, is why Dream has not come to save you. Are you just not worth saving?” He’d wrapped Cross in his tentacles, the spark of positivity being drowned out by the overwhelming panic, much tastier than normal loathing. “Did you think you could take him alone? Did you doubt that I’d come to defend what’s mine? Or is it...you can’t call him?”

“I can call him!” But no one came.

“Don’t forget who I am. I am not easily deceived.” Night’s satisfied smile drilled into Cross’s mind. “Such a pity. He mates with you but doesn’t tend to your spark. What a waste.” He tightened his hold on Cross, wincing at the tightening pressure. “Killer can call me from any corner of the world if he chooses. He can wield my gift. You were left with nothing but the promise of feeling better, while I raised my mate higher.” Night manipulated Cross to stare at him in the eyes. “Dream truly does not understand his own power, and, by extension, you.” Condescending and conceited in turns, though Killer could feel the pride beneath.

“You and Killer?” He’d barely gotten it out before his eyelights blanked.

“Not your concern.” He’d seeped most of Cross’s strength away before throwing him towards Ink disdainfully. He broke off his fight with Killer to look over at the limp offering. “I suggest you get him out of my sight. I will not spare him a second time.” Night turned away from the crumpled heap, wrecked traitor gone as soon as Ink grabbed him.

“If I said I wanted your body now, would ya hold it against me?” Killer held his arms wide open. Nightmare walked directly into them, not even waiting until Ink had fully portaled, kissing his mate fondly.

“Have I told you that you can be insufferable at times?” Killer laughed so hard he could hardly stand up straight.

“I know I’m your favorite. No need to say anything.” With a hand to guide Night on his chin, Killer angled into another kiss, soaking in the love and affection from his moon as easily as he had his worries and troubles. Nightmare rested easily between his arms, happier than Killer had ever seen and proud beyond measure of HIS soulmate.

“I love you. You are, indeed, my favorite.” He leaned into Killer’s chest. “Now, how about we go home for some preferential treatment?”

“Moon, you just read my mind.” Killer wrapped an arm around Night’s waist, sliding the other hand along his arm until he had Night’s clasped off to the side. A perfect dance pose, Night shaking his head with fake exasperation, straightening to press against him. The portal whirled open somewhere behind them. “Let’s waltz on outta here.” Night laughed.

“Lead the way Killer.”

He grinned and waltzed them right through the portal, to home.

-

Thank god, it POSTED.

[acecademia]

Are you comfortable sharing what disabilities you have?

Hi, nonny!

Yeah, I'm super open about my disabilities. I think we need to normalize talking about disability tbh

My two big ones are trochlear dysplasia and degenerative disc disease (previously juvenile disc disorder and I'm honestly just assuming that DDD is my new diagnosis because no one bothered to tell me if it changed). So what do those terms mean?

In a nutshell, trochlear dysplasia just means that the groove where my kneecap sits didn't form properly. Mine is about half as deep as it's supposed to be. As you bend and straighten your leg, your kneecap rocks a bit in that groove. Think of it like a bowl. If the sides of the bowl are really shallow, then if you shake the bowl, whatever is inside will spill over the edge. It's kind of like that. My kneecap dislocates a lot because of that. I've honestly lost count of how many times it's happened, but it's been happening since I was like 12. There have been at least a dozen times it's gone out. Last time was really bad and it caused me to be unable to get my leg completely straight for about 6-8 months and the physical therapists told me afterward that they honestly hadn't expected me to ever be able to fully straighten my leg again. But I did! Also, when my kneecap dislocated that time, I fell and broke my ankle (my very first broken bone 😢) which sucked.

Degenerative disc disease means that the discs in my spine aged and degenerated much more quickly than they're supposed to. Between your vertebrae are these discs that are kind of like jelly donuts. Over time, they compress (this is one reason why people get a bit shorter when they age). This also leaves these discs more vulnerable to slipping out of place. When I was 15, my surgeon put an MRI of my lower spine up on a screen the first time we met. He pointed at it and was like "literally this looks like the spine of an 80-year-old woman." So that's fun. I was told exactly once what my diagnosis was (juvenile disc disorder) and even though I went back to the same doctors a couple of times to fix my back every time it got messed up again, no one has given me a new diagnosis? So I'm honestly just guessing about the "degenerative disc disease" name. I mean, I'm no longer a "juvenile," so I'm pretty sure that's not really an appropriate diagnosis for me anymore. But who knows! I've had five or so disc herniations in three separate incidents. Two required surgery, one did not.

The physical things mainly affect me by limiting some of my movement options. Kneeling, squatting, getting up and down from the floor, taking the stairs a lot, running, bending, lifting heavy things, twisting my spine, anything in that kind of realm tends to cause me to have Problems.

I also have migraines, ADHD, and anxiety, but those don't tend to "count" as disabilities, especially since my migraines aren't considered "chronic" since I only have about 8/month. Oh, and I've had two concussions, the latter of which fucked up my vision badly enough to make me need glasses! My family honestly barely reacts when I tell them I've hurt myself in an exciting new way. My brother used to be like "oh god are you okay???" and now he's just like "*sighs* really, Nicole? again?" 😂😂😂 This meme is literally me and my friends send it to me whenever they see it

On the upside, I have a cane that's rad AF (black with red and orange flames) and I want to get another one. I use it super rarely, though, so not sure if it's worth it right now. I also have my own wheelchair and two sets of crutches.

For more disability-related content, I recommend checking out Jessica Kellgren-Fozard (she and her wife just had their first baby!!!) and Molly Burke on youtube! I can also rec some disability blogs on here if you're interested!

[lover-of-skellies]

9, Nightberry? (uwu angst)

I've never written anything for this particular ship (since I'm assuming you're talking about Nightmare x Blueberry), so I hope it's at least halfway decent. This was supposed to be a horror prompt, I know, but I somehow made it really fckin sad instead, so rip anyone who reads it, I guess

A forewarning: this includes some major character death toward the end

-

"I'm here, Night! What did you wanna talk about?"

The guardian of negativity glanced up from his book, swiftly marking his page and closing it, tucking the item into his jacket. He sighed softly, trying his best to remain relaxed as he watched the smaller skeleton approach him, all too cheerful and at ease for comfort.

Oh god. He was really about to do this, wasn't he?

Nightmare slowly stood up, his single cyan iris focused entirely on the swap skeleton as he cleared his throat, trying to search for the right words, "My staff aren't... the brightest, when it comes to anything to do with feelings. And I'd much rather die than talk to Dream about any of this." Blueberry tilted his head, clasping his gloved hands behind his back and offering the other a wide smile, accompanied by his signature starry sockets, "And you chose to talk to me? Oh wowzers, that's... unexpected, honestly, but the Magnificent Sans would be happy to assist you in whatever ways you need!"

Nightmare stared at the shorter of the two in silence for a moment, those bright, large star shaped eye lights almost mesmerizing. He felt his soul thud against his ribs and he did his best to will away the faint blush that had threatened to find its way onto his cheekbones, "Yeah, well... You're the only reliable source I've got. Anyways. Because my strength lies only in the negative, I need you to clarify some things for me, concerning a neutral emotion."

Blueberry nodded, his sockets wide with curiosity, "Alright, that sounds easy enough. What's the emotion?" The goop covered guardian hesitated for a moment, embarrassment beginning to rear its ugly head again, "...Love."

Under his sharp and observant stare, Nightmare took notice of the soft sky blue blush that faintly dusted across the smaller male's face at the word 'love'. He didn't understand what reason Blue could possibly have for being flustered too, but he brushed off the thought, continuing, "I need you to tell me what it feels like." Blueberry nodded again, his brow bones knit tightly in concentration as he fumbled for an adequate explanation, "Well... I guess... it feels warm? Happy, even. And full, like your heart finally found whatever piece was missing. When you love someone, you'd do anything to make sure they were safe and happy, and you just want to be near them, all the time."

The guardian was frozen in place, his expression fixed into a pensive stare as he thought over his companion's words. When the realization finally dawned on him, his shoulders visibly became tense and his cyan iris constricted in fear.

He was in love.

And of all people, he was in love... with Blue.

No. This couldn't be happening. Not to him, not ever, not over his dead body. When love is pure enough, it becomes a positive emotion, which would undoubtedly cause him harm. Blueberry himself would also unintentionally cause him harm if he got too close, as well. Shit... this wasn't good.

He slowly lifted his gaze to look at the swap skeletons' face again, his soul skipping a beat at the soft blue and gentle, warm smile he wore. Feeling a blush spreading across his own cheekbones, Nightmare mentally cursed at himself. If only Blue wasn't so damn cute-

The shorter of the two looked up at Nightmare, almost appearing bashful as he asked, "Why'd you ask?... Love isn't something that normally would've caught your attention, is it?" Night took a deep breath; fuck. This... this little twerp was smarter than he looked, too. Damnit all-

He shifted awkwardly in place, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck vertebrae, "I uh..." And now he couldn't even think of what to say. If he hadn't hated himself, he definitely would've now.

As if connecting the dots, Blue seemed to perk up, his sockets widening in surprise as he looked up at the guardian in shock. Eye lights once again shifting into large stars as another broad smile stretched across his face, and he took a few steps closer to the other, playfully nudging him, "Oh my gosh! You're in love, aren't you, Night?!" The skeleton in question tried to ignore the uncomfortable tingling sensation the other's excitement and happiness had begun to stir within him, and his cyan blush became visibly brighter as he scoffed, shifting his eye lights elsewhere. As long as he wasn't looking at Blue, he'd be fine. He could do this. He'd toppled entire worlds and drew strength from their suffering. What was one tiny little confession going to hurt?

He hesitated, fidgeting anxiously as he mumbled something under his breath. Not quite able to make out what he'd said, Blueberry raised a brow bone and tilted his head, "What was that?... I don't think I heard you." Nightmare mentally screamed at himself, wanting nothing more than to open a portal and go literally anywhere else than to stick around here. He drew in a deep breath, deciding to try again. His voice came out barely audible, but despite that, the words he'd uttered left the other in shock: "I... you. It's you... I'm... I love you, Blue."

Blueberry was silent, his sockets still wide as he stated at the guardian in disbelief. Nightmare reluctantly looked the swap skeletons' face, suddenly feeling anxious. At the sight of a single blue tinted tear rolling down his cheek, the guardian cringed; that tear wasn't one of fear or sadness... that was one of... happiness? What the...?

And then, with a brighter blush than he'd ever seen before in his entire life, Blueberry moved even closer to him than before, his gloved hands delicately finding the others face. Nightmare felt his body momentarily tense, but as he felt Blue's teeth press against his own, he began to relax again, melting into their first kiss with relative ease.

The positivity that Blue was giving off grew stronger, and the uncomfortable tingling Nightmare had felt before escalated, now a searing hot pain that ripped through his very being the way a hot knife sliced through butter; as much as he wanted nothing more than to continue kissing the one he truly loved, this degree of pain scared him. Tentacles emerging from his back and spasming as he fought with himself, he broke away from the kiss and nearly doubled over in pain. Blueberry frowned, his voice soft as he began to reach out to touch the guardian, "Night?... Are you ok? Did I do something wrong?"

Remaining doubled over, the guardian focused his hazy eye light on the others face, cyan tinted tears pricking at the edge of his visible socket as he shook his head, "N-No, it's not you... it's... the positivity. The positivity is hurting me, and it won't stop." Blue delicately brushed away the guardian's tears with his thumb, his expression fixed into one of concern, "What can I do to help you? There has to be something, right?" The tainted part of Nightmare's mind growled, recognizing Blue as the source of the pain, and his visible socket went wide in genuine fear, "Get away from me. Get away, Blue. It's not safe, you could get hurt if you stay here." The shorter skeleton solemnly shook his head, his voice soft as he offered the other a small smile in reassurance, "Don't worry about me, I'll be ok. I'm not gonna leave you though... you shouldn't have to go through this alone. Not anymore."

Nightmare let out a strangled cry of pain, absentmindedly swatting Blue's hands away and covering his face as he took a shaky breath, "Blue, that's very sweet, but I'm serious. You need to leave, NOW. My body's programmed to destroy whatever hurts me. You're making me feel things. Positive things. If you stay, you'll die!" Blue gently tugged Night's hands away from his face, gently holding them and delivering a soft squeeze. Meeting the guardian's gaze, he smiled lovingly, and Nightmare couldn't sense any fear or sadness in him... none whatsoever. Blue's voice was a soft murmur as he leaned closer to Night, "I don't care. I'm staying here because I love you, Nightmare."

Unable to suppress his cry of pain, Nightmare ripped his hands out of Blue's grasp, and they flew up to his skull, his clawed fingers beginning to scrape at the top of his head. His single eye light was constricted, now no bigger than a pin prick, and feeling his tendrils begin to spasm wildly again, he tightly squeezed his socket shut, sobbing, "I'm... I'm so sorry. I can't... I don't want to-"

The last thing he felt was a gloved hand delicately touching his face, and the last thing he heard was Blue's voice, no more than a whisper, "It's ok... I forgive you."

And then immediately following suit was the loud sound of bones snapping. Nightmare kept his socket squeezed tightly shut, not wanting to see Blue's expression. The silence was deafening, and as he felt dust drift through the stagnant air and cling to his face, he sobbed loudly. He was alone now... again. He dropped his hands back down to his sides, tipping his head back to look up at the sky. The only person who'd ever grown to love him despite what he'd become was gone, and it was his fault. Maybe someday though, he'd be able to see him again.

[astralsweetness]

I can’t be honest (but neither can you) || Changkyun/Reader (m)

➣ I cannot believe this is my first contribution to Monsta X, this is really how I’m entering the writing side of this fandom OTL Also hello idk how to write short summaries?? I proof-read this at 4:30 AM so please tell me if I missed something lol. Fair warning I switch P.O.V.’s often in this and with absolutely no regard to any writing rules

➣ Changkyun/Reader | Angst[?] with a surprisingly happy ending that I didn’t mean to write | Showcases some bad coping mechanisms from both he and the reader | Mentioned Wonho/Reader, but it’s purely platonic in a sexual way | Smut warnings include: mentions of choking, pegging, fingering, mentions of a ruined sexual scene, sort of self-imposed edging if you squint, hair-pulling, facesitting

➣ It’s been almost a year since he called off the relationship and your name still tastes like a mixture between sugar and ash on his tongue when he says it, your picture is still saved in his camera roll, and he’s taken the plunge these last few months to reach out to you to be friends again. His hyungs tell him it’s a bad idea, and he tells them he knows, because he does, really, he swears he does. It’s just that his heart soars when he gets to talk to you and he can’t remember why he was ever scared of letting you in past that last wall he’d put up, and he’s going to your place and he hates himself because instead of “I love you” he says “please fuck me” and even now he can’t be honest to you about his feelings.

“I want you to fuck me.” He’s standing at your door, speaking in English with that deep voice of his, and you just blink blankly at him - he hadn’t called or texted to say he was coming over, and to be completely honest you hadn’t seen him in over a week. The silence is uncomfortable, but his eyes are intense, and he refuses to shift shyly under your blank stare.

“..well, come in I guess.” You invite him in with raised eyebrows - he goes easily, knowing your apartment like his own home. It’s been almost a year since you two broke up, but he hasn’t forgotten anything. That same stupid plant he hated was still on your table. He had no idea how it was still alive.

“So.. we aren’t together anymore, we haven’t hung out in a while, but you decided I’m the person you want to fuck you. Suddenly.” Your tone of voice conveys your lack of belief - this sort of feels like some very strange joke, but you have no idea who’d ever come up with one like this.

“You fuck Wonho-hyung all the time, and you aren’t dating him, so why can’t you fuck me?” His words are said in a rush, the first sign of nervousness, and you cross your arms and cock a hip. It’s your default power-pose, lets you feel like you’re in control when you have no idea what’s going on.

‘Is that really all it is?’ you want to ask, but you stay silent. He doesn’t seem aware that when you’re with Hoseok it’s more for the other man’s emotional well-being than it was just to get laid. Sometimes people needed to be broken apart and pieced back together lovingly just to feel okay. For Hoseok, you were a friend he trusted enough to let break him and then take care of the pieces that remained shattered on the floor.

“If you tell me why then maybe.”

“I’m not doing shit for a maybe.” He fires back instantly, gaze narrowing. His shoulders have tensed and he’s widened his stance, an unconscious reaction to the way your own body language had changed. Whether he actually felt it or not, at a subconscious level he believed he was being threatened.

You step forward and snag him by the forearm - the fight goes out of him instantly, replaced by pure innocent confusion as you lead him to your bed. He notices dully that you’ve redecorated your bedroom - though it makes sense considering he was the one who had helped you liven it up before.

“Sit - and try to relax. All the muscles in your shoulders are tensing up.” Your words have the opposite affect you wanted them to have - he tenses more, seemingly thrown off by your care, your notice of his minute actions.

You watch the way his gaze drifts over your room – it catches and lingers on a group picture of you and the rest of his group, tucked safely into the frame of your vanity mirror.

It’s a nice picture, though you really don’t remember taking it. You’re fairly certain everyone was drunk though, since you’ve got your arm thrown around Minhyuk’s shoulders in it, pressing your cheek against his.

It’s cute, even if looking at it is bittersweet. You can see the question on his face, the ‘why did you keep this?’.

“It’s not like I stopped being friends with them just because we broke up.” You feel defensive over your choice, face heating – you weren’t even near him in the picture, on completely opposite sides in it. He just murmurs a soft “oh” that sounds dejected, and you desperately don’t want to think about it.

“Anyway –“ You’re desperate to move on at this point, and he seems to feel the same because his attention snaps back to you. “You’re not really in a position here to argue and make demands, but fine -“ It was just sex, right? For you, anyway. “I can’t literally right now, I have a class in 30 minutes, but if you tell me why then we can negotiate.” You feel like some sort of fucking dealer.

He seems vaguely surprised you’ve agreed so easily, but he works his jaw and tries to figure out how to explain his reasoning to you - whatever it may be. You let him think and go in search of your computer bag. Online classes were a pain, especially those that required attendance in the form of a webcam. The bag has been thrown into a corner of your room, and you sigh and bend down to begin your annoying search.

“Well, we’re not together anymore, so..” You crane your neck to look at him, even as you continue to rummage through your backpack for your computer cord. Damn thing was in there somewhere, you knew. “I don’t have to worry about what you think of me anymore?”

He finishes his statement with an accidental upwards inflection that turns it into a question, and your hands pause before you turn back around and continue searching, mulling over your word choice carefully. ‘You never had to worry’ sits on your tongue, something that is desperate to be said, but you swallow it back down. He wouldn’t believe you and it’d cool the current mood.

“I see.” You finally settle on, standing and popping your vertebrae back into place as your prize - the fucking charging cord - dangles from your hands. Your two words could convey many meanings, and you can see from your peripheral that his brow has furrowed. It’s not the answer he was expecting, though you think he probably didn’t know what he’d been expecting in the first place. “Then - what is it you want?”

“For you to fuck me.” He answers again, and then swallows as he notices your blank stare has returned.

“I know that, you said that. I meant what specifically are you looking to get out of this?”

“I want it to hurt.” His words make your breath catch in your throat, emotions swinging between vaguely turned on and worried. Sure, he’d had some masochistic tendencies in bed before, but - “I mean - I don’t – not physically -“ He’s switched to Korean in the wake of your silence, a comfort language, and you wonder if he even realizes he’s done it.

“Okay.” You respond simply in Korean back and he stops his rambling, just blinks at you. You see the tension finally start to drain out of his shoulders and switch back to English purely for your own sake, because it was easier, definitely not because you wanted to be able to hear his voice speaking your native language. “So long as you promise to use safewords, I won’t ask. I’m not your therapist and I’m not -“

“My girlfriend.” He finishes your sentence quietly, back to English as well, and your mouth goes dry.

“And I’m not here to judge you.” You remedy - you weren’t going to mention anything about your past relationship, and he looks away quickly at that realization. “You mentioned Hoseok -“ His hand twitches at his side when you call his hyung by his real name, but you mercifully don’t call him on this. Maybe this was a bad idea, but you’ve gone this long purely on the denial that he regrets breaking up with you, and it’s too late to stop that now. “- so I’m going to treat this situation exactly like that.”

