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acoraxia · 6 months

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i missed you I watched elementals today with my friend, thus, short ficlet about mistyembers (2k words, and a little messy)

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Hm.

It’s annoying.

Almost truly tedious.

Hong Hai’er isn’t one to be sentimental about the past nor does he try to touch anything that comes with it. He leaves the events of the Samadhi Fire behind, he craves nothing of the past even if it means moving on from the fact his father left and his mother rejected every idea he had with a hint of malice. They’re growing now, being better parents, and he dubs everything down to stress and the inability to stop Heaven’s wishes of having his father imprisoned for over a hundred years. He doesn’t linger on it anymore, he moves on; and he stands there, garage and storage room burnt and charcoaled, wondering why he feels such an intense amount of woe over the fact he’s lost contact with her for over a year now.

He doesn’t miss the ice cold touch of the Bone Spirit’s hands, the shrill laugh that came with it—he steps over broken glass shards and his lips twitch in disgust at the ash piles that he steps into when he tries to dodge a car fragment. It’s been… well, a rough start ever since they moved so far out from the city where his Uncle now lingers. He’s kept in touch with him, brought important matters to his attention, and the two often see each other when he comes by, gift in hand, ready to greet his mother and father with a smile. Still, he wishes he has stayed in the underground areas of the giant, technology driven city than having agreed to move to this wasteland of an area. It’s empty and it lacks humidity.

He misses the beach, all of a sudden.

His relationship with water has always been tied to her, after all, and no matter how many times he refreshes and reloads and pieces his phone back together he hears no word of her. He looks on the positive, as Xiaotian would put it, and thinks she’s merely forgotten how to use the damn device despite his numerous well-written instructions being given to her with the object—he breaks one of the door handles to his newest vehicle and throws it down on the floor, hissing under his breath.

He lost contact with Chenxia for a few months when his father got possessed. She’s an acolyte for the very Master Subodhi that his uncle trained under, her hair long and black, eyes filled with a calmness to them that he could live without, throat drying at the thought of seeing them again after so long; she’s been near him since he studied under Guayin, learned her ways and was handed back to his parents after years of lectures and teachings—and he can never forget the cold, gentle touch of her hands on his, the way his embers seemed to shine brighter around her. She used to smile at him with calm and patience that could rival the lakes of purity that he’s seen in his travels.

Chenxia is—familiar, to put it simply, and he feels anger boil up inside him when the very last trace of her is ruined and gone by a mere misdemeanor from a bastardous spirit, upset that Heaven could not adhere to her ‘perfect world’. The selfish witch.

He sniffs. He runs a hand through his hair, annoyed at how easily it flares up into flames now.

Chenxia had always had a never ending flow of patience for him; she combed his hair and calmly asked him to remember to breathe when his fire got too out of hand, her hands untouched by the scorching flames that moved towards her as if she were made of wood. It was beautiful, somewhat, that she managed to find a way to help him control his fire until it did nothing but keep her warm when his emotions got out of hand. She was everything.

He wants to revive every cursed spirit and deity that had a hand in the ice witch’s plan solely to deliver them to Diyu himself. His teeth grind against each other out of habit, his mind focusing on how every rainy day was a reminder of her and her quiet voice against his cheek, pressing cold touches to his skin.

He misses her.

His phone buzzes when he manages to get to the supply closet that was somehow untouched by his flames, broom in hand when he squints at the messages from Xiaotian and Sun Wukong. He opts for the latter, the annoyingly bright comments of optimism that the boy would bring were not favorable for the demon at the moment. He’d rather tell Sun Wukong that he’s busy than deal with his acolyte.

It takes three messages before his patience runs out over the long intervals between texts and he just calls the damn simian, sliding his gloves on as he prepares to start reworking on all his inventions.

“Oh, bad time, kiddo?” Sun Wukong sounds… light, as always. Not the same voice he feigns when talking to Xiaotian or Xiaojiao, it’s a voice Hong Hai’er has grown up with since childhood, light and airy, like a sun’s warm ray on a snake’s back during spring. Warm. “I thought I could deliver you some good news today.”

