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paradoxmage117 · 5 years

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Armistice

Hello all! Merry (Late) Christmas! (I know it's the 28th, but I'm Jewish. I routinely forget about Christmas. It happens.)

This was written as part of the Widowtracer Discord's secret santa as a gift to TheRealG, of Fish. Merry Christmas ya dork! Hope you enjoy!

The title is a reference to a real event known as the Christmas Armistice, or the Christmas Truce, that happened in World War 1. Basically, in 1914, a bunch of different parts of the Western Front all had a ceasefire, and people from both sides came and went and celebrated the day. I'm not much of a history nerd, but I know at least that much and it came back to me while I was thinking about what to write. This was the result. It’s pretty long so the rest is under the cut. Hope everyone enjoys.

Lena was pulled out of the smoking wreck of her kitchen by the phone ringing. She snagged it with one hand while she grabbed the fire extinguisher from under the sink with the other, aiming the nozzle at the flickering flames currently erupting from the open oven, discharging a heavy blast of CO2 as she answered the phone.

“‘Lo?”

“Hello Lena,” replied a familiar voice.

“Winston! How ya doin bud? I was going to head over to the Watchpoint in about 15 minutes.”

She fired another blast from the extinguisher, finally dowsing the flames fully. The charred wreck of what was supposed to have been a christmas cake lay still smoking inside, reminding her of the gorilla’s various warnings that she shouldn’t try and bake anything.

“Alright, maybe 20 minutes. I had a bit of a mishap.”

“You didn’t try to cook again did you?” There was a sigh in the gorillas voice. “Lena, we’ve been over this. Your pension isn’t enough to cover replacing your kitchen every time you try to reheat something in the oven.”

“Oi!” Lena replied indignantly, but the rest of whatever objection she might have formed disappeared as she inhaled a breath of smoke and burst into a coughing fit.

“Alright, maybe you have a point,” she managed to wheeze out a moment later.

Winston let out a chuckle, though it died out a moment later. “Your magical ability to burn everything you touch isn’t why I called you. Something’s come up.”

Lena dropped the charred remains of the cake into the sink. “What’s going on? Bad news?”

“Very,” replied Winston. “I’m afraid our Christmas plans will have to be put on hold, at least temporarily.”

“Well shit.” “I agree. But this is more important.”

“What’s happened?” Lena asked, already moving to her bedroom to grab the rest of her kit.

“There’s been a break in. An old Overwatch base on the edge of London triggered an alert, which Athena picked up. It would appear that someone is snooping through our graveyard.”

Lena stopped midway through buckling on her accelerator. “Hold on. Edge of London. There isn’t an Overwatch base there. I woulda known about one so close to home. Nearest one is you, right?”

“It would appear not,” Winston replied. “From what I can tell it was entirely off the books. A research station. Run by Blackwatch.”

Lena let out a low growl. “Of course it was them. Slimy bastards. What were they doing in there then?”

“The simple truth is that I don’t know. Whatever data they had was kept on site. We didn’t even have a record of its existence until we caught their alert.”

A realization hit her. “Then how did whoever’s robbin’ the place know to go there?” she asked, already dreading the answer.

“I don’t know, but that’s a good question to ask them when you get there. I’m sending you the coordinates. Good luck.”

“Thanks love. And I’m sorry that this had to happen on Christmas.”

There was a pause, then a sigh. “So am I.”

Wiston ended the call. Lena was already heading for the door.

◇ ◇ ◇

She stopped a street away from the address Winston had given her and parked her bike, going the rest of the way on foot.

From the outside the building looked like nothing more than an abandoned warehouse. Broken windows, grafiti, the works. You’d pass it by without a second glance. The illusion broke about two steps through the door, which from the inside was revealed to be several inches thick, titanium, and secured by three bolts each the size of her arm. All of them were severed, and the door hung slightly open.

She moved forward slowly, cautiously. Faint tracks in the dust told her that the unknown invaders were an unknown invader, and that the two of them were the first to be here in quite some time.

As she moved forward she came across signs of struggle. A broken sentry turret mounted near the ceiling was letting loose small bursts of sparks. A single hole had shattered its lens and buried itself in the things mechanical heart. In the next corridor the same sight greeted her. And the next. Each dispatched with a single shot of unerring accuracy.

A cold feeling stole over her, though she wasn’t sure why.

She kept following the footprints. Every once in a while they deviated into a room off the main hallway, but always they came back out and continued in the same direction. Whatever they wanted, they hadn’t found it yet.

Sound echoed down the hallway to her. Something slammed, there was the rustle of pages, then a thud, like a book dropped on the floor. The sounds of a search. She kept going, anticipation coiling in her belly. She flicked her pistols out of the vambraces on her arms and into her hands.

Ready.

There was a room at the end of the hallway, bigger than the others. Lena’d been in enough Overwatch bases to know the main control room when she saw it. The room was stocked with file cabinets, multiple desks with computers resting ready on them, and a central monitor in the middle of the room. The large screen was on, a progress bar displayed.

Data Transfer in Progress:

54% Complete

And rifling through one of the file cabinets was the thief themself. Herself.

Lena recognized her immediately. Blue skin, absurd getup, long hair up in a ponytail. Her eyes fell on the rifle laying on one of the desks near the cabinet being searched. She remembered that gun. Very well indeed.

She let out a whistle. Immediately, Widowmaker turned and grabbed for her gun, visor coming down over her eyes and beginning to glow red. Lena gave her a cheerful wave. The rifle came up, pointing at her.

By then however Lena was on the other side of the room, a flash of blue lighting up her passage. Pistols already ready, she let loose a quick burst of pulse rounds, unsurprised when the enemy sniper rolled out of the way and came up in a shooting position, gun in ranged configuration.

Lena closed the gap, working to take away her opponents greatest ally, distance. At range the sniper might prevail, but close up was where she herself worked best.

Widowmaker seemed to anticipate the move though, immediately reconfiguring her gun into its SMG form, letting fly a spray of bullets to block her approach. Lena blinked behind a desk for cover. As she did, the enemy turned and sprinted back down the hallway they’d both entered through.

“Hey, that’s no fair!” Lena cried after the retreating form, in hot pursuit a moment later.

Widowmaker’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, and a moment later Lena’s own joined the crowd of reverberations.

The other woman heard.

Widowmaker turned, firing a bluish object down the hall toward her, and Lena only remembered about her venom mines a moment too late.

The mine burst, spraying the unique toxic fog contained within, forcing Lena to her knees with coughing and choking. Through her streaming eyes she could see Widowmaker stopping for a moment to watch. She was smiling. Then she turned away and began to run towards the exit once again.

She wouldn’t be laughing for long, Lena thought. She pushed on that place in her mind that triggered her rewind, but as she did, something gleamed in the corner of her eye.

“Look out!” she cried as the rewind brought her back to the moment before the mine had exploded, on her feet and still mid stride. Her voice weren;’t filled with exhilaration though. She was afraid.

Apparently Widowmaker heard the difference in tone, and she turned to look at her formerly downed foe. Which was why the last remaining sentry guns first shot took her in the side of the head. The second caught her in her side and the third took her in the same place. There was no fourth, because by then her gun had snapped up into position and that final sentry was disabled, now with a single hole in its lens like all the rest.

Widowmaker gave a grim smile, then began to run to the exit again. It was only a few steps later when her left leg hitched, twisted… and gave out. She reached down to her side. Lena could see the blood her fingers came away covered in.

She approached the woman on the floor. Slowly now. The need for haste had gone.

“Are you alright?” she asked. She wasn’t even sure why she was asking, but the words were out before she had even thought to say them.

Widowmaker’s head twisted around violently to gauge the distance between them. The side of her visor was shattered. Lena could see a sharp cheekbone, and a golden eye glaring out at her. Then she whipped her head back around and began to lurch across the floor to where she had dropped her gun.

Lena didn’t even have to think. Without consciously deciding to do it she had blinked past the wounded woman and grabbed her rifle, throwing it down the hallway towards the still open door which beckoned a return to the normal everyday world of a London Christmas.

Lena stared at the opening for a second. Debating.

Then she turned to look back down the hall.

Widowmaker was struggling to get to her feet a few yards away, one hand pressed against her side. The purple of her suit was dripping red, and it leaked between her blue fingers in a steady flow.

“Are you alright?” Lena asked again.

Widowmaker did not reply. Using the wall, she tried to pull herself upright, but once again her leg twisted out from beneath her and she fell back to the ground, a small cry escaping her lips.

The sound was soft, barely a whisper. It was not something one might expect to hear from the world’s most feared sniper.

Lena, cursing her own foolishness, slowly began to move closer.

“How bad are you hit?” she asked.

This time Widowmaker’s gaze snapped up to meet hers, one eye still hidden behind the red glow of her masks optics, the other gleaming sharp and gold from within the shattered part of her mask.

“Shoot me yourself and finish the job, or leave if your delicate sensibilities won’t allow you to kill me,” Widowmaker snarled.

Lena ignored her. She took another step closer.

“How bad are you hit?” she asked again, keeping her voice low and calm.

“Did you not hear what I said? Kill me or leave. If you do neither than I will kill you instead.”

Lena couldn’t help herself. She laughed. It was cold, no real humor in the sound.

“Love, you’re clearly hit pretty bad. You’re out of weapons, you’re probably gonna bleed out pretty soon, and if I had to guess I’d say your comms are out from the shot that blew your helmet to smithereens. You’ve got no help coming either I’d guess, or you wouldn’t have a problem with me sticking around and having your reinforcements kill me when they show up.

“So are you gonna let me take a look or not?”

Lena felt that Widowmaker wanted very much to appear gobsmacked, but wasn’t willing to be deprived of the decorum.

“That was… surprisingly clever,” she said after a while.

Lena smiled. It was sharp. “Well I didn’t get into Overwatch by being an idiot did I? Now are we done with the formalities? Or do we need to snipe at each other a bit more?”

“I’m weighing my options,” replied Widowmaker. But even still, the next time Lena moved forward, Widowmaker didn’t try and stop her.

When Lena was within arms reach of her that changed though. Her right arm flew out without warning and caught Lena a strong blow to the side of her face. In the instant the distraction gave her Widowmaker made a break for the door.

She got another ten steps, maybe eleven, before she crumpled to the ground again.

Holding her now tender jaw, Lena slowly covered the distance between them again and crouched on the ground a few feet away from Widowmaker’s prone form.

“Well that solved a whole lot didn’t it,” she said from her spot on the ground. Widowmaker didn’t deign to reply. “You gonna do that again?” she asked.

“I make no promises,” Widowmaker said, speaking to the floor in front of her rather than to the other woman. Lena sighed, then got back up and moved next to the fallen Talon agent.

Slowly, moving as though she was handling a live bomb, Lena prodded at the area around the wounds, peeling back the tatters of Widowmaker’s jumpsuit to inspect the entry points. Some part of her was interested to see that Widowmaker’s blood wasn’t quite red. It was just slightly more purple than a normal person’s, like the red blood cells weren’t as present in her veins.

“Oh dear,” she said. She touched the skin around the area. Widowmaker let out a hiss of pain, but was otherwise silent.

“This is really, really not good,” Lena said, mostly to herself.

“I had gathered. It does tend to be a bad thing when one is shot,” Widowmaker replied dryly while still avoiding looking at her apparent helper.

“Hush you,” Lena replied absently, her attention still on the wounds. The two shots were several inches apart, one taking her in the hip and the other in her side. Probing further, she could feel both slugs still buried in her skin. She did her best to ignore Widowmaker’s muted expressions of pain as she did so. Right now those slugs were helping keep the wounds from bleeding too much, but without medical attention it wouldn’t matter either way.

Lena rose suddenly. “Right then. You. Up. Now,” she said.

“What?” asked Widowmaker, in surprise as much as anything else.

“You’ve got two slugs in you, and they ain’t coming out. If those stay in it’s not only gonna hurt like hell, but you’re gonna eventually bleed out. You need help, now. And since I think we’re both beyond the fallacy that there’s help coming for you, that leaves me. So. Up. We need to go.”

“Go? Go where?” asked the sniper, finally turning to face her. Lena once again found it disconcerting to look at her face, one eye covered red, one revealed gold.

“My place. I’ve got a few of Mercy’s portable medkits stocked up in case of emergency. I think this definitely counts.”

Widowmaker sneered. “I am not allowing you to take me anywhere.”

Lena sighed in exasperation. “Look, you’re gonna die here unless you let me help. No one’s comin’ for you, and even if they were, they wouldn’t make it here before you bled out. I can’t exactly bring one of the world’s most wanted into urgent care, I know you won’t let me take you to some of my friends who’d be able to fix you up much better than I ever could, so that leaves me taking you with me and patching you up as best I can. So are you gonna suck it up and come quietly or not?” The sniper remained where she was on the ground. “I’m weighing my options.”

“Alright, that’s it. Up. Now.”

With a bit of difficulty, Lena managed to get the sniper to throw an arm over her shoulder. Then it was just a matter of getting them upright and shambling out the door.

Lena blinked at the brightness of the snow frosted outside. God, she’d forgotten that for the rest of the world it was Christmas. The street was covered in lights, and she took a moment to admire the scene. That moment was shattered by the sniper hanging off of her like a sack of groceries.

“Why have we stopped?” she asked, pain making her voice tight.

Lena got them moving again, heading down the street to where she’d parked her bike. “Just admiring the scenery. It is Christmas after all.”

Widowmaker gave a derisive snort, then fell silent.

“Just out of curiosity, you ever ridden a motorbike before?” Lena asked, hoping her tone sounded conversational.

Widowmaker lifted her head, and her eyes fell on Lena’s preferred method of transportation. “You have got to be kidding,” she said.

“Hey, it’s this or walk, and the Row ain’t exactly close. You should’ve picked a better place to rob,” Lena shot back.

Situating the two of them took a minute, but once Widowmaker was in place things were fine. The death grip she kept on Lena the whole ride made sure that there was no chance of her falling off.

A very tense 20 minutes passed, but they arrived at Lena’s flat without incident.

“Alright, we’re here. You done trying to crack my ribs or can I get off?” Lena asked, a hint of a smile in her voice.

