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#advanced home medical equipment
aniharas · 2 months
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𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥
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pairing: miguel o'hara x fem!reader
summary: on your first day back at spider society hq, your male colleagues are inexplicably drawn to you. your boss, miguel, seems to be affected more than anybody. surely there's an explanation and solution, but who were you to resist?
warnings: explicit language, sexual tension/content, use of pheromones (please let me know if i need to add more!)
wc: 9.6k+ oneshot
a/n: apparently there was a rumor that a body butter named Delícia Drench (hence name of the fic) attracted wolf spiders! somebody on reddit said it's because there might be two ingredients that imitate the pheromones of a female spider and it'll bring all the thirsty boy spiders to your yard. and with miguel being 50% spider, how could i resist writing? (shoutout to scarlet for the wonderful prompt!) however DISCLAIMER! these claims are unfounded, i just thought it was a fun prompt to write off of. anything i say in the fic referring to the butter is purely fictional and im just talking out of my ass. with that being said, enjoy!
Just before the sun began to rise over the city line of Earth-766’s New York, your hand shot out to slam the snooze button of your annoying alarm clock before it could even go off. The silky sheets you were laid in were far too comfortable, reluctant to release you from its dreamlike embrace, but alas, duty was calling. The holidays had come to a close, and your peaceful vacation back in your home dimension was a bliss escape away from your tiring job.
You didn’t hate your job; in fact, it was just the opposite. Since you were in middle school, you always had an unrivaled passion for chemistry, as many Spiders were. Your life before getting bitten by that spider was mainly winning science fairs, calibration rooms, and working towards your Ph.D. Even after becoming your New York’s one and only Spiderwoman, your academic pursuit never ceased, eventually landing yourself at the prestigious Alchemax. However, it was because you had secured such a high-profile job that you caught the attention of the Spider Society, in the form of its leader, Miguel. He somehow knew that you were on the path to creating a more stable version of Rapture, and because of this, he was persistent in roping you into his ranks.
At first, you had declined profusely, briskly walking away from where he had approached you in Central Park. The brisk walk eventually turned into a full-on Spider chase, although the uniqueness of his abilities seemed to distract you. The talons that protruded from his fingers that tore through metal like paper, the neon-red nature of his webs, and his fangs. His fangs were what intrigued you the most. Eventually, you were pincered by him and another Spiderwoman named Jessica, who would later become one of your best friends.
Alas, you accepted, although not until being lured in by the offer of all the technology and scientific advancements you could imagine in Nueva York. The first time you had entered the HQ’s lab, you were like a kid in the candy store. You loved your job, which involved tailoring different types of chemical equipment, unique for each Spider that came by, as well as equally unique medicines and antidotes for the medical ward. 
Your main job, however, was developing the Rapture injection, the one you were recruited for, almost daily. And for who other than your broody boss? Even though he hadn’t left the best impression after chasing you like a madman in your hometown, you were required to work with him. And in the beginning, it would be an understatement to say it was challenging. Miguel was a whirlwind of sarcastic remarks and impatience who constantly nagged you for any updates. And to make it worse, each morning, you would make your way to Miguel’s office and inject him with your experimental Rapture of the day. Then in the evening, you would return to observe the effects. The days consisted of constant complaints that you were late, that the injection didn’t have the intended effect, and that Rapture was your top priority, all of which were grating on your soul. 
Since your daily routine started and ended with Miguel, your relations grew slightly amicable over time. It started with silent gestures of gratitude: a cup of steaming coffee left in your office in the lab, bringing extra dinner for him during the end-of-the-day check-ups. After 3 months of your stay at the Society, you both started communicating with your watches (He was insistent that you call the watches gizmos, to which you adamantly refused). At first, it was only about work and your Rapture progress. The conversations then slowly changed into more casual ones, topics ranging from your pets back home to him venting his frustrations about the shenanigans of whatever Hobie was up to that day. Sure, he was slightly more friendly (which wasn’t a feat considering who he was), but his irritable nature was still a turn-off for you, and the sarcasm leaping into every evaluation didn’t help either. You considered him lucky that he was quite the eye candy. He was actually pretty attractive whenever he shut his mouth.
This particular morning was your official return to Nueva York after two weeks, so you decided you would put a bit more effort into your routine. Reluctantly, you rose from your bed and stumbled towards your bathroom, wincing at the harsh cold of its floor underneath your feet. You allowed yourself a moment of bliss under your hot shower, trying your best to wash away any stress you were anticipating that day. Once you had finally stepped out of the shower, you quickly dried yourself off and wrapped a plush towel securely around your body, trying your best not to slip as you trudged over to the bathroom counter. Admittedly, you weren’t the most graceful Spider; you were on the smarter side.
Then it was the usual sequence of your routine. Brushing and blow-drying your hair, skincare, and makeup. Just as you were about to make your way to your closet, you realized that you had forgotten your lotion, which you would’ve considered disastrous. Nothing bothered you more than your own dry skin. By habit, you were about to reach for the usual bottle until an unopened box tempted you from the corner of your eye. As you turned it around in your hands and delicately unpackaged it, you silently chastised yourself for almost forgetting. It was a body butter, given to you by Jessica during a surprise visit on Christmas day.
“This is from Lyla. She says to thank her later,” Jessica had said on that day vaguely before giving a brief hug.
Unscrewing the lid from the jar, you smiled to yourself. If there was anyone other than Jessica that you truly missed over your break, it was Lyla. The hologram assistant never failed to make you smile with the many ways she’d tease Miguel, but she also never failed in constantly bringing up asking him out. “I don’t care if he’s your boss,” Lyla would say. “I’d know more than anyone if he has the hots for you, and he guess what? He does!” Which was hard to believe, considering his persistent stubbornness in your day-to-day interactions.
Once the lid was finally off, a waft of vanilla with a hint of sandalwood drifted into the air. Inhaling the scent of the butter deeply, you felt oddly touched. This was undeniably a scent that was up your alley, and it was very thoughtful. As you worked it into your skin, you made a mental note to thank Lyla. It was when you were just about finished that you noticed something peculiar. You had caught a subtle whiff of another note, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. It was elusive, teasing your senses as you racked your brain for what it could possibly be. Figuring it was just an ester you smelled in your various experiments, you left the bathroom to get dressed, with a more confident aura around yourself.
Your first day back couldn’t have started any more peculiar.
You had barely gotten the chance to take in the surroundings of your beloved HQ before you were instantly greeted with Hobie swinging in as he called your name, landing just in front of you.
“Evil genius. Heard you’d be back today,” Hobie greeted with his signature half-smile, his lanky arms immediately opening to embrace you. Which was weird, considering he was more of a handshake-y/shadowboxing type of greeter. But he was a joy to have around in your lab (despite him not particularly having too much interest in your work), so you didn’t refuse.
“You’ve gotten taller,” you replied with a grin on your face, happily accepting his embrace. While it was comforting, you noticed that it was taking a while for him to pull away. Passing it off as mere affection, you pulled away and looked up at Hobie’s face. He seemed almost bewildered as he stared down at you, almost in some sort of trance. Was he looking at your lips? Was he looking further down?
“Uh, Earth-928 to Hobie? Helloo?” you called out, snapping your fingers in front of him repeatedly in an attempt to wake him up. It wasn’t until the 5th or 6th snap that he finally seemed to jolt awake, although still fixated on you.
“Oh. My bad, fam,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. You raised a brow at his mannerisms; it was extremely unlike him to act so nervous. You then gave him a reassuring pat on his shoulder, and you swore you saw him slightly tense at the feeling.
“So, you got a new cologne or somethin’ like that? Hold on, not cologne…what’s it called? Perfume? Toilettes?” Hobie began rambling, seemingly in a desperate attempt to cover up his uncharacteristic awkwardness.