“Please, Uncle, I’ve no time for your trickery. I have work to do, something you couldn’t even fathom considering you barely even attend all those Heavenly Court meetings about the ‘calamities of the world’ or whatever else happens up there—”

A choked laugh. “Who told you that’s what they do?”

“Nezha, of course.” He slides his goggles on, frowning slightly when he sees how dirty they are.

“Kiddo, Nezha doesn’t even like those meetings.”

“My point stands: I’m not going to waste time talking to you about whatever random person you bumped into or how inaccurate the latest movie about you was when I could be doing something more productive.” Hong Hai’er snatches a rag from his desk and promptly begins wiping the glass on his headwear, narrowing his eyes when the stains don’t come off. “Besides, don’t you have some scroll pieces to sort through?”

“Funny that you mention it, dearest nephew of mine, fellow member of the forged fires trio of the Heavens; did Xiaotian tell you what happened in the scroll during his time there?” He avoids the question. Of course he does.

Hong Hai’er scoffs. “Of course not. That boy is taking after every single toxic trait that flows through your peach infested vain—”

“So he didn’t tell you he saw Chenxia?”

Hong Hai’er swore, once, that he’d learn to control his emotions. He’s touched water with gentle fingers, watching it curl and coil around his own hand with a tenderness he wouldn’t ever forget. He’s learned to channel his energy into more productive things—his inventions and vehicles, machinery—and he learned to meditate to channel his inner flame.

And yet his phone nearly shatters from the way his hands burst into flames, fire licking at the nearby wrenches and screwdrivers, nearly melting with the intensity that comes with it. His eyes are burning —from tears? desperation?—and he screams into the phone about the information. He rambles and goes off on a tangent, eyes burning harder until he digs a palm into one, squeezing it shut to try and smother the flames out of existence. Sun Wukong waits, disturbingly patient, and asks, “When are you free?”

The remains of his sigil on the perfectly cut green grass of the temple base are going to remain for a solid year, seeing how deep they settled into the earth, and Hong Hai’er stands there with a black shirt and disheveled hair, his goggles sitting skewed atop of his head. The Monkey King raises a brow and Hong Hai’er coughs into his fist, waving away traces of smoke as he vanishes the goggles and fixes the jacket tied around his waist. A hand comes to stop him from moving further, profanity and insults sitting at the top of his tongue when his Uncle—Gods help him—proceeds to dust off his shirt, brushing away traces of ash and smoke.

“Gotta look good for your lady, kid,” he coos and Hong Hai’er almost burns him to a crisp right there and then.

The temple is nothing to bat an eye at; it’s pristine and clean—no doubt taken care of by the several acolytes running around, exchanging jokes and going off about lessons from their master. He eyes the youngest group, watching the way Wukong trails behind just enough that he expects him to tear away from him and go join them in their mischief. They carry on the hallways, the young adults promptly ignoring them as they do, surely already aware of their arrival by Hong Hai’er’s entrance.

(He makes a quiet, small note to open a portal further away from the temple next time, wringing embarrassment out of his system by saying it was a spur of the moment decision, nothing else.)

And—he’s quite sure he’s never felt this awkward to stand on the open area of the tree infested entrance to the temple. It’s hidden away, kept from mortal eyes, and yet, somehow, the group of miscreants had managed to find it—ah, no, they were taken to this place by the immortal master himself. Of course. How else would they have found the very home of the calmest person he knows? The one who stares at him now, with dark gray eyes and uncertainty on her face when they step into the clearing.

He looks to Wukong for guidance—a loud ‘are you serious?’ leaving his mouth when he finds the simian is absent from his side. He’s alone. With her. With Chenxia.

Gods.

Her hair is longer. She’s tied part of it into a top knot, her outfit still the same color as the other acolytes in the temple. He remembers her in brighter clothes, more reminiscent of her smile and better suited for her eyes. He wants to ask about it—and then she moves closer to him and he frowns, arms crossing over his chest to try and hide the rapid beating of his heart. Blood pusher. It was messing with his head, somewhat, how calm she was in approaching him. He should be angry—snap at her for not calling or informing him of her whereabouts—and yet when she reaches up to brush a smear of oil from his face he softens, fire soothing into a candle-like ember instead of a raging storm.