“Okay?” Changkyun has no idea what that means, his fingers curling into your bedspread. You check the time - 20 minutes until class.

“I’m your friend, and I want to help you. This doesn’t change anything between us, this doesn’t add some extra dynamic, some extra layer.” Your voice has gone business mode and he’s stiffened his back at it, an ingrained response from being in the music industry for so long. “I’m not doing this just because I want sex - if you are, that’s fine, but I’m just doing this to help you out. Is that clear?” He nods once, eyes wide. You think he’s cute. You’ve always thought he was cute, and it reminds you of how cute turned into smitten and smitten turned into perfection and perfection turned into love and love - well, he ended love. “Changkyun - do you promise this is just about sex or release of some kind and nothing else?”

Your tone had softened, and he’d been let out of whatever thrall your no-nonsense voice had put him into. The question hangs in the air heavily, dripping of a nectar so sweet it’s sickening.

“Yes. I promise.” His voice is hoarse, cracking and quiet - and you think he’s lying.

But you’ve held on to your denial for so long. He had said before that the spark was just gone - and what were you supposed to say to that? It wasn’t his fault; people fell out of love all the time. You could barely believe he’d ever been interested in you from the beginning and you refused to believe you were worth falling in love with for a second time. The fact that you had managed to remain friends is more than you could have ever hoped for.

“Okay.” You repeat his assurance, more for your own benefit than his. The room is quiet, and thunder rolls in the distance. Fuck - a storm meant spotty WiFi for your class.

You check the time again - 15 minutes.

“We can use the stoplight system -“ His gaze has blanked so you take the time to roughly translate it into Korean, explaining until his brow smooths out, and then you’re back to English. “Aside from that, though, I need to know what you’re interested in, what you want to happen or don’t want to happen. You can hang out here if you want during my class, or leave, I don’t care - but take the time to think over what it is you want in this session.” Your words are too clinical, you know this, but you can’t keep yourself from doing it that way. You know most of the things he’s into and not into, but if you don’t take this route then it all feels too intimate. Besides, he’d always kept a very careful hold of how much control he’d let go around you before, never wanting to slip too far into subspace, always wanting to seem in command, even when subbing for you. You wonder if that’s changed. You certainly don’t remember him ever blatantly asking outright to have something done to him before.

Memories flash across your mind eye, his back covered in your scratch marks, the way he moaned brokenly when you pulled on his hair, the way he came when you pressed your fingers to his throat. But he never asked for any of it - you had to ask if it was okay to do to him, and he always brushed off any of your attempts of aftercare.

You swallow again, feeling vaguely sick. Things had been broken in your relationship long before he called it off, but neither one of you wanted to admit it. Your heart hurts for multiple reasons, but when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye you know the biggest one: ‘I hope I didn’t hurt him by not talking about it’.

But he didn’t talk about it either. Did he care about whether it hurt you?

“Is that okay?” He’s been talking to you, and you startle out of your thoughts - a half-formed little smirk dances at the corners of his lips, one eyebrow quirked in amusement. He knows you well enough to know when you’ve been drifting. “I said, I’ll stay here if that’s alright with you.”

“Yeah, it’s fine - sorry, was just.. thinking.” It doesn’t really surprise you that he’s decided to stay - he’s confident to a fault, it’s true, but there’s a slash of shyness that strikes through his character, and you know that if he left he might not be able to come back. The thunder rumbles in agreement.

You half-watch him as you set up your computer on the coffee table – he’s looking around your apartment with thinly veiled curiosity, though you don’t really blame him. It didn’t really look anything like when you two had been together, and yet.. you felt it still had his subtle touch all over it. You wondered if he noticed that.

The class is boring, as it usually is – you’re watching the screen but your mind is far away, listening to your admittedly enthusiastic professor talk about the hyoid bone and articulations while your focus is on Changkyun. He lingers around you with a nervous type of energy, clearly not feeling allowed to roam around your apartment (it’d be kind of weird if he had, you admit) but also not feeling comfortable enough to sit on the couch next to you, even if he would have been off camera.

It’s almost like it was before, and you half expect him to sit down next to you anyway and throw his arm around your shoulder, always just off-screen, sitting next to you during your classes while he amused himself with his phone, just so he could be near you.

You’re just about to be able to feel the phantom warmth from the memory of his arm around you before he coughs and you startle, eyes snapping to him – he looks back wide-eyed, not understanding your surprise but murmuring a quiet apology anyway.

God you were so fucked.

.｡..｡.

“So?” The instant your class had ended you’d snapped the computer lid shut – you hadn’t retained a single thing said, what a complete waste. It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d skipped and focused on Changkyun in the end after all. “Did you decide on what you wanted?”

You’re so flippant with your question that he feels like he’s being asked about what it is he wants to eat instead of how he wants to have sex – the entire hour of your class he’d been nervous, and those nerves had by now tightened into a very tight ball at the base of his spine that periodically sent white-hot flames licking along his muscles.

“I –“ His mouth is so fucking dry and he hates how small he suddenly feels – he’d never felt like this around you before, but usually it had always been you asking if you could do something to him, hadn’t it? “I said it earlier. I want you to fuck me.”

He watches your reaction with pin-point precision – the small widening of your eyes, the way your gaze darts to the side like it always did when you were thinking something over – it wasn’t like you hadn’t ever fucked him before, but he’d never asked you to do so, and you clearly hadn’t expected him to come out with something like that so easily.

Why the hell could he say something like that and not something as simple as ‘I love you’, or even ‘I miss you’?

“Okay.” You’ve wrested your thoughts back under control – it wasn’t fair of him to say something like that, looking so utterly and effortlessly attractive. “As long as there’s no kissing I’ll fuck you any way you like, Changkyun.” You were over him and he was over you and this was just sex.

If you said it enough you’d start to believe it, right?

Changkyun just nods at your terms, looking a bit despondent – you can’t help the strong surge within you that says to fix it, fix whatever upset him, but you have a feeling you knew already. He’d always been a bit fixated on kissing you, but you knew if you let him this time then it’d all be over.

“I don’t remember you ever falling this far into the ‘submissive’ side of things, Changkyun.” You’re desperate to regain the upper-hand, and he flushes a bright red at your comment, grumbling out a weak “shut up” that has you smiling.

“Have you been experimenting?” You’re still teasing him but he bristles at the insinuation that he would have been with anyone after you – you had no reason to think he hadn’t been but the mere thought of being with anyone other than you makes him ache deep in his chest, in his soul.

“No.” He tries to keep his voice calm, but it wavers still and he digs his fingernails into the soft leather of his belt, pausing. “I haven’t been with anyone since –“

He can’t say it, but you understand regardless – he doesn’t like how surprised you look, ducks his head and lets his hair obscure his view of you as he refocuses on undressing. It’s not that you’d been wrong to be surprised with his decision for today, either – before you, he’d never really definitively considered himself particularly dominant or submissive, happy with having the choice to be either at the drop of a hat. That changed with you though – you had been so uncompromising with your power, beautiful and self-assured, and he knew without a doubt that if you so much as even hinted at it he would be on his knees for you every single time.

Not that he had ever told you that, of course. He’d never told you anything he really wanted to. Even now, with you looking at him softly, trying to see if you’d crossed a line with your little teasing jabs, the words ‘I’m happy being this for you’ get stuck in his throat and all he can do is tug his shirt over his head wordlessly, fingernails clicking nervously at his belt as he undoes it. You pretend not to notice the way your heartrate accelerates as he reveals his body bit by bit to you, slender waist but powerful figure, beautiful skin, beautiful body.

“Well, then – lie down.” You gesture to your bed and he swallows down the stupid fucking butterflies he gets at the gesture – he’d been on your bed before, he’d been in this position before, there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about.

And still, despite his nerves, a pleasurable chill runs down his spine when he hears the cap of the lube being clicked open, and he forces himself to exhale as he shifts and tries to get comfortable on a comforter he no longer recognized, in a room that had no trace of him in it anymore.

You look at him with a level gaze, always so calm, and he ignores the erratic beating of his heart and nods his assent for you to begin, immediately shifting his gaze to your ceiling.

Why the fuck was he so goddamn nervous?

(He tries to forget the way he instantly whimpers when he feels your finger, slick with lube, probing at his rim, tries to forget the way he gets hard in under a minute from your heavy gaze and one finger alone, and god he aches for more, aches for anything you’re willing to give him.)

“You’re taking this awfully well.” The teasing comes out unbidden, spilling past your lips before you can even think about the words – but it’s true, for someone who had claimed to not have been with anyone since you he was taking your fingers incredibly well.

“My own hands – fuck – exist..” His snarky response turns into a shaky moan halfway through when you decide to carefully – but quickly – add a third finger. There’s something erotic (and interesting) to you about that, thinking over the fact that Changkyun had been finger-fucking himself ever since you two broke up.

“You look good like this.” It’s an attempt to make up for the previous teasing but all it does is cause him to groan and throw a forearm over his eyes, legs spreading wider when you hit that spot deep inside.

“Fuck, jesus – fuck..” It’s a broken sob instead of an actual sentence (though he manages to stick with English), a familiar feeling already building deep in his gut. He’s not sure if it’s because it’s been so long since he’d been fingered by someone else or if it’s because it’s you doing it, complimenting him while doing so, or if it’s a combination of everything, but his back arches against his will and he knows he is seconds away from coming undone already.

“Stop – stop, oh my god –“ At his desperate plea you stop moving completely and he wants to sob as the pleasurable feeling slowly ebbs away, an almost painful drag as it settles back into a dull burn. He’s gasping, tiny whimpering sounds as he sucks breath back into his lungs, chest heaving – his eyes are wide, fingers curling into your comforter. He looks frantic, frightened almost, and even if it wasn’t your responsibility you knew you’d be desperate to fix it.

“Changkyun, ar –“

“I’m fine.” He bites it out angrily, doing his absolute best to look like he had been anything but moments away from an orgasm five minutes into.. whatever this was. He’s shutting you out again, before anything even begins, and it fills you with such an irrational anger that you have to suck in a breath of your own to keep from lashing out, taking gentle care to extract your fingers even as your blood boils.

“Stop fucking lying to me.” You can’t keep the ice from your words, even if you manage to control the volume and pitch – his dark eyes snap from the ceiling to you in surprise. There’s a panicked feeling bubbling up in his chest, because he really doesn’t know if he can handle you calling him on his true feelings for you right now, doesn’t want to have to admit he still loves you while he’s naked and so vulnerable.

“I’m not –“

“Stop it.” His mouth shuts with an audible click of his teeth, so sudden is your cut-in. Your brow has smoothed out, no longer angry, instead immensely sad, and he’s not sure this is any better. “You said you wanted to do this because you didn’t have to worry about my opinion. So why are you still doing it?”

He can’t breathe, and the lube is drying sticky on your fingers, and for a moment neither of you are aware of the position you’re in, the way the thunder has become your constant background music – he’s looking at you unblinkingly and you’re staring back, and it’s too intimate, too much, but neither of you look away.

“Please stop.” He speaks and it’s barely a whisper, the sound of someone’s heart breaking louder than his voice. You don’t know what to say but open your mouth anyway.

Lightning flickers outside your bedroom window and then your apartment is shaking from the resounding thunder, the power flickering and then plunging the two of you into darkness. Suddenly you can breathe again, and you’re quickly trying to slide out from in between his legs because he said ‘stop’ and he was fully coherent even if he hadn’t said ‘red’, because he said ‘stop’ and you have only ever wanted him comfortable.

“Wait –“ He is frantic, grabs your forearm with frigid fingers as he leans half off your bed to catch you from retreating too far. It’s hard to see him but you get flashes from the light outside your window, electricity reflecting off his dark eyes in starbursts.

“You said to stop.” Your voice is broken and you feel so powerless, sick inside because while you rarely manage to ruin a scene it still tears you up inside each time, and Changkyun wouldn’t let you try to fix it with aftercare and you don’t know what to do anymore.

“I meant –“ Stop talking, stop laying me bare and open, just fuck me and make me forget everything, stop being you so I can stop loving you. “I just want to be ruined.” He says instead, and his voice is so low but so weak that you barely recognize it.

“I can’t do that if you don’t let me.” Your clean fingers curl around his and gently pry them from your arm – but then you keep holding them, and you want to let go but you can’t remember how to tell your body to do so. “Will you let me, Changkyun?”

The air is still and silent aside from the rain slashing angrily at your windows – there is no thunder, your own heartbeat loud enough (or maybe it was his, you didn’t know anymore).

“I want to.” He answers instead, voice quiet but a bit stronger than before, and your eyes have adjusted so you can see the features of his face vaguely now, follow the line of his brow to his cheek to his lips, and you’re leaning in and you hate yourself because you had promised this was the one thing you wouldn’t do.

“Let me wreck you then, baby.” And oh that nickname was a mistake but you’d said it anyway, a ghost of a whisper against his lips, a proposition and a plea all in one. He moves forward the last centimeter and connects your lips as an answer, a sound that is almost one of pure relief being ripped from his throat.

It’s like he’s been waiting years for this moment, doesn’t even fight as you grip his jaw lightly and angle him into a better position so you can scope out the inside of his mouth with your tongue, relearning things you had known long ago but had thought were forgotten.

There’s a flighty feeling in his chest, one of nervousness and expectation – he doesn’t want to give you control so easily, he doesn’t want to be opened and laid bare in front of you, he doesn’t want you to see something you dislike in him – but more than anything he wants you to touch him and keep kissing him and god he fucking misses you, has missed this. He’d asked you to ruin him, you’d asked to wreck him, but he knew he was already both ruined and wrecked just from being near you again, from having your lips on his own.

You try to slide your hands back down his body but he stops you, continues to kiss you as his fingers curl around your own, and the act is so intimate it almost feels wrong.

“Just – hurry up, I’m ready enough.” He manages to say scattered between four different kisses, never apart from your lips for more than a few seconds. You hate yourself for not even trying to stop him, leaning into them each time.

“You can stretch yourself some more while I get ready.” You have to pull away from him completely to say this, and he follows you like you’ve got some magnetic pull on him before you’re off of the bed and the connection is broken.

Even with your eyes adjusted it’s hard to properly get the harness on, fingers fumbling with the straps but managing in the end. You can hear him breathing harsh, anticipating – you can tell from the sounds alone that he hadn’t taken your advice, but you’re not surprised. Always your little pain slut, even if he had never wanted to admit it.

When you approach him again his eyes are wide, brow furrowing as he notices you’re still fully clothed – he keeps his mouth shut tight though, gaze darting in the dark. The storm still rages on outside but neither of you even notice it anymore.

Your fingers on the inside of his thigh startle him – he jumps, trying to close his legs, but you force them back open again. Something about that simple action makes a moan trickle into his throat, but he swallows it back down stubbornly.

He can’t conceal the next sound he makes when you press the blunt tip of the strap-on to his opening, though, a rasping whine as you push in slowly, so fucking slowly. Even with all the lube he knew you’d slathered over the toy it still takes a bit of work to get it into him, and every slight stretch makes him grit his teeth in a masochistic type of pleasure, feeling so full by the end that it makes him so painfully hard his head spins. It hadn’t taken long to get him worked back up, but he’s not really thinking about that right now.

All he knows is that he wants to be close to you, wants to feel good, wants to make you happy – he wants so much that he doesn’t think he can even begin to put any of it into words. It always ends up at ‘I love you’ and he already knew that was a phrase that lodged in his throat like knives.

“Please.” This he can say – you don’t know what he’s begging for but he’s begging all the same, the word ‘please’ becoming a chant that slowly shifts back into his native tongue when teeth mark his throat, fingertips pressing insistently into his hips as you fuck him hard and rough. He hopes, distantly, that it bruises. He wants to be able to remember this for as long as possible.

If he was present enough in the moment he might have been embarrassed by the sounds he was making – his naturally deep voice has transformed completely into high breathy whines, all trace of his ‘savage rapper’ persona gone when you bite his lip hard enough it throbs before you’re flipping him, pushing his shoulders down into the bed with one hand.

The feeling of your palm, small but blindingly warm on his back, makes him weak enough that his thoughts stutter, head a chaotic mess of fractured thoughts and sensations. His eyes are open but unfocused – it’s dark in the room anyway, but he’s unaware of it, cognizant only of your presence and his, that warm fuzzy feeling in his chest competing with the white-hot fire you were stoking lower in his pelvis.

You want to cry at how beautiful and perfect he is for you, the way he arches his back instinctively, presents himself as your own personal plaything – but he wasn’t yours, you had to remember that, remind yourself over and over that this was just sex. (If you repeated it enough it started to stop sounding like real words, and that was equally as dangerous as forgetting them in the first place.)

The head of the strap-on teases his entrance and he groans, clenching his fists into your pillow – you’d taken it out when you’d flipped him and he was fighting against every fucking urge and want and need his body was screaming at him to just take the plunge and force himself backwards. (But another part of his brain is telling him to wait, to make you happy, to draw this out as long as fucking possible because he has no idea if he’ll ever get to experience it again.)

“Can you tell me what you want?” Your voice is soft as silk, quiet, and a fluttery feeling rises up in his stomach at the sound, at how you’ve modified an order to be a request. He doesn’t know how he feels at the realization that you were taking it ‘easier’ on him verbally, that you had at some point come to understand he was having trouble letting go completely.

“I –“ He tries, he really fucking does, but like always the words get stuck in his throat. He just can’t seem to bring himself to admit what he really wants out loud and it is destroying him. One of your hands smooths down his side, lingering at his hip, and he feels like you’ve left behind a line of pure fire on his skin, almost burning away the shame and hatred he feels at himself for his fucking inability to be vulnerable, his cowardice.

“Just fuck me.” He says instead, defeat coating his words – and he can feel you hesitating, because it was obvious he’d meant to say something else and hadn’t.

He opens his mouth to say something, though he has no idea what, at the same instant you decide to slide the strap-on back into him. Whatever he’d been planning to do is gone from his mind instantly, his world reduced to just the dull burn, the frustratingly slow drag against his innermost walls, the way you manage to somehow brush up against the spot that has him trembling and dropping to his forearms. He curses in a strange mixture of Korean and English and you laugh softly at the sound, even as you slide out and thrust back into him hard enough that he jolts forward.

He feels, in a sense, like he is being broken in all the best ways – all he can focus on is you, all he can feel is the way you’re fucking him, grabbing at his hips. His breath is caught in his throat and he just knows he is going to ache later, bone-deep and satisfying.

But it’s not enough, never enough – you’re not asking to do more to him like you had in the past and he can’t manage to tell you what he desires most (though, at this point, he’s not totally sure he could say anything coherent anyway). He reaches back with one hand, groping – your fingers wrap around his and he drags them up to his hair, a wordless plea. He hopes you understand what he’s asking for.

A broken moan is ripped from his throat when you fist your hand in dark strands and pull backward, forcing him into an arch – his mind has blanked into varying shades of white, electricity on his skin and molten lava running through his veins, your heat against his back overwhelming.

You know it’s a bad idea before you do it, but you lean down and press you lips to his shoulder anyway, teeth scraping over feverish skin – the hoarse whine he gives at the feeling makes wetness pool between your legs, uncomfortable and wrong because this was just sex, this was just supposed to be for him.

The urge to mark him up is so strong it’s almost distracting – your hips falter in the bruising pace you’d set as your mind drifts, Changkyun groaning at the sudden shift in speed.

“Let me –“ He’s gasping, feels like he’s been running a fucking marathon or drowning (and oh, he has, drowning in you, in his expansive and terrifying feelings for you) but he knows your hips have to be sore by now and to be completely honest he is just downright greedy, wanting to feel you deep inside, wanting to –

He just wants so much. He reaches back to press at you gently and you let him move you instantly, trying to figure out what had bothered him – as soon as you realize he just wants a change in position you’re grabbing at his hips again, tugging him over your legs. His cock drags against the fabric of your shorts and he nearly sucks in a breath, trying to focus on lining himself up instead of the way it throbbed (or the way you were looking at him, hair splayed out on the pillow and yet so in command still).

