#ive started making shrink plastic earrings

[froggyworlds]

ugh fuck listen. I’m on mobile and the formatting on here is whack idk how to put things under the cut on mobile I’m sorry. inspired by the HTB AU, tw for suicide and body horror and all the usual fun mandela catalyst things

update: got the cut in there.

it was all good until things went wrong.

okay. okay, that was a lie. it stings a little in the back of his throat, even now, even when lies are all he is. it is? he isn’t really sure, and bites his tongue a little too hard and is met with something thick and tasteless that definitely isn’t blood.

Adam spits it out with a gag, ignoring how it’s darker than red.

^ my skin is not my own. ^

no fucking shit.

he sucks a breath into lungs that don’t need air, and wonders briefly if he ever really needed to breathe at all, or if this whole time it’d just been one big lie.

as noted before: he’s made up of lies.

^ lies and shadow and static. ^

he feels his eyelids start to droop, not in a really tired way, but in a my-humanity-is-slowly-seeping-out-through-the-cracks-in-my-body-into-the-floorboards-and-my-eyelids-feel-like-they’re-lined-with-needles way.

no. no, he cannot close his eyes. they’re too far open and if he sinks he doubts he’ll be able to claw his way to the surface again. it’s so dark back there.

^ I am a cog in the machine. ^

he can’t feel anything. it’s not an entirely foreign sensation, but in this context it makes awful sense that he wishes it didn’t.

it’s bizarre, for certain: being… vaguely aware, somewhat, of your surroundings, but every detail becomes blurred, every emotion only half-processed. his screams don’t even reach his own ears, but his throat still burns with anguished, staticky wails and the taste of chlorine and saltwater and soap.

^ please, just fucking kill me. ^

Adam’s skin feels awfully like rubber, and moving makes the partially-melted substance shift over his bones horrifically uncomfortably, so he can’t even bring it in himself to try and get up. not that he really wants to. he’d be content to sit here until he rots, until the thing in his mind with him dies.

he has a terrible feeling, though, that if one half of him has to go, his humanity will drain first. it already is, in a steady drip-drip-drip like a leaky tap or an IV filled with black ichor instead of plasma, into a murky puddle that stains his palms and soles of his feet.

^ there’s not enough room for the both of us. ^

except there’s only ever been one of it. it was wearing a very well-crafted mask, and it has worn that mask for a very, very long time, but there was never an internal war to be had for long. it remembers now. it knows what it is, and it knows that Adam Murray died 17 years ago.

he shoves that away. no, no, he's alive. he has to be. there must've been something there that was real: the way his fingers felt intertwined with someone else's, the way cheap arcade pizza always tasted better when he was eating it on a date with Evelin. the way a laugh tasted in his eyes when Jonah told a stupid joke, the way his teeth ached whenever he stared at the mirror for too long even though he couldn't remember what he was looking for, the feeling of metal against skin even though it never cut through, stop, stop it, stop fucking messing with my head.

^ PLEASE, JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD. ^

he hates the way his skin feels like plastic shrink wrap over his tendons, shifting around inside him like an action figure over an open flame. without really thinking, he puts a hand over his mouth and forces out a sob into it; why would he have to force out a sob? crying is one of the most natural things to do in this situation.

oh. that answers itself. crying is the most human reaction.

^ I’m not the real me. ^

he hasn’t stopped to breathe in a little while now. he doesn’t cry anymore, but he thinks there is something streaking down his cheeks, blurring his vision even more.

coils and claws grab the back of his mind and yank downwards, and instead of gasping for air he grasps for purchase on the slippery glass-smoothness of reality, trying to hold himself away from the cracks that it knows it would be oh-so-easy to slither into. it cannot close its eyes now.

^ my eyes are wide open. ^

Adam (or whatever it is that’s been Adam since it killed him) screams again, jaw swinging open like a door on broken hinges. it can’t keep clinging on like this. sooner or later it- he will falter.

^ no one is coming to help me. ^

Sarah and Evelin wouldn’t. what reason would hey have to? neither of them owe Adam anything. they probably wouldn’t even recognize him as the Adam they know if they were to see it now, curled up and screaming and frantically trying to hold onto his humanity as his insides roil.

who would even come into this house on accident? generally peoples’ first instinct when they hear a static-filled scream is to run in the opposite direction.

so he's fucked. that's it. he's going to lose himself here, and that's that. he can almost hear his friends' the others' voices clamoring inside his head, shouting nonsense ranging from weather reports to "are you still there?" to "Adam, please, I know you're in there-" to "we always knew you were weak." it doesn't make sense, it's just pointless cacophony, and Adam thinks that might be the point.

^ PLEASE, JUST FUCKING KILL ME. ^

Adam curls into himself a little more and keeps screaming.

#mandela catalyst #adam murray #alternate adam murray #the mandela catalogue #tmc fic #tmc #the mandela catalogue fic #tw suicide #tw body horror #ask to tag #godd I’m so tired sorryyy #might post. same/similar scene but fairly different vibe. maybe tomorrow #god I can’t keep my eyes open anymore #I’m literally abt to pass out lmao #mmmkkkk gnight #stay safe out there guys #mythic's drabbles

[squeakybuny]

an older horny short story from 2020 written completely off the cuff in a discord chat buntoy n lichen cw bondage, vacbed

lichen greenmane , the gnoll scavenger is picking thru the ruins of an ancient city, when she finds a buried sarcophagus as she clears the soil from it she finds a small panel, glowing red the runes upon it read "lock timer error" eventually she uncovers the whole lid and pries it loose with a crowbar and a little help from her robot horse inside, is a very very very mindbroken buntoy with a big unchanging smile around her muzzle donut, completely unresponsive until lichen lays her paw on the toys hip handle a slight twitch betrays the doll isnt quite inanimate… "holy shit, ive never seen one of these that still works…" she thinks to herself before hesitantly, uttering "buntoy, up" sure enough the toy scrambles from its tomb and stands bolt upright in front of the gnoll a devilish grin spreads across lichens face she ties the toy up real tight, stuffs her into a saddlebag of her bike and rides off towards home back at lichens hut she looked over the toy it had leaked all over the inside of her saddlebag, so def self lubricating. it very obediently followed the simple commands lichen barked at it too. no switches or remote to be found so if it had a voice, shed never hear it.

when she took it into her outdoor shower to wash it off, it humped her handpaw as she was cleaning its toyhole "oh, an eager toy arent you?" she said, gently pulling her paw away. she instead grabbed its handles and pulled it close "i can help with that" she whispered into its ear

lichen turned off the water - the toy is clean enough anyway. she lifted it by its hip handles and took it inside, roughly tossing it into her huge bed

she undressed and walked up to the bed, her massive frame towering over the little soft buntoy. the toy wiggled her hips a little at the sight of that yeen peen,,, but lichen put a paw around her neck and growled "not yet toy, im gonna have some fun with you first"

the toy didnt resist at all when the gnoll pulled a coil of rope off her wall and got to work tying its legs n arms behind its back

completely trussed up, the buntoy squirmed with excitement as lichen pushed pushed in her oversized hen, stretching the toys hole. it shivered with pleasure as she thrust again and again into its tight hole, anf it arched its back as they both came simultaneously…

lichen pulled out her hen, and buntoy was beginning to relax in the afterglow when she thrust it into her ass "youre a really lucky toy - i was reeeally pent up when i found you…" lichen notices cum starting to drip from buntoys muzzle donut, even tho she hadnt used it yet "aww, is buntoy full?" the toy meekly nods "lemme help you out then" she replies and reaches under the bed, pulling out 3 very large knotty dildos. she pushes them into buntoys ass and toyhole, then starts fucking buntoys muzzle donut

soon the toys belly is bulging with gnoll cum… lichen pulls out and quickly stuffs the last knot into her muzzle donut

"…i have an idea" lichen again digs through her things; she pulls out a big plastic bag, and a shop vac "usually i use this trick to keep food fresh and clothes dry on long trips, but i have a special plan for you, buntoy"

she stuffs buntoy into the bag, still tied up with her arms n feet behind her back, and jerks off one last time onto the toy before sealing the bag with a piece of metal she heated over her fire

she plugs the shopvac into the bag and switches it on, gently stroking the toys vace thru the plastic as it shrinks around her

"youve been such a good toy, i wanna make you all mine - by the time ur done in this bag, my smell will be embedded in your rubber, and itll never come out." she ran a bit of extra rope thru the eyelets in the top of the bag, and slung the whole thing over one of the rafters of her hut, so it could swing and not hit anything

she kisses the squirming bundle on its nose, and gently strokes its toyhole, "have fun in there buntoy~"

and walks back out the door on another adventure, locking it securely behind her

[merverelli]

🤍 numquam obliviscere, commemora semper 🖤

rest peacefully, unus annus

stills under the read more!!!!

#unus annus #unusannus #memento mori #memento vivere #markiplier #crankgameplays #just noticed an issue with the gif but its too late now #make a game of it!!!! see if you can find it!!!!!!!! #i love this joke and this channel to bits #im gonna miss it for sure #alright babey its life update time #im going out to dinner tomorrow with my friends and im very excited #ive started making shrink plastic earrings #the first ones failed very badly smh #and i?????? might have a gf?????????? were still in the talking phase/havent made it official yet #but were going on our first date soonish!!!!!!!!!!! which is exciting!!!!!!! and terrifying!!!!!!!!!!!! #november knew that this year sucked so its pulling out all the stops now #anyway ily i hope youre staying safe im gonna go to bed goodnight sweet dreams

[mysteira6]

FukaFlower - Visiting You

Summary:

Requested by Lil-flowie (on Wattpad).

Casting aside his fear to visit her… was a lot harder than he thought.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Prompt: “Flower gets hurt and is in the hospital. Fukase is worried for her.”

Hey there! It’s been a while. I still heckin love these two so don’t think that I’m gonna stop making these for a LONG time~ :3

Special one-shot this time because this was a request from my book on Wattpad! Hope you enjoy. ^^

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“She’s in room 17,”

He quickly nodded once in thanks. “Thanks,” He replied gratefully before turning away from the receptionist and looking back at the hallway. White-clad nurses typing away on wheelie monitors littered the hallway, along with the occasional visitor walking back and forth between visiting their loved ones and chatting with other doctors. The sterile scent in the room conjured images of medicine and machinery in his mind, almost coercing him to shrink into the size of a ball, curled up and shivering on the floor.

Fukase hated hospitals. He didn’t want to have a reason to visit such a place that reminded him too much of what he had been through. By instinct, his left hand swiftly raised to touch his face, his bandaged fingers swiping against the grooves along his cheeks.

Come on, Fukase. Stop thinking about that. You’re here to visit the one you love, not to mull over your… stuff.

After giving himself a solid nod of confidence, the red-haired boy began to make his way down the hall, his crimson eyes looking out for the double-digit label that indicated which room his partner was staying at. It wasn’t too long before he found it, standing before the door as if waiting to be let in.

He held tightly to the bag in his right hand, the antiseptic scent still annoying him. Here goes nothing.

A turn of the doorknob later and the boy walked into a small room with walls of beige, satin blue furniture consisting of a sofa and visitor chairs aligned neatly against each wall while a longer bed sat in the middle of it all. Laying on said bed and tucked behind pearl-coloured sheets was a petite figure with gorgeous violet eyes, her smooth curls of white moving along with a strand of black hair as she turned towards her visitor. It wasn’t long before a small smile adorned her face, and Fukase found it very difficult to turn away from her upon seeing her beautiful smile.

“Fukase!” She murmured gleefully, and though she tried to step out of bed to greet him properly, the girl was reminded of her slight impairment when she felt a sharp twinge from her right arm, the thick plaster cast wrapped around her forearm reminding her not to move too much to agitate her wound. With a heavy sigh to herself, she eventually shifted back to her original position, only watching as the redheaded boy quickly trotted to her side, dragging a visitor’s chair with him as he placed his paper bag on the bedside table.

“Hey Flo,” He started, heart still fluttering at the sight of his partner’s pure expression. “How are you?” He was internally praying that the unease in his head had not leaked out into the tone of his voice.

“Alright, I guess,” The patient in question replied, motioning to her cast. “I just don’t know why my manager made me stay in the hospital for a hairline fracture on my arm. I’m pretty sure Xin Hua and you can take care of me fine,”

Fukase felt his cheeks heat up at the comment. He did like taking care of her when she was sick, after all. “I’m sure they just don’t want their ‘superstar’ singer to get hurt a second time. Besides, they did mention that your treatment would be covered by them,”

“But the food here is so plain,” She protested, a pout forming on her lips. “I’d rather just make my own food at home, even if I’m gonna feel pain throughout the whole thing-”

“Now that’s when I gotta stop ya, Petals,” The redhead’s tone deepened as he continued. “You know what your doctor would say; don’t move that cast around too much or it’s gonna stay there forever,”

She huffed impatiently. “Okay, I guess you got a point, but it’s still pretty boring around here-”

She was cut off by a jovial laugh coming from the boy now sitting next to her, accompanied by the sight of a familiar marshmallow coloured doll popping out of his paper bag, soon stumbling out of the bag and hopping onto her bed, taking a seat next to her lying figure as Fukase’s laugh slowly died out. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” He asked cheerfully with a smirk on his face.