“Oh, Lyla got me-”
You were cut off by another voice shouting your name to your left. It was one of the many Peters. “How’s my favorite scientist been? How was your vacay?”
“Just stayed at home,” you answered, a bit startled as you tried to split your attention between Peter and Hobie. “Anyways, Lyla-”
Another voice chimed in behind you. “I heard your universe is one of the most beautiful. You were definitely up to something.” Then another. “It’s been forever since I last saw you!” Another. “Wanna come eat with us at the caf?”  You even heard Ben’s voice, to which you were surprised he had taken a break from his usual moping to join the ever-growing commotion around you. “You smell nice!” Soon, all the greetings and compliments became a garbled mess in your ears, your view obscured by a wall of Spiders.
You tried your best to force on a polite smile as you tried to weave your way through the oncoming traffic of people. To you, this was completely unexpected and foreign. Sure, you had made lots of friends in your time at HQ, but people weren’t exactly buzzed to see you. At most, you’d get a friendly wave as you passed by each other in the twisty pathways. Now, they acted like you were an oasis in a desert.  As you whipped your head around, you noticed something in the ever-growing crowd around you: it was all Spidermen. That irked you slightly; you had made many Spiderwomen friends as well. Where were they? Becoming slightly dizzy with the growing clamor around you, you were just about ready to web yourself up to the ceiling and swing your way to your lab.
As if your prayers were miraculously answered, the familiar rev of an engine overpowered the clamor of the Spidermen, and they immediately parted ways down the middle to reveal Jessica, staring at you with an amused grin as she sat on her motorcycle.
"I’ll take you to HQ if you tell me what the hell’s going on!” Jessica offered, her voice raised so that you could hear.
Instant relief flooded through your body as you nearly sprinted your way to Jessica, planting a grateful kiss on her cheek before hopping on the back of the motorcycle. As you both sped away, you still waved goodbye to the Spidermen, despite how weird you had felt mere seconds prior. As if things couldn’t get any weirder, you noticed that the crowd you had left behind had almost immediately dispersed, with only some lingering around to chat.
“God, Jess. I’ve been here for two minutes, and I think I’ve already had the weirdest day out of everyone here!” you remarked loudly with a heavy sigh. You linked your arms around Jessica’s waist to remain stable on the motorcycle, eyes squinted from traveling at such a high speed.
Jessica only seemed to chuckle in response as she steered through the complicated structure, towards your lab. “Yeah? Try being pregnant!” she called out over the wind, her curls tossing about in the wind.
Your eyes widened immediately upon the revelation. “You’re lying, shut up,” you scolded, immediately feeling over Jessica’s stomach to verify it. Lo and behold, your hands smoothed over the beginnings of a bump, which caused you to squeal out in excitement. “Oh my god, Jess! When is it due?!”
“6 months! So don’t hold on so tight!” Jessica chided playfully as she effortlessly navigated her way through the building, shouting at countless Spiders to move out of her way. You held on for dear life, but of course, not too tight.
Eventually, you reached your beloved lab, to which you both entered. The door hissed closed behind you, and after you had set your bag down, you immediately sprung into action. This was simultaneously your sanctuary and your training, where you were at your best. Jessica watched from a nearby stool, gently holding her stomach.
“So this is where you cook up the good stuff, hm?” Jessica quipped, her eyes glued to the liquid that was poured into an instant syringe.
“Somebody’s gotta keep the boss alive,” you chuckled, your meticulous hands carefully measuring out just the right amount of Rapture before sealing it closed. This was the new batch that you had been working on at home, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t eager to show Miguel. “Speaking of which, I’ll need a lift there.” Packing the syringe into a box, you motioned for Jessica to come with you as you began to walk toward the sealed doors. That was until you were stopped by your pregnant friend’s hand in your face.
“Hold up, hon. You still never explained what was going on out there,” Jessica reminded you in a stern tone with an equally stern look.
“Jess, I wanna know as much as you do.” You paused, taking a deep breath as you recounted the event. “Maybe it's just a…welcome committee thingy.”
Jessica gave you a pointed look as a scoff left her lips. “Welcome committee, my ass. Those guys were like pirates, and you were a siren. It was more like a…’Welcome Back, I Would Die For Your Attention’ committee.”
As much as you wanted to bite back, it was unfortunate that she was right. While most of the Spider-folk were kind, as they tended to be, they were never that eager to see you before. People you thought you could never shake were in the crowd. Did it feel nice? You were ashamed that it did, just slightly, but perhaps for a different reason than you thought.
Perhaps Miguel would be the same.
Noting your silence and your brows creased in thought, Jessica gave you a reassuring smile as she stood to pat you on the back. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop messing with you,” she chuckled, giving you a gentle push toward the door. “But something’s up, and I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“Yeah, yeah, let me know when you figure it out. I’d like to know too,” you said as you narrowed your eyes at her, although you could never keep a serious face with your best friend as you broke out into a smile.
With that, you both stepped out of the lab, only to be immediately greeted by another crowd of Spidermen that had gathered outside the entrance. Your face twisted into annoyance as you looked to Jessica for help.
“Move, people!” she shouted out above the onslaught of chattering Spidermen. “Unless you want to work with Miguel for a week!” With that, the crowd easily dispersed, scattering like…well, spiders. Despite the situation you were in, you were glad that many of them felt the same way about working with Miguel. Outside of work, he was bearable, but his free time was rare.
After another short ride on Jessica’s motorcycle through the complex, you reached Miguel’s office. You took a deep breath, giving your friend a firm nod as you prepared to walk through the automatic doors. As soon as you were about to take a step, Lyla apparated in front of you, sliding down her heart-shaped shades to get a good look at you.
“It’s been forever! Just know I’d hug you if I could,” the assistant exclaimed with the widest grin you’ve ever seen on her. Her playful antics were infectious, and her cheery tone seemed to wipe away the stress the day had accumulated so far. “Sooo, how’d you like your gift?”
“Oh! Right, uh, I’m wearing it right now,” you stammered out, feeling terrible. The morning had been so hectic that you forgot to seek out Lyla and thank her properly. Your response made Jessica raise a brow and lean over toward you, taking a whiff. You looked at her. “What do you think?”
“You smell sweet,” Jessica remarked, then paused, as if analyzing your scent a bit more. “And…womanly.”
Lyla seemed to nod eagerly at this statement, her virtual eyes glinting with curiosity as she prodded at you further. “And what’s it like?”
Perplexed by the wording of the question, you hesitated to answer. What on earth did either of them mean? Everyone was acting strange today. “Um, the vanilla is really nice, I had no idea you knew that I liked that sort of stuff. It was very thoughtful, Lyla.”
Lyla continued to stare at you a bit more intently, seeming to wait for another answer from you until she seemed to give up. “That’s good, I’m glad you love it,” she replied, though there was a hint of something enigmatic in her response. As if she were physically standing in front of the door to the office, Lyla stepped to the side, gesturing for them to go in as the doors slid open. “You can come in, but consider yourself warned. Miguel’s cranky at the moment.”
“When is he not?” You muttered, mostly to yourself, but you could hear Jessica snicker at your side as you both strolled in. The familiar hum of Miguel’s futuristic machinery filled your ears, the metallic interior of his office coldly greeting her eyes. When you first spotted your boss up on his platform (which was redundant, in your opinion), he was already wearing his suit. You swore he always wore it to show off his physique. He had his back turned to the both of you, seeming to intently stare at the screens and holograms in front of him blankly.
“Does he ever not do that?” Jessica muttered under her breath to you as you both stared ahead. It was so simple for her to break your resolve, pressing your lips together in a tight line to prevent yourself from letting out even the smallest sound.
“Are you ever not late?”