He thinks he should feel more in control like this, on top of you, hands braced on your shoulders – but he doesn’t, not at all, and he knows instantly that he isn’t when you snap your hips up to meet his and he falls onto you, moan vibrating against the skin of your neck. He can feel your fingers in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, can feel the infuriatingly teasing way his cock is rubbing up against your fucking shirt you never took off. It’s gone untouched for so long that it’s absolutely aching by now and he thinks he might actually be able to orgasm like this – but he doesn’t want to, not yet, even with how border-line painful its become. He doesn’t want this to end, doesn’t want to have to go back to a world without you in it.

His hips stutter on top of yours when you tug on his hair again, grinding hard against the strap-on, and you lift his face high enough you can press your lips to his, all hot breath and panted moans. He tastes of honey and heartbreak and you want nothing more than to make him cum and fall apart, trembling, on top of you.

“Am I ruining you properly, baby?” Your voice is dark red and sinful, and he trembles at the sound and tries to seek out your lips again, a whine lodged in his throat when you tighten your grip on his hair and keep him in place, rolling your hips languidly up to meet his frantic movements. “Tell me.”

“Fuck..” He responds instead, deep and rough in his chest – it cracks into a high moan when you punish him with a harsh upwards thrust, fingers curling into your shoulders. Your soft laugh, amused or delighted he’s not sure, makes a feeling like electric butterflies break out across his skin. If you had let go of his hair he’d have buried his face into your neck again to hide his expression – but you haven’t, and he knows you can see everything, every part of him, every expression he makes.

He thinks he must look stupid, embarrassing – but all you see is pure beauty. His brow has furrowed and sweat drips down to his collarbones, bruised lips parted slightly, glistening from where you’d kissed him earlier. Hazy eyes try to look anywhere but your face failingly, allowing you to see the foggy galaxy residing in their darkness. You’re not sure if what you’re seeing is his pupil or iris, but you find it gorgeous all the same, intoxicating.

“I’m going to make you cum, Kyunnie.” He shakes at your dangerous words, your knife-sharp gaze. You’re aware he never responded to your last question. “You’ll fall apart up there, ruined, just like you asked to be.”

Your words wrap around him, coiling tightly like chains – he feels caught, trapped, and he wants nothing more than for you to make good on your word, even if it sends a sharp trill of fear through his stomach.

The grip on his hair lets go suddenly and he sags forward, as if your pull on him had been all that was keeping him upright. He’s left a mess of pre-cum on your shirt, flushes a dark red when you drag your fingers through it thoughtfully.

“Messy boy..” You muse, heat spreading through you when you see the way his cock jerks at those two simple words, so red and aching, so fucking beautiful and desperate.

Fuck, you wanted so badly for him to be yours.

One of his hands flies to your wrist when you finally wrap your fingers around him – more of his weight is on you now but you can’t find it in yourself to mind, not with the way he’s breathing hot and wet against your neck, the way he doesn’t stop you when you move your hand, just clings to your arm desperately like he’s not totally sure he wants to be touched yet.

A choked sound leaves his mouth, lips bitten bloody, and you turn your head so you can breathe against his ear, let him press his face further into your neck. “Such a little whore..” You murmur, and he sobs open-mouthed against your skin and thrusts weakly into your fingers and then back onto the strap-on, unsure of which feeling he wanted more of. “So beautiful. So perfect.”

A part of him feels like he’s dying, unsure if he was really okay with being so vulnerable with you – but another part of him, the larger part, feels like he is fucking soaring, like this is all he had ever wanted and more. There are flames licking at his body, coiling tighter and tighter in his stomach, and he’s not sure how much longer he can last like this.

“You can fall, Changkyun.” Your voice is in his ear, like the sound of silk sliding over skin, fingernails tracing lightly along the back of his neck. He hates the way he reacts so viscerally to it, climax surging forward at the sound, at the way your fingers slide wetly over the head of his cock pinned in between the two of you. “It’ll be okay, you can fall to pieces. I’ll catch you.”

He orgasms with a wail that makes him flush a dark red, and he would have been mortified at the sound if every nerve ending in his body wasn’t currently sparking, his muscles spasming as he tries to keep thrusting into your fist even as the lightning bolt sensations turn from overwhelming to painful. He doesn’t even realize tears have slipped from his eyes until he feels your lips kissing them away, and he is hit with such a wave of emotion that he can’t breathe all over again (and it is just pure emotion, he couldn’t identify a single one of them if he tried).

After you slowly pulled out and settle him on the blankets he watches, distractedly, as you slide the straps down over your hips, leaving it on the floor to be dealt with later. Impulsively he reaches out to catch the edge of your shorts when you try to head to the bathroom, tongue sliding over chapped lips when you turn that powerful, beautiful gaze of yours on him. One of your eyebrows has raised, appraising him as he slowly tugs you back to the bed until you’re resting on your knees next to his waist. Sweat is drying sticky on his skin and he’s trying not to feel like he’d done something wrong, reacted in some undesirable way that you’d remember and relate to him for the rest of your life - but above all that, he wants to taste you. It’s the only consistent thought running through his mind, more prevalent than the lingering unease at having bared so much of himself to you.

“Please.” Again, it’s all he can say, eyes so dark and wide, pleading – his fingertips rest lightly on your hip, over the waistband of your shorts, lips parted ever so slightly. It’s so obvious what he’s asking for, and you want to say no. You’re pretty sure you need to say no. “Babe –“

You surge forward to cut him off mid-sentence with a brutal kiss and he gasps – you didn’t want to hear that, and you can tell from the way he’s frozen that he hadn’t meant to say it, even as his body returns the kiss on pure muscle memory alone. This entire experience had been a mess, a mistake, and yet –

“Okay.” It’s more a breath against his mouth than a word, but the way he smiles at your soft agreeance makes your heart hurt. You were in so deep, had fallen so far – how foolish of you to think you had been over him. How fucking stupid you’d been.

He wastes no time, pulling your shorts and underwear down like he’d done it hundreds of times before – because he had, you note dully – fingers wrapping around your thighs. When you sink down onto his face a tension drains out of his body that neither of you had even noticed was still lingering.

All he can smell is you, all he can taste is you – you surround him and this is all he’s ever fucking wanted, to be possessed by you, to be as close to you as possible. He’s not even totally sure what he’s doing aside from the fact that he’s putting his absolute all into it – he’s just trying to taste every inch of you he can, tongue delving as deep as possible before switching to suck on your clit. There’s no rhyme or reason to his method and it has you letting out a quiet sigh that borders on a gasp. He tries to memorize the sound instantly – any sound he could get out of you was a treasure in itself, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to hear them again after this.

There is no particular build-up to your orgasm – it’s at first lingering briefly bone-deep and then suddenly it is upon you in streaks of lightning, hips grinding against his face but mouth stubbornly shut. You can’t let this be any more intimate than it already was. (And yet you instinctively reach down and lace your fingers with his, and his thumb smooths across the back of your hand as he continues to mouth at your cunt, drink up your fluids. You are so utterly and completely stupid, your heart in your throat.)

There is a moment you want to carve out afterwards, a small bubble in time where the two of you could just bask in the afterglow and pretend like nothing had changed from a year ago – but you can’t let yourself do that, pushing yourself up off the bed even as every fiber of you begs to remain beside him for a moment longer. His fingers remain holding yours a moment too long before dropping to your bedspread, defeated.

Your heart suddenly felt like it was three sizes too big for your body, filled to the brim with love for a man you knew you’d have no second chance with, and you clench your teeth tightly to keep it from oozing out between your teeth like bittersweet sugar.

He’s still panting when you return with a damp cloth, reaches for it as if he really expects you to make him clean himself off. You scoff and catch his hand with your own, setting it back down on the bed as you begin to clean off his face first. Whether you wanted to avoid intimacy or not there were things you simply refused to throw to the wayside just because you wanted to remain distant, and one of those was taking care of him after sex. (He’s more receptive this time than he used to be, not fighting you and claiming he was fine, letting you dote on him with a sort of hesitant and soft acceptance. It makes your heart hurt all the more, the pure ache and want almost unbearable.)

“You’re always so messy..” It’s meant to be a light comment but the two of you accidentally lock gazes when you say it, your hand stalling in its motions. He looks like he wants to say something, lips parting – your breath catches in your throat, waiting, but he ultimately just shuts his mouth, gaze darting away from you. Your breath leaves you in a small burst. “Just relax, Kyun, I’ve got you.”

It’s the typical words you say to a sub after an intense session (with an accidental affectionate nickname that you bite the inside of your cheek for), but you mean them, and you don’t want to, but you do, irrevocably. You know that if he needed it, if he asked for it, you would let him stay here for as long as he wanted. You knew that tonight you wouldn’t be asking him to leave. And for that you are so, so incredibly fucked. (You wonder if he is too, judging from the way his eyes widen at the nickname and his breath stutters – but you crush that thought instantly, don’t dare to get your hopes up.)

He’s surprised that you take the time to clean him up, bring him water and a change in clothes – they aren’t his but they’re clearly a man’s, and he wonders if they belong to Hoseok considering the size. Something deep in his chest hurts at that thought. He’s even more surprised when you pull on an oversized shirt instead of telling him to leave – he faintly realizes that he recognizes it, a soft violet that hung down to your lower thighs and always felt soft against his chest when he’d hold you – crawling into bed next to him after changing into it, though he’s automatically moving to accommodate you, perfectly content to throw the thick comforter to the floor to be dealt with in the morning.

“Is.. this okay?” Your voice is quiet, so tentative and soft and hesitant, and all he wants to do is tell you yes, this was more than okay, this was everything he had ever wanted.

“Yeah – I mean, it’s your bed, so..” He hates himself for the way he responds, swallowing hard but taking the initiative to slide his arm over your side, nose in your hair. He can feel the way you tense, but you don’t say anything against it or try to pull away. “And.. this? It’s okay too?”

“…it’s okay.” It’s a small response but he inhales deeply in relief, drinking in your scent half by accident. It’s the same smell he had missed for so long, the one he’d dream of and wake up thinking there was a chance it still lingered on his pillow, heart dropping through his ribcage when he realized it wasn’t.

Despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach you fall asleep fast, mentally drained and physically exhausted - his fingers trace the line of your shoulder, head pillowed on his own arm as he watches you sleep. There is a purely warm and happy feeling trying to spread through his body, but it doesn’t make it very far before the remembrance that you still weren’t his and he still wasn’t yours freezes it in its tracks. He feels like his heart is melting, dripping through his ribs and oozing into his stomach and making him sick.

He’s shaking your shoulder before he even knows what he’s doing, and you’re half-awake and groggy but so fucking beautiful and every single one of his nerves feels like a live wire underneath his skin, buzzing and loud and painful, and he is so scared, but he is also tired. Tired of hurting, tired of missing you, tired of the way Kihyun will be talking about you but stop awkwardly when he notices Changkyun listening, tired of the way he smiles so big his cheeks hurt when the two of you talk on the phone, tired of how he swallows down the words “love you” every time you hang up – and he’s fucking tired of being scared most of all.

“Changkyun, you better be fucking dying..” You’re angry, always angry when woken suddenly, and he just wants to kiss you.

‘I love you, I’m stupid, I was scared, I always loved you, I never fucking stopped, did you know I would dream of you? Did you know that you were the only thing on my mind? On plane rides, in the vans, backstage, all I could think about was you and my hyungs all told me I was just hurting myself and I knew that but I still hoped that somehow you and I would end up happy together.’

Like always he can’t say any of it. It sits on his tongue and he just utters a quiet ‘fuck’ instead, throat tight. Why couldn’t he fucking do this?

“..Kyun?” He’s sitting up now, and you are too, side by side – your expression is open, sleepy but worried, and he has a sudden urge to take your face in his hands and kiss your eyelids.

The scariest part of telling the truth, of laying yourself bare for someone, of letting them in, was that they could take one look and never come back. And maybe he’s not afraid of loving you – maybe he’s never been afraid of loving you, with your eyes that hold the only stars he ever wants to look at. Maybe he’s been afraid of not being loved back.

He swallows hard, reaches for every bit of confidence and courage performing has ever given him, forces himself to be brave the way the industry has taught him to be. Moonlight filters in through the window and he thinks your eyes might actually house the milky way in them somehow.

“I love you, still – always. I never stopped.”

He can’t breathe because you’re just looking at him, stunned and disbelieving, tears collecting on your lash-line but not falling, never falling, and he feels like the fucking worst for telling you now, this way, this bluntly – but he knows if he didn’t say anything he would have never said anything, and he’s not sure he could have survived that, so the words had fallen from his lips hard and heavy and desperate to be said. (And a part of him is still surprised he even managed to say them at all, rushed and frantic as they were.)

“I –“ Your brow is furrowed and your voice is thick, but when he reaches to brush your tears away you let him and his lungs start to tentatively fill themselves with oxygen again.

When you smile it is watery and weak but it is there, and he feels like sunlight has reappeared in the lining of his skin, bright and blinding and warm.

[skvaderarts]

Hiraeth Chapter 35: Disquisition

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Thirty-Five: Disquisition

Note: This was such a fun chapter to write. It feels good to be back in the swing of things. Sorry for the extended hiatus. I had a lot going on with my emotions and my computer. Life is just… life, you know? Anyway, thank you so much for all of the support while I was gone! I was worried I wouldn’t have anyone to come back to if I took too much longer! But onto the new chapter! And sorry it was so late! I slept until 7:40pm somehow… 

(-~-)

Most of the Ludwig manor was quiet, a serene landscape of lengthy halls, winding stairs, and large windows covered in thick curtains that blocked out most of the ambient light from outside. The only indication that there were people living here was the occasional passing by of a servant going about their daily tasks, and that was exceedingly infrequent by design. But even so, the library was a bastion of contemplation and peace, the only notable sounds being that of the turning of pages and the soft click of boots as the group navigated the vast array of books at their disposal. It was almost as if the room absorbed any and all outside noise to help facilitate a better reading environment. Truthfully, no one would be surprised if that was the case. There was a litany of supernatural energy in this house, more than any of them had an explanation for.

Dante sat at the other end of the long table that spanned the center of the room, flipping through some sort of book that had pictures in it. It seemed to be an encyclopedia of some sort that contained droves of information about demons and just about everything associated with them on a species level. Maybe it was more of a bestiary than anything else, but it was one of the few tomes that the youngest Son of Sparda had been able to locate that was actually in english. Okay, maybe not quite, but it was close.

“So what brought you here in the first place, Vergil? I feel like I'm missing a joke.” He said casually, flipping through the hand-illustrated novel to try and locate what he was looking for. In truth, he didn’t have anything in particular in mind, but he was still doing his best to try and help. Books like these were more Vergil’s jam than his, maybe even Nero’s to an extent. And V was a given. Dante was somewhat sure that his older nephew’s blood was actually ink at this point with how much he liked to read taken into account.

Vergil was flipping through an even larger less approachable book with such nonchalant ease that Dante was almost certain that his older twin was doing so just to make him feel more inferior than he already felt at the moment. When had Vergil learned to read this kind of stuff? Had he picked some of it up as a kid from all the time that he has spent with their father before his untimely disappearance? That seemed to be the most likely answer. Regardless, he was able to read it, and had been up until Dante had asked him that question, seemingly interrupting the flow of his train of thought. He clasped the book gently and laid it flat on the table, looking over out of the corner of his eye at his younger twin. It seemed that Dante was onto something.

Vergil casually gestured towards a bookcase on the other side of the room that was behind a locked metal door. None of them had even noticed the room until now, the other bookcases concealing it relatively well. Bars stretched from floor to ceiling, allowing the books to still be visible, but not accessible. The bookcase on the other side contained about a hundred thick books that seemed to be exceedingly old, and they were each locked inside of individualized cages with only their spines exposed. A chain attached to each book and the bookcase on the other end ensured that you wouldn’t be walking off with one.

“You are, Dante. I came here in search of a book in my youth. I… encountered more than I bargained for.” He said, seemingly almost embarrassed. He broke eye contact and returned to the book, not at all willing to elaborate.

Magnolia snickered slightly, taking a sip from the tray of tea that had been brought to them a short while ago. Normally people were not permitted to eat in the library, but they were all adults and could be trusted to not eat and then rub their hands all over everything without cleaning them off first. There was literally a washroom twenty feet from them, but the dining room was on the other side of the house and down a flight of stairs. No one felt like going that far just to drink a few sips of tea and enjoy a macaroon or an eclair. 

“What your twin brother is trying to say is that he absolutely tried to lift a book from our private collection while we were asleep one night, and he was caught. We have his assurances that he would have returned it, but I do believe he was smart enough to realize that he might have been in over his head.” She giggled a bit harder then, covering her hand in a polite attempt to not die laughing at something that only she and Vergil truly understood, given the circumstances and the context. Plus, they were in a library, after all. Best to keep it down. “He got more than he bargained for, indeed.”

Nero was not intrigued by what was going on, peeping over at them from a bookcase a few feet away. He seemed to consider yelling his question over to them before it occurred to him that he was in a library. He flinched, knowing that idea wouldn’t go over well before walking over to them with the book he had been examining and leaning over the table. Something told him that this was a story that might actually keep his interest for a moment, at least better than the book that he was trying to read that he barely understood. He was going to have to ask for an assist on this one. Time to go get V and pick his brain. It wasn’t that he couldn’t read it so much as he didn't understand the knowledge that was being imparted upon him. “Okay, so now you’ve got my attention. What did you do to him, Magnolia? I know it has to be something you did. You're barely holding it together.”

At that, she gave up and actually laughed, holding her hands over her face in order to try and stifle her laughter. There was no holding it back, but she could at least try to block the sound a little. The eldest Son of Sparda shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment as Magnolia tried to collect herself. It seemed that they were at two different ends of the spectrum in regards to the context of this memory. Now Dante was intrigued as well, waiting to hear the answer elaborated on.

“See, what Vergil forgot to say was that I snuck up on him, caught him, and used a relocation spell to drop him head first from the ceiling! He had no time to even try to react. He just hit the floor like a brick.” She pointed to the ceiling and shook her head, clearing her throat as she attempted to put herself back together. Her hair had fallen into her face, and she battled it out of the way, unwilling to allow it to stay there. “It was easily the most uncoordinated thing I've ever seen him do, and just recalling the totally flabbergasted look on his face is enough to make me choke. He lost a fight to a little fourteen year old girl, and he’s the one who brought a sword.”

Everyone looked over at Vergil in various states of disbelief. Surely Magnolia has to be exaggerating just a little bit? The mental image of the Darkslayer plummeting head first from the easily forty foot ceiling was just too improbable to believe. And the idea that he had been snuck up on? Vergil practically had radar built into his brain, at least from what they could tell. But the look on his face was all that it took to come to the conclusion that she wasn’t telling a tall tale. This had actually happened.

“Pardon my interruption, but did you say the ceiling?” A familiar voice inquired from above them on the balcony. It was V. He and Lucia had approached the edge of the railing, holding books from different ends of the bookcase that they had both been examining. The young summoner seemed more than a little bit amused by this turn of events. How on earth had she managed to drop Vergil from that kind of high head first and not kill him? Were his father’s bones made of titanium?

“Unfortunately, she did. Every word of that exceedingly unpleasant tale is factual. My neck and head still hurt just recalling it.” Vergil said grumpily, attempting to conceal the fact there was actually a part of him that was impressed by her aptitude at such a young age. It was slightly astounding to him that she had even managed to sneak up on him, even if he had been in a dark, unfamiliar space and his sole focus had been on the task at hand. It was a learning experience, to be sure. Never again would he drop his guard like that.” I suppose I am lucky to be able to heal at the rate that I do, as I am certain that I cracked my skull and, at the bare minimum, dislocated a vertebrae in my neck. If I’m being honest, I probably broke it.”

“I was trying to use a compressing spell to hold him in place, but I panicked when I saw Yamato, and the first thing that came to mind was a relocation hex. I tried to eject him from the property, but unfortunately for him my powers were unable to draw from a location that I couldn’t currently see, and I didn’t know how to make him pass through a solid object yet, so he just fell three stories from the ceiling.” Magnolia laughed nervously, clearly horrified by the fact that she “My parents were impressed, nonetheless, and I was rewarded for my “quick thinking” even though I was sure I had just killed another child. Those were high times.” She allowed a wistful smile to spread across her face, the warmth from the distant memory spreading through every extremity she possessed. Yes, that had been a fun occasion.