Widowmaker withdrew her hands quickly, as though she wanted to pretend that she hadn’t been hanging on to the other woman for dear life moments before.

Lena stood next to her so that Widowmaker could swing an arm back over her shoulder, then she helped her down onto the pavement. Widowmaker let out a quiet grunt when her feet hit the ground, but was otherwise silent.

“This way,” Lena said, and led them up the few steps to the door to her apartment building. They crossed the lobby quickly and headed for the elevator. As they stood waiting to reach her floor, Lena could feel Widowmaker leaning on her more and more heavily.

A minute later they were on the fourth floor, and the two walked down the hallway to Lena’s flat without any trouble, entering quietly without being seen by any curious neighbors.

“Alright, right over here,” Lena said, leading the now semiconscious woman over to her couch. She lowered Widowmaker down slowly, doing her best not to jar her injured left side as she did. Widowmaker, for her part, nearly fell onto the couch, and seemed to have no major inclination to shift once she’d attained a stable position.

Lena took once glance at the sniper and immediately rushed to the bathroom, where she kept a few of the nanobot packs that had saved her life and others on more than one occasions. If Widowmaker was this bad off, then time was of the essence.

Lena returned carrying not only the medkit, but a more run of the mill first aid kit and a pair of tweezers. Widowmaker was in the exact same position she’d left her in. Lena took that as a bad sign.

“Hey, you still awake?” she asked as she sat down next to the couch and began to pull out the things she’d need.

“Hey!” she said louder, and when that got no reply she started shaking the other woman’s shoulder vigorously. A faint groan greeted her actions.

“Alright, good. Least you ain’t dead yet. I need to pull the bullets outta you before the kit’ll do much good. I’ve got a shot of anesthetic for that bit. It’ll pinch, just hold still.

“No!”

A hand seized her arm, the grip so tight that it hurt.

“Do not numb me,” said Widowmaker, suddenly wide awake. Her eyes were wide and sharp… and terrified. “Do not,” she said again, squeezing Lena’s arm as she did so.

“I won’t. Promise,” Lena replied, keeping her eyes and voice steady, while inside she wondered.

Widowmaker held her grip for another moment, then released her. Lena rubbed at her wrist. There were fingerprints on her skin.

“Alright. No anesthetic. Sure. I’ve got a topical numbing agent here. Should I use that or would you rather we do without?” Lena asked.

Widowmaker considered for a moment, then there was the tiniest acquiescing nod. “Very well. But nothing more.”

“Absolutely,” Lena replied, trying to inject her voice with calm.

She worked in silence for a moment, applying the numbing gel to the site of both wounds. She could feel Widowmaker tensing her muscles beneath her hands, as though trying to resist the chemicals effects. Lena gave the cream 15 minutes to set in before she moved in with the tweezers.

“Alright, this is gonna hurt. Be ready,” she said. She felt Widowmaker pulling her muscles taught in preparation. Then Lena made her move.

2 minutes later there were two metal slugs laying on the floor next to her and she was pressing the medkit into Widowmaker’s side, feeling some small amount of relaxation flow into the tense body beneath as the nanobots began to go to work.

“Well, that’s all I can do for now,” Lena said, standing up and dusting off her hands in a theatrical manner.

“You shouldn’t have even done this,” Widowmaker replied.

“A simple thank you would’ve done just fine too love,” Lena shot back, then headed for the kitchen to wash up. “You want a cup of tea? Breaking into secret bases, being shot at, having minor surgery performed on you, it must be pretty thirsty work.”

She received no reply.

Shrugging to herself, she finished washing her hands and set the kettle to boil on her still slightly charred stove.

Waiting for the water to finish heating up, she ducked back into the living room for a moment to examine her unexpected guest, and was a bit surprised by what she saw.

Widowmaker was staring raptly at the little tree she’d set up in one corner of the room.

It wasn’t much, wasn’t even a real tree. She’d bought it at the supermarket on an impulse two weeks before and had been genuinely surprised with how nice it’d been to decorate it. She hadn’t had a Christmas tree since… God, since before Overwatch fell. It’d been nice to think back to those times. They hadn’t been simple, not by any means, but they’d been happy.

Widowmaker seemed transfixed by it. Her golden eyes reflected the few strings of lights Lena had wrapped around it, and it was only then that Lena realized the sniper had removed her fractured helmet and placed it on the floor next to her. Without it her face looked more open. Softer.

Or maybe that was just because of the tree.

Lena snuck back around the corner into the kitchen, the expression on the sniper’s face occupying her mind.

Because she barely looked like the woman she had fought on a rooftop overlooking the Row while Mondatta lay dead in the street.

She looked new.

As soon as the kettle whistled, Lena pulled it off the stove and poured water into two mugs, throwing a mint tea bag into each and carrying them with her back into the living room. By the time she got there Widowmaker’s attention was off the tree and onto her. But she wondered.

“Here you go,” she said, handing one of the mugs to her surprise guest. “You didn’t say whether you wanted or not so I just made one for you. It’s mint. Figured that would be a pretty safe bet.” “Merci,” replied the sniper. She took a tentative sip. Apparently, finding it to her liking, she took another drink a moment later.

“It would appear you cannot burn tea then,” said the sniper. Lena could practically feel her smiling behind her mug.

“Oi! What’s that supposed to mean?” Lena asked indignantly.

“It means I see a rather large amount of scorching in your kitchen. So unless an arsonist was at work in there, I would guess that you burned something. Rather impressively too.”

“Shut up,” Lena replied, but there was no heat in the words. Somehow, it didn’t feel like a real insult. More like banter, the easy raport shared by friends, even though that wasn’t even remotely close to what they were.

Lena took a sip of her tea. “That pack’s gonna take a bit to work,” she said as a way of testing the waters.

“I had come to a similar conclusion,” Widowmaker replied. She smiled sharply. “It seems you are stuck with me chérie, at least for now.”

“Or you’re stuck with me,” Lena fired back, a smile of her own already in place. “You mind if I ask a question while we’re waiting then?”

Widowmaker shrugged, but made no other reply. Lena forged ahead.

“Why’d you pick today? I’m not gonna ask what you were trying to steal, figure you’d never tell me that so why waste the time. But why’d you try and steal whatever it was today? I mean, it’s Christmas! Don’t evil criminal organizations give holiday leave?”

Widowmaker’s smile faded. “No,” she said. “They do not give holiday leave.” The next part came out quieter. “At least not to me.”

She continued at a more normal volume. “I was instructed to carry out this mission on today’s date specifically because of its significance. Talon believed that any major opposition would either be tied up in their celebrations or be off balance and complacent because of the general spirit of the day. They thought it would make the job that much easier. They did not count on you.”

Lena gave a rough smile. “Yeah well, I didn’t have much in the way of plans. Meant to visit one person later on but this interrupted. Otherwise it was just me.”

Widowmaker’s brow furrowed. “No visiting family? Or friends?”

“Don’t have much left of either if I’m honest. Lost my parents during the last days of the Crisis. Bounced around in foster homes till I was 16. Then I lied about my age and joined the RAF.”

The sniper arched an eyebrow. “A very daring feat for a teenager.”

Lena shrugged. “It was the only thing I had left in my life. I’d dreamed of flying forever. Home was shit, school was shit, only thing I had left to hang onto was that dream. And I got it.” She smiled nostalgically. “The RAF was some of the best years of my life. It was the first time I felt like I had a real family. Then I got called into Overwatch. Everything changed after that.”

“The Slipstream,” Widowmaker said. Lena’s head jerked upright.

“Oh, so you lot know about that then. I’d wondered.” She sighed. “Yeah. The Slipstream. I’d… really rather not talk about that.”

Widowmaker made no comment. After a moment, Lena continued.

“After that, well, I was in Overwatch. They were my family. Then that got torn apart too. We’re scattered all over now, those of us who aren’t dead. I haven’t seen most of ‘em in a long time. I miss them.”

Lena remained silent, staring at the ground, lost in her memories. “But yeah. Not much in the way of family or friends. Just me.”

Widowmaker said nothing. Merely watched her. Lena was glad that the sniper hadn’t tried to say she was sorry. It always came out sounding so fake when people did that.

“What about you?” Lena asked. “You have any plans before this? Anyone to go visit?”

She could swear she felt the temperature in the room drop 10 degrees at the question. The former… well maybe not peace, but at least passivity, shattered. Lena could see it in Widowmaker’s face. Could see the walls going up.

“Forget I asked. Sorry,” Lena said. She wasn’t here to force information out of the sniper, and from that reaction it wasn’t just a sore subject, it was an open wound.

“Hey, you were wondering about the kitchen right?” Lena asked, hoping to switch the conversation to something less painful. “Well, this isn’t the first time I’ve burnt the hell out of it. I’ve been informed by just about everyone I’ve ever known that when I try and cook something the first thing they do is call the fire department. It’s not my fault I swear! It just sorta… happens.”

“What were you trying to make this time?” asked Widowmaker. There was a smile quirking at her lip, though she appeared to be doing her best to control it from blooming into a full grin. She was failing.

“A Christmas cake. I saw this fantastic recipe online and I just had to give it a shot.” Lena rubbed the back of her head sheepishly. “Turns out that shot was taken with a flare gun.”

Widowmaker let out a small chuckle. Lena gasped. “I didn’t think you had a sense of humor!”

“I have one, but it only shows when there is something funny. That would explain why none of your jokes or comments have ever worked.”

“Oi!” Lena cried, and gave her a light swat on the shoulder. Widowmaker took another sip of her tea, still smiling.

Silence fell, and the two enjoyed it, drinking tea in comfortable quiet.

Eventually though, it was Widowmaker who broke it. Her face was hard, sharp, all drawn lines and flat planes. Less of a face, more a picture. A wall. Perfectly composed, perfectly false. She appeared to have come to a decision.

“To answer your question, I am alone,” she said, her voice a quiet monotone. “No family left. No friends. I visit my husband’s grave every year. That is all. There is nothing left for me.”

There was silence.

“I’m sorry,” Lena said, and she hoped to god that Widowmaker could tell how much she meant it. The sniper gave no sign of hearing her, merely remained still and silent, her face made up and unchanging.

Statuesque.

“Why’d you tell me?” Lena asked a moment later. “You didn’t need to y’know. Why bother?”

Widowmaker shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Her voice dropped lower. “Maybe because nobody has ever bothered to ask.”

Without knowing what she was going to say, Lena opened her mouth to reply. She was saved from finding out what words would have come out by a quiet chime from the medkit. The nanobots had finished.

Lena peeled back the patch in silence, examining the now unbroken blue skin beneath it.

“Right, looks like you’re all healed up.” Lena tried for a smile, but there was something false in it. She really should’ve been happy to be getting rid of the sniper. Having a wanted criminal she’d shot at and been shot at by in return on multiple occasions sitting on her couch really shouldn’t have been something she was enjoying… but she had been.

She was sad to see her go.

Widowmaker reached a hand down to rub at the spots on her body that her torn suit laid bare. She nodded as her hands felt the smooth skin, as though content with what she was feeling.

“Thank you,” she said, turning her eyes, those lovely golden eyes, to meet Lena’s.

She might’ve been fooling herself, but Lena thought there was some melancholy in those eyes.

But that was probably wishful thinking.

Had to be.

“I guess there’s no reason for you to stick around then,” Lena said, turning her eyes off of those hypnotic golden irises.

“I suppose not,” replied Widowmaker.

Neither made any attempt to move.

“They’ll probably realize you’re gone right?” Lena asked, looking for something, anything, to force her to do what she knew needed to be done.

Widowmaker nodded.

Neither moved.

At long last, Lena stood. “I’ll walk you to the lobby, ok?” she asked.

Widowmaker smirked. “I suppose it’s the least you can do.”

“Yeah, after I saved your sorry ass.”

The sniper scoffed. “I would’ve been fine.”

Lena laughed. “Yeah, sure. Just keep telling yourself that love.”

The two retraced their steps.

Down the hall.

Into the elevator.

Down to the empty lobby.

To the doorway.

And then they stopped.

“Well then…” Lena said. She wasn’t sure what she was saying, or why. All she knew was that she wanted to extend the moment.

“I have a question, before we part ways,” Widowmaker said.

“Shoot.”

“Why didn’t you leave me?” she asked. Her eyes stared unflinchingly into Lena’s. “You could have. No one would have known. It would be one less enemy to fight, and no one could blame you. So why didn’t you?”

Lena thought. Then realized she already knew the answer. “Truth be told, leaving you there never even crossed my mind. Guess you were right. My moral code wouldn’t allow it.”

She tried for a smile. She wasn’t sure what it ended up looking like.

Widowmaker returned it all the same.

Still smiling, Widowmaker pointed up at the top of the doorway they stood under. Lena’s eyes had enough time to observe a small burst of white and green pinned to the frame, before a pair of cool blue lips met hers and all rational thought ceased as the other woman followed the laws of mistletoe.

An eternity later they parted. Lena opened eyes that she hadn’t realized she’d closed, examining the cold blue face as though she’d never seen it before.

“Why?” she asked.

Widowmaker shrugged. “Payment? You did save my life.”

“Won’t catch me complaining,” Lena replied, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

Widowmaker smiled gently.

“Adieu chérie,” she said, and then descended the few steps to the street and disappeared into the night.

Lena stood in the cold and watched her retreating form, and when she could no longer see her she remained watching the space where the sniper had been. Only when her fingers began to gently numb at the tips did she finally return inside and go back to her apartment.

She could still feel those cool blue lips on her own.

And Widowmaker, as she walked back to the old base to retrieve her rife, could still feel Lena’s warm mouth on her own.