The girl’s cheeks turned satin pink. What was she thinking? Here, she was being visited by her loving and kind boyfriend and all she was doing was complaining to him. Some partner she was.

Hoping to ameliorate the situation, she smiled warmly at him. “Thanks for visiting,” She softly spoke, giving another smile to the little doll by her left hand, who had been patiently waiting for her to acknowledge its presence. “I know you’re pretty busy and all,”

Fukase let out a small chuckle. “Hah. If by ‘busy’, you mean that I have to handle being teased all day by the Kagamine twins about ‘my girl’ being in the hospital, then yeah, I guess I have been a little busy,”

Flower narrowed her eyes, speechless. Ever since she started dating Fukase, it seemed that those 14-year-olds’ attacks on them would never stop, not even when they were not seen together in public. Sometimes, the snow-haired teen wondered if they liked it when her defensive boyfriend would come running after those gremlins after they let out a few teasing words to them.

In reality, as his girlfriend chuckled to herself (he assumed that she was chuckling about his comment about the Kagamine twins), Fukase could slowly feel a lump slowly forming in his throat. It was this room, he realised; this room was far too familiar to him. The pale walls closing in on his figure, that damn sterile scent of surgical masks and IV drips wafting through his nose, the chilly air that blew by from the vent on the floor, sweeping across his skin and forming trails of goosebumps all over him-

It was probably a miracle that he hadn’t completely succumbed to his memories, that he hadn’t shriveled into the size of a ball while sitting on the hospital chair, that he had not started shaking while reaching out to hold Flower’s left hand that wasn’t wrapped in a cast-

Left hand.

It was… her left hand.

Left hand…

Left hand.

Left hand. Left hand. Left. Left. Left. Left. Left left left left-

“Fukase?”

Her distinctive, powerful voice sent him straight back to reality, his eyes blinking once, twice, before looking over to the person who had called his name. In his mindscape, those words kept repeating themselves, the noises of his past ringing in his ears despite the fact that she pierced through it all with her own voice. Only when he noticed the expression in her violet-hued irises did he realise why she called him.

She had noticed him. Noticed him experiencing a flashback. The redhead felt ashamed.

“You know, I’d ask if you’re okay,” She said sombrely, breaking the momentary silence between the both of them. “But knowing you, I kinda have an idea of how you’d respond. And if I’m right, it’s not really a good thing…” She added, drooping her head a little.

“Flo, I-”

“I know. You don’t like hospitals, right?” The moment she said that was when the boy on the chair finally gave in to the fear creeping on his back, his arms wrapping themselves around his chest as if shielding himself from an attacking foe. Though he kept his gaze on her, Flower knew that he wasn’t really ‘okay’ with this.

“I figured as much,” She sighed softly, hoping that he wouldn’t hear her. “I’m really sorry that I had to burden you to visit me while I’m here, Fukase,”

“You don’t have to apologise, Flower,” He hastily replied, though the slight falsetto in his voice spoke volumes of what was going through his head. “I mean, it’s not like you made the accident happen,”

“Yeah, but still,” Seeing her lover look at her with fearful eyes so different from his usual gaze made Flower curse at her predicament; all she wanted to do was to step out of bed and hold the boy in her embrace. Just like last time.

Instead, she only muttered. “If I had been more careful…”

“ … Even if you had, there’s no telling what else could have happened,”

Flower didn’t respond to that, only looking down at her arm wrapped in white, silently cursing at it until she heard the sound of a chair shifting closer to her bed. A quick turn presented her with the sight of the scarred-face boy having his face petted by the living doll from before, its chubby hands threading through the plastic barrier of the hospital bed and patting the human boy’s cheeks as if to make a funny face out of it.

Had Flower not known that this little doll, Point, was sort of a parental figure to her boyfriend, she would have been merely amused at this silly sight.

But since Flower did know about Point, she also could tell that Fukase was really trying to get over his trauma just to make her smile. It was a common trait between the two of them; whenever Fukase had the urge to make anyone happy, he’d usually perform humorous antics with that little white doll. Likewise, in the moments when he was the most vulnerable emotionally, Point would be there to remind Fukase that he was not alone in the world anymore. That he now had someone else to talk to when his mind was a mess.

After their mini-episode of making funny faces in front of her (and inciting a little giggle from her), the red-haired boy sported a small smile, the fear from earlier mostly dissipated from his eyes.

“Flower…” He started, leaning his head against the fencing by the hospital bed, the light from the windows reflecting off of his scarlet eyes. “You know you’re really important to me, right?”

“Y-yeah?”

“So… Don’t worry about me being afraid of… this place…” He slowly declared, his voice building up confidence as he went on. “I know I tend to be dramatic about it, but I promise you; I’ll be okay,”

“Are you sure?” The hesitation in her tone convinced Fukase to up his determination in his reply. “Yeah. I’m not trying to trick you this time; I’ll be fine,”

“Besides, seeing you and having you next to me…” As much as he tried to hide it, the red on his cheeks was obvious. “It helps me deal with the memory, so… don’t be too worried about me, alright?”

‘Seeing you and having you next to me’

They were such simple words and yet… Those alone were enough to wash all of the white-haired girl worries away.

“Oh! That reminds me,” The young boy stood up suddenly, turning to the paper bag he brought with him and pulling out a petite white box with a handle by the top. “Here, I got you something. And don’t worry, I asked Xin Hua about what you couldn’t eat, and this doesn’t qualify as any of your prohibited foods,”

As Fukase placed the box in front of her, he steadily undid the box’s paper lock, revealing a single triangular slice of vanilla cake, its three layers stuck together by white icing filled with red slices of fruit while the top layer was completely covered with another layer of white and three white rosettes. The singular conical red item placed on the top of the cake was the last thing Flower needed to identify what kind of treat her boyfriend had bought for her.

 “A strawberry cake,” She noted without any traces of astonishment in her voice. “Why am I not surprised?” Though she was shaking her head, there was a pensive smile inscribed on her lips.

“Oh, well if you don’t want it, more for me-”

“What, no! Of course I want it!”

“Oh, really?” A mischievous grin found its way to the cheeky redhead’s lips as he spoke. “Judging by the look on your face, I was starting to think that you didn’t like it. Or am I wrong?”

His girlfriend was about to facepalm herself with her right hand until she felt a tinge of pain that signalled her to use her left one instead. “You’re ridiculous. You wouldn’t buy that for me and bring it here if you thought that I wouldn’t want it, would you?”

“So you’re saying that I’m a good boyfriend?”

The girl paused, though it didn’t take too much pondering before she arrived at a conclusion. Between him mustering his guts to visit a hospital, the hotspot of his trauma, and pushing aside that trauma to admit how much she meant to him, Flower was convinced that this time, Fukase’s passing joke was true.

Knowing that, she heaved a relaxed sigh, reaching out to touch his bandaged hand briefly. The sudden contact cued him to glance at her, taking in the bright smile that adorned her face. “Yeah,” Flower murmured sweetly. “I think you are. A good boyfriend, I mean,”

Her cheeks turned satin pink as she added the last part of her sentence, an unusually bashful smile slowly creeping up her lips. The redhead could only look on at her, frozen and unmoving, only taking in how adorable she looked under the rays of sunlight seeping through the windows of the ward.

There was no way to stop Fukase from chuckling light-heartedly. “Wow,” He muttered, breathless. “I… didn’t think you’d actually say something so sappy,”

The girl shrugged. “Maybe it’s my meds?” She sheepishly teased. “I guess I’m just feeling a little… affectionate today,”

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Fukase teased back with a smirk. “Seeing you trying to flirt is cute too,” Flower didn’t have any time to respond to that before Fukase turned his whole body to the patient lying on the bed, a white plate containing the vanilla-coloured slice of spongy cake in one hand while his other gripped tightly onto a small fork. “Seriously though, you want this cake?”

She beamed at the prospect of eating something sweet. “Of course,”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

For the rest of the afternoon, the two teens stayed in that hospital room, sharing bites of a dessert that they both loved. Still, the sweetness from the delicious cake was nothing compared to their relationship.

A gentle, tender bond that was supported by their endless love and support for each other.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They... They be cute... QwQ

#fukaflower #fukase #vocaloid fukase #vocaloid flower #vflower #shipping #oneshot #hospital visit #flokase #fukase x flower #flower x fukase #fanfic #vocaloid fanfic #vocaloid

[hermannsthumb]

Halloween party, cold, and bonfire?

Anonymous said: Bonfire

from autumn fic meme here: 8. Halloween Party + 37. Cold + 23. Bonfire

for this i was thinking that college au might be fun, especially bc ive had this art on the mind for a week....hehe

—————————————————————

“Well, well, well,” a short Godzilla says across the cider bowl from Hermann, his hands—well, claws—on his hips. “What’s a guy like you doing somewhere like this, Gottlieb?”

Hermann freezes, ladle in hand. “I’m sorry,” he says, “do I know you?” Hermann does not generally make a habit of associating with people who attend parties in obnoxious felt Godzilla costumes. Clearly homemade ones, at that. 

The Godzilla struggles with his mask for a few seconds before finally ripping it off with a triumphant crow. And, of course—the red-faced, sweaty, messy-haired boy beneath it is none other than Newton Geiszler, who is exactly the sort of person who would attend a party in an obnoxious felt Godzilla costume, and who Hermann, begrudgingly, associates with, on account of being his assigned lab partner. “Oh,” Hermann says. His mouth twists down automatically. His fingers tighten on the ladle. “Hello, Newton.” He didn’t know Newton would be coming. In fairness—Hermann didn’t know that he himself would be coming, either, until about forty-five minutes ago. 

Newton adjusts his fogged-up glasses and grins. “Seriously, what are you doing here?” he says.

“I was invited,” Hermann says, spooning cider into his cup and determined to keep a level head: most of his interactions with Newton tend to erupt in violent arguments. Usually through no fault of Hermann’s own. Usually. He’d rather that not happen in the home of a complete stranger, and well past midnight, at that. “I don’t know if I can say the same for you—”

“Ha-ha,” Newton says. “That’s not what I—wait, hand me the ladle, don’t be a dick—not what I meant. I thought you hated this kind of shit. Loud music, and people, and socializing—”

Hermann narrows his eyes and takes a sip of his hot cider; immediately, he starts coughing it back up. He expected it to be spiked, but not spiked this much. It tastes as if there’s an entire bottle of butterscotch schnapps in there. There probably is. “That’s strong,” he wheezes.

“It sure it,” Newton says, and grins wider. After a brief struggle with the cider (because, as Hermann imagines, it’s difficult to do anything with the moronic gloves he’s wearing) downs all of his glass and goes back in for another. “I made it myself. Who invited you to a party?”

Apparently the conversation isn’t over yet. “Tendo Choi,” Hermann says, still wheezing, “from, ah, computer science.”

“No shit!” Newton crows. “You know Tendo?” Hermann nods. “We were in a band together, you know, freshman year, with some other guys. And a little bit of junior year. And this past summer.” He coughs. “We had an, uh, hard time sticking together as a group. Musicians, you know, very—temperamental.”

“Mm,” Hermann says, sure it has nothing whatsoever to do with Newton’s personality, nor the quality of the band itself, which Hermann can’t help but assume was very, very low. He’s not surprised of its existence, at least; Newton is the sort who walks around campus with his guitar slung over his back, just waiting for the excuse to whip it out and torture innocent bystanders with half a dozen Violent Femmes covers. “Well, Newton, if that’s all—”

Hermann ducks around the table to make his way to the glass slider. Beyond it lies the expansive backyard, decorated with strings of skeleton garland and paper ghosts from oak tree to oak tree, illuminated only by orange and purple lanterns, and promising a bonfire with significantly fewer people than there are crammed into this basement. Most importantly, it promises freedom: no Newton Geiszler. Hermann will put up with the October chill if it means no Newton Geiszler.

Newton (perpetually unable to take a hint) trails after him anyway. “What’s your costume supposed to be?” he says.

“I’m Alan Turing,” Hermann offers, weakly, because it was a very last minute costume and the only thing he’d been able to think of.

“You’re so lame,” Newton says, “you totally—” and then proceeds to get his tail caught in the slider. He jerks backwards; his drink sloshes to the patio. “Fuck!”

Hermann can’t contain his snort. “King of the Monsters indeed.”

“Yeah, okay, funny,” Newton says. He gives a fruitless wobble. “You’re a regular comedian. Shut up and help me, jackass.”

Still snickering under his breath, Hermann tucks his cane under his arm and gives a great tug on the front of the Godzilla costume. Newton stumbles forward. “Thanks,” he says, and resumes waddling at Hermann’s side, to Hermann’s disappointment. “Anyway—lame. You totally just pulled that out of your closet. I’ve seen you wear that sweater three times this month.”

“You must pay very close attention to me to have noticed that,” Hermann says. “One might even say you’re obsessed with me.”