Miguel’s sharp voice immediately cut through the playful nature that surrounded the two of you. The smile immediately dropped from your face, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. How could somebody already be so irritated? The day hadn’t even started.
You glanced toward Jessica briefly before answering, trying to keep your voice steady. “I was just stuck in the lobby-”
“Yeah, I saw,” Miguel interjected coldly as he turned his head toward the hologram-screen that displayed the security feed. With a simple flick of his hand, the screen swiped out of view as he turned to face you, his face twisted into an unfamiliar emotion, albeit clearly not a pleasant one. “Really glad you had the time to mingle. Not like we’re on a schedule or anything.”
If Miguel hadn’t been 6’9” of almost entirely pure muscle, you swore you would’ve swung up and lunged at him like a rabid animal. Would it have killed him to be just a bit understanding? He was watching you through the feed, how was any of that your fault? His mockery and grumpy attitude were things you’d grown used to, but today, it was particularly biting. It seemed…personal.
Jessica seemed to feel the same way as you heard her snort audibly in response. This directed his attention towards her, his glare unwavering. “And you,” he began, pointing a finger directly at her. “What did I tell you about riding that thing through my building?”
“ Our building,” she bit back, her posture nonchalant as she lazily examined her nails. “How about you yell at the people who got in her way, smart guy?”
Miguel rolled his eyes at her remark, seemingly ready to go back and forth until he glanced down at her stomach. He then shook his head, gesturing to shoo her away. “I…I don’t even wanna get into it with you. Just…get out.”
Elbowing you lightly, Jessica leaned closer to you with a smirk. “See? Pregnancy perks,” she joked. “But I would’ve preferred a vacation.” You clamped a hand over your mouth to stop the fit of laughter you felt rising.
“¡Oye! Are you even listening?!” Miguel hissed at Jessica, pointing towards the doors. Genuinely, you admired her patience, as she didn’t even flinch. Giving you a look that clearly meant “good luck”, your best friend gently patted you on the back before taking her leave. You stared until her figure disappeared behind the automatic doors, and then you became all too aware that you and Miguel were alone. The air in the room grew tense as you attempted to quell the irritation rising within you.
Once you turned back to look up at Miguel, he was running his fingers through his hair, pushing it back in somewhat of a stressed manner as he was fixated on another screen. Without sparing you another glance, he spoke up again, the words barely even louder than the quiet buzz of the hologram projectors. “The Rapture. Get up here,” he muttered, slowly pacing back and forth on his levitated platform.
Tucking the box securely in your (thankfully) deep pockets, you made sure to secure it tightly, the contents too delicate to leave dangling so carelessly. Mentally preparing yourself for the incoming 5 minutes you had to spend with Miguel, you flung your wrist towards the edge of his platform, a silky web instantly connecting the two. Pulling on the tensile web, you gave yourself enough momentum to fling yourself up onto it, landing opposite to where he was standing—one of your more graceful landings.
His back was still turned to you as you pulled the box out of your pocket, carefully extracting the syringe with your latest creation. Staring down at it proudly, you stood on your feet and cautiously approached Miguel. “Worked on this one during vacation,” you said, not necessarily caring if he had anything to say about it. “Think it’s my best one yet.”
Miguel’s shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep exhale, intent on reading the details of his upcoming mission. “It better be,” was all he muttered, holographic nature of his suit fading away in a patch on his left shoulder, his usual injection site. Placing your right hand tentatively against his shoulder blade, you held the syringe up to his skin, ready to administer until you noticed something. You gently pressed a finger against his skin, and it was almost as if the muscle was made of rocks.
“You need to relax your shoulder, boss,” you remarked, your focus beginning to trail across the expanse of his back. It almost seemed to ripple constantly from how tense they were. Usually, this process was the easy part, and you both had done this dozens of times. 
“Yep. Got it.” A muscle in his neck flexed slightly.
“Is something bothering you?” you asked cautiously, observing his odd behavior. Seriously, him too? What was up with everyone today?
“ Mierda , just get on with it,” he grumbled, an obvious strain in his tone.
“If you say so,” you whispered, injecting the green liquid into his system. Once again, it was different. A sharp inhale escaped his lips as he winced; you caught a glimpse of his eyes flashing a bright red in the reflection of his monitors. The eyes were normal, it happened every time. But it never caused him discomfort before. Concern was etched across your features as you took a step back, your eyes scanning over his body. 
“Seriously, Miguel. Is there something I should know?” you asked with a huff, placing a hand on his other shoulder to turn him around. However, when you were finally able to his expression for the first time, it was nothing like you had ever expected. His eyes were clouded over as they locked onto yours, a rawness in his gaze that made you shudder. His jaw was clenched, muscles taut, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed deeply. You even noticed the cadence of his exhales, each one sounding as if he was barely in control. Was this an adverse reaction to the Rapture? Uneasiness began to settle into your skin. Was this your fault? You worriedly placed a hand against his forehead to feel his temperature, now noticing the sweat that had begun to dot across his forehead. 
He wasn’t even stopping you or making any snide remarks. Something was definitely wrong.
“Lyla?” you called out into the void of his office as you retracted your hand. “Show me his vitals.”
“No, Lyla, don’t even think about it,” Miguel objected through gritted teeth. You both were only greeted by Lyla’s familiar giggle as a hologram screen materialized behind Miguel, displaying his various vitals.
“You’re supposed to work for me ,” he grunted.
“Misclick! Oops, gotta go-” Lyla taunted, the sound of her program shutting off following. You swore you heard him mutter “chinga tu madre” under his breath.
As you read through the different stats, you only seemed to confuse yourself more. His body temperature was slightly elevated, but nowhere close to a fever. No production of histamines, so no allergies. Nothing from the injection seemed to affect any aspect of his body. His heart rate, however, was through the roof. Surely Spider-people don’t get heart attacks, right? You were about to instruct Lyla until a certain statement in his vital report caught your eye.
Elevated levels of oxytocin present.
Those words seemed to knock the wind right out of your stomach, struggling to find the words to say as you froze in place. Was there something you missed when you were gone? Miguel just suddenly had a thing for you? Racking your brain, you tried to think of any way this could have developed. Maybe distance does make the heart grow fonder. Would you be disrespecting yourself if this was fine with you? 
Suddenly, images of your time with him began to pop up in your mind, but they were now corrupted. You thought of the way his quadriceps flexed as he carried boxes into your new office, the hitch of his breath every time you gave him a new injection, and simply how large he was in comparison to you. Your free hand began to fidget with the hem of your shirt, letting your gaze fall anywhere but him. You were certain your cheeks looked like they had been pinched. The both of you stood there, unsure of what to do, an awkward silence engulfing the room.
As if unable to endure this situation any longer, Miguel muttered a curse under his breath before he moved swiftly, hopping down from the platform. He seemed eager to escape his office, which was strange; this was where he usually holed up before and after missions. The sound of his footsteps rang in your ears, finalizing the fact that you were now standing alone, your mind a whirlwind of chaos. But with each step he took, the more you felt your heartbeat in your ears, the steady rhythm urging you to follow him. To demand one ounce of clarity from him. He couldn’t just leave you here.
“Miguel, wait,” you called out, shooting a web to the floor and flinging yourself after him. Once you had landed, you kept pursuing him, but he quickened his pace. Your mind flashed back to when he had chased you through Central Park, and a smile snuck its way onto your lips. It only made you even more relentless, your gait quickening.
Once you were close enough to him, you reached out, your hand gently tapping the broadness that was his back, a silent plea for him to acknowledge what had just been uncovered between the both of you. After receiving no response, you sighed in exasperation. “Miguel, please,” you implored. “Could you tell me-”
Miguel pivoted abruptly, the intensity in his gaze disorienting as you felt him tightly grip your wrist. Despite not having done much, his breaths were almost ragged. His eyes were glazed over, dropping down from yours just for a moment, stealing a glance at your body before returning it to a respectable place. 
