Chara is one of my favorite characters out of Undertale, just because you can interpret them differently. They can be the narrator, the demon that caused the Genocide Run, or just a name.

Personally, I don’t think Chara is a demon who caused the Genocide Run BUT I don’t think AUs who have that concept are bad! As long as they made Chara a complex character then I couldn’t care less.

But really, I do think they are a sad child who just wanted the best for Monsterkind.

Kissing the Riddler's 💋

Just a collection of Riddler's and drabbles. Apply your favourite lip balm/lip stick and pucker up, buttercup, we're smooching the Riddler's.

💚 Gotham

Let's say that you're attempting to steal a smooch from the season one dork that is Eddie. Say, press your lips to his cheek for a quick smooch because come on now, we're all wholesome angels here. He might not be able to take it if you were to be bold and land a hot one on his lips. If you want a lip kiss you'll get it later.

First of all he'd be stunned, flabbergasted, shocked!Gosh there's this adorable momentarily pause of him just staring ahead as if he had behold a sudden revelation. Once the initial shock has subsided, the kiss will process and he'll finally realise you just did that and proceed to be the reddest, most adorable man with his glasses and barely contained grin.

"A-Ah Y/N... Ahem uh... Thank you," This dork cannot piece together a response to save his life, plus the feels you've introduced to him.

He wants nothing more but your kissies that sometimes when you forget to give him his daily doses he'd be (not-so) subtly hint at this by clearing his throat. If wants lip kissies he'd be slightly puckering, or with cheek kissy, he'd be making his cheek prominently lifted up.

Season two Eddie, on the other hand...

Our dear, dear angel has been influenced by the absolute dom that is Oswald and learned how to be more firm and assertive with you. But boy, somethings don't change.

"Hey Y/N," He'd call and point at his cheek with an anticipating look.

💚 Young Justice

Is there anything he can't solve?

Rubik's cube? Nah, that's child's play. Riddles? Honey, that's his thing! Jigsaw puzzles? Oh please, he can do it in his sleep! Why Y/N wants to smother him in love and affection? ... Why?

You've made yourself into an enigmatic puzzle that is somehow enraptured by the Riddler that you'd actually love him. Was it a ruse? No, you're in a serious relationship now, there is no way you'd be that patient to make him think he actually has a chance with you!

"I mean look at me! I'm scrawny in comparison to the others in The Light, I'm not even high enough to match the likeness of your calibre and you are completely out of my lea—"

Suddenly, you were seated on his lap facing him, arms around his neck, hairsbreadth distance. Your warmth was intoxicating and you indulge him of your touch. He melts, shivering at the slightest when your fingers play his hair from his nape, tickling his neck with your ghostly touch.

Just... No matter how many times he deals with these rampant ideas about him and his feelings of inadequacy, you were there, ever so patient and attentive and willing to make him know that he is not what he thinks he is. He feels guilty, thinking that you were just feeling sorry for him and unable to break up with him due to this but on the contrary, you have always been there for him and you want nothing more that to see him learn how to love himself with you loving him and supporting him in every step.

💚 Arkham

Well it depends on which game. But they all have one thing in common... It's honestly weird to say that because he's one person, but I digress—

Clingy and absolutely needy, but he will deny it to death. He will flare if you'd tease him of the notion of him being a soft little thing whilst he is within your arms, at moments of silence and away from work. Ugh, I won't be able to take him seriously with him threatning us with the most graphic death whilst we stroke his head and run our fingers through his hair.

Like, stfu you grimy little rat 💚🐀🔧❓

He will never admit that these moments have a special place in his heart and nothing can ever amount to this certain treatment of yours. Not to mention... The kissies.

In moments wherein he finally surrender to his body and actually listen to it, he'd end up in your arms, on the bed, face caked with grease but come one, hug time is every time. If you're particularly icked out at the prospect of kissing the tired tall child, you'll need to convince him to at least wash his face first before you give him pecks.

It will take awhile, that's why we're patient and when he does, he'd regret not having it done sooner because by god— there's definitely something about your kisses.

💚 Batman the animated series

I just know he's one of those guys who'd put his arm at the small of your back and dip you to kiss you. Like the dramatic little reprobate he is, totally a romantic at heart and has a penchant of imitating the romanticised chivalry and affections from the late decades.

Yes, the man has fantasies about this domestic bliss but under his circumstances... Well, he can always still whip you into an impromptu dance in the middle of Gotham's collapse and kiss you in front of the burning buildings.

But let's talk about you giving him kisses instead of receiving, this man lives for the routine kisses you'd give him and he always knows when you would give him one. And frankly, he looks forward to it everytime! And certainly welcome unprompted ones, why would he complain about free smooches. When you don't proceed to the standard and routine kisses, he'd feel that there's something that isn't right, since you'd only do this to deprive him during quarells and such.

So picture this arrogant man with a massive hubris, who refuses to admit that we was wrong, slowly collapsing at the seams if you don't give him his kissies. He'd go through the stages of grief in a span of a moment, with his denial, bargaining, and eventually begging, he'll toss some tears in his eyes.

💚 The War of Jokes and Riddles

He's not particularly favourite Riddler, but a Riddler is a Riddler I guess.

So this man harbours zero amount of shame, of course he'd want you, all of you. From the purest and the filthiest, he will flaunt you. Just as the way you do the same thing to him. Not necessarily the flaunt part, because come on, his very presence is already a flex if that's how you define it.

I get that he's a bit of a showoff, an exhibitionist if you will. I mean, if you're there, it is seldom that his hands aren't on you. No, he would be shamelessly, practically draping himself on you. How could he keeps his hands to himself, when you're this damn fine? And you're his? Well, lucky guy.

As for kisses, oh god... I've already stated, this man has no shame if you'd take him right then and there, he really does feel himself when you'd kiss him. Fuck, you can even fuck him in the spot. It gives him a sense of strong feelings. Is it power? No, he doesn't feel power over you, power play isn't something he wants in the relationship, you're his equal. Perhaps the word is... Pure passion. It makes him feel loved, it gives him a sense of strength.

