#it’s not even survival mode it’s just that i’m pulled out of that haze of every day melding into the next and not caring

[wildermouse]

i have this strong feeling that everything around me is gonna fall apart and implode and wither this year but i personally thrive in chaos so i think it’ll be good for me

#i’m sensing deaths…. #plural #i’ve gone 26 years without any deaths it’s bound to happen #i’m sensing a housing crisis perhaps #but i also feel like it’s gonna be a big year for my personal growth #tbh it already has been just with my mindset alone #last time i got my shit together and got a job as a daycare teacher was when my dad almost died and was in hospital for months #it just works for me idk #i think i’ve lived so long in the mundane that nothing really feels real at all #so when something big and ‘traumatic’ happens i actually feel like life is real and happening #it’s not even survival mode it’s just that i’m pulled out of that haze of every day melding into the next and not caring #anyway #just my predictions #can’t wait to come back and update :)))

[rk1kheadcanons]

Markus and Connor are secret dating b/c Connor doesn't wanna be out to the world yet. The Jericrew (-Connor) go drinking and Markus gets *drunk* and starts rambling about his boyf after he rebuffs an advance made by a lady at the bar super sappily, but no matter how hard the others press him, they just get "oh, his eyes are the color of warm chocolate..." answers as to who this boyf is

You would never know Markus was drunk.

He didn’t stutter or slur when he spoke, he didn’t sway or trip over his feet. He didn’t giggle goofily or speak overly loud. He was perfectly composed, as much the charismatic android sober as he was when he was intoxicated.

What he did do, however, was go on long monologues like a Shakespearian stage actor.

Which would be fine, if Markus’ favorite subject to wax poetic about wasn’t his mysterious boyfriend, whom he’d sworn not to reveal the identity of until they were ready. Which would also be fine, if that mysterious boyfriend wasn’t Connor, who was often sitting right next to him (and slowly but surely bluescreening his way into that big Windows XP wallpaper in the sky) as he sang and lathered compliment after compliment, steadily giving away clues that were so blatant that it was a miracle that no one had figured them out yet.

Markus never remembered what he’d done the next day, and whenever Connor mercilessly played back his memories, his poor lover was as embarrassed as he was apologetic. Connor could hardly begrudge him (frankly he didn’t know what sane person on this planet could ever begrudge Markus, but that was just Connor’s correct opinion). What could they even do about it? Should he demand Markus consciously control himself? It wasn’t like Connor was any better at it. Give the RK800 too many AMB’s (Adios Motherboards) and he would be on top of the nearest table and scream-singing his every professionally repressed emotion, regardless if it was a karaoke bar or not. Hence why he never imbibed more than he could handle when they were around their friends. The last thing he wanted to do was sloppily propose to Markus after a long and terrible rendition of K-Ci and JoJo.

And Connor wouldn’t dream of telling Markus to measure the contents of his drink like Connor did. Not when his breaks were so rare, and getting him to relax and let loose was like pulling teeth.

It was just in the cards that their big revelation as a couple would be in a random bar at 3AM, with Markus saying something along the lines of “my boyfriend’s name starts with a C and rhymes with Donner”, and Connor had made peace with that.

“Scarlet woman!” Markus cried, at some random bar at 3AM, surrounded by their drunken comrades. Ah, would this be the night? Connor thought, on the correct side of buzzed as he watched on from the table right next to them, a heady mix of dread and amusement running through his computer soul. “Jezebel! How d a r e you solicit my happily taken hand!”

The waitress, who looked like she regretted serving their table, let alone attempting to get the number from the happily taken hand, raised her hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry,” she said peaceably and with the calm air of someone who dealt with drunks as a job choice, “just trying to shoot my shot, ya know?”

Markus nodded at her magnanimously, because he was a kind and forgiving man even as a drunken buffoon. “Fret not. I pardon you of this most heinous slight, for if you knew the one to own my heart, you would understand that no other could compare.”

“Sure thing dude,” she said goodnaturedly, packing up and replacing drinks around their tables expertly, and parting with a “have a good night Romeo.”

“But who can no other compare to? WHOMST??” asked North, throwing her torso onto the table and looking up at Markus pleadingly.

“We’ve ruled out Jerry #451, Claudia, Baris from accounting, and Jerry #36,” Simon rattled off. He was looking down at a napkin that he had scribbled the names of all of their potential suspects. “I’ve got it. It’s Baris.”

North rolled her eyes. “We already said it wasn’t Baris.”

“Ohhh. Right, right.” Simon nodded his head and continued to not cross off the names of the people they had decided against, as he had been doing all night.

“How about you describe them a little?” Josh put in, reasonable, and therefore slightly less wasted than everyone else. “Hair color? Height? Eyes? Something?”

“Nay, I must not speak thusly!” Markus declared, back of his hand over his forehead and everything. “For if I were to tread down that forbidden road, I would surely not be able to stop myself from breaking our sacred oath of secrecy!”

“Oh my goOOOOOOOd I hate this fucking oaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaath,” North threw her head back and cried to heavens, which, considering her positon, was probably going to be hell on her neck come morning. “Come on! Break your oath! Be like Thor and wield oathbreaker goddamnit!”

“You might be thinking of Stormbreaker,” Connor added, the need to try and reason with alcoholics apparently embedded in his programming.

North narrowed her eyes at him, or rather his torso, since her chin was very resolutely still resting on the table. “If you think I’m thinking right now then you are drunker than I am.”

Connor lifted his barely touched glass to her in a toast because how dare she be lucid enough to clap back so quickly. A well deserved rebuttal fucking cheers.

“Glasses!” Josh exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “Do they wear glasses? That should narrow down some people.”

“That’s right! That’ll tell us if they’re an android or not. Androids don’t wear glasses! Our eyes are like...fucking...better and shit!”

“Unless….” Simon narrowed his eyes, pausing dramatically. “....they do.”

North gasped. Josh put his hands on either side of face, muttering; “holy fucking shit he’s right.”

Markus scoffed. “Their eyes do not hide behind paltry spectacles! His beautiful orbs, so soft and caring when his gaze lands upon my person, seeing into my very soul, are the warmest chocolate brown!”

‘Ah shit here we go,’ Connor thought, wishing not for the first time that he could just down his drink and join everyone else in blissful, idiotic cavorting. The soft, melodic piano and crooning words of All My Life playing over the speaker stayed his hand. Best not take any chances

“HE!” Simon burst out, tipping over in his chair. “He say he! Them is He!”

“Are we talkin’ Hershey’s or Dove?”

“Ghirardelli you fucking plebs!”

“Oi!” North banged her hand on the table so hard it left a handprint indented in the wood. It was one amongst many however, and not all of them left by their party. Such was the price for serving android drinks at a human bar - you either shelled out for sturdier furniture or the dents and chips became a charming aspect of your décor. “Don’t get spicy with us Sir Lancelot!”

“Apologies fair maiden,” Markus responded easily. He took her hand delicately and made a sweeping bow over it. “Alas, my passions got away from me.” He dropped her hand and whirled around, coat billowing with the movement and most assuredly by accident, placing both hands to his thirium pump. “Conjuring up the magnificent images that is the love of my life oft times sends my emotions into a tizzy! His hair; cloud like in my grasp as I run my fingers threw earthen chestnut tendrils - ”

‘Hhhhhhhhhhhhn so many adjectives Markus whyyyyyyyyyy,’ Connor wheezed internally. He didn’t bother trying to keep down his blush. Markus was nowhere near done laying on the compliments and he’d be subjecting himself to an endless loop of canceling the process. Besides, he could just blame it on the alcohol. Blame it on the a a a a a alcohol - wait no. What!? WHAT. Connor looked down at his drink and saw, to his mounting horror, that the glass was emptier than it had been a few minutes ago. Goddamn his automated rest mode cycle for transforming into fidgeting whenever he was nervous! He resolutely pushed the glass out of his immediate reach.

Nines, who was quietly sitting next to him, hunched over and taking notes on his own napkin, snapped his head up to attention when the glass brushed against his arm. His younger brother was looking from Connor to Markus, eyes narrowed suspiciously as Markus carried on. Connor didn’t like that look at all. It was always a risk inviting Nines to their little outings, the only thing Connor could bank on was Nines passing out - as his dear little bro was a notorious light weight - before his deductive skills could pierce through his drunken haze. Apparently Nines had chosen tonight of all nights, where Markus had never been more obvious about their relationship, to bloody pace himself.

If he could, Connor would be sweating bullets.

“ - a wit SO SHARP!!” Markus declared, foot now planted on his chair and shaking his fist to the ceiling as if it had insulted one of Carl’s paintings, “that neither an UNDEAD HOARD nor a POLITICIAN’S EGO could survive it’s precision strike!!”

“Brown hair, brown eyes, banger body, smarty pants, good at analyzing shit, likes animals” North listed off, holding a hand up and ticking a finger down. “Well that rules out all the Jerrys; they’re all redheads and they’re pretty aggressive about it - except for Jerry #86. Is your man-squeeze Jerry #86?”

“No no no last I heard Jerry #86 is dating Hatsume Miku’s bodyguard; Android Lucy Lawless.” said Simon.

“Tch. Lucky,” pouted North.

“Oh wow, she really kept that name huh?” Josh said, voice faint with wonder and disbelief. “That’s such a mouthful.”

“And who are you to question a Queen!?” snapped North.

“Huzzah and many blessings to the fortuitous couple!” Markus cheered, toasting a stein of frothy blue intoxication that looked as cartoonish as it did poisonous to the sky, knocking it back in several impressive gulps and slamming it back on the table. “BUT NEITHER OF THEM CAN COMPARE TO THE BEAUTY AND GRACE THAT IS MY LOVE!!” he boomed, louder and more British by the second. “WHO’S CURIOSITY AND INTELLECT A CHERISHED BOON TO I, BUT A WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION TO HIS ENEMIES - !”

North slapped her hand on the table several times, the proverbial light bulb lighting up in her eyes - oh. No not proverbial. There was currently little lightbulb emojis pictured in her pupils. Yet another drunken download added to the bill. Connor was glad he’d drawn the long straw on ‘irresponsible buying duty’ tonight. No doubt there would be a lot of strange receipts to sort through in the morning. “Oh! I know I know! It’s Josh!”

So startled by this declaration/accusation, Josh jumped in his seat. “What!?”

“Brown hair, brown eyes, hot, obnoxious, smart - everything FITS!”

“...he didn’t say obnoxious,” Josh muttered, then physically shook sanity back into himself. “It can’t be me. I think I’d know if I was dating Markus!”

Simon leaned in closer towards Josh, arm on the table, determination in his mien. “But what if…” Without breaking eye contact with his friend, he smoothly cracked open his Thirium berry blast bahama mama banana punch wine cooler, and proceeded to pour it just two centimeters off from his glass, all over the table. “You don’t know.”

Josh was shook in the face of this evidence. North narrowed her eyes so hard that they were just closed at this point. “Highly suspicious.”

“No. Nooooo. No? No! Of course I’m not. Right Markus?”

Markus steepled his fingers together and cackled in a way that most people would find concerning, but Connor just found it adorable. He would saving that in his memory banks. “I’ll never tell~,” he sing songed.

“H i g h l y s u s p i c i o u s.”

“I know who it is,” Nines suddenly said, calm but with such confidence that he was easily heard amidst the ruckus. He had his elbows planted on the table, chin resting upon his entwined fingers. Steele grey eyes swept over the now quiet group, everyone waiting with baited breath.

“Grant us your wisdom ‘o soothsayer,” Markus whispered, eyes wide with anticipation and literally perched on the edge of his seat. Connor seriously measured the pros and cons of just throwing his portion of the tab on the table and yeeting himself out of the window.

“It’s Sixty.”

Immediately the room erupted into scoffs and hisses of disbelief. North gave him a thumbs down and cupped her hand to her mouth, letting a long, “Booooo!”

“Why are you booing me I’m right!”

“BoooOOooOOOOOoooooo!” Markus, Josh and Simon joined in.

Connor blinked, and suddenly felt all of his concerns about Nines’ being the lynch pin in solving this mystery evaporate. If Markus transformed into a C grade Shakespeare impersonator when drunk, and Connor subconsciously wanted to be recruited by America’s Got Talent, then Nines became a consummate dumbass.

“That’s it!” North exploded. “Ten dollars says it’s Jerry #92! I caught him in a wig once!” She stood up, her chair sliding back from the force, and slammed a note on the table.

Simon also stood up with equal intensity. “Twenty says it’s Josh!” He reached into his pocket and slammed its contents onto the table. When he removed his hand six lego pieces, a My Little Pony leg, and two actual diamonds were revealed. Connor hoped dearly that the bartender cut Simon off soon.

“It’s not me!” Josh said exasperated. He paused, then pointedly pulled out some money and threw it in the pot as well. “I put forty on Brenden.”

“Bull! Shit!” North declared. “Fitness guru Brenden!? No way!”

“He fits the criteria.”

“I doubt ‘How To Tell If An Android Has Welded on Parts from China vs Russia in their Selfies’ videos on his YouTube channel is the kind analysis Markus was talking about.”

“You don’t know that! He didn’t specify...”

As the two continued to argue, with Simon chiming in with some non sequitur, and Nines tutting about these ‘ignorant fools and their blindness to the evidence presented’, Connor looked over to Markus. He was quiet. He had his elbow perched precariously on the edge of the table, his cheek resting on his fist, a small hat (that was not there literally two minutes ago) was on his head, folded from one of the bar napkins.

And he was looking at Connor as if he hung the moon and stars.

‘How could the world not already know,’ Connor thought, soft and warm inside, happy merely to be in his line of sight, ‘When he looks at me like that?’

Connor picked up his glass and lifted it. “One hundred dollars on Sixty.”

Chaos erupted. Nines threw his arms up and hooted like he’d won the super bowl. Josh tried to explain to him how that was mathematically impossible. North shook her head and warned him that he would live on the streets with an answer like that. Simon pulled out a Yu-Gi-Oh! Card and said he would give him this Charizard if he agreed with him that Josh was Markus’ secret boyfriend. Connor withheld himself from trying to convince drunk people that this was not how betting worked.

Maybe Connor shouldn’t worry so much about their relationship being discovered after all. At this rate, no one would know about he and Markus being together until the wedding invites.

#Detroit Become Human #Markus #Connor #Markus x Connor #RK1K #emiliaf25🌻 #emiliaf25 ask reply #North #Simon #Josh #RK900 #Markus: I bet 200 on Connor! #Simon: Pssh no way #Josh: Markus please don't waste you're money on throw away bets #North: Why don't you just bet on John Cena while you're at it #Nines: If Markus wants to give away money then let him #Connor: >:C #Connor: why do I hang out with you people...

[sassyhobbits]

16. "I can't believe you're making snow angels at a time like this!"