#MyWork #fanfic #overwatch #overwatch fanfic #WidowTracer #Widowmaker #Tracer #Christmas #Gift

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alyona11 · 5 years

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Damn would be kinda cool to participate in Gallifrey secret Santa

but agh if there was smg like that i’m already too late for it anyway

#me being me #gallifrey audios

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gaminghardware0 · 5 years

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Black Ops 4 gets winter Blackout map, a new Specialist, and cuts 100 Contraband tiers

Treyarch has announced a hefty content update for Call of Duty: Black Ops 4 titled Absolute Zero, which will introduce a new playable specialist, new weapons and gameplay tweaks across the board. The new combatant entering the fray is Zero, a hacker who can disrupt her opponents using her unique tools. We expect Zero to play similar to Sombra in Overwatch, meaning that she will be able to disable enemies' abilities and possibly stop them from healing. We won't know the full extent of what she's capable of until tomorrow, but it's safe to say that Zero will throw in a spanner in the works for many players when she drops into Multiplayer. Players can unlock Zero by completing Tier 1 in the newly revamped Black Market. Three new weapons will also be dropping as part of the update; the Daemon 3XB SMG, SWAT RFT assault rifle, and Secret Santa melee weapon. You can earn these new firearms via Contraband tiers in the Black Market, along with some new cosmetic weapon camos, reactive camos and reticles. from https://www.pcgamesn.com/call-of-duty-black-ops-4/black-ops-4-absolute-zero

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smgsecretsanta · 4 months

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A gift from @jugger-heads to @taillesscomet!!!!

#smg secret santa #supermassive games #until dawn #matt taylor #mike munroe #art

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smgsecretsanta · 4 months

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A gift from @blubary to @imahyperfixatedbitch!!!!

#smg secret santa #supermassive games #until dawn #jessica riley #art

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smgsecretsanta · 4 months

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A gift from @sargeantsarmy to @cloudycaffeinatedcryptid!!!!

#smg secret santa #supermassive games #the quarry #dylan lenivy #ryan erzahler #rylan

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smgsecretsanta · 4 months

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A gift from @cloudycaffeinatedcryptid to @bazwillendinflames!!!!

Text under the cut

04:02 | AUGUST 20

There’s nowhere she can run. She’s too terrified to even try. Her friends are gone – dead and scattered amongst the campgrounds, most likely – and now it’s her turn, and she can’t even face her death with dignity because she’s so fucking scared. Sobbing, pressing back into the corner like it’ll save her as the werewolf creeps closer, slowly. Tauntingly. Drool drips from between its jagged fangs, and she can see her fear reflected in its hateful crimson eyes as it lunges; claws tearing into her and she screams–

“No!” Kaitlyn bolts upright in the bed, gasping for air like she’s been underwater for too long; her heart rate skyrockets as shapes define themselves in the dark, but when the features of her bedroom begin to register in her mind, she forces herself to breathe.

Doubling over, she buries her fingers in her damp hair. Sweat has gathered along her spine, on her chest, her thighs… She’ll have to shower in the morning and wash the sheets again. Fuck. She just did the laundry.

“Fuck,” she mumbles aloud, dragging a hand down her face. “Every fucking year…” Glancing at the empty spot in bed beside her, her throat tightens.

It’s not just her.

The floor is cold against her bare feet, and she slips on a sweatshirt that definitely isn’t hers as she pads quietly out of the bedroom. Dodging the spots that creak is second nature, a deeply-ingrained instinct to make as little noise as possible. She knows where to go, this is almost routine by now, but she makes a stop by the door just to double-check that it’s still locked. When she sees that it is, her chest loosens the slightest bit, and she heads for the office.

She doesn’t mask her entrance here – she’s never needed to – and the soft glow of the desk lamp lures her close like a moth to flame. The soft, rapid-fire clacking of keys is familiar, as is the smell of lavish vanilla body lotion. Draping herself across her girlfriend’s back, she hums at the kiss that gets pressed to her cheek.

“Did I wake you?” Emma murmurs apologetically, pulling her hands away from her laptop.

The smell of vanilla is stronger when she’s close like this – easily overpowering any phantom scents of wet dog and spilled blood and gunpowder – and Kaitlyn breathes in deeply as if she hasn’t already committed it to memory. “No,” she mutters into Emma’s neck. “Just one of those nights.”

Sighing, Emma reaches up to rest a soft hand against Kaitlyn’s face. “Yeah,” she admits. “Me too. Figured I should catch up on some emails.”

“Anything interesting?”

She huffs a laugh. “If you like marketing emails and coupons for soaps that will make you break out.”

Leaning even further into the blonde to read the text onscreen, Kaitlyn points out– “Ooh, but that one smells like spiced cider.”

“Who’d have thought?” Emma sniffs faux-haughtily. “Kaitlyn Ka – a basic bitch.”

Kaitlyn gently digs her fingertips into her girlfriend’s side, and she jerks with a soft yelp. Once they both settle, she watches the blonde fire off a quick and professional response to something work-related. For a moment, they just exist together in peace and silence – far away from the camp of nightmares and curses that they’d left in their past. Three years since Hackett’s Quarry, since the werewolves, since the worst night of their lives…

Sometimes she still can’t believe she’s alive. That any of them are. But here – surrounded by warmth and safety and the smell of coconut – she can feel her heart beating in time to Emma’s, she can almost pretend that summer never even happened.

Eyes slipping shut, she questions– “Is your bag packed?”

“Has been since April,” Emma replies, ever-prepared, “and you do not get to pack the car.”

Kaitlyn snorts into her neck. That’s one particular skill of hers that she never quite figured out. Not that it matters. Emma loves arranging things to her perfect vision; she’d arranged pretty much every room in their apartment, down to color-coordinating their towels – not that Kaitlyn minds. (Besides, she suspects it soothes Emma to have complete control over her environment, and really, who is she to deny that comfort?)

Still– “I get first dibs on the shower, then.” She presses a kiss to the slope of the blonde’s jaw and reluctantly draws away. The hot water and coconut body wash is calling to her, and she’ll feel better about the drive ahead once she’s fully refreshed.

Just a few more hours.

~ ~ ~

07:12 | AUGUST 20

Ryan’s not having a very good morning.

He hadn’t gotten much sleep last night (he never does, this time of year), he’d forgotten to plug his phone in last night so it’s dead and charging, which means he can’t throw in his earbuds to decompress, and he can’t find his glasses for the life of him. He’d get up and do another lap of the apartment to search for them, but Schrödinger’s purring away on his lap right now, and is probably the only reason he hasn’t completely melted down. Admittedly, he’d scoffed at Dylan’s cheeky– “He can tell when I’m sad!” –when they’d first moved in together, but it’s harder to deny now that he’s met the cat himself.

As if privy to his innermost thoughts, Schrödinger glances up at him with a soft ‘mrrp’, and Ryan tries to remain strong as he scratches along the feline’s spine, knowing he can’t. He never even considered himself a cat person – this is pathetic.

Finally – mercifully – the bathroom door swings open. Steam leaks out, built up from the shower, and Dylan runs his hand through his damp hair as he steps out. As soon as he spots them, he grins and shuffles over to the couch to gently throw himself down next to them.

“How are my two favorite boys doing?” He coos, gingerly running his stump along his cat’s back and reaching up to pinch Ryan’s earlobe.

Ryan grunts, but allows the kiss that follows. “I’d better be at the top of that list,” he says, only half-joking, and Dylan laughs. Slightly soothed by the sound, he admits– “I’d be doing better if I could find my glasses.”

For a moment, Dylan squints at him. Then, lips pressed tightly together to repress an obvious smile, he reaches up and pulls Ryan’s glasses from the top of his head, down to his face, and everything sharpens into focus. Ryan blinks. Once, twice. Dylan’s control cracks and the corners of his lips twitch upward.

“I love you,” he chirps.

“I am going to cease to exist,” Ryan responds, letting his head fall back onto the sofa.

Laughing all the while, like the obnoxious traitor he is, Dylan bounces off the couch and toward the kitchen, nimbly dodging their packed bags on his way. Ryan watches him go, cradling fondness beneath a thin layer of annoyance that he’s sure his socially-attuned boyfriend is able to see right through. For as much as Dylan seems oblivious to, he always seems to pick up on the important things – like whenever Ryan isn’t sleeping much.

Then again, he thinks, as he listens to Dylan’s feet tap out an increasingly sporadic rhythm on the kitchen tiles like he can’t keep himself still, it’s probably not just him.

Resigning himself to the day ahead, he gives Schrödinger one last scratch behind the ear, and the cat slinks off of his lap as he slowly stands. His side gives a protest; usually the ache is a background twinge – minor enough that it’s easy to filter out – but it always acts up this time of year. He grimaces (but it used to be worse) and sucks in through his teeth, straightening up. What doesn’t kill you, will make you stronger, he snarks to himself, unable to repress the bitter coil of betrayal deep in his gut. It’s gotten easier to stomach as the years pass – that his pseudo-mentor and two of his friends had lied to them, put them all in danger, killed people – but it still never feels good.

“Quit it,” Ryan says when he spots Dylan scratching at his wrist upon entering the kitchen.

Pulling a face, Dylan complains– “It itches.” –but complies. He turns back to the fridge and wrinkles his nose at the contents. “Do you want something to eat before we go?”

“Depends what you’re offering – butter, week-old pasta, or two raw eggs?” Ryan peers over his shoulder, standing on his toes to rest his chin on it.

“Hey– Don’t overlook this half a’ yogurt.” Dylan pulls the offending object from one of the shelves and dangles it tantalizingly in front of them both. “It’s raspberry.”

Ryan plucks it from his loose grasp and tosses it into the trash. “We need to go grocery shopping when we get back,” he admits reluctantly, knowing his boyfriend isn’t any more thrilled about the prospect.

He’s right – Dylan lets out a melodramatic groan and shuts the fridge door. “But we’re going to have leftovers,” he whines, leaning backward until Ryan’s forced to hold his weight.

“I’m going to drop you,” he threatens, even though both of them know he’s lying. “And you can’t bank on leftovers – those people have monster appetites.”

Twisting in Ryan’s hold so he can lean against the counter, Dylan props his arms over his shoulders and grins. “You’re excited,” he teases. “You can barely wait.”

With an exaggerated eye roll, Ryan pushes away, heading back toward the living room to hide the twitch of his lips. “Get ready to go, or we’ll get stuck in traffic.”

Dylan’s laughter follows him through the apartment, and Ryan’s chest doesn’t feel as tight.

Just a few more hours.

~ ~ ~

09:26 | AUGUST 20

Absently nodding along to the upbeat song Max has playing on their speaker, Laura neatly sweeps in lines across the kitchen floor, grimacing at the pile of crumbs she’s accumulating. Come to think of it – she doesn’t think she’s gotten around to sweeping the past couple days; she’s been pulling overtime as their other vet tech is out on maternity leave, and everyone wants their appointments out of the way before the holidays begin to roll around. Her sore fingers flex around the broom handle as she straightens up her miniature mound, and she can’t help but smile down at the mosaic of colorful band-aids meticulously placed over the worst of her animal-inflicted wounds. A myriad of thin scratches and bites (small and identifiable enough to not send her heart rate skyrocketing, thank god) decorate from her fingertips to her elbows, and even though she’d long since gone numb to the minor pain her choice of career was destined to bring, she never stops Max from plastering the goofy little band-aids to her arms once they were clean.

“You’re staring at that pile pretty hard.” His voice pulls her from her thoughts, and his smile is tinged with thinly-veiled concern. “Something on your mind, hon?”

“Just thinking,” she tells him lightly, leaning on the broom. Which isn’t a lie – her mind is rarely quiet, between her desperate need to plan ahead of everything in her life and her constant analytical thought process, so she's always thinking something – but she knows that’s not exactly what he’s asking.

Still, he plays along. “Pretty deep stuff, obviously.”

“Obviously.” She can’t bite back her grin, hiding it as she pulls the dustpan close and sweeps up the mess.

Drying a plate, Max peers curiously at her for a moment, and she watches the gears turn in his head until he bites. “Anything you care to share with your charming, handsome knight in shining armor?”

“When does he get here?” Laura teases, unable to repress a bubble of laughter at the exaggerated pout on his face. “Oh, don’t get grumpy.” She dumps the pile into the trash and sets it all aside, coming close to tilt his chin down so she can plant a kiss on his forehead. “You know you’re the only important boy in my life.”

His eyebrows raise, and he matches her grin, setting down the dish towel in his hands to wrap his arms around her waist. “Ah, ah,” he chides, nodding toward their turtle’s tank. “Now, what about Sir Arnold over there?”

“Right,” she agrees, draping her arms over his shoulders. “So, you’re the second most important boy in my life.”

“Hey.”

The song switches while they giggle together like teenage lovers all over again, and as a soft ballad fills the kitchen, they slowly spin together – the two of them in their own little world. Her head slots perfectly under his chin like it was meant to be there all along, and she can hear his heart beat with stunning, relieving clarity. Three years later and she still feels the pull in her chest whenever they’re apart, the itch under her skin to be near him, the anxiety to make sure he’s safe at all times… She’s better now, than she was, at managing it, but when they’re tucked together like this in their own pocket of peace, it’s hard to imagine they’re meant to separate at all.

“I love you,” she murmurs against him. “That’s what I was thinking about.”

His embrace tightens – not restrictive, but comfortable. “I love you too, Laura.” A pause. “We aren’t going to have enough silverware unless I finish drying these dishes, though.”

“They’re beasts, they’ll eat with their hands,” she retorts, but pulls away regardless. They still have a few things to get ready before later today, and her vacuum lines are always straighter than his. “Speaking of hands…” She catches his and holds them to her face. “Please use those magic fingers to make cheesecake.”

“You’re not going to be able to eat six pieces – we’ll have guests,” he teases.

She hums. “Make two.”

Laughing, he lands another kiss on her forehead, and she feels warm in the life they’ve made for themselves.

Just a few more hours.

~ ~ ~

12:38 | AUGUST 20

“I hate being late,” Abi mutters as she knocks, balancing a tray with one arm and reaching down to anxiously straighten her belt with the other. “I told you to get your stuff ready earlier, or you wouldn’t be able to find something, didn’t I?”

Huffing, Nick appears next to her with their bags in hand. “Barely late,” he assures, “and I hardly think I can take full blame for this one.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder, and a perfectly-timed yelp has them both looking back.

“I’m fine!” Jacob waves them off, hobbling over with his own bag. “I’m fine– Just dropped it a little, I’m good.”

“You’re a klutz,” Nick tells him.

He pushes Nick’s head away. “And you’re a bitch. Abs, whatever he’s blaming me for now, it’s a lie and all his fault.”