↳ GOLDEN |

[ summary · techno finds a moment in a field of yellow flowers and everything seems so golden ]

[ pairing · c!technoblade x reader ]

[ word count · 1.1k ]

[ extras · have a drabble fic based on wolfy's speedpainting, you know the one with techno and ghostbur? ♥ ]

The voices demanded blood and so their violence bled into Techno’s reality.

They were quieter that day, subdued by the pastel hues of the meadow he was sat in, the sunshine soaking his skin in gold. It beamed through his ghostly companion in streams of effervescent light that cast almost shadows on the flowers below. Since his death Wilbur was more amicable, less likely to bring a nation to its knees, opting instead towards caring for Friend or being sweetly unhelpful at the worst of times. Perhaps there is peace in death.

Technoblade shivered, shaking the thought from his head – and the flowers Ghostbur was threading into his hair. Rather than whining about it, the ghost seemed all too amused to start from the beginning, collecting his flowers in his arms again.

“Ghostbur!” Your voice caught on the wind, bells carried on the light breeze. “Ghostbur, look what me and Friend found!”

Flowers tumbled to the ground once more as he rushed over to their friend; you had suggested the trip away from the tundra, longing for ground under your feet that wouldn’t leave you frostbitten. Techno watched as you beamed at Ghostbur, handing over a bouquet of flowers so vividly yellow that they could have easily been pure gold.

As his eyes were locked onto delicate hands, never bloodied by battle, clutching onto the fragile flora, the voices fell into silent whispers. Looking across the field, Technoblade saw weapons, tools of war. Hydrangeas steeped correctly could be used as poison. Lily-of-the-valley could stun and disarm enemies, striking the psyche and heart. Larkspur, so blue it was almost violet, takes six hours to become lethal when ingested. He had been trained to find the use – the point – in so many little things, beautiful things. In your hands, however, these things became beautiful again.

It confused and disturbed him for the first months. It started with the house, where after a trip to the Nether he and Phil returned to a home, decorated with flora and with enough pumpkin pie to feed a small army – or two hybrids. After that you had invaded the house with the help of his wolves. You had said something about it being too cold in the doghouse, almost pouting from under the pile of fluff and wagging tails by the fire. The flames and something far more dangerous melted whatever anger he had far away. In a sudden change, his house had become a home with potted plants, animals, organised bookshelves, and some of the nicest cake he had ever eaten.

The silence in his head wasn’t eerie somehow. Philza had grinned at his old friend when he brought it up. As always, he was as cryptic and frustrating as someone as old and pedantic like him. Techno supposed that was what he would become if he lived as long as Phil: cryptic, mysterious, and mightily unhelpful.

Tracing his gaze up from your hands, he startled at the realisation that you were looking straight at him. A smile softer than anything he had experienced graced your pretty mouth.

Protect them.

Ghostbur’s cold hands were back threading flowers into his hair, a shock against the even more shocking warmth on his face. You were feeding luscious grass to Friend, laughing as the sheep nibbled your palm, nudging its head into the crook of your neck. Oh gods you were cute.

“Technoblade, are you ill?” Ghostbur’s empty voice rang in his ears.

“Heh?”

“Your face!” Ghostbur exclaimed. “It’s so warm it’s almost like I’m warm again. Y/N, come feel his face!”

Before he could snap at the ghost, you had already made your way across the ocean of flowers with Friend in tow. That delicate hand was laid on his forehead, knuckles gently grazing his skin. He wondered for the briefest moment if you held him would he be beautiful too, no longer a tool of war?

“I’m fine,” He said, voice gruff, body not moving away from your touch.

You frowned, kneeling in front of him with the setting sun a golden halo behind your head; he would say your name like a prayer if you asked. “I think he’s fine, Ghostbur. Maybe you’ve been out in the sun too long.”

“Told you,” He grumbled, eyeing the ghost and its anxious expression. “Not much can keep me down.”

As if to prove a point, Techno began to rise, but was stopped. With a grin, you pushed his shoulders down with little force as he sank back to the ground. Ghostbur, delighted that his friend would help him, continued with the weaving of flowers into Techno’s hair. With stray strands falling into his face, you moved to tuck it behind his ear, scowling just a little when they defied your command. Taking the smallest buttercups from the pile, you threaded them through the braid you were creating out of his defiant hairs, freeing his face to bask in the sunshine.

The sun was glorious and the feeling of your touch on his touch-starved face soothed him more than he could say – maybe more than swinging an axe or sharpening a blade. His eyes settled shut as he let the two decorate him like a war hero, only opening up again when he noticed the lack of your hands.

“Do you know why I chose these flowers?” You asked, holding a single glowing buttercup under his chin.

His heart stuttered like a wrong step in a duel. “No.”

“They were the most yellow I could find,” You hummed, lowering the buttercup and spinning it between your fingertips. “Almost golden and you’ve always looked good in gold, more than any diamond or netherite, like a king or a god.”

“I do like gold.” He breathed out a laugh, rough and hardly there.

“Heracles, Achilles, Technoblade,” You anointed him with the flowers, pinning his braid back. “Blessed and great warriors, all of them with their names carved into the bones of history.”

Protect them. Protect them. Protect them.

“Should we go home, oh noble hero?” You smiled lopsidedly, rising to your feet and holding a welcoming hand out.

Tentative, Technoblade took your hand in his own, maybe the greatest feat he would complete, pulling himself up with little help but clutching on nonetheless. Flowers fell out of his hair, trailing behind him like a great plume of smoke. With Ghostbur and Friend trailing behind you catching the flowers in their hands – or mouth in Friend’s case – you started your slow walk home, arm to arm, hand in hand.

The voices fell asleep in a bed of flowers lulled by you.

