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bonefall · 5 months

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Does leopard still have 3 lives in her final battle? Or was that changed?

Yep. I think she drowned her once, then Leopardstar lunges up refreshed, and she gets the upper paw on Mistyfoot with 2 lives to go.

(MAYBE tw gore, but I really did try to be tasteful about a head being smashed on a rock.)

On her back, splashing and thrashing furiously against Leopardstar's claws dunking her head under, Mistyfoot glimpses a wave breaking just over the tip of a stone-blue rock. Her only chance.

With a surge of power, her claws sink into her leader's golden shoulder and they tumble and roll to the right. Before the tyrant even realizes what's happening, she's yanked up, and then whipped backwards with a wet CRUNCH

And then again

And again

And again, until Mistyfoot can't even make out what's left of her leader anymore. All she can see is that it's a red, brown, and yellow blur, because her eyes burning with salty tears and her whole body is trembling.

She drops the corpse onto the stone and it slides into the water, lifelessly. After a moment it spasms aimlessly one last time, like an insect does after its head is bitten off, unlike the deliberate, agonized throes of Tigerstar suffering through his doomed lives. And then it's still.

There's only the tranquil sound of bubbling water, and Mistyfoot's frenzied panting. Her pounding heart makes it hard to hear either.

The blood is carried off by the shallow water in scarlet swirls, but the lake runs pale red as if it's washing it away. Some were aware of this prophecy, but Mistyfoot was not.

It isn't closure to her, or a fulfillment of divine decree. It's just blood that should be on her paws, slicked away by the complicit river. She wished it could feel like it's over, but she's smart enough to know the truth. Has been through enough terrible events like this to understand what comes next.

Her body will move foward. Her mind will need to consider her deputy. Her paw will come down on code-defying cats like Blackclaw and Greenflower. But her heart will stay here, next to the remains of Leopardstar, the same way another piece of it remains at Stonefur's side across space and time.

#Tw gore #Juuuust in case but I did try to stay tasteful #While also trying to write it as gut-wrenchingly violent as I imagine in my head #Because it's important that it haunts her #The kill wasn't pretty and clean. It was awful. She didn't want this. It wasn't heroic #'Why did you do this to me? Why did you make this so cruel?'#'Why was the last thing you ever did to me such a horrible command as a leader?'#'And why did I obey your orders until the bitter bitter end?'#'How could you turn my defiance into a new kind of cruel obediance? Did I not suffer ENOUGH for you?'#'And now there is no head to bury with your body. I am cursed with the last memory of your face. I alone will know how you looked at me'#'That the last expression on your face wasn't pain or confusion or realization.'#'It was all fury. For me.'#OF COURSE tho I will continue to make funny rock jokes until the day I die lmaoo #Duality of Bones #Hmm maybe when I get to this in BB!TNP I'll be quick and objective about it and save the Misty Emotions for like...#I miss how the field guides used to have stories told in 1st person.#It would be fun to have a BB!Mistystar Speaks #Because I do LOVE writing Misty's verbose and philosophical speeches.#As you can see from the tags lmao #BB!Mistystar #Better bones au

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serickswrites · 6 months

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Perfect Body to the Grave

Warnings: captivity, buried alive, suffocation, cpr, unclear character status

Team Leader stumbled in the mud as they frantically searched for the stone that Whumper said would mark where they buried Teammate One just over an hour ago. The rain came down cold and hard on their back as they tried to look for the stone.

"They were alive when I put them there, Team Leader. Would be a shame if you got there and they weren't," Whumper had said as Teammate Two dragged them to a cell.

Team Leader had wasted no time hurrying to where they hoped to find Teammate One. They hadn't accounted for the storm creating so much mud it would be hard to see a stone. They sunk to their knees as they realized that they wouldn't find the stone in all this mud. Their knee collided with something hard and flat and it had their teeth zinging.

The stone.

"Over here!" They called to Teammate Two and Teammate Three as they started to clear the mud. It would take the whole team to clear all the mud from the top of the casket.

"Hurry, they can't have much air left," Teammate Two said as they started to shovel with a frenzy.

"We'll make it," Teammate Three muttered. "We have to make it."

Team Leader agreed. They had to make it. They couldn't not make it. Teammate One was counting on them. The three team members were sweating by the time they had cleared the mud enough that the top of the casket was cleared.

