#drunivers.

[lupodei]

SC. 03 INT. 8 GRANDAGE PLACE — NIGHT. › VANESSA IVES YOU’RE BLEEDING.

 adrenaline  dries  the  tongue  like  rust  and  overfills  your  lungs  as  if  it  is  the  very  first  breath  you  have  ever  taken.   one  forgets  himself  in  crossfire.   abandon  the  flesh  of  man,   follow  instinct,   and  become  something  else.   THE  WOLF  OF  GOD:   unhallowed  in  the  name  of  the  divine  and  adorned  in  the  sins  of  the  ancestors.   OPEN  YOUR  EARS  TO  THE  CRESCENDO  OF  PROPHETIC  ARRHYTHMIA,   for  it  tears  his  heart  asunder.

 𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙰𝙽  𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙻𝙴𝚁  and  𝚅𝙰𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙰  𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚂  are  witness  to  the  bloodlet  drops  of  dying  light;   darker  by  the  minute,   hungrier  every  second.   an  almost  living,   breathing  thing,   prowling  humanity’s  dregs.   AS  BELOW,  SO  ABOVE:   a  maternal  undoing  cast  upon  the  night.   the  crescent  waxes  and  the  clouds  part  for  her  debut—   a  spotlight  on  his  mark.   out  of  bullets  and  out  of  breath,   ethan  takes  the  cue  and  agrees  to  an  early  refuge.

 wool  drinks  at  the  wound,   spreading  slowly  down  the  outseam  as  if  each  arterial  throb  is  its  own  mercy.   𝚅𝙸𝙲𝚃𝙾𝚁  𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙺𝙴𝙽𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙸𝙽,   the  elusive  recluse,   is  elsewhere  for  the  evening,   “  good  thing  we  know  a  doctor.  ”   jaw  taut,   syllables  cut,   but  he  minds  not  the  pain  and  smiles  for  her.

 GRATITUDE:   a  soul  survivor,   consummated  in  innocent  blood,   greeting  the  trail  of  claws  through  his  hip  like  nostalgia.

“  these...  nightcomers,  ”   with  a  wince,   “  somethin’s  got  them  riled  up,  ”   he  sits  at  her  behest,   “  seems  like  we’re  makin’  progress.  ”

 ᐟᐟᐟ 𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗗𝗜𝗧𝗦: @drunivers  as  VANESSA IVES.

[outoft0uch]

HAWKINS, INDIANA. MARCH, 1985.

there are stores in the mall where nobody ever enters. it could be a variety of reasons. the facade is unappealing. the location is in a dark, oddly cold corner in an otherwise well lit shopping center. the music wafting out is jarringly sad in the middle of an otherwise cheerful spring day. or, in this case, all of the above.

annie’s leaning up against a white wall next to the changing rooms, bags piled up at her feet. she’s had a ball of a time spending her whole paycheck on sweaters and skirts and hairbands, dragging chris from store to store. this was the only stop chris had specifically requested, the weird dingy little shop on the bottom floor of starcourt, and annie could hardly say no. it’s mostly men’s clothes, drab and unexciting, but annie has politely kept this opinion to herself throughout their shopping.

@drunivers, from chris: "can you help me zip this up?"

the metal rings at the curtain rod rattles as chris slides it open. annie struggles to remove herself from her maze of shopping bags but eventually gets free. she slips into the dressing room, her back turned to chris so she can pull the curtain back into place. annie turns around, first catching a glimpse of chris' face, then the bare skin of her shoulders.

"woah." annie breathes. chris’ top is black leather, and skin tight, and dips lower than the usual t-shirt collar chris wears, showing off a bony piece of sternum. it’s the type of thing plastered on the front of magazines behind the counter at work, what she imagines is being worn at biker bars. she gapes for a second, unable to figure out where to look. annie can't fathom from where in the store chris picked this up. "um. okay." she fights to recover. if she were trying on something so different, annie would want a nice reaction. her lips curve into a smile, friendly, even if she's a little shaken for a reason she can't quite name. "you're going to have to turn around for my help, silly."