Consciousness hit me suddenly. A deep panic began pumping through my chest as my mind woke up, I opened my eyes instantly. I knew I was laying on my front before I looked but the low angle perspective still shocked me. How did I get here? My mind is flooded with questions. Who took me here? The longer I think, the more terrifying the questions become. How long have I been here?

I keep telling myself to slow down but I’m so fucking claustrophobic, I can’t move my arms or my legs. My wrists and ankles are bolted down to a rusting metal table. They hurt. I have been struggling. The feeling in my chest is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, I’m so heavy and hot yet I do not feel attached to my body.

Where am I, I need to relax, I need to get out. I feel alone but I don’t trust that I am. I can see the entirety of the room if I twist around enough, I think I’m in a shed. It’s daytime. It’s warm. I can hear birds. No traffic.

There’s gas canisters, wheel hubcaps, makeshift tables and chairs made from unidentifiable objects and beer bottles. I have never been here. There are windows but they are too high up, my body aches and so does my head.

The last thing I remember is leaving my house to go out, I don’t even remember getting to the pub. My phone. My bag. Am I wearing clothes? Yes. They smell bad. They smell like cum.

Rustling.

Footsteps.

My heart feels like it’s stopped, my limbs don’t know whether to play dead or to rampage. Either way I don’t think I have a chance. I am drowning in helplessness. I can’t do anything.

Do I look?

I can’t.

My whole body tensed as the footsteps become more solid, I hear breathing, it has a deep tone. I can feel the decaying ground bounce under his weight, the table I’m on shivering. Or maybe that’s my fault.

“Good afternoon, buttercup.”

His voice wasn’t how I expected, maybe he’s not as big as he sounds. I thought he would sound more husky. His tone was confusing, he sounded evil but in a popular white boy kind of way. I hated him. He sounded confident.

“I know you’re not sleeping, just relax,” I could feel him getting closer. Him telling me to relax panicked me more and the table shook audibly. He laughed in an exhale, I just scrunched my face up tighter. What does he want from me? Did he already do it last night?

His hand touches my shoulder, so delicately. I flinched, sweat making a little squeak on the table. I started to whimper, it was out of my control, I couldn’t help it. I think I’m going to be raped.

He chuckled again, in a condescending way. Even though my eyes are shut I can see him looking down at me. He must feel very powerful. I have never felt so small. I can feel his eyes on me. I can tell he’s eating me with them.

In the most disturbing way, I almost like it.

The tension. The fear. I’m drowning. The rush. My senses are heightened. He wants me.

“Oh, come on now,” still so condescending, but now more affectionate. No, enticing. I want to know what he looks like. What if he’s attractive?

“I pride myself in being a,” he grunts as he jolts my face to face him, my eyes opening on default, “patient man,” he smiles, “there. But I let you sleep all morning.”

He gives me time to study his face, to take it all in. He was a stranger and again not what I imagined. He looked normal. Middle aged? He looked like a man that works in London. A commuter. His skin was dark and warm, he had a stubble and strong eyebrows. The way he looked at me made me breathless. I was his prey and if he perused me, nothing would stop him from having me. His eyes were such a dark brown that I could see my ghostly reflection in them. His lips were a plum purple tone and his cheekbones were prominent.

He still wasn’t speaking.

I didn’t know what to do, I couldn’t stop looking at him. I felt mesmerised. I almost felt… relieved.

Update 1/20/21

It's been swell having my freedom again now that I'm covid-free.  I'm not going anywhere or anything.  But things like gardening in our backyard, taking my dog-kids Fable and Riot on walks, cuddling with my wifey on the sofa and watching netflix or whatever, and just being able to cook again for myself in the kitchen... I've missed all of it so much.  So much in fact that I've been slacking on editing more than I should, whoops.  SORRY, GUYS.

But I did finish up all my rewrites yesterday FINALLY so the new chapter is nearly done.  All that's left is another swoop of editing and maayyyybee swapping out this one scene I have for another that I originally had planned for 13 instead.  So give me a day or two to decide what feels best for the story while I start tinkering with 13 a bit.

So basically I'm stepping away from 12 today to work on the scene for 13.   Depending on what I decide to do with that scene, I might finish chapter 12 tomorrow night after work, or I might need another day after that.  But I don't think so.  I'm already like 90 percent sure on what I'll probably end up doing lol.   Just gotta write this up first to be sure and it will EASE my perfectionist mind.  Once that's done, then it's final editing and formatting stuff which takes me usually a day or two.

Alright that's just a really wordy way to say I will have CHAPTER 12 up this SUNDAY, JANUARY 24TH.  PROMISE GUYS.  

I feel so bad it's been so long since our last update that I'll share one scene with you guys from 12.  I mean, if you’re checking this blog you're probably looking for an update, right?  Well for now, I hope a little sneak peek will suffice until Sunday.

Personally, I think it's kind of a cool sneaky peeky because honestly it doesn't really give away much of the plot of the chapter and still leaves the suspense of where we last left off pretty much.  SO.  If you wanna read a little bit of 12, here's scene #3 for you guys early.  If you want to avoid it and remain pure, I’ll see you Sunday I guess lol.

Uh... heads up, it's got some gore lol.  A creepy little horror comedy scene, really.  One of my personal faves of the chapter, too.  PLEASE ENJOY.

SNEAK PEEK:  Chapter 12, Scene 3 under the cut....

scene 3

The green Powerpuff lay in the dark unable to sleep.  Even though the teenager had turned out the light hours ago, there was no stopping the never ending loop of the night which still replayed over and over within the young hero's mind.  Buttercup had done nothing but tossing and turning in an attempt to try and find rest that night, and had managed to kick away all of the bedding and sheets.  Laying upon a bare mattress and still hopelessly waiting for sleep with eyes shut tight, there was a sudden faint knocking sound heard coming from within the bedroom.