and here we have the ONS christmas special!! my last xmas fic this season and i hope you all enjoy! have a great holidays everyone!! <3

~~~

Aelin Galathynius loved Yulemas.

She loved the smells, the sights, the foods. She relished in spending time with her closest family and friends, giving them gifts she knew would make their faces light up. She loved laying by the fire and reminiscing.

This was Aelin's third Yulemas with Rowan. She fell more in love with her husband everyday, and always enjoyed spending the holiday with him. The only thing that she could have wished for this year was that their daughter had decided to join them.

Aelin was heavily pregnant. Their daughter was about a week late and Aelin wanted her out, out, out already. It wasn’t only that her feet were always swollen or her back ached constantly, but also that Rowan had become terribly overbearing. There wasn't a single thing Aelin tried to do that her husband didn't attempt to do for her before she could. At the beginning of her pregnancy, she enjoyed it. She liked when Rowan would grab the remote or get out of bed to fetch her slippers if she asked. But by now, it was beginning to lose its charm.

It was Yulemas eve. The palace was filled with their friends and family. They had even invited some of Rowan’s cousins to Orynth. Arlene and Isolde were excited to enjoy their first northern Yulemas. 

They had all spent a few hours lounging in the parlor, indulging in wine and other spiced holiday drinks. Aelin sipped on a hot chocolate, cuddled into Rowan’s side, his hand a steady weight on her belly. It had all been wonderful, but after a while Aelin began to feel a bit warm with the fire and the bodies stuffing the cozy parlor

"Hey, Ro?" she whispered to her husband.

"What is it, Fireheart?"

"Will you take a walk with me?"

He smiled and nodded. "I'd love to."

He helped her off the couch, grabbing her boots and her coat and helping her slip them on. No one noticed when they ducked out of the parlor, walking down the halls towards the entrance to the gardens. 

They had become a wintry wonderland in the recent days, covered in a fresh blanket of soft snow. The night was silent, the sky clear and beautiful. Aelin held Rowan’s arm tightly as they meandered slowly over the snowy path. 

Suddenly, Aelin hissed in discomfort, placing a hand over her huge stomach as their baby girl fussed.

“Is everything alright?” Rowan asked, brows knitted in concern.

“Fine,” Aelin assured him, not wanting him to go full mother hen mode. “She’s just making herself comfortable, apparently.” 

Her husband sighed heavily. “It seems she likes it in there.”

“Well, it’s cold as hell out here so I don’t blame her.”

Rowan released a bark of laughter. “I was hoping she’d be with us by now.”

“Me too.” Aelin pouted down at her belly. “I had some adorable little Yulemas outfits for her.”

“I know you did, love.”

They continued their trek through the gardens, admiring the lights that had been strung up and other holiday decorations. Aelin always enjoyed decorating the palace. It was one of her favorite parts of the season. 

The princess was just about to suggest they go back inside when she felt something strange. A sensation she had never endured before; a little pop followed by something decidedly wet between her legs. Aelin didn't have to be a rocket scientist to realize what, exactly, that feeling was.

"Rowan?" she rasped, tightening her grip on her husband's arm.

"Hm?"

"My water just broke."

"Your water just what-?!"

Rowan’s head whipped towards her, eyes wide in shock. In his bewilderment, her normally graceful husband wasn't watching where he was going, stepping on a slick piece of eyes. His feet flew out from under him, tumbling back into a fresh bank of snow.

Despite herself, Aelin released a laugh. Rowan leaned his head upwards, flakes scattered in his slicer hair, arms spread on either side of him like a star.

“I can’t believe you’re making snow angels at a time like this!” the princess cried playfully. “We’re having a baby!”

Rowan blinked once, a slow smile spreading on his lips. “We’re having a baby,” he repeated in a whisper. “We’re having our baby!”

Aelin could only grin.

…

It didn’t take long to head back inside and gather the things they needed to make the trip to the hospital. Aelin had thought Rowan was being ridiculous earlier, but it was nothing compared to his actions now. He was everywhere at once, not allowing her to pick up anything or even open a door for herself. Yet, Aelin was too nervous to even really scold him about it. 

She and Rowan were already getting into a car in the garage by the time they let their other friends and family know what was happening. Before she knew it, they were on the way to the hospital.

Aelin knew that she likely still had a fair share of time before things would get serious, but her mother had faced many complications when giving birth to her. Aelin’s entire family had agreed to play it safe. 

There was a private, secure suite waiting for Aelin by the time they pulled up to the hospital. She was only just starting to feel the first of her contractions when she slipped into the shapeless hospital gown. 

Aelin spent a few hours speaking with nurses and doctors, getting poked and prodded and questioned. She spoke with her friends and family over the phone, convinced Rowan to read to her even though her husband seemed much more nervous than she did. 

As the night wore on, Aelin’s contractions grew stronger and more frequent. A little after one in the morning, the doctor came in and informed her that it was time to start pushing. It was then that Aelin felt those first twinges of fear. 

“Rowan?” Aelin squeaked, looking to her husband who was seated beside her.

He reached out, brushing a strand of her hair from her sweaty forehead. “What is it, Fireheart?”

“I’m scared.”

His lips tightened a fraction of an inch, grabbing her hand and giving it a firm squeeze. She could see in his eyes that he was frightened too, but he would be strong. Strong for both of them, and the little girl they were waiting to meet. He leaned close and kissed her flushed forehead. 

“I’ll be here every step of the way, Aelin. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

…

The birthing process wasn’t easy, though no one was expecting it to be. Aelin felt as though she was being torn in two, her throat raw from screaming in pain. Even through the haze of the agony, she could tell that Rowan was beyond stressed and seeing her like this was likely shaving years off his life. It was a good thing his hair was already silver, because this experience probably would have turned his hair gray anyway. 

Still, he was nothing but supportive: whispering words of encouragement, letting her grip his hand as tightly as she needed, dabbing her sweaty forehead with a cool cloth. 

It was the wee hours of Yulemas morning, the sky turning a buttery yellow as the sun rose above the jagged peaks of the Staghorns. Aelin was beyond exhausted. She had been pushing and screaming for hours. All she wanted to do was sleep.

A ragged cry tore from her throat before slumping back on to her pile of pillows, tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“I’m so tired,” she sobbed, voice hoarse and crackling. “Ro, I’m so tired.”

“I know you are, love. You’re doing so good. You’re almost there.”

“I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Yes you can, Aelin.” Rowan squeezed her hand tightly. “You’re the strongest person I know. Just a little bit longer. I know you can do it.”

“He’s right, princess,” the doctor said from his position between her legs. “Your daughter’s nearly here. Just one more big push. Can you do that for me?”

Aelin clenched her jaw and nodded. She had survived much worse than this. She could do anything. The princess sucked down one last deep, bracing breath, preparing herself before giving a mighty push.

Aelin wailed as she put everything she had in her into this last push, sure she must have been breaking the bones in Rowan’s hand with how hard she was gripping it. 

And, where one cry ended, another began.

A shrill shriek that did not come from Aelin filled the air just as her own voice failed her. Her strength left her body, collapsing against the pillows just as she saw the doctor hand a screaming, bloody, wiggling thing to the nurse.

Her daughter. That was her daughter. 

Aelin forced herself to sit up straighter as the nurses carried a bundle of pink blankets towards her before carefully placing it into her arms.

The tears wouldn’t stop flowing as Aelin held her daughter in her arms for the first time. Her face was red, and her little face was pinched up as she cried, but she was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. 

“Hi,” Aelin rasped, giving another tiny sob. “Hello. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Rowan was a warm presence at her side, looking down at his daughter in wonder. “She’s beautiful. She’s perfect.”

“I’m so in love already it doesn’t feel possible.”

The doctor smiled at the little family before them. “Have you picked out a name for the little princess yet?”

Aelin nodded, tracing the shape of her daughter’s nose. “Eliora. Her name is Eliora.”

The doctors and nurses took a few steps back, giving them a bit of privacy as they grew acquainted with one another. 

“Happy Yulemas, Eliora,” Rowan whispered to the newborn. 

“It is Yulemas, isn’t it?” Aelin asked. She had lost track of time during the birthing process. “It looks like we’re gonna have to wait to do presents.”

“No offence, Fireheart, but I don’t think you can out do yourself now.” He ran his fingers over Eliora’s silvery-blonde hair. “This is the best Yulemas gift I’ve ever could have asked for. Thank you. I love you. I love you both so much.”

Aelin looked up, beaming and kissing Rowan quickly, scooting over so he could sit beside her on the hospital bed. He perched himself on the corner, tucking Aelin under his arm and holding both her and their daughter close.

Now Aelin Galathynius had another reason to love Yulemas.

#ONE NIGHT STANDARDS #rowaelin #my writing

[moxfirefly]

Video calls and confessions

Part 2

Rated Explicit (18+)

Got around to that part teo for this one shot.

Hellboy/Cam!Girl

____________________

The world going to shit wasn’t exactly how’d you planned out your Friday afternoon. This morning you had woken up with enthusiasm and a desire to treat yourself.

You’d gone out to the city, had your nails done, grabbed an obscenely priced coffee and on your way had stumbled on a museum.

A little culture never hurt nobody.

For Christ sake it was a free entry day too.

So why then, as you admired priceless art and sculptures had literal hell descended upon the evening?

Creatures. Actual monsters. The screams of the public deafening.

That had happened about half an hour ago. In your haste you had thanked you fight or flight mode to quick into flight. The shaking in your body had cause you to run into one of the exhibit rooms most cluttered with random ‘junk’ whatever this art installation had gone for it was surely not for somebody to duck behind for safety.

You checked your phone. The news was reporting the attack of the art museum. Authorities had been sent as well as the B.P.R.D...

That made you pause and clutch your phone.

If the bureau was on its way then that meant Hellboy was too.

The very notion of possibly seeing him in the flesh made your heart skip a few beats. The two of you had been communicating on and off for a while now since the private shows had started. You knew mixing work and pleasure wasn’t smart but fuck, you had it bad for this guy.

There was a sense of relief washing over you. He’d be here, he’d take care of this mess. Maybe you’d finally see him and not through a computer screen. You knew things had escalated with him although neither of you had really properly addressed it.

“Please whatever is up there, if I survive this I’m fucking telling him I’m in love with him” You whispered to yourself. This possibly couldn’t be your last day on earth.

Something screeching and something akin to a human scream startled you. You hugged your knees closer and tried not to breath loudly. Gunshots and more screams could be heard.

Then something came crashing into the installation where you were hiding. Your scream was imposible to hold in. The creature was screeching so loudly, a sound that left your ears ringing.

Adrenaline made you run out as fast as you humanly could. You heard the great strides it took to catch up to you. This was it wasn’t it? You were gonna die?

Your legs kept pushing you forward even as your muscles burned with pain. Your eyes hurt from crying and your throat felt like it was sandpaper. Something like a claw reaching for your hair made you close your eyes. There was no way you wanted to see how this ended for you.

Two shots.

Loud and so very clear, the sound coming out of left field made you trip and fall. The screening fortunately had stopped.

“Miss?! You’re safe! Hey! You gotta get out of here now!” That voice you knew all to well. You looked up and saw red and a stone hand.

“R-red...” Your voice was small, a sob catching in your throat.

“Y/N!?” He was shocked, eyes wide as he knelt in front of you.

You weren’t sure how your body moved or if he moved you but somehow you’d ended up with your arms around him sobbing into his neck. Hellboy held you tightly, whispering that you were safe, an array of cusses slipped out as he breathed heavily.

The knowledge that you were here, if he’d been a millisecond too late, all crashed down on him as he picked you up and carried you to safety.

You could’ve died, was all that ran through his head.

You’re alive, was all that ran through yours.

_______________

One helicopter ride, a medical exam and a shower later you found yourself at the home base of the B.P.R.D. A nice young woman by the name of Alice had loaned you some clothes and had taken you to Hellboy’s room to wait. A debriefing was happening and all you could do was sit tight.

You resolved to canceling all your cam shows for the week stating you had fallen terribly ill. There was no way you could work, your hands were still shaking as you typed out the post and notified your one on one shows. It felt like hours as you sat on the couch, you had looked around at his room, seeing and array of personal items that made up his personality.

Such a big part of you often dreamt about this but your nerves had you glued to your spot.

The door opened and Hellboy came barreling in like a tornado. You flinched and bit too hard on your already chewed off nail, so much for that manicure.

“I’m so sorry, I wanted to leave that stupid meeting but it’s fucking mandatory because Daimio thinks it’s necessary, asshole that guy I tell ya-“ He took in your state, the still slight tremble in your hands, the few scrapes here and there. You looked small and scared and it absolutely destroyed him.

In his silence he made his way towards the coffee table and sat in front of you. “You know I often fantasized what it be like to see you in the flesh, this wasn’t how it usually went I promise” He smiled and for the first time in this piss filled day, so did you.

“How would it go?” You asked softly.

“Some mood light, a little wine maybe some music” The two of you chuckled. Your chuckles quickly dissolved in you trying to hold back your tears.

You were almost killed tonight, the shock would take some time to subside. “Hey hey kid, it’s ok, I’ve got you. Ain’t nothing gonna happen to you on my watch” Hellboy’s flesh hand rested on your knees.

You leaned forward and rested your forehead on his shoulder. “...When I read you guys were sent out, I really got excited that I’d finally see you” You felt his flesh hand stroke your hair.

“I’m in love with you” You blurted out, his hand going to still. “I said, if I’m making it out of this alive I’m telling him, so I’m telling you...” You looked up at him, e/c meeting his golden ones.

“I-Im not dancing around this no more, I’m tired of pretending that what’s been going on isn’t just some work thing that I do, fuck, I love you I really do and I think you do too” Your mouth want dry again, the scratchy sensation making you swallow.

Hellboy searched out your eyes, something in his head was going a mile a minute. Was he searching for a lie? Something disingenuous?

That all died when he lunged forward and kissed you.

A kiss that truly and utterly left no worry.

You were kissing Hellboy. You were gripping Hellboy by the scruff of his shirt. The way his lips molded against yours, the abnormal warmth to them, the softness to them, the roughness of his scruff.

Pulling back for air felt obligated but he’d insisted by pressing the stumps of his horns against your forehead. “Wow...that’s...so much better than I could’ve imagined” He was star struck in a way and it honest to god made you laugh.

The days events took a back seat for now you wanted to take in the being before you. You scanned everything you normally did while on cam with him. Your hands explored his face, running across scars and hair.

Then you remembered what lay to his right and your heart raced.

You gripped his stone hand, fascinated by the texture of stone, how he held your hand with so much regard to his strength. The patterns, the markings everything has you entranced.

“Extraordinary” Was all you could muster as you rubbed on what would be the inside f his wrist. “I’m sorry, is this weirding you out?” You looked at Hellboy only to find him grinning. “Having a beautiful girl touch me? Yes it’s completely weirding me out” He mocked and you couldn’t help but playfully shove him.

“God I need a beer, can we...?” He was leaning over toward the mini fridge next to the couch and pulling said drinks out. “Read my mind, beautiful” He offered one towards you.

This morning you were going about a normal routine, and now after a near death experience you were in the room of a man you had been falling in love with for months. The twist and turns of life.

Around round 3 you’d excused yourself to use the bathroom. As you washed your hands and saw your normal pristine face a little worn down from the stressful events you frowned.

But there you stood in Hellboy’s bathroom. Surrounded by things all him. The tips of your fingers ran through a brush of his. This was a reality right now.

You stepped out and caught him shrugging off his coat. Busying your thumbnail again at your teeth you watched his now visible arms flex with the movements.

“All good?” He smiled leaning against the dresser.

There was a pregnant pause in which the two of you merely just ogled one another from across the bed.

You moved first.

You walked over the bed and stood on it, you reached out a hand that he took without hesitation and with the extra height from the bed you met in a heated kiss face to face. You wrapped your arms around his neck, you felt his around your hips.

In a wordless haste you yanked at his black T-shirt and busied yourself with taking off yours. He watched mesmerized, as always, the revealing of your skin.

The image before you though, god you wanted to scream.

Hellboy undoing his belt and swiftly yanking the whole thing out of the belt loops without breaking eye contact. Off were your pants, and on was him as he took you down on the bed.

It was a haze, breathless kisses and chants of desire. He one handed the button of your jeans and his own. The brief separation to take the offending items off had the two of you giggling almost. In record time he was back on you and you welcomed it with a ferocity to your kisses. Tongue slipping into his mouth, you swallowed a groan of his that vibrated all the way to your cunt.

He was here, you were here. Physically.

You grinned as he trailed kisses over both your covered breast. “Take-fuck-take it off please, now right now” You felt the air leave your lungs when he simply broke the bra in half and met his reward, two beautifully round breasts he had craved more than any meal. Hellboy pressed his face between them and inhaled before leaving a series of bites and marks. Each time he bit down your raised your hips in search of friction.

The heaviness in the air, the warmth of him lapping and sucking at your breast. The heated tongue wrapping around a nipple. Hellboy devoured you, and if your breast had him like this...

“Baby please, wanna touch you too” Your hands ran down his back, sharp nails leaving a path. Hellboy shuddered as he left a nipple with a loud pop. “Go on, I’m all yours” That very comment sent a gush of heat and you bit your lip to hold a moan in.

You nudged him to lay on his back and you climbed on top of him. Hands running over your body, the feeling of that stone hand gently cupping your rear was enough to make you grind down on him with purpose.

“I promised you something every time we spoke, you remember what that was?” You rubbed yourself on him as you began to trail down his body. Hellboy’s eyes were fogged with lust. “Oh, you remember” You kissed his stomach, nails scratching his sides before hooking into the waistband of his underwear.

He was going to have a stroke.

Hellboy watched you slide his underwear down. Eyes hungry and mouth engulfing his cock. He bucked up without meaning to but you caught most of the onslaught by closing up your throat. A minor choke and you were back on track.

Fuck he was big and thick, you did your best swallowing as much as possible before settling the rest with your hand to jerk. The gut punched groan that left him egging you on. He saw your head bob, the way your lips stretched around his length, the blissed out look as you sucked earnestly. “Shit shit, you look beautiful” Hellboy reached a left hand across your cheek.

Letting him go with a breathy inhale, spit on your chin you jerked him lazily.

He was putting this look away for a rainy day. You had no right looking so utterly debauched and perfect.

“C’mere and kiss me, beautiful” Hellboy whispered softly and you obeyed crawling on him to meet him in a sensual slow lip lock.

Underwear gone, or more so also ripped apart. You were now on top of him about to guide his cock into your drenched hole. The initial burn was actually delicious, that breach between pain and pleasure sending a delightful shock through your body. Once fully seated on him you reveled in stretch and burn. “God this is, fuck I-“ You moaned as you tested with a sway of your hips, he was hitting your spot perfectly. You rested your hands on his chest and he gripped your waist.

Hellboy was gone, the sight of you riding him, lost in your pleasure caused by him nevertheless. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever see. Lost to it all you fell forwards, burying your face in his neck. Your impending release had you stuttering your hips. “I got you baby, I got you” He muttered against your ear. You moaned as he held you, hips pistoning upwards to drive that orgasm out of you.

It crashed something fierce, running all over your body and coming out as a scream against his neck. You felt limp as a noodle but held onto him as he fucked his way through yours. When he came he yanked another orgasm out of you along with his.

The two of you laid there, a mess of limbs clutching at each other. Hearts racing, lungs trying to catch up.

Exhaustion won. You fell a sleep on Hellboy, still inside of you, his mouth against your temple.

There was no turning back now.

#hellboy #hellboy x fem!reader #hellboy x reader insert #hellboy 2019 #hellboy x reader #female reader insert #reader insert #sequel fic #n*fw

[libermachinae]

Fault Lines Under the Living Room

Part IV: Touch - Chapter 12: Stumble and Lost His Grip

Also available on AO3! Summary: Knocking on the front door didn’t work, so time to try the back. Word Count: 3,437

---

Scorch might have been as pleasant as the rust ruined dregs at the bottom of an oil can, but damn if Spur wouldn’t mind feeling that arrogant crackle of a laugh at the other end of his spark. A few jabs about how he’d teamed up with Autobots just like Grrder always warned he would with too-easy remark about how he got distracted by a smooth tread. Anything but the emptiness of stasis lock chilling him from the inside out. Add in the fact that they were racing narrowly by a straight plummet to a grisly death and this could easily rank among the top five worst days of his life.

He clung tighter to Drift’s roof, optics offline. If this was the end, he didn’t want to see it coming.

“Watch it,” Drift warned. Spur ignored him.

He’d had an alt-mode once, so long ago it was hard to remember now. He and Scorch had worked in construction setting up new plumbing infrastructure and had hated it. Even though he couldn’t remember what form he’d taken to do the job, he could still smell the insides of those tunnels and feel that wet heat weighing down on him. When the representative for Triple M had shown up on site, it hadn’t mattered that the foreman dragged him off before he could introduce himself. Spur and Scorch had been among the handful to roll up to the ramshackle unformatting clinic.

He justified the decision with a simple fact: everyone did stupid slag when they were young. His dumb idea also meant they weren’t in Ultrix when the sinkhole opened under the Ioreian neighborhood, and that they were among the first to know when Triple M leadership decided the Decepticons had the right idea. Or at least were on a better track than the Senate. Spur hadn’t paid much attention to the politics, that was more Scorch’s thing. Spur was more interested in survival, a simple goal that had become more complex the moment Drift had realized he didn’t have any wings or wheels of his own. That was how he found himself now with his fingers tight around the edges of Drift’s roof, squished flat with the wind tearing at his back plating, wishing for the untold time that he was about to wake up in his closet-sized hab back on the lunar base.

“Acknowledged,” Drift said. 

“What’s happening?” They hadn’t offered to patch Spur into their comm channel, and he hadn’t asked.

“Rodimus says we’ve got incoming.”

“Pitslag,” Spur muttered. He was so tired of getting shot at and beaten up and chased—

“Just keep your optics open.”

Which sounded like an awful idea, except Drift was very much in control of the momentum of Spur’s poorly armored body. He brought his optics online slowly, peering through a staticky haze, but nothing could disguise the depth of the canyon’s shadow, nor the sheer drop, which Drift’s tire edged along like a battlefield medic’s torch across a wound.

Against the ludicrously powerful engine underneath him, Spur failed to catch the moment the echoes started up from behind them, only realizing he was hearing something when Drift briefly slowed for a tight turn. The sounds overlapped, feeding into each other, but when he listened close he picked up a pattern: the ripple of a spring releasing, followed by the harsh thunk of a metal body hitting stone. He twisted, trying to catch a glimpse, but the darkness of the canyon hid its secrets well.

“On their way,” he said.

“I know.” Drift pulled a tight corner faster than he should have and started to tilt toward the edge; Spur felt his spark seize and threw his weight in the opposite direction.

“Gonna fraggin’ kill us!” he snarled.

“If not me, then it’ll be them. You want to choose which one?” Drift asked.

Another day, Spur might have considered the Decepticons. With the ground under his pedes and a blaster in his grip, he could handle himself. He might not have been able to fight so well, but he could make a stand, which was often all his superiors had asked of him. Something had happened to Scorch, though, and since Spur wasn’t about to reveal his biggest weakness to a bunch of pseudo-Autobots (even  one had saved his life), he was stuck with them until he could find somewhere to slip away.

The first blaster bolt that pinged off the wall behind him had him wondering if there were any right choices in this mess.

“Slag!” Drift swore as the second shot clipped his side mirror. “They’re on us!”

Spur twisted again. He mistook them for Insecticons at first, with their twisted bodies and spring-loaded legs, but as one dug its thick claws into a wall with a heavy thunk, it revealed a small pilot crouched within.

Bang!

A pilot with a decent aim.

“Scrap, scrap!” he swore, his voice tilting up as he felt Drift slow further. “No, what are you doing? Speed up! They’re shooting at us!”

“Get off.” Drift didn’t wait and transformed as he pulled to a stop, dumping Spur onto the ground. Both took evasive actions as the plasma bolts rained down, Spur wedging himself behind a boulder while Drift took up the annoying hoppy thing he’d done to evade them back on Vitrious.

“Rodimus!” Drift barked. “I know, but we’re getting shot right now!”

Spur wanted to know why that was only an unimportant detail when he was the one pointing it out, but his attention was quickly grabbed by another sound pushing into their canyon, drowning out even the blasterfire: an interstellar speeder descending directly on top of their pursuers.

The Decepticons, startled by this new development, broke formation. One released his hold on the wall and dropped out of sight, apparently uninterested in dealing with Drift’s reinforcements. The others regrouped, one continuing his assault on Drift and Spur while the second twisted in his perch on the wall, apparently with the intention to latch onto the ship itself.

“Down!” Drift shouted.

Instead, the speeder tilter up and to the side, slamming into the assailant before he’d engaged his claws. He went tumbling end over end after his teammate, which would have felt more like a win if Spur wasn’t still ducking from blasterfire that rained shrapnel down on his helm.

“Will you do something?!” he demanded.

“I’m—trying!” Drift’s words were labored, popping between bursts of gunfire. Spur questioned, not for the first time, what he had done to earn luck so bad his captor was a swordsmech. “Rodimus, watch—”

Spur was still ducking, so he didn’t see exactly what happened, but there was a bang accompanied by the shriek of tearing metal. The engine swung closer before it dipped away again.

“No!”

And then the sounds of the battle fading, falling. Spur stayed frozen, hands clutching his helm, waiting for an explosion or another burst of gunfire that never came. After several minutes, he brought his optics online and peeked over his shoulder.

Gone. The lot of them all disappeared.

On legs that were still trembling from the force of the gunshots, Spur stood and stepped out from his cover. His tiptoed to the edge of the canyon but stopped before he was close enough to look down. He hadn’t heard a crash yet, which implied they were still falling; that was a long, long way down.

He hesitated, listened close. He took two steps back and turned aside, walking, at a much more reasonable pace, in the direction he’d already been headed. It was very quiet, down inside this lonely canyon on this almost empty hunk of rock. He tugged again on the thread tied to his spark, hoping that this would be the one that revealed he wasn’t alone anymore.

~*~

Drift had been accused in the past of not thinking before he leapt. It would have looked that way, had anyone been watching as he sailed through the air folded into the jet stream of the plummeting shuttle. The assumption overlooked the fact that he had considered all of this well in advance, and he had decided, regardless of their easily broken promises, he would do everything in his power to get his friends out unharmed.

Despite the damage, the shuttle’s engines were still functioning, and it was fighting to stay airborne, bucking against its unwanted passenger. Drift almost shot past but managed to grab a service handle, wincing as the shuttle’s violent movements wrenched his delicate repairs.

“Rodimus!” he shouted, not sure comms would cover up the roar of the air and the shuttle’s engines. “Calm down! I’m taking care of this!”

“Slag, Drift, hurry!”

Drift startled. He wasn’t used to hearing Rodimus like that. As if sensing his confusion, Ratchet chimed in.

“That thing’s nearly punctured through the shuttle’s inner walls,” he said. “Rodimus is scared the rider’s going to find his way inside.”

Which was, of course, the one thing they could not allow to happen and the entire reason Drift had told them not to come. It was only concern for Rodimus’ safety that got him to withhold his anger for later, focusing on what he could do instead of what he wished he’d done. The shuttle stopped its thrashing, which gave Drift an opportunity to pull himself against its side and start climbing the short ladder. He was almost to the top when he ducked, just avoiding a blaster shot between the optics.

“Frag off!” he yelled.

No response from the canyon crawler pilot. Drift didn’t understand why he hadn’t disengaged yet and wondered if it was a mechanical failure. The rigs weren’t designed to bore into spacecraft, and it was possible he had accidentally fused it to the shuttle.

“Rodimus, what’s he doing?” Drift asked.

“I don’t know; I can’t see! Half your cameras are busted!”

Drift switched to his other channel.

“Calm him down,” he demanded.

“I’m trying,” Ratchet said. “The kid’s stressed.”

Drift bristled.

“He’s not a kid,” he snapped, then cut the comm and launched himself over the shuttle.

The tick wasn’t expecting another attempt so soon or so suddenly. His shot landed somewhere behind Drift, the gun ripped from his hand before he’d finished releasing the trigger. He cowered within his metal exoskeleton, the entire contraption shivering as it tried to pry itself from the inner workings of the shuttle.

Drift didn’t stop to think about it. He wrapped his hands under the upper jaw of the crawler and wrenched it open, griding its fangs back through the punctures it had made. Freed of his captive, the small Decepticon immediately tried to reengage, snapping the crawler’s trap shut and almost crushing Drift’s fingers in the process. Drift tried to hold on, but in his effort to save his hand, he accidentally aimed the crawler’s spring legs at himself. They kicked into his abdomen, causing him to stumble and lose his grip entirely.

“No!”

The metal cage went flying, sucked into the air current before tumbling down into the abyss, Drift watching it go from his place atop the shuttle.

He hesitated a nanoklik. Then it was too late to do anything. Drift stared at the place the bot had vanished and turned on his comms, but he didn’t know what to say.

“Drift?” Rodimus said. “I kinda saw what happened. You alright?”

It was a long drop, and the shuttle wasn’t moving slowly. If the crawler came with an eject function, the bot might get lucky and land on something pliable, but more likely he was riding it all the way down. Drift tried to muster up an answer to Rodimus’ question, but nothing came to mind. The exhaustion that dogged his frame came back in full force, but that was so normal he doubted it was worth mentioning.

“Are you injured?” Rodimus pressed.