It’s terrifying how he leans into her touch, sighing out in relief when she smiles at him, familiar and comforting.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she murmurs, bringing another hand to cup his face in its entirety. “I—your friend, Xiaotian, he-”

“He is not my friend,” he mumbles, turning his face to press a chaste kiss to her palm. It’s funny how she laughs at that, quiet and secretive, and he makes an effort to press another kiss for good effort. “I should be mad at you.”

“I know,” she says.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I will,” she lowers her hands onto his neck and then his shoulders, holding her gaze steady as she does. Her eyes are serious and Hong Hai’er’s softness leaves him in small, gentle waves.

He reaches up and grasps her hands, gently, into his hold. “I… was beaten up by Sun Wukong when an immortal bone spirit possessed him.” She blinks, startled, and he laughs at that. Because it’s funny how easily her expression changes. “I’ll… tell you everything. Then you can explain what happened.”

Her lips twitch. “Alright.”

Hong Hai’er inhales, tugging on her hands until she’s closer to him, tilting his head down so he can press his forehead against hers, her skin cool against him. She closes his eyes after a heartbeat and he follows suit, inhaling the smell of the ocean breeze and soothing meadows.

“I missed you,” she says against his lips.

“Me too,” he answers and then leans in.

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ask-the-bone-boys · 4 months

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WIP SNIPPETS!

HELLO i want to prove that i actually AM working on stuff (actually because i need to share things or i will explode) SO here are some sneak peeks for the three whole wips i've been cooking lately!!!!

Chapter 3 of Familiar Faces

(some context: "Papyrus" is Stretch, "Red-Papyrus" is Edge, they don't have their nicknames yet </3)

“Who designed all these, anyway?” Russ asked, squinting a bit as he poked at a powered-off laser. “I know a Papyrus wouldn’t come up with a display like this.”

“They’re mostly old puzzles from back when those were still a big thing,” Papyrus said. “We’ve been too busy to make new ones, and we’re still trying to get rid of all the solutions-”

“Oh, these are ancient!” Russ groaned, rubbing his hands down his face like it was the worst thing he’d heard all day. “Okay, okay, good news! You have us here now! We will amend this!”

“You really don’t gotta-”

“If we don’t it will be an affront to traps everywhere!” He looked through the toolbox they’d brought along. “We’ll need some more tools, but… Hey, Papyrus?”

“What?” Papyrus and Red-Papyrus said simultaneously. They squinted at each other.

“That one, sorry,” Russ clarified, pointing to Red-Papyrus. “You know what we’re looking for, right? Do you think you can dig around and find anything like that?”

“...Yes,” Red-Papyrus said somewhat reluctantly, backing off from where he was inspecting a rusty saw blade. “Blueprint paper, flamethrowers, scrap?”

“Right on the money!” He snapped his fingers into a gun shape. “Also some power tools, bigger wrenches, maybe some gasoline… And, whatever else you come across, I suppose!”

“I can grab that stuff if you want,” Papyrus offered, fairly certain he’d know where to find it better than someone who’d allegedly only been in this universe for a day.

“Nonsense! I need to show you how to bring these hunks of junk to their full potential!” Russ said, grinning as he raised a hammer that was far too big for the toolbox he’d pulled it from. “We’ll start with some percussive maintenance!”

mourning the loss of the horizontal line in the text editor-------------------

Something's Wrong With This Guy (WORKING TITLE LOL)

(Context: Edge's perspective, takes place before meeting Stretch)

“Russ?” He called out. “God dammit, Russ, where did you go?”

He scanned the area for even a hint of where Russ had run off to, but he could hardly see a thing. Maybe he was being smart for once, hiding in a bush somewhere. He wasn’t in any state to fight. He’d sooner topple over before he could get a word out.

There was no answer. Of course there wasn’t. If he was hiding, answering would give him away.

Unfortunately, that was just as likely as if he were already dead.

He finally caught another glimpse of the attacker, sending another round of attacks their way with a renewed fury. No matter what had happened, he’d make sure he dealt with it appropriately.