“As if,” Newton scoffs. “I just can’t help it, you know, everything you wear is just so ugly. Total eyesore. It’s all permanently seared into my retinas. Jesus,” he waddles faster, tail flopping comically behind him, leaves crunching loudly under his giant costume boots, “slow down, will you? I can’t move in this thing.” He huffs out a breath. “Sweating like a bitch, too. It smells like a fucking locker room in here.”

Hermann wrinkles his nose; Newton is so endlessly charming. “Are you going to follow me around all night?” he says.

“I might,” Newton says. “I don’t have any friends—”

“No surprise there.”

“—here. I don’t have any friends here, and you’re better than nothing,” Newton corrects. He sticks his tongue out. “You’re such a jerk, Gottlieb.”

Privately, Hermann wonders why Newton bothered coming to a party he knew none of his friends would attend in the first place, but he supposes it’s hypocritical of him. He doesn’t have any friends here either, after all. He doesn’t even know the host. Tendo Choi invited him—strong-armed him into attending, really, into relaxing for a single night—and yet Hermann hasn’t seen a single perfectly-coiffed hair of his head all night. “Just promise me you won’t be a nuisance,” Hermann says. It’s better than nothing, as Newton said.

Newton is a nuisance. They find a small bench in a deserted corner of the bonfire, and Newton—after a little trouble fitting onto it, with his ridiculous costume tail—talks to Hermann incessantly about every single thought that crosses his mind: where he bought the cider, how much he hates the music blasting through the speakers in the house, how long it took to make his costume, the weather, whether or not Hermann has Halloween plans. “I kinda miss trick-or-treating,” Newton says. “Why is it so weird for adults to do it, anyway? It’s free candy. You don’t just stop liking candy once you finish puberty.”

“Mm,” Hermann says.

“I bet if I wore this everyone would think I’m a kid,” Newton says. “I could get as much free candy as I wanted. One of my neighbors used to actually give out toothbrushes when I was, like, twelve, can you believe it? I thought that only happened in dumb books. I don’t know why he did it, that shit was probably way more expensive than a bag of fucking candy corn. He wasn’t even a dentist.”

“Mm,” Hermann says again. The loud snap of one of the logs in the bonfire finally cracking in half; a chilly breeze rustles the red-orange-yellow leaves of the oak trees, the garland, the ends of Hermann’s hair, and, instinctively, Hermann shrinks in on himself with a shiver. He wishes he hadn’t forgone his warm parka for the sake of his costume.

Newton’s eyebrows knit together with concern. “Are you okay?” he says.

“Yes,” Hermann says. He does up the two buttons of his blazer and wraps his hands around his cup of cider, which, though well beyond lukewarm, is managing to give off just a bit of heat. Enough to keep Hermann’s fingers from stiffening up. “Er—just cold.”

“I have a sweatshirt inside, if you wanna borrow—”

“No,” Hermann says quickly. “It’s fine. Really.” 

Newton stares at him. Then, without warning, he’s suddenly closing the wide gap between them and flinging an arm (soft, thanks to his fuzzy costume, warm, strong) around Hermann’s shoulders. Hermann’s shivering stops at once; his ears go hot; his body goes rigid. “Newton,” he stammers. “You—ah—you don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” Newton says. His breath smells like apple cider, the schnapps he spiked it with, candy he undoubtedly grabbed in handfuls from the cheap plastic pumpkin head on the buffet table. This close, even in the low flicker of the fire, Hermann can see that his nose and cheeks are dusted with freckles he’s never noticed before. (He’s never been this close to Newton before.) “And just—take that stick out of your ass a little. I don’t have cooties.”

There’d been a small bubble of warmth building in Hermann’s chest, just below his sternum, threatening to rise and burst from Hermann’s mouth in the form of something mortifying like I only pretend to hate you because I’m very, very fond of you, but Newton manages to successfully squash it and grind it under his heel into the dirt with that single jab. Hermann scowls. “And I don’t have a stick up my arse,” he snaps.

“Arse,” Newton parrots back in the worst faux-posh English accent Hermann has ever heard. “You know that’s the least sexy word ever, right?”

“I’m not trying to be sexy.”

“Oh, and you’re succeeding,” Newton says, “with flying colors.”

“I can’t stand you,” Hermann growls, and then he kisses Newton.

He does it mostly to shut Newton up—and, yes, he’s been gazing at those soft lips all night and wondering what it would be like, because Newton can’t seem to stop biting and licking them every bloody second, yes, he’s been wanting to take Newton’s smug, gorgeous little face in his hands and knock him down a peg since the very first lab they had to work together—but after Newton’s muffled exclamation of surprise becomes a very enthusiastic hum, after his mouth parts open eagerly, Hermann keeps going. He can taste the cider, the candy. He can feel Newton’s fingers sliding through his hair—

Newton’s claws sliding through his hair. “Newton,” Hermann says, making a face as he pulls away. “Are you still wearing your gloves?”

“Oops,” Newton says, dazed, wide-eyed, glasses dangling off his nose. “Am I?” He is: he looks between his hands, just as dazed, as if he’s forgotten that he’s wearing a costume and doesn’t typically have large green monster paws, and then he breaks out into giggles. “I am. Wow. Sorry. I—you kissed me!”

“I did,” Hermann says. He plucks at one of the gloves. “Now take these off. I don’t want you clawing my scalp up.” They’re truthfully nowhere near sharp enough to, but Hermann can’t say he enjoys the sensation of them regardless. Newton has strong hands with strong fingers he’d much rather feel.

“What,” Newton says, and grins and waggles the claws of one hand, “you don’t want to pretend you’re macking on some sexy monster?”

"Newton,” Hermann says, “if you want to ever kiss me again, you will take those damned things off now.”

“Fine. Grumpy.”

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous

[fatandnerdy30]

The Itsy Bitsy Spider 6

Peter scuffed his foot on the glass table as Pepper and Mr. Stark talked with Bruce, and the man looked back at him, squinting with a sad smile. "Yeah, I'll help build something for him, but couldn't you do it by yourself?" Wait, why could the boy suddenly hear them all the way over there? He then felt weird.

Tony smiled. "I haven't seen you in so long, I miss you!" "Plus, I think he wants you and Peter to bond," Pepper said. "He's terrified of you, and he hasn't even seen the Hulk. But, what he's been through, I wouldn't want to be around doctors, either." She made a face. "Yeah, all right. I'll see what I've got here to make him something." The man stood and headed for the door. "Hey, Peter. Nice to see you again." He frowned when the boy flinched, looking pained. "What's wrong?" Tony took a step towards the boy. "Your voice...it's too loud.." Peter groaned, holding his ears. It seemed as if his entire body was going haywire at the moment. He didn't even see the hand coming at him, but when the fingers touched his torso, the boy reacted, grabbing the man's hand and bending his fingers back in a painful position. "OWOWOWOWOWOWOW!!!" Bruce struggled to get his hand away from Peter, but it seemed like the boy had it in a vice grip. He tried a different approach, trying to keep himself calm and calm the kid down at the same time. "Peter," he whispered. "Peter, calm down...no one is going to hurt you here...Peter, it's okay. I'm going to help you. I just need you to calm down, okay. Open your eyes, come on." His technique was working and he could feel the boy's grip loosening, until he was able to pull his hand away. "Are you okay?" Pepper and Tony stood on both sides of the boy, a look of concern on their face. "What happened?" Tony looked down when he saw Peter flinch and knelt down. "Hey, Pete, talk to me." Peter's head was pounding and every part of his body was screaming at him to get away. "I...I don't know..." he sobbed, curling up. "Help me.." "Okay, short stuff, we're gonna have to go into the lab fully, though." The boy nodded and Tony knew at that point something was wrong. Carefully, he slid Peter into his hand, wincing when the teen rolled to the middle of his palm. Quickly he walked towards the table Bruce was set up on, waiting for the doctor to set up a towel to place Peter down. "Okay, kid, Bruce is gonna take a look at you. It'll be okay." Banner came close, bringing a magnifying screen over the boy. "Pete, you need to calm down, you're giving yourself a nosebleed." He was worried that boy was going to have a heart attack with the way his blood pressure must have been raising. "Come on, bud.." "Peter," Tony slid his hand over the teen, resting his thumb over his chest. "Pete, feel my heart, listen to my breaths....easy...." He purposefully breathed loud, watching his thumb rise and fall to see if the boy followed his breathing, which he did after a moment. "Good job, kid. Just keep it up." He turned to Bruce. "What do you need?" "Um," Banner was looking between Tony and Peter, only seeing his friend like that with Morgan. "A new blood sample, definitely." He grabbed the thinnest needle he had and quickly swabbed the boy's arm, wincing when the smell made his face go pained again. He didn't have time to program a bot this time. "Sorry, bud. Okay, a little stick." He slid the needle into where he could see the blue of a vein, sighing when blood started flowing, and a second later he pulled the needle and quickly brought the sample to look at under the microscope. "Tones," he said, voice apprehensive. "Friday, project." The room darkened and Friday showed a hologram of what was going on under the scope. "What the hell?" Tony watched as the blood cells mutated right in front of his eyes. "Enhance to a molecular level." Friday enhanced the image. Peter's DNA was changing more than it already had. The DNA strands before them were suddenly twisting and reforming, healing itself before his eyes. It was amazing to watch. "What's going on?" A tiny pained voice asked.Tony looked back to Peter, who had calmed down, but still shaking under the man's hand. "Hey, hey, Pete, you okay?" Peter nodded. "Y-yeah....I don't know what happened.." "Your healing, how long would it take to heal a bruise?" Bruce asked, his mind working a mile a minute. "It takes usually twenty minutes from what I've seen...bruises are easy when they're simple. When they broke bones, that took two days..." He was so tired... "Don't go to sleep on me yet, kid." The billionaire remembered seeing the bruises on the boy's arms when they rescued him. "So, then it must have been that morning that they gave you an IV?" The teen nodded, his eyes closing, his face pale under the magnifying lens. "Do you know what they gave you?" A shake of the head. "Okay, it's okay, Pete...You can rest now." He accepted the corner of a paper towel from the doctor and placed it over Peter's bleeding nose until a few seconds later, the bleeding stopped on its own, which Tony thought was impossible. "Thanks, Mr. Stark," Peter slurred and his eyes closed, a small snore coming from him a moment later. "That...that was scary," Banner sighed. "No kidding." "What just happened?" Pepper came from the corner, concern on her face. "I mean...what just happened?" Tony lifted his hands. "It would appear the injection Hydra gave Pete here took a few days to take hold, and that caused a mutation in his own DNA." He looked to Bruce, who was studying the microscope, as if he'd forgotten Friday was projecting the results. "Tony...I know what they gave him, I would know it anywhere.." he pulled away, his eyes going to the hologram. "Gamma radiation...they mixed a spider's DNA string with gamma radiation.....It's hard to tell what spider, because the radiation takes it over. I can't believe he survived what those bastards did to him..." He took his glasses off, his face sad and angry at the same time. "Just calm down, Brucie. Take a breath, the kid is okay, just breathe. You don't wanna turn green with Peter in the room." Pepper went to him, placing a hand on his back, and when she wasn't rebuked, she rubbed circles on the doctor's back, soothing him with hushed words. "I'm okay," the doctor breathed after a few minutes. "I'm good, I'm good...I just...I hate thinking of anyone in the hands of those..." he took a deep breath and looked at the tiny boy on the table, watching his face in the lens. "At least he's okay now. I'll try and figure out how to undo the...the only way I can put it is the shrinking, as childish as it is to say." Banner smiled and shook his head. "And also I'll try to get in touch with Hank Pym again, see what he has to say." Tony nodded, and looked to Pepper, who was already holding Peter in her cupped hands, brushing the hair from his face with her thumb. "Okay, let's go get this kid to bed. He can take a shower after he wakes up." He wrapped his arm around the woman's waist and they stepped out, only to be greeted by a smiling Morgan. "Hi mommy! Hi daddy! Mommy, what are you holding? Can I see it? Daddy, look at my drawing! It's of the team!" Morgan dropped her bag to the floor and dug through her bag. Pepper stepped back, covering Peter. "I have to go for a minute. When I get back, how do you feel about cookies and milk before you start your homework?" The little girl stopped rummaging, her face lighting up."Yes please! Daddy, can you help me? You're super smart." She gave the man big doe eyes, which she knew her daddy couldn't say no to. "Okay, let's go." He grabbed his daughter's hand. "This is your fault, you know," he told Pepper, who smiled as the man was led away by the six year old. Pepper quickly went to Peter's room, laying the boy on the pillow, seeing how his body sunk slightly into the surface. "Have a good rest, sweetie," she whispered. She wanted to kiss his forehead, but was afraid of hurting Peter. So, she just kissed her fingertip and brushed it along the boy's hairline. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Morgan couldn't sleep. All day she'd been full of energy, but everything she did did nothing to get rid of the energy, and it was starting to bug her. She wanted to go into her daddy's workshop with her plastic tools, and mimic every move, but it was too late and she knew her daddy would yell. So, she got up out of bed and padded to her dolls, quietly taking the ones that didn't talk out and brought them to her bed. She wanted to turn on her music, but she couldn't ask Friday to block the noise from her room. She'd done that once when she was experimenting with the toilet, and her daddy had told Friday to never let her do it again.   So, she silently went playing with her dolls, but soon her stomach grumbled. She'd had two slices of pizza for dinner, the team all around her at the table, but she found it weird that her dad had left the table with a slice of pizza, then came back a few minutes later without it. Morgan couldn't think on a empty stomach. She needed a snack. Putting her dolls aside, she padded out of her room. "Miss Morgan," Friday's voice was loud. "What are you doing out of bed?" "Shh!! Friday, I wanted a snack. I'm hungry." "Your father will not be happy to learn that you are out of bed at this time," the AI whispered this time. "He doesn't have to know," she called up to the ceiling. "Please, Friday? Just this once? And it's the weekend!" "There are some carrot sticks in the bottom drawer." Morgan smiled and ran to the kitchen, grabbing her snack, grabbing a few when she looked down the hall curiously. "Friday? Who else is here?" "It is just your family, the avengers and Peter." Who was that? "Where is Peter staying?" "Down the hall, Miss Morgan. I am waking Mr. Stark." "No!" She ran down the hall, opening each door, but there was no one in any room...maybe they were invisible! She went through again, calling into each room until a watery voice answered. "M-Mrs. Stark?" "No...I'm Morgan Stark. Are you Peter?" She couldn't see anyone. "Are you invisible?" "What?" The boy laughed. "No! I'm just...tiny, I guess." Morgan raised a brow and walked into the room and there laying in the middle of the pillow was a tiny boy, the size of one of Morgan's dolls, his face scrunched up in fear. "Hi," Morgan called softly. "You really are tiny." She crawled onto the bed, being careful with her new friend. "Are you a fairy? Or, were you a doll that Daddy brought to life?" She reached out her hand.Peter scurried back when the child's hand reached toward him, his senses screaming at him that this was dangerous! "Morgan Stark, what are you doing out of bed?" Both kids gasped, Peter sagged in relief to see Mr. Stark standing in the doorway, a stern yet worried expression on his face. "I-I wanted to get a snack, but then I though about where the pizza from dinner went, so I looked in the rooms and found Peter." She frowned and looked at the ground. She was only curious.Tony sighed. "I see...and how did you know his name?" He came to stand by the bed. "Friday?" "You never gave an order to not tell anyone who asked, Boss." Peter struggled to sit up in the softness beneath him when suddenly his hair stood up and he rolled away from the hand that was reaching out to grab him, surprising both him and Morgan, who stared at him with a smile. "That was really cool."She was lifted away suddenly by Mr. Stark, who gave her a stern look. "Morgan, you could have hurt Peter if you had grabbed him. He's here under the Avengers protection, so that means that he is off limits." Peter didn't like being talked about like he wasn't even in the room and he frowned. "I..If she doesn't try to pick me up, she can come and talk to me. I don't mind." Morgan smiled. "See Daddy? He said I can come see him." Mr. Stark shook his head and looked to Peter. "You have no clue what you've done," he joked. "But, if you want her company, I won't say no. Just do what he says, Morgan. He may not look it, but he's older than you." He gave the boy a scared look as he turned and smiled. "Come on, back to bed little miss. I'll be back, Pete." The boy watched them leave the room, and wanted to tell the man not to leave. That he was scared...but, a few minutes later, Mr. Stark came back to sit on the bed. "You okay?" He glanced at the kid. Even though Tony had had the boy for only a couple of days, he felt protective of him. He could blame the parent thing, but he knew that wasn't it. Once you got to know Peter, it was impossible not to love him. Is this what having two kids felt like? "Yeah, I'm okay." Peter lied, wiping his face. He felt his senses blare again, but he moved too late and he was scooped up by the billionaire and brought up to the man's face, where two large eyes studied him. "Hmm....sure. What was this dream about?" Tony got up and started walking, exiting the room. He knew a nightmare when he saw it, and knew the boy had been having them since the first day. In a way, he was glad Morgan had gotten to him first. Normally when he got there, the kid was already asleep again, nightmare over. Well, tonight he was going to hopefully make them stay away. Peter let out a soft sigh, blush reddening his face as his hand pushed his curls from his eyes. "I was back in the lab....there were people all around me, but...this time, Dr. Banner was there." He shivered and held himself, but Mr. Stark must have noticed, because the next he knew, he was curling his hand around the boy, creating a cocoon of warmth. "It's stupid, I know," the boy laughed. "Nothing you've said has ever been stupid, kid. Trust me, I've known some pretty stupid people." I've had this dream before, Mr. Stark...it's nothing really." Tony ignored the boy an walked to his and Pepper's room, shutting the door behind him. "Wh-what are we doing in your room?" Peter asked, looking around. He'd never been in the man's room. "Well, it's late, I'm tired, you're tired. We're going to sleep." He slid into the bed as quietly as he could as not to wake the sleeping Pepper, but it seemed she was awake. "What's wrong?" she glanced at Peter in her husband's hand, concern filling her face. "Peter?" "It's nothing, honey. Just a little nightmare, that's all. Go back to sleep." Peter gasped as the man laid down, not having a chance to grab on to something before falling to the man's chest. He sat there dazed for a moment. "Mr. Stark, I'm okay, really. I can sleep in my own room." He looked into Mr. Stark's face with a serious expression, his body moving up and down with the man's breathing. He wasn't a baby. He could handle a bad dream, and he went to tell the man that, when the man opened his mouth. "Hush," Tony told him, closing his eyes. "It's sleep time." Peter huffed and started looking for ways to get down, when he felt his body react before he could even think, rolling out of the way of the hand coming at him. "Mr. Stark!" he squeaked, feeling the man chuckle. "You're tickling me," Tony lied and brought his hand up again, slower this time, letting the boy see it lower. "Now lay down." Peter shook his head. This was completely embarrassing! Then, out of nowhere a finger knocked the boy down and he turned to see Pepper smirking, her manicured hand going back to her side. "See? Even Pepper wants you to lay down." Tony brought his hand up before Peter could move, covering him, feeling his fingers over the boy like a weighted blanket. And it wasn't as bad as Peter thought. The minute Mr. Stark's hand covered him, he felt the anxiety and fear of the dream going away. Under him, the man's heart beat thundered, but it was comforting to Peter. Something touched his back and at first he fought it, but Mr. Stark's pointer finger had started rubbing his back, the digit firm and comforting. Slowly the boy felt his eyes closing, when the door opening brought them all to attention, but when they saw it was only Morgan, the adults relaxed. "What is it?" Pepper asked sleepily, opening her arms for her daughter to crawl into. "I wanted to tell Daddy I'm sorry for finding Peter...hi." Morgan waved at Peter, who laid on her father's chest, smiling when he waved back. "You found Peter?" Pepper asked. "Were you looking for him?" The girl shook her head. "No, but I found him. Can I sleep in here, too?" Tony was about to say no, when Pepper brought the girl up into the bed and he sighed, but smiled. "Sure, I already have a kid the size of a mouse on my chest...what's one more titan, huh?" Pepper chuckled as Morgan got settled and brought her arm across all three of them, her hand covering Tony's. "Good night," she whispered, but all she heard was breathing and she smiled, drifting off herself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@letsbeinspiredby @sparrowrider @6inchicon @carttorchdeatth