Lucia chuckled lightly under her breath. The history of Dante’s family was fascinating, if not tumultuous and filled with problems. But it seemed that their frankly ridiculous durability made from some extremely interesting situations at times. She was just glad that they always seemed to recover and no permanent damage was done. She had come to like Vergil during their short time together, and to say she was fond of Dante would be a bit of an understatement. He had always been a wonderful friend to her, and she wanted nothing more than the best for him, perhaps even a bit more.

As if he had sensed her thoughts, V pulled himself away from the scene below for a moment to look over at her, hoping that he had yet to give away his intentions in regards to speaking with her. He just had to get the nerve up to explain what he couldn’t quite put into words, but he had noticed that of the two of them, he was not the only one who seemed to possess this issue. He saw the quiet little moments that she spent thinking, normally looking over at Dante. At times she became flustered around him for no apparent reason, much as he did around ehr. He couldn’t help but wonder if she too was longing for something or someone that she knew she couldn’t have.

He wished her luck in that regard, realizing that this was something that had probably been in the works long before he had come into the picture. Had Dante noticed the way that she looked at him? Had Lucia noticed the way that V looked at her? It was hard to say, and he knew that at some point he would have to simply ask her what it was that she was after. Whatever answer she gave him, he would fully respect and accept, even if it wasn’t the one that he was hoping for. That was what a responsible adult did. But leave it to him to suddenly realize that perhase the only person he had ever felt remotely attracted to was interested in another member of his family. There had to be a certain irony in that. He just hoped that if that was what she wanted, her affections would be returned. 

Dante seemed to be the sort that was perpetually single by choice, never indulging in any of the impulses or desires that he might possess. Perhaps he felt that he was protecting those that he cared about by not becoming entangled with them? It was all that he could imagine. Dante was likeable enough and, at least to him, he seemed lonely. It wasn’t so much something that his uncle did as it was just a way that he was. He could see a little bit of himself in him at times in ways that he didn’t expect or wish, hoping to spare everyone that he knew and cared about the majority of the feelings that he kept bottled up and pushed back so deep within himself. But these were things that had been set in stone long before his arrival. He was simply witnessing the aftermath.

But maybe it didn’t have to be that way? After all, something was only set in stone when someone accepted that and didn’t choose to alter it. Even the hardest stone could be chiseled with the right tools. That was the nature of such things. Maybe there was something that he could do… 

Griffon cackled slightly from behind him, manifesting and landing on the railing between him and Lucia. The wiley bird shook his head for a moment before looking over at V, then looking down at Vergil from above. “Ya know, I make alotta jokes about Dante having brain damage, but maybe he’s not the only one. Maybe it runs in the family. A fall from a room this high? Yea, that’s gonna bruise your brain a little.”

While the rest of the inhabitants of the lower level of the library giggled, Vergil shot the demonic bird a hard to read look. She seemed to be considering saying something, but decided against it. V could only wonder what his father thought of Griffon and Shadow, considering the history he had with them and the nature of their creation. There had to be some hard feelings on his end, even if there didn’t seem to be any from theirs. Dante had some prior with their previous iterations it seemed, too. But unlike Vergil, he didn’t seem to care much about that. One could only imagine that his experience with them had either been shorter or less tragic than his father’s, and considering how little he knew about that experience aside from what he’d gleaned from Griffon, he knew that he wasn’t in a position to say literally anything about such matters. But he did hope that one day he would be able to make some sort of peace between them.

Just as was about to turn and head back over towards the balcony with the book that he had been holding, he looked over and noticed that Lucia wasn’t where she had been a moment earlier. Intrigued, he walked down several rows until he located her. She was leafing through some sort of book, a curious look on her face. She seemed to be having some sort of eureka moment, and he had no intention of interrupting, but he had to know if he could be of assistance.

“You seem preoccupied. Is something the matter?” He asked quietly, wanting to make his presence known, but having no desire to destroy her train of thought. She looked up, seemingly slightly startled, but making no physical indication of this knowin. It seemed that she had simply been so deep in thought that she hadn’t been able to sense his presence when he had approached.

“... Have you… is there a card sorting section in this library?” She asked, glancing between him and the book in her hand. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she looked almost concerned, and that in of itself was somewhat startling to him. He stepped back and turned to face the railing with her close behind him before taking the opportunity to turn towards the desk near the entrance. V gestured towards it before watching as she nodded politely and headed down towards it. Wondering what was going on, he took a moment to gently place the book back where it belonged before heading down to meet her, noticing that she was flipping through the cards on the table.

By the time he reached her, it became apparent that she had not located what she had been looking for. Her somewhat hurried and slightly alarmed minor threw him off as he contemplated if he should ask. She clearly noticed this, shaking her head slowly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Forgive me. I found something troubling in this book, and it makes reference to a certain section “X” in this library that contains a book with the requisite information in it. But I don’t know where that section is, and I don’t see it anywhere in this guide.”

“That’s because no one goes in there, darling. Those texts are dangerous.”

Everyone in the room turned around, clearly alarmed by the presence of another individual that they had not noticed. Standing before them was a tall woman in a trailing black and silver dress with a gray hooded shawl over her head. Her face was exposed a moment later when she lowered the hood, revealing her to look very much like Magnolia and Luta. She was soaking wet, and none of them could find any indication that she particularly cared. A certain darkness almost seemed to radiate from her, making them all uneasy in different ways, specially Magnolia and Vergil, the pair seemingly recognizing her but alarmed by the state that she was in. Was something wrong with her aside from what was obvious to them? Because that was the only thing they could place.

Looking over at the two of them, the woman nodded for a moment before turning towards the stairs. She didn’t have to say that she would return. They could just feel it. And before long she vanished up the stairs, more than likely to change into something less saturated. V and Lucia both looked over Magnolia, clearly desiring an explanation as to who this absurdly unnerving woman was. Nero seemed to concur, slowly making his way over to the table and sitting down. He suddenly didn’t want to read anymore.

So… Who the hell is that?” He asked, his voice little more than a faint whisper. He didn’t seem scared so much as he was concerned, wanting to know if they were in any sort of danger. He had no idea what anyone in the Ludwig family was capable of, or if they were all on the same side. There had to be at least one outlier, didn't there?

Vergil and Magnolia shared a glance between one another as she nodded in response to her longtime friend’s unspoken question. Vergil almost seemed to pale slightly before leaning quietly on his elbow, thinking. But before any of them could inquire as to what was going on, Magnolia spoke. His voice was slightly shaky as she spoke.

“Section X is forbidden. It contains dark texts that you dare not view without the requisite knowledge. But if you must view them, that might be facilitated. And luckily for you, the only person with a key to it has just returned. Though she has changed significantly since I saw her last… ”

Making himself known for the first time in the better part of an hour, Sirrus came from behind a nearby bookcase and walked over to them before speaking quietly. He looked as though he had just seen a ghost, his normally pale complexion drained of all evidence that it had once contained blood or melanin. Magnolia’s youngest sister. Aluta. My father’s ex wife.”

(-~-)

I literally stopped to order macarons when I wrote the part about them and the eclairs. Something about it just triggered my sugar tooth. I’ve literally never eaten a macaroon in my entire life. But they are just so pretty! So anyway… 

I hope you all had a great week! See you all in the comments, and on Wednesday with a new chapter! Gosh, it feels so great to say that again! I’ve missed you all! Things are about to get very interesting, and I can’t wait for you to be able to read them. I haven’t been this excited about the start of an arc since the flashback sequence!

[moodboardinthecloud]

Love and Loss in the Mountains

Love and Loss in the Mountains

CHRISTOPHER SOLOMON

Christopher Solomon (

@chrisasolomon

) is an Outside contributing editor.

Aug 2, 2021

“You always think you’ll save the ones you love when the moment comes. But he didn’t save her.”

How do you keep going when you’re convinced you can’t?

When the mountains that brought you joy now echo with your grief, how do you return to them?

Adam Campbell thinks about these questions every day. At 42, he has experienced more hurt and loss in high places than most who spend a lifetime there. His body has been smashed. He lost his wife.

He has a story he wants to share, about what life looks like afterward. It does not offer Five Easy Steps to Bury Your Pain. He knows how deeply loss can cleave a person. But he also learned that we need other people to help pull us clear of the wreckage.

Campbell, a lean and chatty Canadian who lives in the mountain town of Canmore, Alberta, was a podium athlete in the outdoor world. If it was sweaty and hard, he excelled at it. He was a member of five Canadian national teams, in sports such as ski mountaineering and trail running, and a national champion in duathlon. In the summer of 2014, he made international news when, on the summit of a fourteener during Colorado’s famously grueling Hardrock 100 trail race, a lightning bolt knocked him and his pacer off their feet and fried Campbell’s headlamp. The duo picked themselves up and scampered over the pass. Campbell finished third.

It was typical of Campbell, who was in many ways puer aeternus, eternally youthful—that species of smiling mountain man endemic to North America’s high lonesome places, most often glimpsed moving fast over big country and more comfortable out there than back here. Out there was simpler, stripped down, hard, and gratifying for its hardness. “Suffering in beautiful places”—that was his mantra.

In 2015, Campbell met Laura Kosakoski. They started dating. She was remarkable, he told me—beautiful, athletic, so smart that she applied to become an astronaut with the Canadian Space Agency and survived the first few elimination rounds. Kosakoski was also deeply empathetic: after years studying to become an anesthetist, she chose a lower paying position with a family practice instead. “She wanted to feel that she was able to help people in their day-to-day life,” Campbell says. Like him, she chose to live in the lap of the mountains.

It took the two men 45 agonizing minutes to uncover her face, which was blue and unresponsive. To keep Campbell focused, Hjertaas lied to him and said that she was still breathing.

One January morning in 2020, Campbell and Kosakoski met up in Banff with friend Kevin Hjertaas for a quick ski tour in nearby Banff National Park. The weather was stormy and grim, but the trio were experienced. Hjertaas is a ski guide and a former avalanche forecaster. Kosakoski and Campbell had both completed numerous avalanche courses and done lots of back­country skiing; Campbell sits on the board of directors of the Avalanche Canada Foundation. For the day’s final run, the three stood above a small bowl. Kosakoski went first. Hjertaas waited, then followed. Above them, Campbell edged forward onto the ridge, keeping an eye out. Right then, the world cut loose beneath his feet.

The avalanche was enormous. It ran for more than a third of a mile, was deep enough to expose the mountainside, and threw a massive cloud of snow skyward. When the slide ended and the air cleared, Campbell could see Hjertaas, who had avoided the onrush of debris, but Kosakoski was missing. The men immediately started searching with their avalanche beacons. What the devices told them was horrifying: she was buried more than 12 feet below the surface.

This was so deep that they couldn’t dig straight down from their position above her on the steep slope, but had to start shoveling 30 feet away and at an angle.

It took 45 agonizing minutes to uncover her face, which was blue and unresponsive. To keep Campbell focused, Hjertaas lied to him and said she was still breathing. It took another 45 minutes to extract her body ­completely. Doctors later revived a weak heartbeat, but Kosakoski died the next evening.

There was grief—the staggering sadness of losing a wife and partner. And then, too, there was the deep violence of the moment, having to reckon with that experience. The group had made errors in judgment, the men later agreed. Moreover, Campbell believes he kicked off the avalanche that buried Kosakoski. Which brings us to the guilt—of surviving and of not rescuing her. You always think you’ll save the ones you love when the moment comes, Campbell told me. But he didn’t save her. Whether this judgment of himself is fair doesn’t really matter. He lives with it.

When multiple traumas occur ­together, they layer atop one another and accrete under pressure. The effect is geologic. Mountains are built of such layers. Continents sink. Experts call it complex PTSD. What does a person do under weight like that?

There is no simple answer to this question, no easy way through.

Campbell would find ways to cope in what might seem like an unexpected place: a moment that nearly killed him three years earlier, another instance that rearranged how he saw the world around him.

In August 2016, he was blazing through the Selkirk Mountains of British Columbia with fellow trail-running stars Dakota Jones and Nick Elson. The three were attempting to scramble the multi-day Horseshoe Traverse mountaineering route above Rogers Pass in a single day. As Campbell climbed up a subpeak called Sulzer Tower, a handhold popped off in his palm. He remembers the mountains turning upside down as he tumbled 200 feet. By the time his body stopped falling, he had broken four vertebrae, smashed his ankle, and sheared off the top of his hip bone. A mountain-rescue crew happened to be working not far away and saved his life. At the hospital, his digestive system shut down for three days. Doctors inserted metal rods throughout his body.

Campbell lived, but he was changed. The day before, he was one of the best athletes on the planet. The day after, he says, “I literally couldn’t wipe my own ass. I was relying on strangers.” Nearly dying changed something else about him. The accident erased his perception—his delusion—that he was a strong, self-reliant athlete who didn’t need others. For years, whenever life had gotten complicated, he had run away, headed for the hills.

“The more chaotic my life got, the bigger the goals I would chase,” he says. Some of his biggest accomplishments occurred during times of personal turmoil, when he fled rather than faced his problems, including an early divorce from his first wife, before he met Kosakoski. “I was just numb, like fully numb,” he says of those years. “I could run hard and fast all the time, and it didn’t impact me at all. I didn’t feel tired ever.” He was not happy, though. “I was emotionally dead, and I also didn’t get any real satisfaction from it.” That pattern of running away continued well into his relationship with Kosakoski.

One reason Campbell was on the traverse that day was that he and Kosakoski had hit a rough patch. Instead of facing the challenge and repairing things, Campbell took off. Out there he was independent, and confronted only with entanglements he knew how to deal with. Mountains were easy. People were hard.

Now, as he lay in a hospital bed in the small hours, too battered to sleep, he saw through the long lie that he was totally self-sufficient. The doctors and nurses who had saved his life came in and out of the room. Family members who had flown in from all over the world circled his bedside. Kosakoski was there too, of course; she took a month off work to help him. He had always been propped up by others; he simply chose to ignore it. “It broke that shell that I put around myself,” he says. And then something amazing happened. “The more vulnerable you allow yourself to be, the more vulnerable people are back to you,” he says, “and that allows you to have even deeper, more intimate connections.” He and Kosakoski grew closer than ever. They married a year later.

Don’t misunderstand: no wisdom, however steep its price, can prepare you for losing the person you planned to spend your life with. In the year since her death, the grief has hit Campbell in waves, receding one minute, overwhelming him the next. A few days after the accident, while walking over a railroad trestle, he looked down and thought how easy it would be to tip over the side, the water below it cold and embracing. But he didn’t. He thought about other people. He thought about the pain it would cause them.

If he learned one thing through all this, it’s that friends and family are a gift—their profound grace, and the solace that can be found in them. “The biggest thing for me is allowing myself to be open with others, to share what I’m going through and let them try to help,” he says. They call. They check in. People want to be there if you’ll let them. Campbell calls now, too, which he never would have done before. He leans on those he loves. He’s honest.

The changes Campbell underwent while dealing with his grief represent a shift in awareness that’s growing in the outdoor world. Mountain towns, and the risk-takers who populate them, long responded to loss with a hardman approach—­stoically, on their own, perhaps with a whiskey or three while seated at the end of the bar. Survivors of deadly events would often feel isolated. And even the caring communities where they lived didn’t know how to reach them. Hjertaas says he knows longtime ski patrollers who have seen so much tragedy that they can no longer even respond to accidents.

But that reaction is changing. Maria Coffey’s 2003 book Where the Mountain Casts Its Shadow is about people left behind after such deaths, and it helped open the conversation. So, too, has acceptance of the truth that grief is not weakness, nor is it necessarily a plea for help. Tim Tate, a psychotherapist in Bozeman, Montana, began seeing mountain athletes in 2018 and now works with members of the North Face team, who sometimes visit him in person for intensive four-day sessions. Last year the American Alpine Club started the Climbing Grief Fund, which includes small grants for climbers in need of counseling services. The fund had ten applications in its first 24 hours.

Now, as he lay in a hospital bed in the small hours, too battered to sleep, he saw through the long lie that he was totally self-sufficient. “It broke that shell that I put around myself,” he says.

Late last year, Campbell began helping out with a new group called Mountain Musk Ox, the brainchild of a few Canmore residents, including Janet McLeod, a clinical psychologist who specializes in trauma treatment, and mountaineer Barry Blanchard, who has lost several friends and clients in the mountains over his storied career. (The group’s name refers to the tough-as-nails musk ox and its instinct to encircle vulnerable members of the group when threatened.)

The program is a series of group sessions for men and women who have experienced gutting loss in hard circumstances—it’s a chance to talk openly about their trials and to work through them. Hjertaas is involved, too; he told me that people keep contacting him, saying they wish the program existed when they went through hell. In time, organizers hope to expand to other mountain communities.

There is no road map to a quick exit from grief, though. Others can help—can be there to hold up a lantern in the limitless dark—but in the end, each must find their own way out. “You have to be really, really gentle on yourself,” Campbell says. “Ultimately, the person you were before the accident kind of dies along with your partner, because you’re just so deeply changed by it. And you have to accept that and learn what your new life is like.

“You have to be reborn.”

Campbell isn’t angry at the mountains. He doesn’t hold them responsible. He quotes Reinhold Messner: “Mountains are not fair or unfair, they are just dangerous.”

Last summer, Campbell returned to the site of the accident. When he located his wife’s ski in a creek, he fell to his knees. But the mountainside was not windswept and cold. It was alive with bouquets of wildflowers and the thrum of running water. “I ultimately find my comfort and joy in nature,” he says. He has been among high peaks, skiing or climbing, almost every day since. His priorities have changed, though. Time outdoors is no longer about big goals. In part, this is because his body is no longer the same. But neither is his mind. He simply relishes being outside with others in a way he didn’t fully appreciate before. “The conversations I have with people out in nature are some of the best conversations I have. They’re the most honest and raw,” he says. “I find that that is where people are their genuine selves.”

One day over the winter, Camp­bell shared a story online about kintsugi, the centuries-old Japanese art in which cherished items that have been chipped or broken, such as a vase or a teakettle, are mended with a lacquer that includes gold dust. The result highlights the fissures that have been repaired. The analogy appealed to him.

“It treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object,” he wrote, “something to celebrate.” Those breaks help define us, and they give us a hard-won beauty. When we show them, and the ways we’ve healed and grown stronger, he says, we know where one another are coming from, what we’ve all been through. And our community is healthier for it.

https://www.outsideonline.com/outdoor-adventure/exploration-survival/avalanche-tragedy-adam-campbell-laura-kosakoski/

[nny11writes]

Passing- AKA the College AU/Fake Relationship AU 3

Previous

Ahsoka slumped down in her seat, letting her butt slide to the edge of the booth and jamming her knees ruefully into Anakin’s hip. “That’s not real advice Skyguy!”

Anakin glared at her over the dregs of his milkshake. “It is, in fact real advice Snips! Just actually ask her out and see what shakes out.”

Ahsoka crossed her arms and pouted as she grumbled, “Dude she said fake dating. That’s actual dating, like, having to actually be a couple. She doesn’t want that.”

“How do you know?” Anakin asked before taking one last, annoying slurp out of his drink. “Maybe she’s into you.”

“If she’s into me, why didn’t she ask me out instead of asking if I’d be her shaker?” Ahsoka pushed her knees harder into his hip and earned a stinging slap on them for the effort.

The droid server paused at their table, it’s optics flashing a few warnings at their antics. Anakin smiled brightly at it until it rolled along to the next table. Then he glared at her as if she was the one being difficult. The gall!

Anakin hissed at her, pointing at her even as he fumbled for his credit chit. “I don’t care what the hell a shaker is, but have you considered that she’s a nerdy, socially inept, shut in?”

“She’s not a shut in!” Ahsoka managed to not wince as she picked the hardest thing to defend. Barriss was a brilliant, well liked, and well behaved person. She was also something of a shut in.

Anakin smirked at her as he asked, “Oh really? When’s the last time she went out for fun?”

“Yesterday,” she said while mentally patting herself on the back.  It wasn’t even a lie!

“...was this a solo outing to the library?”

Ahsoka opened and closed her mouth a few times, trying to explain that it still counted.

“Ha!” Anakin crowed as he dragged her up out of the booth. “She’s a loser Snips, and if you want to date her then you need to ask her out.”