“No,” Drift said honestly. He sunk down, reattaching himself to the side of the speeder. “I—I don’t know what I’m doing.” He had spent months practicing the most rigid self-control of his life, keeping slavers and imperialists and megalomaniacs alive long enough to deliver them to justice. He’d made every thrust with precision, every grapple a little less than his full strength, and now that it appeared his efforts were at an end, he felt nothing. He’d thought that his first kill—because it had always been inevitable that he would go back to his old ways eventually—would provoke guilt or grief. But he didn’t feel anything.

“You’re going to get Grit,” Rodimus said. “You’re protecting Vitrious.”

Allegedly. If he didn’t care about this, had he ever cared about Vitrious? Was all that scrap about slavers and the betrayal of the Cause just an excuse for him to indulge the anger he had kept hidden under a red badge?

“Why are you here, Rodimus?” he asked. “Forget Ratchet and the Enigma. Why did you agree to come?” He wasn’t sure that answer would matter any more than the rest, but he was tired of being in his own head. He needed something else.

“To bring you back to the Lost Light,” Rodimus said.

“But why?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Rodimus.” If there was a growl in his voice, it was because he couldn’t be bothered to hold it back anymore.

“W—what do you want from me?” Rodimus asked. Despite the stress in his voice, the shuttle kept on a smooth course. “Do you want me to say that it’s for some selfish reason, that I was doing it for myself and my personal glory again? I’ve gotten a lot of practice with—I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

“I want you to be honest with me,” Drift said. “If we’re going to risk our lives for each other, I need to know why.” Everything had a price. He’d learned that years ago, and that the only way to get anywhere in the world was to set your own as high as you could. This was probably the most he could ask of Rodimus, and he still didn’t know if it would be enough. And yet for a moment, it didn’t seem like Rodimus would be able to pay. The silence stretched out, waiting, until Drift very nearly told Rodimus to carry them back up to the ledge so he could drive himself the rest of the way.

“I thought about being a hero,” Rodimus said. His voice was quiet. “I had dreams about bringing you back to the Lost Light and telling you everyone had forgiven you and giving you everything you deserved afterward. I would give you your life back, with interest. Anything you wanted. But it wouldn’t be like that, and I knew it. So then, I was afraid.”

Afraid simply of disappointment, or something more specific? Drift didn’t have a chance to ask, because Rodimus barreled on.

“That’s why I didn’t come to get you sooner,” he said. “I was scared. Getting you back would mean facing up to all of my mistakes, when before you were always the one who let me feel like I was doing everything right. When Ratchet told me he was coming to find you, it made me realize that I needed to get over that. Much as I appreciate what you did for me before, I wanted you back more than the things you did for me.”

“I already told you I didn’t leave for you,” Drift said, because Rodimus sounded sincere, but it wouldn’t mean anything if he was still sequestered in the fantasies Drift had built around him.

“I know,” Rodimus said, “but I’m talking about all of it: the Lost Light, the speeches, just telling me that I was doing a good job. You did so much for me.”

“I didn’t,” Drift insisted. “It was—it wasn’t about you, Rodimus. It was about everyone else. They needed you to be someone and I did everything in my power to make sure you were that person. I…” Fear and shame and something like self-loathing curled inside Drift, but he shoved past them because fuck it. He couldn’t go back to the Lost Light under more false pretenses, and if that meant he couldn’t go back at all…

He already knew better than to rely on himself first.

“I needed you to be that person,” he said. “I did it for me.”

A longer silence descended over the comms. The canyon was narrowing around them; Rodimus would need to ascend soon.

“Ratchet’s right,” Rodimus finally said, apparently unaware that Drift hadn’t been privy to whatever conversation the two had just shared. “I don’t have any room to complain when I was doing pretty much the same thing. You were doing what you had to, right?”

“I’m not sure how you want me to answer that,” Drift said honestly.

“Right, never mind.” Rodimus still sounded nervous. “What I really want to say is that, um, I get it. I think. We all set off on this quest for our own reasons, and most of them don’t really align at all. And—Prowl aside—it’s because our goals were so different that we—us two, but I guess Ratchet also a little bit—that we ended up out here. If we want to find the Knights, or save Vitrious, or just watch out for each other, I think we could stand to be more honest with each other about why we’re doing those things.”

Rodimus sounded reasonably confident about that, but Drift wasn’t so sure. He had no way to know whether Rodimus could handle the version of him that was more honest. Rodimus cared about his crew; Drift had seen that and knew it to be true. But he also cared about himself, and his tendency toward inflating his own ego wasn’t something that would be fixed by promise alone.

“You could start by answering my question,” he said.

“Question?”

“Why you came out here.”

“Oh. I mean, I think it’s straightforward: it’s because I missed you.”

“You don’t really know me,” Drift warned. Rodimus had asked for honesty.

“I’ve learned a lot recently,” Rodimus said. “And I want to get to know you more. Even if it’s not what I was expecting, you’re still my friend and my crewmate. No matter what. You could tell me you step on organics for fun and you’d still have a place on my—on our ship.”

Drift pulled a face.

“Ew.”

“Yeah, bad joke, bad timing,” Rodimus agreed, so casual Drift knew it had to be an act. “But that’s the other thing: Ratchet’s going to be on my aft this time. He’s looking out for you, too, and he’s not going to let me make the same mistakes twice.”

Drift and Ratchet might have only come back on speaking terms in the last few years, but Drift had trusted Ratchet for just over five million. Maybe it tipped the scales unfairly in Rodimus’ favor, but when Drift imagined the scenario Rodimus was building, it sounded good. Good enough that it was risky to trust. Good enough that he might never stop watching out for signs of the end. But maybe, if they were working together, he could trust the three of them to try.

“Okay,” he decided. “I can try. That’s all I can promise, though. I’ve got all the same hangups you do in making a commitment. That’s going to mean a lot of different things, and some of them aren’t so easy to manage.” It was possible that just stepping back onto the Lost Light would cause him to try to fold back into the third in command role he’d built for himself, though he didn’t know for sure; it was rare for him to be able to return to a life he’d left behind.

“Have you met me? Or Ratchet?” Rodimus asked. “None of us are ‘easy to manage.’ Doesn’t mean we’re not worth the effort.”

“You’re starting to sound like him,” Ratchet cut in. “Drift, you staying back?”

“I’m fine, Ratchet,” Drift assured him. The shuttle had begun to rise, bringing them back up to the level they’d been on when the patrol found them. They were nearly within sensor range of the base. Soon enough, he’d be on his own again.

“Stay that way,” Ratchet warned. “Don’t need you getting wrapped up in this mess.”

In a way, he already was, Drift mused, and that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Not yet. As the ship crested near a reasonably drivable cliff, he stood, preparing to dismount.

#maccadam #transformers #drift #ratchet #rodimus #dratchrod #my writing #longfic #fault lines under the living room #finallyyyyy

[sloppy-butcher]

Angel of Music

The Wraith (Philip Ojomo) x Survivor!Reader 

ok so

I’m probably very late to this, like 3 years late, but whatever just hear me out

My smooth brain has been going crazy lately for Phantom of the Opera and i just realized how similar Wraith’s “Angel of Music” cosmetic is to the drama (i mean, i known it is inspired by it but like). 

so now with this glorious revelation, me and the monkeys in my head have come up with the brilliant idea to write a Phantom of the Opera inspired Wraith fic. gods speed you funky lil dudes. 

note;; this is going to be very OOC for him. I’m am going to model wraith to be more like the phantom he is dressed as, thus expect a more devilish, seductive creature rather than the tree-man we already know. also, he can talk now. maybe sing

literally no one asked for this

word count: 4110

TW: Death and blood. Stalking and obsession. Musicals 

This place is an undeniable and indisputable nightmare. An eternal night that twists and corrupts all with shadows and despair. From the repetitive game of cat and mouse that almost always ended in death to the ever-present feeling of eternal damnation, there is absolutely nothing inherently good about the Fog. There wasn’t even light. As if stuck in the haze of an ecstasy-trip, time bleeds into itself seeming to stretch on forever yet also never move an inch. A true paradox.

And to make matters somehow even worse, you had started to hear voices in your head.

It first spoke to you on one of your regular trips into the woods. Scavenging for tools and items that could be used in trials, you hummed to yourself. Oblivious to the world around you, lost to the music playing in your head. It was easier to forget the horrors of the night and give in to the melody of some old song than to ponder on dangers yet to come. You found personal peace in singing, drowning out all your earthly worries by the power of your own imagination. The fog swirled and swelled with the rise and fall of your song and out in the darkness the voice made its presence known. ‘Sing louder.’ You obliged willingly.

Initially, you had chalked it up to your heightened sense of purpose and inner monologue being superimposed so as to form its own being. You would command yourself in third person, detaching and driving your body as your thoughts spoke. Intuition personified. This theory made sense; endless panic often causes those to develop the most peculiar of coping mechanisms. In passing conversations with the other trapped souls you realized that they too had their quirks; one had a rubber band that he snapped on his wrist whenever scared, another rubbed dirty into her palms to stop them from sweating and so on. Unfortunately, you had developed the most bizarre habit out of everyone else. You only started to question the voice’s true intention when its orders became more sinister.

‘Leave him.’ It spoke over your shoulder referring to your teammate dying on hook, an open exit gate before you. ‘Run away.’ It commanded to your half-way through healing another when you spotted the killer fast approaching. All these new and selfish instructions, although ensuring your survival, left you feeling hollow inside. You escaped but at what cost? The lives of your friends. If it really was your true self talking to you then, by default, did that mean you were as evil as the voice was? No! You plead. You were a good person. By God you were human, and the weight of all the death and suffering inflicted by your obedience to the voice began to crush your conscience. You couldn’t even look the others in the eyes anymore.

You couldn’t just ignore the voice either. When it spoke there seemed to be an almost physical force behind it, driving it and giving it momentum. Sometimes it even felt as if someone was standing right behind you reaching out and instructing you with their hand as they whispered in your ear. There was also the fact that you drew strange comfort from the voice. In this desert place, so drained of softness and angry with hate, you depended on what little gentleness the voice offered you.  

It even occurred to you that maybe, the voice wasn’t even yours - as in it belonged to someone else entirely. An unknown watcher, a ghost or phantom, who somehow had a deep connection to you, a one-way mode of communication. A large part of you wanted desperately to believe that who were just overreacting and that it was all just in your head. Regardless, you just couldn’t shake the feeling.

For what felt like days now the voice had been uncharacteristically silent. You noticed it in your first ever trial with the killer that could go invisible with the toll of his bell. There was no guidance, no consoling vector to take your hand and help you through your problems. You had been left alone like a new-born chick, blindly searching for the love and warmth of a guardian. Feeling completely lost, the panic that sat on your chest was overwhelming in that trial. But oddly enough, no matter what you did wrong, how many times you blew up a generator or accidentally revealed your position, the killer never disturbed you. You didn’t even see him until the end where, standing in the exit gate looking in on the realm, you spotted the figure. Bright eyes gleamed back, a bloody weapon in his hands. He allowed you a moment longer to gawk at him before ringing his bell and disappearing into the night.

Even after escaping the voice didn’t return. Your ears yearned for the sound of it, hungry for its filling noise. You sat alone at the campfire, eyes staring unblinking into the mesmerizing flames. It was so lonely, the panic and unrest mixing into a dangerous concoction in your head. There was nothing good anymore. Why do you keep on trying? Perhaps it would be better if you just gave in already. You almost jumped out of your skin when, as if manifested by your desperate cry, the voice called.

‘Come.’ It sounded from the treeline, darkness bending and beckoning you into it. It didn’t feel real. Perhaps you were imagining it. ‘Come,’ It said again sensing your hesitation. You looked around at the other survivors none of which appeared to notice the disturbance. You faced the forest again, it opened to you like the mouth of a great fish. Your feet itched to run to it. There was a powerful pull and before long you followed it.

The woods were freezing, broken branches grabbing out as you passed them. Through all these adversaries, pushing past doubts and warranted skepticism, you kept your eyes focused ahead. Even with all the warning flags the voice had given you, the pure desperation you had to find anything even remotely kind lit the fire of will under your feet. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? You were dead either way. The trees swayed and whined as a tired wind blew through their crumbling leaves, oddly not even making a noise. As the voice continued to call, luring you away from the safety of other people and fire, you spotted something ahead of you. There just through the fog, like a lighthouse over a raging sea, was a light. It bobbed and sway and wondered away from you through the trees. It was hypnotizing to watch the light flicker deeper into the trees, your feet not needing motivation to follow.

The light and voice mingled in your head, overwhelming every sense until it felt like you were walking through a dream. Your pace was sluggish and sloppy, you couldn’t feel the ground anymore. Just as it seemed you’d never catch up to the light, it suddenly stopped, blinked a few times then popped out of existence. You went to its last location, looking around for any possible signs of anything to help you but instead found yourself completely surrounded by an all impressive mist. It danced through the trees creating unbreakable walls of wood and water. It felt wrong to be here, your head spin around for an exit which came to you in the form of an out-of-place stone archway.

The bright yellow of the stone contrasted brilliantly against the somber atmosphere it lived in. Your mind wasn’t your own as you unknowingly went to it. Beyond the mouth of madness lay a beast in wait, purring as he felt your impending arrival. Eagerness overtook him and slowly the wooden door creaked open to welcome you inside. The tunnel that lay behind was one lit by old candles tinting the world with a much-appreciated golden light. It stretched on for miles, leading down into the earth where, at the bottom drifting up to you like a breeze in a cave, the voice beckoned.

‘Come.’ You stepped inside. ‘Come to me.’ If, by some strange miracle, you could have stopped yourself for a brief moment from descending the tunnel, you might have noticed the voice’s odd word choice. You might have even noticed the person on the other end licking his lips and smiling. Walking as if through honey, you unhurriedly made your way to the yearning voice. Before long the warm light that had bathed you drew back its loving embrace and faded back to absolute darkness.

At the edge of the last candles reach was a room - so large and empty of light that it appeared to have no roof, no walls, no end. You couldn’t help but feel like you had walked into the lair, the most secret and quiet place, of a monster. You couldn't shake the feeling that you had passed the point of no return. The artificial night swallowed you whole; your eyes strained in the pitch black, your ears burning from the total silence save for your own beating heart. The shadows inspected you, looking you up and down while you were none the wiser. His eyes also ate you up, so pleased to have you alone that he let the moment slip into an uncomfortable length.

You wanted to speak, make your claim against whatever had brought you here. You could sense something out there just outside of your already limited view. But the silence held you tight in its suffocating grasp. You dared not even breath. You had to wait for him to make the first move.

“Bravo.” The voice called from somewhere behind you, startling you to the point of drawing a gasp. “Bravo! Bravissimo!” Someone started to clap. You could hear him stepping around you, his voice echoing endlessly around the room, impossibly loud and booming. Although there was something deeply unsettling about the voice, the only thing you could take from it was odd comfort. It was real. A person. A guardian Angel! You spun around on your heels desperate to see the source of your guidance however he managed to remain hidden in shadow. You swear you could hear him grin at your confusion.

“You listen well, my dear.” There was no denying it, it was the voice. Although only now, when it spoke so openly, did you notice that it was inherently male. So relieved with the news that you weren’t going completely mad with disembodied voices, you glazed over the other implications this reveal came with. If it wasn’t yourself than just who have you been talking to all this time? And, the more pressing matter, just who were you stuck with in the room.

The stranger claps again and moves around in the black, shuffling from one side of the room to the other and at times seeming to even be above you, looking down. “I am beyond impressed my dear.” The stranger smiled, unbeknownst to you getting closer with very advance. “Do you know where you are?” No reply. Honestly you had no clue. You had never been in this place before - it felt so detached, so different when compared to all the other realms you had grown accustomed to in the Fog.

“Hell.” The voice answered, purring like a cat with a trapped mouse, teasing it - relishing off its fear. “The deepest pit. And, what’s more, you came here all on your own free-will.” He moved again not content to stay in one spot for too long, trying to view you from every possible angle before he made his last move.

“Won’t you sing for me. My Angel of music. You know the one I mean.” His words hit you like a ton of bricks. A song? As you wracked your brain for whatever he could be referring to, a faint idea began to materialize right in the tip of your tongue. Words of a melody that you swear you had never heard before but still feel familiar with in your heart. The voice, it sang to you. How could you forget!  

“Every night I was there. Whispering my song to you in hopes that one day, you could join in with me.” That was true. Each time you dared to drift off to sleep, the voice would appear. He sang to you, gently and softly, talking into your ear to lull you safely away - only to wake hours later with no memory of the night before. Perhaps that is why you were always so attached to the voice, why its absence impacted you so deeply. There was a build of pressure behind you and suddenly he was there. The stranger towered over you without even looking, his chest pressed tight to your back. Exploring hands went down your arms and slowly brought them up like the two of you were about to start a dance. His head hung low to your ear, his breathing touching your exposed neck. He sucked in and exhaled meaningfully, taking in your smell and touch and your reaction to his closeness.

“Sing.” God, his voice was so smooth, demanding and rich. A sonorous tone that had never been shown to you before this. It shocked you to your core. He sighed again, one hand moving to caress your neck with the other holding your own hand. “Sing my Angel.” Up till now you were passive, sitting ideally in a dream-state as you let the stranger do as he wished. But now you wanted answers.

“Let me see you.” No answer came from the man be it verbal or physical. He remained completely unphased and unchanging.

“Sing.” He commanded again, no anger or annoyance in his tone only patience and hunger. He yearned for you to sing with him, to join in with his symphony. For too long has he gone silent, his soul dying along with his music. The bells no longer tolling and his music fading out like a lit match in the rain. When he found you, fallen like an angel right out of Heaven, humming alone to yourself, he felt the fire of passion ignite within him. You were perfect to him and now, you couldn’t resist him. You were defenseless, night having accustomed you to its unfurling beauty to the point that you were addicted to it – needed it, just as he did. There was no way either of you could go back now. You breathed into him, your nose filling with the smell of pine and smoke, and hesitantly after closing your eyes, you began to sing the words now burning hot in your head.

“Say you’ll share with me,” It wasn’t really singing, rather just breathless talking – a whisper that only the keenest of ears could hear. Regardless of what you sounded like; the stranger cherished every word that left your mouth. He started to shake, his hands holding on to you for support.

“One love, one lifetime.” He joined you now, singing as you did in a volume that only you could truly appreciate. His raspy, low-pitched voice mingling wonderfully with yours, sounding almost desperate to get the words out. Lips grazed your ear sending shivers down your spine.

“Say the word,” His hands tightened their grip as if to empathize his lyrics. “And I will follow you.”

“Say you love me.” Your combined voices bounced around the darkness stirring whatever creatures lay in hiding, your harmony compelling and immensely sorrowful. While a part of you faded into the song’s words, swaying and melting with the stranger content for once, something crawled into your head. The song was ending, and while you wished to stay forever in this blissful embrace, you demanded to know the face behind the voice. Your moment was coming.

“That’s all I ask of -” Slipping out his grasp at the moments climax, you spin around to finally lay your eyes on the stranger. He froze under your gaze, surprised by your sudden action. Looking up at an incredibly tall man, you felt your knees threaten to give out. Staring back were the glowing eyes of a killer, the very one that had, not long ago, tormented your friends. You couldn’t help but gasp and step away from him, breaking his hold on you. You inspected him as best you could in your lack of light, squinting your eyes as hard as you could but nothing in the darkness made itself known to you save for his unmistakable eyes. The stranger noticed your efforts and, fuming at your defiance to play along with him, raised a hand.

“You wish to disobey me? Fine!” The ground shook under foot, his shouting voice ricocheting off the rooms stone walls and sending the world into disarray. “Look at me Angel! In all my glory!” He snapped his fingers.

Suddenly your senses were overwhelmed by blinding white light. You flinched, shutting your eyes to the dramatic change in the room. When next you opened then you found the room to be hazed in familiar yellow candlelight. As if by magic, all candles had all be simultaneously lit. Your attention darted around like a trapped bird before resting on the man standing in front of you, his arms open and expression unreadable. Bathed in new light you could see him in immaculate detail.

Yes, it was the invisible killer, no doubt about it. But something was off about him. He looked different somehow; maybe it was his prim suit, navy fabric decorated with golden lace that fit his slender body snugly giving him a sense of proper and divinity. Behind him hung an extraordinary cape that fluttered in a non-existent breeze. On his face sat a white mask, crooked and dirtied from years of neglect which, in all honesty, covered little to none of his truly disfigured and burnt flesh.

Unparalleled fear began to rise in your chest. He was so tall, powerful and strange that it terrified you to be standing next to him. You stepped backwards, edging closer to the exit. The stranger’s eyes flickered. How could you fear him? He had never hurt you, Angel. All he has ever wanted was to be by your side, to never be lonely in the dark again. He has given you no reason to distrust him, he has never shown you his monstrous side. Yet still you shrunk away from his touch, choosing rather silent suffering than a lifetime of music with him. He felt something break inside him.

You saw his hand twitch, his off-center head bobbing as his labored breathing intensified. He took a small step forward and you replied by taking a large one back. He halted and so did you. Next to the broken thing that rattled around in his bones, he heard something else. A beating heart, weak and faint but somehow still alive. It moved and leaped, reaching out for you to take it and hold. Just standing in your company he heard music start to swell in his ears. You had listened to him once before, maybe he could get you to again.

The stranger's head dropped; through the lumpy cape you saw his shoulders deflate. What was he doing? Playing possum so as to catch you off guard? Whatever it was, you didn’t let the tension ease out your legs. You waited for his next move, ready to run if he tried anything suspicious. You didn't expect the sound of his voice to suddenly start singing again.

“Say you’ll share with me,” He sang his solo, his voice that of an airy murmur as if afraid to sing alone. Every word he sang clung to your ears, kissing your heart and mind with a complex sorrow. Your guard started to halter.

“One love. One lifetime.” He paused, swallowing the lump building in his throat warning to overflow and render him speechless.

“Lead me,” He raised a cautious eye to find you still waiting, offering him the chance to try coax you closer. A fist clutched his chest in an attempt to sooth his aching heart. “Save me from my solitude.” He was certain he was crying but he couldn’t feel the tears; you had his undivided attention.

“Say you want me here...” He faltered here, hand itching to reach out and grab you. “Beside you.”  The stranger could barely form audible words anymore, so slurred and choked up that you unknowingly leaned forward to try hear him better. 

“Anywhere you go,” He tried again, begging you to close the distance and join him. It was heartbreaking, this phantom, this person and the way he sang to you, each syllable dripping with an ocean of unimaginable pain and beastly hopelessness. It was infectious really; you could feel his sadness take over your heart shaking it in an iron grasp. Miserable eyes glared you down as you took the smallest step forward. “Let me go too.”

He didn’t continue - he couldn’t. The horrors of the whispering darkness and this god-awful place left him near-drained. Everything pushed down on him, suffocating him until he thought he was going to pass out. He could only keep his eyes on you. Blurry from tears he held onto your figure like your were a buoy in a raging sea, his only safety, his air. The stranger heaved from trying to maintain his composure. Finally the curtain fell and you gave in. 

Your foot falls were the only sounds that broke the silence in the room. You approached him with little to no conflict in your mind. Yes - he was scary. Yes - he was a monster. But the way he looked at you now, the way he sang and spoke; no killer would beg to be loved the way he did. It was like he was afraid of the dark, of being alone, of being condemned to an existence of pitiful silence. You craned your neck to look up at him, sucking back the wreckage still wavering just outside his control. 

“Pitiful creature of darkness,” The words tumbled out of your mouth, through teeth unfazed by their possible repercussion. You were speaking from your heart. A small hand connects with his unmasked cheek taking in the feeling of old, burnt skin and years of mud. He leans into your warm embracing having forgotten what it was like. “You are not alone.” 

Even on tip-toes you still were short of his lips. It was only when he gave in and leaned down that you were able to kiss him. Eyes closed, shoulders tensing, you melted into the kiss. His lips were rough, chapped, but gentle. He didn’t give anymore pressure until you asked for him, dragging you tongue along his bottom lip asking for entrance. He opened to you gratefully. Inside his mouth housed monstrous sharp teeth and an excited tongue and moved inside your mouth, tasting ever inch of you. He was greedy, demanding everything of yours. When you had nothing more to give, he relented and let you go.

You sank back on your heels gasping for breath. You noticed he was smiling, an odd sight of such a distorted and sad face. 

“My Angel. My Muse.” You felt him move on top of you, a hand sneaking behind your back making to bend over so as not be pressed uncomfortably against his chest. “I have many names of which to call you. I am eager to use them all.” He laughed, the sound rattling your whole body with its bass leaving you quivering. “But you, can call me Philip.” He tilted his head in a mock bow, his free hand grabbing the edge of his cape and fanning it out in respect. You offered you own  meek nod. His smile only widened at your compliance. 

“Come now,” Philip said standing up to his full height, his hand still securing your back. “Let me take you away. Away from all this numb light and into the darkness where no one will find us.” He raised his arm and cape and quickly brought it down around you, sweeping it around the both of your until he had you cocooned. 

The world fell into black again and all you could sense was him; his breathing, his reinforced arms cradling you. You could also hear a faint thumping when you put your ear to his chest - his heart. Once diseased and weak now pumped with vigor and delight. He had you in his grasp and he was never letting you go. You were his everything; his Angel of music.

#i spent so long on this #i have a serious addiction to poto now #poto is phantom of the opera if ya didn't know #im sorry if this is cringe #i just needed it #dbd imagines #dbd writings #dbd the wraith #dbd philp ojomo #dbd the wraith x reader #dbd philip ojomo x reader #dbd x reader

[lihikainanea]

Bill changes his cologne and Tiger has an absolute meltdown over it 'cause honestly? How dare he. The change makes her slip into a small space, but not her sweet small space, no no .. this is a bratty, over emotional small space where her voice is shrieky and in a forever state of whining, she stomps her foot, growls in frustration. It's not sass, its definitely not her testing him in that way. Its more the change just sets her all the way off and her childish side jumps all the way out.

*slams table*

I LOVE THIS AND LET ME TELL YOU WHY.

Look. lOOk. When tiger is small for him, she is checked out man. Lights out, nobody home. If I draw from personal experience (which is basically all I do like always), being small is such an all-encompassing thing. You say shit you don’t even realize, you do shit you don’t even realize. Sometimes in that small headspace you don’t even know your own goddamn name and that’s the whole point. The whole point is to just make the real world disappear for awhile.

But like, listen. When you’re that far gone? You rely on the basics. You’re so far out of your goddamn mind that you can only focus on one or two basic survival things. And Bill is really good at helping tiger ease out of it, or at least at helping her feel safe and comfortable when she wants to bask in it, but what he didn’t realize is one of the things that helps calm her down--one of the only things she registers, so she knows it’s him and she’s safe--is the way he smells.

And hell, maybe tiger didn’t even know how much she relied on that.

So like, look. He switches up his cologne, right? Wants something different. Something more woodsy, in honour of his motherland. And tiger loved the way he smelled before but whatever, he always smells good. Just now he smells...different. And it’s not such a big deal. She’ll get used to it. She still sniffs him when he hugs her, she still plants her nose in his chest and takes a deep inhale before going to sleep. He smells different but in her right mind she knows it’s still Bill and she’s comfy and happy and safe.

Until she gets small. Until she gets real small for him. She probably needed it, needed a good dominating session, and he gave that to her. Made her so small for him, and he kept talking and praising her throughout it so she registered his voice and she is just....uuuunf, she’s buzzing with so many good feelings. It’s long and it’s intense, he drags it out for her, really drags it out of her and she’s a wreck after.

But when she’s out of her mind--when she really can barely even hear his voice--she reaches clumsily for him, tries to hold on, and he wraps her in his arms. She can hear his murmurs at her ear but she’s not registering any of it, more the fact that she can feel his chest on hers, can feel his warm breath on her neck, can wrap her lips around the thumb tapping on them.

Except she goes to snuggle in to him, goes to bury her nose in him somewhere and take a sniff but...fuck, that doesn’t smell like Bill. Doesn’t smell like her Bill. And oh god, who is this guy?

And then she slips.

And it sounds ridiculous--believe me, I know it sounds ridiculous--but if you’ve never experienced that state of mind before, it’s a hell of a thing. You literally know nothing. Your brain is on survival mode: all you can do is breathe. That’s it. It’s down to its very basic, primal functions. So when you seek out comfort, something so insignificant as somebody smelling different than what you’re used to can just....completely fucking throw you. And send you spiralling.

And it does, to tiger. Bill is safety and comfort but this doesn’t smell like Bill and it’s enough to get her kind of panicking. She starts to slip, starts to whine and push at him, starts to cry, starts having trouble getting deep breaths in. Because she’s so incredibly vulnerable at that moment, so small for him, but it’s not him and god that’s bad.