“What the hell are you doing to me?” he grunted through his teeth, his voice low as it wavered with a hint of vulnerability. Despite his efforts to keep it down, the question echoed throughout the confines of his empty office.
As you tried to wiggle your wrist away, you realized it would be a waste of effort to try, so you let him. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stared up at him with wide eyes. You knew for a fact that he could feel your heartbeat with the way he was gripping it, and you were certain it beat like a rabbit’s. Hopelessly caught off guard, you stammered, “I…I don’t know. It isn’t the Rapture, I promise, I did every-”
“Don’t you give me that,” he cut you off, his words seeming to slice through whatever resolve you had left. “I know it’s not the damn Rapture. It’s you. I know it’s you. You’re in my head.”
The admission hung in the air between you two, another thing that only seemed to confuse you further that day. Miguel’s eyes bore into yours, its murky depths desperately searching yours for any answers. But he was only greeted by ones who were as clueless as he was. As he stared down at your wrist that was so easily enveloped by his hand, it seemed to spur him on. Impulsively, Miguel gripped you by your frame and whirled you around, pushing you against the metallic wall, his arms forming a cage around you.
You felt like you were caught in the eye of the storm of emotions that were building up inside him. You were utterly dwarfed by his figure. Sure, you always knew that he was tall, but you never had been this up close and personal before. As you glanced over at the arms that had caged you in like an animal, you fought the urge to run your hand over the ripple of his biceps that were almost staring at you right in the face. Realizing you were definitely focusing on the wrong thing, your eyes met his once again, each time becoming more difficult than the last. Whatever he had to say, you had no choice but to hear it.
“I can’t control it,” he continued, the words escaping like a reluctant exhale. That part was obvious enough. “The moment you stepped into HQ, every damn thought is you. Coño , I can’t even read one sentence of the mission brief with you right behind me. I’m doing things before I even think. I want to hate it.”
The weight of his words settled over you, sinking deep into your skin as you felt yourself burn up again. His sudden infatuation made you realize all the flirty comments and gentlemanly gestures that had been following you all morning. Sure, it was similar, but none of them seemed to be affected more than Miguel. What was it? Swallowing thickly, you mustered the courage to speak, to test the waters. “But you…don’t hate it?” you breathed, your chest seizing with regret as soon as the words left your lips.
Miguel’s brows furrowed, and you had trouble discerning what emotion was causing it. “I don’t,” he choked out, his voice dropping to a whisper. “So fix it.” “What?” His demand hung in the air, a fervent and pleading demand. “I said, fix it,” he insisted, his words taking on a rougher tone. One of his hands slid down from the wall, and he poked accusingly at your chest, just at the top of your sternum. “Whatever you’re doing, fix it,” he persisted, his voice akin to a low growl that sent pleasurable tingles down your spine. “Or I will.” “I don’t know how,” you shamefully admitted, your words laced with sincerity. Your eyes were blown wide upon seeing how intense he was up close, you could hear his labored breaths. The silence that followed your answer lingered between the both of you, both searching each other’s expressions just for one hint, a clue as to how to proceed from that moment. Miguel had always made the decisions, not you, and seeing him at a total loss for words had also stumped you. “I– um, you said that it was when I arrived, right?” you sputtered out, desperate to say anything to ease the heavy tension that was beginning to crush the both of you. Your eyes tried to lock on anywhere that wasn’t Miguel, but it proved difficult when his figure loomed over you. “I can just, uh…go home? Yeah! I can go back home for the day, and I–” And then, with a suddenness that left you without your words, Miguel’s hands retracted from the walls at your sides, cupping your face. Without letting another beat of your heart pass, he surged forward, all too quickly, then his lips were on yours. 
At first, your mind tried to make sense of what was happening. This was Miguel O’Hara, your boss, and a rude one at that. The same guy who always scolded you for the smallest of reasons. Not only would it be inappropriate to continue, but a blow to your self-respect. Yet, in the moment that followed, you felt his tongue gently graze against your bottom lip, and all logic seemed to dissolve and wash away, surrendering to his kiss. You should have been embarrassed that you had to reach up so far to wrap your arms around his neck, but he hunched over to make it easier on you.
He seemed to have been waiting for any sort of response from you. His hands moved with purpose, falling from your face to claw at your body, exploring the curves of your back as if he wanted to burn every detail to his memory. The fevered kiss he gave you ceased for a moment, a curse just barely able to escape from his lips before he began to bury his head into your shoulder. He began to leave openmouthed kisses to the smooth, delicate skin of your neck, his canines gently prodding at the skin. The sting seemed to tease you, to ask you how far you were willing to let him go.
“So you are a vampire,” you remarked breathlessly, whining softly at each slow, tantalizing kiss.
You aren’t able to see it, but you feel the way his lips curve up into a smirk against you. The laugh that followed was mind-bogglingly euphoric, the vibrations rippling against the expanse of your neck so deliciously that the heat building between your legs became nearly impossible to ignore. Your hands trail down from his shoulders and smooth over his chest, an action that you found to elicit the prettiest sounds from your boss. You didn’t even know he was capable of such a thing. You wanted to know what else he was capable of.
“You want it here?” you asked, your hands gently pushing against his chest in an attempt to make him pay attention to your words. But it was like he couldn’t pry himself from you. You were given a mere grunt in response, and you felt his calloused hand hold the back of your neck, stroking your nape tenderly. With his face still buried against your skin, he inhaled the scent of you deeply. That alone seemed to make his yearning nature worse, his words barely escaping past the low whine that resonated in his throat.
“Wherever I can fucking have you,” Miguel said as he grasped you, hands cupping just beneath your jaw as his thumbs smoothed over your cheeks. The way he looked at you, half-lidded, pleading, and absolutely drunk off of your body, sent your mind reeling and melted your limbs as you pushed yourself into him. Your eyes darted around for a suitable place, but Miguel’s office wasn’t necessarily 5 stars when it came to comfort. Raising your head, your gaze locked onto the platform you both were just on. Meekly, you point up towards it, unsure if he would satisfy your request. His head followed as you reached out, and he vaguely scoffed.
You were about to suggest another place until his strong arm secured its way around your waist, and suddenly, you were being hoisted into the air alongside your boss. A yelp escaped your throat out of shock, desperately gripping onto Miguel’s body despite knowing you wouldn’t fall. The gesture made him chuckle in a way you had never heard before, the sound hearty and resounding deeply in his chest. And it seemed to drug you and fill your veins with such an unyielding desire; it made you wonder how something so simple as a laugh further fueled this indecorous addiction to him.
Before you even knew it, you were seated in the middle of the platform with him kneeling beside you. As you stared up at him, you were unsure of what to do. But it was like he had read your mind, resulting in a roll of his eyes and his sarcastic nature making a brief return. 
“You planning to just sit there?” Miguel huffed as he dragged you closer to him. “Lay down.” His tone is so enticingly irrefutable, so you comply, your back hitting the platform, the cold metal making you shudder. You stared up at him, curious as to how he was going to do this.
Slotting himself in between your legs, his fingers desperately tugged at the waistband of your pants before doing away with them entirely, barely noticing that he had taken your underwear with it. He marveled at what he had revealed, carefully tugging your legs apart as if he wanted to worship it further. His eyes flicked up to your face for just a painstaking moment, and it was hot from anticipation, worsening as he hovered between your legs, pressing kisses along your inner thighs.
“You want this?” he murmurs, his words deep and gravelly. You eagerly nod, fighting the urge to shiver from the coldness that overtook your lower half.
Suddenly, you didn’t have to worry much about the cold the moment you felt his warm breath graze you in just the right way. He pressed a wet, languid kiss to your heat, the saliva his tongue was slathering you with mingling with the arousal that began to pool. You were amazed at how effortlessly his ministrations manipulated your body, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each pleasured exhale. When did he have the time to be so good at this sort of thing?