Ugh, that was sensible and sounded like a responsible thing to do. Ahsoka would literally rather contradict Dr. Nu in galactic history than force Barriss to awkwardly shoot her down. In thanks for her best friend paying for her lunch, Ahsoka flopped half boneless onto him and whined. Anakin was thankfully closer to her height than most of her friends, otherwise she would have happily thrown them both onto the floor of the SUB via melodramatic faint. When Anakin’s response was to grunt and drag her along Ahsoka whined even more pitifully, adding in a faint distressed trilling.

“That has never worked in your life.” Anakin groused as he elbowed her.

“Ow! Skyguy, I am already emotionally vulnerable, you don’t need to add tenderized.”

Anakin held the door open for her before cutting off a group of ithorians to follow her outside. “Don’t lie. Emotionally vulnerable is what you’ll be after Obi-Wan’s test today. Besides what’s the worst that can happen, she’s not Lux.”

Ahsoka felt zero remorse for punching the back of his head. “Leave Lux alone! He meant well.”

“Lux,” Anakin growled as he unlocked his speeder bike and rubbing furiously at the lump on his head, “was a barve.”

The problem with Anakin was that he was all for Ahsoka exploring her romantic feelings until she was dating someone. Then whoever it was just instantly got on his shit list for no apparent reason. Another good reason to not ask Barriss out actually. “Lux is not an asshole. He’s, Lux is five tooka cats in a tailored greatcoat.”

Anakin glared at her before jamming his helmet on. His voice crackling as the modifier kicked in, giving him a ridiculous deep voice. He claimed it was to get out of speeding tickets. Ahsoka would argue that CSF had never been able to catch him to issue a ticket, and that Anakin was a drama king.

“Lux,” his stupid deep voice came out, “ditched you at every opportunity and then broke up through message. He was most disappointing and it is unfortunate I did not see him before he returned to Onderon. Lessons could have been learned.”

“Alright, well as soon as you stop pretending you’re scarier than you are, and remember how to not be a schutta we can talk.” Ahsoka was done with his bantha fodder.

Anakin’s voice followed her for a moment before she ducked into the lunchtime crowds. “Rude!”

Ahsoka weaved through the crowd, slipping through every gap she could to put a little space between her and her stupid friend. As soon as she hit the crossroads, Ahsoka made her way off the main paths. She needed to think, or clear her head, or something. There was no way she’d be able to concentrate and hopefully pass Obi-Wan’s exam like this. Ahsoka needed to focus on the political fallout from the Ruusan Reformations, and not on the way her heart had fluttered when Barriss had leaned into her for support during the holocall. Her heart did another two step at the memory. Barriss isn’t a touchy feely person and she was totally leaning into you and flopped all over you. Ahsoka could feel that stupid smile growing on her face again. She wants to fake date you through the holidays!

Wow, of all the pathetic things to get this excited over, giving someone else a cover story for a few months was one of the most pathetic she could think of.

Still.

Ahsoka huffed and rubbed the back of her head. Ruusan Reformations. Grade. For class. Important!

Would it have killed Anakin to just agree that she was wasting her time and shoot her down gently before she ruined her friendship with Barriss? Maybe she should have cancelled and had lunch with Kalifa. Kalifa was always good for reality checks.

Or call Padme and get better relationship advice. Ahsoka rolled her eyes as she ducked into the PoliSci building. She needed to stop herself, or pay someone to follow her around with a water bottle to spray her every few minutes. She managed to focus on that image until cramming herself into one of the tiny desks in the lecture hall. Any other class and she would have luxuriated in the over sized seats for larger students, but there was a wookie in this class and Ahsoka valued having both arms attached thank you. Adjusting herself around until her thighs didn’t feel like they’d snap from the pressure Ahsoka pulled out her datapad and pulled up her notes.

She even managed to focus on them for a whole five minutes before catching the reflection of a mirialan in her screen. He even had diamond tattoos, but she felt they suited Barriss’s face better. UGH! I am such a laserbrain!

Ahsoka crumpled over into a stupid lump and lightly smacked her forehead onto the desk a few times. “Calm down Tano.”

“I do not know why, but yes. You should calm down.” O-Mer smiled softly at her as Ahsoka twisted to look up at him. “Perhaps you can start by sitting up properly? Increased air flow and less back pain.”

She grumbled as she straightened up and twisted to let him slide into her row. “I’ve got twice as many vertebrae.”

“Yes, but they can still hurt.” O-Mer nodded sagely, the beads threaded into his braided hair clicked softly against one another with the motion. “There is no need to worry about this exam Ahsoka, Professor Kenobi lets you drop your lowest score.”

Ahsoka rolled her eyes and glared at him. “I’m not worried about the exam. Mostly. It’s personal.”

He looked thoughtful even as he turned to study his own notes. Kriffing cereans and their kriffing politeness! She kind of wanted him to ask? But not really? Ugh. Ahsoka had barely begun to stew when she suddenly remembered that O-Mer literally had three girlfriends.

“It’s girl trouble actually.” Ahsoka tried to keep herself composed.

Two sunflower yellow eyes locked onto hers with pure sympathy radiating from them in nearly visible waves. “Oh, I am sorry to hear it. Did Barriss turn you down?”

Ahsoka spluttered, “N-no! That’s not-who said anything about Barriss?”

“She is practically the only person you speak of.” O-Mer had the grace to not laugh in her face.

The nerve!

Lekku twitching with indignation, Ahsoka huffed, “I’ll have you know that I speak of many people. Like, uh, Anakin, and Kalifa...and uhm, Riyo? Anyways! No, she didn’t turn me down! I’ll have you know she asked me out actually!”

Her brain caught up just in time to laugh at her, while O-Mer smiled in confusion.

Kriff.

“I just didn’t expect it? And-I said yes of course, I’m not stupid ok, but, like, you know?” What in the actual ten corellian hells was she trying to say?

“I cannot say that I do, but congratulations.”

“Yeah congrats! What are we celebrating?” Jinx half flopped on his boyfriend from the row behind them startling Ahsoka half to death.

So much for predator instincts!

“Barriss asked her out and Ahsoka said yes.” O-Mer provided, unhelpfully spreading the lie that Ahsoka had blurted out.

Jinx looked between them suspiciously while Ahsoka hunched in on herself. “So why do you look like death? Cute girl said yes, or, well, you know what I meant.”

Caught between an earnest romantic sop and his cute asshole boyfriend, Ahsoka knew she was in too deep. This was over her head. Fess up time. “I don’t know what to do because-”

“Take her to the gardens, I mean it’s a cliche first date but probably more her speed than  watching illegal pod races.” Jinx cut her off with a shrug, “It’s not that hard honestly. You overthink everything.” O-Mer half  lifted his hand, as if this was some sort of deranged class question than an unasked for bit of advice. “I heard the fine arts building is having an opening for Twi’Lek golden age tapestries. Those are both beautiful to behold and erotic.”

“Hot.” Jinx said with a wink and a set of finger blasters.

If death would like to just take her now, Ahsoka would welcome it.

“Alright everyone, please put away your notes. Bags under your seats and hats off as you can.” Obi-Wan called out, smiling as he made eye contact with her.

Not what she’d meant but Ahsoka hadn’t exactly been specific with her prayer.

It took more willpower than she’d expected to stop envisioning the tapestries and her fool ass trying to justify why this was a Mature and Sophisticated date. Ten minutes in Ahsoka decided that the gardens was a much better hypothetical choice for all parties involved and shortly after was engrossed in her paper.

[elfnerdherder]

Ill Intentions: Chapter 10

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Chapter 10: Q&A Pt. 2

           There are many things one should feel when realizing their life is quite literally being held within the grasp of another. Fear, for one, as they look down to the muted steel that, for all intents and purposes could gut them as easily as one bit into bread. Confusion, as they wondered just who would bother to press a knife against their stomach, an exposed and vulnerable part of their body. Potentially, there was the aspect of betrayal as they looked to the eyes of the person that was soon to end them, cruel as they were with their handling of something much like trust.

           Will Graham felt no such thing. He knew precisely who would dare press a knife to such a vulnerable place, a place that he himself had once taken a knife to on someone else.

           “Looking for someone?” The Chesapeake Ripper breathed into his ear.

           He considered many things that he could have done, and days later he would still chastise himself for the way he tensed rather than turn and fight. He wasn’t much of a fighter, though; not in the way of physical strength, of course. He was a writer for God’s sake, and he had an arsenal of other things he could use instead, although with the heat of a serial killer pressed taut against him, the point of his knife against Will’s belly, it was difficult to think of things like arsenals and fighting and writers.

           He licked his lips, bemoaned his sudden cotton-mouth.

           “I should have known you’d be a fan of the arts,” Will managed to say. His voice came out wrong, though, dusty like a book that’d sat too long on the shelf.

           “Her voice was both passionate and contained, controlled and ardently let loose,” the Ripper –Hannibal Lecter? –replied.

           “Do you have Beverly?” Will asked.

           “Do I?”

           Silence as they waited one another out. The call went to voicemail, and when he lowered his arm to pocket his phone, the Chesapeake Ripper let him. He contemplated reaching to touch the knife, but he didn’t want to push his luck on the off-chance that the Ripper would gut him just to see what it’d look like so close. The Ripper may have wanted to play a game, but he probably wouldn’t like the odds not being in his favor when it came time to contemplate winning or losing.

           “Where would I put her if I had her, Mr. Graham? Do you suppose I keep a trunk closeby to stuff unsuspecting persons inside?”

           “She’s not part of our game.”

           “She was the moment you decided to bring her along.”

           He opened his mouth to object, but he stopped himself, words choking up in his throat. The idea of Beverly getting hurt because of him, dying because of him, made the idea of a game nasty, ugly with its realities. He glanced down to the knife that pricked through his dress shirt, and he nodded.

           “What now, then?” he asked quietly. “Are you going to kill me?”

           “That is a boring question. Come now, you can do better than that.”

           “It’s not.” Will grunted when the knife dug in ever-so-slightly. “Really, it’s not. I’m sure you’ve thought about it –the many ways in which you’d kill Will Graham.”

           “I have,” The Chesapeake Ripper agreed.

           “I mean, are you going to kill me now. Is this already the end to our game? A knife to my gut, dead on the steps of an art hall in Baltimore?”

           “Do you suppose you have a better place and time in which to die?”

           Will laughed a little and looked away from the knife and the arm draped around him, clad in a wool coat to protect against the chill. He swallowed heavily, staring out into the darkness of the evening. His vision burned into a lamp that dimly lit an area just out of reach of him being seen by anyone else, should they come outside.

           “If you were being ironic, you’d at least do it in an alleyway,” he decided after a brief thought.

           “An irony of ironies,” the Ripper agreed again.

           Will shifted against the stance just behind him, the heat of the Ripper burning through his suitcoat. “Too easy, though. A knife is too easy for you.”

           The Ripper hummed, low and throaty. “It’s served many a purpose for me. Better a knife than a gun.”

           “When you kill me, I’d much prefer for you to use your bare hands.”

           The Ripper’s breath stilled against his back, and the knife cut through Will’s undershirt in order to press against his skin. Instinct cried that he shift away, but he held still, unwilling to give the bastard the satisfaction of a reaction. The breath that’d teased the hairs at the nape of his neck paused, and he found himself also holding his breath, waiting –for what, he couldn’t quite say.

           “Would you want it to be so intimate as that?” the Ripper wondered aloud.

           “Yes.”

           The Ripper exhaled slowly, a sweet sort of sound in the back of his throat.

           “How would you want me to kill Beverly Katz? Would you wish her death to be as intimate?” he asked coarsely.

           A barb, one designed to cut through his forced measure of calm. He didn’t want to acknowledge just how much he succeeded, needling deep with the thought that he very much held one of his only friend’s life in his stupidly incapable hands.

           “The readers wouldn’t like that,” he murmured quietly.

           “The readers?” There was a pause. “Ah, yours or hers?”

           “Both. Mine because they’d want my head on a platter, and hers because she gives good advice when people are smart enough to listen.”

           “You do yourself no favors with such rebukes,” the Ripper admonished lightly. “I’m sure the readers would simply be happy to know that at least they have the advantage of witnessing such horrors without getting too close. There is safety in reveling in the macabre without having to bloody your own hands. That is why crime shows are so popular among the general public.”

           “Everyone loves a good psychopath,” Will murmured.

           “Everyone?” the Ripper wondered. “Even you?”

           He had nothing to say to that. Tense as he was, unwilling to move even an inch, at the sound of a door behind them closing, he jolted and winced as the knife broke skin. The Ripper shifted until they were further behind the column, out of sight of anyone that didn’t know where to look, and Will followed along because despite being many things, stupid wasn’t one of them.

           “Of course he’s not answering his phone, he’s probably hiding from his avid fans,” Beverly said descending the steps. Her phone was pressed tight to her ear as she paused at the bottom, looking about with only the barest of cares. She wasn’t entirely invested in her hunt. “I’m only answering because it was an excuse to get away from that woman, Octavia-something-or-other. She’s always dogging me for advice in the column. I saw her and ran.”

           Will watched with dread as she walked about, unheeding of their presence or the fact that her life was very much in the balance. As if sensing his thoughts, the Ripper leaned over his shoulder to press his mouth to his ear.

           “I could kill her right now, and she wouldn’t realize it until it was happening,” he whispered. His breath made Will’s skin tingle.

           “Too easy,” Will chided, equally quiet.

           “He probably put it on silent for the show; as attached to his watch as he is, he’s not really all that attached to the rest of his technology,” Beverly continued. She paused and wrapped an arm around her ribs to stave off the cold.

           “How would you do it, Will Graham? How would you kill Beverly Katz?”

           “I don’t think about things like that,” Will snapped, just soft enough to be a whisper. The knife dug in, an odd, muted burn that felt more along the lines of a cat scratch.

           “Don’t you?”

           Didn’t he? Will chewed on the inside of his mouth, considered the way he’d sat on a mountain for hours, wondering at the death of Mary Mai. How many times, in the push and lull of his thoughts, had he wondered the method in which the Chesapeake Ripper had killed her? While he wasn’t privy to the forensic aspect of it, he was left to his own imagination, and that alone was almost as terrifying as the reality.

           “I think you do,” the Ripper chided. They tracked Beverly’s wandering steps as she listened to whoever was on the other end of the line, head dipped to expose the beginning of her vertebrae. The elegant line of her dress on her back made it appear especially vulnerable, on display for just anyone to sink a knife into. “I think that it takes only the barest of nudges to make you fall into the sordid crevices of your mind that you like to pretend don’t exist.”

           “I’ll go and find him, but we’re in the middle of something, Freddie. If he calls back tonight, it won’t be until later.”

           “Tell me how you’d kill her in this moment.” He paused as if to savor the shudder that ran down Will’s spine. “I’ll let her live if you do.”

           A taunt, all things considered. Will swallowed heavily, but as he opened his mouth, there was a cold sensation of truth as his mind clicked into place, making connections in the heat of the moment.

           “I took you by surprise, didn’t I?” he realized, tracking Beverly’s progression down the sidewalk as she chided Freddie. Her voice faded to garbled and indistinct words. “You had to slip away to hide from me in a public space. You panicked, and this was your ham-handed plan.”

           “I was well aware that you were trying to find me.” He allowed the change of subject, the twist of amusement in his tone obnoxious at best. There was something else, though, something that caught and stuck in Will’s ears.

           “Yeah, but you didn’t expect me to find you here. This feels…rather quickly thought out, don’t you think? Wait for me to try and hunt you down, put a knife to my gut in the shadows…” Will felt the way in which the Ripper aligned himself perfectly along his back, each inch of him taut and prepared to strike should he fight back too soon. “Threatening to kill Beverly because this honestly startled you, didn’t it? The same way that it surprised you when Freddie Lounds and I found both of your crime scenes.

           “I think you’re delving too far into your own Thriller genre, Mr. Graham.”

           Be it the way his voice wavered, the way his accent seemed to stumble on the words and catch at the consonants, but despite the knife pressed to his gut, Will smiled.

           “I can’t always be as predictable as you think I am,” he said.

           There was a long pause at that, as Beverly irritably finished her phone call and hung up, tucking her phone into her clutch. The faint, delicate gold chain caught the light of the moon and glinted as she set it over her shoulder, and her heels made sharp, staccato noises as she headed up the steps to go back inside. Will tracked her movement, and when she opened the doors towards the safety of the public masses, he laughed.

           Then, Will Graham turned around in the Ripper’s grasp to better grab him by the lapels of his jacket, slamming him back against the pillar.

           It wasn’t without some loss. As he turned, the knife sliced clean across his stomach, although it didn’t feel too deep. Pressed so close to him, chest-to-chest, Will relished in the sting of skin splitting, the wet sensation of his own blood beading and clinging to his dress shirt. That close he could smell the Ripper’s cologne, a faint whiff of blood and frankincense in the air. They shared the same breath, pressed that close, and Will thought of the sordid act they’d once shared, tipping their heads back in the dark so that they could consume something even God shamed.

           Although he was quick, so was the Ripper. The knife glided up to press to the top of his throat, and his free hand clapped over Will’s eyes, obscuring his vision. They both froze at that, equal parts surprise and adrenaline, and Will let out a huff of breath, his heart screaming. He gripped the Ripper’s lapels tightly, violently.

           “You’re not predictable,” the Ripper said, and despite still having the upper-hand with a knife to the tip of Will’s chin, he didn’t make a move to end him just yet. “You may take some comfort in that.”

           “I could drag you out into the light right now,” Will said, and a snarl rippled past his lips. The hand pressed against his eyes twitched. “A convincing cry for help to bring someone running.”

           “You won’t.”                                                                                                        

           “It’d be a nice twist, don’t you think?”

           “A nice twist,” the Ripper agreed, and the knife dug in ever-so-slightly. “However, you are not the sacrificial type, nor am I.”

           “I won’t die to save people from you, and you won’t let yourself be caught for the sake of my desires,” Will said quietly.

           “A stalemate, then. The difference being, Mr. Graham, that you have something here to lose. As of right now, I don’t.”

           Will’s fingers curled tighter into his lapels, and he drew closer, letting the blade sink ever-so-slightly into his skin. “This is our game.”

           “Are you not the sharing type?”

           “No.”

           “Nor am I,” the Ripper revealed. After a beat, the knife was removed from his throat, although the hand wasn’t removed from in front of his eyes. Will sucked in another shaky breath, marked the muted click of the knife closing back into its sheath. In that moment, he could have attacked him, wrestled him into some sort of position to be revealed. Will was quite good at playing the victim, all things aside. Acting, when prompted, was a talent with the right incentive.

           Despite having the opportunity and the desire, he didn’t.

           “It would spoil the fun,” Will decided.

           “Too soon,” the Ripper agreed.

           “They want to uncover you just as much as I do.”

           “Just as much?” he wondered. “Is their own hunger so strong as yours, Mr. Graham? An insatiable drive that, be damned the consequences, you will have what you seek?” There was a heavy, dark pause, and Will imagined his curling, wicked smile. “Do they dream of blood the way that you do?”

           “Leave Beverly out of our game,” Will said. “It’s not a request.”

           “Or what, Mr. Graham?” came the chilling reply. “If you are to make a threat, you’d better have a suitable ultimatum.”

           Will drew closer, until he was sure they were nearly nose-to-nose, their shared space shrinking in his ire. He thought of blood, of Mary Mai and the monks whose only sin was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He tried very much to feel, in that moment, like the hero facing the villain, the line between them distinct and firm.

           He also thought of the moment when he’d first called to gloat to Freddie rather than call for help. He thought of blackmailing Todd in marketing and the blank wall that he faced whenever he tried to dredge up memories of what it’d been like to gut a man whose crime was withdrawals and one bad night too many.

           It was difficult to see oneself as a hero when they were very much aware of the traits they had that marked them a villain instead.

           “I know you,” Will said softly. He had the faintest sensation of his lips brushing against the Ripper’s. “All of this? Is because you don’t want to be seen just yet. That’s fine with me, but if you hurt Beverly, I’ll end the game. All it takes is me dropping a rumor to Jack Crawford, and he’ll be on you so quickly that your entire world crumbles.”

           “Are you so certain of my identity?”

           He wasn’t, but that wasn’t the point. “You know what they say about glass houses. One shouldn’t throw rocks.”

           “And Beverly Katz is so easily found to be your kryptonite?” the Ripper wondered.