So she sobs, pushes him away, tries to curl more in on herself for protection. And god, Bill kind of loses his mind. She’s slipped on him before and he tries to keep calm about it because he knows it’s always a risk, and he has a few things that can help get through to her. Mostly--it’s his voice. When she starts to slip, she latches on to his voice to help ground her--so he talks to her. A lot. Just keeps talking to her.

“You’re okay, sweet girl,” he reassures, “You’re okay. Something just got you all freaked out.”

She whines a little, sobs again and pushes at him. She doesn’t usually want distance, but this time she does--so he moves away a little.

“Stay with me, kid,” he says, “I know you can hear me. Just focus on this, tiger. Focus on my voice.”

And she tries. Man, she tries. She nods a little frantically--both to show him she understands, but also as a silent plea for him to keep talking. He gets it.

“You’re safe, sweet girl. You’re safe. It’s just me and you here,” he continues, “You were so small for me, sweetheart. So good and small for me, and then something scared you. You’re okay. Just try and breathe.”

She tries, she takes a deep inhale through her nose--but then she smells that stupid cologne again that IS NOT HIS and she sobs, pushes at him again.

“Tiger, you’re okay,” he tries to soothe, but she’s still pushing so he moves away. She lets out a sad little whine again.

“Kid, I need your help here,” he pleads, “What is it?”

But like, tiger can’t really talk. Can’t really register anything. So Bill really tries to watch her, tries to figure it out. And he clues in when she reaches for him, inhales deeply through her nose--and then freaks out. Bill is a smart dude, and when tiger started getting small with him he did his research. Read up on it, on some of the things that could set a submissive off and some of the ways to soothe. And when he notices that it’s every time she sniffs for him, that’s what causes her to freak out, he clues in.

“Okay, okay okay okay,” he murmurs. Then he separates from her because his presence and weight on her was freaking her out anyway instead of grounding her like it usually does. Thinking quickly, he reaches into the laundry basket, hauls out one of his shirts he wore a few days ago before he switched up his cologne and tucks it into her arms. Her response is immediate--she curls into it, rolling onto her side and hugging it to her, settling a bit. Bill springs out of bed and runs to the bathroom, grabbing his old bottle of cologne and sprays it on his chest. He sprints back to her, crawling onto the bed and turning her onto her back so he can lay his weight on her. And once again--the response is immediate. Her hands reach for him and the minute she inhales--she calms down. Immediately. She pulls at him and he goes willingly, lying on top of her and settling his full weight as she calms down. He tutts her softly, runs his hands through her hair, kisses her face wherever he can.

“You’re okay, sweet girl,” he says, “Take a deep breath for me.”

She does, and she settles even more. Cooing softly, she tries to tuck further into him and he tightens his hold on her. He stays like that, murmuring softly to her, until some of the haze clears from her eyes. Until he can feel her heart rate slow down. Until she’s not wheezing anymore. And she finally meets his eyes, still clinging to him, her face in close to his.

“What happened, Billy?” she asks. And Jesus Christ, he fucking melts when she calls him Billy. And she still sounds so small and Bill could just kick himself.

“That was my fault, kid,” he whispers to her, “I’m sorry tiger.”

“I didn’t feel safe,” she croaked and fuck me, Bill is destroyed. He just leans his forehead on hers, weaves their hands together, kisses her.

“I know you didn’t,” he says softly, “I know. But you are, tiger. You’re safe. You’re always safe with me.”

“It didn’t feel like you.”

“I switched my cologne a few days ago, kid,” he explains, “And I think it jarred you when you were looking for me but I didn’t...smell like me.”

“Oh,” she says softly, and thankfully she curls more into him. Bill wraps her up tighter immediately. “That makes sense.”

“I’m sorry, sweet girl,” he murmurs, “I didn’t realize.”

“Me neither,” she says.

“Are you okay?”

She nods lightly.

“I feel safe now,” she says and he smiles, “I know I’m safe with you. I just didn’t feel like it was...you. But it is.”

“It is,” he smiles at her, and it’s that little lopsided grin, “And you’re safe. Always.”

She returns his soft smile, but he’s still a little worried for her.

“Tell me what you need, kid.”

“You. This. Closer,” she says and pulls him more into her, “And for you to throw out that new cologne.”

#sub tiger #bill skarsgard #BFF!Bill #bill skarsgard drabble

[always-and-forever-a-killjoy]

Part 3 of Semp’s Bad Fic About Cherri Cola

Good evening y’all and welcome to the latest episode of 'Semp can't title shit to save his life'! On this episode, he will refer to himself in third person, write about Fun Ghoul, and compose poetry so bad it's a disgrace to Cherri Cola's name. 

I’m sorry for posting twice in one day, but i have absolutely no impulse control and I finished this today so...there you go.

Title: Sofas and Poetry

Wordcount: 1090

Summary: 

Cherri Cola has the unfortunate habit of leaving his poetry lying around Dr. Death Defying's radio station.

Fun Ghoul has the unfortunate habit of being a nosy gremlin

Aka how Fun Ghoul got a lot more than xe bargained for, learned about a war and Cherri Cola's backstory, and continued to be a little shit to Party Poison, feat. my shitty poetry.

Warnings: mentions of death, violence, and war. Nothing is super graphic but let's just say cherri's life has really not been fun. Also lots of swearing but that's a given with me.

Taglist: @sleevesareforlosers @tasteofamnesia (sorry for tagging y’all twice in one day, like I said I have no impulse control)

AO3 link

(Actual fic under cut)

“Give that back!” Cherri Cola called exasperatedly.

Fun Ghoul leapt onto the back of the sofa, out of his reach, still holding the poem. “I want t’ read it! I never get t’ read your poetry!”

“I read poems on the radio at least once a week!”

“Yeah, but only Jet n’ Kobes listen t’ that!”

Cherri sighed. “At least take one of the finished ones.”

“But this one looks neat,” Ghoul protested, still perched precariously on the back of the sofa.

Cherri sighed again. “If you get off D’s sofa, I’ll read you the poem. Whichever one it is.” He didn’t know exactly which of his poems was on the raggedy scrap of paper that Fun Ghoul had managed to steal, but chances were it would be one he was planning to read on the radio anyways.

Ghoul seemed to think for a moment before he hopped off the top of the sofa, tilting xyr head at Cherri as if to say ‘pay up’. “Got off Dr. D’s sofa.”

“I suppose you did,” Cherri sighed, settling himself down on the sofa as Show Pony went skating by, yelling something about “Do y’ think we’ve got the carbons for that?”, presumably to Dr. Death Defying.

Ghoul happily settled next to Cherri, waving to Show Pony before passing Cherri Cola the scrap of paper.

Cherri’s heart plummeted when he recognized the poem on the sheet, but he forged on anyways. A deal was a deal, even if this one was a bit of a heavy topic.

“This one isn’t really finished, just warning you.”

“’S okay.” Xe looked over (and up) at him expectantly, and Cherri took a small breath.

“Right. Uh. Here we go.

Blood on your hands, a final goodbye. You drown in your grief, you scream to the sky. You held onto your pain, your fire, your rage. You cannot escape, your mind is a cage.

The people fell and the bodies rose. The deadly bomb brought the war to a close. Every body once had a beating heart. Every fallen soldier a craft or an art.

You fought a war from pain and grief. You are drowning, searching for relief. The wind whispers and shouts their names, The Phoenix Witch plays her games.

None of them deserved to fall, And in the night you’ll hear them call. They whisper oaths to the ones left behind, You offer quiet promises in kind.”

It wasn’t his best work, not by a long way. The rhymes were clunky and the symbolism obvious. It needed a lot of refining before Cherri would count it as finished, and even then, he doubted it would be his favorite.

But Fun Ghoul looked at the very least intrigued, eyes wide as xe asked Cherri “What does that all mean?”

“It means…” For once, the poet was at a loss for words. “It means that every person deserves to live. Every soul deserves peace. It means that there are no winners in war, only the ones who died and the ones left behind.”

“Oh.” Xe frowned, looking both thoughtful and awfully young. “How d’ you know this stuff, Cola?”

“I’ve seen it.” He debated how much was appropriate to tell a literal teenager, and ultimately decided most of his stories were no worse than what Fun Ghoul would have seen already.

“I’ve watched so, so many people die for no reason. I’ve seen killjoys die for love and their love die a second later. I’ve known parents who gave their lives for a future that their children never even got to have, I’ve heard tales of medics and neutrals who were just trying to help the wounded when they were shot down. I saw the loss of life in the Analog Wars and the years after, and I saw the grief that followed. I knew children who were forced into fighting for Better Living Industries and killjoys who ended up fighting their former friends; I felt the pain and wrote the tales.”

Ghoul stared at him. “Shit, Cola. That’s…”

“I know,” Cherri said quietly. “I’ve seen horrors that I can’t express in any typical way. That’s part of why I write.”

“Shit. That’s- that’s really rough.”

“It’s been a long time.”

It had been, longer than he wanted to think about- or really remembered, for that matter. There had been years where all the days blended together, and who knows how long lost in the haze of addiction and sunlight. It was so easy to lose track of the time when all your effort was focused on getting through each day, and he still vividly remembered the years spent in that state of survival mode. It hadn’t been long enough for any of those memories to start fading away, much as he wished he didn’t carry the pain of his past.

Cherri shook his head, clearing away those thoughts to focus on what Ghoul was saying.

“-an’ can I have some of your destroya-cursed tea? Poison hates it and I want t’ get back at ‘em for that prank they pulled last week.”

He had no idea what prank Poison had pulled last week, but knowing them, it had probably been dastardly. “Alright, you can have some of my very good tea.”

“No offense, but tha’ tea is th’ worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Rude,” Cherri sniffed, but he ruined his own dramatic effect by letting a smile slip. It was impossible to stay mad at any of the Fabulous Four for long, not with their bright smiles and laughter always bringing the room to life, not to mention how truly young they felt compared to him. They were still teenagers after all, no matter how fiercely they fought or how famous their crew.

So he took a bit of the radio station’s precious water supply and threw together some tea, giving it to Fun Ghoul in an old plastic water bottle. “Here you go, trouble.”

Xe grinned. “Thanks, Cola!” He gave Cherri a thumbs-up before running off, presumably to head back to the diner and prank Party Poison.

“Be nice to Poison, okay?” Cherri hollered after xem. “Don’t prank them too much!”

“Will do!” Xe hollered back, not sounding entirely honest.

Cherri shook his head and returned to his poetry, only later realizing that the poem he had shown Fun Ghoul was gone.

Ah well. Sometimes, the young and reckless needed a reminder of what the might face- and what they were fighting for. He hoped his poem would serve that purpose well enough.

#cherri cola #fun ghoul #danger days #the true lives of the fabulous killjoys #danger days fic #auri writes #fun ghoul uses xe/xem and he/him #no beta we die like the fab four #auri writes dd

[julez-the-great]

Life—Poe Dameron x Reader

Here you rested, on the cold, hard ground. You felt light as a feather and your heart beat was slow and steady. The sky above you was calm and quiet as there was no more sign of the battle just fought. 

‘We did it,’ your mind repeated to itself thousands of times. ‘The First Order is gone. We’ve finally won.’ Your vision was blurry and you can smell the smoke from your crashed X-Wing laying thirty feet away. Luckily enough, you were able to eject just before crashing and had a broken leg along with a nasty gash on your abdomen. You were lucky to have injuries that you could recover from, that is if you were found in time. 

Your side ached as you coughed and your adrenaline high was vanishing, making the reality of this situation even more serious. 

‘I gotta find help.’ 

You sat up slowly and assessed the damage done to your body. The left side of your abdomen had a large hunk of metal lodged into it and your right leg was bent in a way that it should not have been able to do. On the ground to your right were some shrapnel and you knew from basic training how to create a splint. You took a few deep breathes before moving your leg so that it was in the correct position. You yelled in agony at the movement and was immediately launched into survival mode. 

--

“Where is (y/n)?” Poe asked through the radio system while piloting his X-Wing over the battle field. He had known that this battle was rough, but he couldn’t stomach the thought that you might be dead. After a few moments of silence, Veronika answered. 

“I saw her go down, Poe. Haven’t been able to check it out because I’m low on fuel.”

Poe’s heart sank. He had to find you, whether you were dead or alive. No man left behind was Poe’s motto and he will be damned if he goes against it.

Exogol was a bland planet and there was only so much that could be used to hide a downed ship. Sure, all of those ships that Palpatine resurrected crashed down, but from what Veronica specified, you went down far off of where any of those ships would be.

Poe flew to where it was said you were and he saw your X-Wing. It was on fire and it could bare my be called something that flies anymore. Poe was beginning to panic and he landed by your ship.

“(Y/ n)! Where are you?!” He yelled. He then walked around the damage and noticed that your seat wasn’t there.

‘She ejected, of course!’

Poe pulled out his binoculars and surveyed the area for anything the would resemble a person. In the distance he noticed something red, something to contrast with the bland gray of this foresaken planet. He began running.

—

Consciousness is a funny thing, really. When you’re conscious, you’re not totally aware of how fragile and malleable your life is—only focusing on what’s happening now. But when you become unconscious, there is no awareness, there isn’t anything. Not black, not empty, just nothing. You kept thinking about your fate and contemplating the wonders of life between your cycles of going unconscious. It was philosophical and a point for you to focus on what was important.

“(Y/n),” you heard someone say, no, yell. It was a deep voice, one you had recognized. Your eyes began to drool again as you heard footsteps. He pat your face to wake you up and you saw, through blurry vision, that it was Poe. “Poe.”

“Come on, you have to stay awake so we can get you home. You need to come home,” he said, tears threatening to escape his eyes. He took off the shirt he was wearing and wrapped it under your body and around the wound tightly. You were so out of it that it didn’t hurt that much. He lifted you and ran to his ship.

“We won, Poe,” you said softly, chuckling in the process. You were happy for that and now that the help found you, you were ready to fight to live. “We really stuck it to him.”

“Yeah, we did. Are you comfortable?” He asked. Poe has placed you into the cargo hold immediately behind the cockpit. He placed a headset on your head and then strapped you in tight. You hummed.

“I’m going to get you home, but you have to talk to me,” he said as he began the ship. It lifted up and Poe immediately warped to light speed.

“I’ve been thinking about everything and nothing. The mechanisms of life is a mystery and now that I’m near death, I can focus on how clear it really can be,” you stated. To Poe, it just sounding like some ramblings coming from too much blood loss, but to you, you now knew what the purpose of life was.

“Explain it to me,” Poe said. You smiled and hummed once more. You were in nirvana. “Let’s hear it (n/n).”

“We only live to die. Why do we fear it when it is the most natural thing to happen to everyone?” You paused, relishing in the moment and looking for your words. “We live our lives to be happy, to be productive, to be ourselves. All of it is natural. So no one should fear the inevitable.”

You were so tired when the ship landed. Your eyes were struggling to stay open and the next moments all happened in a haze. Were you being carried off or floating away? Was Poe around? How’d you get here?

—

Poe was a mess. He was worried for your well being and it inhibited the celebration of victory. There was nothing that he could do after dropping you off in the infirmary except to wait. The state that you were in when he left you was on the very edge of death. You were confused and rambling about the force, Palpatine, and the deeper meaning to life. To a healthy person, it didn’t make sense.

It had been two hours before the doctor informed Poe about what happened in the operation and what he had to do to make you better. It was a tedious operation and it included several blood transfusions to get you through it. The recovery process should be easy to get through since it was a lot of bed rest. Now only to wait for you to wake up.

—

“What happened? Where am I?” You asked. Your voice was hoarse and you were cold. “I’m cold.”

“Good to see you awake. Your in the infirmary on the base. How much do you remember?” Poe gathered you another blanket as you answered his question.

“I remember launching off and following everyone to Exogol, but I don’t remember anything that happened after that,” you grumbled. The extra blanket brought the warmth that you needed. As you moved to bring it up, you felt the pain in your stomach and the stiffness of your leg.

“You got hit, but before you crashed, you ejected and ended up getting a really deep gash and a broken leg. You lost a lot of blood. I thought you were going to die because of how much you were rambling. There was a while on the way back when I thought you were gone, but then you began to ramble again. I’m glad you’re here right now, I don’t know what I would do without you. The doctor said that once you’re checked out, you can go rest at home. Oh, and we won.” You were in awe of all that had happened.

“Oh you’re finally awake,” the doctor came in. “Let’s just change your bandages and then I’ll send you on your way.”

After your check up, Poe helped you into the wheel chair and pushed you to your room. He helped you into your bed and put the crutches within your reach so that you could be mobile. You were tired.

“If you need anything, call me and I’ll come. Now sleep,” Poe said as he placed a telecom onto your desks and stroked your hair. You smiled as you fell asleep in the presence of your man.

“I love you, (y/n).”

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron #poe dameron imagines #poe #dameron #star wars rise of skywalker #star wars #x reader #reader insert #reader #insert #cute #caring poe #fluff at the end #enjoy this #hope you like it #hope you enjoy

[southernwolf16]

Downtime Chapter 2

Chapter 1    AO3    ff.net

Finally posting this after 1,000 years. Also, I’ve decided that Downtime will be three chapters instead of two for reasons I cited here.

To @o-c-o-c-o,  @madameazzure, @thedreaminus, @silverwolf8940, @noblesselover99, @shanhei322, @pandora-twists, @galaxysilver and @icylook and everyone else who might be interested, here’s my contribution to the fandom.

WARNING: VERY LONG CHAPTER. I just realized that my stories are getting longer. This is 11.4K words.

Frankenstein returned to M-21′s room after wrapping up his work in the lab. He took a moment to observe the other RK members then decided to send them off to bed, to their dismay.

“It’s almost midnight and we have a busy day tomorrow,” he said. “M-21 will probably wake up by then.” 

Nobody moved from their positions. Frankenstein repressed a sigh. Of all the time to be stubborn. “You know the last thing we need is for M-21’s caregivers to fall asleep on him.”

Seira was first to comply, patting M-21’s right hand before pushing her chair back. Tao set down the hand towels he fetched. Regis checked if M-21 was sufficiently covered with his blanket and stepped away as well. 

“Are you sure you don’t want one of us to stay?” Takeo confirmed.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Everyone filed out of the room at the clear dismissal and soon enough, Frankenstein was alone with M-21. 

Raizel arrived and found Frankenstein studying data on the monitors. He padded to a chair on the bed’s right side, saving the one closest to M-21 for Frankenstein. There was a fine sheen of sweat on M-21’s face so he went about securing a towel to dab it off when Frankenstein beat him to it. 

Done with the task, Frankenstein sat down and with his head bowed murmured, “I’m sorry, Master, my behavior a while ago was totally uncalled for.” 

“We both know who you really owe an apology to,” was Raizel’s astute response.

No words were further exchanged between them as Frankenstein focused on M-21, whose temperature was already close to dropping to forty degrees Celsius. 

A few more hours flew by. M-21’s fever was nearly down to thirty-nine degrees Celsius. Frankenstein and Raizel saw his right hand curling into a loose fist.

M-21 let out a groan and sluggishly opened his eyes. 

Frankenstein released the pent-up breath he did not even know he was holding.

Raizel leaned forward in his seat, all the better to confirm what his eyes were seeing. “M-21…” 

M-21 moved his head in search of the voices and recognized the blurred figures to his right as his vision cleared. No sound came out as he tried to call them by name, his too dry and painful throat an impediment.

“Don’t try to talk yet.” Frankenstein headed to the kitchenette and came back with a glass of water that included a bendy straw. Before long, M-21 drained the whole glass and was looking expectantly at him so he went to get a refill. 

M-21 drank half of the water until his thirst was satiated. Sinking back on his pillow, he fixed his gaze on the pair by his bedside.

“Rai. Fra—why’s your name so long?” M-21 mumbled in a voice faint and rough from lack of use. 

Frankenstein almost laughed at the complaint. His Master’s name was longer by far. “Calling me ‘Boss’ works fine with me.”

“That’s not your name. That’s your job,” M-21 said. 

It will be best for you to find a nickname.

Frankenstein could imagine the delicate wrinkling of Raizel’s eyes by the subtle amusement in his tone. 

Perhaps we can ask M-21 for suggestions?

Frankenstein practically spluttered but kept a straight face after remembering the advice from Muzaka. “Point taken.” Switching to doctor mode he asked M-21, “Anyway, how are you feeling?” 

At that, M-21 knitted his brows. “It’s cold and everything hurts.”

Raizel reached out to pat M-21 on the hand. “It will be over soon. Frankenstein here is doing everything he can for you to get well.” 

“Your medicine’s already working, so it won’t be long and the pain will be gone.” Frankenstein dabbed a fresh towel on M-21’s forehead and his sweat-soaked hair. Next, he dipped the towel he removed in the nearby basin, wrung it out and restored it to its previous location.

M-21 heaved a sigh as the cool towel somewhat eased the throbbing in his head. He returned to staring at Frankenstein and Raizel. “I had a strange dream…” 

Raizel and Frankenstein waited with bated breath for M-21 to tell them more.

“There was purple…and black…and screaming…” 

Raizel glanced at Frankenstein then ventured, “Were you frightened?”

“Yes.” M-21 was quick to affirm. “But there was a sound. Then it was warm….and safe.” 

“The purple and black,” Frankenstein began, his voice laced with remorse, “that was me.”

“No, I’m sure that’s Dark Spear…being noisy and all,” M-21 declared. 

Frankenstein conceded with a sigh. “Still, that wouldn’t have happened if I controlled myself better—”

M-21 was outright frowning at him. “Did you do it on purpose?” 

“Did I what?” Frankenstein faltered at the question. “I—wait, I don’t think that makes—”

“It’s an accident,” M-21 pressed. “Will you do it again?” 

Frankenstein wanted to argue his case, wanted M-21 to find fault in his actions. But his self-deprecating thoughts petered out at how unhappy M-21 looked. “Very well, I’ll try not to.” This he could promise at least.

“That’s good enough for me.” M-21 patted Frankenstein on his left cuff. “We’re good.” 

Frankenstein broke into a small smile as something inside him lifted. “You should go back to sleep. It’ll help with your recovery.”

M-21 frowned again and tried to tug at Frankenstein’s sleeve. “But I have to tell you something. I just forgot what.” 

“It’s alright,” Frankenstein replied as he freed his sleeve from M-21’s grasp, “you can tell me when you’re all better—”

“No, I really…have to tell you now.” M-21 turned silent, his eyes going half-mast that Raizel and Frankenstein assumed he was going to fall asleep in the next few minutes. 

“Cockroaches…” M-21 piped up, baffling Raizel and Frankenstein in the process, “are very hard to kill…right? I might have…cockroach genes somewhere.” He had to blink several times to drive the sleepiness away. “Can you check?”

Frankenstein’s tone was gentler as he answered, “I don’t need to check. You don’t have a shred of cockroach genes, I assure you.” 

“Really?” M-21 was scarcely able to stifle his yawn.

“Yes, really. Why would I lie to you about that?” Frankenstein gave in and carded his fingers through M-21’s hair. “Go back to sleep. When you wake up everything will be better.” 

“Okay.” M-21 shifted a little to find a more comfortable position. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, M-21,” Raizel and Frankenstein responded, though they were both aware it was almost 3:00 a.m. 

At last, M-21’s breathing evened out. Frankenstein withdrew his hand and sat back.

Really, this child. Not even twenty-five minutes awake and already making people go through a myriad of emotions. 

Frankenstein, what are cockroaches and why is M-21 comparing himself to them?

Ah, of course, Master doesn’t know what cockroaches are, Frankenstein realized. It’d be a shame if he encountered one of those abominations in the house or at school. 

So Frankenstein went into a lengthy talk about what cockroaches were, browsing the Net on his phone for some pictures and a video or two for Raizel to see. He even touched on their chances of survival in a nuclear holocaust.

We must have been remiss if he still views himself as small, dirty and insignificant. Whether due to delirious rambling, a brutally honest self-assessment or both, Raizel was not pleased M-21 referred to himself as such. 

Old habits die hard, especially if they’d been drilled into him for years, Frankenstein observed. I think M-21’s improved, though he’s bound to slip on occasion.

I would rather he forget about this. 

Master? There was an alarmed undercurrent in Frankenstein’s voice.

Do not fret, I have no intention of wiping M-21’s memory. Much has already been taken from him. I only wish he will not remember the bad parts. 

No mirror was required for Frankenstein to tell he was red as a tomato at the implication.

We really must find you a nickname, Raizel solemnly decreed. 

Master…

---------------------------------------------------------------- 

It took two more hours for M-21’s fever to completely break, and another hour for him to open his eyes for a second time that day.

Several details caught M-21’s attention once he was free from his sleepy haze. There was the rhythmic yet unobtrusive beeping of a machine. There were things attached to his left hand and his chest. And he was not in his room because the ceiling had a very nice shade of green to it— 

“Master, you were right about that color,” someone spoke, to which another voice hummed in reply.

The voices were very familiar. M-21 turned his gaze to the persons in his peripheral vision. “Raizel-nim…Boss…” he rasped before his throat acted up and he started coughing. 

Frankenstein poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the side table, added a straw and instructed M-21 to take slow sips.

“Where am I?” M-21 managed to ask afterwards in a frail voice. 

“In the lab,” Frankenstein replied. “The hospital wing, to be precise.”

“You finished it?” M-21 regarded the room appreciatively. They just finalized the blueprints for the area last time. “It looks great.” 

“Well, there was a very urgent need for it.” Frankenstein had to point out.

M-21 recalled the excruciating pain that overwhelmed him as everything went black. “How long was I out?” 

“It has been seven days since we rescued you,” Raizel answered.

“Seven days?” M-21 began to squirm in an attempt to push himself up from the bed, to Frankenstein and Raizel’s horror. 

“You shouldn’t do that.” Frankenstein placed a hand on M-21’s chest to halt his movements. “I’m going to raise your bed, alright?” He adjusted the head of the bed’s angle from fifteen degrees to thirty degrees and made sure M-21 was comfortable in the more elevated position.

Meanwhile, Raizel busied himself with pulling up and smoothing out M-21’s blanket. 

In the midst of this activity, they did not notice the door unlocking and the rest of the household spilling into the room.

“M-21!” Until Tao’s exclamation, that is. 

“Not so loud, please.” Tao’s voice rang over and over in his head and made M-21 wince.

“Sorry,” Tao apologized in a near-whisper while he and the others drew closer. “I mean, you’re awake…” 

“Yeah, took me a while, though.”

“Welcome back, nevertheless,” Takeo said the perfect words to describe the household’s sentiment. 

All eyes fell on Seira as she reached forward and brushed M-21’s hair to the side. “How are you feeling?”

M-21 blinked at the action. “Like I’ve been mauled by werewolves then thrown off a skyscraper at least four times,” he responded without a second thought. 

Tao and Takeo tried hard not to laugh and ended up snorting instead. Someone who sounded like Karias also chuckled.

M-21 gave the question a more serious consideration. “I’m mostly tired and sore. A little cold too. I’ll live.” 

“Hmph, as if you’d get taken down that easily,” Rael uttered, earning stares from the room’s occupants.

M-21 could feel his lips curling into a smirk. “Did you just compliment me?” 

“Don’t delude yourself, I’m merely stating a fact.” The lack of enmity in Rael’s words belied his crossed arms and arched eyebrow.

“If you say so.” M-21 did not push the subject. There was something else he had to find out, anyway. “What day is it? Raizel-nim says it’s been seven days since I got rescued.” 

So Regis told M-21 the exact day and date, and they could almost see the cogs turning in his head.

Then it clicked. “It’s exam week, aren’t you supposed to be at Ye Ran?” The question was addressed to everyone yet M-21’s eyes were set on Seira and Regis. 

“It’s still early so they all came to see you,” Frankenstein was quick to say before anyone could get a word in edgewise. A glance to the left and he saw the time.

“But they have to go now because the clock’s ticking.” He started herding the others out, leaving M-21 alone with Raizel. 

“I will be taking my exams next week,” was Raizel’s succinct explanation after spotting how puzzled M-21 appeared.

M-21 was well aware Raizel could do whatever pleased him. And he was likely still recovering from his injuries too. A pang of guilt began to bloom in M-21 at the reminder. 

Something touched his hand, disrupting his train of thought. Or rather someone.

“It is good to have you back.” Raizel continued to pat M-21 until Tao sauntered inside. 

Tao gave M-21 a jaunty salute. “Your nurse for the day reporting for duty.” He walked over to the chair beside Raizel and sat there. “Is there anything I can do for you or anything you need?”

M-21’s brows wrinkled at the niggling suspicion he was forgetting something important. It came to him when his eyes strayed to his hands. “My nails…” 

Nowadays, M-21 had to file his supposedly blunt, human nails whenever he changed back from his werewolf transformation because they retained sharpness akin to his claws. It was a recent development they discovered the hard way following an incident involving Frankenstein’s favorite vintage curtains, the sofa and Takeo’s newly-bought dress shirt.

“I filed them as soon as I got the chance.” Tao held M-21’s right hand and pressed his palm against M-21’s fingernails. He showed his uninjured palm. “See, all blunt. So no worries, you’re not gonna rip anything or poke anyone by accident.” 

“Thanks.” M-21 was relieved at having one less thing to be concerned about. “There’s a bathroom here, right?” After Tao confirmed this he went on, “Maybe I can at least wash my face—”

“Actually, there’s something we’ve been doing that’ll be easier now you’re awake.” Frankenstein joined the conversation. 

Raizel presumed this as his cue and left so Frankenstein had leeway to explain his plan.

M-21 was hesitant at first but granted his consent in the end. Knowing Frankenstein, Tao and Takeo were in charge of the more sensitive aspects of his care made matters less discomfiting. 

That and he really wanted a bath, never mind if it had to be done while he was in bed.

M-21 had a check-up as Tao carried out the preparations for his bath, and learned he ran a fever yesterday that broke only this early morning. Frankenstein declined to give further details and told him to focus on getting as much rest as possible. Although quite perturbed by the evasive response, M-21 chose to heed Frankenstein’s advice for now. 

----------------------------------------------------------------

Baths could surely do wonders, of this M-21 was convinced. He was still exhausted and achy everywhere, yet it felt like all was right in the world after his bath. 

Anyone’s mood will improve if they didn’t feel so grimy, M-21 mused as he watched Tao and Frankenstein make swift work of changing the bed sheet, blanket and pillows from his position on the sofa.

Tao asked if he was okay. “I’m fine,” M-21 replied before a yawn overtook him. He just woke up and he was already drowsy? 

M-21 did not protest when Frankenstein lifted him again. Tao was also close by and took charge of guiding his IV stand. Once he was settled in bed, Frankenstein extracted his blood and brought it to the lab for testing.

At M-21’s request, Tao readjusted the head of the bed’s angle to forty-five degrees like Frankenstein taught them. “You’re still cold?” He just finished putting a pillow behind M-21 and caught him shivering a little. 