"We're here, Teammate One, we're here," Team Leader muttered as they swung open the lid of the casket.

"No!" Teammate Two's cry came from somewhere on Team Leader's right.

Teammate One lay on their back, eyes closed, their mouth slightly agape. Their face was pale and their lips tinged blue. "Not like this, Teammate One, not like this," Team Leader muttered as they leaned over and to listen to see if Teammate One took a breath.

"They're not breathing!" Teammate Three whispered as Team Leader moved once more.

"Not like this," Team Leader muttered as they pressed their fingers to the pulse in Teammate One's neck. But no beat came.

Without missing a beat, Team Leader began chest compressions. "Come on, Teammate One, come on. Come back to us. Take a breath. Open your eyes. We're here. We've got you."

Teammate Two leaned down and gave two quick rescue breaths. "Please, Teammate One," they begged, "come back to us."

Teammate Three took Teammate One's cold hand in theirs, fingers going to the stilled pulse in Teammate One's wrist. They didn't say anything as tears streamed down their face.

Team Leader couldn't stop. Couldn't bear to think that this was it. That the team had failed Teammate One. That Whumper had won. That Teammate One was....but they couldn't think it. They continued to pump Teammate One's chest with everything they had. "Breathe, Teammate One. Come on. Breathe!"

#serickswrites #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump community #tw captivity #tw buried alive #tw suffocation #tw cpr #tw unclear character status #whumptober #whumptober 2023 #whumptober day 25 #“you're not delivering a perfect body to the grave”#prompt: storm #prompt: buried alive #prompt: “they're not breathing”#queue

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averys-nightmare-zone · 2 months

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The 14 Fears

this is all a little different from my usual style, but i love the magnus archives with all of my heart so i really wanted to make some collages based around the concepts explored in the podcast. notes on each collage under the cut.

1.) the hunt - i tried to keep this one on task with werewolves and such, but I am a supernatural fan and it has gone terminal so sorry about that.

2.) the eye - based somewhat off of an oc but still very jon coded

3.) the desolation - one of my faves, the colors really just came together

4.) the lonely - i didn't originally have the text on this one, but i think it tied it together in a way my stickers weren't.

5.) the dark - there's not really an artsy reason for the text on this one, i just wanted something to contrast against all of the black

6.) the buried - not many stickers on here, but im really proud of that dirt detail on the bottom

7.) the stranger - yeah i know the stranger in tma is mostly based around circuses, but whenever i think uncanny i think the mandela catalogue

8.) the web - this one gave me the most trouble, as the color scheme was really hard to nail down, i think its one of my weakest.

9.) the end - believe it or not this is one of four death based collages i've done on landing

10.) the corruption - this one was also very hard, not becuase of content matter but because i am deathly afraid of wasps

11.) the vast - i am so autistic about mike crew. no one understands him like i do.

12.) the slaughter - based more off of murder than war, partially because i have an slaughter oc that leans more towards murder and partially because it didn't match the scheme i was going for

13.) the spiral - i think i developed a medical condition making this absolute monstrosity. If you go to my landing page, it moves

14.) the flesh - my absolute fave, this one just came out so well.

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ourstaturestouchtheskies · 3 months

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Murder in the House – Jakub Schikaneder // Townie – Mitski

#jakub schikaneder #townie #townie mitski #bury me at makeout creek #mitski #art #art history #lyrics #lyric art #tw blood #tw death #tw murder #tw violence #tw dead body

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drizzle-clan · 1 month

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Moon 0 Patrols

Piperpaw and Creekshadow are the classic "grumpy parent, excited child" trope and I love it

Also a chance to say who's apprentice to who!:

Piperpaw - Creekshadow

Boulderpaw - Havensprout

Mudpaw - Lavenderlake

#clan gen art #clan gen game #warrior cats clan gen #Welcome to drizzleclan its cold its wet and everyones Weird #ignore the fact the med cat managed to bury a bucnh of bodies in the snow solo #tw dead animal mention #oc: Smallreed #oc: Piperpaw #oc: Piperbumble #oc: Mudpaw #oc: Muddusk #oc: Boulderpaw #oc: Boulderstreak #oc: Lavenderlake #oc: Havensprout #oc: Creekshadow

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fastcardotmp3 · 1 year

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thinking about various versions of Chrissy Comes Back Wrong again and Chrissy, whose mutilated body was buried 6 feet under, who was given a funeral in the local church, a whole mountain of flowers in her memory.