Right as his first round ended, he rushed in close, forgoing his magic just to pin them against the ground. He held them there by the neck, rearing back his fist.

Then, finally, he saw Russ, grinning up at him and cutting through the thick fog of adrenaline like a knife.

He shoved himself off, his anger dissipating just as quickly as it had arrived.

“Aww, but it was just getting fun!” Russ complained, pulling himself out of the snow and brushing himself off. “I had a suspicion you’ve been holding out on me, but…”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Papyrus shouted. “I could have killed you!”

“Isn’t that what you want?” He pointed out. Papyrus couldn’t find a response. “Besides, I’m fine! That was fun! Come on, let’s keep going, we can-”

“No.”

“But-”

“You are incredibly lucky that both of us are not dead,” Papyrus hissed, gesturing to the open area around them. “I don’t give a damn how much of a death wish you have, but if you want me to have a part in it, I will do so of my own accord. Otherwise, leave me out of it.”

“So… You don’t want to kill me?” Russ asked. Papyrus sputtered, quickly gaining the urge to prove him wrong as a smile grew on his face. “Oh, Papyrus, you’ve grown so much! I’m so proud of you!”

With a swift smack to the back of his skull, Papyrus finally began to drag Russ to the house.

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Reboot Part 1: Swapfell (working title)

(Context: Fluff's perspective, his very own introduction fic :'> so proud)

“What the fuck was that,” he growled, not caring to greet the bastard on the other end.

“I asked Alphys to install a plugin on your phone that’d get you to answer it for once,” Sans answered. He could hear the smile on his face. “It only activates after five missed calls, so really you’ve only got yourself to blame for this one.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey, saves me the trouble of having to run back home to make sure you’re not dead.”

“And what’s so important that you had to wake me up in the most assholeish way possible?”

“I needed to tell you- wait, I woke you up? Papyrus, have you been sleeping all day? It’s seven in the-!”

He hung up.

It took about a minute for the phone to ring again. He snickered, imagining his brother coming down from his tirade just to realize he’d been lecturing a ghost the entire time.

He stared at the screen.

Five calls, huh?

He answered on the fifth, on the very last ring.

“Point taken,” Sans said, resigned. He was probably pinching the bridge of his nose in that way he always did when Papyrus pissed him off. “Look, I just wanted to tell you I’m gonna be working late again, okay? Some stuff came up.”

“Wow, that’s a huge diversion from what you do every single day. Super urgent news for me to know, couldn’t possibly have just texted me that.”

“You regularly make me wonder if you’re even receiving my texts because you never answer them. The only way I even know your phone works is when I ask if you want takeout.”

“Maybe you should learn something from that.”

“I’m not going to bribe you into answering my texts, Papyrus.”

“Don’t be surprised when I don’t answer ‘em then.”

“Papyrus-” Sans started, but cut himself short. Then, he sighed. “...Look, kid, I don’t want to argue with you. I just wanna be able to know you’re alright. I’m sorry it’s annoying, but I can’t– ...I just need to know, okay?”

Papyrus didn’t respond. He clenched his jaw at his brother’s change in tone.

“If you’ve been sleeping all day, then you probably haven’t eaten,” Sans continued. “I’m pretty sure there’s still some leftover stir-fry in the fridge. You should have some. It might be a bit spicy for you, but it’s good food.”

He hummed plainly.

“...Well, that’s all I wanted to say. I gotta get back to work now, but I’ll see you when I see you, yeah?”

His jaw clenched just a bit tighter.

“Love you, kid.”

He hung up again, for real this time.

#oh holy shit what do i tag this #i might just stick with #fic update #for now #not gonna give fandom tags or anything we dont need all that #but YEAH this is what i meant when i said updates would be wayyyyy less linear lmao #every one of these takes place at a different point in the timeline #they're almost all before the blog's events tho #fluff's will be the first to actually get into the “present” time #meaning im officially cutting out the babybone arc SORRY #half of it wasn't canon anyway 😔#also damn people not having nicknames is so much easier to get away with in ask blog format this is gonna get MESSYYYYY #as of now the one with only russ & edge is closest to being done btw !!!!#ahem ok no more stalling posting now here yuo goooooo

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