M-21 nestled in his blanket. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“I have just the thing for you.” Tao went to the built-in closet and got what M-21 assumed was a blue gray shirt. Unfolding it revealed that it was a button-up shawl collar cardigan. 

“Up you go.” Tao slid his right arm behind M-21 to assist him in sitting. The cardigan was laid on M-21’s shoulders. “I hope this helps.” His eyes wandered to M-21’s left hand. “Ah, wait, I have to get your IV—”

“It’s alright, I probably shouldn’t wear the sleeves in case Boss needs to do something.” M-21 drew the cardigan closer. “I don’t remember owning anything like this.” 

“Well, now you do.” Tao smoothed the cardigan down M-21’s back.

M-21 held one of the sleeves and admired the complex patterns on it. The cardigan seemed handmade so it must be expensive. “Who am I supposed to pay for buying me this?” 

Tao laughed. “You’re not supposed to pay for your gift, silly.” He helped M-21 lie back and was now occupied with fixing his blanket.

M-21’s eyebrows rose. Was it just him or was there a bashful undertone to Tao’s statement? “You made this?” he hazarded a guess. 

“Well, yeah, so how is it?” Tao asked. “I used your uniform measurements as reference so the fit should be just right. And the color, I actually had several options but I think you look—”

“It’s warm.” M-21 was moved by the kind gesture. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Tao grinned from ear to ear. Choosing to create the garment rather than dwelling on his anxious thoughts on those nights sleep was elusive was all worth it. He dropped his voice. “Hey, just between you and me, I’m gonna knit something for everybody in time for winter.”

M-21 wore a conspiratorial expression. “My lips are sealed.” 

Just then, the door opened and everyone aside from Raizel and Frankenstein trooped in the room.

“Fresh from the garden.” Karias set a glass vase of colorful blooms on the console table in M-21’s view. 

Rael placed an olive green pillow with bamboo leaf patterns beside M-21. “Here, in case you need another one.” He pushed on before M-21 could say something. “It’s cheap, you don’t need to pay me. Not that you have to in the first place.”

“Uh, okay?” was the only response M-21 could think of. 

Tao prodded at the pillow to test its softness. “This is a nice looking pillow you got here. Where’d you buy it?”

“I was out on patrol and found it in a sale.” Rael’s chest puffed at his accomplishment. “The store staff said it’s a memory pillow. And it’s the last piece.” 

Tao deflated at that. “Aw, bummer, I was gonna buy one for me.” 

Takeo came pushing a food trolley and announced, “Seira and Regis prepared something good.” 

M-21 remembered the last meal he had was when he gave a burger to Kentas. No doubt, Ignes was sorely lacking in hospitality.

“We’re heading to Ye Ran now,” Seira declared on behalf of everyone. 

“See you later,” M-21 responded, Regis’ intense stare not escaping his notice.

“This time I will not get a mere passing grade on that subject,” Regis promised. 

M-21 smirked back. “I expect nothing less from you.”

Tao uncovered the bowl with M-21’s name once everybody left, and the scent of chicken soup wafted in the air. The eager look on M-21’s face made him smile. “I think breakfast is in order.” 

Which turned out to be easier said than done because M-21 could barely hold his hand up, much less feed himself. It only lasted for a split second, yet Tao did not miss his disappointed pout.

“Now don’t be hard on yourself, you just woke up after all.” Tao ladled out some of the soup into a smaller bowl and stirred it with a spoon. 

“Boss figured those bastards probably didn’t feed you anything and you’ve been asleep for quite some time so we oughta start off with something light.” Tao took hold of the bowl in one hand. “And I’m supposed to help you with this sort of thing—”

“You’re not going to say or do something ridiculous?” M-21 had to make sure for his sanity. 

“I have a self-imposed ban on strange ideas,” Tao replied then winked impishly. “So, nope, nothing about airplanes, I swear.”

In the lab, Frankenstein was immersed in organizing his tasks. Tests and data required careful study. Samples must be processed. Medications had to be formulated— 

“Are your tasks so urgent you cannot spare time for rest?” Raizel finally asked after watching him in silence for the last several minutes.

Frankenstein paused and offered what he thought was a reassuring but was actually a thin smile. “I can still last a few more hours, Master.” 

Raizel beheld Frankenstein’s weary countenance. “Just because you can does not mean that you should,” he echoed an adage he heard from Takeo not long ago. “M-21 is not in immediate danger, correct?”

At Frankenstein’s confirmatory nod Raizel continued, “I know there is much to do, but you need to take a break.” 

The dull pain at the back of Frankenstein’s head spiked for a moment, an affirmation he was in need of a respite. He sighed in defeat and did not put up a resistance when he was shepherded out of the lab. Raizel clasped his shoulder just as the elevator arrived.

“You did well. We would have lost M-21 if not for you.” 

A hint of trepidation slipped into their Link before Frankenstein cut off the connection.

Raizel contemplated Frankenstein’s reaction while making his way back to M-21 and Tao. Frankenstein had not been forthcoming about some details on M-21’s status, that much he knew. However, there was an appropriate time and place for that conversation. Right now, the soundest course of action would be to let Frankenstein have his well-earned rest. 

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M-21 spent most of the day sleeping. And he could not apologize enough for it. 

“You’re tired. You rest when you’re tired. Sleep is a great form of rest,” Tao justified not for the first time. “And we’re not here for you to entertain.”

Raizel hummed in agreement while patting M-21’s IV-free left hand. 

M-21 assumed dinner would be a quiet affair with just Takeo to keep him company. At least he would not be much of a bother now he could already eat on his own. Besides, the others would probably drop by after they were done having dinner.

Regis and Seira came with food, and right behind them were Tao, Karias and Rael with a long folding table and a trolley of chinaware, glasses and cutlery. Dinner was set within minutes. Raizel and Frankenstein made their appearance not long after. 

Seira arranged M-21’s overbed table and deposited a steaming bowl of vegetable soup on it. Meanwhile, Frankenstein finished serving Raizel his ramyeon.

Raizel surveyed everyone and satisfied with what he saw remarked, “It has been so long since we all had dinner together.” There were nods and sounds of agreement from the table. 

M-21 sat there in stunned silence.

Frankenstein caught his dumbfounded expression. “M-21, that soup’s best eaten while hot.” 

Seira paused with unfolding her napkin, her attention shifting to M-21. “Is there something wrong with the food?”

Takeo was already moving from his seat. “Do you need help?”

“No, it’s fine.” M-21 ignored the lump in his throat. “The food’s fine. I’m fine.” He grasped the spoon laid out for him. “I’m fine so let’s eat.” 

No one made a comment on how shaky his voice was.

After dinner, M-21 got ready for bed with Takeo’s aid while the others tidied up. Then he opted to sit and lean on the overbed table seeing he had no intention of sleeping anytime soon. 

Seira and Regis returned with their books and writing materials. Raizel also arrived with Tao carrying his school items. Earlier, Regis and Seira admitted they still needed to go over some subjects when M-21 asked how prepared they were for their exams. Raizel likewise let it slip that he was yet to do any studying.

“Are you sure we can do this here?” Regis confirmed as soon as he set his things on the round four-seater table a few steps away from the foot of M-21’s bed. “You’re supposed to be resting.” 

“It’s early and I’ve been resting almost all day,” M-21 said. “Don’t mind me.”

The Nobles decided to review on their own first for other subjects then go over their math lessons as a group afterwards. Tao and Takeo, and to some extent M-21, offered their assistance. 

The individual study session finished an hour later. Tao cracked open a math workbook and read one of the algebra problems aloud for Raizel, Seira and Regis to solve.

“The answer’s twenty-eight.” M-21 realized his slip-up as soon as the words left his mouth. “Oops.” 

Takeo flipped through the pages of another workbook until he found the answer key at the back. “Yeah, that’s correct.”

“As to why that’s the right answer…” Tao and everyone else waited for M-21 to explain, the Nobles even had their pens ready to jot down the solution. They only received a tired blink in reply. 

“Well, that’s for you to find out,” Takeo concluded and snapped the workbook closed.

“Let’s see.” Tao scanned the workbook in his hand. “Maybe you can also answer the rest of the problems on page eighteen?” 

M-21 dropped his chin on his arms and observed Seira, Regis and Raizel work with a tenacity fit for their worst enemies. The sounds of pens gliding on paper and pages turning were soothing to his ears.

“Then M-21 can help check your answers after you’re done. Right, M?” Tao set his sight on M-21. “Okaay, on second thought, maybe not…” 

The others looked towards M-21 and found him already asleep on the overbed table.

“M-21, you’re going to hurt your back sleeping like that,” Takeo warned. There was no reaction. He was about to walk over when M-21 stirred and raised his head. 

“I’m awake, I just closed my eyes a bit.” M-21’s bleary mien made his claim quite unconvincing.

Takeo came to M-21’s bedside and guided him so he was reclining on the bed. “Okay, but you should lie down now.” 

“I heard something about checking answers.” M-21 held the edge of his blanket after Takeo draped it on him.

Tao waved him off. “Never mind that, you should go ahead and sleep.” 

“Or I can wait for you to finish.” M-21 pulled the blanket down and made himself more alert.

There were glances exchanged among the household and a silent consensus to let M-21 have his way. 

Takeo stayed close by and witnessed how hard M-21 fought to remain awake. He stepped in after M-21 roused from nodding off for the fourth time. “That’s enough, M-21, you should really go to sleep—”

“I don’t want to sleep,” M-21 replied then corrected, “I can’t sleep, I’m not supposed to sleep.” 

Raizel and the others broke off from their task, sensing they were not talking about checking answers anymore.

“What do you mean?” Takeo kept his voice level and demeanor calm. “Is there a problem? Are you not feeling well?” He laid a palm on M-21’s forehead to check if he was coming down again with a fever, only to find he was cool to the touch. 

M-21 spoke not a single word. The fear that began to suffuse his features was loud enough.

“Come on, M, you gotta tell us what’s wrong,” Tao persuaded. They all gathered around M-21’s bed. “We have to know so we can help—” 

“What if this is just a very elaborate dream I cooked up and sleeping means I’ll wake and find myself still with the werewolves?” M-21 curled his hands on the blanket. “I got lucky before, but what if next time…” He struggled to keep from trembling. “No, I’d rather stay asleep and be here—”

Raizel closed the distance and enveloped M-21’s right hand with his left hand. “M-21, look at me, please.” 

M-21 did as asked, and Raizel was almost overwhelmed by how painfully young and afraid he was.

Raizel held M-21’s gaze and attested with quiet conviction, “You are home and you are safe.” 

M-21 continued to stare. Raizel wanted to assure him all the more that he was now out of harm’s way. “This is not a dream.” His grip on M-21 grew a little tighter. “You are home.”

After what seemed to be forever, M-21 blinked and dropped his eyes. The hand warmed by Raizel’s touch looked so interesting. “I’m sorry I got scared over nothing.” 

“If it frightens you this much then it is something.” Raizel squeezed M-21’s hand a little, coaxing him to let go of the blanket. Once M-21 slackened his hold, Raizel pulled the blanket to his chest and made sure he was snug under it.

“Sorry I doubted you,” M-21 whispered. 

“There is no need to apologize.” Raizel caressed M-21 on the head to brush his hair. “It is not even an entire day since you woke up. You are still healing. We will just have to make you remember should you ever get confused again.”

M-21 meant to point out that Raizel was in a rather talkative mood, but his mind kept coming back to how the hand running through his hair was firm and gentle all at once. It further anchored him, drew him into the moment and the truth it represented. 

“Sleep, M-21,” Raizel encouraged. “Tomorrow when you wake up, you will still be here. Home and safe.”

M-21 gave in at last to the exhaustion that seemed to have settled deep in his bones. Just as he was about to slip into oblivion, a stray thought came to him—or a memory perhaps—of someone reminding him there were people who care for him very much. 

Frankenstein was so engrossed with work and nearly lost track of time if not for the alarm on his phone. His hurried pace slowed as he moved closer to M-21’s room. After relaxing his shoulders and checking his hair did not resemble a bird’s nest, Frankenstein opened the door only to be met by a melancholic atmosphere.

That was strange. Dinner ended on an optimistic note and the study session should have progressed without a hitch as well. Though the way everyone sat close around M-21 as if to shield him from an unseen enemy, schoolwork forgotten… 

I will explain later, he deciphered as his questioning gaze connected with Raizel’s.

Frankenstein took extra care in examining M-21 so as not to disturb his slumber, and was pleased to find he showed no signs of relapse. 

“Alright, you know the drill, visiting hours are over,” Frankenstein declared while collecting Raizel’s things. “Takeo, Seira—”

“Boss,” Tao cut in, “can’t we stay here for the night?” 

“Tao,” Raizel spoke up, “it has been a long day. You and Regis should get some sleep.” For a final time he stroked M-21’s hair then walked away from his bedside.

“But…” Tao’s eyes sought help from the other RK members. 

There was an imperceptible shake of Seira’s head along with Regis’ resigned expression. Takeo was apologetic yet stayed mum.

“Right, it’s Seira and Takeo’s turn to stay tonight,” Tao conceded. “Sorry about that.” 

Regis and Tao excused themselves once they reached the ground floor. Raizel sauntered into the living room and Frankenstein followed suit. Several moments passed as they stood in front of the floor to ceiling windows, watching the night march on until Raizel recounted the incident with M-21.

“I would like to have a word with you about him,” Raizel disclosed afterwards. 

There was a subtle flinch then a nod of acquiescence from Frankenstein. “Of course, Master—”

“Tomorrow, that is.” Raizel turned to face Frankenstein. “As I said, it has been a long day. Yours might even be longer than ours.” He retrieved his books and papers then clasped Frankenstein on the arm, to the latter’s surprise. 

“Knowledge is a heavy burden. I do not mind you sharing the burden with me.” Raizel withdrew from Frankenstein’s personal space. “I shall see you tomorrow. Rest for now.”

“Yes, Master.” Yet Frankenstein lingered there, listening until the sound of Raizel’s footsteps vanished. His sigh was loud the instant he was certain no one was there to hear. 

Seems it’s time to let the proverbial cat out of the bag. Frankenstein sighed once more as he trudged his way to his room. Then so be it.

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M-21 was not sure what time it was, only that he should probably wake up right then.

So he cracked his eyes open and saw his bed was at an angle— 

Wait, not his bed. The ceiling was not his either. M-21 sat up, rubbing the drowsiness away as he tried to recall why he was at the hospital wing. The one that was just blueprints and not an actual fully furnished room as far as he knew—

The memories crashed down like a ton of bricks and then some. And the more M-21 remembered, the more his face became unbearably hot. 

Seira and Takeo were at the side observing M-21 stir and later grow red as the grogginess left him.

“Hey there”—Takeo flashed a reassuring smile at M-21— “good mor—” 

M-21 threw a look at Takeo and Seira, blushed even harder before mumbling, “Excuse me, I need to get my feelings in order.” He laid down again, dragging his blanket over his head as he did so. 

Takeo regained enough wits to reply, “Ah, sure, take your time.” 

What the hell did I just say? M-21 groaned inwardly. His brain-to-mouth filter was definitely still not up and running this early in the day, but damn this was a little too much.

You’re an adult, quit acting like a big baby, M-21 scolded. He drew deep, calming breaths and counted to ten and back in his head. 

“You okay in there, M?” Takeo queried. 

A minute passed, then another. Two hands snuck out from under the blanket and peeled it down until M-21 was back in view. 

“I said some weird things last night, didn’t I?” He sported a rosy tinge on his cheeks and refused to set his gaze on Takeo and Seira.

So that was it. Takeo met Seira’s eyes. “Something weird? I don’t remember anything like that.” 

Seira caught on fast. “I recall nothing of the sort either.”

M-21 did not budge, though it seemed his flush was already receding. 

“So, as I was saying, good morning,” Takeo repeated. Seira echoed a quiet greeting as well.

M-21 peeked at the pair. “Good morning.” Then he was up and moving to leave the bed because he wanted to go to the bathroom. Takeo was by his side in an instant. 

“I think I can manage.” M-21 got to his feet. The absurd amount of rest he had yesterday proved useful since his legs were no longer doing an impersonation of a jelly. He released his grip on the bed’s side rail and did not lose balance when he stepped forward. “Yeah, I can do this.”

Nevertheless, Seira and Takeo were within arm’s reach. M-21 eventually made it to the bathroom without incident. It was probably not even thirty steps, yet it was as if he won a prize to kick Crombel where it hurt. Takeo and Seira clapping at his small victory only cemented the notion. 

M-21 freshened up and concluded his routine with another splash of cold water on his face. That ought to reduce the chances of him making a scene again. Outside, there was muffled conversation. He finished toweling off and exited the area.

Takeo and Seira ended their report at the sound of the bathroom doorknob turning. M-21 emerged and froze in his tracks. 

“Good morning, M-21,” Raizel said. Apparently, M-21 was quite self-conscious about what happened the previous night, so he and Frankenstein agreed it was to M-21’s best interest that everybody carry on as normal.

M-21 resisted the urge to go back where he came from. Mustering all his confidence he responded, “Good morning.” His ears were burning, though. 

“Need help?” Frankenstein asked.

M-21 shook his head. “I got here on my own, I can get back there too.” And did just that to prove his point. 

“Good work.” Frankenstein was beaming as he handed M-21 a small plastic cup once he was seated on the bed. At M-21’s probing look he explained, “You’re supposed to take that at this time.”

M-21 spared a few seconds to watch a blue softgel capsule roll inside the cup as he tilted it from side to side. Finally, he popped the capsule in his mouth and drank the glass of water Frankenstein provided. 

The rest of the household paid their visit and came by again prior to leaving for Ye Ran.

Raizel and Frankenstein joined Takeo and M-21 for breakfast later that morning. Takeo just dried the last of the dishes they used when Frankenstein announced M-21 would be undergoing a check-up at the lab. 

“Might as well be on my way.” M-21 shed his blanket and dangled his legs off the bed. Given the distance and how sluggish he was, it would take him a while to turn up at the main lab.

“Hold that thought” —Frankenstein did not bother hiding how appalled he was by the idea— “who said you’re going to walk your way there?” He instructed Takeo to bring M-21 to the lab in half an hour then set off to make preparations. Raizel silently trailed after him. 

The thirty-minute mark soon drew close. “It’s almost time for your appointment. Wait here.” Takeo left the room and returned with a wheelchair.

“Your carriage has arrived, Sir,” was his solemn declaration that had M-21 snort in amusement. 

Once he confirmed M-21 was secure in the wheelchair Takeo disclosed, “I don’t think I’ve ever handled one of these.”

M-21 looked at him dead in the eye. 

Takeo smiled as confidently as possible. “But I did practice runs so we’re all set.”  

“Just don’t go be a speed demon on me. Wait” —M-21 started turning this way and that— “does this thing have a seatbelt?” 

“No, it doesn’t.” Takeo fake scowled at M-21. “And what do you take me for, a reckless driver?” Walking to the back, he held the wheelchair handles and gave a slight push. “Ready? Let’s head out, shall we?”

M-21’s grip on the armrests was tight as he braced himself. 

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“—I didn’t take you for a reckless passenger.” Were the words Frankenstein and Raizel heard the moment the main lab’s automatic door swished open to grant Takeo and M-21 entry. 

“Of course not, you were going way below the speed limit.” M-21’s answer had a rare, playful undertone to it.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know there’s a minimum speed required for wheelchair pushing,” Takeo quipped back. 

“Maybe I should do the driving next time—”

Frankenstein cleared his throat and the pair ceased with their banter. 

“We’re not late, are we?” M-21 inquired.

“You’re just in time.” Frankenstein tapped the examination table at his side. “Come, I need to get your vital signs before I do your scans.” 

The check-up was over in less than an hour. Frankenstein gathered the printouts he made and compared them to the ones in M-21’s file. He even opened several documents on his computer and looked over those as well.

In the meantime, M-21 sat waiting on the examination table. His file was not that thick, he pretty was sure of it. But then again, his stay in the Werewolf Island was no picnic and not painless. M-21 drew his eyes off Frankenstein and let them roam around the lab. 

Nothing was out of place. The room was spotless and—was that a crack on the ceiling? M-21 squinted a bit. It seemed part of the ceiling a few paces from where they were got chipped off after something hit it with great force.

There was a nudge on his arm, pulling M-21 from further contemplating on what caused the ceiling to sustain such damage. 

Takeo, sitting to M-21’s left, nudged him with his elbow a second time and murmured, “You okay?”

Raizel was likewise gazing at M-21 with concern from his seat across them. 

It was then M-21 noticed he had been fiddling with a button on his cardigan all the while. Anymore and he could have ripped it off.

“Yeah, I’m okay, I guess.” He smoothed the cardigan’s front and rested his right hand down the table. 

Takeo shifted a little, close enough for M-21 to lean on his shoulder if he wanted to.

“Alright.” Frankenstein brought the clipboard with the latest printouts as he strode over to M-21. “Two things. One, you haven’t suffered a relapse, which is good.” 

A relapse from what? However, it appeared Frankenstein was still not inclined to offer information and did not further elaborate his statement. M-21 restrained a huff. “And the other thing?”

“You’re well enough to be discharged, but under certain conditions.” Frankenstein hoped this news was enough to appease M-21 for the moment. He mentioned the conditions, emphasizing they must be strictly adhered to. “How are you feeling now?” 

Very confused, M-21 was close to blurting out. Instead, he did a brief assessment and reported, “A little tired, a little cold, a little sore and in dire need of a bath.”

A long soak in the bath would really be useful right now, what with all the things he needed to ponder on. Alas, M-21’s hopes were dashed after Frankenstein said he could only take a fifteen-minute shower at the most. 

“One more thing and we’re done.” Frankenstein entered the drug storeroom and came out with a plastic cup. He also made a quick stop at the refrigerator just outside the storeroom and grabbed a bottle of water. “Here you go.” Frankenstein held them out to M-21.

M-21 accepted the proffered items. Inside the cup was an oblong, light orange pill. “And this is?” 

“You’re supposed to take that after breakfast.”

Again, with the vague answer. M-21 stared long and hard at Frankenstein, who merely flashed another calming smile. He bit back his exasperated sigh and downed the pill. 

“And with that you’re free to go.” Frankenstein wrote something on the papers on his clipboard while M-21 transferred to his wheelchair. “Don’t forget what I told you. I’ll come by later to check on you, alright?”

Takeo was maneuvering the wheelchair to the door when M-21 requested that he pause. 

“Oh, by the way…” M-21 began.

Frankenstein would never admit even under duress how his blood ran cold at M-21’s nonchalant yet foreboding tone. 

M-21 extended his left pointer finger in the direction of the ceiling right above them, compelling Raizel, Takeo and Frankenstein to raise their eyes as well. “What happened to the ceiling?”

The three just about did a collective wince at not spotting earlier that the ceiling was damaged. 

“A minor accident,” was Frankenstein’s unruffled response. “I’m sure it won’t jeopardize the lab’s structural integrity, but we’ll do an inspection to be on the safe side.” He motioned for Takeo to move along. “Now off you go, you still need to pack.”

The last thing Raizel and Frankenstein heard as the door was closing was M-21 worrying they might take too long to pack, and Takeo guaranteeing they would not. 

The smile disappeared from Frankenstein’s face. He removed the printouts from the clipboard and retrieved M-21’s folder to add them there, only to find there was no more space. Rummaging in his supply cabinet, he obtained a new folder and filed the printouts page by page. After that, he organized the files in his computer and tidied around the lab. He even dedicated several minutes to examining the ceiling.

Raizel could have called out Frankenstein for dawdling, but chose to wait until he was no longer occupied with his tasks. 

To say Frankenstein was stalling would not be a lie. And his excuses were running out fast. Casting a look at the security monitor, he caught sight of M-21 and Takeo as they were boarding the elevator.

And there went his last excuse. Frankenstein pressed one of the buttons on the console to activate the door’s lock mechanism. 

Had he been a lesser man he would have poured himself a stiff drink to get through with what he was about to do. But Frankenstein was no such person, so he sat on his chair with all the grace of one carrying too heavy a burden.

Then he proceeded to let the proverbial cat out of the bag. 

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“Can you remind me again why the elevator’s just up to the ground floor?” Takeo requested. They were staring at the seemingly endless flight of stairs that would take them to the second floor. 

“Because normal houses aren’t supposed to have elevators?” M-21 replied.

“Guess there’s no helping it.” Takeo slipped off the duffle bag slung on his back and deposited it on the floor by the stairs. Digging in his pants pocket, he pulled out a black ribbon and gathered his ponytail into a bun atop his head. Takeo gestured for M-21 to hand over his pillow and it joined the duffle bag. 

M-21, catching drift of what Takeo had in mind, locked the brake on the wheelchair and stood. To his astonishment, Takeo knelt with his back towards him.

“Hop on.” 

“You’re kidding, right?” M-21 could not decide whether he was mortified or fascinated by the offer. Not once did M-24 make an attempt at something like this when he was alive.

“It’s this or I’m helping with your shower—” Takeo felt M-21’s arms go around his shoulders. The rest of M-21’s weight transferred to his back. 

“Let’s go before I change my mind.”

“Okay, just give me a minute.” Takeo interlocked his fingers under M-21’s legs and carefully rose to his full height. The urge to sock a certain Noble in the face came over him all of a sudden. Someone of M-21’s build and stature should not weigh this little. Shoving the feeling aside, Takeo plastered a smile and in a cheerful voice announced, “This noble steed will take you to your bedchamber at your behest, Sir.” 

“What,” M-21 asked between chuckles, “am I supposed to say ‘giddy-up’ or something?”

“Aha, there’s my cue.” Takeo started climbing the stairs and reached the second floor in no time. He continued down the hallway to their left after adjusting his hold on M-21. “How’s the view up there?” 

“It’s not so bad.” Some escaped strands from Takeo’s messy hair bun were tickling M-21 on the cheek. “I get to be taller than you just this once. There’s just a lot of magenta.” This back-riding business was not bad M-21 had to acknowledge, but he was nowhere near the size of Regis and not that light. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t fine with it.” Takeo smiled again for M-21, vowing never to breathe a word that no, carrying him was not so hard now because he probably had the same weight as Tao or at worse Rael. “We’re here.” 

They entered another hallway a moment ago and were approaching the nearest of the four doors there. Takeo lowered to a crouch to allow M-21 to alight then moved to the side.

M-21 blinked at the door and tried to recall what state he left his room in. Should he and Takeo go inside? The place must be covered by a layer of dust with how long he was gone. 

“Trust me, the door won’t bite you,” Takeo opined as he unbound the ribbon in his hair.

Well then, they would just have to do a bit of cleaning. M-21 grasped the doorknob and pushed, the door giving way with nary a sound. Stepping further inside, he held his breath against the dust and musty odor he was expecting. 

Sunlight shone through the open window. The curtains swaying in the breeze were different from what he remembered, as were his sheets, pillowcases and blanket. M-21 headed to the oak desk beside the window, trailed a finger on its surface and confirmed it was free of dust. The bottle of home-made reed diffuser on the mini cabinet on top of the desk had been replenished, spreading a touch of lavender scent in the space.

M-21 blinked again, the idea someone found time to clean his room finally sinking in. “Who?” 

“Definitely not me.” It was a story Takeo would rather leave for the concerned person to tell. “Maybe the Cleaning Fairy did it,” he added in jest before exiting the room.

“Yeah, right, and maybe the Tooth Fairy’s real,” M-21 retorted as he stripped off his cardigan to hang it on the back of his desk swivel chair. After that, he walked over to his bed and sat down— 

—and straight away regretted it, as the desire to roll around while wrapped in his blanket invaded his thoughts like that earworm of a song Tao kept singing a few weeks ago.

What. The. Hell. He needed that shower, stat, or else he would next be thinking about bouncing on the b— 

M-21 was the picture of calm as he got up and made a beeline for the walk-in closet section of the bathroom. Apparently, they had a Laundry Fairy as well, if the vacant laundry hamper by the corner was an indication.

Takeo returned from downstairs and emptied the duffle bag of various articles of clothing to stow them in the cabinets. M-21 finished assembling his change of clothes and found Takeo puttering around in the wash area arranging toiletries on the sink. 

“I’m going to have my shower now,” M-21 clarified to avoid any misunderstanding.

“Okay.” Takeo took long strides to the shower enclosure at the other end of the room and waited outside. 

M-21 was positive his ears were turning red. Was Takeo serious about helping him shower? “Alone? As in all by myself—”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” Takeo slid open the enclosure’s door to check if everything was in order before going on his way out at last. Sticking his head around the bathroom door he told M-21, “I won’t lock this so just holler if you need anything.” 

“Right, just don’t come barging in,” M-21 reminded just in case. He did a loud exhale once the door closed behind Takeo. Seriously, sometimes the guy was too helpful for his own good.

M-21 stepped under the shower, letting the warm cascade of water soothe and invigorate him. He set about laying down the facts he gathered so far. 

For one, people were acting a little unusual, though not in a bad sort of way. They were kinder, more tolerant.

If the fray with the werewolves occurred when he was still part of the Union he would have been left for dead, useless throwaway he was to them. 

And these people he was currently with, who he thought were only housemates, went out of their way to rescue him. Like he was someone worth all the trouble. Like he was someone important.

Maybe this was what it meant to be part of a family. 

The water was definitely not the reason why his face was scalding now.

And then there was Frankenstein. M-21 sobered at the man’s confounding behavior of late. 

Frankenstein usually made time to explain things to him without being prompted. Heck, he even asked for M-21’s consent and opinion. This norm was a far cry from the Union’s modus operandi of doing whatever the hell they wanted because M-21 and his comrades were trash and therefore not entitled to anything.

Maybe Frankenstein was too busy to talk. Maybe he needed more information and was waiting until he had everything so he could tell M-21 in one go. Maybe he deemed M-21 not ready. 

M-21 raised a hand. Could it be there was still something wrong with him? He was telling the truth when he said he was a little tired, sore and cold. These complaints aside, he felt fine. Although his fingers and wrist did seem a little too thin upon closer inspection.

Anyone who was out of commission for an entire week would be the same, right? 

So maybe there was nothing to worry about and he was just overthinking.

If that’s the case then why won’t Frankenstein— 

There were several knocks on the door, followed by Takeo telling him he only had seven minutes to go.

M-21 puffed out a breath before running his hands through his hair to start rinsing off. 

What to do, what to do…

For now, he would let the unusual treatment from everyone else slide seeing it mostly involved harmless acts. Unless someone decided to outclass Rael’s odd gift giving stunt. M-21’s eyes grew wide then he caught himself and dismissed the idea. No one would absolutely try to kiss him. Why would anyone even want to do that in the first place? 

Okay, time to stop with the weird, off tangent thoughts. M-21 ended his shower and left the enclosure. The rest of the bathroom was a little chilly, so he toweled off and dressed as fast as he could in his typical attire of a white T-shirt and black pants.