Chrissy, whose body is dead but whose mind is just trapped in Vecna's grasp, trapped where he has control of it, trapped in whatever memory or nightmare he wants to keep her in until she becomes useful.

Until there's reason to release her mind, send it crawling back to a body reanimated with the snapping of bones back into place, breath coming back in choking heaves and embalming fluid still cold in her veins.

And then she's alive again. Alive and 6 feet underground with her name on a placard awaiting a stone yet to be carved.

Alive but different.

Her chest is tight with heaving, sobbing, panicked breaths, but it's like she instinctually knows that it doesn't matter, that she won't run out of air in this pitch-dark box because she doesn't need it.

Chrissy doesn't need air anymore, doesn't need blood in her veins, doesn't need the beat of a heart in her chest despite the way she can still feel the motionless weight of it there.

Chrissy doesn't need any of it, as she scrabbles hands across the lid of her first and final resting place looking for a latch, but she needs something.

She needs to do something.

She needs.

Chrissy has been hungry before, is the thing. Chrissy has trained herself to ignore hunger, as much as a person can do such a thing, but this is unlike any of that.

It's not telling her friends she ate before she left and watching them sip on milkshakes at the diner with a lightness in her head; it's not eating only the meal portioned out for her by her mother and laying in bed with a growling stomach later that night.

It's uncontrollable, this hunger. It's vast and thick and all-consuming to the point where she hardly even realizes when she pushes hard enough against the lid to hear a crack!

She's hardly cognizant of her own frantic movements, doesn't have the wherewithal to acknowledge that she's stronger now, that something about the hunger makes her feel like once she's fed it she'll surpass even this desperation-fueled power.

Soil and insects rain down upon her as she pushes up and up and up; it gets under her nails as she claws towards the surface, in her mouth and up her nose and all over the pretty dress her mother had chosen for her to be buried in.

It was one which made her look particularly petite. It's been torn at the sleeves and the hem is hanging in rags by the time she realizes that in the impulse decision to dig she had locked herself into a singular fate.

Eventually she's going to resurface.

Eventually she's going to have to face the hunger.

---

Nancy Wheeler shouldn't be here.

They have so much work to do, so much to grapple with in the wake of their undeniable loss.

So many lives gone and so much destruction overtaking this town she has called home her entire life and Nancy should really be doing anything but being here.

The sun is setting and the others are having dinner at the Henderson house, one of the few with zero damage caused by the rifts opening in the earth, but Nancy just needs a moment.

She just needs a breath.

She just needs.

"We just keep failing you," she says to a girl's name carved in stone, forever sixteen and forever undeserving of the fate that had befallen her.

Nancy doesn't sit down, just stands on Barb's plot with her shoes sinking into deadened earth, greyed-out grass, and chokes on the feelings she can't have in front of the others.

Not when they're still in this fight, not when there's so much work left to do. She should be doing it. She shouldn't be here.

Fuck, Max still isn't awake and Eddie is on his way to very well losing one of his legs if they can't get his infection under control and Erica is the quietest she's ever been and the Byers boys are attached at the hip like they're scared to let each other out of their sight and Steve is carrying that damn bat around like it's the solution to all their problems and Mike is so much older than he was when he left for California and what is Nancy doing?

"I'm sorry. I'm so..."

She's crying at a dead girl like she's the one who's got it rough. Like she hadn't failed Barb and keeps failing all of them. Like she's not the one who said they should go to the Upside Down in the first place and now Max won't wake up and Eddie might lose a leg and--

The cemetery is empty, this time of day, because the people still sticking it out in Hawkins know that if the sun is setting you should get somewhere safe.

Nancy's stupider, more reckless than they are on paper, just by being here, but really she's just smart enough to know that there's no such thing as safe.

So when she hears a sound like-- like a person choking. Vomiting. Sobbing.

She has her hand on her revolver in the same whirl of motion as she looks behind her.

Nothing.

To the north, nothing.

To the west, nothing.

No one is out this time of day, as the short and hazy sunlight they do get fades into an even hazier orange and then black. But someone is here.