[sordidery-arc]

in the end, there's no difference between trusting someone and underestimating them. (silverflint)

the whip of the wind is familiar, energizing even when it aims to topple you off your feet. silver, beside you at the boat's edge, hovering a half-step from the railing like you might swat him off with the same ease you would slap at a gnat. maybe you would.

you blink, swish his words across your tastebuds. the ocean stretches out endlessly behind him, just the crew and the sails and the hazy blue the horizon turns when the sky melts into the sea. you've spent your whole life on boats. the imagery should be nothing, as commonplace as the hair creeping up the back of your hand or the grain of wood. but that endlessness, it can feel crushing. your ship is a pinprick, an ant, as much one of god's creatures as the scurrying little men that live on it. with something as simple as a change in wind- the forming of an errant batch of clouds, the walrus could be struck down, sank and forgotten. you've learned to know anything can kill you and made it your choice to make sure nothing will.

your weight shifts. a boot shuffles in front of the other, toe-box hitting the railings. you turn your head away from him, towards the choppy, wave-laden water. he doesn't need an answer, you didn't need the commentary. fruitlessly, you try to conjure some image of the life john silver has lived. try to imagine what story he could've made up about you. neither much matter. the truth. his truth, yours. life is a battle of will. conviction. trust and truth and all that other shit can fall to the wayside. "a lesson hard learned?"

[whordidery-arc]

silver’s presence in the cabin, nuisance that it is, is not entirely surprising. where flint goes, silver seems to follow. the moon is high and most men have tucked themselves below deck. the crew has another two days of sailing before they'll even see land, which leads flint to believe this little visit has nothing to do with the fight ahead of them.

@drunivers. silver, for flint. keep reading, don't let me distract you.

his gut is so rarely wrong.

at the sight of silver slinking to his knees, though, he does not feel any sort of victory at assuming correctly. instead, he's finding himself aware that the power, so often firmly within his grasp, is being wrenched away. the man breathes in, quietly, salty air expanding his lungs, and re-fixes his eyes on the passage before him. he can make out the top of silver’s hair just over the book’s cover.

should flint be honest with himself, his attention on the tale had already been waning. his brow had long turned furrowed, the simple act of reading becoming plotting, restlessly churning through ideas, imagined setbacks and their following contingencies.

james flint is still as stone, all too aware of the tense muscles in his legs. his heavy lidded gaze swims over the finely printed words, unable to latch on to any particular phrase. a twitch of his skin, above his mouth, just below his nostril. the curiosity, the interest, quickly becomes too much to bare. despite himself, despite the breezy instructions to ignore silver, he rasps out a question. "what are you doing?"

[sordidery-arc]

cont from here. @drunivers

light glints off the gore on herbert’s gloves, blinding to tired eyes, and the man’s entire body goes rigid. dan is moving before he knows he intended to, surveying the open chest cavity. the anger coming off herbert in waves is fine, he can be pissed all he likes, especially when dan was convinced the awful CRUNCH! was herbert sawing through his own hand. it’s paranoia. the stress and the lack of sleep. (would herbert make such a careless mistake? would he stick himself with an unmeasured dose of re-agent and just keep working?) dan’s teeth grind, face pruning with the sheer effort it takes for him not to lose his cool.

"when was the last time you slept? or ate a real meal?" a weighty glance into the open cavity below them. "you really expect me to believe you’re in working condition?" he’s rounding in on herbert now, nipping wildly in hopes of catching skin between his teeth. he’s pissed at the implication herbert is above human things such as sleep, at the disapproving skew to herbert’s mouth. christ, it’s pathological what he does to dan. herbert constantly pushes and pushes and then has the gall to be pissy when dan breaks.

below that anger, buried under mountains of horror and shame, there’s a much stronger emotion.

it’s not the first time he’s had this concern. herbert could easily rip the partnership away. he could reclaim ownership of their work, that is already nearly completely his, and leave dan with nothing. some days, he can warp that fear into something blissful. utopian. herbert could leave. it’s a parallel reality where dan can forfeit responsibility for the outcome of the work and return to normalcy. he could do something after getting home from the hospital. maybe poker with work buddies, catch up on tv, take out a pretty nurse. . . most times, though, this thought makes panic set in. what would dan actually do with that endless stretch of time between waking up and going back to sleep? with whom would he actually want to spend it? life without meg has been hard enough. without herbert, dan has no idea what future he would be working towards. he doesn’t want to not be herbert’s partner. but he needs herbert to be equally his partner.

an accusatory finger jabs out. "you’re being reckless. we’ll both make stupid mistakes." he doesn’t know when he began building a case towards herbert following him up the stairs, but suddenly he is. he flounders for words, for the right argument. he’d like to avoid sounding desperate, or needy, mainly because he’s feeling crotchety and he doesn’t want to give herbert the satisfaction. dan’s jaw works. he smooths his outstretched hand over herbert’s shoulder, possessive, as he peers down at the scientist and their creation. "he’ll still be here after you’ve had some rest."

[sordidery-arc]

@drunivers, herbert west for daniel cain. "i don’t care that you run away, i care that you do it badly."