What about Frankenstein? M-21 draped a towel on his head, rubbing his hair with one hand while he retrieved his dirty clothes from the basket where he placed them. After dropping the clothes in the laundry hamper, he moved to the bench in the middle of the walk-in closet to resume working on his hair and his options. 

He could try asking the others. But if Frankenstein covered his bases, which he probably did if he was this tight-lipped, then they were most likely instructed not to tell him anything.

Waiting was his best choice. Frankenstein probably had reasons for not yet giving him a proper explanation. Besides, it was still early. Maybe he would tell M-21 later in the day. 

After all, M-21 had the right to know what was going on with him.

Or maybe he did not and he was too demanding— 

M-21 gave his hair a too vigorous rub. This was not the Union—

Two knocks on the door. “M, are you done?” Takeo called out from the other side. “Can I come in?” 

“Yeah, go ahead.” M-21 sighed and dropped his arms, already worn out from holding them up for a quite some time. It was in this state that Takeo found him.

A worried expression crossed Takeo’s face. “What’s wrong?” Already he was checking M-21 for signs of illness or injury. 

“Nothing much, just my arms deciding to quit a job midway,” was the rueful answer from M-21.

Takeo removed the towel on M-21’s head. “Your hair’s still dripping. Let me.” He commenced gently patting M-21’s hair and once satisfied it was dry enough inquired, “Think you can tolerate a little bit of noise?” 

“Probably,” M-21 answered. “My ears aren’t sensitive anymore. Why?”

“Be right back.” Takeo laid the towel next to M-21 then hurried off. He returned soon after wielding a hair dryer that he plugged into the power outlet on the floor beside the bench. 

“Uh, where did that come from?” M-21 stared at the hair dryer in Takeo’s hand like it was some kind of alien contraption for torture purposes.

“It’s mine, why do you look so surprised?” Switching on the device Takeo explained, “This doesn’t make so much noise like the others and it’ll dry your hair really quick. Want to give it a try?” 

M-21 had his misgivings but if there was one thing he was sure of, it was Takeo would not subject him to needless pain. “Okay.”

That and he could just add this to the growing list of novel experiences he had been having so far. 

“Don’t worry, this won’t hurt at all. But” —Takeo paused for emphasis— “do tell me if it gets uncomfortable, okay?” He adjusted the hair dryer’s setting to medium before raking his fingers through a section of M-21’s locks and raising it to begin his task.

And as promised, the procedure ended in a few minutes. Takeo kept moving M-21’s hair this way and that, nonetheless. 

Finally figuring out what he was doing, M-21 pointed out, “I have a comb, you know.”

Takeo beamed at M-21. “It’s fine. Your hair’s manageable enough not to need one.” That aside, he was mulling over if telling M-21 his hair was ridiculously soft would count as offensive.  

“And we’re done,” Takeo announced after deftly arranging said hair into its usual side swept style. Then he disappeared into the bath area to hang M-21’s towel on the heated towel rail mounted on the wall. 

Meanwhile, M-21 drew near the sink and studied his reflection on the mirror. The person who gazed back had dark circles under his eyes and a rather pasty complexion.

Yup, definitely looked the part of someone who’d gone through the wringer. 

Takeo showed up and clapped M-21 on the shoulders. “See, no need for a comb to fix your hair. Now come on” —he made M-21 face left and started to mock push him towards the open door— “you’re supposed to be on bed rest.”

“Alright, I’m going already.” M-21 allowed himself to be led and crossed the threshold to his bedroom. 

No sooner than he released M-21 that a chill swept through Takeo, freezing him where he stood—

“Don’t hold him down.” Frankenstein ordered. 

Takeo let go.

Blood was everywhere. On his shirt. The operating table. On the floor. 

M-21 kept bleeding even as he was racked with seizures.

Then he went still. 

A shrill beep filled the room.

Takeo bit the inside of his cheek— 

—and reeled from the onslaught. He gripped the doorframe to get his bearings and drove the memory far away into the dark recesses of his mind. Takeo somehow quietly shut the door after him, eyes going frantic in his search until he found his target.

M-21, standing in front of the window, had his back to him and appeared to be holding something aloft. 

He’s right there. Takeo could feel his nerves steadying at the sight as he moved closer.

M-21 lifted his cardigan, gave it a shake before slipping it on. The garment was an instant source of warmth and he made a mental note to consider buying a spare once he was allowed to leave the house. 

And very much alive. Takeo let out a slow, inaudible breath. He reached out with his left hand—

M-21 finished buttoning the cardigan and began running his hands down the sleeves to straighten them, wondering why Tao designed them in a way that only his fingers were visible if he did not fold over the cuffs at least once. Not that he minded since his hands would get warm too— 

Something dropped on M-21’s head and started mussing his hair. M-21 pressed his lips into a thin line as he turned to scowl at the culprit.

The somewhat annoyed expression M-21 wore almost had Takeo bursting into laughter. To his delight, there was even a pout thrown in the mix. He ruffled M-21’s tresses once more before restoring them to their proper arrangement.  

“There, there, it’s already fixed so don’t get mad, okay?” Takeo was very grateful his voice did not tremble in the slightest. Turning away from the window, he went over to M-21’s bed and peeled back the comforter. 

“Now, I really hate to burst your bubble, but bed rest involves actually getting in bed.” Takeo stopped as a thought occurred to him. “Unless you need me to—”

M-21 raised a hand. “Don’t finish that sentence.” Call him paranoid, but he had a hunch Takeo was planning to carry him like some princess in distress. “I’m perfectly capable of getting myself there.” 

He padded the rest of the way and plopped down the bed. After stretching his legs out M-21 asked, “I don’t have to lie down for this right?”

“I think lying back’s good enough.” Takeo stacked three pillows against the headboard and completed the pile by adding the one from Rael on top. “Here you go.” 

M-21 scooted backwards and settled on the pillows, his gaze following Takeo’s movements as he pulled the comforter into place.

“Is there a problem?” The question was very hypocritical coming from him, and Takeo could only hope his momentary shift in disposition would go unnoticed. 

“That’s my line.” It was fleeting, but M-21 was certain Takeo’s haunted eyes were not a figment of his imagination. How could he fail to recognize the visage he and his comrades wore more often than not?

Takeo deposited the pillow he set aside on M-21’s lap and sat on the mattress, angling slightly so he was facing him. 

“I’ve never been better.” A smile sprang from Takeo’s lips, small yet sincere. He flattened a rumple on the blanket and kept running his hand over the spot even though it was already smooth. “But there is a small…favor I’d like to ask.”

M-21 tilted his head to the side. A favor? “Go on.” 

Takeo gathered his thoughts for a few seconds then got down to it in the most benign tone he could manage. “I know it’s part and parcel of our lifestyle, but can you please try not to scare us too much?”

M-21 jerked back. “Excuse me?” 

Dead set on getting his point across Takeo continued, “What I’m trying to say is if you feel like you’re about to pass out, give us some kind of signal so we can do something.”

There were quite a few reasons why M-21 acted the way he did at the Werewolf Island. Now they seemed trivial against the fact he caused people undue worry. So he kept the words to himself. 

“I’m not telling you this because I’m mad.” Takeo hastened to add at M-21’s downcast eyes. “I don’t think anyone is. We’re just worried—”

M-21 flinched and reflexively pinned his arms against his stomach. 

“—and that’s part of the territory.” Casting aside the sinking feeling in his heart, Takeo began to pat the area on the blanket where M-21’s knee was. “We’re supposed to be concerned about you.”

Why was it so hard for M-21 to believe there were people outside of the M-Series who also care for him? 

M-21 raised his eyes and met Takeo’s earnest stare. “I…I’m really not sure if I can make that kind of promise.”

“The operative word is ‘try’.” Takeo reached further so he was now patting M-21 on the head. “Tao said it last night and I think it’s worth repeating. You have to tell us if there’s a problem so we can help. Because we might miss the signs and it might be too late.” 

“And if I have to carry you around on my back then I will.” Takeo meant every word of it.

“Okay, I’ll try,” M-21 agreed at last. It was a really small thing considering all the trouble he already caused. 

“Great, then we have ourselves a deal.” Takeo was almost tempted to pull M-21 in a headlock so he could ruffle his hair again. Maybe he would do it once M-21 was fully recovered.

There was a lull in conversation, so Takeo took the chance to grab M-21’s swivel chair and bring it by the bed. He remembered something just as he sank down the cushion. “By the way, your editor called last Monday.” 

The news had M-21’s wandering mind come to a screeching halt, only for it to begin racing as he scrambled to recall his progress on a certain task.

“Now calm down, I already explained things to her so you don’t have to worry about your deadline,” Takeo said before M-21 could go into full panic mode. “Told me you should just focus on getting well.” 

That M-21 had been moonlighting as a writer for an online magazine for about eight weeks now was one of three things only Takeo and Tao had the privilege of knowing.

M-21 sagged against the pillows at hearing he was granted a reprieve. “Okay, but I should at least send an email—” 

“Nah-ah, Boss said no gadgets for you. Bed rest, remember?” Takeo stood his ground despite the frown that appeared on M-21’s face. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at M-21 like he was sizing him up.

“So…apparently you’re writing for that magazine Tao likes to read.” M-21 had yet to reveal exactly what sort of writing he did and for whom. Having his name listed as M-21’s emergency contact person had its perks. 

“What a coincidence.” M-21 just deadpanned. What the hell.

“Too bad you guys are using pen names.”  

“That’s for security purposes. Wouldn’t want people coming over or sending stuff to houses,” M-21 stressed. Never mind there was not a snowball’s chance in hell of those happening to a newbie like him. 

“And there’s this writer he’s been following. He’ll probably ask if you know that person’s real name.” Takeo gave the pen name Tao mentioned.

M-21 kept his expression neutral. “I’m not allowed to say. We have a non-disclosure clause.” 

And there was nothing to tell because he did not know his real name either.

“Right.” Takeo folded his hands on his lap or else he would be ruffling M-21’s hair again. “Anyway, your secret is safe with me.” 

“Thanks. So, about that email—”

Takeo leveled a look of reproach at M-21. “What part of ‘No’ didn’t you understand? You’re supposed to be resting, you can do something else that’s not tiring or stressful.” 

“Fine, I’ll just do some light reading.” M-21 faced forward and squinted at the contents of the floor to ceiling bookshelf on the other side of the room.

“So, what will it be?” Takeo was already out of his seat and standing beside the bookshelf. 

“The one at the leftmost corner, third shelf.”

The book Takeo extracted from said location was rather hefty. “I don’t think ‘War and Peace’ is light reading, M. And I mean that in the figurative and literal sense.” He rapped on the hardbound’s front cover. 

“You hit someone over the head with this and that person will end up with a concussion. Sorry, but I’m going to veto you on this one.” Takeo returned the book and with a hand on his chin inspected the rest of M-21’s collection.

“You’re really building yourself a library here.” He started running a finger along the spines of each book. “Hugo isn’t light reading, either. And you only have ‘Macbeth’ from Shakespeare. Now’s not a good time for Poe as well. Ah, here’s one.” Takeo pulled out a paperback and held it for M-21 to see. “’Aesop’s Fables’.” 

“I read that three times already.”

“Oh, okay.” The book was stowed again and Takeo went on with his hunt until a red and black tome made him pause. 

“What do we have here?” His brows wrinkled as he recited, “’Grimm’s Fairy Tales’? Just the name already sounds stressful.”

M-21 was shaking his head. “I didn’t know ‘Cinderella’ could be so morbid until I read that.” 

“Then it’s definitely a ‘no’ for this one.” Takeo crouched so he could check the lower shelves. A title near the middle of the second shelf caught his attention.  

“Wait a sec, is this a tankobon?” He took the item in question and skimmed through random pages. “Isn’t this about the kid with a fox demon?” 

“Yeah,” M-21 replied, “but I don’t feel like reading about ninjas right now.”

“Nothing you want to read down here?” Takeo found another tankobon for a different title. “Not even this one about death gods in kimono?” He got out a third tankobon. “Or this story about an armored alchemist?” 

At M-21’s negative response, Takeo straightened and zeroed in on the higher shelves. Something in the fourth shelf made him do a double take. “Whoa, you have ‘Genji Monogatari’?”

“I haven’t read that yet because my Kanji is atrocious.” M-21 said. “You can borrow that if you want.” 

Takeo had a glow in his eyes as he laid hold of the first of the two volumes that comprised the book. “Are you sure? I mean, I’ll be the first to read this instead of you.”

“I’m sure. Just no spoilers, please. Can I have the fifth book from the right on the fourth shelf?” M-21 was looking forward to reading that one, but then Kentas and the rest of the werewolves and that crazy Ignes happened. 

Takeo found and examined the book M-21 requested. “Hmm, a collection of Korean myths and legends. And it’s got illustrations, too. I guess this is safe.”

He went back to M-21’s bedside and placed the hardcover in his outstretched hands, which the latter began to read straight away. Takeo smiled to himself as he settled once more in his seat and opened his own book, likewise keen on immersing himself in a good read.

#Noblesse #Downtime Chapter 2 #The Lost Cub Series #the most self-indulgent I've written so far

[kestrellavellan]

Time Past - Chapter 48

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: NSFW, torture aftermath, suicide mention, rape mention

Weekly updates going forward until the story is finished.  Find this fic in its entirety on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423880/chapters/25595154

Kestrel jerked awake, sitting straight up, hand clasped around his own throat protectively to ward off wolf fangs.  It did nothing to restrain the strangled cry that escaped.  Heart pounding, breath heavy, his eyes darted around his surroundings, wide with fright.

It only took a moment for Kestrel to recognize the room that caged him in.  He was back in his cushiony prison in the Pavus manor.  Long shadows shifted along the floor and walls, seeped in the night’s darkness.  

He glanced at the window but nothing blocked the filtered moonlight through the opaque glass.  Where were the shapes coming from?  A chill ran down his spine when one shadow branched off and sprouted defined, taloned fingers.  Kestrel watched in horror as the hand stretched wide before snapping into a fist.

Too terrified to scream, he scrambled to the far corner of the bed, up against the wall, and yanked the blanket over his head.    He cowered like a child haunted by nightmares, straining to hear over his own panicked panting loud in his ears.

A soft, repetitive tapping echoed through the quiet room.  

Kestrel held his breath.

Several moments passed before the sound repeated, louder this time.  Closer.  Like nails cascading on wood.

Kestrel shrunk as much as he could into the bed, back plastered against the wall.

His breath came in quick, hysterical bursts, and his heart threatened to leap from his throat, pulse erratic in his neck.  

Something was in the room with him.

Heavy talons thudded on the floor next to the bed, closer still, louder still, before slowly digging in and dragging, clawing, scraping at the wood.  

His heart pounded on the walls of his chest, the noise rivaling his shaky, loud gasps.  Please go away.  Leave me alone, Kestrel wanted to scream but his voice was buried under his terror.

And then as quickly as it had started, it stopped.  Silence.  No more scratching, no more tapping, just blessed silence.

Kestrel sagged against the wall in relief.  Whatever it was decided to pass him by.

As the blanket started to slip from the top of his head, there was a sudden pressure next to him on the bed.  A low, threatening growl pressed against his ear, warm, only the blanket separating Kestrel from whatever beast sat on the other side.  Warm, fetid breath bled through the thin barrier.

He froze.  This was it.  This would be his death, massacred in the Pavus countryside manor by some stray monster.  With a shuddering breath, he released his terror and closed his eyes, ready for what was to come.

“Master Kestrel?”

The blanket was pulled away and light flooded everything.  Kestrel blinked against the sudden brightness and confusion.

Once his eyesight acclimated, Kestrel’s watery eyes met the curious blue gaze of Dalish.

“Are you okay?” he asked, brow furrowed in concern.

Sunlight poured through the window, illuminating every corner.  A quick look around the room confirmed there were no monsters in waiting. In fact, the pink and yellow striped wallpaper looked especially cheery in the warm light.  No beasts of evil lurking here.

“Master Kestrel?”

The worry in Dalish’s voice pulled Kestrel’s attention back to the boy perched a foot away, even as he struggled to respond.  “I...I’m okay.”

Dalish’s relief was tangible.  A huge grin broke out on his face as he said, “After everything Master put you through, I wasn’t sure you’d find your way back.  No one has before.  Maybe it was because he interrupted…”  He trailed off in thought.

Kestrel used the silence to grasp at vague memories floating along his thoughts, frowning at how difficult such a simple task was.

“You seem lost, Master Kestrel.”

“...what happened?”  There were so many hazy memories, he wasn’t sure what was real.  Corypheus, Harrier, Dorian, Solas?   It was all a jumbled mess.  Was he clawed?  Whipped?  Raped? Throat ripped out?  So many terrors and they all seemed so real.

“You were forced to take red lyrium and tortur-”

That wasn’t what was important.  “Dorian.  Was Dorian there?” he asked, interrupting.

“Magister Pavus?  Yes...he arrived and was tortured too after making a deal with Mistress Aquinea.”  Noticing Kestrel paling, he quickly continued, “But he’s okay now!  I saw to his healing and then won’t be any major scars from the whipping.”

A memory of Dorian surfaced, smiling at him while his blood sprayed through the air.  He’d wished Dorian’s agreement with his mother didn’t follow right after.  Kestrel groaned.  “Two months, right?”

Dalish nodded his head.  “But he said he will figure out a way to get you out of here, Master Kestrel.  He doesn’t want you to worry.  He will come up with a new plan to free you.”

A plan?  Wait, that sounded familiar.  Didn’t he have a plan of his own...?  His memory was still a haze, likely from the lyrium, like pulling a stuck boot from a pond of mud.

“He loves you very much.  I can tell,” Dalish said with a soft smile.

Give up the one person I love most to protect the one person I love most.  His conversation with Solas came rushing back to him.  But maybe that wasn’t necessary if Dorian had something else in the works?  No, he couldn’t depend on Dorian’s plan.  Look where that’d gotten them last time.  Dorian had been beaten and forced into a deal he felt he couldn’t refuse.  What would they hold over him if another failed rescue attempt happened?  Dorian might not survive another attempt, and if he lost Dorian...

He needed to be the one to save both of them, even if it meant they’d never see each other again.  That meant getting a plan started.

“Dalish, what happens to the slaves when they die here?”

Dalish averted his gaze with a frown.  “Why are you asking that?” he muttered. Kestrel reached out and took the boy’s hand.  The skin to skin contact sent an unpleasant chill up his arm, but he persisted.  Dalish was harmless.  “It’s important.  I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

Toying with the hem of his shirt, Dalish said softly, “Their bodies are taken to the edge of the woods.  By the pond.  There’s a...a pit there.  The guards carry the body to the pit, and I burn them.”

“How many guards help you?”

“Usually only one or two.”

This plan just might work.  Kestrel crushed the hope fluttering in his chest before it could grow, focusing on his next question.  “Are you always the one who cremates their bodies?”

Dalish glanced at him, tears in his eyes.  “I don’t like these questions, Master Kestrel.”

“I…”  He’d shifted into Inquisitor mode without even realizing it.  Grimacing, Kestrel apologized, “I’m sorry, Dalish.  I know it must’ve been tough for you to do that each time.”

The apology seemed to evaporate Dalish’s unshed tears.  He forced out a small, sad smile.  “If I didn’t do it, no one else would.  And I...I made them a graveyard, you know.  Once their bodies are burned, I collect their remains and bury them.  So there’s something of them that’s left.  No one should be forgotten.  Even a slave.”

Kestrel scooped Dalish into an immediate hug.  What a horrible task to do, and yet Dalish did it without complaint.  How could someone remain so kind-hearted after all the trauma he’d experienced?  He’d failed that test himself, becoming bitter and angry after everything he’d been forced through.  Maybe that was a child’s resilience in play.

Dalish squeaked in surprise but settled against him readily enough, tucking his head under Kestrel’s chin.

“Leave with me, Dalish,” Kestrel said.  “I’ll have a way to escape soon, and I want you to come with me.”

“The protector…” Dalish whispered.

Mishearing, Kestrel said, “Of course I’ll protect you.”

Dalish snuggled close and said into his chest, “I made a promise to you, Mast-”  He stopped himself short.  “...Kestrel.  I’ll runaway with you, so long as you stay my protector.”

He hadn’t done a good job of protecting Dorian.  He wasn’t sure he even deserved to be viewed as a protector anymore, but Dalish needed him, and he would never abandon a person in need.

“I promise,” he breathed into Dalish’s blonde hair, holding him close.

They remained like that for a while, enjoying the shelter and peace they offered to each other, even if only temporarily.

****************

Kestrel’s daily schedule proceeded normally as if he hadn’t been tortured within an inch of his life and had his mind warped by red lyrium.  The demon returned to milk him each morning.  Kestrel no longer fought the process and lost himself to the demon’s ministrations.  At least the creature humored him and assumed Dorian’s visage.  They both understood the sessions went easier when “Dorian” was present.  

Dalish collected blood every several days in smaller doses, shipped off for whatever nefarious purposes it was used for.  Kestrel didn’t care about that either.  He spent day after day locked in his room, visitors limited to only those two - Dalish and the demon.  Even Morven stayed away.

His nights were spent sleepless, hiding from the shadows that plagued him into the early morning before he passed out from exhaustion.  

Time crept by.

Almost a week later, a loud knock on his locked door interrupted the boring monotony of his day.

“Kes?”

He’d recognize that voice anywhere.  “Dorian!” he cried as he ran over to the door and tried the handle.  It wiggled but didn’t give, still locked.

“After some insistence, mother agreed to let me speak with you, even if we’re not permitted to see one other.”

Kestrel pressed his forehead against the wooden surface, certain he could feel Dorian’s warmth from the other end.  “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Am I okay?  You were the one who was nearly killed last I saw you.”  His voice broke and he paused.  “I’m just thankful to hear your voice, amatus.”

“See?  He’s fine.  I’m not even allowed to see him anymore,” Morven hissed from the other side of the door.  “Luckily, Mistress was feeling generous today, letting you visit his room after agreeing to her pick of your bride.”

What?  Kestrel’s heart stopped.  He was the one who was supposed to marry Dorian, not some woman selected by his mother.  He clenched his hand into a fist, the weight of his ring digging into his finger.  “You already have your wife selected…?”  He tried to sound anything but devastated by the news.

“I promise you, it means nothing, Kes.”  Dorian was quick to reassure as best as he could through the wooden barricade.

“Lucky bastard has netted a gorgeous woman, pet.  And she comes from good breeding with a strong magical lineage.  Young too,” Morven said loud enough for Kestrel to hear.  “Bet after a couple rounds with her, he’ll forget all about you.”

There was a loud crash and the door shook with the force of a sudden impact.

Morven laughed, right on the other side of the door.  “Someone’s a bit touchy.  I’ll overlook the rough treatment only because the slaves are still scrubbing your blood off the dungeon floor.  But try that again, and I’ll have you right back down there.”

“It’s okay.  I know it’s not true,” Kestrel said, earning another chuckle from Morven.

“Amatus, I...I must be leaving now, but I’ll stop by for another visit as soon as I can.  Don’t worry.”

The last sentence held an extra weight behind it.

He wouldn’t worry any more.  He knew exactly what he needed to do.  “Goodbye, ma vhenan,” he whispered into the warm wood.

****************

The sunlight filtered through the opaque glass, settling on Dalish and Kestrel in the oversized bed.  Dalish sat on the edge, monitoring the collection of blood from Kestrel’s arm as he laid on his back.  Subtle shapes shifted along the ceiling, but he’d grown used to those over the last few weeks.  Shadows haunted him even during the day now.

“How are you feeling?” Dalish asked, voice soft with concern.

“Fine.  I’m fine.”  Truth was, his head spun, and nausea nibbled at his stomach from the blood draw, but Dalish had to gather a certain amount each week.  If he didn’t return with the correct, ample amount, he’d face punishment, not Kestrel.  He was off-limits for the time being.  Safe from any torture while Aquinea waited for her deal with Dorian to be upheld.  Good thing he’d be seeing that never happened soon.  If Atronis would ever show up.

The door flew open so hard, it slammed into the far wall.  Both Kestrel and Dalish startled, jostling the needle loose from his vein and sending a spray of blood outward in protest.  Kestrel sat up even as Dalish clamped a hand over the wound, pushing healing magic into it.

Atronis stormed in, cheeks flushed with anger.  As soon as his eyes found Kestrel, they narrowed.  “You...this is all your fault!”

Wish and you shall receive.  Maybe he should’ve wished Atronis away at that moment.  It would save Kestrel the inevitability of punching him.

“Do you have any idea the trouble you’ve caused me this last week?” he snarled.

“What?  From my prison of a room?” Kestrel said, keeping the snark from his voice, but not the sarcasm from his words.

“You know what I mean!”

Kestrel tilted his head, a small smile playing across his lips.  It was a dangerous thing, and Dalish instinctively pulled away.  “I’m a bit dense, you know.  Why don’t you spell out how I’ve managed to inconvenience you when you’re the one who put me here.”

Atronis floundered for a moment, sputtering and rolling his eyes.  Finally, he brushed Kestrel’s words aside and continued his rant, “My slaves have been bothering me nonstop over the last week to come see you.  I kept insisting I had better things to do.  And, honestly, they shouldn’t even be talking to me that way!  This morning, I woke up, and they were all gone!  Only a letter was left behind in their absence.  It instructed that I was to visit you and…”  He paused to glance behind him out the open doorway and the guard positioned right outside.  He inhaled deeply, taking a moment to calmly shut the door.  As soon as the barrier was in place, he whispered, “Bring this package to you.  Discreetly.  How did you manage to get my slaves to do your bidding from here?”  The volume of voice rose with each word, incredulous.

“They’re not doing my bidding, I assure you.”

Atronis retrieved a bundle from behind his robe and tossed it on the loveseat.  “That’s not even the worst of it!  Do you know what I had to agree to do to even have this time with you?”

By the disgusted look on his face, Kestrel had an idea.  Still, he owed this man a lot.  “No, not a clue,” he answered, sliding off the bed.  He quickly grabbed the bedpost as his vision darkened around the edges.

“I have to...to…!”  Atronis flushed for an entirely different reason this time.

Collecting his bearings, Kestrel took a few steps towards Atronis, a pleasant smile plastered on his face.  “You have to…?”

Atronis held up a small vial, and Kestrel swore his skin turned a bit green.  “I must collect you...your…”

A few more steps.  “You’ve never been at such a loss of words before.  Spit it out.”  The closer he crept, the more his calm started to crumble, revealing an endless pit of screaming rage.

Atronis stumbled back a step into a chair as Kestrel stalked too close.  “Your spunk.  I’m to collect a vial of your spunk before I leave here.”

“Poor you,” murmured Kestrel, fist already balled and heading towards Atronis’ revolted features.  It connected with a satisfying crunch, sending the taller man staggering back, clutching his face.  Atronis never saw the attack coming, never considering Kestrel a physical threat to him.

“Poor, poor you,” Kestrel sneered over him.  “Your privileged life is so fucking awful.  Your slaves abandoned you for a day, boohoo.  You have to ask me to jerk off into a tube for you, boo-fucking-hoo.”

Crouched down, Atronis watched him, fearful, through his protective fingers splayed over his bleeding nose.

Kestrel heard Dalish murmur a revered “whoa” from his side.  He paid it no mind, launching into a long awaited, fury-fueled tangent.  “Meanwhile, I’m fucking beaten, raped, and tortured daily all because your pride couldn’t handle Dorian liking someone more than you!”  He closed the new distance between them in a flash, grabbing Atronis by the throat and pinning him against the chair.  “Worst still, Dorian is fucking beaten and tortured and forced to marry some woman all because you’d rather he suffer, because he doesn’t want to be with you!”

“L-Look, I--” Atronis stammered, eyes bulging.

Kestrel squeezed, silencing him.  “I don’t want to hear your excuses,” he hissed, rage making his eyes burn.

Kestrel expected Atronis to fight, to grab onto his arm and struggle to break his hold, but the man just slumped, eyes closing.  Startled, Kestrel released him to slide the rest of the way to the floor.

Once there, Atronis buried his face in his hands, careful of his nose.  “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he said into his palms, voice muffled.  “I just…”

“Wanted me out of the way and didn’t consider any consequences like the spoiled brat you are,” Kestrel finished for him, the anger fleeing and leaving him drained and unsteady on his feet.

“Ah!  Master Kestrel, please sit,” Dalish said, suddenly by his side.  He guided him over to the loveseat, hovering as his hands wrung the edge of his shirt in worry.

“I’m fine, Dalish.  Do you mind checking on the asshole?  I most likely broke his nose,” Kestrel said.  He sank heavily into the loveseat as he watched Dalish cautiously kneel before Atronis.

The man lowered his hands without prompting.  Sure enough, his nose rested at an odd angle, blood still oozing from the split skin on the bridge and from the nostrils.

The sight twisted Kestrel’s stomach in some confusing mixture of guilt and dark satisfaction.

Dalish realigned Atronis’ nose without warning, only releasing him when Atronis jerked away.  “That was the painful part.  Now I can heal it, Master.  If you’ll permit me.”

Atronis’ cautious gaze never left Kestrel, even as he nodded his head in permission to Dalish’s request.

Watching Atronis’ nose mend with magic, Kestrel muttered, “You’re lucky I didn’t have a blade in hand.  Dalish wouldn’t be able to heal the damage I would’ve done then.  It would’ve been too quick of a death for what you did to Dorian, to me, but it would’ve been satisfying enough.”

Dalish, finished with his healing, turned towards Kestrel, light blue eyes wide with surprise at the vehemence in his voice.

Atronis swallowed hard, paling with the threat.

Both staring at him with those wide eyes, it suddenly struck him how similar they looked.  Sure, their hair color was different but those pale eyes, that nose.  Even their lips.  Without thinking, he blurted, “Are you two related?”

Startled gazes shifted from him to each other, everyone grateful for a change in topic.

“Who’s your father, boy?” Atronis asked with a frown.

“I...I don’t know, Master.  He’s someone of wealth and power from what I’ve been told.”

“And your mother?”

“She was a house slave.  She was a Dalish elf before she was sold to House Pavus.”

“She was always Dalish,” Kestrel softly corrected, earning him a glance from Dalish and a nodding acknowledgement.

“Sounds like my bastard of a father,” grumbled Atronis.  He pulled himself to his feet, leaning against the chair with a wince.  “I suppose it’s possible we’re related.  I have a few half-siblings out there already.  What’s one more,” he said with a shrug, as if that was the end of the discussion.

“But Dalish could be your brother!” Kestrel insisted.  The more he looked between Atronish and Dalish, the more he was convinced.

“And?  He’s also a slave.  I am next in line to our House name after my father.  Another sibling, especially a slave, doesn’t change that.  Anyway, what’s so important that I had to trek all the way out here and bring that sack of herbs?  After the welcome I received, I should just walk right out that door, tell the guard I’ve been assaulted and laugh as you get what you deserve.  Bunny.”

Kestrel clenched his jaw.  He could punch Atronis again for his nonchalance at finding a half-brother.  Of course, why should he be surprised?  Atronis cared only for himself.  He was already starting to rise before he realized it.  Atronis flinched away before he could hide it.  That gave him a sliver of pleasure.  At least the asshole wasn’t so dismissive of him now.

He settled his rear against the loveseats’s arm instead of advancing further.  “I need your help.”  Atronis immediately opened his mouth in protest, but Kestrel held up his hand, continuing, “For Dorian.”