Nancy creeps towards the sound, because if a person is hurt then there's likely a creature nearby too-- a demo-something or other ready to rear back and wield its teeth and claws.

It takes a moment longer than she would like it to for her brain to catch up to her eyes when she sees what she sees. All the input is there, all the information needed to draw a conclusion, but even in Nancy's vast experience of the unexpected, she doesn't know how she could have expected this.

Pink dress gone muddy brown, shredded in places and slashed in others.

Bare feet and blonde hair changed almost entirely in color by the damp of the soil.

Heaving. Choking. Sobbing.

She hasn't been dead long enough for her to have a proper headstone, but the ground torn up all around the plot offers Nancy the final piece to a puzzle she hadn't known she was trying to solve.

Her jaw hinges open and she lowers her gun to clutch it one handed down by her side instead and she breathes--

"Chrissy."

Not a question, because there are a lot of questions here but that's not one of them.

Well.

It wouldn't be, except Nancy's quiet exclamation makes her presence known.

Except, even though Chrissy's chest is still heaving, she stills right there, collapsed on her knees.

Except, when she looks up. When she looks up, it's--

"Shit," Nancy whips her gun back up and trains it on the gleaming red eyes in front of her because maybe it's still a bit of a question.

She really shouldn't have come here.

#I JUST THINK THAT THEY OKAY #nancy wheeler #chrissy cunningham #nancy x chrissy #wheelingham #(is that the ship name help have we decided on one yet)#stranger things #stranger things fic #dot post #dot fic #what if I crawled out of my own grave and you pointed a gun at me and we were both girls (:#tw body horror #tw buried alive #tw implied disordered eating #kas!chrissy #<that will become a tag even if I'm the only one using it

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snowfolly · 5 months

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Nothing Can Make Up For That

Astarion is released from his tomb. The year of silence is finally over but he struggles to process what has happened, what is happening and what horrors are yet to come.

One shot | 1,863 words | No Beta

CW: torture/abuse/neglect/slavery/implied sex slavery/confinement/buried alive/blood/dark/bleak/self harm

Read on ao3

It's pretty sad- read under the cut

For a time Astarion had screamed ceaselessly in the perpetual darkness, scratching his fingers to tatters, to the bones. They healed in a short time, as they always did, but he would run them ragged again and again.

The pain was excruciating, but at least he felt something when he clawed at the unyielding stone sitting right above his face, weeping and wailing curses at the gods for his fate.

But it had been quite a while since he had uttered a single word. Had been forever since he had torn his fingers to shreds.

The vampire spawn had lived in a fugue state, more or less, for a time he could no longer measure. It could have been months, years in the darkness — could have been days, even, but he wouldn’t know the difference. It didn’t matter anymore, did it?

His mind was distant and blank, or as far away and inactive as it could be as his body screamed for blood, begging for the movement that he simply could not grant it.

Astarion was filthy in a way only an undead creature neglected for an extended period could be, dried out and yet oily, smelling musty and of sickly sweet rot, but he wouldn’t notice these unpleasantries. His mind is numb to all but pain and starvation…. and sound.

Rhythmic tapping, far away but growing louder, brought his poorly slumbering consciousness to the present. The spawn opened his eyes uselessly in the dark, gritted his teeth, and listened intently, realizing that the sound was of multiple footsteps, echoing against the endless stone walls of Cazadors estate. They were approaching the tomb, approaching him.

Astarion gasped as the footsteps halted before his prison and he shuddered at the sound of the stone lid grating over the lip of the tomb, the noise deafening to ears that had only known silence for so very long. The dark figures that had released him said nothing and walked away, and Astarion was so traumatized that he continued to lie still, shaking like a leaf.

He stared above in shock at a ceiling where a lid had covered the world for what felt like an eternity, his starved eyes detected the faintest grays that indicated light.

When the echoing footsteps on the stone floor subsided for an indeterminate amount of time he tried to sit up, but his unused muscles — although unable to atrophy — were so stiff that it was excruciating. He managed shakily to get an arm up on the seal of the tomb, teeth bared in agony, bone-dry red eyes wide, his downy white curls, grown long, hung mussed up and wild.

The spawn didn't need to breathe but he instinctively inhaled air raggedly like a man saved from drowning as his mind, so atrophied from the silence, could barely process what was happening, what had happened, what would come.