#Iron Man Tony Stark #iron dad #g/t #shrunkpeterparker #spideyson #MamaPepperPotts #morgan stark #protectiveavengers #theitsybitsyspider

[esreviun]

extubation (2012)

for myself, five years ago.

I.

An endotracheal tube doesn’t come out very easily. The masses of surgical tape that hold it to your face aren’t there to keep it from accidentally slipping out of you. It’s firmly in there. It climbs up from your lungs out through your mouth and clings to the inside of your throat like something with legs. No the tape is there to keep it from moving at all. Anything— the smallest shift in your position a cough moving your arm too far— can pull a little on that tube and set your throat on fire. It doesn’t hurt— it burns. Every four hours a nurse comes in and rolls you onto your other side “to prevent bedsores.” You want to shout at them to leave you alone. You don’t care about bedsores, you care about breathing. But they still come in every damn four hours like wardens in a jail, making the rounds. It’s worst when they change your diaper. (You can’t afford to feel humiliated that you have to wear a diaper.) They have to flip you over more than once: take off the left side, flip, take off the right side, flip, put on a new one, flip, turn you over to fasten it, flip. With each flip your throat blazes and chokes you. You squeeze your eyes shut your face pressed into that horrible dank standard-issue hospital bedsheet and try not to cry from the pain. Every day. Every night. 

All this and yet when they actually remove the tube you’re terrified. You don’t want it to go. At least while it’s here, you know you can breathe— but they say that you’re probably strong enough to breathe on your own now without the ventilator. Probably?! They don’t feel like waiting until they’re sure? The nurses prop you up and get their equipment set out on the tray beside your bed. The attending makes a point of telling you: there’s a chance this might not work and you might have to be re-intubated. Just so you know. Thanks, you want to say. Thanks for paralyzing me with terror. Your bedside manner leaves absolutely nothing to be desired. She readies herself at the head of your bed and holds onto the end of the tube that’s sticking out between your chapped lips.

“When I count to three,” she says, “cough really hard.” 

She counts to three.

You cough.

II.

i haven’t forgotten i’ll never forget

III.

Junior year is when bad things start to happen, things that scare you for the first time. Pulmonology appointments were just a thing you did, until now. Like any other regular checkup. You grew up surrounded by doctors and hospitals and people poking at you and asking questions. It was normal. Being disabled was normal. You would gripe at your parents after church— after some well-meaning adult told you how inspirational you were or treated you like some paragon of bravery— saying, you didn’t envy birds for being able to fly, why would you envy other people for being able to walk? Reach things on high shelves? Take the stairs instead of the elevator? It’s not a big deal. It’s never been a big deal. Until now.

It’s the summer of 2006. Your doctors want to see you. They start running more tests. They ask you to breathe into a machine. Into another machine inside a glass box. Into another machine attached to a computer. Every time your chest rises or falls it makes numbers on screens. Every time you visit, the numbers are smaller. Your specialists start throwing code words around. Decreased lung capacity. Respiratory decline. More invasive solutions. God, you pray one night in bed, tears pricking at your eyes, please don’t let me get a ventilator.

IV.

Years later in your college dorm room you will write a poem about how it feels to hook up to your ventilator after a long day, how that first perfect breath of air rushes in and transforms you. You’ll sit there for fifteen minutes just trying to figure out how to describe that moment. It will overwhelm you. Eventually you will settle for: all you have to do is sit there and let it fill you all the way up like you’re being changed from a scribble into a sound like suddenly your shape means something but it won’t be good enough. It won’t capture it. So much of your poetry over the next several years will be trying to get another person to feel ventilated. So many of your poems will be coughs.

V.

Over the months, you shrink. September and October pass. In your high school advisory photo, which you still have today you look tiny, a massive brown striped turtleneck sweater billowing over you like you’re a sheep. When you shear the wool off of a sheep the animal underneath is thin and scraggly. When you take off your clothes, you’re skin and bones. You try to explain, to concerned friends, what your doctors told you: the less oxygen you get, the harder it is for your body to keep going. You sleep badly at night. This makes you tired. Your body works harder to keep you breathing. You burn through calories. You become bony. You can’t get comfortable in bed. So you don’t sleep well. And so you’re more tired. And so you lose more weight. It’s a vicious cycle, you say. But your doctors are going to help you break it. You have no idea how.

(You don’t say that.)

You know that to help you sleep your pediatrician suggests Tylenol PM. Every night your mom puts the little plastic cup of golden syrup by your toothbrush on the bathroom counter. You swallow it. It tastes like bitter vanilla. (You will still remember this taste in five years and it will still make your stomach churn.) You know that pulmonologists prescibe you inhalers and expensive medications to make your breathing easier. You know that they’re giving you a lot of things to make a lot of things easier. But you also know the worst part: that no one seems to be able to explain what’s happening. You hear a lot of explanations for the how but very few for the why. You wish you could sit your body down and look it in the eye and ask it to explain. It changes under your fingertips and it won’t tell you why. 

Every day you come home from school a little more exhausted and put your hand on your chest and wonder why you can’t count on your lungs anymore.

VI.

i can trust in your sinew and mystery but— never quite enough

VII.

Sometimes when it’s too much you park your wheelchair in front of the wooden computer desk in the sunroom and you put in your headphones and listen to a mandolin instrumental. The same one, every time. Kneel Before Him. Chris Thile. You’ve played this song in your ears more times than you can count now. You close your eyes and focus on the notes. The mandolin takes you away.

VIII.

You’ll write another poem in a few months about how your body has fought its hardest for you your whole life. And then you’ll write another poem about how your body has been betraying you your whole life. And then you’ll write another poem about how you can’t decide which one it is. And then you’ll keep writing those poems forever.

IX.

A dietician gives you this command: Keep a journal of everything you eat. Every day. Try to eat as many calories as you can. Eat whatever you want, as much as you can hold, whenever you’re even a little bit hungry.