Buttercup sat up in bed with a jolt the moment the sounds began in the dark.   Immediately the Puff's emerald eyes fell on the door to the bedroom closet.  The door to the closet was shut, but the noise was definitely coming from behind it.  Buttercup watched the door intently, while silently and cautiously moving towards it.  With super hearing activated, the Puff listened to the sound of something rustling about inside, and as the young hero crept closer and closer, there was a rotten, burning stench in the air.  Buttercup reached for the closet door's handle and opened it.

"Where is it?  Dude, it's gotta be somewhere around here!"

Buttercup blinked at the blood soaked kid for a moment before a look of annoyance came next.  The sixteen-year-old Puff watched as the thirteen-year-old apparition  dug around the heap of dirty laundry that littered the closet floor.  The kid had her back turned as she knelt upon both knees over the large pile of laundry and searched frantically for something.   Buttercup groaned, still holding the closet door open, "Oh no....  What are you doing here?  Dude, really, I'm just trying to get some sleep tonight and you showing up now just isn't-"

"Where is it?!" the kid jumped onto their sandy wet sneakers and began to search the shelfing within the closet, "Where the fuck is it?!"  As the thirteen-year-old removed an old snowglobe from the shelf and tossed it carelessly over her shoulder, Buttercup caught it and glared at her.

"Where's what?!" Buttercup snapped at herself.

The kid stopped suddenly and slowly glanced over her shoulder with her ghostly, opaque white right eye.  "Where's the mask?"

"Oh," Buttercup's angry expression softened.  "...It's... gone...."

"...Oh...."

"...Yeah...."

As Buttercup reached over her to return the snowglobe to its spot on the shelf, the kid turned round to face them.  "Can't you get it back somehow?"

The green Puff sighed deeply and floated slowly back over to the bed, "Nah, Dude..." Buttercup reclined upon the bare mattress again, "I think... I think that shit's over now....  I mean, shit's getting pretty serious now that Mojo knows about us.  I'm hoping it all works out tomorrow, and he's really not gonna make me do something fucked up in return for his silence, but... even if he does keep his word..." Buttercup shut both eyes and yawned, "It's just gettin' way too risky, Dude...."

"Huh..." the kid stood at the teenager's bedside, "I thought we were just startin' to have some real fun...."

Buttercup's eyes remained shut, hoping the illusion would go away soon.  "It was fun while it lasted...."

"Sucks, Man....  Say, you got anything I can eat?  I'm fucking starving, Dude-"

"Dude," Buttercup interrupted with annoyance, "Why are you here?"  The green Puff sat up in bed once more and looked towards the kid and saw that she had made her way across the bedroom.  The blood soaked child stood in front of Buttercup's dresser, staring at the pair of birds that sat within their cage.  Her back was towards Buttercup, but Buttercup could see that the kid suddenly gripped something shiny in her right glowing green, acid burnt hand.

"Same reason I always drop by," the kid answered with her back still turned.  The apparition turned her head slightly, and even in the dark Buttercup could make out the devious glint of a small, sly smile as she still gripped whatever was in her hand.  "I'm here to help you out, you know... since you got nobody else, right?"

Buttercup continued to stare at the kid, but chose to remain silent.  The green Puff watched as the illusion returned her attention to the birdcage, and with her left, seared bloody hand, she reached for the cage's small door and opened it.  Both Snot and Pus instantly tried to dart away from the sizzling glowing green acid drenched palm that reached for them, but the kid easily managed to yank the fluttering green bird from the cage.  Buttercup's eyes widened in shock as she watched the kid cut into the squirming, live bird with a shard of glass, slicing the helpless creature straight down the middle.  His yellow companion fluttered about within the closed cage behind them, squawking loudly as the kid raised the green bird to her lips and began to slurp loudly.

All the green Puff could do was look on in stunned silence as the kid continued to suck the blood from the slowly dying bird.   As many times as the green Puff had received a "visit" from their former, "dead" self, this sort of thing... was definitely new.  As Buttercup continued to watch, the green Puff tried to keep in mind that what was being witnessed... could definitely not be happening.

The kid used her tattered black jacket's sleeve to wipe away the fresh blood-stache from her face, before turning to Buttercup.  "Did ya want the other one?"

The green Puff shook their head.

"Suit yourself," the kid shrugged and tossed the dead green bird over her shoulder, before she repeated the same act with the yellow bird next.  

Buttercup still could not look away.  "Dude... what the actual fuck...?" Eventually, the Puff's green eyes drifted slowly back to wear the discarded dead green bird's drained body lay on the floor of the room.   There was a gust of wind and Buttercup watched as the wooden floorboards of the bedroom and the dead bird began to blow away like strange particles of sand.  The green Puff rose from the bed mattress as it next faded away into the dark atmosphere around them.  "Ah, shit, no wonder..." Buttercup laughed a little nervously, "I'm dreaming...."

"We're dreaming," the kid added as she stood beside herself with a grin.

The green Puff glared briefly for a moment at the unwelcomed tag-along before looking around once more.  The once empty black void that was the adolescent's default dreamscape had changed as of late.  It was still a mostly desolate land, but no longer shrouded in total darkness.  Now, the sky shook with thick, dark and thunderous clouds which boomed with a growing, green electricity inside them.  The fiery green light that crackled within the black storm clouds illuminated the land with an eerie green glow.  The earth was cracked and dry and as the storm ahead continued to boom above, the windy weather of the vast wasteland kicked up the sandy dirt around them.

"Well, whaddya  know?  Ya changed up the place, huh?  I like it!" the kid grinned as she cupped one bloody beaten hand over her brow and looked about the dreamscape.  The thirteen-year-old turned back around and saw that she had been left behind as the green Puff continued to float on ahead without her.  "Yo! Wait up!"

The green Puff carried on without stopping, moving towards a large, distant shadow in the east.  After several minutes, the kid managed to catch up, loudly wheezing and gasping for air as she tried to catch her breath beside the casual floating Powerpuff.