That cut off any further protest better than Kestrel’s gesture had.  Maybe Atronis didn’t care solely about himself.  Maybe a small fraction of him cared for Dorian.  He needed his help if his plan were to work, which meant playing on that emotion.

“Dorian is getting married because of the corner you’ve backed him into.”

Atronis sneered.  “Perhaps if you weren’t so pathetic, it wouldn’t--”

“Fine.  The corner we’ve backed him into.  Satisfied?”  He only spoke again once Atronis grudgingly nodded his head.  “Aquinea is using me to hold Dorian hostage to her will.  If I’m no longer in the picture, he’ll be free.”

Atronis extended his hand, a long sword materializing in his grip.  It glowed, light brightening at its tip as it was oriented at Kestrel.  “So I kill you.  It’ll be my pleasure.  Maybe then Dorian will stop pining after you.”

Kestrel rolled his eyes.  “And what will Dorian think when he finds out you’re the one that murdered me?  What will his mother do?  Your father?  I may be Aquinea’s captive, but I hold a lot of value to her alive.”

With an annoyed huff, Atronis waved the blade away.  “Fine.  I assume you have a better idea?”  He sounded less than pleased about it.

“Perhaps if you quit interrupting me, I will have a chance to get to it,” Kestrel snapped and Atronis summoned the sword back, holding it defensively before him.

Kestrel ignored it.  “My death needs to be my doing, so no blame can fall elsewhere.  Dalish,” the boy jumped with his name, attention snapping back to Kestrel, “I’ll need you close enough but not in the room with me before or immediately after, understood?”

Dalish hesitated, wiping at his eyes.  “I-I don’t want you to die.”

“Shh,” Kestrel soothed, reaching out to run his fingers through Dalish’s hair.  “There will only be the appearance of death.  That’s what the herbs are for.  I’ll need your help making a precise concoction.  Can you do that for me, Dalish?  It’s our chance to get out of here.  Together.”

“...Okay,” Dalish said.

Kestrel knew that expression on the boy’s face.  It was one of absolute trust.  He only hoped he was deserving of it.  Time would tell.  He offered Dalish an appreciative smile before turning his attention away.

“Atronis, I need you to be with Dorian during his next weekly visit two days from now.  You’ll be able to vouch for his whereabouts, although I doubt Aquinea will blame him.  More importantly, I need him to see my body as proof of my death.  Then get him out of here safely.  He shouldn’t linger in case Aquinea decides that with my death, Dorian should also die.”

“Okay, sounds simple enough.  And then, what?  You manages to escape while they’re disposing of your body, and once you’re over the border, you reach out to Dorian to let him know you’re okay?  Plan on having him drop everything and come running to you in Nevarra or Orlais or some other sub-par country?  You’re going to make him give up all he’s been working for here.  You know he’s going to run after you wherever you’re at, right?”  Atronis grew more and more impassioned as he spoke, hands gesturing to emphasize his words.

“No.”  It was one word softly spoken, but it stopped Atronis’ ranting immediately.  Kestrel looked down at Dalish, finding comfort in his gaze.  “No,” he repeated.  “I won’t contact Dorian.  I’ll remain dead to him.  If Dorian knew I was still alive, you’re right, he’d might come running.  Then his mother would find out I wasn’t really dead.  What’s to stop her from capturing me again and putting us right back where we started?  Even if the contract goes back on his head after my death, he’ll still be safer than having me held over him.”

“Why?  What’s in this for you?”  Atronis asked, frowning.

Kestrel looked at him.  “We’ll gain our freedom, but more importantly, I’ll know that Dorian won’t spend his life screaming on the inside.”

Atronis snorted.  “But you will.  I know you’re fucking in love with him.  I don’t get it.”

“I would give up everything for him.  Wouldn’t you?”

Ashamed, Atronis looked away.  That was answer enough.

“Fine.  I’ll see this through.  For Dorian,” he grumbled.  “But you better make sure your part works, or we’ll all face Mistress Pavus’ wrath and most don’t survive that.”  Still frowning, lost in his own thoughts, he made for the door.

“Wait,” Kestrel said, stopping him in his tracks.  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”  He held out his hand, fighting at the embarrassed flush that threatened his cheeks.

“Oh, Maker,” Atronis muttered.  He retrieved the vial from his robe and handed it over, swallowing back the nausea that was written all over his face.

Kestrel snatched the tube and disappeared into the bathroom.  Thoughts of the night Dorian proposed in his own chamber brought Kestrel over the edge soon enough.  Container full, he returned the stopper and rinsed his hands, bringing the damp towel with the vial.

“You may want to clean yourself up before walking out the door,” he said as he tossed the washcloth to Atronis.  Even though his nose was healed, he still had blood all over his face.

Still pensive, Atronis cleaned up his face without a word, discarding the towel to the floor once finished.  A bit of blood had dribbled onto the pale collar of his robe, but it disappeared into the inside, mostly hidden from view.

As Kestrel extended the tube to Atronis, the Tevinter said, “You’re really his best option, you know.  It shouldn’t have come down to this, okay?  Just know I’ll do my best to see he’s safe.”  He accepted the vial and tucked it away without a thought, despite all his previous complaints.

Kestrel realized that was probably the closest he’d ever get as an apology from Atronis, but it would do.  “Make him happy,” Kestrel said as Atronis open the door.  

He paused for a moment in the doorway, the only acknowledgement to Kestrel’s words he made, before the guard shut the door behind him.

The shadows lengthened in the room, reaching out for him as despair threatened to overwhelm his thoughts.  The plan was being put into motion.  There was no turning back now.  He’d never see Dorian again, never feel his touch, never hear his wonderful, confident laugh or his private chuckle shared only between them.  His world was dissolving all around him into taloned shadows.

“Kestrel?”

That soft, concerned voice brightened his surroundings enough to send the shadows fleeing to the darkest corners of the room.  He looked down to find Dalish already had two bundles of herbs in hand and a small parchment unfurled.  It held specific instructions on how to complete both the poison and the antidote in Solas’ precise handwriting.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Can you make both potions with what’s been provided?”

Dalish nodded his head.  “Yes, I can.  But you should know, everyone’s body reacts differently to these plants.  There’s no guarantee--”

“Then there’s nothing left to do but move forward,” Kestrel interrupted, tone firm, leaving no room for argument.

Bowing his head, he said softly, “Then I’ll get to work on these.”  Dalish bundled everything together again and slipped the package into his shirt, securing it under his belt.  “If all goes well, I’ll bring the first bottle by tomorrow with supper.”

“Good night, Dalish.”

Dalish offered a fleeting smile.  “Good night, Kestrel.”

The door clicked shut behind him, the heavy lock scraping into place.  Without Dalish’s warming presence, the shadows returned in force, twisting into his nightmares as he climbed into bed, too exhausted from the blood draw and emotional turmoil of his plan being in place.  

The nightmares were nothing compared to the despair he felt within.  He would never see Dorian again.  Could never see him again.  That thought was worse than all the nightmares that haunted him, but for Dorian, he’d spend the rest of his life screaming on the inside.

#pavellan #kestrel lavellan #dorian pavus #lavellan x dorian #dragon age fanfic #dragon age

[christophe-delorne]

Gregstophe Week: Day 4

ANGER // SHOVEL & SWORD // APOCALYPSE AU

TITLE: Synthetic Love

WARNINGS: Swearing, smooching.

AGE: Young Adults. ( Early 20s )

NOTES: This is based in the Fallout Universe. You really don't need to know much about the games to enjoy this story since I try not to go into too much detail. Look. I can go into a lot of detail with Fallout, but I'm trying to keep it easy for everyone to enjoy. This is before Gregory turns into huge douchebag mode. So he's a bit of a softie in this story. Thought I'd change it up from my usual.

It was Gregory's first time to breath contaminated air, his first time seeing the actual sun through the haze of dust and the thin layer of contamination that still lingered on the horizon from a war long past. He spent his entire life safe underground, in the clean environment known as the Institute. He'd come from a line of scientists, dated back before the war, lucky enough to survive the nuclear fallout in the safety of their underground labs. Most weren't so lucky, though he wasn't sure who was luckier, the ones who died instantly, or the ones who managed to live and spend generations out here in the wasteland. He pulled his bandanna up from his neck and over the lower portion of his face, in an attempt to filter out at least the dust and grim.

Typically, the institute would send synths up to the surface to do research or gather data, the androids could withstand the dangerous environments of this desolate land. However, he'd volunteered this time to come topside and to do so was no small matter. It wasn't unheard of for a synth to go rouge, there was all sorts of unpredictable factors up here that could damage or corrupt their programming. Mutant creatures attacking, or even the lingering surviving humans who'd grouped up. In order to quell topsiders' rebellious nature, the Institute would use synths to infiltrate their societies, they looked human, could take the place of anyone seamlessly. And that led to paranoia among the wastelanders.

Gregory wasn't interested in that, not any more, he was interested in finding out why this one synth had stopped responding to his- no its' orders. He had to remind himself constantly that this synth was a human, he wouldn't dare let himself be deceived by his own creation. e'd been the chief of processing synths, designing them to blend in with wastelanders until the Institute noticed that his growing interest in synths had become compromised. He'd made one last synth, his masterpiece, one last big 'fuck you' before he was relocated to the research lab. When the synth went rouge a few months later, he'd been sent out to prove his worth and loyalty to the institute.

His synth had travel far to the edges of the commonwealth, formerly known as the New England states of America. What left of it  anyways. Blue eyes stared at the rundown shack before him, surrounded by trees that were ragged looking, nothing like the lush trees within the Institute. Everything looked dreary and rundown. He'd known about it, but to see it with his own eyes was something else. What really drew his gaze was the man churning dirt in what he supposed was some sort of make shift garden, wielding a shovel with ease. One would pass him off as just another farmer trying to make it out here. However, Gregory knew better.

As he made his way closer, the man in the makeshift garden stopped digging, becoming aware of an intruder. Stabbing his shovel into the ground, he turned to look at his new guest. There was a brief expression of surprised recognition before it soured into a scowl, they both knew why he was here. He had to bring C9-25 back to the institute for either to be reprogrammed or destroyed, depending on how cruel the director wanted to be. Gregory could hazard a guess in which choice the man would chose, making this decision harder for Gregory, as it had been intended. Gregory stopped just outside the mangled wire fencing that was more of just a general outline of the garden than really intending to keep anything out.

"The fuck you doin' here?" The voice was harsh, just as Gregory remembered. Callous and rough, a small slight of rebelling against his own superiors.

"You already know the answer to that, Christophe." It was a solemn note, one that hurt to even broach the subject.

"Oh, so its Christophe now." The olive skin toned male wiped the sweat from his forehead, smearing dirt across it. Gregory had to appreciate how human like the synth was. The white tank top sticking to his form from the sweat, artificial sweat but so life like no one would suspect a thing. Gregory had taken care to put his heart and soul in creating him- it. Down to the smallest of scars and the crow's feet in the corner of its eyes. It was no wonder why his co-workers had grown suspicious with his obsession over this one synth.

"You've always been Christophe to me." Gregory countered, pleading almost for some sort of understanding.

"Fuck you and your fuckin' lil' group of prissy bitches who hide away safe and sound underground like cowards." He spat onto the ground as if talking about the Institute left a bad taste in his mouth. Gregory tensed as Christophe approached, heavy boots thudding on the freshly churned, contaminated soil. He was close now, too close. He smelled of sweat and earth, of hard labor, something Gregory had never done. Something he appreciated more than he would let on. All his secret desires and cravings had been placed within this synth. So, did that make him a bad person? Christophe had been designed by him, for him. Morally, it was wrong as Christophe had no personality of his own.

"Christophe, please be reaso-" Gregory was about to try to plead his case when he was suddenly seized by the front of his shirt and dragged forward up onto his toes. Chapped, rough lips crashed against his own before he could even realize what Christophe's intentions were. Panic swelled within him and his heart raced so quickly within his chest, it made his mind far too dizzy to calculate a proper response. However Christophe was all too ready to take advantage of finally finding a way to shut Gregory up, pressing his advantage by tilting his head. Damp warmth traced over the seam of Gregory's smooth lips, leaving a trail of saliva in its wake.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, his body no longer seemed to belong to him as Christophe's tongue suddenly invaded the once safe haven of his mouth. He was being swept up in this sudden fiery passion that he'd never experienced before. Certainly he'd kissed other girls, but nothing so wild and reckless as this, it was burning, branding him in his mind so that he'd never forget. It drove away every arguement, every mindless denial until he was left with nothing but his raw emotions. His tongue finally tried to make a press back, to fight back against Christophe conquering tongue, but this only seemed to drive Christophe further into a frenzy.

The synth, much stronger than the average human tried to drag Gregory impossibly closer, needing to feel their bodies pressed closer, to fulfill that secret desire they both had. A noise left Gregory, muffled by their kiss. The fence was digging into his stomach, broken wires digging past clothing and into soft flesh. Finally, Christophe seemed to grow aware of Gregory's pain and let go, leaving Gregory suddenly feeling vacated, Christophe taking all that passionate heat with him within an instant. Swollen lips remained parted, panting in a futile attempt to catch his breath, to remember something sane and reasonable. He was here for a reason, what was that reason again?

"I'm not goin' back, Gregory." That rough voice sounded deeper, drawing Gregory back away from his own internal musings to focus his attention back on Christophe. The synth he was supposed to be bringing back to the institute. If they knew what just happened, he would certainly be punished, perhaps even cast out into the wasteland. Gregory before had never been tempted by his emotions, raised from birth to join the ranks of the greatest minds alive. He was still human though, susceptible to desires and yearnings for things that he knew he shouldn't give in to. He'd failed in that aspect, but out of his failure he'd created Christophe.

There wasn't any other choice, if Gregory didn't bring Christophe back, the institute would just send correctional synths to forcibly destroy Christophe. If Gregory had found Christophe, so could others. There was no alternative to this situation. The Institute couldn't let their secrets, inside Intel just be out in the open, a unknown problem. Any rouge synth usually was either destroyed, had their minds wiped, or were reprogrammed again. Neither were options Gregory exactly liked. He didn't want to think about his creation being destroyed or Christophe forgetting about him. It was odd to feel so strongly about something that was considered a machine, but it hurt to think about the idea that Christophe would roam the wasteland, not knowing what he yearned for.

"You'll certainly be killed if you do not." Gregory tried his best to steady his voice, it was difficult to control his emotions when Christophe had successfully destroyed any sort of defenses he had built around himself. The Institute was a harsh place who prided itself on rational thinking, where emotions were frowned upon and seen as meant for humans with lesser intelligence. To be ruled by them so easily was viewed as shameful and yet here he was, a complete wreck in the time that he needed to have his guard strong.

"I've been thinkin' about that. Let's head west. As far as we can go, until the Institute can't find us, where no one can find us. " Christophe had a stubborn set to his jaw, his green eyes staring down Gregory as if in challenge, waiting for Gregory's protest, expecting it.

The idea of heading out into a world unknown to Gregory was daunting. He was used to a life of clean water and filtered air. Everything was clean and spotless and the only threat was maybe slipping on a freshly mopped floor. He'd seen and heard about the surface, of the mutant creatures that roamed the lands, about human raiders and giant green super mutated humans wrecking just as much havoc. This world was dangerous and Gregory wasn't certain if he would ever be ready to face it. He knew the further west from here grew into more and more desolate wastelands, of deserts and seas of radiation. No one that the Institute knew about had properly mapped out the States.

"Christophe..." He sighed out, already feeling weary by the sheer notion of leaving the safety of the Institute. "You know as well as I that the probability of my survival out here is low to begin with. Boardroom meetings and scientific debates I can face down with ease, but here?" Gregory gestured at their surroundings, it looked like it was free of what Gregory feared, for now.

"Damn it. Have a little more fuckin' faith in yourself, Gregory. I know you, I know you better than any of those damn assholes underground." Christophe ran his fingers through his hair, his gaze lowering to Gregory's lips, as if kissing him again would solve everything. He was right though. Christophe was apart of him, all the intimate details that Gregory put his heart and soul into. He'd never thought he'd be the type to rebel until Christophe came into being, it was the first mark of Gregory's resistance. The spark of his rebellious nature that had laid dormant this whole time, now that Christophe had returns, that spark was being fanned into a flame.

Far too long had it been suppressed, the Director had known the dangers Christophe possessed to the stable underground society. There was no room for independence and rebellion and he'd tried his best to douse the flames Gregory had created. It had been a mistake to send Gregory out, one the Director was not likely to acknowledge. Failure had never been an option, order was absolute. Just thinking about that ideologist churned within him, Gregory did like cleanliness, but he'd created a synth who liked to be dirty. He desired a contrast to excite him, to draw him in away from the boring white walls to the sweat slicked, sun-kissed skin of the man before him.

"I will go with you to the ends of the earth, Christophe, whatever it takes to stay with you."

#gregstophe #gregstopheweek #south park #gregstophe week #gregory #christophe #fanfiction #alternate universe #au #fallout #post apocalyptic #the mole #ze mole #fanfic #oneshot #gregory of yardale

[chickenmcfuggits]

WIP

Running until her lungs burned but the feeling overshadowed by how much it hurt inside. Out of breath slow down with her arms wrapped around her chest as she tried to sob and gasp for breath at the same time. She paid no notice to the mucus or the passersby staring at her. There was only the emotion, a physical pain where no injury existed yet pain nonetheless. And suddenly the eyes on her became oppressive and she had to get away. Down into the subway and on before she even registered taking her rail pass out of her pocket. Alone now the world receded into a gray haze, and the tears finally flowed.

 He stepped on and felt the pain before he even saw her. It made him wince, checked his stride a moment, then he sat down across the aisle.

                        “Hi. I’m Kevin. Everyone is a bit busy, so they sent me.”

He stares at her eyes as she gives him a questioning look. The hurt so real, solid, material, it was like you could touch it.

“The angels, the spirits, whatever you wish to call them. They didn’t think they’d get here in time, so they sent me.”

There was still that glaze, that disconnection with what was around her. She saw, she heard, but she wasn’t listening. He leaned forward, and his face hardened.

“You didn’t see this coming and you can’t get a grip on it, can you? That they’re gone?”

There, she’s starting to comprehend. This is happening. A stranger is looking inside of her. Survival instinct should pull her out some now. Good. Things should move along now. He was right in the middle when this came up.

“Listen, we’re going to have to work together on this, bringing me up to speed. I didn’t have any notice. I was just in the neighborhood a few blocks away and she reached out to me, your Grandmother I think it was.”

Her lips pursed slowly as if to whistle, and eyebrows moved together in a frown. This was too much for her, and her strength of spirit was coming to the front.

“Who am I? I told you my name is Kevin. No idea what yours is but I figured at some point you would tell me as long as I arrived beforehand.”

“I’m S…Sarah. What beforehand…who are you……Grandmoms…. what?” Confusion led to tears again, and mucus from her nose but this time embarrassment and her sleeve to wipe it. He handed her a rag from his pocket.

“Before you stopped your life, ended your story, killed yourself. In about two more stops I think Grandma was saying.”

Now a reddening and anger crossed her which didn’t really surprise him. To know one’s self is to be well aware of one’s shitty bedside manner. He excused it with the urgency of the matter at hand.

“Kevin or whoever you are my Grandmoms has been dead for a year.”, the anger turns to a brood turns back to controlled tears,” Everyone I love…depend on….dies.”

Delicately now boyo, he thought. You can’t stop her physically, those are the rules. She must make the decision or in this case not make the decision. Yours is just to make sure she makes the right one. You’re never going to make it as a politician. Pull your head out of your ass. This one is self-assured, strong, even if she’s about give up her oxygen rights and you have a nasty habit of spitting out truth a little too bluntly. Smooth this one out.

“Okay listen. Grandmoms…..,” his eyes look up and to the right, “Rachel…. screamed at my higher self a few minutes ago that I had to save you and practically punted me here Astrally which would have been quite a feat as I’ve never been into Astral travel and not sure what I would have done had I been sent here that way. Heh”

His humor only funny to himself, he gathered his thoughts for another try. Focus, asshole. This kid’s been through it and you’re being a dick.

“Yes, I know by that look…just trust me. Your Grandmother came in like a jet landing at full speed, full protection of the loved one mode. I didn’t get to speak with her, I just went the direction I was shoved and saw a few flashes, a few bits of what I needed to do.”

“Are you a medium?”, she asked.

“I’m not sure what you’d call me, but for now I’m your guardian’s bitch….no, that doesn’t sound right. It’s hard to explain.”, deep breath for a pause, “When you take steps forward, spiritually, you take on responsibilities. The same beings who give to you also require from you. It’s like a pact with the universe.” He could see he was wandering too far away. Maybe this was good but getting their mind off it always left the door open for later. He pulled another rag from the pocket of his flak jacket.

“I’ve been a lot of things like a soldier and a cop and I served people. But I was rigid, believed in God and all that. Was married for a few years which was a story unto itself but after that was over I met a girl, Erin, my soulmate. I lost her and coping with it led me into spiritual matters. I couldn’t move on with the tools I had inside me, so I investigated other ways. Zen. Law of Attraction. That shit.” Wrap it up. This documentary of self-discovery is taking too long, and your personal life is stupid anyway.

“I found I had gifts that others had as well and used them. No, Erin never came back to me, but I grew inside and accepted it. Then I learned there’s a cost. But those of us in the game pay it willingly. Now, about time you tell me what you are feeling.”

Anger.

“Feeling? Isn’t it obvious? My life turned to shit not an hour ago then some stranger on the subway is telling me he spoke with my Grandmoms who is gone. I thought empathic people could tell how somebody felt just by...feeling..I guess.”

“I’m not trying to find out how you are feeling, Sarah. I know how you are feeling, or how I would feel if I just found my three closest friends…..” BRAKES DIPSHIT! “Listen. I guess what I’m asking is do you know? Do you know what is going on inside your heart this very moment?” softly, draw her out.

“I don’t know. Lost, I guess. Alone. Lisa and the rest baked with me a few times, but they started getting into other stuff I wasn’t ready for. We drifted. But I was alone too much after that and today I just went back to see if we could patch things and…”

The sobs started in her stomach and rose through her throat. A scream waited inside but refused to come out.

“Why is this happening to me?” Gotcha. She’s opened the door.

Stern face. “It’s not happening to you, Sarah. It happened to them. Or they did it to themselves. However you want to look at it. They’re gone, and nothing will change that. But you’re still here. Which means you still have something left to do in this lifetime or you would be there with them. There’s a reason for that. Your job is to find it. Ask them to help you, talk to them and no, you won’t hear them, before you ask. But ask them even so.”

“You gotta be open to where they point you. See signs, get feelings. It takes a long time to tune yourself into those on the other side, but you can start now. Find out what you came to life for and do it. Whether that be pursue your dreams, run for governor, or open a bar. I can’t tell and that’s not what I’m here for. But find it, dearheart. Then hit it like a freight train.” Oops. Don’t notice that.

The tears stopped. A look of resignation then a frown with strength behind it. He thinks he’s won. Good. Regardless of the path I have her where she needs to be.

In a hoarse whisper, “I’m going to find the motherfucker that sold poison to the people I love.”

Shit. The worst part of these things is you don’t know whether you got it right or not and nobody tells you. Just have to go on faith here.

“That’s one way to take it I guess, but are you ready for that? You’re talking about a quest to find what I would consider dangerous people. Maybe you could point them in the right direction and let the cops do that kind of heavy lifting?”

“The cops won’t give a shit about a couple of dead, strung out kids. I’m going to find him. I don’t know what I’ll do after that, but I will find him.”

A deep sigh. Well, at least you have her thinking thoughts reserved for the living. Grandma will be pissed. I’m not sure, but I think I scored here.

As the subway stopped, he got up and turned to the door.

“You’re just going to leave? That’s it?”

“My task here is done, I think. Let it hurt. Let the tears come out. In time the pain will become lighter. Stay strong, baby girl. There are a lot of people that love you dearly, even if you can’t see them, or even knew them, in this lifetime.” And he’s gone.

 I should stop and get the mail. Be a lot of bills in there but you never know. Erin is still alive and so am I. Could be there, you never need close a book if you loved the words on the pages.

An alley. Garbage. Movement, fast movement. A whisper, hollow with an echo. Not a sound from the around him. More a thought inside his thoughts. And then, urgency. Sarah! His feet quickening to a run before he realizes he’s running. One block, two. He’d gone a mile and the sweat was beading down his face when he saw the police cars. He slows down wondering why he had been drawn here but not questioning that he was drawn. Then he knows.

There. A black Sergeant. He’s got the touch, I think. He’ll listen to me.

“Hey, uh, sir. What..”

“Dead girl. All cut up. In the alley covered with garbage. Somebody called for the screaming. Caught the motherfucker after he dumped her and started running. Her dealer I guess. Alley is too crooked and the Coroner is too fat to get in there. He’ll be askin’ for us to do his job in a minute. You the press? You all the way back here to get a story?”

“No. She called me.”

A frown. Slowly.  “Didn’t find a cel on her.”

“Sarah.” His voice starting to crack. “She called me. She wanted me to come take her out of there.”

Maybe it was the look on his face or maybe the others are whispering to this cop or maybe he just understood. The sergeant steps aside. He looks almost like he feels something.

“Go get her.” A whisper.” She’s just a little girl. Wrong for her to be one more minute in there.”

You get to meet a lot of people, doing this stuff. Some briefly and others you keep a feeling for. The feeling reaches his eyes as he lifts her. Turning sideways he shuffles out of the alley. There’s a gurney ready and nobody questions as this stranger lays her on it, moves her hair out of her eyes.

“Good bye baby girl. I’ll see you someday and maybe you can tell me what else I could have done.”

@victoria-writes-sometimes

#critiques #suggestions #welcome

[short-grumpy-and-useless]

3rd person POV

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry Potter's day started out like any other. Well, for him that is. That morning the neighborhood was silent and the sun shone brightly over the residents of privet drive as the early-birds started to move around, though most were still asleep. Such was the case with the inhabitants of number 4.

The night before Vernon Dursley had beaten a certain undeserving inmate of the dwelling into a bloody pulp. But then again, that really wasn't a surprise as it happened quite often. So today Harry woke up to horrendous pains all over his body and someone shaking his shoulder frantically. 'Oh god, mmpphh, everything hurts, my whole body is on fire! why are they shakin' me so hard?! Why would anyone be awake at this unholy hour?' And that's when he heard an all too familiar voice. "Harry! Harry, wake up!" whisper-yield the chubby boy kneeling in front of Harry as he shook him again, though more violently this time. Harry groaned and sat up, trying to wipe a sticky, gritty substance from his face. He sat there disoriented and, frankly, quite grumpy trying in vain to get the foul stuff off his face, when it didn't come off he pulled his hand away to look at it. What he saw there made Harry wake up fast and put his stomach in knots. Some of his fresh and dried blood was mixed into a sickening concoction of thick, rusty-red colored, lumpy liquid dampening his already grimy fingers.

Harry wanted to throw up his non-existent dinner as he looked at the floor around him to see it drenched in liquid of the same color. It was his blood and there was a lot of it. Harry sat there wondering how he was even still alive. "Harry are you ok?" Harry gave him a disbelieving 'did you really just ask me that dumb-ass question?' look. "I mean I know that you're not but you were looking really green for a second there." "Yeah, I'm fine Dudley. Just forget it." he said to the newly named Dudley.

Dudley cast him a skeptical gaze, his blue eyes that usually looked like the clearest of seas lapping at the shore of a tropical island, now clouded with worry. "Fine. But, we need to clean up this mess before Vernon gets his ugly ass out of bed and has a cow," he paused thinking for a moment. "And a horse, and a goat," he added. "Hell, he'd probably have the whole bloody farm if he saw this." Dudley chuckled, brushing his corn-silk, blond hair out of his face, gesturing with his other hand to the floor, then to Harry, and finely to himself.

Harry frowned. "But what if he catches you helping me? Then he'll punish you and I can't let that happen, no matter what, you're too important for me to let that happen an-" "Harry, calm down, breath! nothing's going to happen just let me help you. Then you can go take a quick shower and change." After a few minutes of breathing slowly, in and out, Harry finely calmed down enough that he could talk. "You have to go back upstairs. Right now! I will not take the chance of you or Petunia getting hurt. Not again. Do you understand." Dudley let out a heavy sigh, but agreed. "Yeah, I understand. Remember you only have about an hour to clean and shower before that pathetic excuse for a human-being wakes up and continues his reign of terror." he sighed in a defeated voice, knowing there was no arguing with Harry when he went into this mind set, or as Dudley liked to call it, his 'momma bear mode'. With that Dudley quietly, yet somehow sulkily, padded up the creaky stairs as to not wake Vernon.

As soon as Dudley was out of sight Harry ran to the kitchen as fast as he could and grabbed a wash cloth and a bottle of cleaning solution from under the sink to clean the floor. As quickly and quietly as possible he ran back to the sitting room and skidded to his hands and knees in front on the massive, sticky puddle and dumped half of a gallon of cleaner on the carpet and started scrubbing it furiously, running back to the kitchen to rinse his rag every once in a while.

After a good twenty minutes of scrubbing the stain, it was finally gone. He put all his cleaning supplies away and remembering to stay quiet, he quickly ran up the stairs and into his room to grab his toiletries and some extra clothes before toppling into the bathroom and taking a fifteen-minute shower, being careful of his injuries. He scrambled out of the shower, dried himself, and began pulling on his clean clothes, that were honestly more like rags or potato sacks than anything.