In theory this is the best doctor’s order ever. In practice it’s a nightmare. You have no appetite. It’s wasted away. Early in the mornings before school you eat breakfast in the near-dark of the dining room and while your dad clears away the dishes afterward you scratch ¼ waffle w/syrup, 1 sausage, 2 oz. whole milk onto the next page of the small black notebook you carry with you now in your purse. Your dad makes you eat another quarter of a waffle. It slides thickly down your throat. You can’t remember enjoying food. You try to force down the nutritional supplements— the packets of clear starchy calorie gloop that your mom stirs into your mashed potatoes or mac ‘n’ cheese, the chocolate Boost shakes that are okay, you guess just more…cardboardy than chocolate is supposed to taste. You really try. But it isn’t enough.

They weigh you in February. You can’t stand on a scale so your dad picks you up and stands on it and then the doctor weighs him alone and subtracts the numbers. You measure 4’8”. You weigh 62 pounds. Sixty-two pounds. You’re sixteen years old.

(When you’re older you’ll wonder what the look on your dad’s face was when the doctor read your weight out. But you won’t remember it. You’ll remember the backs of your knees sticking to the rubber edge of the examination table and the weight settling into your chest.)

The doctor says the words feeding tube. You shake your head. That’s not going to happen. Ever. You tell him how on the ride home from school last week you ate an entire jelly donut and it was the first time in your life that you’d ever been congratulated for finishing junk food. The doctor laughs. So does your dad. You wish their smiles would reach their eyes.

You have to go to your mandolin when you get home.

X.

it rests on my lap, indenting the tops of my legs the smooth soft neck of it against my face my right hand gripping the far side of its body i can imagine the inside of that dark, empty body so much like mine hollow, the way the universe was before there were stars

XI.

It was important to you even before this all began, the mandolin. You’d wanted one for years. Your grandparents buy you one for your sixteenth birthday. It’s not expensive and it goes out of tune easily and you’re not very good at it. You’ll only ever learn four or five chords and a couple of clumsy strumming patterns. Your hands are a little too small and your fingers weak and soft. The callouses don’t form quickly. Your fingertips burn. But you revel in it. You’ve never pushed your body to do anything before. You dig those strings into the pads of your fingers so hard that they leave marks that last for hours.

XII.

“When I count to three, cough really hard.” 

One.

XIII.

There’s an afternoon at school when you suddenly have to leave class and go and lie down in the counselor’s office because you feel dizzy and your head is throbbing and you’re so, so tired and you don’t know what’s going on. Your heart pounds. You’ve always been scared when your heart pounds. In eighth grade you remember feeling your heart racing and worrying that something was wrong with you like you might be having a heart attack or something. And when you were a sophomore you would freak out when you felt short of breath even though your parents would always assure you that it’s okay, honey there’s nothing wrong with you you’re fine. You’re just having an anxiety attack. It feels like you can’t get enough air but you can.

In five years you’ll know that some of these times there really was nothing wrong with you and you really were imagining it. But other times your parents were wrong. Other times were preludes to what was coming next. You were right not to trust your body. You never know.

XIV.

i am covered in memorials of the times you have turned against me 

XV.

During the last week of March you’re home from school with a cold. You’ll remember that last day of school. You sat in the empty cafeteria with a book while it thunderstormed outside. The whole wall of the room was windows, and the rain and the dark and the silence of the trees heaving to and fro in the wind made you feel like you were sealed inside of a fish bowl Alex, one of your senior friends, sat down and made some jokes with you. Then you went home.

You’ve never written a poem about that day. Maybe you should.

XVI.

Two.

XVII.

Very early in the morning on Sunday, April 1st you wake up and call your mom into your bedroom to get you a glass of water. Your voice is faint. When she turns on the light your lips and fingernails are blue.

In the emergency room the nurses take one look at you and rush you back into an examination room where they stick a probe on your finger and read that your oxygen saturation is 60% and dropping. Someone gives you an oxygen mask. It seems to help. They think you’re falling back asleep.

You’re not. Your right lung is collapsing. You don’t have a cold, you have pneumonia. It’s spread into your bloodstream. Septic. Hypocarbic. Pneumothorax. Your body begins to shut down. Your parents are rushed out of the room.

(You will remember none of this. The only memory you’ll retain of that night will be protesting no, I’m FINE, just give me a glass of water and let me go back to sleep, Mom, it’s not a big deal, I feel perfectly fine. You’ll laugh when you remember this because you know now that oxygen deprivation can make a person confused or, in your case, a blithering idiot.)

EMTs and nurses crowd your bed. Someone presses a plastic mask over your nose and mouth. You’re long unconscious by now. They pump air into your starved lungs and outside of the room a nurse has to guide your mom to a chair so that she doesn’t pass out.

(It will occur to you long after this that if you hadn’t been thirsty that night you wouldn’t have called for a drink and woken your mom up and no one would have known that your body was suffocating you in your sleep. Your parents would have found you dead in your bed the next morning. Your whole face would have been blue.)

XVIII.

you have been warring me off of this territory since the moment i set foot on it and on the day when you win i will make sure that the last word is mine

i will be riddled with scars and i will not go quietly

XIX.

You don’t die. Remember this. You don’t die. You push your body against that hospital so hard that it leaves marks that last for years. 

XX.

Three.

XXI.

actually the sword is much mightier than the pen

XXII.

No hospital room has white walls— not really— not the ones you stay in with the bad lighting and the dismal curtains and various baffling objects hung up around the bed that look like surely they must do something very important but hell if you have any idea what.

(In two months you’ll recognize them all.)

But for some reason white light is the first thing you’re going to remember. Maybe everything just seems bright to you because your eyes have been closed for so long.

XXIII.

Here is what you remember from week one:

You see your parents’ faces.

They’re crying.

That can’t be a good sign.

You drift.

And drift.

XXIV.

When you’re still sixteen still in the hospital you’ll write a poem called How To Spin Starlight. It will be the first poem you have written in months— months— and it will go like this:

the stars said “spin us” and i took a weary breath and turned the universe upside-down to draw some thread from black, black stars and spin it into glittering

It will be rubbish.

When you’re seventeen one of your best friends will tell you you don’t need the last two lines and you’ll realize she’s right. All the poem is about is being turned upside-down.

XXV.

While you lie there with a tube down your throat and a tube up your nose and a tube up your urethra and a tube sticking into your foot and a tube sticking into your hand and a tube stapled into the side of your chest and a whole handful of tubes buried under the skin of your collarbone, the Easter Bunny comes.

He visits every patient in the pediatric intensive care unit. Even the ones in medically-induced comas. He bends over your pale, prone form in the hospital bed a horrifying specter of pink plush and oversized costumed limbs.

Someday you will see a photo of this.

You will wonder who in their right mind thought this was a good idea.

XXVI.

After about a week they take you off the sedatives and you think it’s Wednesday. You burst into tears when they tell you you’re wrong. You have no idea why. Your parents try to calm you down and explain why you’re here because you don’t remember and you don’t understand. You can’t breathe. You can’t talk. You’re broken.

XXVII.

When you’re eighteen you will write a poem about your mandolin.

i am acutely aware that my horizontal wrist veins and tendons are stretched out against its vertical eight strings and imagine that with a little maneuvering they could be woven together gold and silver strings with scarlet ones

You won’t have played it for years but you’ll remember the smoothness of its body the arch of its neck the friction of its strings. In your poem you will compare it to your body: this instrument which you are not very good at controlling and which sometimes doesn’t behave.

if i lifted my fingertips a quiver might start in the deep places of that body run up along that delicate neck reach the string-tips stay there—shuddering— and release a note sweet into space

It will occur to you two years later that this is wrong. You are not an instrument because when instruments shatter they can’t be repaired. Your fingers still run over the skin of your chest and your side and your hands sometimes over bumps and indentations and rough patches and you think it would be awfully cheesy to compare myself to a poem, wouldn’t it? A poem constantly being revised?

XXVIII.

The nurse’s grip tightens on your endotracheal tube.

“Three.”

You cough.

XXIX.

You’ll try so many times over the next five years to explain what that tube feels like coming out— ripping out, more like it as though it wants to take your whole throat with it. What will be harder, though is describing what it feels like immediately afterwards: the gasping, the choking, the sensation of having lost the one thing that was weighing you down keeping you from floating away and yet at the same time feeling suddenly so unbelievably heavy. The nurses fit a mask over your nose: a C-PAP machine, to assist your breathing. It doesn’t help much. You haven’t taken a breath on your own in two weeks. You’ve entirely forgotten how. They keep saying you’re all right, you’re doing fine but you’re so scared you’re shaking and so finally in an effort to distract you and calm you down someone finds a DVD for you to watch. It’s “Grease.” It’s terrible. You watch it anyway, though because what else are you going to do? Your dad stays in the room with you. It’s dark— it’s the middle of April in Michigan and the blinds are drawn over the one window anyway— and you think, I could die here, sitting in a dark room and watching “Grease.” This could be how I actually die.

XXX.

It isn’t, though.

It isn’t.

[hedgewolf-hunters]

Short story

Gonna give a quick glimpse into the Hedgewolf Family past. Note that this takes place when Bane is about six, Drake and Scarlet are four, and Inferna was recently born.

The old town, greying and falling apart, except for Castle Blackstone, the ancient castle made of a special obsidian like stone with swirling galaxies within the stone. The main barracks which is going through a construction process, as shown by the large plastic tarp spliting a portion of the left most wing from the rest of a modern mansion. And the arena which seems to be in pristine condition, fresh red stones and all the torches around its outer and inner walls lit.

"Bane Wyvern Darkos! Get your tail back here with that ham!" A female voice calls out from the mansion/barrakcs. A five foot tall red dragon comes barreling out the front doors with a half cooked ham in its mouth. It opens its wings and leaps up onto one of the old roof's. Looking back its bright blue eyes sparkle at a group of amber and blue eyes. It smirks as it runs off deeper into town loosing tiles from the roof's.

Once it was a good distance from the house the dragon plopped the ham into its claws before sitting down and beginning to change into a two foot tall hedgewolf. The same red scales are now fur and quills. His horns have become two of his top quills with his devil horn like ears in front of them. Two quills going back normally and his two bottom quills behind his tan cheeks curving downward than back up at his face like rams horns. A small tuft of fur like hair standing up at his forehead. Fingerless gloves getting greasy from the meat and combat boots on his feet. His tail shrinks down from the long lizard tail to that of a wolf. His sky blue eyes shine as he lips his lips looking at the ham. His stomach growling rather loudly for someone of his size.

Bane finally sunk his teeth into the delicious looking ham and took a large chunk out from it. He chewed for a bit with a smile on his face than it went sour slowly as he spit the chunk back out. Instead of the redish pink of the ham in his hands it was now devoid of color and looked like grey matter. Bane growls glaring before he tosses the ham as hard as he can back the way he came.

"Whoa! Nice arm son, i see your weight training and practicing with Hyleia is getting better." A male hedgehog says stepping up next to Bane. His fur is a deep purple with serrated steel looking quills. He wears a black and red gi with a samuri sword at his hip and a pair of tabi on his feet. Bane glances up at the four and a half foot tall hedgehog than goes back to glaring across the abandoned city.

"Somethings the matter. What is it my young child?" The hedgehog asks. Bane huffs and pulls his face into his arms and knees up to his chest gesturing over to the pile of food he spat up. His father Strider looks at the pile confused for a second.

"What about the pile." Strider asks.

"I cant eat or taste anything these past two weeks. I try and it always comes back up, looking like that. Ive barely had anything filling now. Ive been sneaking Aunties protien bars for snacks but they dont do it anymore. I took the ham hoping to get something in my stomach but it just tastes like bile after the first few bites." Bane cries softly into his little enclosed space. His father hums softly to him and rubs his back between the two large spines. He sits there and lets Bane cry out his frustrations.

Half an hour later Bane is passed out sniffling in his sleep. Strider is petting his head as he rests in his fathers lap.

"Strider is he doing any better?" A cherry red four foot tall wolf asks coming up behind them. Her hair like fur is in a mohawk with a braid that reaches her lower back. Shes wearing a sleeveless leather jacket with biker gloves a grey pair of jeans and knee length boots.

"Yes Sky my dear, he hasn't cried this much since he nearly burnt down the house two years ago." Strider says to the wolf. Her sea blue eyes glance down to her eldest son and she kneels down next to her husband leaning against his shoulder. She takes over petting Bane's head as Strider wraps his arm around hers.

"We should call in Doctor Sylvain." Sky says.

"No Sky, you know how i feel about that man. Not to mention our own son has a distaste for him. Besides if worse comes to worse Aura should be able to figure out whats wrong with him after a few potions." Strider says.

"Strider i trust your sister and i dont like him either. But if Bane is sick or worse we need someone who can find out a little sooner than that." Sky says turning her attention to Stirder. He turns to her and his amber eyes glow as the black and white stripes on his quills do. Her own blue stripes under her eyes glow as well. He sighs and kisses her head.

"Fine we call him in the morning. But he does a routine check up and thats it." Strider says resting his head on hers. She smiles and pets his cheek.

"Good now lets get Bane back inside before he catches a cold out here." Sky says getting up. Strider hands the sleepy Bane to her so he can get up. But something odd happens when Bane touches his mothers arms. She has to kneel and hold him at arms length as she quickly runs out of breath and her own color started fading grey.