"Dude! I told ya to wait up!" she socked Buttercup on the shoulder with a bloody, bruised fist, "I don't have my ghost powers in this dream world!"

"What sorta sense does that make?"

"I dunno!" the kid threw up her hands, "You tell me!"  the kid paused to cough a little, splattering the dirt with blood.  She wiped at her mouth with her tattered sleeve, as she walked quickly beside the Powerpuff, "Here, I'm just like you were when Goody-Goody left ya behind on that island!   Weak and human-y and useless and burning alive!  You remember?"

The green Puff glared at the kid for a moment before muttering, "Yeah.  I remember."

"So, where we goin' anyway?"

As the two approached a tall arched golden gateway, the green Puff stopped and turned towards the kid.  "No way.  You ain't comin' with me, alright?  Why don't you run off somewhere else, and I dunno... play."

"Why?" the blood-soaked kid strained her eyes as she tried to peer through the thick golden bars of the gate. Besides only having one functioning eye, there was a dense mist in the air that made it difficult to see. "Where are we- Oh-" she stopped as her vision focused on a short redhead walking her pet Pomeranian through the garden.  "Her?" the kid laughed a little, "Dude.  What do you see in her, anyway?   Like... do you like gettin' bossed around, or is it the big boobs, or-"

"Shut up," the green Puff rattled the gate a little to get the kid's attention once more, "Look," the skinny teen's scarred hands grasped the kid by her hooded jacket and spun her to her left, "Go that way, alright?  You'll find Ace's place and have a good time."

"OK, cool!" the kid thankfully agreed, "Which building is it?  That one or that one?"

"What are you talkin' about?  There's only one other build-" the green Puff stopped mid sentence, noticing for the first time a tall silhouette in the distance.

The thirteen-year-old watched as the green Puff shot off for the tall structure with a flash of green light.  "Shit!" she started to chase after on foot, "Wait up!"

As soon as the structure came clearer into focus, the flying teen halted mid-air, "The water tower...?"

For a while, the green Puff remained suspended in the sky, watching the tower intently from afar.  As far as the hero could tell, there were no signs of anyone there, but the scene still felt too ominous.  It was several minutes before the teenager worked up enough courage to continue forward.

Touching down on the metal landing of the water tower, the structure was so high up in the eerie green atmosphere that the darkened mist was especially thick and overpowering even for superpowered vision.  The green Puff gulped nervously, walking cautiously around the platform, tense and ready for anything.  Both green eyes glowed as they searched around the labyrinth of the thick metal beams that supported the tower's massive water tank.   As the teenager reached the railing on the other side, far below could be heard the desperate wheezing and coughing of a struggling thirteen-year-old attempting to climb the tower's ladder.

"Oh, Man!" the kid shouted from below, "I don't think I'm gonna make it!  Dude... a little help?!"

The teenager sighed before zipping downward to retrieve the kid from halfway down the ladder.  The green Puff carried her back up to the metal landing and set her on her feet, but the kid instantly collapsed onto the floor, panting heavily from exhaustion.  

"You know..." the wheezing thirteen-year-old spoke between hard breaths, "That's hard enough... without powers... but climbing really sucks... when your hands... practically have no skin..." she sat up and coughed as she struggled to climb back onto her feet.  The kid stood silent for a while as she watched the green Puff continue to intently search around every metal beam of the platform.  "So what's up?" the kid finally asked after a while.  "What're you lookin' for?"

The green Puff came to the center of the landing, and turned to look back at the kid, wearing a somewhat disappointed frown.  "Nothin', I guess."

AN: @captn-sara-holmes has been a life saver this past week. I wish this were longer, but the hours at work have been kicking my ass. I hope you love this all the same! It’s a little out of my comfort zone, pairing wise, but I’m actually pretty proud of it :)

“Did you ever get shot out of the sky before you joined the Avengers? Because I’m starting to draw some dangerous correlations,” Clint griped, trudging through the snow somewhere behind Bucky. “Actually, don’t answer that. You probably have some war stories, and I don’t want to know.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but smiled despite himself. “Well, there was that one time in 1941 -”

“No, nope, not interested,” Clint cut over him. “It’s bad enough that I’m freezing my nipples off back here; I don’t need boring to death on top of that.”

“You know, some people appreciate my stories,” Bucky grumbled. 

“Well, get stuck in a snowy forest with them, Grandpa,” Clint grumbled right back. “I’m too busy trying not to freeze to death back here, sorry.”

It was getting colder. Bucky had the serum, and even he was starting to feel the icy chill of evening creep into his bones; he couldn’t imagine how cold Clint must have felt. They were stuck in the middle of nowhere, ship destroyed and no way of contacting any of the others; add to that the fact that they still hadn’t found whoever had shot them out of the sky in the first place, and it really put into perspective just how royally screwed they really were. 

“Do you want my jacket? It’ll keep you warm until we can find somewhere to camp out -” Bucky turned to Clint for the first time in a while and immediately stopped, heart wrenching. “Is that blood?”

“No...” Clint replied immediately, before actually looking down at his blood drenched top. “Aw, shirt.”

“Did that happen during the crash?” Bucky asked, surging forward towards him. “Or have you been stupid while I wasn’t looking?”

“Give me a little credit,” Clint huffed, but shied away when Bucky reached for his shirt. “What are you doing?”

“Seeing what I’m working with - what do you think?” Bucky replied, and then growled in annoyance. “Let me see.”

Reluctantly, Clint let him peel his shirt up. The gash wasn’t particularly long, but it sliced angrily into his side all the same. With each breath Clint took, a fresh globule of blood wept out, staining his pale skin as it trickled down his ribcage. 

Bucky swallowed hard, heart in his throat. “Well... it looks great.”