Before Abi can respond with anything past an amused scoff, the door swings open, and an embarrassingly giddy sense of excitement wells up inside her when she sees who’s on the other side.

“Finally!” Emma beams, lunging forward with her arms flung out and stopping short of knocking the tray clean out of Abi’s hands, which she very much appreciates. “Boys, why is this gorgeous slice of goddess carrying anything?”

“You know, it’s funny,” Jacob says as he graciously takes the tray so she can wrap Abi in a tight hug that she equally returns. “We offered, and I believe her exact words were… what were they, Nicky?”

In the same tone, Nick feeds into it. “Uh, I believe they were, ‘I can carry my own tray, thank you’, Jacob. Does that sound right?”

Finally releasing her stranglehold on Abi, but leaving the faintest imprint of something floral-scented on her top, Emma turns to them with a fond grin and reaches out to ruffle their hair. “Good to know you two goobers will never grow up.”

“Hey!” Someone calls from deeper inside the house. “Will you get your asses in here?”

Laughing, Emma leads them all inside, directing them where to put their bags and shoes as if she owns the place, but they’ve all long since gotten used to her habit of micromanaging and take it with poorly-suppressed smiles. Abi knows it hasn’t been that long – they were on a video call last week, for god’s sake – but it’s undeniable that the blonde’s personality radiates a brilliant warmth that burns brighter in person. Abi catches her eye again and flushes, a bit humiliated to be caught staring, but Emma just pulls her in for another hug.

“Is it stupid to say I’ve missed you when we just talked on the phone?”

Abi giggles despite herself. “I was just thinking the same thing”

“And who said you could hog these three?”

With a scoff, Emma lets go to stick her tongue out at Kaitlyn. “I’m not hogging. I’m just the one they missed the most, so I’m doing everyone a favor by getting it out of the way now.”

“She never changes,” Jacob says brightly, and Kaitlyn socks him lightly in the chest before dragging him down enough to hug him. Emma gives Abi’s arm one last squeeze before allowing her the freedom to move so she can thoroughly harass the boys with Kaitlyn. Biting down on her grin as one of them lets out a protest, she rounds the corner, and – by luck – nearly runs right into Ryan.

“Abi,” he greets, clearly relieved, and reaches out to bump her fist. “It’s good to see you. Nice new ink,” he compliments, nodding toward the intricate design that creeps up from under her collar.

Proud, she pulls her collar aside a bit to show more of the tattoo. “I designed this one myself!”

“Aha, very nice.”

“You’ll design my next tattoo, right, Abi?” Dylan asks mischievously as he comes up behind Ryan. “I want a full render of Ryan’s face on the left side of my ass.”

“You’re not getting that,” Ryan deadpans as Abi laughs hard enough to make her tear up.

Dylan pouts. “Buzzkill.” Reaching out for her with his good hand, he tells her– “I hope you’re hungry, because there is a feast.”

Gratefully, she presses to his side and feels the stress melting off of her like ice under the sun as she allows herself to bask in the joy of being close to these people again. “I can’t wait,” she says, and she means it honestly, because one year seems to last forever between every time they meet.

“That’s good to hear,” Laura chimes in, leaning on the doorway to the kitchen with a self-satisfied quirk to her lips and flour smudged in a suspiciously thumbprint-shaped mark on her cheek. “Because we are ready to eat.” A chorus of cheers rises to meet her words, and she rolls her eyes but fully smiles.

For a moment, Abi lets herself absorb the surrounding chatter without hearing it, relaxing under the blanket of safety that always seems to expand over her in this company. That summer – the summer she never thinks about but will always remember – had been the worst, most terrifying night of her life. Of all their lives. She’s not of the mindset that suffering builds character (her skin rolls whenever she sees a cheerful ‘what doesn’t kill you, will make you stronger!’ printed out on some innocent piece of decor or t-shirt) but she thinks that if anything good had come from the nightmare at Hackett’s Quarry, it at least drove them into a tightly-knit group, endlessly comfortable in each other's presence. Sure, school and life has been keeping them mostly separated, but she likes to think they’re all drifting back together – one way or another.

“Abi.” A light touch to her arm draws her attention, and she meets Kaitlyn’s curious half-smile with one of her own. “You ready?”

She nods. “You have no idea.”

The wait is finally over.

~ ~ ~

01:21 | AUGUST 20

“Wait, wait–” Kaitlyn snorts into her drink, nearly spilling it. “You participated in a drag show?”

Jacob shrugs casually, taking another swing of beer that doesn’t do anything to hide the red growing on his face. “Well– Y’know… It was for charity! Most of the guys on the football team did it,” he defends, grimacing when she demands photos but sliding his phone to her regardless. “I fuckin’ killed it, I’d just like to add.”

She punches in his password, sure he hasn’t changed it and smug that she’s right, and releases a breathless shriek of delight at the picture she finds in the gallery of Jacob amongst a line of buff dudes in full drag. “This is amazing.” Tilting the phone so Emma can see, she meets his eyes and says, very seriously– “You fucking killed it.”

“I know.”

“Abi, these are amazing,” Laura compliments, grabbing another falafel from the tray. “There’s no way this is your first time making them.”

Flushing a bit under the praise, Abi lifts a shoulder. “Ah… kind of? Nick’s been teaching me some vegetarian recipes, and I’ve helped him make this before, so…”

Nick jumps in– “Don’t listen to her – she whipped this batch up herself like a pro. Barely any teaching required.”

“Nick,” Abi chides, pink-faced, waving him off.

“Jesus Christ– Do you two ever get tired of being adorable?” Dylan calls, pushed away from the table by a full foot with Laura and Max’s monster of a cat – “Her name is Creature. Yes, Max thinks he’s hilarious.” – sprawled over his lap. Nick flips him the bird and he huffs. “I was talking to Abi and the cat.”

“Oh, you’re real clever, jackass.”

Beside Laura, Max sighs. “I missed this,” he says, and it somehow doesn’t sound sarcastic. “I don’t know if once a year is enough anymore.”

“No promises that I can handle the smell of Jacob’s ass more than once a year,” Emma comments, blatantly ignoring the ‘shut up, Emma’ she gets, and preening when Kaitlyn breaks into cackles. “But I might be able to swing something.”

Ryan stifles a huff of laughter with another forkful of food, swallowing before he adds nonchalantly– “Just be thankful you’re sitting on that side of the table.”

As the people around him dissolve into peals of mirth, Jacob whips his head toward Ryan, dramatically betrayed. Ryan ignores the stare, but the corners of his lips twitch as Dylan and Nick go in on Jacob good-naturedly.

“No, really, I mean it,” Max goes on as they quiet, slowly standing and resting a hand on the back of Laura's chair. “We should plan something for sooner. How about…” He glances down as Laura hides a conspiratory smile behind a drink of her wine. “ Oh, what do you think, Laura - maybe mid-April?”

Emma's the first to catch on, or maybe just the first to spot the ring on Laura's left ring finger, and her eyes light up. “Are you serious?”

“We’re serious,” he answers, proud, and she leaps fully out of her seat with a delighted squeal that Abi echoes.

Leaning close – with Laura’s permission – Kaitlyn pulls her hands up to study the small, dark gems set beside the diamond, and her eyebrows shoot up. “Are those bloodstones?”

“My idea.” She shrugs, free hand finding Max’s and squeezing lightly. “Seemed… right.”

With an approving nod, Kaitlyn releases her and Nick props his elbows on the table. “So… how’d you pop the question?”

Red blossoms on Max’s face, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Well, it– it was kind of a joint effort.” He grins. “She finally gave me the green light a few months ago, so she knew it was coming.”

“Laura!” Emma cries, scandalized, and Laura snorts.

“I would’ve made him wait longer,” she admits, tugging on their conjoined hands so he shifts closer. “But… things change. Plans change, and a few months ago, I realized that this was one I didn’t want to change.”

Jacob squints at Max curiously. “So you’ve– you were just sitting on a proposal for months?”

As Laura presses a kiss to his knuckles, Max looks every bit of the lovestruck fiancé.“I've known that this is the woman I wanted to marry since high school,” he says with utmost conviction. “I would've waited forever for her to be ready.”

Half the table erupts into false retching noises as the other half coos their support. Ryan, dead in the center, rolls his eyes but can't force his smile down, and Dylan aggressively shakes his shoulder in excitement.

Max laughs a bit. “Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his shoulders, settling back into his seat without releasing his fiancée’s grip. “It doesn’t exactly help with all the prep, though. So far my sisters are helping Laura, and neither of them wear makeup and love messing with me, so…”

Placing one hand on the table like a plea, Laura says– “Emma, Abi, Kaitlyn, will you please join my bridal party and save me from looking ridiculous on my wedding day?”

“Oh my god,” Abi breathes, and Emma howls her delight, throwing her arms around Kaitlyn.

“Does this mean I get to do your makeup?” Dylan asks Max gleefully, and Max flicks a piece of corn at him.

“Keep it up and you’ll get yourself uninvited,” he jokes, and Dylan’s grin only widens, leaning contentedly against Ryan. Emma reaches over to swat at him, chiding him to stop being a nuisance, and he sticks his tongue out in return.

The conversation continues, and the house feels alive with the warmth and jubilation they share. Hackett’s Quarry was long gone, in the past; it was far away, and yet it drives them ever closer together – a family forged of bloodied survival and unbreakable bonds under the light of a full moon. Maybe not the most conventional, but it was working for them.

And really – what more could they ask for?

#smg secret santa #supermassive games #the quarry #dylan lenivy #max brinly #abigail blyg #emma mountebank #ryan erzahler #kaitlyn ka #laura kearney #lauramax #nick furcillo #jacob custos

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smgsecretsanta · 4 months

Text

A gift from @insertlovelyperson to @sargeantsarmy!!!!

Text under the cut

Title: Asleep or Dead

Rating: Explicit (for explicit sexual content)

Pairing: Dylan Lenivy/ Ryan Erzahler

Tags: Hurt/comfort, Domestic fluff, Smut, 5+1

From: @insertlovelyperson To: @sargeantsarmy

Summary: The five times Ryan has a nightmare after the events of Hackett’s Quarry, and the one time he doesn’t.

The nightmares weren’t always this bad. It varied. Most nights, Ryan could crawl into bed, fall asleep thirty minutes to an hour later, and remain dead to the world until morning. And most nights, his dreams were nothing more than abstract imaginings and bizarre happenings that he’d forget upon awakening.

Not tonight.

He by no means considered himself a lucid dreamer, lacking too much control in his dreamscape for that to be the case. But that didn’t mean he didn’t maintain some semblance of consciousness when it happened, especially when it was so familiar:

Ryan stood panting in exertion and fear at the center of the dining room, shotgun still smoking as he looked down at Chris Hackett’s mangled corpse. Staring at the man’s exposed ribcage and pulverized organs, his hands began to tremble at the realization of what he’d done. Of what he’d lost. The rest of the dead Hackett’s littered the room, corpses in various states of dismemberment. Jed with his head caved in, Bobby with his neck torn out, Constance with her face blown off, and Kaylee covered with a white sheet on the dining room table. And as Ryan took it all in with dawning horror—that this massacre had, in part, been his doing—he heard the sound of Laura’s ragged gasping in the corner behind him.

With a shuddering breath that made the wound in his side ache, he opened his mouth to ask, ‘What now?’ But when he turned to face her... she was gone, leaving a broken mirror and Travis Hackett’s torn open corpse in her absence. However, it was when he turned back around that things really started taking a turn...

Chris Hackett stood before him. Naked, chest torn open, covered in blood... and Ryan had never been looked at with so much visceral hatred in his life. All he could do was stare back at the man’s heart weakly thumping in his shattered rib cage, spitting out blood and shrapnel with each stuttering beat.

Chris only stared at him in return, condemning him without uttering a single word. And when he finally spoke, it wasn’t any kinder than his expression, “For her? I treated you like my own son—Caleb and Kaylee thought of you as their own fucking brother. And you sold us out. For her.” He took a shambling step forth, radiating vicious malice and intent.

And Ryan wanted nothing more than to fall to his knees and beg for a forgiveness he wasn’t owed. I didn’t want to kill you, he would’ve sobbed. But I didn’t want to die either. Instead, he raised the gun again, aiming it directly at the man’s exposed heart as he felt his own begin to break.

Chris froze, head tilting in cold consideration as he assessed the situation. Face twisting in rage, he ignored the shotgun and advanced.

“Stop,” Ryan pleaded, fingers grazing the trigger, “Chris... please.”

But the man never wavered, cornering Ryan further and further until he felt his back press into the wall behind him. That was, until, he was actually forced to glance behind him, and it wasn’t the wall. It was Bobby Hackett. Head hanging onto his neck by a thread and wearing the same enraged expression as his brother.

A strangled, fearful noise tore its way from Ryan’s throat as he narrowly dodged the large man attempting to grapple onto him. It wasn’t until he backed himself against a wall—for sure this time—that he attempted to take stock of his deteriorating circumstances. But of course... that was the exact moment that things went from bad to worse. Chest huffing each breath as quick, painful bursts, he watched as the rest of the dead Hackett family rose to their feet, turning their sights on him and him alone.

Now knowing that the only thing his hesitation would accomplish was getting him killed, Ryan held the gun with firmer hands. Taking a deep breath, steeling himself, he aimed it at Chris and pulled the trigger.

CLICK. Blinking down in surprise, Ryan pulled the trigger again. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. Nothing happened.

In the end, Kaylee was the first on him, crossing the room faster than he could react and pummeling him to the ground with the wild swing of her fists. Shotgun clattering uselessly across the floor, Ryan didn’t even have time to blink before the rest of the Hacketts followed. Constance and her exposed brain, Jed and his broken jaw, Travis and his clumps of missing flesh... they were on him in seconds. Ignoring his sobbed pleas as they snarled their venomous words, digging their fingers into his flesh and tearing him apart. And no matter how much he screamed and begged, they didn’t stop until they reached the bone.

Squeezing his eyes shut and thrashing hard enough to get a mangled arm away from them, Ryan swung at whoever was currently holding him by his shoulder.