Astarion’s mind could barely wrap itself around the fact that he had been released. He could do nothing but cry softly into his threadbare shirtsleeve still propped up on the edge of the tomb, but no tears came from his blood-starved eyes. His body continued to tremble from the shock of the sheer amount of space that he had been denied for so long, his crying turned to wailing, and his body heaved from the sobs as his shattered mind took its time to process the situation.

He was freed from the tomb, but he was far from free. He felt no joy. He thought that he could never feel a thing such a joy ever again.

Astarion should have been furious at the world, ready to tear it and the gods to pieces for this tragedy, for this unjust torture inflicted upon him. But the anger would not come.

He was empty. Gods he was so fucking empty. Drained of everything but unfathomable starvation, excruciating pain and the numbness that his mind has created to save his sanity, a constant state of dissociation to spirit him away from the horrors of his waking life. He had been denied every emotion but sorrow.

Astarion felt the agony of complete and utter sorrow bearing down on him like an incomprehensible weight, crushing him as he continued to shudder and gasp for the damp air that his dead lungs made no use of. He despaired the life he had lost, for the parts of his memories and mind that were gone forever. He mourned for all the time that had been stolen from him and the time that would forcibly be taken from him forever.

Forever. Endlessly.

He wished that he had just died so long ago, beaten to death in that dark alley.

The spawn’s pitiful weeping was eventually interrupted by more footsteps, that of a dark figure, one that he could barely make out with his atrophied eyes. He didn't need to see who it was though. He already knew.

Cazador lurked at a distance, standing silent before his spawn in the darkness for some time as he watched Astarion cry and struggle before casting a fire cantrip to light an oil lantern. The sudden light caused his spawn to cry out once again, the flame blinding and excruciating to eyes accustomed to endless darkness.

Cazador ‘ tsks ’, laughing at Astarion’s pained and dejected form before taking a small pouch from his cloak and throwing it at his pitiful creation. It hit the spawn gracelessly in his blinded face before it fell to the floor with a gross thud.

“Dinner is served, dear Astarion,” the vampire lord smirked wickedly, relishing in his spawn’s anguish, “And how unlike you, little star, to let yourself go like this. You do need to get it together. All that I’ve done for you, and yet you lie about idly for an entire year.”

Cazador sighed derisively, savoring the view of Astarion who struggled to regain his mind and toiled to speak. The vampire lord laughed heartily, for it was such a treat to see his favorite spawn suffering so, once again.

“What a shameful, slovenly creature I have made, am I correct?” Cazador purred and was delighted as Astarion nodded pitifully, “and don’t forget to make yourself presentable, boy. You’ve got lambs to bring to slaughter, and I presume you will not fail to deliver them to me this time?”

Astarion felt like retching, dry heaving of course, as he was nothing but a dried husk after a year without blood, and he knew that he must quickly answer the vampire lord. He managed a croak with a mouth uncustomed to speech, dry as sand, “ Yes master. ”

“Enjoy your dinner, clean up your filth and then look alive! You’ve work to do tonight!” Cazador laughed once again, the sound like broken glass to Astarion, and he watched blearily as his master turned to leave, giving his spawn a dismissive wave before striding down the long, dark hall.

The spawn could barely wait until the sound of his master’s footsteps were out of earshot to cry out as he retched, his gnawing, unfathomable starvation sickening and overwhelming him at the mouth-watering stench of decomposing vermin. He would finally be satiated by the wretched contents of a bag that lay on the ground. Gods.

Astarion managed to heave himself up to step out of the tomb, his stiff legs gave out and caused him to fall to the ground in a crumpled pile during the process. He gasped, his body screaming in agony as he feebly crawled on his arms toward the bag that contained two foul, bloated dead rats. In that moment they seemed the rarest delicacy in all the world to the severely neglected vampire spawn.

And so Astarion ate, devoured, choked up on the hair and coagulated blood that he forced violently from the creatures as he tore into them like an animal starved. After he’d bled them dry he shakily pulled hair from his teeth and gods, he hated himself. He hated this, hated Cazador, hated the entire fucking world.

He sat up weakly as his veins filled sluggishly with the rancid blood of the vermin, giving him enough energy to move his body once more. He was finally able to stand, to stretch, to walk.