“Cool, we can just nosy on down the trail, then -”

Before Clint could finish his sentence, Bucky pulled his jacket off and stuffed it into his hands. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed his shirt and tugged that off, too. It snagged on his metal arm, but he managed it without too much trouble, and before Clint could complain, he wrapped it around his wound as a makeshift bandage. It wasn’t perfect, and blood began to immediately seep through, but it was better than nothing. 

“Um...” Clint managed intelligently, staring openly at Bucky’s naked chest. “Um.”

“My eyes are up here, buttercup,” Bucky hummed. “Now put my jacket on and quit complaining.”

“Are you serious?” Clint asked incredulously as Bucky turned away to keep going. “You’re really going nips out in the snow?” 

“Come on!” Bucky yelled over his shoulder. “We’re gonna find a cabin or village soon.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“I can smell it,” Bucky snarked, and grinned when he heard Clint huff out a laugh.

“You’re so full of shit.”

“We’ll see,” Bucky hummed. 

---

“I cannot fucking believe...” Clint muttered not half an hour later as they ducked into an abandoned cabin. “Could you actually smell this place? Is it some weird Super Soldier Sense thing? Are you gonna turn into a sniffer dog next full moon, or -”

“Nah, I saw this place when we flew over it,” Bucky replied, and grinned when Clint rolled his eyes. 

In just half an hour, Clint had gone worryingly pale. Despite the makeshift bandage, blood was still leaking from his side at an alarming rate, and as they stepped into the shelter of the cabin Bucky noticed that he was starting to wobble on his feet. 

“Hey, take a load off, okay?” he murmured, catching Clint by the elbow before he could fall off his feet. 

Guiding him to what appeared to be the only bed in the corner of the room, Bucky guided him into a sitting position and then crouched at his feet. Gently, he untied Clint’s sodden boots and pulled them off his feet, before helping him to swing his legs up onto the bed. He looked ghostly in the shadows of the room, and Bucky cupped his cheek tenderly for just a moment before turning away. 

“Rest,” he ordered. “I’m going to start the fire and see if this place has a first aid kit.”

“Mmhmm,” Clint hummed weakly. “Yeah, just... hey.”

Bucky turned back to him. “Yeah?”

“You forgot my goodnight kiss,” Clint grinned crookedly, and had the audacity to pucker his lips. 

Rolling his eyes, Bucky moved back to the bed and leaned over his prone body. He cupped the back of Clint’s head and drew their lips together for a chaste kiss, and then pecked the end of his freezing nose for good measure. 

“Better?” he asked softly, and Clint nodded. 

“Much.”

“Then try to rest,” Bucky continued, and ran a gentle thumb over both of Clint’s fluttering eyelids. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

Clint hummed contentedly. “Sounds like a plan.”

Death becomes her (Sashea) ~ Hobnob

A/N: Hey so yeah I’m in Canada at the moment and its ok. Im by a lake so thats cool because in England if you went in a lake you’d die. The only thing is the graveyards over here are shit. Like, really bad. Its about 8 pieces of stone with names slapped on them. Thats it. The graveyards in England are gr8 they’re all fancy with big ol chapels and local dog-walkers its rite good. Theres one right outside our tesco extra so you can have a fag and a discount grab bag of monster munch

I suppose what I’m saying is i miss England but only mostly graveyards so heres a sashea grave digger au.

A crisp Sunday morning. A group of twelve people stood around a ditch, 6ft deep.

Shea stood beside it, a neatly piled heap of dirt to the left of her. She gripped the handle of her shovel and allowed a shiver to wash over her. Each drawn out breath would hang in the air as everyone clung to their thick coats, toes and fingertips frozen numb.

The grass beneath her was speckled with last nights downpour, buttercups sprouting sporadically in every crevice of the yard. Each grave was maintained regularly on weekends, but this didn’t stop lichens spreading across the surface of the stone, creating spools of rusted orange and brown.

This wasn’t uncommon for Shea, she’d dug graves for countless amounts of the deceased. What was unusual is the fact she stuck around for the vicars sermon. Shea was paying her respects to a lost friend, who was in the coffin not a metre away.

Sasha velour, born 1987 died at the age of 30.

The funeral was going pretty much as expected, nothing more nothing less. It was all extremely respectful; but Shea knew Sahsa would be rolling in her grave. She was so full of colour, energy and life. To have all her friends stood around a ditch holding back tears would of caused her such pain.

She would of wanted her body to be stuffed with the feathers of a dove then covered in paint or something outrageously artsy like that.

The church bells chimed the tune of ‘Westminster Quarters.’ The schoolchildren playing football in the street peeled off one by one as they were called in for lunch, their knees covered in bruises and scrapes.

The ringing ceased and there was only silence; even the occasional cars making their run to town seemed to stop completely.

The vicar brushed some lint off her robe and cleared her throat. She was clad head to toe in black apart from her clerical collar which shone white in contrast. Vicar Brown was well known amongst the townsfolk. She knew almost everything there was to know about the town and its residents. Any social event, any formal, and she’s be there with her signature tray of rice krispie cakes and a grin.

Vicar Brown was dedicated to her work no doubt. Her knowledge helped when it came to writing eulogies and giving the dead a respectful burial. There were no secrets in this town.

Part of Shea found that unsettling.

The service began and as usual, Farrah was the first to burst out into tears. Valentina gave her shoulder a small squeeze, but mostly in an attempt to shut her up.

The standard funeral ensued. Tears, boredom, last words, goodbyes. Funerals are painful, regardless of if you knew the deceased. Everyone bowed their head as Peppermint tossed a rose on the casket.

“We now commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust: in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life…”

Farrah began to cry again.

The casket was lowered and the sky was spitting. Everyone was eager to pop into a local café and stave off the cold with coffee, but for Shea the hardest part was just beginning. She still had to fill in the entirety of the grave.

Some mumbled some personal goodbyes to the lowered coffin, some put on a brave face and left with no words. Shea sighed and gripped at her shovel again as everything seemed to go back to normal almost instantaneously.

“You okay girl?”