As he was getting dressed he accidentally looked into the mirror, which he usually tried to avoid. His eyes skimmed over his appearance and he realized that this beating must have lasted a lot longer than he had thought. He had bruises and cuts all over his body. Not a single inch of his pail, paper-y, scared skin had been left without a mark, not even his face, which his uncle Vernon usually tried to steer clear of to avoid suspicion. Harry was much to skinny and short for his age, you could see it in the way his skin clung to his bones and how you could see his ribs, or how he was quickly approaching his fifteenth birthday and he was barely reaching 5'4" in height, which was about four inches below the average women's height. His emerald green eyes, which were usually faded at the best of times looked to be more the color of a rotting green apple. His wild pitch-black hair that has always been a messy rats nets now had chunks missing from where his uncle had taken a pair of kitchen shears to it.

Looking at his reflection he realized that he was lucky to have survived the night and that his magic was the only thing that kept him alive. Harry tore his gaze from the horrific image reflected in the mirror and finally finished getting dressed. He snagged his cracked and bent, round, wire rimmed glasses off the counter, then sprinted out of the bathroom and to his room to wait for his aunt to come and get him so he could make breakfast before starting his chores.

__________________

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Time skip to that afternoon*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That morning had been hell. Harry hadn't gotten a chance to wrap his most severe wounds so throughout the day they would randomly re-open and start gushing blood. Thankfully his uncle had left for work before this happened the first time otherwise Vernon would have beaten him even more. It was hard to do his work with his injuries and tiredness, but he refused to let Dudley or Petunia help and risk getting them in trouble, or at least he tried to refuse but he ended up loosing the argument because he was too weak from blood loss and malnutrition. To top it off he had accidentally burnt breakfast that morning while preparing it so Uncle Vernon was already pissed when he left for work.

Just then he heard a car pull into the drive way, the car door slam closed, then the front door as Uncle Vernon made his way into the house bringing with him the strong smell of alcohol. 'Oh no!' Thought Harry, 'He's back early! And drunk to boot!' Vernon stumbled drunkenly into the sitting room where Harry had been cleaning and stopped in his tracks, because there before him was his son, Dudley, helping Harry dust the China cabinet against the far wall.

Vernon swelled up, turning purple with rage. "What do you think you're doing, helping that useless boy with his work!" He thundered as he stomped across the room to where they stood. Harry and Dudley both shrank away from the furious man. Harry stepped in front of Dudley as a meager form of protection as Vernon reached them. Vernon grabbed Harry by the scruff and tossed him against the wall. As he hit the wall his wounds re-opened again, staining his clothes crimson with blood. He groaned and hurriedly scrambled to his feet, rushing at Vernon in a last ditch effort to stop him but Vernon simply picked up a vase from the cabinet next to him and smashed it against Harry's skull. Harrys head exploded in pain as a fresh wave of blood pored out of his scalp. His glasses flew off his face, and he fell to the floor, nearly unconscious but still able to see fuzzy shapes through the haze blurring his vision. The blurry blob that was Vernon Dursley stomped towards Dudley, raising his fist and brought it down on his cheek. Dudley fell to the ground and curled into a ball trying to protect his head and vitals while blow after blow rained down on him.

After a couple more strikes Vernon stomped over to Harry, leaving a black and blue Dudley whimpering on the floor. He grabbed Harry by the arm and dragged him out side. Vernon tossed Harry out in to the backyard at the edge of the woods, which was connected to the back of the property. Harry just lay there as he heard the door slam, too weak to get up. He registered that the sun was setting in the back of his mind. 'Oh, it's a full moon tonight, how pretty." He thought just before loosing conciseness.

—————————————

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     *A two hours later*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry blearily opened his eyes as he slowly regained consciousness and sat up, letting out an animalistic whine from the pain. He painstakingly got to his feet and hobbled over to the back door to look in the window, not daring to even try to go inside. Through the back window he saw Vernon passed out on the couch with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, Dudley huddled in the corner of the room covered in dried blood and bruises, and Petunia no where to be found. He sat there for a while and just watched, getting lost in thought.

He was suddenly snapped out of his pondering by a low growl coming from the side of the yard where the trees and shrubs were thickest. He spun and stumbled away from the tall bushes that lined that side of the yard as a form of fencing. Harry quickly backed up all the way to the other side of the yard and into the tree line to get away from a large, almost horse sized black shape that was stalking him from where the bushes and the corner of the house met.

Harry slowly backed away from the looming figure and towards the large trees at the end of the frigid yard. The shadow only followed from a distance, still snarling and snapping. Then all of a sudden it lunges and Harry, pumped full of adrenaline, took off, running deep into the woods.

Flashes of trees, branches stinging his face and arms, rocks and roots trying their hardest to trip him, the hot breath of the beast behind him hitting the goosebumps on the back of his neck. Suddenly he burst into a clearing and spun, facing what he could now see in the silver pools of moon light was a werewolf.

Harry's breath came faster, his heart bea t picked up, adrenaline flushed through his veins, fear became clear on his face.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and school his features into a poker face. He could do this, Remus had taught him how to handle situations like this. He took another breath and studied the large wolf and by the look of it, it was an Alpha male, so he needed to go the submissive rout.

Harry slowly got down on his hands and knees, never braking eye contact. Then he tilted his head back, baring his neck to show his submission to the Alfa, just like Remus had told him too. The dark mahogany wolf wearily approached him and lightly at first, began sniffing along his collar bone, then he buried his cold, wet nose in Harry's neck, snuffing and snorting, trying to get a stronger whiff of his scent.

Suddenly Harry began to loose his balance so he tried to adjust his footing and a twig snapped under his foot. It surprised the Alpha causing him to go on the defensive and snap. He sank his razor sharp teeth into Harry's shoulder, mangling it. Harry let out a blood curdling scream as the wolf's hot drool mixed with his blood as it ran down his side and the venomous curse began to spread through his veins.

The spooked wolf released him and bolted into the night leaving Harry slumped on the ground. As another wave of agony washed over him he lost consciousness.

Again.

For the umpteenth time that week.

But oh well, at least he was still sane, right?

Right?

———————

Hi this is a continuation of the prologue I posted a couple months ago. I hope you liked it and I should be posting the next chapter soon. If you liked it please like, comment and share( but please don’t post on another app/website without my permission). Thanks for reading!

~Nico Phantom

[hazelandglasz]

Memes and Hot Chocolate Therapy - A Sam Wilson Birthday Bang Fic

Memes and Hot Cocoa Therapy

Fic by @hazelandglasz

Art by @daisyridlay

Pairings : Sam Wilson / Steve Rogers / James “Bucky” Barnes, Sam Wilson & Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Sam Wilson loves his blog, his corner of life hacks, recipes, and DIY. He also loves to follow blogs about puppies, recipes, and memes. When he finds a blog that manages to dig up ancient relics, he can't help but be curious and sends an ask to the blogger--more accurately, bloggers. Aka this is the fic where Sam, Steve, and Bucky are ridiculous bloggers who fall in love without even meeting because of how ridiculous and sarcastic they can be. When they meet, sparks fly.

Written for @samwilsonbirthdaybang !!

Sam closes his eyes and rests his head against his apartment door. Working at the VA is rewarding, and much needed for Sam’s own balance, don’t get him wrong. That being said, some days are tougher than others, and today calls for some serious blogging to make him feel better.

He’s tired, exhausted even, but the low purr of the old laptop coming back to life is already like a siren song, a balm on his frayed nerves. While Sam’s computer slowly lights up, he goes to his kitchen to fix himself a serious “pick-me up”, Wilson style.

On his kitchen windowsill, a couple of pigeons coo at him and Sam brings them a handful of chopped up edamame beans--he always keeps a bowl of them for his friends with feathers. He smiles at the birds before pulling out a pan from a drawer. Next, Sam gets all the ingredients he needs: milk, cocoa powder--the good stuff, not the one he puts on top of his tiramisu--, cinnamon, grated coconut, vanilla (beans, no extract--seriously taxing days call for serious hot cocoa), and the honey.

Sam is about to pour the milk into the pan when he stops and thinks. What better post to make on “Sam’s Guide to DIY” than his mama’s cocoa? He takes his phone out of his pocket and gets to work.

One of the best things about his apartment is clearly the kitchen space: great appliances, lots of tabletop space, but more importantly, wonderful natural lighting.

It allows him, even at dusk, to take pictures of the pan and the different ingredients in a way that will barely require any adjustment. Twelve minutes later, his cocoa is ready, the pictures are ready to be posted, and now , Sam can finally indulge.

His blog is his pride and joy, a melting pot of life hacks and feel-good selfies, Sam’s harbour from the storm that life can be when years of war are breathing down one’s neck, carefully crafted and fed with tasteful posts. But the rest of Tumblr? That’s his chance to put said life away, if only for a couple of hours.

Sam follows many different blogs, and he has no shame about it. Puppy owners’ accounts, recipe and body positivity blogs--they all constitute Sam’s dashboard.

And there’s another kind.

The Meme Blogs.

Sam has spent many sleepless nights finding an improbable escape within the ridiculous yet hilarious waves of memes.

In his opinion, none of them are beneath him; sure, sometimes Sam comes to the conclusion that he is, in fact, too old for this shit because what exactly is funny about goats and minerals? He certainly doesn’t know, but you know what, you do you.  

It’s always entertaining, that’s for sure.

And in the sea of blogs dedicated to memes, one in particular never fails to capture Sam’s attention, if only because its author seems just as puzzled as he is by the velocity of the meme life cycle.

“Memetymology”.

It’s a blog dedicated to finding the origins and multiple evolutions of a meme, through charts and surprisingly sarcastic commentaries.

Sam has so much love in his heart for whomever runs it, it’s bordering on a crush at this point.

The Memetymologist is funny, witty, and Sam cannot help but be intrigued by one of the blog’s specific goals.

He can’t help but wonder why, but more importantly how , the blog always seems to find the oldest of memes, their source, and how they came to rise from the Internet’s underbelly.

He’s talking relics, here-- prehistoric memes that are at the very source of meme culture.

Truth be told, Sam is fascinated by the Memetymologist’s focus in this matter.

So far, he has kept his admiration (and growing crush) to himself, simply reblogging what he considers to be the best analysis for his followers.

But this time, he cannot contain himself. Sam has to send the blogger a message to express his admiration.

Finding a parallel--documented and argumented--between the Mother of all Memes, Kilroy was here , and Shia Labeouf’s inspirational speech meme was a stroke of genius that Sam has to salute.

“That analysis was amazing, but how on Earth do you find these relics is even more remarkable”, he types. “Thank you for bringing back Kilroy too--as a vet, it was a sign that we were not as alone as we felt.”

He hits send, hoping nothing.

This blog easily has thousands of followers; they must get hundreds of asks every day.

His message is merely a congratulatory one--it doesn’t call for a reply of any kind.

That being said, without even bringing up memes, talking about the sense of belonging most soldiers find in seeing the little graffiti, even today, would be a good subject for his next meeting at the VC.

Thank you, Memetymologist, Sam thinks as he opens a Word document to start preparing his speech.

---

A message awaits him the next morning.

“From two vets to another, our pleasure. Care to share that cocoa?”

---

There is a bounce in Sam’s steps throughout the whole day, even as he enters the Center and does his “rounds” with the recovering soldiers. Whether it’s physical or mental, war leaves its scars on every person it touches.

“We have newbies,” Natasha whispers to him as he gets ready for his reunion.

Natasha’s past in the army is a bit blurry, to say the least, but her dry sense of humor is often the buoy Sam needs to keep on going.

That, and she is a remarkable sparring/cuddling partner.

“Newbies?”

“Back row, near the exit.”

“Hm--the brunet and the blond?”

“Spot on. Though I would have called them Summer and Winter Treats.”

“Nat …”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Sam wishes he could tell her that she is wrong, but words fail him as he looks at the two newcomers.

Both are tall and buff--though the blond one is definitely taller-- with that look in their eyes that speaks of horrors Sam knows only too well.

A look that says that they will never be the same, but they won’t let their past take them down, darn it.

A vulnerable strength, so to speak, and if Sam is already turning into a poet over them from a distance, he’s capital S Screwed.

Blond and Tall looks towards the podium with a slightly questioning look before turning to his companion, reaching for him. Dark and Buff has his eyes downcast, hunched forward in his seat. Even from his vantage point, Sam can see that his left hand is a prosthetic, and he winces in sympathy.

Not all wounds are visible, and every person in the room has had to rebuild their lives around something they lost on the battlefield, find a way to feel complete--it’s part of their common experience, something they can help each other with.

Showtime.

Sam moves forward, rolling his sleeves as he goes--his own little ritual to get in “mentor” mode. “Good afternoon,” he says, sending his voice across the room as he usually does. “Welcome back for our regulars, I hope the show won’t disappoint, and welcome to the newbies. Promise there won’t be any hazing … from me.”

Some vets relax at his words, even Gabe who’s always so tense. Sam winks at Misty, who just happens to be sitting in front of BT and DB, and she shakes her head at him with a fond smile on her face.

BT raises one eyebrow at Sam before discreetly elbowing his companion who looks up in interest.

Two pairs of very different shades of blue are directed at him, and Sam barely manages to keep himself from humming some Johnny Cash.

Oh, no I never got over those blues eyes I see them everywhere I miss those arms that held me When all the love was there

Yes please .

“Ahem.”

Trust Natasha to keep Sam from getting lost in his own little fantasy.

Spoilsport.

“Today’s show will be about this little guy we’ve all probably seen somewhere,” he continues, launching his projector with the Kilroy graffiti. “I remember seeing it drawn in chalk on a wall when I was in Afghanistan,” he adds, reaching into his own experience to free the speech of those around him. “Though the situation was not ideal,” he says with a pointed look that sends a wave of nods in his audience, “seeing it made me realize that this … nightmare, was not our first time fighting, and that I too could survive this. I, too, could say that I was here and helped my fellow soldiers keep their hopes up.”

Someone--Sam is fairly sure that it’s Old Nick in the back--starts whistling the country’s anthem, and people laugh. Sure, it’s shaky and awkward, but it’s a laugh nonetheless.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies benevolently, “I thought you guys were used to my rousing speeches by now.”

This time around, the laughter is a little more opened, a little less embarrassed, and even Natasha smiles.

“Now, this is my experience,” he continues, more serious, “and I would never dream of thinking that I know how you feel, but this sense of belonging, of having a purpose, is what helped me get through the worst of it. Who wants to share what, in their experience, helped them?”

The silence is so thick you could cut it with a knife and serve it with a plate of ribs.

Hmmm, I might get a early dinner at the diner. Focus, Wilson!

“Drawing.”

The voice is soft, and a lot of heads turn towards it.

Uh. Tall and Blonde. Look at you go.

No, seriously, Sam would love to watch him go, as sad as it would be to see him leave.

“Hello,” Sam says, focusing all of his attention on the man.

“H-hi,” he stammers back, his fair complexion betraying the sudden pink on his cheek. “I’m Steve--Steve Rogers.”

“Welcome, Steve,” all the group sing-songs in unison, snickering and even laughing outright.

Sam is so proud of those jackasses.

“Thank you,” Steve says, a crooked grin making an appearance on his face. “As I was saying, drawing helped me connect with my--our-- squad,” he says, pointing his thumb at Dark and Buff.

Though Winter Treat suits him better, damn Natasha for putting ideas in his overactive head.

The man glances at Steve before returning his attention to-- oh .

He’s keeping his eyes on Sam--not in a confrontational manner.

If anything, it’s an appreciative look--damn right distracting too, Sam tells himself, focusing on Steve’s words.

“It was a moment of peace in the chaos,” Steve continues, “when I could find a moment and a spot to draw my squad.”

“It was a pocket of home for us too,” Winter Treat pipes up, his voice softer than his appearance lead Sam to think it would be. “When Steve drew us.”

Sam nods. “Because he was drawing you relaxed, or …?”

“Because it was a semblance of normalcy in places where normal didn’t exist,” the man says, looking up to stare at Sam. “A sign that no matter how lonely it felt, even in the middle of the group, something else was waiting and we were not as alone as we felt.”

To have his hastily composed message unknowingly sent back to him makes Sam uneasy for a moment.

“That’s a good thing to remember,” he says to cover his agitation. “No matter how nightmarish our experiences were, we were not, we are not alone in them. Who else wants to share?”

More people seem encouraged to speak up, and Sam lets the meeting run its course like he usually does, only interjecting every now and then to keep the flow going.

Through it all, he catches Steve and his broody friend looking at him intently. They even quietly speak in each other’s ear, all while glancing at him.

More than once, the meeting lulls into silence because Sam was too distracted to notice.

Very flattering, sure, but so very unprofessional of him!

---

The meeting comes to a close, and after sending everybody home with good wishes and homemade toffees, Sam almost starts jogging to get to the diner.

He’s not usually so ravenous when he comes out of a Vet day, but it was a good one, full of positive energy.

That, and he has a craving of a very different kind that has no chance of becoming a reality, so he’ll eat his feelings if nobody objects to his plans.

“Careful, on your left!”

Sam nearly jumps out of his skin but twists his body to let a crazy deliveryboy zoom by him on his left.

“You alright, Sarge?”

Sam huffs a laugh as he looks at the two men walking towards him. “Right as rain, Cap,” he replies as Steve and his friend who is still nameless get close.

“I hope the meeting didn’t scare you away,” Sam says, digging his hands in his pockets lest he does something he’ll regret.

As in, reaching out to see for himself if those pecs are real because damn son .

“Not at all,” Steve replies, a boyish grin on his lips now. “It was quite interesting.”

“Why Kilroy?”

“Buck, manners.”

‘Buck’ frowns at Steve before glancing at Sam. He twists his mouth in regrets. “I’m sorry, Sarge,” he says softly, “I need to … acclimate myself back to normal situations.”

“Nothing to apologize for, …?”

“James. Bucky,” he corrects himself. “Sergeant Bucky Barnes.”

“Nothing to apologize for, Sarge,” Sam says, waving his hand in the air as if to erase the whole past awkwardness. “Civilian life is quite a challenge.”

“Yeah.”

“So, why did you mention Kilroy?” Bucky asks again, and Sam would love to chat with those two fine ( fiii-iiine ) specimens, but his stomach grumbles and he can’t stay.

“Care to join me for dinner?”

Steve and Bucky exchange a look. The type of look that shows years of knowing each other (biblically? One can hope, those two together must look insanely hot. Like, Sahara hot).

“Sure. Lead the way.”

--

Sam’s dinner doesn’t look much, but he knows for a fact that their ribs are the best in the Tristate area.

“Really?”

Steve sounds doubtful, but he’ll eat his words when the plate arrives, and Sam has no qualms about telling him so.

If he knew that it would make Bucky laugh, he would have joked sooner, ‘cause it’s a sight to behold.

“Sorry if I have my doubts,” Steve says, sitting very prim and proper--which only makes Bucky, and in an echo, Sam, cackle even harder-- “but where I come from, the ribs are already top notch.”

“Unless you’re from the deep South like the boss here, wherever you come from doesn’t hold a candle,” Sam replies, leaning back into the leather seat and smirking at the man.

Yes, he is aware that the move pulls at the fabric of his t-shirt over his chest and arms, why do you ask.

Gotta strut the strut and flaunt his stuff.

Bucky’s eyes travel along his arm, so that’s definitely one win.

“Just from Brooklyn,” Steve replies and Bucky cocks his head and smirks like this answers everything.

“Yeah, okay, Amanda’s ribs will get you on your knees and thanking the Lord.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

The words are softly spoken, but Sam almost chokes on air.

Did …

He …

He did, didn’t he?

When he looks back at them, there is a very alluring twinkle in both men’s eyes.

“Here you are, boys,” the waitress says, startling all of them out of their staring contest. “If you need anything, let me know, alright Sammy?”

“Thank you, ‘Manda,” Sam says, sending her a dazzling smile. She pats his cheek and returns to the kitchen with a spring in her steps.

“Regular here?”

Sam unfolds his napkin. “I practically grew up on Amanda’s cooking,” he replies, taking the time to savor the smell of the smoked meat, the barbecue spices and sauce, and the garlic fries, all blending together into “home”. “Her son and I were partners back in Afghanistan. When Riley was shot, I went home and she put me back together.”

“Through Love?”

“Through food.”

“Ah.”

“Sorry for your partner.”

“Dig in, it’s better warm.” And I need to not think downward-spiraling thoughts .

The look on both Steve’s and Bucky’s faces after their first bite is one Sam needs to cherish: surprise, delight, and hunger, all wrapped into one.

“I bow to this diner’s superiority,” Steve says with his mouth full, which Sam finds way too endearing for it to be natural. “This is … like … like …”

“Like a hug in your mouth,” Sam says, picking up a fry and savoring the taste of garlic and victory.

“Exacty.”

“Sooo,” Bucky says, lazily picking up a fry and lodging it between his lips like some sort of cowboy, “about Kilroy?”

Sam smiles, thinking about his favorite blog. “It came up on a blog that I follow online,” he explains, “and I thought about what it meant to me, and from that point on, built my speech. Why?”

Steve and Bucky exchange a loaded look. “A blog?” they ask in unison.

“Yeah, I’m on Tumblr,” Sam says, his cheeks heating up. “It’s my escape from … everything.”

“Not judging, we have a blog too.”

“What about?”

“I think you know.”

Sam raises one eyebrow. “How would I know?”

“The same way I know you make a mean hot cocoa.”

“And that your kitchen is a work of art.”

It takes Sam a moment to absorb the words, and then his eyes bulge out of his head.

New York and the world may be small, but that small? No, he did not see it coming.

“Memetymologist?”

“RedWingToTheRescue?”

Sam can feel a smile stretching his lips from ear to ear, and what’s even better, that smile is mirrored on the faces of both of the men across from him.

“Why memes?”

Steve leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Same reason you cook, I think,” he says softly, his crooked smile making a comeback.

Is that a dimple? Oh my God.

“We follow you, too.”

Sam would have noticed the blog following him back, and his face must show it.

“Individually.”

“Ah.”

“It’s very comforting.”

“You don’t say.”

“That kitchen is really amazing.”

“Want to see it irl?”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself, but the twinkle is back so he won’t berate himself too harshly.

“I wouldn’t dare refuse such an offer,” Steve says, pulling his wallet and standing up in one fluid motion.

Sam’s throat is so dry, all of a sudden.

“The things I’ve dreamed of doing in that kitchen will rock your world,” Bucky adds, a small smile making his eyes crinkle.

Sam gulps as he stands too, and would you look at that, ends up between the two men.

“By all means,” he manages to say, extracting himself from the Buff Sandwich (the Buffwich, if you will) to lead the way.

He believed that today would be a good day, but never did he imagine it would turn out to be quite that good.

---

His kitchen has never seen that kind of scene.

Never.

Sam is never going to be able to cook without having a Pavlovian boner.

Well, that’s tomorrow’s problem, isn’t it, because all of his attention is required right now to avoid dampening the mood with an injury.

“The moment you rolled your sleeves, I wanted to take that shirt off,” Bucky growls against the soft skin of Sam’s neck as he unbuttons the offensive garment, “and worship those arms.”

“Have you looked at yourself?” Sam tears himself from kissing Steve to reply, one hand groping Steve’s chest while the other gets tangled in Bucky’s silky hair.

“Hm-hm, still want to do all the things to your body.”

“Count me in on that plan, Buck,” Steve chuckles as he meets Bucky over Sam’s shoulder to kiss him.

Sam has an hand on both their head and he angles it a little bit to the left, pressed as he is between their bodies.

Oh, he’s definitely in for a treat, wherever this goes.

Ah, treats.

“Summer and Winter,” he murmurs as he alternates between Steve and Bucky’s neck to press kisses and kitten licks.

“Uh?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, that’s--that’s good,” Bucky says. “Sam, can you--ugh, can you move?”

“No.” If anything, Sam presses even more against him, encouraged by Steve who turns him more fully towards the other man.

“You okay, Buck?” Steve says, one hand on Sam’s hip and the other cupping Bucky’s cheek.

Bucky’s eyes are black, with just a ring of blue left in them. “A bit--a bit overwhelmed here.”

“Alright,” Sam says with a sigh, moving back against Steve. “Let’s all relax and use this kitchen for its intended purpose, hm?”

Bucky and Steve give him a perfect salute. “Sir, yes sir.”

Sam smirks, shoving both his guests towards the kitchen chairs. “Wanna try my hot cocoa?”

“I thought we were.”

“You did not just say that.”

Steve snickers into his palm. “I think he did, Sarge.”

“Tsk tsk. No whipped cream for you.”

“Aww,” Bucky says, sitting at the table with his legs wide opened. “I was really interested in getting the cream.”

“He does like cream.”

“Good to know. Only if you behave then.”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky repeats closing his legs but sprawling even further into the chair.

Debauched, that’s what he looks like, and Steve, even sitting as straight as he is, is not a lot better.

Definitely my treats .

#samwilsonbirthdaybang #sometimes i write #sam wilson #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #bucky barnes #fluff #memes #comfort food

[jadehqknb]

It's been a while since I've had the chance to request anything from a writing blog ;) I saw in your rules that you accept AUs, so I was wondering if I could possibly get a reader/Kuroo zombie apocalypse AU scenario? Maybe something along the lines of them being in the school when the outbreak hits and now they need to find their way out to survive.

Ok, I have no idea if this is what you were hoping forbecause it’s kind of open ended but nevertheless I hope you enjoy! WARNINGmention of deaths for beloved characters (briefly but still fair warning). Nothingovertly graphic.

The incessant banging on the gym door should have been aclue that all is not right. Casting a glance at Kuroo, the tall bed headcaptain being the last to leave with you after practice, you stride to the doorand open it. Standing before you is Yamamoto, his head hung, grasping theside of the building.

“Yamamoto-san?” you ask reaching forward to touch him butwhen he whips his head up you scream.

The sound of your terror draws Kuroo’s attention back toyou, his eyes widening as he watches you back away from the second-year ace. Hecan see, even from this distance, something is terribly wrong. Yamamoto isgrunting, his voice a dry heave of sound and his neck…his neck has a huge gashin it, blood trailing down.

As he reaches for you, Kuroo acts on instinct, tossing up aball and spiking it perfectly into his head making him fall over temporarily.

The impact makes you scream again but it does its job ofsnapping you out of the horror haze his dead eyes held you in though you’restill just standing there. In front of you, Kuroo can see more students, alongwith some faculty, walking towards your location. It’s like all his wildestnightmares coming true and he’s in fight or flight mode.

Surging forward, he shoves Yamamoto, or at least what used to be him, back into the courtyard,slamming the door and bolting it. The pounding on the door echoes through thelarge empty room and you cover your ears, crouching down to drown out thesound, murmuring, “No, no, no…this isn’t real…wake up…wake up…wake up!” You’rescreaming the words now, overrun with panic but it all comes to a grinding haltwhen you feel a sharp sting against your cheek.

Turning your face back to Kuroo, you can see he’s still gothis hand cross his body from slapping you. He drops to his knees, grabbing yourface between his hands and kisses your forehead swiftly. “I’m sorry, but youcan’t panic right now, we need to get to safety,” he says. Quickly, he standsagain, grabbing your hand and yanking you towards the door that leads to thestorage room where a ladder to the roof access point resides.

Grabbing his phone, Kuroo selects Kenma’s number.

“Kenma, where are you?”

“On the train, why?” asks the setter.

Briefly Kuroo recounts what happens and the noises he canstill hear outside as he shimmies up the ladder, pushing with all his might toopen the locked door. Casting a glance at you, he moves the phone away from hisear to ask, “Do you have the key?”

“The key to what?” he hears Kenma ask as you shake your headand he goes back to the conversation.

“Not you, y/n and I are trying to get to the roof. Don’t getoff the train, tell the engineer not to stop and just get the fuck out of here.Something bad is going down and it’s only going to get worse.”

“Stop joking around Kuroo,” Kenma dead pans but winces whenKuroo shouts in the phone.

“Do I sound like I’m fucking joking?”

“Well, yeah, because you usually do,” he replies.

“Here, talk to y/n while I try to get this damn door open,maybe she can convince you.”

You take the phone, your shaky voice affirming everythingKuroo just said to Kenma. But as you’re talking you hear the train call itsnext stop, the doors opening and loud screams coming from all around Kenma.

“What the hel-“you hear then he shouts, his voice louderthan you’ve ever heard it.

“Kenma? Kenma?” you yell but it’s no use, in his haste toget away from whatever is happening he must have dropped his phone because allyou can hear is a cacophony of noise consisting of shrieks of terror, a lowrumbling and curses from people as they are attacked.

You feel your stomach lurch when Kenma’s voice comes throughthe fray, screaming out that he’s sorry and that he loves you both. The linegoes dead and you throw up into the mop pail. From above you hear Kuroobreathing hard, both in exertion and emotion, knowing that you were an auditorywitness to his best friend’s death.

Finally, the door snaps open, a cool rush of night airdescending. Reaching down, Kuroo hauls you up the ladder, pulling you onto theroof with him.

All around you can see others who have done the same, barricadingthemselves on the roofs until some sort of help arrives; presuming any can. Kuroopulls the ladder up, dropping it to the ground and slams the door shut. With amoment to breathe, to think, he collapses to his knees, screaming out in agonyat the loss of his friends and most likely his family. He’s seen the movies,knows the odds and they aren’t good.

Kneeling beside him, you touch his back, startled when hedraws you into a fierce hug, face buried in your neck as you both cry. How canany of this be real? Sniffling, Kuroo looks up, wiping his face on his shirt, anew grim determination setting in his eyes.

“We’re going to survive, y/n,” he says lowly, hand cuppingyour face. Overcome with emotion, he kisses you, whispering against your lips, “Ihate that it takes this for me to tell you I love you. How fucking cliche is that?But it’s true and I’m not gonna let us die.”

You believe him, despite the sounds of screams surroundingyou, despite the very likelihood that you’re going to die on this roof top ifyou can’t get food or water; you believe him. Because you have to believe insomething and the scheming captain is your best bet.

Clutching his shirt, you look in his eyes. “I know you won’tand…I love you too.”

The distant sound of helicopters draws both your attention tothe sky and a flicker of hope arises in your heart; for now, you can get awayfrom here and everything else…you’ll just have to wait and see.

#kuroo #haikyuu #au #zombie #admin jade #vball bae #scenario #request #xxxneonsoundxxx