#beheathen

(for cho boy ricky UwU)

dropped!

there’s  a  quiet  noise  of  aggravation  that  pulls  itself  from  his  throat,  head  hung  low  and  palms  pressing  into  his  face  with  the  foreboding  knowledge  of  what  he’ll  have  to  witness  (  again,  and  again,  how  many  times  had  it  been  this  week  already  ?  ).  pushing  aside  the  cold  coffee  he’d  been  absentmindedly  nursing,  he  tosses  an  old  magazine  onto  the  nearby  coffee  table  and  makes  a  rush  toward  the  basement  —  pausing  if  only  briefly  to  grab  a  nearby  weapon,  makeshift  in  nature  and  hardly  anything  conducive  to  harm,  let  alone  overpowering,  but  it’d  do.

flipping  the  cool  handled  frying  pan  in  his  hand  he  dashes  down  the  stairs,  foot  momentarily  catching  on  one  of  the  stairs  as  he  does  so,  stumbling  forward  (  tonight  wasn’t  his  night  ). he  catches  himself  against  the  wall  and  shakes  off  the  initial  shock  as  best  he  can,  more  focused  on  helping  his...  roommate.  there  were  no  nicer  words  to  describe  the  man,  and  dan  could  always  spend  time  thinking  up  insults  later  (  later,  when  his  life  wasn’t  at  stake.  later  when  he  laid  in  bed,  thinking  through  his  moral  decisions  and  trying  to  forget,  to  ignore  the  guilt  that  always  crept  in  ).

it  takes  two  seconds  to  locate  the  thrashing  and  the  struggle,  and  another  two  to  urge  forward  and,  with  an  immensely  tight  grip  on  the  pan’s  handle  (  so  tight  his  knuckles  were  turning  white  ),  he  whacks  the  re - animated  corpse  across  the  head  with  one  easy  swing.  naturally  it  wasn’t  enough,  never  enough,  and  it  takes  the  combined  efforts  of  him  and  the  accompanying  scientist  to  fully  lay  the  entity  to  rest.  it  winds  him  just  as  all  the  other  times  did,  and  his  chest  heaves  as  the  pan  drops  with  a  ringing  clang,  lightly  colored  flannel  stained  in  red  and  vibrant  viscera.  another  shirt  he’d  probably  have  to  burn.

[ wake ] for your muse to wake mine

He wakes up with a start, his first thought was them being attacked. Like how it had been when he lived on the streets with his little sister. Heart pounds, mind reeling about grabbing his stuff to run. But he’s not laying on a sidewalk. The voice was not Cirs. 

👕 Tug on my muse’s sleeve/shirt/skirt 👗 Fix/Straighten my muse’s clothes

He’s not used to wearing button up shirts, his mother always had him in a neat little dress for Sundays. But today was special! It’s what he liked to call ‘bring your son to work day!’ and apparently he wasn’t allowed to be in gothic casual at the hospital. He assumes it was an issue with reputation and hopefully not a jab at his personal image. 

There was a distinct difference between the sleeve he rolled and the one Herbert so quickly and effortlessly folded. He can tell by how neat the folded sleeve was that he’s been doing this for years.