Shea jolted at the voice. She felt a hand on her shoulder and spun around. Trinity Taylor was stood directly ahead of her with a sympathetic smile. They had been very close at one point.

“Jesus Christ Trinity you scared me for a moment” Shea strained, balling a fist into the fabric of her coat. She wasn’t dressed in the most funeral-ish attire but she had dirty work to do. “Im ok i just…me and sasha were speaking just the other day-”

“I know right?” Trinity cut in. “She seemed fine! I’d be more sad if i wasn’t so shocked.”

They both stood in silence for a moment. Shea turned her attention to the coffin as the rain began to bead up on the varnished wooden surface. She reached for the shovel again and frowned at Trinity.

“They wouldn’t tell me how it happened…all i got was one phone call telling me my best friend was dead and when the funeral was.” Shea said, beginning to fill in the ditch.

“Well thats what i was going to ask you, how it happened, you really don’t know?” Trinity asked in confusion everyone had been in the dark about Sasha’s death, even her closest friends.

Shea was hoping to get the phone call about Sasha. How it happened, where it happened, why it happened. Shea couldn’t help feeling information was being withheld from her for a reason. She felt sick.

“You don’t need to stick around girl, i got it covered” Shea said mustering the most sincere grin she could. “I’ll call you if they tell me anything else.”

“Not if, when. I’ll get to the bottom of this myself if i have to.”

Shea nodded and gave Trinity a tight hug. She admired her optimism in such a bleak scenario, but still, she just didn’t feel right.

“Stay strong Shea.”

And with that, Trinity was gone. Sasha’s closest friends had paid their respects and were probably eating a cheese and onion pastie in Greggs by now. She carried on shovelling the dirt over the woman she had spoken to just 3 days ago, playing every possible scenario in her head, over and over.

The heap of soil got smaller as the grave got fuller. The coffin was no longer visible, nor the rose placed on top of it. Sasha would’ve loved the symbolism of that. The situation was setting in and Shea’s breathing was becoming erratic.

She couldn’t finish burying the coffin, she just couldn’t. Shea dropped the shovel in the grass and stood over the half filled grave, her eyes brimming with tears. The rain wasn’t letting up as she crossed her arms in an attempt to keep any kind of warmth.

in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life

Shea needed to get inside. She couldn’t carry on.

Her attention turned to the church. Its stained glass glowed a fuzzy tinted red from the candlelight inside. Shea stepped in the archway and felt her breathing return to normal. She shut her eyes as she felt the wooden door behind her slammed closed. The steady beat of raindrops pounded against the windows.

“Done already?”

For the second time that day Shea jumped. She scrambled against the doorframe clasping at her heart. It was the vicar, clutching a small bible, possibly preparing upcoming services for the more religious townsfolk. Shea didn’t fall under that category. She gathered herself before speaking.

“Ah-just taking a small break vicar” Shea admitted, her eyes red tears that had been held back. “Im sorry it was cold i just wanted to-”

“Oh please, call me Tammie,” Vicar brown began, shaking her head. “You were good friends with Sasha, no?”

Shea tried to speak, but her whole mouth felt like it was shut together, all she could do was nod.

“It cant be easy having to bury one of your loved ones, its hard enough saying goodbye…” Tammie sighed, putting down her bible and casting a distant glare over to the other side of the church. “Have they told you how she passed?”

She paused for a moment and looked to the floor, trying to muster coherent words. “They-they just said there had been an accident.”

Tammie gave a sympathetic look and patted Shea on the shoulder. She was being patronised. Shea shrugged off the vicars touch and furrowed her brow. The entirety of Tammie’s eulogy seemed almost impersonal, and the last thing she needed was the pity of others.

Nobody knew Sasha velour like she did.

Vicar brown continued. “Thats a shame, isn’t it? Im sure they’ll find out more soon, hm? Chin up duck.” She said with a grin. Tammie picked up her pockett sized bible and flicked to a page almost systematically. “Whoever is patient has great understanding, but one who is quick-tempered displays folly.”

Shea let out an internal sigh. She knew it wasn’t her god given right to know everything at all times, but when it came to the death of her best friend a bit of information was the least she deserved.

“i was actually thinking of doing some sleuthing?” Shea admitted. She had found some confidence, as evident in her tone of voice. “maybe ask a few of her family membe-”

“Shea” Tammie cut her off. Her tone was less cheery than before, more intense. “That verse is one i hold very dearly to my heart. Its never steered me wrong before.” She said, tapping her head.

“I’ll…keep that in mind vicar.”

“Please, Tammie.”

“I’ll keep that in mind Tammie.” Shea corrected herself. She had to finish her work and get out of there as soon as possible. Tammie was a nut-case, and Shea was hardly in the mood to be recited christian teachings. “Don’t let me keep you, ill go back to my work.”

Tammie nodded, her face easing up a little, “See you around miss Coulée.” she spun on her heel and made her way back into the confides of the church. The flickering of candlelight casted a silhouette as she left Shea’s line of vision.

Shea couldn’t leave the church quick enough. The rain was hardly a concern at this point. She grabbed the handle of the shovel and inspected her work. Still around half way to go…shit.

“Need some help?”

Shea spun around! Crikey! The ghost of Sasha velour!

“Sup cunt im back.” She stood there in her ghostly glory.

“Sasha you dick pig give us a hug!” Shea said happily.

“Cant, im a ghost.” Sasha shrugged, covering herself in honey mustard and trail mix as an art statement about famine.

Shea was over the moon, this was like, well unexpected. She threw the shovel through the stained glass window and did the electric slide.

“Want to go get a pint?” Sahsa asked, checking her casio sports watch.

“Yah, but how did you die?” Shea said. She had to know the entire story had been building up to this.

“Global warming.” Sasha retorted, breaking momentarily to cough up a bunch of roses.

“Fuck me, i could’ve sworn it was Tammie brown.”