"i'm not running!" shocking how loud his voice can be through gritted teeth. he rubs at the skin around his temples, tugs at tufts of over-grown hair. it's always--- he isn't running from herbert. he's just not trying to make up the distance, anymore, to cram himself into a space where only the dead can thrive. there’s barely time for sleep between the hospital and the basement and the endless errands. all herbert does is push him away and down. dan plays the part of housewife and lab assistant and provider. he plays passionate doctor, he plays dedicated scientist. whatever they need. whatever herbert needs. whatever he wants. if herbert says 'heel, boy,' then heel dan fucking does.

except, maybe he isn’t submitting as easily these past few days. he’s a grown man and his job is stressful and everything reminds him of meg. his nagging patients, the endless hallways, the meandering sputter of instant coffee brewing. he's lonely, a lot of the time, and then the rest of the time he is with herbert and he is too whole. he doesn't want to feel complete. not like this. not as this.

in fact, maybe, maybe he is running. he's sprinting away from the life he keeps choosing over and fucking over. and herbert knows, like he knows everything. sometimes dan thinks herbert knows exactly what dan needs from him and he withholds it just to see what dan does. a sigh racks through his body, bone deep. "my life revolves around the work, herbert. i’m just-" what is he? before herbert, before their work, daniel cain was sleepwalking, aimless and half-blinded through a peaceful dream. and now, what is he? murderer, queer, sub-par physician? he’s alive, the work and the dream is alive, but living it is a waking nightmare. "i’m tired, herb."

[whordidery-arc]

several days worth of early mornings and late nights are catching up with her all at once. a new bruise peaks out from beneath her pajama pants, slithered around her ankle. another casts angry purple shadows across her eye socket. the mission had gone on a few days longer than she bargained, took more energy than she expected to give. it went well, of course, but the resulting exhaustion comes off of her in waves. natasha slumps, spine a c-curve, the loose fabric of bruce's henley all gathering at her front. she's listening to the conversation, but her eyes are unfocused, staring blankly at the tile next to bucky's socked foot. both men are in her peripheral vision. it’s not intentional that she’s kept them in her sights. some of the few people in the universe natasha has no need to keep an eye on are gathered in this tiny kitchen.

someone rumbles out a laugh. the spy didn’t quite catch what caused it. that’s alright, though. she knows this routine by heart. the script is memorized, movements blocked. bucky at the sink, bruce leaning against the countertop, nat sitting atop the surface, everyone well within arms reach of each other. the familiar pattern of their voices is nice, steady, as they go around in a conversation they've definitely had before. everyone plays off each other well.

nat blinks to attention with no particular prompting, newly focused gaze pinpointing in on bruce. she’s easily done more on less sleep, so exhaustion isn’t the excuse, but she lets herself pretend it is. he’s bullied out of his spot beside her, insistent hands pulling the doctor inbetween her knees. a break in the conversation, both men leaving space for her to explain her unabashed manhandling. natasha wraps both arms loosely around bruce’s waist, her forehead lowering to rest against his neck. she feels like she can breathe deeper now that one of them is strung up in her web. her voice is raspier than normal when she speaks, yet, authoritative as ever. "carry on."

@polarnoid @drunivers :D

[whordidery-arc]

@drunivers, from harrow to gideon: "shhh, they'll hear you."

if she wasn’t wildly and painfully turned on, gideon might consider extreme violence against harrowhark. as it is, gideon happens to be wildly and painfully turned on, and the brief consideration of throwing the evil little woman around serves to only make her more worked up. gideon shifts her weight, trying and failing to keep her head on straight. she isn't even being loud. she isn't. harrow is being cruel, needlessly exercising the unbalanced power she wields over gideon. this thought makes gideon breathe out heavily through their nose. they're in harrow's shared apartment, up against the wall cattycorner to her bedroom door. gideon isn't even sure there are roommates home to hear them, but the mystery is half the fun. and, maybe she really is being loud. who’s to say? harrow’s bony hand down their boxers has brought gideon’s already lacking comprehension skills to a grinding halt.

"fuck. harrow-" it’s not a whine. gideon's a big boy with extraordinary bicep muscles and a will strong as iron, she would never whine. yet, harrow’s name is long and desperate in their mouth, their voice obediently brought down to a murmur. she feels deliciously caged in, despite harrow being a head shorter and her whole body containing as much muscle mass as gideon's left calf. harrowhark's freaky little fingers are rubbing at gideon's clit with a precision that makes them wonder if they sell 'how to make gideon come fast, for dummies.' her abdominal muscles tense, brain seemingly left of her skull and reoriented itself two inches to the left. gideon brings a hand to clutch at the bottom of harrow's shirt, the other carefully cradling the back of harrow's neck, and she keens. there is a growing likelihood that she is a noise problem. "shit, this is so hot. harrow, please."