Someone yelped in pain as a loud SMACK reverberated through the room, and when Ryan finally managed to pry his eyes open, he was lying in bed in the dark. Something quickly shuffled from next to him, and soon enough, he was wincing from the sudden burst of light flooding his vision.

Dylan stared back at him—stunned—hand still hovering over the switch of the lamp on his bedside table. Holding what remained of his left arm up to his face, Ryan could clearly make out the red welt from underneath the stub. Even without it, the context clues would’ve been enough to tell him everything he needed to know.

With dawning horror, all Ryan could do was stare in shock as he tried to get his breathing back under control.

“I-it’s ok,” his boyfriend said unconvincingly, bottom lip quivering as he tried not to cry, “it didn’t even hurt.”

And despite the rapid beating in his chest and the painful squeezing of his lungs, Ryan was already out of bed and sprinting to the bathroom. Grabbing the cleanest washrag he could find, he ran it under the cold water of the sink before rushing back.

Dylan was fully sat up in bed at this point, rubbing the soreness from his jaw and wiping away the few tears that’d managed to well up in his eyes. When he caught sight of Ryan holding the rag, probably looking as dejected and guilty as he felt... Dylan laughed. “You’ve got,” he drawled as he took the cool cloth, pressing it onto his cheek, “a hell of a right hook.”

At the foot of the bed, Ryan didn’t respond, spine stiff and unsure of how to proceed, because... oh, God. I hurt him. I hurt Dylan. And he couldn’t stop shaking upon the damning realization.

Brow furrowed in concern, Dylan set the rag aside. “Hey,” he coaxed, pushing himself off the bed, “it’s alright, you didn’t mean to.”

But that wasn’t good enough. It didn’t make what Ryan did any more forgivable. Not to him, at least. Honestly, it kind of made it worse. The fact that Ryan had lost control like that from a nightmare... he’d posed a danger without even trying, and that was perhaps what scared him the most.

Dylan didn’t see it like that. At all. Closing the remaining distance, he wrapped his arms around him, resting his chin on the top of Ryan’s head.

And when Ryan could finally bring himself to relax into the embrace, he returned it in kind. Curling his arms around the other, he rested his head on his chest, murmuring a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Dylan whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the other’s forehead, “I think a big, red welt on my face was just what I needed to look a little more rugged.”

Ryan groaned, holding him even tighter.

Chuckling, Dylan took him by the arm and led them both back to bed. Settling down together beneath the sheets, they were already wriggling back into each other’s arms. Once they were more or less comfortable, Dylan finally asked, “Bad dream?”

To put it mildly. “Yeah,” Ryan breathed, chest still tight with lingering fear, “kinda.”

After a brief pause, the other carefully ventured, “Wanna talk about it?”

In all honesty... not really. It was bad enough experiencing it once, and the idea of any subsequent retellings was enough to make Ryan grimace. He burrowed his head further into his boyfriend’s chest to try and avoid the question.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Dylan sighed, rubbing a soothing circle into the small of the other’s back, “but it might help.”

Despite the fact he knew he was right, Ryan still hesitated. And yet... Dylan didn’t mind. Not in the slightest. He was more than ready to stay up with the other all night if needed, and it only made Ryan feel worse. So, exhaling a weary sigh, “I was back in the Hackett’s mansion with Laura.”

Humming a quiet acknowledgment, Dylan didn’t interrupt. Giving him all the time he needed to say his piece.

“Laura was gone, and the Hackett’s had... reanimated?” Yeah. He supposed that was the word for it, “It was right after I killed Chris. He just stood up and kept telling me how it was all my fault that he died. That they all died.”

Shoulders tensing and lips pressed into a thin line, Dylan only held him tighter.

“My gun wouldn’t fire, and then I think they ate me? I don’t know. The ending was kind of vague,” Ryan finished, fully relaxing in the other’s hold. The admission had lifted a burden he hadn’t even known he’d been carrying. And it was... nice. It was always nice.

“It wasn’t your fault, for the record,” Dylan murmured, sentence tapering off with a long yawn, “just in case the zombies forgot to mention it.”

Ryan appreciated the gesture, but he already knew that. It had been a long, painful road to understanding, but he’d ultimately reached it with the help of friends, family, and therapy. It had also been two years, so if he hadn’t known that by now, he probably never would. But still... the reminder had been kind—Dylan had been kind. Which was the exact reason he’d felt so fucking guilty right now... “Sorry for keeping you up.”

Feeling the way the young man’s chest rose and fell with a deep sigh, it was no surprise when he shifted his weight, face hovering inches above Ryan's. “You’re silly...” he muttered, leaning down to give him a kiss on the lips. It was sweet, and gentle, and it ended a lot sooner than maybe Ryan would’ve liked. Smiling, Dylan asked, “Need me to leave the light on for tonight?”

“No,” Ryan shook his head, face flushed, “I think I’m good.”

Pulling away to switch off the lamp, Dylan returned as quickly as he’d left, bringing his body heat with him. Ryan grabbed him, pulling him flush against his body and stealing his warmth.

“You gonna be ok?” Dylan yawned again, absentmindedly playing with Ryan’s hair.

“Yeah,” Ryan replied, smile hidden by the darkness of the room, “I think I will be.”

All fell silent save for the room’s overhead fan and their own breathing. And as the two held each other beneath the sheets—shielding the other with their arms—it wasn’t long until Ryan felt safe enough to close his eyes, peacefully drifting off to sleep.

The weight next to him shifted uncomfortably. Then, voice apologetic and whispering, “... I think I have to pee, actually.”

Groaning, Ryan rolled over to let Dylan up.

The next time it happened, Dylan had found him in the kitchen. Scrambling eggs. At four in the morning. Ryan had been looming over the stovetop, watching the eggs slowly burn as he tried to will the lingering tremors from his hands. That’s when he heard the telltale sound of the joints in someone’s feet popping as they walked across the kitchen tile. And as he felt an arm snake around his waist, sliding a hand under the front of his shirt and brushing across his abdomen... he instinctually relaxed into the embrace.

“Whatcha doing?” Dylan murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his stomach.

The shaking in his hands still refusing to subside, Ryan released a shuddering breath: “Eggs.”

Humming an acknowledgment, Dylan rested his head on his shoulder, peeking over to take a look. The ‘eggs’ in question were just one big mass in the center of the skillet, edges scorched black. Snorting at the sight, he surmised, “I think they’re done.”

Managing a stiff nod, and a quick, “Mhm,” Ryan turned his attention back to the eggs he was getting ready to send through the nine circles of hell.

Eyes flickering between his boyfriend and the skillet, Dylan extracted his hand from his shirt, flicking off the stove stop. He used that same hand to gently take the one Ryan was using to hold the spatula, steadying the trembling before lowering the utensil to the counter. “I’m gonna brew us some coffee,” he said, moving his grip to Ryan’s waist as he gently guided him toward their living room, “why don’t you lay down for a bit, yeah?”

Ryan didn’t have it in him to argue. With a weary sigh, he shuffled over to the couch, plopping down as he tried to shake the enduring stress from his dream:

Like most of his nightmares, it’d been about that night. He’d been in the woods with Laura and Travis in search of Silas. They found the wolf-boy in the burnt remains of Harum Scarum, trembling from his injuries within the ruined cage. He was hurt, and defenseless... and Ryan had no desire to kill him. But that wasn’t his choice; it was Laura’s. However, that didn’t stop him from voicing his opinion: “Are we sure about this?” But unlike the night when it’d happened, she had actually stopped to listen, completely ignoring Travis who had argued the contrary... and she really shouldn’t have. Silas was on them in seconds, decapitating Travis and Laura as Ryan watched. Then, the white wolf was on him too, ripping his jaw from his face before sinking its teeth into the rest of him.

The new weight sinking onto the couch took Ryan’s mind off of those thoughts, and he mumbled a quiet—but earnest—‘thanks’ as a warm mug of coffee was pressed into his hands.

Concern flooding his eyes and lips pulled into a hesitant, placating smile, Dylan asked, ��Couldn’t sleep?”

Taking a long sip as he ignored the way it scalded his tongue, Ryan eventually replied, “Yeah.”

Expression grim but knowing, “Nightmare?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, “I was back in the woods with Silas. Laura didn’t shoot, and it was... bad.” And while the retelling had been brief, leaving out plenty of details... it had been enough. Dylan already knew the bits and pieces of what happened when Ryan had run off with Laura, just like Ryan knew the bits and pieces of what happened when Dylan ran off with Kaitlyn. Maybe they didn’t know all of it, but they knew the important parts, and that would always be enough.

Another weight jumped up on the couch next to Ryan, nuzzling its wet nose into his arm. Lifting his hand, he placed it on top of the cat’s head, giving it a good scritch. Schrödinger trilled, happily making biscuits on his leg before finally settling down, head resting on his thigh.

Watching the exchange with a grin, Dylan grabbed the remote. Flicking on the television, he cycled through channels until he got to some old reruns of a cartoon the both of them watched when they were younger.

“What time do you have class?” Ryan asked, guilt already beginning to eat away at him. Dylan had to wake up early enough as is. He didn’t need Ryan making it worse.

“Four... maybe five hours,” Dylan said, stretching his arms over his head until he heard his shoulders pop, “think I’m gonna go ahead and jump in the shower. See if I can wake myself up a bit.”

There it was again. That guilt panging in Ryan’s chest. “You can go back to bed if you want,” he said, trying and failing to soothe that dull aching in his chest, “don’t let me keep you up.”

Face softening, Dylan shook his head, “Nah, I need to stay up anyways. Fucked up my sleep schedule with a couple late-nighters—this’ll help me get back on track.”

Unconvinced, Ryan drawled, “If you’re sure...”

Wrapping an arm around his boyfriend and drawing him close, Dylan smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple: “I am.” Rising from the sofa, he leaned over Ryan to scratch his cat’s chin, “you good keeping an eye on him, Schrödie?”

The cat only purred, shifting its head to receive more pets.

With that, Dylan headed for the bathroom. But before he reached the door, he took a detour to the kitchen, leaning over the counter, preoccupied with... something.

“What’re you doing?” Ryan asked, craning his neck to get a better look.

“Hm? Oh,” something clattered against the counter as Dylan attempted to look innocent. It didn’t work. “Just checking something on my phone.”

Ryan was willing to let it slide. After all: he trusted him. Leaning back on the couch and watching the other disappear through the door, he gave the cat a good few pets as he half-heartedly tried to watch the television. He was only partially paying attention to the cartoon before his phone vibrated in the pocket of his sweatpants. Fishing it out of the pant leg, he saw that he had three unread text messages, and they were all from Laura:

‘still alive’

‘lol’

‘wanna talk about it?’

Ryan stared at his phone trying to mentally process what he was reading. When he finally did, it was like a lightbulb had gone off. Sighing, he texted back:

‘You’re up early. What did Dylan send you?’

A few seconds later, she sent him a screenshot of a text conversation with Dylan’s name as the sender:

‘are you up? can you text ryan and tell him you’re alive? bad dream’

Turning his head to look at the bathroom, Ryan could hear the water of the shower hitting the tile as Dylan bathed. He was starting to understand what that little detour was about... shaking his head:

‘I’m fine, thanks. Everything alright with you?’

Laura’s reply was near instantaneous, firing off four more messages in rapid succession:

‘yep’

‘bad dream too lol’

‘up with max rn everythings good’

‘you guys still on for bowling friday?’

Mouth pressed into a thin line, Ryan couldn’t help but worry about the first part of that message. Disregarding that, however, he texted back:

‘We should be. I’ll double check with Dylan.’

‘You can call me if you ever need to talk too. You know that, right?’

Because Ryan knew he wasn’t special. He knew he wasn’t the only one plagued by nightmares of that night. And perhaps there was comfort to be found in knowing that he wasn’t the only one, but mostly... he hated knowing that all of them still suffered. After a minute or so, Laura sent another message:

┏( ゜)ਊ゜)┛

Brow furrowing as he stared at his screen, Ryan eventually texted back:

‘... how the fuck did you type that?’

But Laura never responded. It felt rather smug. Rolling his eyes, Ryan cast his phone aside on the couch, turning his attention back to the TV. Schrödinger was fast asleep at his side, having readjusted herself to lay on a nearby pillow rather than his thigh, and he was only mildly offended.

The door to the bathroom opened, steam billowing out. Walking out was Dylan, wearing nothing but the towel wrapped around his waist. Leaning against the open door frame and trying to sound seductive... “Come here often, handsome?”

“Hm,” Ryan hummed, taking another sip of his coffee, “Laura texted.”

“Oh,” the other said, spine straightening. Eyes shifting between his boyfriend and the phone on the couch, “what’d she want?”

Ryan just looked at him. Unimpressed.

Sighing, Dylan crossed their living room before plopping down next to him, looking guilty, “Yeah, I know. Sorry. I just thought you might wanna talk to her after everything. I know we all technically survived the same thing, but you two actually survived the same thing. And your dream was about her, so...”

Now that he thought about it... Ryan’s mind was a little more at ease after their conversation. “I’m not mad,” he said, shifting to be closer to the other, “thanks. For texting her, I mean. I probably wouldn’t have talked to her if you hadn’t.”

Brow pinching and head tilting in confusion, Dylan ventured, “Why not?”

Feeling adequately pinned under the other’s sharpened gaze, all Ryan could do was shrug as he tried to explain, “I don’t like bothering people with my problems.”

Stricken by the admission, Dylan gave a sad shake off his head, “You’re not ‘bothering’ anyone by asking for help when you need it. And I know you wouldn’t think anyone was bothering you if they reached out if they were struggling,” lips down turned into a frown, “I wish you’d be kinder to yourself, sometimes.”

Exhaling a tired breath, Ryan couldn’t help but hang his head in shame, “I know. I’m sorry.”

Eyes softening and no longer frowning, Dylan spoke, “Don’t apologize, just... something to think about, is all.” Giving the other a pat on the shoulder, “Alright, I’m gonna go get dressed. Take in the gun show while you still can,” standing in front of the couch, he struck a dramatic pose.

Chuckling, Ryan watched him head for their bedroom. But before he could disappear through the door, he remembered to ask, “We still going bowling with Laura and Max Friday night?”