           “She’s a friend,” Will revealed. “And as you know…I don’t have an overabundance of those.”

           “I’m your friend, Mr. Graham,” the Ripper reassured him.

           Will’s watched buzzed, but with the Ripper’s hand over his eyes he was unable to see. That close to him, blind only because he was willing to be blind, Will smiled a little, the situation striking him as grossly intimate and morbidly funny.

           “What does it say?” he asked.

           “A text from your good friend, Beverly, asking your whereabouts.”

           “I should go and find her, then.”

           “You should,” the Ripper agreed. Despite the situation, he was remarkably agreeable.

           “In regards to her, I’m not playing,” said Will, and he let go of the Ripper right as he turned away from him, climbing up the steps of the art hall with a quickness that belied how calmly and easily his heart beat. He knew the Ripper wasn’t going to come after him. He’d left him without looking back, allowing him his shadowy countenance for as long as was needed before he made his way to wherever his next venture was. As he opened one of the many doors leading into the party, he heard a distant door –likely a maintenance door –slam shut as well.

-

           “I’m sorry,” he said on the way back home –not the first time, and certainly not the last, either.

           “You should be,” Beverly said, irritated. “If I’d known you would run off like that at the first hint of socialization, I’d have kept a leash on you.”

           “You left me to that…that…” Words escaped Will at the thought of Franklyn, overly kind as he was –overly annoying as he was.

           “He was just a fan,” Beverly said crossly. “I have fans.”

           “I have avid fans,” he muttered.

           “Octavia is an avid fan, and I had to keep low! Where were you, anyway?”

           “Smoke break outside.” Among other things. His watch prompted him to drink more water, which he did without hesitation. It was a dehydrating affair to have a run-in with the Ripper of all people on the steps of an art gallery.

           “Did you find him? The ‘great’ Dr. Lecter?” she asked.

           “…No.”

           Yes.

           “I asked around a bit, trying to keep it casual. He’s absolutely adored among the general populace there, as he’s a huge donator. Someone said that his galas and dinners are absolutely to die for,” Beverly said, and she glanced away from the road long enough to wink.

           Will wondered if the Ripper had ever deigned to share his delicacies with anyone participating in his dinner parties the way that he did with Will –very likely. Morbidly likely.

           “Maybe you make enough friends and we get an invite to those?” he suggested. “If we’re in his lair, we just have to find the torture dungeon.”

           That got him a snicker, and all was forgiven again. As they drove back to the city, he stared out of the window into the darkness punctuated occasionally by the lights from other cars, and wondered if her forgiveness would be given even faster if she knew just what kind of threat and bargain he’d had to give just to ensure that she was safe.

           Probably. Then again, knowing he’d been so close to the Ripper and hadn’t done a damn thing, probably not. One of these days, Beverly was going to run out of forgiveness, same as he was going to run out of bargaining chips

           His watch beeped to congratulate him on his steps. Sometimes in cars, the bouncing did that –counted each jerking lull as a step towards the ultimate goal. It wasn’t real, though. He wasn’t taking those steps, same as he wasn’t really the hero trying to catch the bad guy. It was all rather fake, a bit of a ruse because it felt like some sort of accomplishment to look at it that way, head tilted at the right angle.

           He’d take it as a small win, anyway.

-

           After work Monday, Will walked rather than take the bus. He’d have liked to have said it was because he was really getting a handle on counting steps and setting goals, but in reality it was because of the ass-chewing he’d gotten from Charlie about lines and the general crossing of them. There was something about boots and asses as well, but quite frankly he’d tuned out somewhere around ‘common-sense enemas’ and ‘heads lounging in asses’. Either way, it made him late for his bus; he refused to pay extra for an Uber when the price sky-rocketed around six or so.

           He lipped at an unlit cigarette, something to do with his mouth than bite and chew on chapped lips. He had a rather ugly scab just at the corner of his mouth from that. He made a note on his phone to remind him to stop chewing on his lips and put some Carmex on them, and he idly stuffed his phone into his pocket, ignoring e-mails. E-mails. God, there were so many damn e-mails that he’d turned the notification off on his watch so that his wrist didn’t go numb from the vibrations.

           So brave of you to save those monks…

           He’s targeting the deaf, now? Are the handicapped not safe in this town because of you?

           This just seems like a circle-jerk for internalized misogyny.

           He’s attacking indiscriminately. How are you going to keep the people safe, now?

           He trudged into the apartment and kicked his shoes off, scowling at the bleakness of it. No meal waited for him at his table –no note, either. Either the Chesapeake Ripper was busy, or he was still reeling from their last encounter.

           God, it felt pretty damn good to say that at least he had some control in the last encounter. Some leeway. Some headway. If he made the Ripper nervous, so much the better. Maybe he’d understand that despite the placid and withdrawn demeanor, Will Graham wasn’t entirely someone to fuck with. He’d spent so long crafting that outer shell that now that someone was peeking beneath the layers, he hated just how much he wanted them to be able to see.

           He laid back in bed, and he fell asleep sometime later, fully clothed, dreaming of the way in which the Ripper had pressed to him, as though the two could somehow become one.

-

           When Will woke, it was with a disorienting lurch that made him feel distinctly wrong. It wasn’t so much that he had a sixth sense that gave him psychic powers, no matter what Beverly liked to claim about his empathy. Waking, as a general rule, was a relatively simplistic affair for someone like Will Graham, whose watch vibrated with progressively heavier settings until it felt like he’d come to naturally, and just in time for his alarm to do the rest.

           This time, he woke with a wheezing cough, spluttering as though he’d been doused awake with cold water. He sat up blearily and looking about with fuzzy eyes, scanning for the red numbers on the nightstand beside him. It took several minutes for his gaze to focus enough for him to really, truly see –he attributed that to the reality what it was like to sleep for too long. That alone settled low and gave him a sense of unease.

           11:32 A.M.

           “Fuck,” he hissed, and he immediately turned his wrist, a reflex when things weren’t going according to plan. He often charged his watch sporadically, in between meals, in between dinner and bed, often while he showered and prepared for the day. It was a constant companion, even while he slept because then at least he could also track his dreams and see just how restless he truly was when no one else was looking.

           His heart dropped with a squelch to the floor as he realized that he wasn’t wearing it.

           It was gone.

A special thanks to my patrons: @Hanfangrahamk @matildaparacosm @starlit-catastrophe @sylarana @frostylicker Frosty Lee, Duhaunt6, and Superlurk! You’re the best!

[tuckinpodcast-blog]

EPISODE 8: THE LONGEST SUICIDE.

LISTEN: SOUNDCLOUD / iTUNES / GOOGLEPLAY

SOURCES: will be listed in separate post (Yes, I know I still haven’t posted sources for the James Dean episode yet, I’m a mess, I’m sorry)

NOTES: Just a quick reminder that there’ll be no episode next week because I’ll be in Los Angeles for the weekend. Expect some photos and things from me while I’m o my trip though!

TRANSCRIPT:

Hi, I'm Jack, and this is Tuck In We're Rolling: Queer Hollywood Stories. Before we get into today's story, I just wanted to mention again that there'll be no episode next week because I'm going to be spending my weekend in Los Angeles visiting a friend and doing touristy things like taking selfies with the Hollywood sign and visiting a few cemeteries so I can pay my respects to some of my favorite Golden Age stars. We'll be back with our regularly scheduled programming in two week's time, and I thank everyone for their patience. And real quick, I want to go ahead and give a content warning for the entire episode – there's a bit of, I guess, body horror and a lot of talk about addiction and conversion therapy. Here we go:

I'm very excited for this week's episode, because it's essentially the reason I made this podcast. We're going to be talking about Montgomery Clift, his struggle with his sexuality, and why we don't talk about famous queer people when they're not young and beautiful anymore. If you're not familiar with Monty's movies, I'll forgive you, but I think because his life was so short – not as short as James Dean's, but short enough – it's all the more important to watch his films. Like Brando, he was from Omaha, and also like Brando, he employed the Method – though he bristled at his style being categorized that way. In the beginning of his career, he was incredibly handsome. I mean, it hurts to look at him handsome the way young Kurt Russel and Patrick Swayze were. The camera loved his face – probably because it had a lot of ins and outs. I mean, he's gorgeous. In A Place In The Sun, when he smiles at Elizabeth Taylor, it's like – I don't know how to describe it without getting cheesy and maudlin. But I think that's kind of the thing about Monty Clift. He makes it okay to get cheesy and maudlin, because that's what he did. So if you're going to binge on Monty's movies, start with A Place In The Sun – and give it a chance. I swear, in your memory, it's a million times better than the first time you watch it.

And that's the thing with Monty, I think. In your memory, he's a million times better than he ever was in life.

So, after you've watched A Place in the Sun and maybe From Here to Eternity – which you've probably seen clips from or homages to, whether you know it or not, because of the scene where Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr's kiss in the breaking waves – switch it up to the movies he made in the second half of his career. Watch Suddenly, Last Summer and The Young Lions. You'll notice something very different, and that's his face. That handsome boy from Omaha with the stars in his eyes doesn't look so handsome anymore. He's different. His characters are wild-eyed, tired. His face is different – he still looks like himself, but … wrong. So, what happened?

I think I've mentioned “post-accident Monty Clift” before, and now I'm going to explain the distinction. There were really two things that defined Monty's life and his career: meeting Elizabeth Taylor, and the car accident that destroyed his face. I know that when I say it like this, it sounds simple – but it's a lot more complicated than that.

Clift got his start around the same time as Brando, in the same place as him – in New York on the stage. He was only a few years older than Brando, and the two of them were friendly their whole lives. There are some rumors about them being involved, and maybe it's true, but Brando never said anything in the affirmative – and, you know, even though Brando admitted that he had relationships with men, he never named names. But I think it's worth pointing out again that theater and drama nurture this vibe of weird, queerness, but especially in the late 40's and 50's when Brando and Clift got their start, they were very actively denying queer people their right to exist.

So Monty is hands-down one of the most handsome men to ever grace the screen, but Monty is queer. And I say queer and not gay because because he had sexual relationships primarily with men, but fell in love primarily with women. I honestly don't think that he really gave it much thought until he met Liz. He had a few relationships with women before her, and he had been arrested for soliciting a male prostitute at least once, but you know, then he meets Liz. She's seventeen, eighteen. She's the most beautiful girl in the world. They met because the studio forced them to go out on a date for a premier of one of his movies, to drum up some buzz about Place In The Sun, but they ended up getting along like a house on fire.

There's a lot of talk about whether or not Monty and Liz ever had a “real” romantic relationship. Liz broke a thousand hearts, but after his death, she said that she always knew Monty was supposed to be with a man – which makes me think that he might have really been one of the only ones that ever broke her heart. So you know, like I said, I really don't think Monty thought about his split sexuality too much – not because it didn't cause him anxiety or anything, but because it really did, and sometimes when you think on something that causes that much pain, it's just too much. And he meets Liz, and it's like – all of a sudden, he realizes that he can't love Liz the way he feels like he's supposed to or the way that he should, and I think – I think really, that's a pretty big contributing factor to some of his emotional issues. I mean, when Liz had her first baby, he spoiled that kid so bad that people joked about it being his, and he would answer them with: “I wish.”

So when I say that meeting Liz Taylor was a defining moment in Monty's life, I say it because I think it ended up dredging up a lot of things that he would have rather kept locked up. Monty was prone to being “that weird guy” at a party. I've heard stories about how he did things like cook a steak in a fireplace at a party and then carve it up and serve it right there, and how he and Liz used to hang out when she was pregnant surrounded by magazines with their faces on it. His apartment in New York was covered with mirrors so that he could look at himself constantly. I mean, you can't make this stuff up. He and Liz really had a tendency to bring out the worst in each other, and he was already hooked on pills and booze by the time he got into the accident that ruined his face, but he was supposedly mostly sober when it happened.

The other reason I list Liz as a defining moment is simply because Montgomery Clift had his car accident when he was driving home from a party at her house – a party that she had pestered and goaded him to come to. Now, I kind of debated how in depth I wanted to go into exactly what happened to Monty in that car accident. On the podcast You Must Remember This, Karina Longworth's episode about Liz Taylor has a pretty graphic description of how it looked when Liz and her husband followed Roddy McDowall down to where Monty had crashed his car and how she saved him from choking to death by pulling his teeth out of his throat. Sufficed to say, most of his teeth were knocked out, he had fractured ribs and vertebrae, and his face was in shreds. He had a lot of reconstructive surgeries after that, but he never looked the same. The thing is: he was notoriously vain. Remember how his apartment was covered with mirrors? I guess if I looked like him, I would want to look at myself all the time too, but it was an immense blow to him that his looks were gone. Looking at photos of him post-accident now, you almost can't tell the difference. But you look again, look a little longer, maybe look at a picture of him from Judgment at Nuremberg and feel completely jarred. His upper lip was completely paralyzed, and there's something a little wrong about his face around the eyes. He looks pinched and pained, and a little – as one of his friends put it – stuffed. He was in constant pain for the rest of his life after that, and it really only worsened his addiction to pills and booze.

So you know, I could talk about Monty and how people called his death “the longest suicide” for literal hours – and he did die young, at the age of 45 from heart failure as a result of his addictions. He's buried in an unmarked grave in a Quaker cemetery in Prospect Park that no one's allowed into. And this is a really sad ending for a man who had so much promise and was such a talented actor. But even though I could talk about him and just him forever, I wanted to sort of use his story to talk about something else: the way queer people torture themselves to deny who they are out of fear, and the way we reject and queer people once they're not young and beautiful and perfect anymore.

I'm finally going to explain to you why I have beef with David Thomson, you guys. This is probably the last time I'll talk shit about him in the entire series – no promise, though. So, my big issue with Thomson is that he was very flip and dismissive of Monty. He mentions somewhere in the text that John Wayne was totally unimpressed with Clift while they were filming Red River – which really makes no sense to me, because the two have been compared to one another quite a bit. Seriously, if you've seen a picture of young John Wayne, he's a dead ringer for pre-accident Monty. So, fine, okay, maybe it's true and Wayne was just giving a young buck a hard time. Okay. But Thomson really put the nail in his coffin for me when he started in on Monty for turning down the main role of Joe Gillis in Sunset Boulevard. The role was written for him, and it's been said that Clift turned it down because he felt uncomfortable playing a man who was in love with an older woman because he felt it would hit too close to home for him. Thomson had another idea, positing that, and I quote: “[…] Clift would have made Gillis insidiously charming instead of a desperate scrambler. You would have wanted to save Clift (that was his trick); [William] Holden knows that Gillis is beyond salvation.”

Let's unpack this for a second, shall we?

Okay. So we know that Clift did have a gift for playing sensitive, conflicted men – probably because he was a sensitive, conflicted man, and because he employed the Method school of acting, he brought some of himself to all of his roles. So. Thomson has a point, right? Well, sure. Kind of. But Thomson is mocking Clift for 'tricking’ people into saving him. I take this quote as derision as opposed to a compliment to the actor’s ability to play a role because of the overall scorn it appears Thomson shows for queer people and also women throughout the book, and because he seems to have so much scorn for Clift himself.  You know, my thought process is more like: Could it be that maybe Clift had this knack for 'tricking’ people into thinking they could save him because of his own tortured inner workings and his need for support and validation due to the turmoil he felt because of his sexuality? I don’t think it would be a stretch to consider that maybe Clift’s close friendship with Elizabeth Taylor and his own film roles all contributed to trying to reach out to someone to ease his pain. And, you know, maybe - just maybe - Thomson has some kind of problem with this.

Clift ended up going to conversion therapy to try and “fix” his sexuality, along with his drinking. He had a fourteen-foot long medicine cabinet packed with every kind of drug he could get his hands on. His addiction was so bad that on the set of The Young Lions,Marlon Brando sat him down and had a long talk with him about going to therapy, going to AA, and getting help. He knew addiction firsthand, because, as I've mentioned, his mother had been the town drunk growing up. She dried out, got help, and started a few chapters of AA. Brando admired Clift, and I'm sure Clift admired Brando. But I think by this point, Brando had come to terms with his sexuality. It might have taken until 1976, but he fully admitted that he experimented and hooked up with men. And maybe if Monty had listened to Brando or even quit the sauce, he would have been around in 1976 to say something similar.

I think that we're looking at two sides of – if not the same coin, but something similar. Brando accepted himself and he came from this family of artistic weirdos that understood how to accept people who were different from them – with the exception of Brando's father, Marlon Sr, who he had a famously troubled relationship with, but you know – for the most part, he had a good family that he loved. Monty had a pretty troubled relationship with his father, too, but I think everything about his family life was troubled. His mother had been adopted, and she was convinced that she was part of a blue-blooded New England family, and she insisted that all of her children be given the best of everything. Monty's father could pay for it – up until he lost his job. So Monty was raised in a kind of rich boy vacuum. He never did well at school, never felt at home anywhere but up on a stage. You've got a lost boy in Monty, and a “not all who wander are lost” boy in Brando.

It's been pointed out that people sort of dismiss Monty after his accident. He's not as good looking, and he looks very old and somewhat rumpled by the time he reaches the age that he died at. Way more like a harried old professor than a forty-five year old movie star. The roles he took, too, turned dramatically. He's not that starry-eyed young man anymore. He plays men absolutely haunted. The scars on his face actually do lend to most of these roles – grizzled cowhand alongside Clark Gable in The Misfits, a witness to Nazi war crimes Judgment at Nuremburg, even as Freud in the creatively titled Freud. It's almost like losing his good looks opened up other avenues to him, because he wasn't pinned down as a young, pretty boy anymore. But it was hard to look at him sometimes, and it was hard for him to act – in Judgement at Nuremburg, he couldn't remember any of his lines and ad-libbed the entire scene. To go from being hard to look at because he was too handsome, to being hard to look at because his face was so unidentifiable – I can't even imagine what that could have been like. And I want to point out again, going back to the Brando episode where we talked about masculinity, how no one really talks about these roles. They all want to talk about A Place In The Sun, and it's a very good movie – but it's not Monty challenging masculinity and male beauty standards with a scarred face and chronic pain. People only want to remember their queer icon when he was gorgeous, but that's really only paying attention to half the story.

After the accident, it was hard for him to get jobs because he was deemed uninsurable by most of the big studios. Liz Taylor offered to put up some of her own money to insure him for a few movies, but he mostly backed out of them due to his health. He was supposed to play Brando's character in Reflections in a Golden Eye, and Liz had put in a lot of money to get him insured for the picture. He backed out, and some combination of Liz and Monty's suggestion both landed on trying to get Brando for the part. The studio said Brando was too expensive, so Liz offered up even more of her own money to pay his salary – to be paid back to her if the movie made enough money. It made enough money.

I've talked about this movie before – it was really one of the first on-screen portrayals of what everyone knew was a gay man, instead of being buried in subtext. Something in me thinks that Liz trying to get Monty into these roles was her convoluted way of trying to help him, but when I think about Reflections in a Golden Eye, I can't see Monty doing it. There's just so much violence that pours out of Brando's Major Penderton as a direct result of being closeted in the military, so much rage – maybe a post-accident Monty could have pulled it off. Maybe. But I think, ultimately, playing a closeted gay man who directs the anger and confusion and rage of being closeted outward – as opposed to Monty personally, who directed it inward – would be too much for him. The movie came out the same year he died, and part of me thinks that he knew that he had taken a toll on himself.

When he died, people like Lauren Bacall and Frank Sinatra showed up to the funeral, but Liz was in Rome shooting on location, and she just sent flowers. She talked about Monty a lot in her later years. She missed him. She missed their friendship. And I think – you know, I think she couldn't bear going to his funeral, as shitty as it was for her to skip it. Monty died from a heart attack because of coronary artery disease, and his autopsy revealed a whole host of other issues that he was dealing with – thyroid problems that would've caused issues with his balance and speech even when he was sober, problems with his digestive system from dysentery and colitis.