Soon, you were introduced to his fingers, so lengthy and thick that they had your eyes rolling into the back of your head as they plunged inside you. Each call of his name seemed to spur him on, increasing his tempo and the lewd, obscene noises that echoed across his office. Before you even knew it, all of it was too much; the subtle curling and pumping of his girthy fingers, the flick of his tongue; it was like a wave had crashed over you, sending your thighs into convulsions. He slowed his movements as each thrust of his fingers grew more wet, easing you down from your high. The delicate touches lasted for a mere second before you were flipped over, your hips being dragged back as you felt your behind press against the outline of the stiff, rock-hard muscle at his crotch, a testament to how much he had been craving you.
What followed was a sweetly painful, visceral blur. You had heard the sound of his holographic suit retracting itself, and you turned your head, curious as to what you’d see. He smiled smugly at your doe-eyed expression upon seeing his goods, and the only thing occupying your mind was if he could fit at all. It wasn’t like you weren’t expecting it, he was a behemoth of a man after all. But seeing it up close, anticipating its entry was an entirely different beast.
But Miguel was experienced, having dutifully prepared you to take him, making it a more easy experience as his tip prodded your entrance gently, slowly easing himself in. The stretch was undeniably painful, your fingers clutching at the floor, desperately looking for something to hold onto. But as he pushed in further, the feeling transformed into a euphoric ache. He had been trying his best to remain silent to not attract any attention from the outside, but your name managed to fall from his mouth in a hoarse groan, harmonizing with the pathetic whines that you had been letting out. His hands pinned your wrists against the floor, the freezing nature of the floor beneath you contrasting with the heat that bounced between your bodies.
His vigorous pace slightly rocked the platform beneath you, threatening to tip over if Miguel had a mind to get rougher. However, he seemed to know his limits, effortlessly filling you up in a way that could satisfy you for lifetimes. Crude phrases left your swollen lips, each one a way to praise the man that was fucking you like his next mission was his last. The sound of your skin colliding with him was growing filthier with each second, more carnal. For a fleeting second, your mind filled with worry, anxious about anybody that could have been waiting outside his office. Anyone who stood within a 5-yard radius from the entrance could hear just about anything that was going on inside. But his fingers then came up to slither their way into the roots of your hair, yanking your head back far enough so he could whisper in your ear. “Keep talking, say you want me. Say it.”
And soon enough, you were begging for him, arms shaking as you struggled to hold yourself up as ripples of your orgasm traveled throughout your body, your slick absolutely drenching the both of you. Your pleas were what had done him in, his rhythm stuttering and his length pulsing inside you, unsheathing himself as he emptied himself all over your ass, the viscous liquid dripping slowly down its curve. For a moment, the both of you stayed where you were, worn-out breaths being the only thing you both could exchange as you tried to wrap your head around what you had done.
Surprisingly, Miguel had a thought for aftercare. He had retrieved a gym towel and cleaned you up, wiping away his release and your sweat as best as he could. “Still think you have to shower, though,” he commented, the smug undertone in his voice not going unnoticed.
“Back at you,” you quipped, though the smile never left your face as you redressed yourself.
You never thought you would have to try to sneak your way out of Miguel’s office, but considering how disheveled you were after your tryst with him, it was the only way to keep your dignity intact. The air outside was cooler, freezing against your skin that still burned with the residual warmth of his hands all over you. You shuddered. You definitely needed a cold shower.
After grabbing your spare clothes from your office, you found yourself in the ladies’ room. Stripping off your sweat-ridden clothes (you had a mind to scold him for not taking them off), you hopped into one of the showers and slid the privacy curtain shut behind you. The warm water was comforting, easily washing away the feeling of sex away from your body, but what remained emotionally was unexpected. The thought of seeing him again.
A nervous energy gnawed at your heart as you mindlessly lathered soap all over your body. The both of you just had a steamy hookup, but what would happen now? Your insides seemed to twist as you remembered the fact that seeing him at the end of the day was inevitable. The water from your showerhead seemed to pelt down at your skin now, creating an atmosphere perfect for overthinking. Was it a one time thing? Did he want more? Did he like you? Would he fire you? Thankfully, Miguel was due for a mission today, so you wouldn’t have to worry about seeing him before your scheduled time. That would give you enough space to cool your head. 
“Relax,” you told yourself, barely able to hear your thoughts over the pitter-patter of water droplets around you. “You just screwed your boss. Tough it out. Forget about it. Act like it didn’t happen.”
However, the memory of his hands tracing the contours of your back seemed to follow you like a ghost, sending shivers down your spine no matter how much you cranked up the heat of your shower.
Enclosed in the white, sterile walled haven that was your lab, you buried yourself in work, hoping that the hum of calibration machines and the countless lab tests were enough to get your mind off of your tumultuous morning. You decided that it wasn’t enough, sliding your headphones over your ears and blasting your favorite playlist on repeat just so you wouldn’t have to hear your inner turmoil.
And it worked, the hours effortlessly passing by in a blur. Holographic displays and paperwork filled your visions, the very tasks you used to complain about becoming a solace on your first day back at your lab. You didn’t expect to get much done considering the crowd you had easily amassed earlier that morning, but strangely, that stopped, and you were thankful. Your usual visitors came in: Gwen, a few Peters, and even Hobie, who apologized profusely for how much of a “halfwit” he was being earlier, all while simultaneously swearing that you would never tell another soul. You agreed, stifling a laugh, knowing you could never be upset with him. Despite feeling confused for what had seemed like the millionth time that day, things seemed to be falling back into place, and it would have been comforting if it hadn’t been for one thing. You couldn’t exactly unfuck your boss. You chastised yourself quietly for thinking about it again; you were doing so well.
Once again, he was consuming your mind to the point where you couldn’t set your mind straight as you tried to come up with a new substance for one of your Spiderwoman clients. She had asked for a chemical that could help her easily attract and control actual spiders in her vicinity. You had a vague idea of how to bring her idea to life, with cetyl acetate sitting in one of your beakers, but you couldn’t quite remember the other component no matter how hard you racked your brain.
You retraced your steps, checking and double-checking the labels of the countless chemicals that sat preciously in your lab. You felt frustration coil up within you as you consulted your reference binder, embarrassed that you even had to look such a simple thing up. By the time you had located the constituent, many a Spider had begun to leave, the chatter outside of your lab winding to a hush. After squeezing a few drops of farnesyl acetate into your beaker, you gave the substances a quick mix, noting how nice it smelt. And how familiar.
Everything building up in you had left you seeking refuge in your dainty office that sat in the corner of the lab. As you closed the door behind you, temporary relief washed over you, and it was then that you decided it would be best if you went home for the day. Retrieving your bag, you sighed as you sank into your chair, weariness finally settling in after hours of constant work. Fishing around your bag for your office key, your fingers brushed against a jar-shaped object. You brought along Lyla’s gift for retouching throughout the day, but it slipped your mind amidst the chaos of the day. Hoping the vanilla scent would ease your thoughts, you unscrewed the cap with purpose, hoping it would ease the tension in your skin.
Just as you were about to apply, the sound of the entrance doors hissing open disrupted your serenity. Ready to tell off whoever was disturbing your peace, you set down the jar, twisted the doorknob open, and stormed out of your office, only to be frozen in place as you were greeted by the one and only Miguel, his expression uncharacteristically sheepish. A new cut adorned his face, already in the process of regeneration as it had already scarred over. Different parts of his holosuit were damaged, leaving behind a glitch-like static; were those claw marks? He definitely had a rougher day than you.
Clearing your throat, you spoke up. “You alright? That looks like it hurt,” you remarked, tentative as you were unsure what the conversation would lead to.