The spawn was still starving, still in shock and pain, but he found anger and fear steadily pushing out the numbness. He had work to do.

Astarion walked unsteadily, like a man in a horrible dream as he made his way to the dank washroom to do as Cazador demanded of him. He scrubbed a year's worth of undead grime from his skin, he washed the rot from his mouth, and he combed the wet, tangled mess that his hair had grown into.

He finally dressed in fresh clothes that had been laid out for him, well, they were some of his old clothes but at least not the rags he had wallowed in for a year. He stood in front of the floor length mirror, longing to be able to see himself, desperately hoping that he had made himself presentable enough. Attractive — at least to the damned drunks.

The pale elf ignored his siblings as he passed them in the halls, they were saying words to him, about him, but he could only hear distant sounds, no discernible language. He couldn't comprehend what they were saying because his mind was still shattered, but he knew that he had to hunt, had to not fuck up again and land himself in another year of pure shit. He knew that he must do everything in his power to avoid the most horrendous solitary confinement conceivable.

So Astarion quickly remembered how to smile again, remembered how to wear a mask and be pleasant, be charming, be fake . He had to do these things because he had to lure the stupid godsdamned lambs to a night of practiced pleasure before their slaughter.

Astarion stepped out into the damp chill of the night, startling slightly at the light rain that pattered against his face, and he glanced up into the darkness to see clouds so thick that they blocked any glimpse at the stars and moon. Another lid to block his view.

The pale elf pulled his hood up to save his hair from ruining as he crept into the night once again, picking right back up where he had left off a year before, doing as he had done for over a hundred years prior. He didn’t even have to recall the dark alleys or where the seedy taverns and flophouses were, they were ingrained into his mind, would always be. He could never forget them, or how much he hated them. Gods how he hated them all.

Astarion would let everyone in the entire fucking city die to not have to spend another year lying in that tomb. He would lure and bed every peasant in Baldur’s Gate so that Cazador could make the streets run red for all eternity if only to save himself from the horror of silence once again.

Nothing in the world could make up for the time that he had spent in that tomb. Nothing.

#astarion fanfiction #astarion fic #bg3 #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion spoilers #tw torture #tw blood #tw abuse #tw buried alive #tw neglect #tw body horror #tw self harn #just awful all around #snowyfic

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ashintheairlikesnow · 11 months

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I’m having a thought! So we all want to see Antoni smut cause we’re thirsty, but of course respectfully understand that he is Ace. But Artyom ….👀 OR Antoni remembers those things…. Endless possibilities there Ash

CW: At first NSFW for like... Four paragraphs, some initial consensual spice, more or less whumper POV in a way, death threats/murder, creepy whumper

Antoni allows no direct smut, Anon. This is as close as he will let me get.

Sweat trickles down the back of Artyom's neck, and his breath is hot and damp against hers. Her little cries are right against his ear, high-pitched. Her fingernails drag down his back, a little further with each rock of his hips.

He couldn't begin to describe how this feels. Hot, tight, wet - all the usual words come to mind but none of them are good enough.

Carly Riggs digs her nails so deep into his back he's sure he'll find blood later, whispering oh god oh god oh god as she comes. The way she goes tighter than ever around him, the prickle of pain near his shoulder blades, even just the way her voice sounds all overwhelms him and he follows her, eyes tightly closed as pleasure takes him.

The leather of her car's backseat sticks to his arms, his head nearly knocking into the door, but finally they slow and then stop, both of them breathing hard.

"Eto bylo khorosho," He groans. "Tak khorosho, tak korosho..."

Carly reaches one hand up to wipe the back of her hand across her forehead, smiling at him. It's a dopey expression, sweet and sated. He likes that look on her. "What?"

"Sorry. I mean... Very good. It was good." His accent is rougher just after sex, voice slightly breathless and rasping. He pulls back reluctantly, dropping a hand to dig around for his boxers and jeans. "We should do again sometime, see if I can be even better."

"Better than tonight?" Carly laughs, pushing herself up to seated, wriggle her jeans back up over her hips. "I might die."

"Only in little ways." He winks at her before pulling his shirt back on. "This is the idea, right?"