“Yep! We’re trying the old one downtown; Emma says the drinks at concessions will fuck you up for under five dollars. You’ll be bowling in the wrong lane,” he laughed, popping his head out of the doorway, “and don’t worry! I called ahead and made sure they had bumpers rails for you.”

Bristling, Ryan grumbled, “That was one time.”

“And you still came in last.”

“Because Laura was cheating.”

“You both had the bumpers up.”

“She used the bowling ramp!”

“You did too! You just stopped because you got embarrassed after you still missed the pins with it.”

Groaning, Ryan was already rethinking the venue for date night. Laura was one of—if not the most—competitive person he’d ever met, and ever since they’d started doing double dates at the bowling alley after getting banned from the miniature golf course (for life), she’d rubbed off on him. Every time without fail, it devolved into smack talk and harsh digs as they tried to get the other to flub their shot. And the worst part was... they both sucked! Neither of them were good at bowling—they were lucky if they even broke into the triple digits! The only thing they were competing for was third place; Dylan and Max—without fail—always had at least a hundred points on them. Max had literally been captain of his high school bowling team, and Dylan was just... Dylan.

“Hey,” Dylan whispered from the doorway, just loud enough to get Ryan’s attention.

Turning his head, he raised an inquisitive eyebrow, “Yeah?”

“Wanna...” Dylan began, shiftily eyeing something in their bedroom, “do stuff?” The bed. He was eyeing the bed.

It took a moment for Ryan to process the request. But when he did, all he could do was stare in incredulity: “At 4:36 in the morning?”

Dylan shrugged, wearing an expression that radiated false innocence and sullied intentions. “4:37, actually. But suit yourself,” he singsonged, ducking back into their bedroom. But after a long pause—just when Ryan thought that was that—he called out once more, “oh, wait... what’s this? Oh. Oh. Oh nooo, my towel—it’s... it’s slipping! What a disaster! I hope no one comes in and capitalizes on this opportunity while I’m naked and unaware!”

Huffing a breathy chuckle, Ryan rolled his eyes and rose to his feet, heading for the bedroom.

This time, Dylan had been waiting for him in the kitchen. Sitting at the table, he had his mug of coffee already brewed with another mug placed directly across from him. Upon catching a glimpse of Ryan lingering hesitantly in the doorway, he beckoned him over with a gentle wave of his hand.

Ryan obliged, crossing the distance to take the seat across from him. Taking the cup of coffee so thoughtfully prepared for him, he held it firmly in his hands as if it were a lifeline. He’d had another dream, and he was still trying to shake the effects of it with little success. His efforts hadn’t been helped by the empty bed upon his awakening, but seeing the reason as to why that might’ve been the case... Ryan was grateful.

Unlike his usual dreamscape, this nightmare hadn’t taken place at Hackett’s Quarry. No. It had taken center-stage in his parent’s living room... the day his dad had died. He’d been on the couch with his sister watching an old movie he couldn’t even remember the name of when they’d gotten the knock on the door. His mother had answered only to be greeted by two police officers. Ryan hadn’t heard what they said, but he remembered the sound of his mother’s wails as she collapsed to the floor, begging for them to stop lying to her. To tell her the fucking truth.

It had been a hit and run. A drunk driver that they had later found miles down the road, throwing up in a ditch after crashing his car into a tree; his dad’s blood still painting the crumpled grill. The man would later be tried and convicted of felony DUI and sentenced to prison for fifteen years. But despite that, it never felt like justice. Ryan’s dad was dead, and no amount of prison time would ever bring him back.

The funeral had been just as awful as he’d remembered. Just droves of people who’d known their family offering hollow condolences and empty prayers. Like it’d do anything. Forced to go through the motions, nothing that day had felt real to Ryan. Not until they lowered the casket into the ground, and he said his final goodbyes. The next day he’d woken up, his mom was gone. Just... picked up and left without saying a word to him, his sister, or anybody. Fortunately, Ryan had known how to dial his grandma’s phone number.

With this dream, he hadn’t woken up screaming, or thrashing, or even crying. This time, he’d simply awoke to that unbearable aching in his chest he’d failed time and time again to be completely rid of. Because even ten years later, it still managed to return in the quiet moments of the night, burrowing into the cavity of his chest like it were home.

He didn’t notice Dylan approaching him until the man was at his side, wrapping an arm around him, gently drawing his head against the softness of his stomach. Holding him. “Heard you mumbling in your sleep,” he said, “didn’t know if I should wake you.”

And given what happened the last time he tried... that was fair.

“Bad dream?” Though, it sounded like Dylan already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” Ryan sighed, still leaning into the touch. Taking solace in it.

Humming a quiet acknowledgement, Dylan then asked, “Anything I can do?”

You do enough already. “I’ll be fine,” he shook his head before pulling away to say, “I think I’m gonna drop by my grandparent's house later today. Maybe take Sarah to lunch. It’s been a while.”

“Oh, sweet! Can I come?” Dylan said before almost immediately thinking better of it. Expression turning meek as he continued, “I mean... unless you just wanted it to be a family thing. I totally get that. Don’t feel pressured—”

Rising from his seat, Ryan placed a quick kiss on the other’s cheek, having to stand on his toes to do so. “Of course you can come,” he said, meaning it.

And as Dylan smiled back at him, that ache in Ryan’s chest finally began to dull.

Dylan had been out late taking a final. He hadn’t come home immediately after, instead, going out for drinks with Nick and Jacob in celebration of the semester’s conclusion. Ryan had been extended an invitation too, of course, but it was declined in favor of finishing up some last minute commissions...and he was seriously rethinking that decision. He must’ve fallen asleep while animating, because upon his near violent awakening, he’d almost launched his tablet clean off his desk—laptop included.

He'd been back in the radio hut. The wire to the PA system had been pulled by the white wolf—by Silas. Dylan, of course, had been the one to try and fix it... and it ended badly. Very, very badly. Silas had clamped down on his hand in an instant, dangling him from the ceiling as his teeth sliced through tendons and pierced the bone. When Silas had finally released him, Dylan fell and hit the ground. Hard. And the screams—oh, God—the fucking screams. Ryan knew they’d haunt him for the rest of his life. “It’s spreading, you have to cut it off!” He still remembered how heavy the chainsaw had felt in his hands. How Dylan’s wrist had felt pinned under his foot. How the teeth had caught on bone, sawing through his arm as it cleaved the limb in twain. He remembered how it felt because it wasn’t just a nightmare.

It was real.

Dylan hadn’t been there to talk him through the aftermath like he usually was, but... maybe that was for the best. This wasn’t the first time he’d had that particular dream, and sometimes, seeing the source of that specific pain didn’t always help. But fuck it. Ryan couldn’t help it—he wanted Dylan. He wanted his boyfriend there with him no matter how selfish it might’ve been. But as he clutched his phone in a vice grip, one text message away from getting what he needed, he just... couldn’t. Dylan had been working so fucking hard recently, and he deserved a night to himself. Ryan refused to be the one to ruin that. So, that’s how he remained. Hunched over, clutching his phone as he trembled in his desk chair, waiting for Dylan to get home.

It could’ve been minutes, or it could’ve been hours, but eventually, that familiar jingle of a keyring sounded from the other side of their apartment. And soon enough, the door was swinging open as someone drunkenly tripped on their way inside, giggling to themself as they locked it behind them. “Honey, I’m home!” Dylan slurred, and Ryan could hear him struggling to take his shoes off. Stumbling further into their apartment, heading for the bedroom, “God, Ryan, you should’ve been there. Jacob was shooting the shit with this girl at the bar thinking he was about to get her number, and then this seven foot, jacked looking dude comes running over, and it’s her boyfriend! You could see it on his face the exact moment his asshole retracted into his spine—"and as he finally rounded the corner into their room, he froze at the sight; face dropping and noticeably sobering, “... Ryan?”

Sucking in another sharp breath, Ryan held up a shaky hand in the barest display of acknowledgement. Curling in on himself and still unable to look at the other, he just focused on breathing with his hands planted firmly on his knees. And it was working out just fine until the figure in front of him approached, kneeling down to force himself into his line of sight.

“Hey,” Dylan tried, speaking at a tone one might reserve for a wounded animal, “what’s wrong?” His eyes were blurry and unfocused, like someone who was very drunk but trying not to be.

Full body shuddering with his next breath, Ryan barely managed a reply, “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” But it wasn’t nothing. It had happened. He had done it, and Dylan would have to live the rest of his life with it. And he didn’t even need to; Laura killed Silas, curing the remaining infected. And it would’ve cured Dylan too, rendering what they’d done completely pointless in the end.

Dylan scoffed in a way that made Ryan flinch, “‘Don’t worry,’ he says—unbelievable...” pulling the other up from his chair, he led him to the bed where he plopped the both of them down, expression hardening as he tried once more, “what’s wrong?”

And no matter how much he may have wanted to fight it, Ryan relented near instantaneously: “Bad dream.”

His face softened as his expression became nothing but understanding, and without a moment to lose, Dylan was pulling the other into a crushing hug. And as he nuzzled his face into his boyfriend’s, Ryan wondered how much of it was due to the effects of alcohol. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, sounding impossibly sad, “I wish I could stop them from happening but I can’t. But I want to so fucking bad—fuck, Ryan...”

Returning the hug as he rested his head on the other’s shoulder, Ryan said, “I know. It’s ok.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” came Ryan’s near instant reply, as was often the case with this particular dream. Perhaps that’s what gave him away so easily...

Even in his drunken state, Dylan clocked it immediately: “Oh... was it another one about the hand thing?”

“Yeah, Dylan,” Ryan gave a bitter scoff, pulling away from the other’s embrace as a discrete form of self-flagellation, “it was about the ‘hand thing.’” And although the two only sat inches apart, that simple act alone had the space feeling like miles.

Lips pulling into a frown and brown eyes welling up in sorrow, Dylan shook his head. Then, so quiet Ryan almost missed it, “I’ve never held that against you... you know that, right? I’ve never blamed you.”

And Ryan had no clue why he struggled so much with that simple truth: “How?”

“Because I asked you to,” Dylan said like it was the easiest thing in the world, “and if you hadn’t, I might’ve turned and hurt someone. And I think that would’ve been a lot harder to live with than missing some dumb hand.”

... he didn’t know how he did it. How Dylan always seemed to make things better with a few words and an easy smile. But he did. And it always felt so fucking undeserved. Hanging his head in shame, Ryan couldn’t bring himself to meet the worried eyes boring at him. Seeing him for what he was, which was terrified. Of that night. Of himself. Of losing someone he cared about more than anything else.

“Ryan,” Dylan tried, placing a hand on his shoulder, “please look at me?”

And how could he say no to that? Sighing, he lifted his gaze to meet the other man.

“I love you. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I’d give a million hands just to be with you like this for the rest of my life,” Dylan said, pausing to consider the logistics of that specific sentiment, “or a toe. And a couple of fingers. Possibly a kidney.”

Laughing, Ryan shook his head as he wiped at his damp eyes, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Dylan agreed, smiling ear to ear, “but you like it.”

More than ‘like,’ actually. Returning the smile with one of his own, Ryan pulled him close and kissed him. Immediately after, he pulled away and gagged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “What the fuck—why do you taste like that?”

Face guilty, Dylan quietly admitted, “I threw up in the bushes before I came inside.”

For the next ten minutes, their apartment was filled with the sound of Ryan’s retching and Dylan’s drunk (but earnest) apologies.

Ryan had made the critical error of trying to take a nap in the middle of the day. He’d stayed up late finishing an animation before an approaching deadline, and while it’d been a success, it came at the cost of his sleep schedule. He ended up crashing on the couch around noon, trying to get some sleep before he and Dylan met up with Kaitlyn for an early dinner.

And he really should’ve known better.

It had been right after Ryan and Laura had made it back to the lodge after killing Silas. The sun had risen, and the nightmare of that night had finally concluded. Ascending the lodge’s stairs, he had fully expected to be greeted by both Dylan and Kaitlyn with his arrival. But upon his entrance, the two were nowhere in sight. The lodge was completely empty save for the chunks of stone beneath the ruined fireplace, and the claw marks and blood stains that led directly to the kitchen.

Upon entry, the first thing he became abundantly aware of was the blood coating the floor and walls. Like something had been smashed against the kitchen tile before flung against the drywall. Following the trajectory of the spatters, he found Kaitlyn. Body broken, eyes glazed over, and limbs pointing in the wrong directions. Dead.

Frozen in place as dread and grief churned his gut, the only thing keeping Ryan from fleeing the room—fleeing from the sight and the reality that accompanied it—was nothing more than morbid curiosity. Because based on the wet crunching of bone tearing through muscle echoing on the other side of the kitchen, he wasn’t alone, and he felt obligated to find out why. Steeling himself as he rounded the counter by the freezer, the sight that greeted him was horrific:

A gangly, bloody beast was crouched over another corpse, teeth sinking into flesh as it devoured the deceased. With each violent tear of muscle and sinew, the body jerked limply along with the maw of the creature. It wasn’t until Ryan was practically hovering over the gruesome scene that he could decipher the identity of the body: it was Dylan. And based on the rasping, gargled breath that came next...

He wasn’t dead yet.

“R-Ryan...” he rasped, eyes blown wide in terror as the beast jerked his head to the side, ripping open his neck, “end it... it hurts so much... p-please, kill me...” his desperate pleas tapering off into an agonizing scream as the wolf ripped ligament from bone.

No... it’s over. It’s supposed to be fucking over. Gun in hand as his mind finally processed what was happening, Ryan lifted the gun and fired a slug into the beast’s hide. Unflinching, it didn’t react as it continued to devour Dylan alive. Ignoring his blatant failure, he proceeded to try and blow three more holes into the wolf. But still... nothing happened. Desperation and terror becoming all-consuming, he even attempted to beat it back with the butt of his shotgun. But to no avail.

“T-that won’t... that won’t work...” Dylan sobbed, the pain becoming unbearable, “Ryan—please!”

With dawning horror, Ryan realized... he was right. He couldn’t save him; he could only kill him quicker. And it made him wonder how something like mercy could be so cruel. With shaking hands and a lurching gut, he raised the gun and took aim. Pulling the trigger, he watched Dylan’s body jerk one final time before stilling. Finally dead.