I want to say, I had a lot of trouble with this episode. I have a lot of trouble reading books about Monty and even watching his movies sometimes, and I thought at first that maybe it was secondhand embarrassment – knowing that he hated watching his own movies and always thought he looked terrible – but I think it also comes from knowing that he probably wants to be left in peace after so many years of suffering. They called his death “the longest suicide”, and I think that's fair. So I want to express that I did this episode out of the highest regard and the desire to not let Monty writhe in obscurity after his death. You know, the American Film Institute took A Place in the Sun off their Top 100 Movies list when they remade their 10th anniversary edition, and Monty isn't listed among their Top 50 actors – though Brando is number four, right after Jimmy Stewart, and James Dean made the list at number 18. Elizabeth Taylor made the number seven spot on the list of actresses. So I think that Monty was a phenomenal actor, an influential actor, but I just don't think he has the same sort of cultural pull that James Dean did – dying at twenty-four and capturing hearts and imaginations. And he certainly didn't have the same kind of sex appeal and back story that Marilyn Monroe does, which is why I think she's still on our radar so many years later. Monty fell off the face of the cultural radar because he lost his looks. He disappeared because his death was a steady descent into alcoholism and chronic pain. People don't talk about famous people, queer or not, when they're not young and gorgeous anymore – unless they're doing some reality show like Anna Nicole Smith. They care for a minute when they die, and then forget. And maybe Monty wanted to be forgotten, but I think we shouldn't lost the lessons we got from his life in the process of letting him rest in peace.

Before we go, I wanted to mention this quick aside – my roommates and I play this game where we ask each other stupid questions, mostly to do with whatever fandom we're into – you know, right now there's a lot of, “If you weren't your chosen house in Game of Thrones, what house would you be in?” but the other day, one of them asked me if I think Monty's ghost would have his perfect face or the one from after the crash, and I had to really think about it. I think maybe he would make himself perfect again, but then I thought that maybe he would let it go and keep his wrecked one. You know, maybe him having the scarred face that he did after the crash kind of … took a little bit of that pressure off, you know? He didn't have to be the most handsome actor in the entire world anymore, and he could take interesting, challenging roles – even if he was so far gone he could barely remember his lines. Just a thought I kind of wanted to share with you all.

Thank you so much for listening to Tuck In, We're Rolling: Queer Hollywood Stories. This week's episode was written, researched, edited and recorded by me, Jack Segreto. You can find a transcript of this episode and all our episodes, along with movie and book recommendations, fun facts and photos on our tumblr, tuckinpodcast.tumblr.com. You can also give us a like on Facebook at facebook.com/tuckinpodcast. We accept messages on both of those platforms, so please feel free to shoot us any suggestions for show topics and comments you might have. We put out new episodes every Wednesday, and you can listen to us on SoundCloud, iTunes and Google Play, so don't forget to rate and subscribe to us! We'll be back in two weeks with a round-table discussion featuring my roommates about why we care so much and cling so hard to stories about queer people in popular culture. See you next time!

[lyesera-thoughts]

Therapy - physical self-care

I like this picture, makes me smile a little.

SELF-CARE. 

My therapist preaches it a lot. A combination of my school bullying and an unhealthy home life, my physical health became, well, ugly. I have come from one end of the spectrum to the other side and it’s been one heck of a roller coaster of not-very-much-fun.

I hit puberty early, first in my grade (not just my class, my grade). I also come from a long line of tall, tall women on my dad’s side (contrary to my mom’s side of under 5′ 5″ women). I sprung up, basically overnight (like Steve Rogers with his super soldier serum) and I was one energetic and athletic kid. I was underweight for the first few years of puberty.

But then the bullying got worse. Started following me home, during my free time outside. I stopped wanting to be alone out there where I was targeted and that meant one energetic kid was cooped up inside, with her equally bullied and energetic little brother. We were, understandably, not great kids inside. We were loud, we broke things, we fought (a lot).

At the same time this started happening, my father was dealing with a serious issue of his own that we didn’t understand at the time. 

The backstory summary is, around 30 years old (when I was only about 4 or 5), my dad suffered a ruptured disk between his L1 and L2 vertebrae. He had emergency surgery to have the two vertebrae cemented together. This meant a lot of hospital and physical therapy time and not a whole lot of work time.

This wasn’t a workplace injury. And dad wasn’t disabled. This meant our entire family’s monetary support fell solely on my mother’s shoulders. As I said in a previous post, when minimum wage at the time was $5.12/hour, mom couldn’t support 3 dependents and herself on a single job. It meant she wasn’t home to be dad’s mental support.

Dad fell into depression hard. Depression led down a long road of dad being unemployed and in pain a lot. It meant he was only sleeping, ever. It meant, dad wasn’t happy about two loud children in the house all the time and didn’t care that we were afraid of being outside alone. 

He locked us out of the house, for HOURS, so he could sleep. We often weren’t getting back inside until mom came home after dusk and unlocked the door. No access to bathrooms, no access to water or food. No access to safety from our bullies.

I learned the safest thing I could ever do so I could stay home was stay quiet. And all of my go-to hobbies weren’t allowed. Computers weren’t a thing for children then. My first cell phone was a Motorola to call mom and dad in an emergency, and I was 13 years old when I had it. We couldn’t afford gaming consoles and dad didn’t want us being loud, so TV was also hands off. All I had were books and eating.

I gained weight, obviously. When you’re stagnant and only ever eat, you gain weight fast. I continued to gain weight all through school, right into college, where I peaked out somewhere between 380 and 400lbs. I don’t know the exact weight, I never thought to check it.

My beautiful fiance; he met me, pursued me, and stated dating me when I was like that. I didn’t understand, and for a long time I distrusted his genuine interest. It was nearly a year after he asked me out the first time before I realized, I want to do this. 

Into our second year together he asked me to make a change. He was worried for my health. All he wanted to see was for me to cut back my food portions and to take a mile long walk everyday. Even paid me for it at first, if you can believe it. But it got me to do it.

I lost nearly 100lbs that first year, just doing that.

I continued walking every where. Our first apartment put me 2 miles outside of where I went to college and worked, so I was walking 4 miles every day. I continued to keep my portions small, not changing anything else about my diet. I got all the way down to 190lbs.

But then my health started taking a turn for the worst. Literally, one year I had a perfect physical across the board, nothing wrong with my blood tests or heart or anything else (other than a long term asthma situation, which was diagnosed around 7). The next year, cholesterol in the tank. I was scared into doing a diet, told horrible things about being on pills if there was even the chance I could get pregnant.

We weren’t planning on children for a long time (11 years together, we are still waiting), but I’m not stupid. I know accidents can happen and I was terrified of the what ifs (that would be my general anxiety at work!) So I tried, really hard, for several months and saw no reward for it, only more stress. Cholesterol came down a bit, but not enough for my doctor to back off me. 

I stopped wanting to see him. I stopped dieting. And I stopped losing weight.

Then I changed jobs and I could no longer be in a position to walk everywhere. I finally had to get a license and get a car. Office job, more money, and a car. I started gaining weight back. It started small at first, then it grew. 6 years after getting down to 190lbs, I am now back at 335lbs. 

My mental health started to really degrade in the last few years. I was disgusted with myself, which encouraged poor eating habits. I noticed I was in pain, all the time. My own depression hit and I stopped wanting to even go on walks.

I expressed this subtly to my parents and their words to me were “That’s life, suck it up it’s only going to get more painful from here.” So I shut down. I didn’t tell anyone for a long time, and in a fit of expressing several frustrations to my therapist, around how I was getting upset over my fiance touching me, I blurted out because it hurt, all the time. Even the simplest hugs, or laying his head on my shoulder, it hurt and I shoved him away every time. Obviously it was causing strain on our relationship.

That’s when she told me that wasn’t normal. How long had I been feeling this pain? Was this the reason I stopped exercising? What else could I tell her?

Made me realize that maybe it wasn’t just my depression stopping me from doing the things I need to do to be healthy. I confessed that my parents told me it was normal. In my house it was normal for my parents to ALWAYS be in pain. What I didn’t realize until then was, it wasn’t normal for my parents to always be in pain either. 

Dad had a major injury he never properly treated. He’s 450lbs, of COURSE his back injury hurts him. Mom ignored her own health in favor of making sure her family stayed together. You know what happened only a few years before I told my therapist about my pains? Mom was diagnosed with Chron’s and fibromyalgia. Both are things that should have shown up right around 30-40 years old for her. Right in the middle of my childhood. I am convinced she has had them for years (nearly a decade) and never saw a doctor until it became so unbearable she wasn’t sleeping anymore. She was in her early 50s when that finally happened.

It started a personal journey for me to get help. I didn’t realize that I wasn’t normal. That what I felt when my fiance touched me wasn’t okay, and, in fact, not what he felt when I touched him. I had gotten it into my head that was just what it was.

I got a physical therapist and I started talking to my doctor (who is not the same one from the cholesterol debacle). I learned that I can control some of my muscle pain through basic, light-weight, low-impact exercise and with daily tissue massage. With my doctor’s help I was tested for several auto-immune diseases (picked from my family medical history), thyroid diseases, and various other odds and ends for chronic pain.

What I learned was my C-Reactive Protein was 2-3 times the highest range of acceptable. But that was the only thing we could find in my blood tests. I had to see a Rheumatologist who, after a 6 month waiting (she was booked out so far), tested me for a few more auto-immune diseases that were unlikely, but had similar symptoms. Like everything else my primary tested me for, these came back negative.

The only conclusion? Fibromyalgia.

We discussed medications and decided that I would only remain on my birth control. Other medications I was on (including my cholesterol pills) were stopped in case this was a symptom of their side-effects. It’s been long enough that we know it isn’t, but we’re not going to put me back on them yet. Additionally, I would not be taking anything to control the Fibromyalgia, I was convinced I could control it with diet and exercise.

In order to keep myself pain-free, I have to be at the gym 3 times a week at minimum. It helps, but it wasn’t enough to start. The next piece was my diet.

I’m still a stress/comfort eater. And I always pick the sugery, fatty, carb-loaded foods. Which is every single thing that makes my C-Reactive Protein skyrocket. 

I got a nutritionist to help me. I am on lean meats and a butt-load of vegetables, which is actually really, really hard for me to keep eating. But it helps. It really, really does. 

My energy levels are amazing. I can easily keep up with my gym times and can even make it to either 5 gym trips, or 3 gym trips and 2-2 mile walks. My body feels great, mostly pain free even! I haven’t felt that in years!

I slip sometimes. I do. Stress is the biggest factor and I can tell you now, I notice. If I have red meat. If I have pastries or junk food, I can feel it. My whole body alights with pain. It’s a motivator. 

So for everyone out there struggling with their physical health, I want to encourage you to keep at it. And reward yourself for good choices!

 Make it a week without eating out? Buy yourself flowers! Or a plushie! (I love soft cute things).

Make it to the gym 3 times a week? Get yourself some quality socks or shoes. I wear silly game shirts that I buy myself to the gym. They motivate me.

Keep it up. You can do it. You’ll slip, it’s okay if you do. Just get back up and do it again. I have, I will continue to. You can make it.

[newhologram]

If I've learned anything about having a lifelong illness, it's never stop looking and pushing for solutions if you know in your heart you could be functioning better. Of course we'll never be cured but I think a lot of doctors see a diagnosis and go, oh okay you have that. That's just how you function now. And of course we're taught to trust and have faith in our doctors so we just go along with what they say. It's tough.

Exactly, never stop pushing. Even if a procedure like this can’t 100% cure some of the stuff I have that’s hereditary or that I was born with, if it gives me like a 40% functioning boost because now my body is better able to HANDLE those illnesses, then that’s absolutely huge and I can catch up. I just feel so behind, I didn’t get to have so many “normal” life experiences because of illness, and I know better than to compare myself to others but I still just feel it, man. I just turned 27. I’m old now??? I feel so old, oh God, I know in reality I’m still a spring chicken but Jesus, Joseph, I feel like a cruster on this site, hahahaha

Like, I was always sick and uncomfortable as a kid, as a teen, and then as a young adult it just got so bad that my body buckled under it all, and dragged my brain down with it. I feel like I’ve just been so developmentally delayed because I grew up ill and maybe that’s why I have such a hard time feeling like an adult or relating to people. I feel like a Martian and it upsets me a lot. I feel like I didn’t have a 20′s. But I know that’s not true, I had one, but it was different. My hologram is different and that’s okay.

And there are probably millions just like me who feel this way. It’s incredibly lonely being sick, a lot of people stop bothering with you, working is hard, dating is haha no, and being strong enough to hold yourself up through this is something to be so proud of. We wear invisible badges. Don’t be afraid of speaking out.

It’s like a cat ran by and unplugged a bunch of vital things on a robot and no one thought to check back there and instead just kept patching up little spots uselessly while he broke down over the years because they still expected him to function like his peers and called him a whiner, a hypochondriac who just wants attention, lazy, “ugh, but you’re always sick!”, and then they’d called the tech guy and he’s just like *opens robot* “hmm well I see some things are not working but I don’t see WHY, so, what do you want me to do?” and he also never checks to see if something got unplugged. 

This lady plugged my spine back in correctly, basically, because she knew how to look “back there”.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It’s like, it’s so simple

The first vertebrae that touches your head, when misaligned, compromises the flow between your brain and your body, and over time you get sick. Whether you fell and broke a bone, got into a car or skiiing accident, got hurt on an intense rollercoaster, got punched too hard... I mean, these horrible symptoms and intense illnesses sometimes take 10-15 years to actually fully turn your body into a failing mecha suit while you burn up inside alone. 

No doctor ever told me about it, ever. I never knew about this and neither did my dad and neither did so many people. If it was more common knowledge to check the health of the cervical spine because it can cause and exacerbate so many illnesses, then it would be checked more after accidents and injuries.

And even though they kINDA looked because I had to harass doctors into doing it (literally what the fuck!!!! over periods of MONTHS! “please check my spine, please do an x-ray or something, please get me to see a chiropractor, please help me, please” UGH), they didn’t see it because I guess this really stupid simple obvious solution is just not a thing, according to our healthcare system. It doesn’t occur to them to check for the very mobile and important literal first piece of your spine!!! For misalignment.They think chiropractors, especially ones who specialize in the atlas, are witch doctors. That’s what it boils down to. And if I could’ve just gone to one of those, had insurance cover it, and continued with my life, then I wouldn’t be in constantly needing help. 

They turn spoonies into cash cows because they can. But, it’s the ones without a lot of money who are suffering horribly because like. Listen, I had to accept that the paychecks I always work so hard for end up just going to constant appointments to try to lower my pain levels because high pain levels equals... well, you guys know the drill by now.

My dad is so excited and telling absolutely everyone just about how different I look visually now that my spine has been fixed. I’m taller, the world looks higher up, my face even looks a little different somehow. I should try to take some proper pics for before and after. I’ll definitely try to get better pics of the x-rays at least after my next appointment so I can show just how drastic this change is. And I didn’t even need surgery or anything scary. She saw me, talked to me in DEPTH about literally everything, took x-rays, took time to educate me on everything about how this specific thing, atlas subluxation, makes people very very sick over a long period of time and ends up wrecking their body. 

For a while I thought I had to accept that by my 40′s my condition would be unmanageable. I had to just accept whatever time I could and do my best and work hard and even though I’m pretty open about my illnesses, I still have this complex like I have to be really strong and perfect all the time. But I fall apart hard like everyone else. My body was trying so hard for so long to work for me to take me where I need to go in life to be happy and to achieve my dreams, but it couldn’t keep up anymore right as I transitioned into adulthood. 

I’m sorry, body. :( I just feel so sad for it, like. I FEEL IT obviously it’s how I feel the world. But it just tried so hard. If you’ve been following me more than a month you know already just wrecked I always am from such little activity. 

I mean, imagine if you knew you were gonna work 5 hours you had to take it super easy and rest and medicate all day long beforehand. And the 5 hours is agonizing, it’s glass in your feet, it’s acid down your spine, it’s mood swings you do your best to keep zipped away WHILE providing emotional and physical labor for customers and being watched like a hawk by bosses. 

I did all that for so long even though my body was fuckin’ just

ALL THE TIME

I’m so sorry, bad me, mean to body. But I had shit to do, like. I didn’t know! I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know.

I felt strongly that this year was gonna be different for me but I didn’t know in what way, I was just ready to work through tears for another year and repeat the cycle and try not to give in to the despair of hurting so badly literally 24/7 

I gotta take it easy, I can’t push myself too much. That many years of illness, Idunno how under-used my organs are. *sweats* I just gotta let it take its time.

But yeah, it’s gonna be a good time. 

GET YOUR FUCKING ATLAS CHECKED

Love,

Your Friendly Neighborhood Spoonie, Newaka Lord Bitch Skeletonaka SPINE MOM SUPREMEaka Lamb: Resurrection 

P.S.

Beloved spine witchdoctor says I am not allowed on coasters anymore...... sob. I was really post-procedure high when she was telling me this but I’ll ask again if like. Disneyland ones at least are gentle enough. Wahhh, I love coasters so much. I asked if I could do archery and she said NO LOL not for a long time, and she was so funny when I asked if I could do martial arts bc I want to sooo bad.

Also my dad and I were talking and he was just like, “you’ve always had bad posture. I’ve never seen you standing up like this.”

Dumbass doctors omffff g bless

[itsworn]

A Monster Truck Driver’s Homebuilt 1962 Bel Air

When your career is driving the Bigfoot monster truck, it’s unlikely your daily driver is anything less than extraordinary—a Pruis or Corrolla just ain’t gonna cut it. For driver Troy Russell, a custom-fabricated, twin-turbo Bel Air is just the right fit.

A few years ago, Troy was in the midst of finishing his Bel Air, the car was prepped and ready for paint, when he broke his back during a Bigfoot show. A part failure caused a jump to go array. “Once I landed, I knew I was hurt,” said Troy. “I broke three vertebrae and doctors told me I couldn’t return to driving.” While on bedrest, unable to finish his project, fellow hot rodder and friend Andy Meadows of Andy’s Hot Rod Shop in Mulkeytown, Illinois, stepped up to help.

Most days, after Andy was done working at his own shop he’d start another shift in Troy’s garage. While Troy laid on the couch Andy worked on the car. But that was difficult for Troy. “It was bittersweet, sweet because my project was being finished but bitter because I couldn’t do it or help very much. But it wouldn’t be together today if it wasn’t for him.”

Let’s rewind to three years earlier when Troy was working on a different ’62 Chevy, a hardtop. During a chance visit to a parts store a customer overheard Troy describing his project and offered up that he was selling a ’62 sedan if he knew of anyone interested.

In fact, Troy did. “A ’62 two-door sedan was a bucket list car, but I had to settle for the hardtop,” said Troy, who followed that customer back to his barn. “I literally had to walk across piles of parts to see the car. When we finally picked it up, it was easier to remove the walls of the barn to get it out,” It took 12 people six hours to get it out. The former owner was a hard core Ford guy, who purchased the sedan 15 years prior. He said it was too good of a deal to pass up.

As this mostly rust free Bel Air was being rolled off the trailer Troy began ordering parts, starting with a Chris Alston’s Chassisworks Pro Touring 4-Link Frame Clips Billet Parallel kit, along with 2×4 side rails. Then Troy built a chassis table using 8-inch I-beams and 2×4-inch tubing in his home garage. A first for him, “I figured if I got it level and got it squared I couldn’t screw it up too bad.” The FAB9 rear axle, which came in the four-link kit, included a locker with 3.90 gears and Big Ford axles. He then found a Midwest Corvette graveyard and purchased a C4 front clip.

The exterior of the body is stock, but everything underneath has been heavily altered. Troy extended the wheelbase 2.5 inches in order to center the front wheels inside the fenderwells. The body was dropped 3 inches and the engine set back a full foot into a custom firewall. The car is painted Speedway White from Axalta, similar to that on an ’04 Corvette Z06, and the bumpers are powdercoated silver.

At the corners are billet aluminum Boze Alloys Velocity wheels, 18×8 up front and 20×12 out back. The wheels are wrapped in Michelin Pilot Super Sport 245/45R18 fronts and 335/30R20 rears.

As for the engine, Troy originally wanted the famed import tuner engine of choice: a Toyota 2JZ inline six-cylinder—a decision that would have likely pissed off most of the Chevy faithful. Luckily, that plan changed and the car was mocked up with a small-block Chevy. That is until a friend had to part out his 2004 Corvette, which had been stolen then destroyed in a police chase. Troy purchased the engine, transmission, and brakes, but stepped them up with Baer 13-inch rotors and Hawk street pads all around. The Big Ford axles use a Kore3 bracket to work with the C5 rotors, and a Wilwood master cylinder supplies the pressure.