Miguel simply shrugged, his eyes unable to find yours. “I, uh…the anomaly was more intense than I thought. Was a bit distracted, got roughed up,” he said, his voice a rare mix of honesty and humility.
Your brows furrowed together in sympathy despite the unspoken words between the two of you. “Did you need me to whip something up for you?” you offered, moving towards your box of plastic gloves.
It was only then that he looked up at you, his hand coming up, gesturing for you to stop in protest. “No! No, it’s okay. I’ll live.” He met your eyes, and you immediately knew that he was just as unsure as you were, the uncertainty giving way to a hint of vulnerability.
After a hesitant pause, Miguel finally spoke, the moment you were waiting for finally happening. “Look, about earlier…I’m sorry,” his words stumbling out. “It was unexpected.”
Although you had anticipated this answer, you couldn’t help but deflate upon actually hearing it. You weren’t expecting him to fall on his knees and ask for your hand, but you would’ve at least liked to hear him say that he enjoyed it. “You’re sorry? Would you rather have not done it all?” you accused, much to his chagrin.
“I– no, carajo , that’s not what I meant at all,” he sighed in irritation, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, it’s just…it caught us off guard. I’m not sorry it happened, I’m sorry that it was just…sudden, that’s all,” he huffed, not wanting to get into it with you.
For a moment, you pondered over his words. So he wasn’t opposed to sleeping with you. With impulsive thoughts bubbling up inside you, you were prodded to take the leap again. “Would you do it again?” you asked genuinely, an offer to him.
Miguel’s eyes widened in surprise, an exhale of relief shortly following, a chuckle mingled with his words. “Yeah, I’d do it again,” he answered, moving to step closer to you, and you didn’t mind. Just as it seemed as if he was about to sweep you into his arms again, he stopped in his tracks, his head turning to your lab bench as he fixated on the beaker, the one that was carrying your latest project.
Initially, you thought that Miguel was some sort of a stickler for cleanliness, so you felt embarrassed, reaching for your disposable gloves once again. “Oops, I’ll just put that away–”
“No,” he ordered with a familiar intensity in your voice, making you retract back to your original spot. He inched closer to the workbench, nostrils flaring as he sniffed at the mixture in the fragile glass. “What is that? Tell me,” he demanded, the urgency in his voice increasing tenfold.
Although you were weirded out by how much this seemed to matter to him, you answered earnestly. “Some…strange project one of the Spiderwomen wanted me to work on. Something to attract spiders, but just the males to prevent them from fighting. Synthetic pheromones, essentially.”
“Huh. Smells like how you did this morning,” he remarked almost immediately, raising a brow in confusion.
You stood there, utterly winded by his words, unsure of what to say. Was he saying this figuratively to flirt with you? But judging from the look in his eyes, he was deadly serious. As your eyes locked onto the concoction that you had made that morning, your mind went to the jar that was sitting on your desk, opened. Without another word, you rushed to your office, taking the jar of body butter and inhaling its aroma deeply. You felt your heart drop to your stomach in terror, the scents were strikingly similar. Turning the jar around in your hands with haste, your eyes scanned for the list of ingredients, silently praying you weren’t rubbing what you thought you were rubbing into your skin.
As you searched, you felt Miguel’s presence right behind you, leaning over your shoulder as he examined the jar with you, inexplicably drawn to it. “What’s that?” he inquired, the strain in his voice from before making a return.
“The lotion I put on this morning,” you said dreadfully, turning your head to look up at him sheepishly. Still confused, he met your gaze only for a moment before he searched through the neverending list of ingredients.
“What did you put in that beaker?”
“Farnesyl acetate and hexadecyl acetate. If it doesn’t say hexadecyl, try cetyl.”
After a minute of searching, Miguel hunched over you to point at a specific spot on the jar. Following his finger, you sighed, laying your eyes on the very thing you didn’t want to see.
“So…” you began awkwardly, unable to wrap your mind around the information bouncing around in your brain. It started to connect like dots: how you attracted the Spidermen in the morning by the dozen, Jessica’s remark about you smelling like a “woman”, Miguel’s sudden lust for you. Then the notable absence of your eager Spider-crowd after your shower. “As your head chemist, I can conclude that spider pheromones can work on…us.”
“Evidently,” Miguel responded, visibly dumbfounded. Seeming eager to prevent more chaos from occurring, he took the jar and its lid from your hands, screwing the lid tightly shut before placing it on your desk carefully. “Where’d you even get something like that?”
“I didn’t. Lyla got it for me,” you confessed. Your mind went to that mischievous hologram. Did she know? Was this a clever attempt to kickstart something between you and Miguel?
“Lyla, that minx...” Miguel trailed off, and you caught a glimpse of his eyes rolling before he squeezed them shut, pinching his nose bridge in an attempt to quell what presumably was a string of curses toward his assistant. Immediately, he swiftly turned around, muttering quietly to himself as he made his way towards his exit. “I ought to give her a piece of my mind…”
You stared after him, about to leave him to his own devices before a thought crossed your mind. You remembered Miguel’s biology, the very thing that made him Spiderman in the first place: his DNA was spliced with one of a spider, effectively making him 50% arachnid. The pheromones you had been unknowingly emitting would affect him more than anyone else, and it proved to be true. An uneasiness settled into your stomach, was that the only reason why he wanted you?
“Wait,” you called after him, your voice betraying your attempted nonchalance. Miguel paused at the doorway, leaning against it as he turned to look at you with an arched brow. His eyes silently asked you to proceed.
“Is it… just the pheromones?” you asked, feeling your stomach twist and turn into knots as you awaited his reply. “You know, about everything, uh, earlier.”
Miguel pushed himself off of the door. “Well, it definitely gave me the push I needed,” he admitted, sauntering over to you with a grin so smug you wanted to smack it off his face. “But, if we’re being honest, I would’ve done it eventually.”
You blinked, processing his words.”You mean that? But you’re kinda mean.”
He sighed loudly, stopping just in front of you. “Idiot. Yes, I mean it,” he muttered, leaning down to cup your cheeks in his hands, his face levelling with yours. “You drive me crazy.”
And the kiss that Miguel left on your lips afterward was more gentle than the hungry, needy one he gave you before, dispelling any doubts you had about the true nature of his feelings. His lips were like heaven, slightly chapped from the labor of his mission from earlier, but you didn’t care. When he pulled away, there was a soft playfulness in his eyes you had never seen before.
“You got it?” he teased, his thumb smoothing over your cheek.
You managed a nod, resulting in Miguel gently patting your cheek before releasing you and turning to leave, still insistent that he give Lyla a piece of his mind. Giggling at his antics, you were about to grab your things to leave until you saw his head pop in the entrance once more. “Yes?” you called out.
“Bottle that thing up and label it as a hazard,” he ordered in response, pointing toward the open beaker on the bench. “It’s damn near chemical warfare,” he mumbled before disappearing again.
“Yes, boss,” you complied, unable to fight the grin that was now plastered to your face. As you bottled up your concoction, you made a mental note to thank Lyla. Again.
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originally posted on ao3! first fic i'm ever posting on tumblr and i'm so excited! feedback and suggestions for more stories are more than welcome!
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northgazaupdates · 8 days
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21 March 2024
The situation at Al-Shifa Hospital complex continues deteriorating drastically. Multiple sources report that dozens of displaced people, patients, and medical staff have been murdered by the occupation, and hundreds have been kidnapped. People are being strip-searched, interrogated, violated, forced to stand naked in the cold, and some are then kidnapped and taken to an unknown location. Others are forced to evacuate, many still at least partly naked. Some are allowed back inside the cramped buildings.