The wolf remained, feasting upon the warm corpse without pause. To it, nothing had changed. Alive or dead, it didn’t matter. It was always going to devour the boy, one way or the other. Ryan had just made it easier. Because in the end, nothing he did had mattered. Numb acceptance washing over him, he didn’t falter in raising the barrel to himself, fingers shaking around the trigger.

“Ryan!”

He startled awake, hands instinctively flinging out in front of him. His flailing arms were blocked by someone anticipating the blow, and when he opened his eyes, he was met with none other than Dylan. Scared. Worried. Alive.

Gradually releasing his grip on the other’s arm, Dylan tentatively began to ask, “Hey... are you ok—”

Curling two fists into the front of his boyfriend’s shirt, Ryan pulled him close like he was the last thing tethering him to Earth. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

But he didn’t have to. The initial shock having subsided, Dylan wrapped his arms around him to hold him. It was gentle, and grounding, and soon enough, Ryan found his breath leveling and his heartbeat steadying. Sinking further into the embrace, he somehow managed to pull the other even closer.

“It’s been a while—since the last one, I mean,” Dylan said, rubbing circles into his spine like he always did, “let me know when you’re ready to talk about it.”

Shaking his head, Ryan muttered, “I don’t want to talk about this one.”

“That’s fine too.”

With a deep breath, Ryan pulled away feeling rather silly. Because it was just a dream. It was always just a fucking dream. Didn’t make it feel any less real, though. That was the problem. That had been the problem for nearly three years now, and it wasn’t getting any better, “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep going to sleep not knowing what’s waiting for me.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Dylan said, earnest and honest, “we always do.”

Grabbing his phone and checking the time, Ryan couldn’t help but groan. Even after all of that, he’d only managed to snag thirty minutes of sleep. And he felt it. He was no less exhausted than he was when he’d chosen to lay down, and it pissed him off to no end: “I’m so fucking tired...”

Leaning over to press a chaste kiss to his forehead, Dylan walked toward the kitchen, “I’m gonna make you some tea. And google some things. And maybe call that therapist Abi was telling us about.”

“Yeah,” Ryan quietly conceded, knowing that Dylan would not be persuaded out of taking care of him, “ok.” Because it’s not like he was against seeking therapy—he’d done so in the past immediately after the group’s acquittal. But it was just time consuming. And expensive. And he couldn’t help but feel like every moment not spent on pretending that that night had never happened in the first place was a waste of time and energy... and that probably wasn’t the best way to go thinking about things.

“Hey,” Dylan called, switching on the electric kettle, “want me to reschedule with Kaitlyn?” He busied himself with topping off Schrödinger’s water bowl while he waited for it to come to a boil.

That’d only make me feel worse. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine.”

“Ryan,” the other said, face remaining impassive “you’re exhausted, and I could use the rest too. Don’t worry about it.”

“But...” Ryan really didn’t feel like making this more of an inconvenience than it already was. And he especially didn’t want to drag Kaitlyn into it.

Perhaps sensing the trepidation, Dylan gave a careful nod before saying, “How about this: I call Kaitlyn and tell her to invite Abi and Emma, so if we can’t make it, her night isn’t ruined. I mean... other than missing out on our tantalizing company, of course. But she’ll live. Probably. Assuming she doesn’t die of sadness.”

“Alright,” Ryan scoffed, rising from the sofa to meet the other in the kitchen.

Dylan was already in the process of steeping the tea, handing over the cup upon his approach, “Make sure to give that three minutes.”

Grunting his acknowledgment, Ryan stalked back to the couch, pulling Dylan along by the sleeve. Making themselves comfortable, they drank their tea as Dylan scrolled through his phone, looking up the contact Abi had given him. Then, he made the call.

After each of them finished their drinks, Ryan washed the cups out in the sink before joining Dylan back in the bedroom. Settling into bed together, Ryan finally felt safe enough to give that nap a second try. Head resting on the other’s chest, he let himself drift peacefully off to sleep...

A phone alarm went off, and Ryan winced as he searched blindly for the device. Fingers finally brushing against the cool surface of the screen, he hit snooze as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, slowly adjusting to the darkness of the room. “Shit,” he muttered as he checked the time, audibly groaning when he realized he’d slept for five hours. Well. There go our plans with Kaitlyn. Shifting to sit up, he became increasingly aware of the fact that he was now alone in bed, Dylan nowhere to be found. Pushing himself off the mattress, Ryan crossed the room to the door. Creaking it open, he was instantly hit with the smell of freshly popped popcorn.

“Oh, hey,” Dylan said at the sight of him, shifting awkwardly from side to side in the kitchen, “what’s up?”

Ryan’s brow instinctually furrowed, “What’re you plotting?”

“Who? Me? Pshhh...” Dylan gave a dismissive wave of his hand that Ryan didn’t trust for a second. But before he could call him on it, there was a knock at the door. The two men stared at each other—one astonished, the other decidedly not. Giving a silent nod in the direction of the noise, Dylan beckoned the other to open it.

Sighing, Ryan obliged. Clasping a hand over the knob and turning, the sight that greeted him on the other side left him stunned:

Abi, Emma, and Kaitlyn stood before him in their pajamas, arms filled with various snack foods. Looking him over with an inquisitive expression, Emma was the first to speak, “Do you usually answer the door in your boxers?”

Glancing down, it would appear the young woman was correct. “No, I—” Ryan stammered, face flushing. But realizing he had very little to say in his defense, he muttered a quiet, “sorry...” as he opened the door the rest of the way, allowing them to enter.

Laughing at his state of undress, the girls chattered amongst themselves, greeting Dylan as they entered the apartment.

“Geez, did you forget to tell him we’re coming?” he heard Kaitlyn say, presumably to the one overseeing the snacks in the kitchen.

“... maybe.”

Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, Ryan closed the door behind the girls.

“Oh, make sure to leave that unlocked,” Abi said, “Nick and Jacob will be up in a little bit. They’re just getting the sleeping bags from the car.

Sleeping... bags?

He cast a questioning look at Dylan as the women got themselves situated in their living room. The man only shrugged in response, throwing another bag of popcorn in the microwave. Not wanting to literally be caught with his pants down by any more new arrivals, Ryan went back to the bedroom to get dressed.

Upon his return, the girls were sprawled across the floor, unrolling the aforementioned sleeping bags. Nick and Jacob were now in the kitchen, unpacking the bags of junk food they’d brought.

“Laura just texted,” Kaitlyn called, scrolling through her phone, “her and Max got stuck in traffic. They said to start without them.”

“Oh, sweet,” Jacob said before rummaging through his backpack, “so for movies, I got: The Fast and the Furious, 2 Fast 2 Furious, Fast and Furious, Fast Five—”

Nick was the first to interrupt, “Is it all just Fast and Furious?”

Nodding, “And Die Hard.”

A chorus of ‘Die Hard’s filled the apartment as everyone casted their vote, and Jacob fished the DVD from his bag, walking it over to the living room to set up. Nick soon followed, carrying a couple of bowls of popcorn with him. That just left Dylan and Ryan together in the kitchen. Alone.

Leaning in close, Dylan whispered, “Thought it might be nice to get everyone together for a night. Sorry—I meant to wake you up and tell you, but you were out cold.”

Glancing down at his arms, the outlines of their sheets indented into Ryan’s skin concurred. “I’m not mad,” Ryan said back, “just surprised. It’s... nice. Having everyone here. It’s been a while. How’d you get them on short notice?”

“The stars just aligned, I guess,” he shrugged, “Kaitlyn was getting lunch with Jacob when I called her. Everything just came together from there.”

“Hey—hurry up!” Emma called to them from the couch, “We’re starting without you!”

Waving her off, Ryan grabbed a handful of snacks from the assortment on the counter. Sliding onto the couch, he relaxed in his seat as Dylan took his place at his side. Ryan wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.

The group ended up sitting in front of the TV for hours, slowly working their way through the first four ‘Die Hard’ movies (Laura and Max finally showing up halfway through the first), exchanging laughter and commentary as they went. Somewhere amidst the forth, Ryan felt his eyes growing heavier and heavier. And as he peered around the room, finding that he was the last one awake, he knew it likely wouldn’t be much longer until he succumbed to the same fate. But that was ok. Because even if he didn’t know what was waiting for him when he fell asleep, he knew who’d be there when he awoke.

Leaning against Dylan, Ryan closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Ryan still suffered from the occasional nightmare, but it was nowhere near as bad or frequent as it used to be. He ended up going to that therapist, and while it wasn’t an immediate fix (he hadn’t expected it to be), it had helped. Matter of fact, he’d been sleeping better than he had for three years. That was, until, tonight...

Ryan awoke to a loud metallic BANG and the sound of someone groaning. Shooting up, he looked around the dark room in a daze, instinctually grabbing for the person in bed next to him. Only... when he reached out, he came back with nothing. Ryan was alone, and Dylan was nowhere to be found.

The curtains on the window puffed inward as a particularly cold gust of winter air blew through the open pane. Confused but curious, Ryan carefully pushed himself out of bed, stalking closer to investigate.

Peering over the windowsill, a figure lay motionless in a heap on the iced-over fire escape. Frozen in shock, it took a few seconds for Ryan’s brain to fully process what he was seeing. But when it did, he was already leaning over and exclaiming, “Dylan?”

Dylan didn’t utter a word. He just gave a stiff, silent thumbs up as he lay face down in the snow that had accumulated on the metal grating. Defeated.

Sighing, Ryan stepped through the window, wincing as his bare feet touched the freezing metal. Bending over, he peeled his boyfriend off the platform.

“J-just needed...” the other gasped, allowing himself to be guided back inside, “just needed some air...”

Plopping him down on the edge of the bed before flicking on the bedside lamp, Ryan sat down next to him and asked, “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” Dylan muttered, “just wet. And cold.” He was pale, and shaking, and Ryan was unsure how much of that was actually from the snow.

Brow furrowing, “Why were you out there? It’s still dark. You could’ve seriously hurt yourself—or worse.”

Giving a rueful shake of his head, Dylan rose from the bed as he peeled himself out of his wet shirt, “Like I said: just needed some air.” If he was trying to be convincing, he was failing. With his back turned, he stiffly began to remove his soaked-through pants before rummaging through their dresser.

Frowning, Ryan approached him from behind. Wrapping his arms around his middle, resting his head on his shoulder, “You’re freezing,” he said, rubbing his hands up and down the man’s sides to try and warm him up.

Shivering under the touch, Dylan instinctually relaxed into the embrace. Releasing a sigh of content, he leaned back into Ryan’s warmth, “Just had a bad dream. That’s why I needed the air. Don’t worry about it.”

And that gave Ryan pause, hands stilling as he considered this carefully. It’d been a while since Dylan suffered from a nightmare, but that didn’t mean it never happened. Clearly. Tightening his hold on the other in an effort to ground him if he needed it, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Based on the way he tensed from the question, Ryan could probably guess what the answer would be. But always one to subvert expectations... “It was back at the lodge when Caleb attacked us. Kaitlyn wasn’t fast enough shooting him this time. She... well. You could probably guess what happened,” taking another shuddering breath, Dylan continued, “I was alone after that, and you didn’t come back. No one did. It was just me. I was the only one that made it to morning... I thought dying would be the worst thing that could’ve happened to me that night,” he eventually admitted, sounding exhausted, “now, I’m not so sure.”

Ryan understood the feeling. The one that told you that even if everyone had survived, there had been a very real possibility that they wouldn’t. And the only thing that separated you from that reality was the luck of being born into this one. But even if Ryan understood it, that didn’t mean he had an answer for it. Despite that, he pulled Dylan closer, whispering, “I did come back. We all did. No matter how bad the nightmares get, they can’t take that away from you.”

A long stretch of silence filled the air as something settled between them. Comprehension? Understanding? Maybe it was just simple acceptance of the fact that they’d survived, and nightmares alone would never have the power to change that.

“You’re warm...” Dylan murmured in a tone that lit a fire in the base of Ryan’s abdomen. Exhaling a long breath, he gave the hands wrapped around his midsection a gentle pat, “alright, my dick’s cold. Let me change out of my underwear before my balls get frostbite and fall off.”

... which provided quite the mental picture. Though, as he continued to hold onto Dylan—Ryan’s front pressed into his back—he thought that there were plenty of ways to get that warmed back up: “I could help with that.”

“The... underwear?” Dylan glanced back, confused, “It’s not really a two person job.”

“No. The... I could help with... uh,” oh, God, “I could help with the... the frostbite thing? Like, warm them up. I can warm up your... your balls? Jesus Christ...”

There was a long pause. Then another. Then, “You really need to work on your dirty talk.”

“I know,” Ryan groaned, finally releasing his grip to let the other step out of his soggy underwear. And as he watched him do so, he concluded that Dylan’s movements felt deliberately slow. That theory was only further proven when Dylan turned around, quirking an eyebrow as he put himself on full display for the other’s viewing pleasure. And as Ryan’s eyes drifted down... “Oh. Clearly someone liked it.”

Eyes narrowing, Dylan scoffed, “You try falling dick-first into a bunch of snow. It’s just,” he paused, searching for the right word. Eventually, he settled on, “un-retracting.”

Tilting his head to the side, the new angle provided Ryan some new insight: “... looks like it’s doing a little bit more than that.”

Sighing, “Yeah, I know. It’s just been a while.”

At least a month, to be exact. It’s not like they hadn’t wanted to—obviously—it’s just that they’d been busy. Ryan with work, Dylan with school and undergrad research... the opportunity hadn’t presented itself. Not like it used to.

Not like it did right now.

“Previous offer is still on the table,” Ryan shrugged, eyeing Dylan’s growing ‘problem’ with one solution in mind, “if you want.” He didn’t know how early it was. He didn’t care. All he really cared about was getting one of them under the other, and he didn’t really mind who.

Brow raised, Dylan gave an inquisitive tilt of his head at the proposition. And just when Ryan thought he’d decline, opting to turn in until sunrise... he grinned. Stepping into the other’s personal space, he helped free Ryan from his pajamas, reducing the both of them to the same level of undress. The same level of vulnerability.