"That was a odd feeling." Sky panted out. She looks like she had just run several marathons and almost dehydrated. Strider picks up Bane and helps Sky lean on his shoulder.

"Maybe we should have the Doc check you out too. Its been five months since you blessed us with a fourth child but you shouldnt be this drained still." Strider says as they hop down two stories to the ground and walk back to the manor.

The next day Sky is preparing breakfast and seems to be at full strength again. She turns off the six stoves as she plates eggs, bacon, crescent rolls, and fruit slices (for the children). She puts her index and thumb inter her lips and makes a whistle loud enough for everyone to hear over the chaos of a noisey Saturday morning. A female dark purple hedgehog walks in wearing a sports top and shorts. Her quills tied into a pony tail that still reaches her thighs, with a similar stripe pattern Strider. Shes carrying a bottle feeding light pink hedgehog with three short quills snuggled into a bundle.

"Morning Aura, thanks for taking care of Inferna this morning." Sky says setting a plate down for her.

"No problem dear, after all what are sister in laws for." The hedgehog says. Sky smiles and pets her the light pink hedgehog head.

"Have you seen where my other three little pups disappeared too?" Sky asks. Aura shakes her head before both are clanching their teeth as a shreik fills the house. Shortly after a small maroon wolf looking boy with two small quills growing out the sides of his head in socks and fresh gloves runs through a wall laughing as he hides under the table.

"Oh no." Sky groans as a scalret wolf faced hedgehog comes barging into the room through the door.

"Momma! Drake hoked a luge into my hair!" The little girl exclaimed as she showed where the snot covered spit sat in her hair between her jer ears. The purple hedgehog does a spit take and chokes down her food in her mouth to catch her breath.

"Drake why would spit in your sisters hair?!" Sky exclaims as she grabs a napkin and trys cleaning it out her hair.

"Scarlet said she needed some gel to hold it back for practice today. So i thought to give her some." Drake giggles out from under the table. Scarlet glares at her twin under the table.

"Oh lady death give me strength. Drake we told you to stop these pranks so early in the morning. For that your Aunt Aura is training you today." Sky says. Drake rushes out the table and looks up at his mother with puppy eyes. Scarlet is now grinning.

"No Drake, you wont listen the first three times this will be your punishment. You ok with that Aura? Bane is basically doing strentgh and basics today anyway right?" Sky asks. Aura nods and sips some coffee from her cup.

"Yeah a few hundred laps to start should get the point across than some hand to hand for the rest of the day." Aura says.

"Morning ladies, Drake, i see your getting into trouble already. Well have fun with Auntie today. So is Bane up yet?" Strider asks taking a seat. Drake and Scarlet shake their heads making Sky and Strider turn to each other worried. Strider gets up and leaves a purple streak across the dining room running up to the second floor where the rooms are located and stops in front of the door marked with claw marks and Bane carved into a piece of steel. He forces the locked door open and looks down to find a greying Bane curled up on the floor with a small spatter of blood coughed up on the floor. Cursing under his breath he scoops up Bane in his arms and runs downstairs.

"Sky call the doc tell him im coming in now and i have no time to waste." Strider says showing their eldest to her. Sky drops her plate and runs to the kitchen as Strider kicks into high gear and tears through the house and out the front door leaving slight burn marks across the floor.

Five minutes later nearly forty kilometers away in the city Trinitad a fox with a half sliced ear hangs up his phone. His fur is a bright orange and he is fuller in a round sense. Wearing a green turtleneck sweater and a white lab coat rounded black dress shoes and white gloves. He walks out to the front office.

"Sheryl dear we have an old patient coming in. Mrs. Darkos said her son isnt doing well. Could you please seat them and let them know ill be right out." The male fox says. A white female fox turns to him and nods. Dressed in a knee length flowing skirt, a blue blouse and one inch heels. Her grey eyes look dull from lack of sleep while his emerald eyes are the bright and awake.

"Your a little late on that one." Strider says from the door. He walks in carrying the raggedly breathing Bane. Both of them bolt up to look over Bane in Strider's arms.

"When did this happen?" Sylvain asks. Strider walks over and places him on the bed.

"This morning, last night he was complaining about not being able to eat anything and feeling sick every morning." Strider says turning with a grimace towards the doctor who has a sly smirk on his face.

"Heh i knew this was bound to happen without treatment." Slyvain says with a smirk. Strider grits his teeth and grabs the hilt of his sword in one hand and the foxes fat throat in the other.

"Now ive let it slide for the last five years of what you have been doing to my son because it kept him with us. I was even willing to come back here for treatment because he is deathly ill and you would know whats happening to him. So tell me whats wrong with him and what you can do or else i will make your blood boil inside your veins and come from every pore on your body!" Strider exclaimed pinning the fox to a wall. He struggles for a few seconds trying to regain a little air from the deadly grip on his throat.

"Its chaos deficiency." He gasps out before strider drops him to the ground.

"Your son has a severe case of Chaos energy deficiency. I dont know why all i know is that he needed more energy than his body had so i injected him with Chaos energy rich supplements. When you pulled him from the visits a little year ago i knew sooner or later his body was going to run out of the energy he stored so far. This is the end stages of his energy hitting bottom." Sylvain gasps out catching his breath.

"Still doesnt explain while he has been spitting up grey food stuffs, or how you can help him." Strider growls out beginning to pull his katana from its sheath. While strider was handiling her husband and boss Sheryl decided to clean up bane a little, wiping the blood and what not from his mouth and fur. Leaning over him a necklace she has hidden under her top touches Bane. The necklace is made of gold and Chaos jewels, gemstones that have a very finite chaos energy charge stored within. As the jewels pass over him Bane gasps and coughs violently as the energy is sapped from the jewels and into Bane visibly by a green smoke trailing into him from the jewels placement. He regains his color and begins breathing normally as he remaims asleep now.

Both men turn as soon as Bane began coughing. Strider watches in hopeful interest while Sylvain watches in mock interest at the show.

"Sheryl how did you do that?" Strider asks her in a hushed tone not wanting to wake Bane at the moment. She backs up as the last wisps of energy leaves the stones.

"I didn't. I cleaned him up and his body just started collecting energy on its own." She says. Before anymore questions can be asked a female voice begins a zslow maniacal chuckle. Banes fur turns from red to black, his fur hardens into scales, his quills recede into his body leaving the two horn like quills to turn into actual horns. His body grows a foot and a half with his claws becoming sharper and his hair growing longer till it reaches the small of his back. He slowly sits up as his body changes from male to female with a small bust. A old looking white tunic appears to cover her as the body finishes its changes with the eyes, turning from sky blue to blood red. Her muzzle is slightly longer with teeth protruding slightly from the top down.

Once the change is done everyone takes a step back away from the now felmale dragon. She chuckles lightly smiling as she rotates her neck.

"Mmmm, that nap was good. Six years of being half and half really did help." The female says nreathing a sigh of relief as the pressure in her neck loosens. She bends down to touch her toes and then leans back getting several pops from her bones.

"Who are you and what have you done with my son!?" Strider exclaims holding his katana again ready to strike. She smirks and looks at him through one eye.

"Oh relax Strider, your son is perfectly fine. Hes currently taking his own nap inside of me as i was doing him." She says stretching her arms.

"What do you mean napping inside of you like you were him?" The doctor asks.

"You can keep your damned trap shut lard lad, the way you treated this boy was bad enough i might just retaliate for the family. Otherwise to answer your question, what did you think was gonna happen injecting the boy with repeated doses of my blood? You think it wasnt strange that the dragon blood you had only worked on him and none of the other children you tried using it on?" She asks with a sly smirk. Strider glares at the fat fox ready to take his head in a single stroke.

"Mind if i ask what your name is miss?" Sheryl asks. The dragon turns to her something of pity or regret for her flickers in the dragons eyes.

"My name is Drain. I was a cosmic dragon that died in my sleep so to speak and i can tell you more about the boys condition better than anyone else could." She says.

(Thats the end of this story. Whoof i didnt expect to keep going this long. But i know this isn't alot about the entire family, each short story will be about a family member in general as this one was about Bane mostly and one of his more dangerous abilities. To make this short its called a chaos siphon and it allows him to take store and redistribute chaos energy. He also can switch out with drain at a moments notice if his own energy levels are too low. He can only absorb through contact such as skin to skin/fur to fur or pulling energy from a jewel filled with energy. It also has a limit which triggers an overdose sending him into a hyperactive feral state or creating an armor and weapon set of the energy hes taken. Well i hope you all enjoyed it anyway.)

#sonic au #sonic oc #ask blog #my ocs #short story

[audreycritter]

If you don't mind, I have a flash fic request: Dick and anyone in the Batfam, but Dick is not the one doing the cheering up?

Hi, here is an entry in the continuing saga of Audrey has forgotten how to write flash fiction. Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason ToddGen/Family BondingStubborn (AO3 Link)

Dick Grayson was in the midst of such a deep sleep that he couldn’t drag himself out of it, no matter how many times the alarm on his phone went off near the bed. The problem is that he was also awake in jerking spikes of attention, like a ship tossed in an ocean storm. Heavy sleep and then the too-loud air conditioner drilling into his head. Then heavy sleep and after, his stupid phone.

He didn’t know if he wanted to wake up. He didn’t think he did.

Then there were strong, rough hands under his arms shoving him forward out of deep sleep into uncomfortable grogginess, and he shoved at the arms.

“Bruce, stop,” he complained, twisting away and into the covers. “Lemme sleep.”

“Sorry, Dickiebird,” Jason Todd’s voice sounded too sharp, too knifelike in his ears. “B’s not here.” The arms didn’t leave, but repositioned themselves under his shoulders. Dick was surprised but also not surprised? He didn’t have the energy to be surprised.

“Jay,” Dick growled, pushing hard enough at the younger man that Jason stumbled and squeezed Dick reflexively to keep from dropping him. Because Dick wasn’t in the bed, he was on his feet but just barely, his arm thrown around Jason’s neck and his feet dragging along the floor while Jason half-carried him, half-hauled him away from the bed.

And when Jason’s arm tightened around his ribs, Dick recoiled with a howl that died off into a whimper.

“Shit,” Jason muttered, moving his arm lower. “Dick, stop fighting me.”

His voice was tight and maybe worried?

Or maybe Dick was still asleep.

He was asleep. It was a heavy sleep and a troubled sleep and a–

Dick’s whole body jerked once against Jason’s grip when the water hit his skin. He was down to his boxers and being forced into a bath that wasn’t freezing but it was cold, too cold, maybe freezing after all and he fought like hell to get up but Jason’s arm was like iron rebar and with an indignant sob Dick gave up.

“Why,” he asked, the smell of wet cigarette filling his nostrils. Jason was tugging off his leather jacket and throwing it out the bathroom now that Dick wasn’t fighting as hard, one hand on Dick’s chest in case he started again. The hard plastic of the tub was frigid against Dick’s back.

“Because Alfred asked me to check on you,” Jason said, adjusting the temperature of the still flowing water. “And it’s a good thing he did. Your bitch-ass is half dead already.”

“Let me go back to bed,” Dick mumbled and in an effort to get away from the chill on his back, his head slipped under.

Jason swore above the tub and a half-second later, Dick’s face was lifted out of the water and he sputtered and coughed. When he blinked up at Jason, it was with a suddenly clear mind. The clarity began to fade again, fast, but not before he was aware that he was shivering violently and that there was obvious worry in Jason’s pale eyes.

“Shiitake mushrooms, hold still. I have to get your fever down.”

Dick was coherent enough to comply with this, though coherency brought awareness of how miserable he felt, how much the side of his chest throbbed, how cold and hot he was all at the same time. The water sounded loud, too loud, and Jason shut it off right as the noise was becoming unbearable.

“I should take you to the hospital,” Jason said, standing and hunting for towels. “But going to the Bludhaven ER is like asking them to just sign the death certificate. It’ll take us an hour to get to Gotham Memorial.”

Dick’s teeth chattered and it took a few attempts to get out his words.

“Antibiotics in,” he stuttered, sitting up out of the water and then slumping back. The air was cold. The water was cold. His chest hurt. There was nowhere to go. “Kitchen.”

“You’re a fricking idiot, you know,” Jason muttered, throwing the towels on the vanity counter. He pulled the drain plug and plunged his arms into the water up to the elbow to hook them under Dick and drag him to the side of the tub, where Dick sat shivering even after Jason wrapped a towel around his shoulders. “God, you’re like a drowned kitten. Have you always been this light?”

Dick remembered standing on a rooftop, looking down at Jason who seemed especially tiny in the Robin costume. Just so, so short and thin, even standing next to Batman, even after months of Alfred’s cooking.

“You’re smaller than I remember,” Dick had said, teasing. “Did you shrink?”

“Couple years of starving most days’ll do that to you, Dickface,” Jason had answered glibly, earning a warning scowl from Bruce. Dick didn’t know if Jason could read the worry and sorrow behind the mask, the very slight change around Bruce’s eyes that Dick just knew would be there.

“Names,” was all Bruce said. Dick knew he didn’t mean the insult– it was the fact that it wasn’t their batnames.

“Sorry, Dickwing,” Jason had amended.