There are still hundreds or even thousands of patients, displaced people, and medical staff trapped in Al-Shifa. They have been herded into buildings and are shot by snipers if they move. There are fires throughout the complex, indicated by massive pillars of smoke that are filling buildings and making it difficult for people to breathe.
In addition to attacking the hospital complex, the IOF have attacked neighborhood homes by bombing, shelling, and shooting into them. Dozens of injured people have made calls to the Red Crescent emergency service in desperate need of rescue, but the occupation refuses to allow any medical or humanitarian entity (Palestinian or international) into the area. Local resident Emmy Shaheen and her family are under attack in their apartment building by the IOF right now, and her brother has been injured. Videos made by her will be uploaded in other posts, but in the the mean time you can view them here.
Some reports say the Special Surgery Building, housing the most advanced medical equipment in the Gaza Strip, has been demolished with people still inside. Groups like the Red Crescent are begging the occupation to allow them in to treat the wounded, but the occupation refuses.
Check back for updates on this post or the main blog
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damazcuz · 5 months
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Ok well I'm not above doing this. I need help paying for my sleep study so I can get a cpap.
A couple weeks ago I finished an at home sleep study and took the equipment back to the sleep lab to analyze. Friday I heard back from them with results. My test was so bad and my sleep apnea so severe, they're skipping the in-lab sleep study and ordering a cpap machine which I need to pick up in 3 weeks.
At my lowest points while sleeping I get down to 77% blood oxygen level. Prompt medical care (hospitalization) is needed for levels below 88% as this is considered dangerously low, and levels under 70% are life threatening.
Basically, every night while sleeping, I stop breathing repeatedly throughout the night, cutting off oxygen to my brain over and over again. A cpap machine would force my airways to stay open while I'm sleeping so that i can continuously take air in and continue to supply oxygen to my heart and brain. I've been untreated for over 15 years and have basically lived in a fog for most of that time. Untreated sleep apnea can and will shorten my lifespan; getting a cpap machine can and will extend it.
*insurance is not covering the sleep study itself.* I have no idea if it will cover all or even part of the machine. my savings has already been decimated by other life events. I've been trying to save for top surgery as well, but medical issues keep cropping up and right now I have nothing that I can borrow from.
Tl;dr I am broke, but I need to come up with at least $800 for the bill for the sleep study, so that I can even pick up a cpap machine in a couple of weeks. At that time they may bill me more for the machine itself.
If anyone can pitch me a couple bucks I'd appreciate it. https://ko-fi.com/damascus - I have a PayPal but I don't want to put my email and name out there publicly, feel free to message me if you need it. I don't have any other venmo/cashapp etc.
Thank u in advance to anyone who's able to donate or reblog, I appreciate the help
🛏🐅 <- honk shuuuu snork mimimimi
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deepouterspacecandy · 2 months
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Ink and Paper Hearts
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I wanted to write something for Valentine's Day, and wound up with over 8k words. Sheesh! Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for being here! Be kind to yourself and others. 18+ only. Violence and sexual themes. Angst, fluff, etc.
Raised on a cattle ranch, you spent your early days on horseback tending to the farm and living off the land. When disaster left you orphaned, a ragtag group of survivors embraced you as one of their own. Over time, they had become your family, and together, you’d endure natural disasters, famine, and hordes of infected.
It only took one sweep of malevolent raiders to destroy your home and turn everything you’d ever known to dust. You escaped the attack within an inch of your life.
Isaac was the one who discovered you withering away in an old diner off the freeway, fending off the infected with nothing but your integrity and a baseball bat. His medical team, which accompanied him as they moved between compounds, took care of your recovery, and nursed you back to health.
The leader of the Washington Liberation Front admired any person who possessed the strength to fight and the compassion to care for animals simultaneously, and in exchange for a safe place to lay your head, you promised to do just that.
It was a relinquishment of power; you learned early on. Anything involving Isaac came at a cost. Your bond with him was duty-bound, but he offered you another chance at having a family and a purpose. After being all alone in that desolate place, you’d been more than willing to fall in line.
Still, you were a different person when you first arrived in Seattle.
Some would say naïve. You saw yourself as a practical optimist. Now, you’re not so sure.
It’s truly astonishing how a year of unrelenting conflicts with the Scars can diminish the brightness of your silver lining.
The ability to find distraction in your work is a double-edged sword.
A jack of all trades, you spend most of your time working with the four-legged soldiers of the WLF. You have extremely limited patience for the human variety, on both sides of the fence. You tolerate a handful of your comrades, but between assignments, you’re happiest with your nose in a book, savouring the quiet and escaping into distant realms.
The drive for escapism hasn’t been a difficult undertaking lately.
A group of thirty soldiers left the grounds on assignment last month, and only two returned.
It left the stadium halls quieter, heads hanging lower than what you’d ever witnessed. Interactions that would otherwise leave you with a sunny lilt, instead left you carrying a heaviness that you couldn’t quite shake.
Few civilians choose to dive into surface level banter like they used to and the collective fear and sadness shrouding the compound has kept it that way for some time.
It serves as a reminder that even with extensive training and the most advanced military equipment, tragedy can strike without discrimination.
Unchecked and alone, the infected will forever wander through the shadows, driven by an unending quest to find their next victim. Maybe the same idea is true for all adversaries.
Your primary objective is to ensure the community remains united and intact. If you manage to stay sane, that’s a plus.  
“How are you today, my little sunflower?” Manny asks, mischievously tugging your jacket.
“You better be talking to the dogs.”
“And if I’m not?” he asks, kneeling to offer unlimited ear scratches to the newest litter.
“Well, then I guess I’ll have to refer you to every other time you’ve ever asked,” you say, giving the bottom of his boot a kick. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Yes, he does!”
A woman’s voice booms from the other side of the unit, and Manny forces a smile.
“The bane of my existence.”
You chuckle at his misery, knowing little about his relationship with Abby outside of the kinship they portray in combat and their supposed insufferable roommate arrangement. Something you’re only privy to after running into her after hours at the library as she was trying to catch some shuteye on the couch there.
“Will you quit harassing pretty girls and grab a damn dog already?”
As she approaches, tails of all shapes and sizes wag with incredible speed, exuding pure happiness. You wonder how much time she has spent in the kennels when you’re not around. Isaac has her spearheading every mission from here to Chicago, so you rarely see her. But the dogs never forget a kind face.
You exchange a few pleasantries with Abby before she drags her unenthusiastic partner to work. Manny’s womanizing ways at the stadium serve as a constant reminder of your boundaries in relationships.
You’re safer by yourself.
Abby does seem like a sweetheart, though.
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“We ship out tomorrow morning,” Abby says, handing you an empty canteen and a backpack, a clipboard braced to her side by her white knuckled grasp.
Her abrupt tone makes you jump when it normally wouldn’t. She’s struggling to keep her voice steady, but you suspect she has more important things to worry her mind about. 
“Right,” you nod. “Any idea how long?”
As she’s rushing to complete the next task, your query hits her at the worst possible second, adding to her already teetering stress load. You recognize it a moment too late and your teeth ache at the back of your jaw when she spins on her heel, pinning you with a glare.
“Do you expect a serious answer, or are you just trying to piss me off?”
“No, I—”
“Promises around here are as worthless as the ETA themselves, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Promises? What did that have to do with anything?
“I’m sorry, I swear I wasn’t trying to—”
“Anything else I can assist you with, soldier? Or can we finish wasting my time?” Abby bellows.
You knew it would be a mistake to leave the K9 unit, but circumstances with the Seraphites have forced your hand. They not only invaded WLF territory, causing destruction and casualties among your people, but they’ve also been blocking your teams from conducting supply runs, leading to a rather grim situation in the reserves.
“You don’t have to bite my head off,” you say, feeling the tension rise as you widen your stance against her more imposing one. “We’re all stuck in this mess.”