"Oh my god. Artyom, you are the weirdest." She's still grinning as he offers her a hand to scoot along the seat and finally stand. The breeze outside the car cools and dries the sweat on them both. Her hair is a rat's nest of tangles in the back, and they're both flushed and have a sheen of sweat. Not entirely subtle. "Are you sure you don't want to come to the party with me?"

"I am sure." He smiles, leaning back against the side of her car. She eases the door shut and follows suit, their elbows nearly touching. She yanks her tank top back down.

"Whenever somebody gets you to agree to a date, I bet you'll be an amazing boyfriend," Carly says, teasing and not-teasing.

"Maybe." He has no intention of dating anyone. Ever. But he doesn't say that to her. "Be safe at the party, eh?"

"Of course." She leans over to bump affectionately against him, as close as he allows to a goodnight kiss. "I'll see you at work on Tuesday, right? We both open that day."

"Da. You will see me then. Now I need to go inside. Keep off your lights until you are gone from my neighborhood, please."

"Just tell your mom to fuck off." Carly sighs, finger-combing her hair as best she can. "You're a fucking adult. Do what you want."

"Mmmn. Easier to say than to do."

It isn't his mother he is worried about getting a good look at Carly Riggs.

But he just gives her a hug, her perfume and the scent of them together a heady mix in the air, and opens her front door for her to settle inside and drive away, easing slowly down the road to make as little noise as she can.

His key in the lock makes only the slightest sound, and he oiled the hinges so the door never so much as squeaks. The house is dark and silent, the TV for once is off. He moves with perfect knowledge of every obstacle between him and his bedroom - avoiding the box of clothes for donating that has been sitting for three months now, his mother's little dog's pile of toys, even a kitchen chair out of place.

The vodka in the freezer pours easily into a shot glass, and he knocks it back to feel it freeze and burn, tasteless, down his throat.

Two more shots and the warmth spreads further than the cold, so he adds a little water to cover what he stole and puts it back, turning the bottle so the label is exactly the way it was when he came in..

He has long experience at this. His father will never know, never guess. The better for his health if his vodka turns more and more to simple water, anyway.

He showers, washing Carly off him as well as the smells of his job. When he checks the mirror after drying off and pulling on a pair of gray sweatpants, he sees - yes, scratches, with bright red spots where blood welled up, from just below his shoulder blades down nearly to his waist.

He smirks at the sight, but then realizes the bathroom door is open. His smile fades as his eyes raise.

Reflected in the mirror, Misha stares at him, expression somehow both empty and avid.

"... The bathroom is taken," He says, after a breath. His younger brother, head tipped against the doorframe and mop of hair falling over his eyes, smiles. It's thin, and it doesn't reach his eyes.

None of Misha's expressions ever reach his eyes.

"Got mauled by a tiger at work tonight?" Misha's voice is light. He makes a little claw gesture with one hand, fingers bent. "Rrrrow."

"Misha-"

"Which girl was it? The cute brown-haired one?"

Artyom turns away. "None of your business. Go back to bed." He wets a toothbrush and gets toothpaste, hoping to stave off the conversation long enough for Misha to lose interest.

At first, he thinks he might have succeeded. Misha disappears from the doorway, and Artyom makes his way to his bedroom in the dark. His father's snores are deafening, down the hall. His mother will be sleeping in the guest room, and even if she snores, too, it would be impossible to hear it over his father.

He pads barefoot over the hardwood floor until he heads into his room, letting the door close behind him and collapsing onto his twin-sized bed with his feet hanging off the end. He can hear Misha's television in his room going through their shared wall, low murmuring voices.

There's a beat of silence. Artyom takes a deep breath, holds it for a beat, slowly exhales. Outside, the breeze shivers the leaves into a soft rustle. His clock reads past midnight, but if both his parents are asleep already, they won't know to bother him about it.

Not that anyone ever minds when Misha misses curfew, but if Tyoma is late, oh, let hell rain down...

He groans and rolls onto his side, pulling the covers up. He can feel bitter tomorrow. Besides

"The blonde, then?"

Artyom shoots upright with his heart in his throat, eyes briefly wide. "Chto za khren', Misha!"

His brother is a shadow in the corner, leaning against the wall with his hands in his jeans pockets, shoulders hunched.

Smiling.

In the dark, he has only even deeper shadows for eyes.

"Tell me which girl it was, Tyoma."