“Dick,” Jason said again. “Dick. C’mon.”

Dick blinked and found himself sitting on the floor of the bathroom still wrapped in a towel. Jason was crouching next to him, shaking his shoulders.

“If you do that again, we’re going to the hospital,” he said with a frown, studying Dick’s face.

Dick’s eyes filled with tears. He just wanted to sleep forever. When did Jason get so tall?

“You got big,” he said stupidly, pulling the towel more tightly around himself. “You’re not a kid. Who let you grow up without us?”

“That’s the fever talking,” Jason said gruffly. “Now quit passing out on me. I got you some dry boxers but if I have to help you I’m never gonna let you forget it.”

Dick summoned enough energy to scrub tears away from his eyes and grumble at the younger man. Jason left him on the bathroom floor with the damp towels and the boxers and Dick could hear him rummaging in the kitchen the whole time he was peeling the wet pair off of himself and pulling the dry ones on. It took too much effort, too much focus, and when the band was around his hips he just laid flat on the cold tile and towels and waited with his eyes closed.

“Shit,” Jason said from above him a few moments later.

“Not passed out,” Dick replied without moving.

Jason didn’t answer but it sounded like he sighed.

“Al picked a helluva time to be out of town,” Jason complained, leaning over Dick. “Or you picked a helluva time to have a crisis.”

“What are you doing,” Dick asked, opening his eyes as he shivered.

“Admiring your chiseled abs,” Jason said seriously, his lock of white hair falling into his eyes, his hands propped on his knees as he studied Dick’s chest. “Or looking for weak points. Whatever makes you stay alert.” He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Fuck, I need a haircut. What did you do to yourself, anyway?”

Dick reached out and Jason clasped his forearm and helped him sit up.

“Does it matter?” Dick asked bitterly, shuddering again. His whole left side was tight and throbbing and when it gave it his attention, he realized how much of his attention it had already been taking.

“Maybe, if there’s a chance of poison. At least your stitches held,” Jason said, pressing his fingers near the sutured wounds. Dick hissed and sucked in air, trying to move away. “Bed first, though. Can you walk?”

“Yes,” Dick said, gritting his teeth as he pushed himself off the floor. He balanced, one hand on the vanity for support, before his knees buckled and Jason caught him.

“Nope,” Jason said, ducking and spinning so Dick was draped on his back. “You’re like a Barbie princess. You don’t know when to quit.”

Despite himself, Dick laughed. Even with his head on Jason’s shoulder as the younger man carried him through the apartment to the bed, he felt dizzy.

“What the hell,” he mumbled, when Jason dumped him none-too-gently onto the bed.

“Have you seen those Barbie movies?” Jason asked. “They’re frickin’ hardcore. I thought if anyone else had watched ‘em, it’d be you.”

Dick let himself sink down into the blankets, his face pressed into the soft and dry pillow.

“No. Did you change the sheets?” he asked incredulously, grunting in protest when Jason flipped the blankets back just as Dick had cocooned himself in them. “Jay, I’m freezing.”

“Do you think Alfred would ever forgive me if I didn’t change the sheets?” Jason asked, sitting on the edge of the bed with a syringe and batting Dick’s hands away from the blanket. “I still can’t believe you haven’t seen the Barbie movies. After all the times I had to listen to you sing Pocahontas songs.”

“Twice,” Dick said, wincing as Jason jabbed a needle in his vein for the IV line. “Two times.”

“Three. That one time from the roof.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dick said faintly. “I’d forgotten about that.”

The bed creaked as Jason stood back up and Dick fumbled around reaching for the blankets, but they missed his grasp when Jason pulled them up instead and tucked them around Dick, the motion quick and gentle despite Jason’s continually coarse and off-handed tone.

“I was thrown,” Dick mumbled, already mostly asleep. “Against some broken pipes.”

“I’ll be back,” Jason said, his voice sounding far away and muffled. “Don’t die while I’m gone.”

“Wait,” Dick said, the word barely a noise in the dryness of his throat. “Wait, Jay, don’t l–”

The door slammed shut.

“–eave.”

Dick Grayson dreamt of falling. Sometimes, he was falling into flame and other times he was falling into ice, but it was always falling.

Every time, right before he hit the ground, he’d wake up with a start and a groan and glance around the empty bedroom and toss in the sweaty sheets and then fall back asleep again.

He didn’t know how long it had been when he woke again and heard someone moving around in the apartment. With a grimace, he untangled the IV line and sat up, dropped his bare feet to the cold floor and staggered to the doorway. He slumped against the frame, his vision spinning, and pressed a hand against his tender side.

Jason was in the kitchen pulling an eight-pack of Gatorade and cans of soup from a paper sack. While Dick watched, Jason put a plastic bag of grapes in the fridge and then pulled one of the sports drinks away from the others.

“The fuck are you doing?” he demanded when he saw Dick standing there. “Get back in bed.”

“You left,” Dick accused, feeling angry and not sure why.

“To get groceries,” Jason shot back. “Like I told you I was going to. Gracious, Dick, I was gone for less than an hour.”

“Hm,” Dick muttered, turning back to the bed. “Seemed longer.”

He sprawled on his stomach across the blankets, feeling too hot and gross to get under them. The IV line trailed out from his arm and up to the hanging bag.

“You’re a big baby,” Jason said, coming into the room with the Gatorade and a straw. “Drink this.”

When Dick made no move to sit up, Jason growled and knelt next to the bed and shoved the straw between Dick’s lips.

“Drink,” he ordered again and Dick did. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until half the bottle was already gone. He rolled over onto his side when Jason pulled the cup back.

“Don’t leave again,” Dick said quietly, swallowing. He couldn’t stop trembling, he was so cold, and he was immediately embarrassed that he’d even said anything, like the request had snuck out of him without permission.

“You didn’t get into fear toxin, did you?” Jason asked, putting the Gatorade on the side table and checking the antibiotics drip.

“No,” Dick said, putting his sore but free arm over his face. He braced himself for the harsh teasing Jason was almost certain to unleash. “I’m just…it’s been a hard week. It’s fine. You can go.”

“‘I should have called for backup’ hard or ‘I just don’t know when to cut myself some slack’ hard?” Jason asked, pushing the drink and Dick’s phone back so he could perch on the edge of the bedside table. When Dick looked up, Jason’s expression was serious and grim, not an ounce of mirth in the small lines around his eyes or mouth.

Dick was silent for a long time, holding Jason’s gaze, and then he closed his eyes and pushed his head into the pillow.

“Don’t do that,” Dick ordered hoarsely. “Don’t play the caring big brother.”

Jason’s wrist pressed against his forehead, and then the backs of Jason’s rough, calloused knuckles were on Dick’s neck. Each contact was short and precise.

“Your fever came down some,” Jason said. “And your pulse isn’t as rapid.”

“Jay.”

“You really fucking scared me, Dick,” Jason snapped. When Dick forced his heavy eyelids open to glance up, Jason was sitting on the bedside table again with both hands over his face. “I couldn’t get you to wake up. I almost called Bruce and he’s not even in the country.”

“I’m sorry,” Dick swallowed, his face hot. He was doing this all wrong. This was not how he wanted to reconnect with Jason and it was stupid to have let an infection spread so fast.

“Don’t be sorry,” Jason said fiercely, standing and letting his hands clench into tight fists at his side. “God, you are so much like him sometimes it’s infuriating. You aren’t superhuman. You should have called someone.”

And Dick knew he was right but Dick also remembered going to bed feeling a little sick but not that bad, hardly the worst he’d ever felt, and it wasn’t like he’d planned to get worse so fast but it was also such a shit thing to do, to be so irresponsible and bring it crashing down on someone else’s shoulders and his ribs still felt swollen with acid and now his head was starting to hurt and the next thing he knew there was a lump in his throat and he was blinking back tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, because he needed to say something, he had to, and there wasn’t anything else he could think of to say. “I’m sorry.”

Jason growled once, an incoherent noise of frustration, and he left the bedroom.

Dick waited, caught in a sob, for the door to slam shut again, but the sound never came.

It felt like an eternity of silence but it must have only been miserable, aching minutes before Jason came back into the room with the bag of cold grapes. He hesitated on the threshold and then untied and jerked his boots off his feet with one hand, one after the other, as if the very action annoyed him.

Then he sat on the other side of the bed, leaning against the headboard with his legs stretched out on the mattress. Dick winced and shifted as the mattress sagged and dipped under the weight and he stayed on his side, his back to Jason. There was a heavy, exaggerated sigh, and then Jason held a grape out over Dick’s shoulder and tapped his cheek with it.

“Eat.”

Dick took the grape and eased himself over, careful not to jostle his sore chest.

“What are you doing,” he sniffled, chewing the grape.

“Don’t choke,” Jason said sternly. “Or you’ll feel like you have to apologize for that, too, and I might shoot you in the kneecap if you do.”

For a long time, they were quiet– Jason would hand Dick a grape and Dick would chew and swallow and hold out his hand for another one. He didn’t know if he was hungry or not, but his stomach seemed okay with grapes either way, until it suddenly wasn’t and he pushed against the last grape Jason offered.

Jason popped it in his own mouth instead and leaned over to set the bag down on the floor. When he sat back up, he put a hand on Dick’s head, his fingers buried in hair, and just left it there. He didn’t tousle Dick’s hair or do anything except leave his palm and fingers as a weight against Dick’s scalp.

“I thought coming to Bludhaven would be a fresh start,” Dick said. “But it’s just more of the same. Same drugs, same murders, same rapes, same hate crimes. Just different street names.”

“Gotham doesn’t have a monopoly on evil, Dickie,” Jason answered. “It’s ugly everywhere.”

“I know,” Dick protested, feeling childish. “I know that. I just…I wanted…I don’t know what I wanted. I wanted to find myself. But it’s hard when all I can see is how things are broken. And then it starts to feel like it’s me, like, maybe I’m the problem. Maybe I’m the one that’s broken and that’s why I can’t see anything else.”

“I think everyone is broken,” Jason said casually. “You aren’t special.”

Dick laughed, a choked sound far too close to crying again for his own comfort.

“I’ll stay til you’re feeling better,” Jason said. “But I’m gonna rat you out to Alfred when he gets back.”

Dick let out a tense breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, some of the stress falling off his shoulders. He sagged against the bed, limp, and his head was thick with exhaustion again.

“Go to sleep, Dickface,” Jason said, patting Dick’s head. “Stop fighting it. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

When Dick woke again, it was early morning and Jason was in the kitchen with the smell of coffee and cigarettes drifting across the apartment. He felt a bit steadier on his feet but still weak and aching when he leaned against the doorframe. There was a crumpled blanket at one end of the couch.

“You better not be smoking,” Dick said, rubbing his chin.

Jason turned, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and said, “I’m not.”

“Good,” Dick said, as Jason ground the cigarette out on what Dick hoped was an ashtray and not the counter or one of his plates. “I don’t want to lose my security deposit.”

Jason snorted.

“And it’s bad for me?” he prompted.

“Your words, not mine,” Dick said, limping across the room to the couch.

“Another round of antibiotics,” Jason said, pointing a spoon at him from the other room. “And I’ve slaved over this oatmeal and burnt one batch already because your stove is a fricking temperamental piece of shit.”

“Then what?” Dick asked, yawning and gingerly feeling his side. It wasn’t nearly as painful as the day before.

“We start your Barbie movie education,” Jason said.

“You don’t have to give me teasing material just because I’m sick,” Dick said with a tired grin. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, but he was pretty sure it had been long enough that he shouldn’t still feel tired.

“You can’t tease me about Barbie,” Jason retorted, coming into the room with two mugs of coffee. He was walking quickly, but with eyes on the mugs and his hands held up a little to keep the cups level. “I’m not embarrassed about appreciating true art. You still put a metric ton of sugar in your coffee, right?”

Dick couldn’t remember the last time they’d had coffee together.

It was probably at the manor, before Jason had died.

He nodded mutely and accepted the warm mug.

“Thanks for staying,” he said, glancing over at Jason sitting next to him a moment later, the younger man’s hair sticking up in every direction. He chuckled.

“What?” Jason said defensively. “And of course I stayed. I can think of a dozen people who’d take my head off if I left you alone like that.”

“You mean because you love me, little brother,” Dick said, his heart full and warm.

“Psh,” Jason sputtered into his coffee. “Tolerate, maybe.”

“Close enough,” Dick accepted. He really was feeling better even if he knew he still had recovery time ahead of him. He sipped the sweet, black coffee and then let the mug rest hot and comforting against his palms.

“Dick?” Jason said, sounding pensive and quiet.

“Hm?”

“Don’t do that again.”

“I’ll try not to,” Dick said, deciding in a moment he had an opportunity to keep Jason reeled in. “But come check on me sometimes. I’m too stubborn to ask for it.”

He told himself it was for Jason, anyway.

“Maybe if I’m in town,” Jason shrugged. “I’m not going out of my way for you.”

Dick was comforted, after all, to admit that they were both lying.

Broken?

Maybe.

But reassuring all the same.