The LS6 is stock down the camshaft except for the Chevrolet Performance yellow beehive valvesprings, Fel-Pro head gaskets, and ARP head and bottom end bolts. The fuel system includes an Edelbrock Victor Jr intake manifold with an Edelbrock elbow and fuel rails with 80-pound Delphi injectors, along with a G-Plus 102mm throttle body and Turbo Saver air cleaner. A stock GM MAP sensor is utilized, but Bosch wideband O2 sensors were installed. Aeromotive products move the fuel with a 340 Stealth fuel pump and an A1000 regulator feeding from a ’55 Chevy gas tank from Tanks Inc. Friend Dustin Dillow tuned the final setup using the ECU from the ’04 Corvette donor. The 409 valve covers have been altered to hide the LS coils and valve covers.

The turbos came from an On3Performance kit, which included two 76mm turbos, a 44mm wastegate, and 50mm blow-off valve, ordered through Jeg’s High Performance Parts. He then ordered a bunch of 3-inch bends and started laying things out. Troy essentially taught himself on chassis building and turbo systems, keeping as basic and mild as a twin-turbo V-8 can be. The headers are OBX Racing Sports shorty stainless steel. After the turbos, exhaust is fed into a 3-inch stainless steel exhaust with dual Borla XR-1 mufflers. Up front you’ll find a Hawks alternator bracket, F-body power steering pump, Ron Davis aluminum radiator, and F-body Flex-a-lite fan.

Power is feed through a 4L60E transmission that came with the engine. It’s mostly stock, with an ’02 Camaro shifter ball up top. On the other side of that is a Dynotech driveshaft.

Covered by ACE Custom Upholstery in Fairfield, Illinois, the inside features Trans Am seats wrapped in Porsche orange leather and suede, stock rear seats, and a Forever Sharp steering wheel. The dash is Dakota Digital. Suspension is handled by RideTech Shockwave shocks all around and provide adjustable ride height.

Troy has never dynoed the car before, but claims it should make around 500-520 hp to the flywheel. “When I tell people that, they look at me funny. They expect a twin-turbo LS to make 1,000 hp, but not on my wallet,” said Troy. The car has never seen more than 10-12 psi of boost since it’s been together, which is partly why, with over 20,000 miles on the odometer and 30,000 on the engine, the car has had zero issues.

“That was the whole thing. I didn’t want a wild cam and big converter to take driveability way down. I intended to drive it on big trips or whenever I wanted. If I can achieve 500-520 hp and still get 20 miles to gallon, there’s no reason for a wild cam and sacrificed driveability.”

The post A Monster Truck Driver’s Homebuilt 1962 Bel Air appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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[lover-of-skellies]

Introducing: Valence Bandersnatch. Or Val, if you'd prefer that

He's a British boy (complete with the accent), he lives in Nep's forest by himself, and he's a murderer, getting random people to go back to his little cottage for tea and crumpets or whatever before killing them. From there, he has to dump the bodies in Nep's lake, since he's indebted to Nep (the family of lake dwellers are allowing him to live on their land, so he has to repay them somehow to keep the peace)

He's a flirt with a weird set of morals. Like,, he'll flirt with a person and do sinful things with them if he's in a good mood, but forcing yourself on someone who doesn't want it though? That's a big no no, and if he finds out that someone's done that to someone else before, he will literally kill them on the spot. He’s also got this weird ability that involves changing his appearance, so he can make himself look like anyone he wants. The only thing he can't do from there is mimic their voice. As far as a job goes, he's a hunter and an herbalist, and he sometimes even lends his ability to enchant things to people as well, though that's more expensive for them

Because I was bored and had some free time, I went and wrote a thing to kinda introduce him a little :P it's kinda long though, hence why there's a cut here. Just be warned though,, there's violence, one scene gets a little suggestive (nothing more than kissing happens though, soooo??), and I guess there's some drugging? Some weird aphrodisiac-like substance and a poison, used separately on different things

You'd been minding your own business, absentmindedly swishing your bare feet back and forth in the water as you laid on your back on the wooden dock, looking up at the canopy of trees that seemed to loom over you. The air was a pleasant temperature, not too warm, not too cold, as it drifted through the leaves, occasionally blowing an individual leaf loose and causing it to come fluttering down to the ground. As you listened to the sound of the leaves being caught by the gentle breeze, you let out a soft sigh. You'd been so stressed lately with life; between work and family, you'd felt as though you were dangerously close to snapping and committing murder. Not that you actually would, though.

You'd been so stressed lately with life that when you arrived here and settled down on the dock, you didn't register the pair of solid white sockets that watched your every move, calculating when to strike. 

A low growl in some nearby brush caught your attention and you immediately shifted your gaze to them, your brows furrowing; what the hell?... It sounded like it came from some sort of large predator, but the biggest predators that resided in this forest were the simple bobcats. Not even bears called this place their home. Sitting up, you pulled your feet out of the water and fumbled with your shoes and socks, scrambling to slip them on as the growling began to grow nearer and nearer. As soon as you'd successfully put your socks and shoes back on, you stood, narrowing your eyes slightly as you strained to see the shape that was huddled in the brush better. From where you currently stood, all you could see was black and white. Though... If you didn't know any better, you'd say it looked humanoid. How strange.

You took a small step toward the creature, and then a second, and then a third, but it remained almost perfectly still. Another growl made you freeze in place, though this was different from what you'd heard before. This growling sounded more like the sound your stomach would make whenever it called out for food. A pair of solid white sockets, entirely focused on you, narrowed slightly in what could've been considered joy, and you'd somehow edged close enough to be able to watch as a wide grin stretched across the creatures face, displaying a row of serrated, sharp teeth. And then the creature rose to his feet, tilting his head as he stared at you.

It was a skeleton, clad in a pair of baggy basketball shorts and a white t-shirt. His shirt, however... you frowned, your eyes locking on the vivid red that stained it. Right over where his sternum would be, there was a red blotch that resembled a hand print, and you felt your blood run cold. The skeleton watched your expression twist from confusion to fear, and he let out a raspy chuckle, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He then bared his teeth, still smiling widely as he asked, "Hey there, pal. You up for a game of tag?" You were lost for words, shaking your head as you stepped off the dock onto the earth, your eyes wide with fear. His body warped through the space between the two of you and he roughly grabbed your arm, digging his claws into your skin. You yelped as they broke the skin, your eyes watering up as he proceeded to lift your arm. He locked gazes with you as a deep teal tongue slipped past his maw, trailing up your arm and licking up a droplet of blood. Feeling yourself begin to tremble, you whimpered, your voice much weaker than normal, "P-Please... stop..." He licked a bit more of your blood up, his sockets hooded as he leaned even closer, his hot breath fanning over your face as he purred, "I'm it, ok? I'm gonna let you go and give you a ten second head start before I come after you. If I catch you, it's game over. Now," he released your arm, excitement flickering in his sockets, "run, human. Run as fast as you can." 

Feeling your heart jump up into your throat, you turned and began to run, hearing the skeleton burst into laughter as he watched you. In your frenzy, you abandoned the established path, running through the brush in a random direction and crying out as you felt thorns scratch at your exposed skin. Whatever it took to get away from that monster, you'd do it without regret.

Still running as fast as your legs would allow, you glanced back over your shoulder, not noticing rays of sunlight momentarily pass over something metallic. You put your foot down, hearing a click, and then you screamed, collapsing in pain as tears streamed down your face. You sobbed loudly, reaching down to pry at the "jaws" of the trap that'd clamped down on your leg just above your ankle, ignoring how the metal teeth sliced the skin of your fingers. Just as you felt the trap loosen a hair bit, your grip on it slipped, and you screamed again as it latched down on your leg, once more at full force. You let out a choked sob as you heard the brush begin the move nearby, a cry for help ripping from your lungs. This was it. This was how you'd die. The trap very clearly wasn't going to budge, and with even the smallest of movements, a searing pain ran up your leg, causing you to cry out in agony yet again. You curled in on yourself, trying to tune out the throbbing from your leg, and in doing so, you failed to see a second skeleton step out of the brush nearby. Upon seeing you on the ground, your entire body shaking as you sobbed loudly, he froze, letting out a long, low whistle, as if impressed on some level, "Oh dear."

Hearing a new voice, you bolted up from your current position, forcing yourself to stand as you faced him, whining loudly, "Please, help me. I need help, I don't wanna die." The new skeleton frowned, setting down the basket he was carrying and making his way over to you, "It's gonna be alright, I promise. I'm gonna lean down to open the trap, and I need you to hold onto me. Do you think you could do that for me, human?" You nodded, reaching out to the stranger and tightly grasping his shoulders as he squatted beside you, curling his phalanges around the jaws of the trap, and with what looked like no effort at all, opened it, freeing your leg. As he rose to his feet again, his grip was gentle yet firm as he wrapped an arm around you, tugging you flush against his side and sighing, "Here, I'll carry you. You're pretty badly hurt and I wouldn't wanna see you make the injury any worse." Despite not knowing this man, you nodded and gave your consent, wrapping your arms around his neck vertebrae as he lifted you, one arm supporting your back while the other was tucked under your knees. He then began to walk, one of his sockets going dark as the other flared up with cyan tinted magic, encasing his discarded basket and making the item begin to float. As he carried you, you lightly rested your head against his shoulder, looking up to admire the color of his magic. He kept his attention forward, pausing to glance back over his shoulder as a twig snapped, worry briefly crossing over his expression. He then stole a quick glance down at you, offering you a small smile, "Human, I need you to close your eyes, please." 

You wanted to ask why, but with the way your throat burned from your screaming and sobbing, you decided that questions could wait. You closed your eyes, and then you winced, feeling your stomach turn. Your head spun and for a brief moment, you felt as though static teased at your skin. Although you felt the skeleton shift you in his arms, you kept your eyes shut, waiting for the ok to open them again. Glancing around his small living room, the skeleton watched as his magic lowered his basket to rest on the coffee table and then faded from sight, breathing in deeply as he very delicately lowered you onto the sofa, his voice a mumble, "Alright... you can open your eyes now, friend." 

You slowly cracked open your eyes, your heart thudding harder at how close your companion now was to you, offering you a small smile again, "I apologize for that... I needed to use a shortcut to get here faster, where you'd be safe. The only problem is that the transition wouldn't have been pleasant for you, had you kept your eyes open." You nodded slowly, swallowing a lump in your throat as you tore your gaze from him and began to look around, your voice cracking, "W-Where are we?... What's a shortcut?" You looked back to him before continuing, "Who are you? Was that your trap I got caught in? What were you-" He pressed a single phalange over your lips to silence you, his expression softening, "This is my cottage, and a shortcut... well, let's see... it's like teleportation, essentially. To answer your other questions, my name is Valence Bandersnatch, but you're free to call me Val, if you'd like. And no, that wasn't my trap. Believe me, I wouldn't put a trap in such a place, if I had any. While I understand that you likely have many more questions for me, you need to take it easy now. I'm gonna heal up those injuries of yours, and then we can have some tea while we wait for that deranged maniac to pass by. He won't find you here, I promise. All you need to do is keep your voice down."

You nodded in understanding, watching Valence curiously as he lowered himself to his knees, gently moving your injured leg and holding a hand over where the trap had caught you. One of his sockets flared up with magic again, and more similarly colored magic surrounded his hand. As your injury began to rapidly heal, your eyes widened in a mix of shock and awe, your voice barely a whisper, "Whoa... that's so cool..." His cheekbones became flushed, a faint blush beginning to stain them as he smiled sheepishly, releasing your leg as it finished healing, "Thank you... I'm very happy you think so, human." He climbed up onto the couch beside you, holding his hand over the scratches on your arm. Your gaze followed his motions and you continued to watch in awe as the scratch healed before your eyes, just as they'd done before. 

His magic faded away and his second socket returned to normal, both irises present once more. Your gaze met his and it was silent for a moment, his multicolored, swirled eye lights captivating you. His faint blush darkened slightly and he cleared his throat, glancing away from you and sheepishly scratching the back of his skull, "I uh... how about I get us some cake and tea? The cake is fresh, just made this morning, and I can whip up a kettle of tea in no time at all." A soft blush teased at your own cheeks as you smiled softly, "As long as it wouldn't be a problem or anything, I'd really like that." The skeleton returned your smile and shook his head as he stood up, "Of course, it's not a problem. Not in the slightest," he paused, tilting his head and playfully winking at you, "especially not for a human as lovely as yourself." 

Your blush darkened a small bit and you looked away from him, trying to tune out the way he chuckled at having been successful at flustering you. As he turned and exited the room, you let out a deep breath that you weren't even aware you'd been holding; sure, you'd only just met Valence, but he was such a gentleman to you. He was so gentle and considerate, and his magic was beautiful. He was also quite attractive now that you thought about it. His smile gave you butterflies and his eyes (eye sockets?) were mesmerizing, and there's no way you could forget that sexy British accent he had. You blinked. Wait, what was happening right now? Were you seriously developing a crush on him? He was a stranger, but he'd also saved your life, too. As thoughts raced in your head, you failed to notice as he appeared in the doorway, a small plate in hand that held a fork and a piece of cake. Seeing that you were lost in thought, he briefly paused to admire the look on your face. Excitement bubbled up in his very soul, and he grinned to himself; he'd saved you once, but before the day was over, he'd save you yet again. 

He quickly rearranged his expression, his smile smaller and more genuine in appearance as he approached the couch and cleared his throat, gaining your attention as he offered you the slice of cake, "Here's your cake. The tea is almost ready, and I can bring it to you once it's done." You accepted the cake and couldn't help but smile at him again, "Ok... thanks Val. I really appreciate you doing all this for me." The skeleton waved off your words, nearly beaming at you as he returned your smile, "Oh, don't mention it. Anything for such a darling human." Your cheeks flushed again and your smile turned shy as you sheepishly refocused your attention on the piece of cake. Val was quick to vanish from the room again and you grasped your fork, slicing off a small bit of the cake and popping it into your mouth. As it hit your tongue, your eyes widened in pleasant surprise and you practically moaned at the flavor. It was perhaps the best cake you'd ever had in your entire life.

So not only was Val your savior that happened to be attractive and sweet, but he was also a great baker too. Talk about a catch.

You'd eaten about half of the slice before you began to notice the way heat coarsed through your body. You repressed a tiny mewl as it reached your core, causing you to press your thighs together. He wouldn't have done something to cake… would he?

As Val crossed into the living room again with two cups of tea, your scent invaded his senses and he inhaled deeply, nearly purring in delight. There were no words to describe how amazing you smelled right now, but it left him wanting to just... eat you right up.

He settled on the couch beside you, leaning forward to set the cups of tea on the coffee table, his sudden movement making you jolt in surprise as you looked up at him. He cleared his throat, offering you an apologetic smile, "Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." You shook your head and sighed, offering him a slight smile in return, "N-No, it's alright, don't worry about it, Val." Noticing the way you tried to be very subtle with your squirming, he feigned concern, frowning, "Are you alright, human? You're all red, and you don't look so good." Shaking your head, you hummed, "Nah, I'm ok... just a little warm, that's all."

To your confusion, he swiped your piece of half eaten cake from you, setting the plate beside your cup of tea before gently capturing your jaw, making you unable to turn away from him. Lifting his free hand, he delicately rested it on your forehead, as if checking to see if you'd caught a fever. With him being in such close proximity, you fought the urge to kiss him. Sure, you just met him, but in your current state, kissing him felt like something that needed to be done. He hummed, sliding his hand from your forehead to your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin as he met your gaze. That was what destroyed your last bit of self restraint. Without a warning, you leaned closer, pressing your lips to his teeth and kissing him. As expected, he momentarily tensed in shock, but then to your utter delight, he began to kiss you back. It wasn't long before his teeth coaxed apart your lips, allowing his cyan tongue to pass through and greet yours. 

As the kiss grew more heated, you whined, fisting at his shirt and fumbling with the buttons on his vest. You'd managed to undo maybe half a dozen before he broke the kiss, letting you catch your breath. While you watched him, your eyes clouded with obvious lust, he reached out, lifting one of the cups of tea and offering it to you, his slightly hushed voice now holding a husky edge, "Drink, darling. It'll help you cool down." You whined, squirming in your seat as you caught the tone he spoke to you in, "B-But Val... please. I need you-" Grinning shamelessly at you, he chuckled, leaning closer to peck your lips, "And you can have me. Drink some of your tea first though." Though you would've liked for him to forget about the tea and take you right there on his couch, you nodded slowly, almost pouting as you accepted the drink. 

Raising the cup to your lips, you took a sip, your eyebrows raising in surprise. Once again, you'd not expected the flavor of what he'd handed you. Humming in curiosity, you glanced up at Valence, "What kinda tea is this?... It's really good, Val." The skeleton watched you as you took another sip of your beverage, "Golden Flower." Blinking, a realization hit you and you raised an eyebrow, visibly interested, "Wait.... as in 'Golden Flower Tea'? The tea that Asgore supposedly loves?" He hummed in confirmation, "Exactly so. I'll say, I'm a little surprised you know about that old goat and his tea preferences." You smiled bashfully, shrugging and taking another sip, "Well... yeah. When the monsters came to the surface, I did my research. I wanted to learn what I could, y'know?" 

He nodded in understanding and offered you a playful grin, "So you're a bit of a nerd then, it seems." You rolled your eyes, lips still curled into a smile as you flicked your tongue at him, "Yeah, maybe I am. Is there a problem with that, mister?" You made sure to make it clear you were only teasing, and in response, Valence laughed softly, "No, no. Of course not. For a nerd, you're actually really cute." Your cheeks immediately gained a bright blush and you squirmed in your seat, smiling sheepishly again. He watched you quietly for a moment, allowing you to continue enjoying your drink before he spoke again, still smiling slightly, "If you read about Asgore and his love of Golden Flower Tea, I wonder... did you happen to read anything about what the tea is made from?" You hummed, tilting your head and nodding, "Mhm. Isn't it made from the seeds and stems of Golden Flowers?" The skeleton nodded, arching a brow bone as his grin suddenly became mischievous, "And did you learn about what'd happen if the petals were used, too?" You paused, furrowing your brows, "Doesn't it become poisonous?..."

Something flickered in his sockets and he purred in satisfaction, "Right on, Cutie." You opened your mouth to question him but froze, pressing a hand over your mouth as you began to cough violently. You reached out, intending to place your cup on the coffee table, but both of your arms went limp, causing you to drop your cup and spill what was left of the tea on the floor. Unable to force your body to cooperate, you slouched to the slide, now leaning against Val. He sighed, feigning a look of concern again as he tsked, reaching into the breast pocket on his vest and withdrawing a handkerchief, lightly dabbing it along your mouth as he hummed, "My my, look at you... you're making quite a mess of yourself, you know." As he pulled the handkerchief away from your mouth, you glanced down, your eyes widening in fear and beginning to water up as you took notice of the red that now stained it. Unable to lift your head to even look at Valence properly, you whimpered, a tear rolling down your cheek, "W-Why, Val?... Why would you do this to me?..."

The skeleton hummed, merely smiling at you, "Because I'm a little overdue on paying my debt to the lovely family of lake dwellers that have allowed me to live on their land." Your voice cracked, and you tried your best to force back the impending need to cough again, "Y... You're using me to pay off a debt?" In a much too cheerful tone, the skeleton monster gave you confirmation, "Pretty much, yeah. Don't take it personally though, ok? I like you. If I didn't, I would've killed you sooner, and I wouldn't have been so nice about it." 

Your eyelids began to feel heavy and you croaked, "How does killing me pay off that debt?" He merely smiled, lightly cupping your face and stroking your cheek with his thumb, "They're a bunch of human eaters." Your mind replayed the look that the first skeleton you encountered had worn and a chill ran through you, "But the tea... It'll poison them too." He chuckled, lowering his voice to a murmur, "No it won't, silly. It doesn't affect monsters the way it does humans. Guess you didn't get the memo, huh?" You felt yourself break, letting out faint sobs as you tried to look away from him. Reading your expression, he sighed, "Come here, darling. Let me ease your suffering a bit." You wanted to shove him away and scream, tell him to get lost, but as the world began to fade away before you, the last thing you felt was his teeth against your lips