It didn’t take long to fall into one another after that, teeth occasionally clicking together as they licked into each other’s mouths, stumbling blindly backwards until they finally collided with the bed. Hitting the mattress with a quiet ‘oof,’ they inched themselves back until they neared the headboard.

Breathless, naked, and panting, Dylan briefly pulled away to ask, “Do we still have...?”

“Yeah,” Ryan breathed, reaching over to retrieve the bottle of lube from their bedside drawer. Popping open the cap, he squirted a generous amount into the palm of his hand. Straddling the other with their dicks between them, Ryan wrapped his hand around them both. Tightening his grip in a way that had the both of them groaning, he began to slowly pump his hand, lathering them with the clear gel.

“Fuck...” Dylan breathed, throwing his head back against the pillow as he got lost in the sensation. Hips rocking forward and back as he chased that feeling, his cock stiffened more and more with each slow, wet pump of Ryan’s hand.

Ryan wasn’t sure what he was getting off more to at that point: his own hand, or the way Dylan looked beneath him. Head thrown back, the column of his neck was completely exposed, practically begging to be marked and claimed. Leaning down, Ryan was more than happy to oblige, sucking bruising kisses into the blank canvas of skin as Dylan moaned, pulling him closer and rutting against him, desperate for release.

And Ryan wasn’t fairing much better. Between the sounds Dylan was making, the heat pooling in his stomach, and the pressure building at the base of his abdomen... he knew it wouldn’t be much longer. And while he’d have been perfectly content with finishing like that—wrapped in loving embrace as he stroked the both of them to completion—he couldn’t help but want more.

Sliding back, Ryan brought his hands to Dylan’s knees, spreading them apart as the other made a small, surprised noise in the back of his throat. “Is this ok?” Ryan asked, refusing to move until he was certain.

Lips pulled into a lazy grin, Dylan spread his legs even more for him, “It’s great.”

Well, alright then. Lube and pre-cum already dripping down Dylan’s shaft, Ryan used it to coat his entrance, taking pride in the little gasp that escaped the other when his finger caught the rim. Checking his face for any signs of discomfort and finding none, Ryan pushed the first digit in, slowly sinking it down to the knuckle; gently working it in, then out, then in again.

Exhaling a pleased sigh, Dylan lifted a leg and rested it on the other man’s shoulder, giving him easier access. Flushed and panting, a thin layer of sweat gleamed on his skin as Ryan worked him open.

Adding a second finger, the sound Dylan made went straight to his rapidly hardening dick. It was desperate, and needy, and begging to be fucked. “You’re beautiful,” Ryan breathed, unable to pry away his hungry eyes.

Though, the words seemed to have the opposite of their desired effect, breaking Dylan from the fucked-out bliss he’d been savoring. Scoffing, he nudged Ryan lightly with the shin at his shoulder. “Stop that,” he muttered.

And Ryan didn’t like that at all. Frowning, “I mean it.”

But Dylan didn’t respond. Turning his head to stare at the wall, he wouldn’t even look at him,

Breathing an audible sigh, Ryan never understood why he got like this. It didn’t happen often. Not enough to anticipate it, at least. But much like a lingering wound forgotten about until the next bout of inflammation... it happened enough that Ryan remained aware of every instance upon each new occurrence. Because Dylan didn’t get embarrassed every time Ryan paid him a compliment during sex, but that could’ve just been because he was far too out of it by the time Ryan really got carried away with his praises. The part of the night where they both got too lost in the other to care about what was coming out of either of their mouths.

“I mean it,” Ryan repeated, pushing his full body weight against the leg on his shoulder, pinning Dylan in place as he added the third finger, “you look good like this.” He couldn’t help but delight in the way the other shuddered from it, clenching around his fingers.

By the time Ryan added the fourth, he’d managed to chip away at most of Dylan’s lingering doubts and insecurities, drawing out all those little noises he missed. Flexing his fingers, he watched him arch off the mattress with a surprised yelp.

Pooling pre-cum at the base of his stomach, Dylan tried to leverage what little control he had left. Using his leg to pull the other closer, he grinded down on the fingers stretching him open, gasping, “Ryan, please, I need...”

Yeah. He’s ready. Easing out his fingers and removing the leg swung over his shoulder, Ryan leaned over to their bedside once more, this time, in search of a condom. That’s when he felt a hand encompass his wrist, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“No,” Dylan said, eyes darkened with a carnal hunger, “leave it.”

And who would Ryan be to deny him that? Settling back into his spot above Dylan, he leaned down to suck another bruise into his collarbone. Placing his hands behind the other’s knees, he began to push them gently to his chest, lining himself up.

“Uh... wait,” Dylan said, stopping him in an instant. Getting his elbows underneath himself, he used them to push into a sitting position, “can I do this on my front?”

Leaning back onto his knees, Ryan released the hold on his legs and let him do what he needed to get comfortable.

Flipping onto his chest, Dylan buried his head in his pillow as he pulled it close. And maybe Ryan was reading too much into things, but it distinctly felt like he was trying to hide. Leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to the space between his shoulder blades, he murmured, “Is this still ok? We can stop if you need to.”

Sigh muffled by the pillow, Dylan turned his head to speak, “I’m fine... I don’t know why I get weird about that. Sorry.”

Still not entirely convinced, Ryan didn’t make a move to continue. “You don’t need to apologize,” he said, meaning it, “can we talk about it?”

Probably not, based on nothing else than the long stretch of silence that followed. Shaking his head, Dylan just shoved his head into the pillow again before muttering, “It’s stupid.”

But Ryan didn’t think it was stupid at all. If it mattered to Dylan, it wasn’t stupid. “I promise it’s not,” and he’d wait as long as he needed for him to finally believe him.

Whether or not he actually did was up for debate, but eventually, Dylan decided to speak, “Sometimes the compliments are... a lot—and before you say anything: it’s not your fault. It’s mine. I think I just had some hang-ups I didn’t fully get over before we started dating, and that’s on me. I guess... I just... I didn’t know anybody could love me like that before I met you.”

His words wedged a pit deep in Ryan’s stomach, and he’d do anything to be rid of it. Wrapping his arms around the other... he just held him. “I love you,” he whispered, ghosting a kiss behind his ear, “and I’m sorry if I don’t tell you that enough.”

“You do,” Dylan sighed as he shifted in his arms, trying to get closer, “I’m just weird.” His eyes were damp.

“You’re not weird,” Ryan said before pausing to consider it further, “well... you are. But not about this.” Raising a hand to his face, he brushed away the unshed tears.

Shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter, they both just laid there in each other’s arms, drinking each other in. Lost in the moment, they almost forgot about everything leading up to it...

Almost.

“Hey,” Dylan said, craning his neck back to look at Ryan, “can we keep going?”

And Ryan tried not to seem too desperate as he repositioned himself. “Y-yeah. Yeah, of course,” he stammered, waiting for one-hundred-percent confirmation and certainty before continuing, “are you sure?”

“Yeah, Ryan,” he breathed, hooking an arm around his neck, pulling him close to kiss him, “I’m sure.” Spreading himself open with his fingers, Dylan offered himself to the other whenever he was willing to take him.

Huffing a shuddering breath, it took all of Ryan’s willpower to not have him right then and there. To not lean forward, stuffing him full with one quick snap of his hips. “I think you’re killing me,” he murmured against Dylan’s lips, pushing him down until he was lying flush against their bed. Chest down, ass up. Pressing the head of his throbbing cock to the man’s aching hole, he slowly began to tilt his hips forward.

“Oh...” Dylan exhaled. And as Ryan sunk in further—breaching the rim—his back arched, “Oh.”

Arms still wrapped firmly around him, Ryan leaned over Dylan’s shoulder, whispering sweet nothings as he eased him through the burn of that first stretch. Brushing his hands down his body, he stroked and squeezed whatever he could get a hold of: chest, stomach, thighs... when Ryan finally bottomed out, his own strangled moan tore its way from his throat. Because all he could think about was how tight Dylan felt as he twitched inside of him. Stilling his movements, he was forced to do nothing else but breathe as he focused on not blowing his load too soon.

But Dylan wasn’t making it easy. Pushing himself up to trembling hands and knees, he began rocking his hips back and forth, fucking himself on Ryan’s cock.

“Holy shit—Dylan,” he gasped, hands roughly seizing the others hips in a desperate attempt to regain some control. Leaning back, his dick came with him, sliding out of the other even as he continued to try and chase it.

Whining from the loss, Dylan sunk to his elbows in a huff. It felt rather petulant. Bratty, even. “You seemed tired,” he said, casting a not-so innocent look over his shoulder, “I was trying to help.”

“Alright,” Ryan acknowledged with a careful nod and an unfamiliar surge of confidence, “I hear you.” Without giving the other time to react, he nudged his legs further apart before fully sheathing himself with one deliberate thrust.

Hand flailing to grip the headboard, Dylan made a noise like the air had been punched from his lungs. But he wasn’t complaining. Breathless pants soon turned into self-satisfied chuckles. But that satisfaction soon turned to confusion, because as he tried to move his hips to chase that feeling... he found that he couldn’t.

Ryan continued to lean his weight forward, pushing deeper and deeper until the other was forced to sink down with him. Gasping from both shock and pleasure, Dylan trembled beneath him as he pinned him to the bed; connected at the hips. Deeming his point more than made, Ryan finally began to move, slowly fucking him into the mattress. He delighted at each needy moan it elicited, and the friction of each languid slide.

Each slow push sent a jolt of pleasure coursing through the other, and it wasn’t long until Dylan attempted to snake an arm down his front to grip his aching cock, chasing that release. But Ryan caught it immediately, grabbing the hand and pinning it to the bed. He pinned the other arm too for good measure.

“Shit, Ryan—come on!” he snapped, attempting to jerk his hips back to take him quick and deep. But he couldn’t. Ryan had him, and he wasn’t letting go. The only thing left to do was beg, “... please?”

But Ryan never sped up his movements. If anything, he went slower. Deeper. Burying himself inside of him over and over and over again; pulling all the way out before sliding all the way back in. Ryan was taking his time, and he was taking Dylan with it.

Able to do little else but writhe beneath him... Dylan embraced this fate. Moans tapering off into whimpers, he took whatever he was given. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But Ryan was only human, and no matter how stoic and unaffected the mask he wore appeared to be, he was not immune to the effect Dylan had on him. Nor was he immune to the walls of muscle tightening around his cock as he nailed that bundle of nerves buried deep inside the other.

Breath hitching, Dylan fisted at the sheets as if trying to claw himself out from under him. Thick, liquid heat pooled deep inside of him—deeper than even Ryan could reach—as he resigned himself to limply rocking along with each thrust, whimpering with each blunt press against his prostate.

And in a perfect world, Ryan would keep him like this until sunrise. Building him up with each painfully slow grind of his hips, teetering him on the edge of release until he was reduced to nothing but noises and drool, too fucked-out to even beg for it anymore. His climax would build like a tidal wave, steady and gradual, before suddenly overtaking him. He’d spill over himself—untouched—from nothing more than the feeling of being so completely and utterly full.

But with the tension coiling in his own stomach, Ryan knew that’d have to wait for another night. Nestling his head over the other’s shoulder, he let his words spill from his mouth like a dam that had finally burst; it would seem they’d reached ‘that’ part of the night. He’d have called it nonsense if he hadn’t meant every word of it: Beautiful. Taking it so good. Mine, all mine. Desperate, needy moans mixed with the sound of flesh smacking against flesh filled the room as Ryan picked up the pace.

Writhing against the sheets, Dylan rode the waves of pleasure as they washed over him. “Ryan, p-please... please let me—” he cried out, despairing and desperate, as Ryan snaked his hand beneath him, curling it around his neglected cock before pumping it to the rhythm set by his hips.

And that was the end of it. Balls tightening, Ryan filled him one final time with a firm roll of his hips... and he held it there: pressing Dylan into the mattress, throbbing against his prostate, spilling into him until he milked out every last drop.

Heat swelling in his gut as Ryan emptied himself inside of him, it was enough to finally send Dylan over the edge. Hips stuttering, he spilled over Ryan’s hand as the man continued to stroke him, bringing him to the edge of overstimulation. Choking back a sob, Dylan gave Ryan a gentle but pointed tap on the arm.

Ryan ceased his movements, easing himself out of him. Turning Dylan on his side and drawing him flush against his chest, he began massaging the soreness from his thighs before it could set.

Dylan relaxed, breathing leveling off as he settled into the embrace, flipping over to wrap his arms around Ryan in turn. But eventually—as body heats cooled and pulses steadied—they were forced to peel themselves off of one another lest their spend begin to harden into a thin crust...

Ew.

“I’m sticky,” Dylan chuckled, using his hand to smear around the goop coating his stomach.

That was Ryan’s cue. Extracting himself from the sheets—wincing from the soreness already building in his core—he shuffled to the bathroom. Upon his return, he held a damp washrag in either hand. He passed one off to the other before using his to wipe himself down.

After wiping down his front, Dylan unfolded the rag and sat on it. And then he waited. Brow pinched in concentration, “... we should probably strip the bed.”

Which was a very fair point. “I’ll take care of it later,” Ryan promised, kneeling onto the mattress to clean up what the man had missed on his stomach, “just... keep doing what you’re doing, I guess.”

“Way ahead of you,” Dylan said, giving him a playful nudge on the arm, “oh, and just FYI: I’m gonna get you back for that in a couple hours.”

Ryan snorted, giving a good natured shake his head, “You liked it.”

“I did,” Dylan admitted with a wistful sigh. Then, eyes glinting as he spoke in a low tone, “but not as much as you will,” sexiness only slightly undercut by the fact he was currently oozing into a rag.

Huffing a quiet, disbelieving laugh, Ryan settled into bed next to him. Draping an arm around Dylan’s shoulder, he used it to pull him close, tasting salt as he pressed a tender kiss to his sweaty forehead, “I’ll hold you to it.”

In the end, Dylan stayed true to his word, save for the fact ‘a couple hours’ only ended up being around forty-five minutes.

#smg secret santa #supermassive games #the quarry #ryan erzahler #dylan lenivy #rylan

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