Sasha shooketh her egg head. “Have you even seen scooby doo? Its never the person you expect ya uncultured swine.”

“Have you come to haunt me?” Shea said spitting out her gum into sasha’s grave.

Sasha shrugged. “Good story writing is a construct, tear it apart.”

Shea nodded. That all wrapped up very nicely. Niiiice big ol bow slapped on top. Very conclusive.

“Lets go get you that pint then you cheeky slag.”

And with that they went down to the local tappie for some larger. Not long after they got married in wales at a Dixy Chicken after going on a 3 week bender.

Happy Halloween!

A/N: Bit shit, mediocre, liberal stuff Class is a construct, eat my muff Horrible shit and tolerable shit Cameron made england for the brits This maccies, this is fine Don’t need a nando’s, roadmen in lines For a revolution with naff intentions Brexit was called to fuck generations Yeah man, lend us a quid Student loans and atm im skint :( I’m in so much pain, NHS is whack Theres a lot of politicians, but they all know jack Chavs, roadmen, meddle in gangs Blocked off the alley, can’t get to my nan’s Bar’s, pubs, Underaged drinking England is shit, and LONG LIVE THE KING

2:03pm

1/31/17 My brother sounds frantic. His voice breaks as he tells the dispatcher there are accessible weapons in the home. I don't care though. I've already doused my blood with over 24,000 milligrams of lithium carbonate. I've researched it extensively before and I'm uncomfortably confident this will be enough to be lost forever. I lay on the frigid kitchen floor screaming to the darker side of the moon but it's asleep and cannot hear. My dog is barking at me and trying to get at my mouth. She knows. I suddenly become calm. I can hear blaring sirens rushing through town. Stone cold. It all becomes hazy. Police, ems, noise. I'm carving a statue out of this body. Tearing limbs. Replacing veins with fatal poison. My feet can no longer stand the feeling of falling through concrete. I have wandered these caverns long enough to know they do not end with an exit and my time has come. I am carving apologies in blood soaked bones and ghostly silhouettes. The ghost of me does not wish to linger but would like to be remembered. My body's a garden from bone and ash. Growing daisy flowers and buttercups. Deep in my soul, right in the core, lies the remains of beauty the grew once before. Butterflies are drowning and flowers are dying. Clouds are angry and skies are crying. Everyday I bottle up this pain, deep within, like a hurricane. Sometimes this storm comes out of place, the tears of the sky stream down my face. When screaming roses become too much, I set them free. The red petals sneak through my skin released through cuts. Some remain trapped, they die in my throat. When I try to speak of it I began to choke. All it takes is a field of wildflowers so no one see my body's a garden of painful remains. Chi st Luke's er The beeping won't stop. Feet shuffle in and out of my bay. Constant eyes watching and marking my every movement. I'm not staying here. I'm being transferred to Houston. I'm scared that I might actually be successful this go around. The doctors don't give me many details. They are attempting to protect me from reality. The images from the album titled "funeral slideshow" on my computer runs through my head. I didn't think to leave a note because everything I've written has already been said. My actions are enough of a note for me. Maybe when I'm six feet under people will start to listen. There are times when my mind is loud. When my thoughts turn to violent screams. The walls of memories set ablaze. There are times when my mind is silent. When stillness lays over me like an anchor. I have to remind myself how to breathe. It's hard to say which cuts the deepest. It's hard to say which hurts the most. People without my disorder somehow magically know the way to cure it. Stop cutting, my friends say. Go to church, my mother claims. You need to exercise my therapist concludes. Follow the expectations my father instructs. Here take this pill, my doctor prescribes. Don't take pills just use crystals my co workers admonishes. I smile and nod to all these things. "Okay, okay. I will try. You're right." I will try your good idea and laugh because I have tried all these things. In fact, I've tried everything. I would try anything. But the reality is my disorder will always live with me. Nothing but the grace of God will take this brutal beast away. St Luke's ICU unit 1 "Amanda, do you understand?" My mind is blank. I don't even know how to answer dr. Kapoor's question. I feel so numb. It's either hemodialysis or the 88% chance of slipping into a coma. The lithium had already started attaching to my brain cells and I'm becoming symptomatic. My fever is high, I can't hold down anything nonetheless ice chips and my body is trembling. This is my chance to refuse the treatment; have my vision of it all ending and I can't even think. I start to cry and I'm left to comfort myself once again. I feel like I have no one. If I live through this the only thing it will be remembered for is another episode of "wanting attention." But that's not the case I have the chance to take my life into my own hands. No one can make this decision for me. So how did I make the decision for hemodialysis? I think of the times my mom later with me in bed as a little girl and told me Jesus himself was stroking my hair as angels danced and sang above my head. I think of the time my father took me to the daddy/daughter dance and I felt so ugly but somehow he made me feel like the most beautiful little girl there. I think of when my brother and I use to sleep in each other's rooms so we could hangout just a little bit longer. How could I leave them? What would they want? I love them. And I know they love me. All I want is my mom but right now I feel like she doesn't want me. Doctors prep me for my procedure, poking and prodding. I'm exhausted and torn. Why did I agree to this but why can't I let my family go? Why aren't they responding to me? I need someone, anyone, yet I'm all alone. No one is there on the other side. I've brought everyone to the edge of the cliff with me and I pushed them off. Maybe I deserve my pain and my heartbreak that was handed to me. I want the ground to swallow me whole and to chew me up. I want it to spit me out as something new. Perhaps, if I was different this world would hurt less and my heart wouldn’t ache. My head wouldn’t pound. If I was made new again perhaps this life would feel lighter, instead of a weight on my back that is just pulling me down. When did my pretty pastels get lost among the gray reflections? Depression feels like that moment underwater that you realize you need to come up for air. I can’t come up. So I fill my organs with lithium, in hopes that I would feel something. And just like that, all of a sudden the bridges I made, rose up like mountains, as butterflies swarmed around me, like a bee to it’s hive.