"I... Why?" His heart pounds, and he scoots until his back hits the wall, watching as Misha pushes lazily away from the wall and takes the two or three strides he needs to drop into the computer chair Artyom keeps next to his desk. No computer, but maybe one day. If he can save up.

"Because I want to know, dumbass." Misha laughs, leaning over. There has always been something strange about his laugh. "I want to know who's out there stealing my brother's heart."

"No one is." It's an honest answer. "Not sure I even have one to steal, Mishka." Less honest. But his voice is still too airy, and he can tell Misha enjoys the idea that he has frightened him. "It's just... friends with benefits. Da?"

"Is it?" Misha scoots the chair closer, clicking over the boards on the floor. Artyom feels strangely trapped, even though he could push Misha back and run. But he doesn't. His brother won't hurt him.

Not yet.

"It is." He drops his voice even further. "I promise, Mishka. There is no one outside the family. No one."

"No one but me." Misha is inches from him, his knees touching the side of Artyom's bed. Now light from outside, dimly white, glimmers over his dark eyes. "Right? Right, Tyoma? Family first."

"Right." Tyoma meets his gaze. Misha's eyes are like dead things, empty marbles in a moving face. "Family first. No one is more important than family."

"Right. And I'm your family. Me. So you can't run off to screw people if it means not taking care of me, right? If you get some girlfriend-"

"I don't even want one." Artyom cuts him off. Misha leans even closer, somehow. And there's a glint, a sheen of moonlight off metal. His little brother is holding a knife. "Carly and I are just friends who, who fool around sometimes."

"Carly, then." Misha's smile widens, like a skull's rictus grin. "The blonde. I figured."

Artyom winces, internally. But all he does is swallow the lump in his throat and nod. "Da, Mishka. She has a boyfriend at college. This is just for fun."

"Khoroshiy, Tyoma."

The silence draws out, and then Misha moves in almost a lunge forward and upright. Artyom flinches back, but Misha only ruffles his hair, giggling like he used to do when they were kids and he would push other children down the slide before they were ready.

"Relax. You are my family, too, Tyoma." He pats the side of Artyom's face. The knife in his other hand disappears back into a pocket, closed up into harmlessness again. "Family first."

"Family first," Artyom whispers.

Misha turns and leaves, closing the door behind him.

Artyom doesn't fall asleep until it's nearly dawn.

A week later, Misha calls him for help, and he spends the night digging a grave in the woods, just deep enough to cover two bodies with pine needles and fallen leaves without it being obvious. It takes hours, and his arms burn, muscles screaming for him to stop. He ignores the pain.

Misha helps, which he doesn't usually do. He digs, too, his eyes locked on Artyom's face. The dead bodies mean nothing, now. They've served their purpose.

"They're both pretty," Misha says idly. "Good luck I found them, huh?"

Artyom grunts.

"Hey. Tyoma." Misha snaps his fingers and Artyom looks up. Misha is only a couple feet away. He has the same look on his face as he had in Artyom's room the other night.

"Don't see her again outside of work, Tyoma. Don't. You don't need friends. You have me."

"... Mishka-"

"Don't 'Mishka' me. I said don't hang out with Carly Riggs anymore unless I'm with you. Okay?"

"... Yeah."

"Say you won't. Say it out loud. I can finish this myself, you know."

Artyom thinks of the knife Misha keeps, one he never uses on anyone else. He knows that knife is for him.

Artyom's heart pounds all over again, exertion and a dim terror beneath. "... I will not hang out with Carly without you."

"Good. Let's finish this up."

He goes back to digging, and Artyom follows suit, trying not to look too hard at the bodies.

A couple Misha saw in a bar and wanted to destroy. So he did. And now Artyom buries them for him, as always. Because his mother's heart would shatter if her youngest son was caught doing such evil things.

Because he knows what he must do to protect the brother who has been the center of his life since his birth. The brother who will one day, he thinks, be the center of his death, too.

He feels Misha's eyes on him like a brand as he dumps shovels of dirt over the open dark, slightly feline eyes and messy dark hair of the man. The tangled blonde hair and bright blue eyes of the woman. She has a t-shirt on from the restaurant where Artyom's been working.

It isn't a coincidence. It's a message, and Artyom understands.

Family first.

Or else.

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