#batman #batfam #ficblogging #rhato #nightwing #red hood #jason todd #dick grayson #comfort

[dulcidyne]

Escape Velocity (707/Saeyoung Choi x MC)

Fandom: Mystic Messenger.  Summary:  He woke up on the wrong side of the multiverse somehow, traveled through planes of spacetime in a wormhole wink to wake up in a universe where he doesn’t belong--a universe where everything is comically, disastrously wrong. Word count: 2510

[Angst/Hurt/Comfort. SFW. 707 route spoilers. After ending spoilers.]

A slice of city skyline slips through the blinds, striping diffuse streetlight glow across the face of a boy just emerging into consciousness. It’s the first thing he sees when his eyelid flutters open--the amber flare of sodium vapor in blue dim--and he winces when the brightness drives a cold scalpel-edge of pain directly into his optic nerve.

“Oh--” another voice says, half swallowed by his reflexive hiss, but distinctively feminine. By the bed, an ECG readout shows the stuttering thump of his heart with a jagged green spike. Despite the pain and the worried chirp of the machines hooked into him, he has to bite back his laugh. It lingers in his mouth like a morphine lollipop, giddy and sweet enough to make his head spin. She never ever listens.

“You’re still here? I’m starting to think you really do just like that chair,” he chides.

But when he opens his eyes again, the concerned face that comes into view stops the rest of his lecture short. It’s not meant for her and he’s not sure if he’s relieved or dejected. Happiness evaporates off his tongue.

“Luc...Saeyoung. It’s--well, I’m sure I’m not who you expected to see...”

Jaehee tucks mussed hair back behind her ears but the effort does little to restore her back to factory standard. She’s as human as he’s ever seen her with her wrinkled dress shirt and her finger-combed hair sticking out in wild wisps. He spots her suit jacket discarded over the back of the chair like an afterthought. On anyone else, disheveled at this hour is nothing extraordinary. But Jaehee doesn’t spend her nights with her nose in a bottle of soju, hand wrapped around a karaoke mic. She doesn’t stumble home after shouting her goodbyes across the street to her coworkers, tottering heels tapping off-tempo staccato onto the pavement. On Jae Hee, disheveled is fundamentally wrong. A negative where a positive should be. An antiparticle. Anti-Jaehee.

The machine beeps come faster and louder. Any second now, this crumpled, grief-smudged doppelganger is going to collide on a molecule of sensible, unflappable Jaehee reality and annihilate everything.

Hospital air, reeking of antiseptic and IV drip, barrels into the room with a rush of dimmed fluorescent light from the hall and he looks up to see Jumin take a pause, hand still on the door handle.

“You’re awake then.”

He offers a perfunctory nod and enters the room without another word. In one hand, there’s a styrofoam cup with a cloud of steam condensing off the top but he makes no move to drink it, set it down, or pass it to his exhausted assistant. Styrofoam. Nothing Jumin owns is designed to be disposable. Not his diamond-inlaid pens, not his porcelain dinner plates, not his silver-plated dress collar stays. His world exists outside of plastic shrink-wrapped convenience. In a corporate heir’s world, things gleam and glow forever.

It’s like a game in a kid’s magazine--the half educational, half distraction ones they stock in the hospital waiting rooms. Circle the thing that doesn’t belong: tailored three-piece Ermani suit, Verragamo tie, sterling silver tie pin, and one disposable cup. If Saeyoung had a pen (just a regular, chewed-up Bik), he’d circle the air around the cup over and over, pressing harder and harder until the cheap nib tore through the page.

“Did you bring that for me?” Saeyoung settles back into the pillows and directs the question up at the ceiling in wonderment that he only has to partially feign. “Oh my, Mr. Chairman-to-be’s tender, caregiving side...”

The cup still niggles at the corner of his eye like a jittering artifact spliced into reality through clumsy video editing. He grins a 707 grin as if nothing in the world can ever bother him and sits up to look at Jumin.

“Oh! Is this what it feels like to be Elly?”

He preens as best he can with one arm hooked to IVs and machines and the other wrapped in layers of gauze. Tubing clatters. He pays it no mind. “Nya~ong. But Mr. Caregiver, do you mind switching out whatever that is for a-”

“It’s not for you.” Jumin interrupts, lips compressed down as if he’d like to say more but thinks better of it.

“Saeyoung, you’re feeling better then...” Jaehee says before her eyes meet Jumin’s across the room. A whole conversation scrolls in the empty space between them. They don’t have to take out their phones and type it up in the RFA messenger for him to know that it’s about him. And. That. It’s. Serious.

Saeyoung taps the pulse oximeter clipped to his index finger against the bed rail as if it were a mouse button and a steady, reassuring clicks fill in the gaps between the machine beeps.

“I am. Nearly 100% better. Maybe 99.00001% better. All I need for that last .99999% is a Ph.D Pepper, and some Honey Buddha Chips,” he counts each off with a tap of his fingertip, “and a Miss Cutie body pillow and matching limited edition collector’s blanket, a Zet Box and a Grey station for when I get frustrated with the Zet Box and a widescreen TV. I think then, I’d feel totally, completely, 100% better.”

His eyes sweep the room until he spots the red of his phone case on the nightstand. Should he call her and see if she got to the apartment safely? Or...would he just be interrupting the first real night of sleep she’s had in days? A restless ache catches him in the ribs. All his nagging for her to go rest at home and the second he wakes up to find someone else in her chair, the whole universe feels off-kilter.

“You…” Jaehee starts then stops, concern in every weary line around her eyes and a frown that says this is hardly the time for jokes. “You do remember, don’t you? What we told you before...”

She’s so serious. He laughs. “Why are you looking like that? Is this a drama?”

Saeyoung pauses for effect, taking a moment to compose his expression into something more drama-worthy--with little success, he keeps laughing despite himself. “Do I…have amnesia? Have I swapped bodies? Am I actually an alien from another planet and the doctors are keeping me for testing? Do I have cancer?”

Anti-Jaehee does a spot-on impression of regular Jaehee exasperation for anything nonsensical. Jumin holds the cup that isn’t for anyone in the room and does a spot-on impression of a man in the middle of a board meeting.

Unlike Jaehee, hospital despair hasn’t left a single visible mark on Jumin. If anything, he’s too Jumin...too business as usual. It’s as if something has distilled him down into a condensed cocktail of emotional detachment, wealth, and cat obsession and poured him back into his suit. But the focused intensity of him is hyperrealistic to the point of artificial.

“You don’t have amnesia or any of those other things,” Jumin says. “But, clearly, you are in denial.”

Matter-of-fact words clipped into precise syllables. They drop to the linoleum like a tray of needles, their metal points ricocheting. “Haha, alright. Disappointing choice, given the alternatives.” His pulse oximeter taps louder and faster and his smile is starting to hurt his cheeks so he lets it fall while he glances back at the phone. Softly, he asks, “What were the writers thinking with this script?”

“You’re being tiresome,” Jumin informs him, his free fingertips pressed against his temple. “I have a headache and there was no wine in the hospital cafeteria due to some strange oversight. I intend to inquire--”

Anti-Jaehee cuts to the point. “V’s death is a shock to all of us. I know you weren’t on the best of terms in the end but that doesn’t...it doesn’t erase years of friendship. You don’t seem to be taking the news seriously...to be making jokes right now--”

V’s death.

His head is shaking, a bubble of suppressed laughter expanding in his lungs. V’s death--that’s just...impossible. Ridiculous. It’s worse than the wrinkled shirt and the styrofoam cup and the wrong person in the chair by the bed. He really should’ve caught on earlier. It’s not like him to be so slow on the uptake. Some genius he is. The bubble in his chest pops against his sternum with one long, shuddering exhale that warps his laughter until it sounds breathy and helpless. V’s death. Anti-Jaehee. The cup. The chair.

He woke up on the wrong side of the multiverse somehow, traveled through planes of spacetime in a wormhole wink to wake up in a universe where he doesn’t belong; a universe where everything is comically, disastrously wrong.

A shiver in his chest maps cold in his veins like contrast dye and numb follows. It isn’t the ‘count backward from 10’ and wake up to find the girl he loves asleep in the chair beside his bed, her hands wrapped around his kind of numb . This numb is frostbite and flash freeze, it’s the cold and shadowed gaps of space where starlight cannot reach.

“Saeyoung. Saeyoung, are you even listening?”

V’s death. Anti-Jaehee. The cup. The chair. He’s still laughing--shallow, gasping chuckles. Above him, the ceiling panels are starting a slow, teetering revolution around an invisible axis.

“No. Why would I? I’m not staying here. I don’t even belong here.”

“What are you even saying? You’re not staying here? In the hospital?”

His head shakes even though, technically she isn’t far off. “In this universe.”

Watching the ceiling makes him dizzy. Saeyoung screws his eyes shut and brings his fingertips down hard on his eyelids. Static pinwheels up from black, rippling like space dust caught in a gust of solar wind. Even with his eyes closed, he can still sense the orbiting room pick up speed. Or maybe he’s the one moving. For some reason, he thinks of the ‘black hole’ donation funnel at the National Science Museum planetarium. He thinks of wobbly coins accelerating away from the flared rim, faster and surer until they’re nothing but a flickering line of zinc curving around the vortex. This universe is wrong. He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t want to stay here.

Space dust is accumulating beneath his shut eyelids but he doesn’t dare open his eyes to blink out the grit and the moisture wicking up his eyelashes. V isn’t dead. He isn’t shelved away in a metal drawer in the hospital morgue with a bullet lodged in his chest. V is a liar and a traitor but he’s alive.

An image flashes up before he can stop it, some hypoxia-addled memory. It’s ice cream running cold rivulets over his knuckles--blue, too bright to be anything less than artificial, staining and sticky, turning his hands and tongue a different color. Rika’s laughter echoes up into the museum archways.

“Luciel--here, just use my handkerchief first.”

There’s a borrowed ₩10 coin in his hand, still warm from V’s pocket and sticky from his own hands. He’s laughing too. It doesn’t feel like a goodbye even though it is. Now that he’s with the agency, who knows when he can sneak out to see Rika and V again.

There’s no air left in his lungs and they’re burning, the moisture is evaporating off them and flash-freezing in his chest. He’s floating, spinning in the vacuum of space and he can’t--he can’t--

He can’t breathe.

Metal coins sucked into the dark. Black holes made out of plastic. He’s orbiting around the funnel rim, pulled towards the gravity well, forces shearing him away ten won at a time to slip through bubbles in quantum foam and appear on the other side of the multiverse.

Something wraps around his fingertips and jerks his hand away from his face. Without the pressure of his fingertips, his eyes open by reflex.

She’s there, bangs mussed, cheeks flushed, chin obscured by the thick red wool plait of her scarf. Undeniably real. Undeniably right. Amber flecks in her eyes glimmer brightly through a sheen of unshed tears like constellations in gold leaf and he wishes he could spend the entire night, lying on his back, gazing up and counting each beautiful fleck. He wishes he could feel the warmth of her hand. He wishes he could banish the tears welling up in her eyes and see her smile. But his wishes are truncated and flat, severed away from feeling and emotion so that they exist more in the realm of abstract theory right along with Petri nets, Chomsky hierarchy, and finite automata.

“Stay. In this universe. Stay here with me.” She’s right in front of him but she sounds far away--a signal with spotty quality beamed from another orbit. He can barely hear her over the static crackle of interference and when he finally does, the message has an odd, aged quality to it as if time is dilating in the centimeters between them and the words are already centuries old by the time they reach him.

Stay. He can’t. It’s too late. Whatever tethered him to her world has already snapped and now he’s just drifting and disconnected, ephemeral and insubstantial in between universes, there and not there at the same time. Schrodinger’s Saeyoung.

Tears spill up, curving down her cheekbones but she makes no move to duck her head or wipe them away. She doesn’t take her eyes off him and he can’t pull his away from hers even though she’s asking the impossible. Instead, his numb fingers tighten around her hand until he can almost feel it--almost.

She grants half a wish right there and smiles despite the tears still coursing freely to drip off the delicate curve of her jaw. If he could stay for anything, it would be that smile. Breaking eye contact, she examines the loose fringe of her scarf before finding a trailing red thread that she pulls away with her free hand.

Somehow managing not to release his hand, she winds it clumsily around his index finger and gives it a gentle tug to make sure it will stay put. It does. She meets his eyes again.

“You do belong here, for better or worse,” she tells him and this time the words are perfectly clear. Fragments of glowing city skyline dance a dozen brilliant colors in her eyes. “But if you have to leave for a bit, I’ll just make sure you can find your way back.”

She tugs the thread again. “Astronauts always have safety tethers right? This can be yours.”

Something lights across her face and she yanks free another thread from her scarf to tie it around another finger.

“And another one for Saeran. You belong with both of us, so you need two.”

There’s grief bitter bright in her eyes but hope too. He looks down at their clasped hands, at the red threads entangled around his fingers, and feels an echo of the emotion in her eyes fissure up from the dark, numb hollows of his heart. Grief, but hope too.

Her hand is warm.

#mystic messenger #mystic messenger fanfiction #707 x MC #Saeyoung choi #mysme fanfic #707 route spoilers #Angst #ANGST I SAY! #Grief and loss #Red string of fate