“Oh, really?” she seethes. “Good to know. I’ll be sure to hand you a shovel next time our people turn up in body bags. Give you a break from scooping dog crap to help us grownups with the actual shit.”
Abby is your superior and you know better than to test the hierarchy. The moment you denied Isaac’s advances, you tumbled from the top spot. But you’re no chump.
“What’s your problem?”
In a split second, Abby’s body looms over you as she detonates, “You’re my problem,” her breath hot against your face.
She flinches when you lose your balance and stumble backward, narrowly catching yourself. If her instinct was to rescue you, she restrained herself just in time, her hand frozen in mid-air. A twitch nags at the corners of her tired eyes.
“You’re no different from the rest,” you say, walking backward, chest heaving. “It’s all the fucking same.”
You’re down the hall and veiled by the four walls of your room before the opportunity to fumble your conversation further buries you in shame.
It’s going to be a long night.
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Manny runs through his roll call sheet twice, inspecting each soldier with every measure but a squat and cough. If he thought he’d catch you on a minor clothing infraction, hell, a mismatched pair of socks, he’s sadly mistaken. You wouldn’t give Abby the satisfaction and besides, you hadn’t slept a wink preparing for this assignment.
“Where’s Anderson?” Manny asks under his breath. The team surrounding him dip their heads and you try to avert your attention. Brush it off like you had been too busy inspecting your gear to overhear him.
“We’re not going blind, are we, Alvarez?” Abby says, shouldering through the group to drop her bag on the tailgate of the Humvee.
When her arm brushes yours, you recoil, your fist hitting your stomach with a muffled thud. Her head snaps in your direction, but her gaze is less volatile than before. You make a point not to place too much trust in that emotional assessment, finding solace in the familiar sensation of your twisting hands.
“Alright,” she shouts above the murmurs of your unit, the quiet chatter falling into silence. “You will work in pairs, at all times, even when we are in proximity to each other. This is unnegotiable, so don’t ask me if you have to bring a friend to the pisser. The answer is yes.”
The group’s attention is undeterred, even as a faint chuckle escapes them, their eroded black boots facing her commanding presence.
“If you hear something, say something,” she continues, her chin bowing slightly. “It may save a life.”
You swallow thickly and lean against the armed vehicle, its cold steel biting into your back. It’s possible that your sleepless night will affect your performance, but you decide not to emphasize it and hoist yourself upright before anyone notices.
“Our destination is approximately sixty miles from here, and we will cross into Scar territory temporarily, so we’ll need to be cautious. Eyes on rooftops, balconies, you know the drill.”
The group divides between the Humvee and a military truck, and it’s only after twenty minutes of driving that you realize Abby has chosen you as her combat partner for the time being. You feel the weight of her thigh against yours, as she adjusts her legs to accommodate her backpack, and you’re left pondering her decision.
There is a clear sense of trust between her and Manny, making him not only her closest friend, but a lifeline in warfare. Does she think you’re weak and in need of a stronger match? You gnaw on your bottom lip at the notion, focusing on the greenery flitting past your window.
“Come on, Anderson, your balls aren’t that big,” Manny teases, gesturing to her outstretched posture, particularly the way her legs take up enough room for two. You shift toward the door to free up some real estate between you and concentrate back on the road.
As their banter fades into background noise, your attention shifts to observing the deserted surroundings, vigilant for any indication of danger. Apart from a pair of rabbits hopping around, the streets are completely motionless.
--------------------------------------------
The cavalry parks outside a derelict warehouse, its craggy roof adorned by a lush carpet of moss. Rust-bitten chain link fencing surrounds an expansive lot at the rear, cube vans with faded labels scattered throughout. It’s a tempting location to scavenge, but the prospect makes your stomach lurch.
The presence of tall grass and the lack of windows on each vehicle creates ample opportunity for trouble. A lurking enemy, dead or alive, is something you’d like to avoid. It’s possible that someone has already searched the vans, despite their undisturbed appearance.
“Let’s break this down into teams and tackle it all at once,” Abby announces, nodding at the parking lot and the adjoining building. “Six outside, inspecting the trucks, and six inside. We’ll scour the property first, and then we can set up for the night.”
“Wait,” you say.
She blows out a frustrated breath.
“This better be good.”
The temptation to tell her to fuck all the way off is intense.
“Maybe we should put a couple scouts up high, search the grounds together,” you say, pointing to the safest vantage points. “Eyes in the sky.”
“Any other suggestions?” she asks.
“I mean, no—but,” you begin.
Abby interrupts, holding her hand up. “Like I said. Six and six. We don’t need to be out here longer than necessary.”
“Fine.”
She guides you toward the building, her palm on your lower back, and you jerk away from her grasp. She may have the authority to call the shots, but you decide where you place your neck on the chopping block.
“I’m with them,” you say, trudging toward the trucks.
“Hey!” Abby says.
“Oh, Jesus Christ. What?”
She gives you a once over, gritting her teeth.
You throw your hands up and let them slap against your sides, waiting for her to hurl her discontent at your head, clearly eager to tear a strip off you in front of your squad. With a distant gaze, she fixates on the hollow space behind you before heading towards the warehouse.
----------------------------------------
It took several hours to secure the perimeter and set up camp inside.
Your heavy eyelids rejoice at the promise of rest. The team in charge of the mail trucks uncovered a mother lode of undelivered packages, chock full of useful supplies. It was almost as impressive as the haul the WLF brought back from the airport a few months back.
Within the building, soldiers set up their bedrolls among a labyrinth of cluttered offices. It’s quite comical to overhear the entertainment value of some dusty, redundant telephones and keyboards. You catch snippets of the amusing conversations while rearranging your own space, the sound of playful jabbering rising from the ashes, finally allowing you to release a deeply trapped breath.
Abby eases up on her protocols to make the rounds and ensure everyone is okay. You make use of the time alone to freshen up and explore, gathering candles from various boxes to arrange in your shared office, the wax and wicks a rare, comforting find.
Abby spots them as soon as she returns.
“Nighttime always feels darker away from home,” you explain, worried she might find them frivolous.
She doesn’t.
“Candles are good,” she says, picking one up to roll in her hands. She scrapes her thumbnail along the wax base and shifts on her feet. “I like them.”
“Alright,” you say, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.
You try to ignore the intensity of her gaze as it grazes over you, but beads of sweat build along your lower back. It might be time to crack a window. Occupying yourself with that activity, you grow increasingly frustrated as the most accessible ones refuse to budge.  
“Let me try,” she offers.
“I’ve got it, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” she huffs, and you glimpse her crossing her arms over her broad chest.
You reckon Abby isn’t used to being turned down, and it sours your stomach a little to be the outlier.
By climbing the desk closest to the wall, you gain some leverage and drive your palms into the ridge of the window. You feel the sharp edge digging painfully into your flesh, your back muscles tightening to an impossible degree.
“For fuck’s sake,” you grunt, putting all your might into another attempt, the image of a bottle smashing through the pane something you’d seriously consider acting upon if you were alone.
“Stop being stubborn and let me help.”
“I don’t need your help,” you groan, the tickle of sweat now threatening to break into a full stream down your spine.
“Sure seems like you do,” she says, the arrogance in her tone combined with the weight of her gaze on your back, sending your lid rocking chaotically over a burgeoning boil.
You suck in a rigid breath and ignore her remark.
“Look, if you just—”
“Abby!” you say, jolted by your own shout.
Manny must overhear the commotion, slinking against the door frame to clear his throat. As they murmur behind you, you bow your head and brace your hand against the glass, waiting to be reprimanded.
When you twist your body to offer an apology, the room is empty.
----------------------------------------
Even as the sun disappears below the horizon, the air in your office, as well as the rest of the building, becomes oppressively warm. You dig through your bag for a less cumbersome shirt but resort to stripping down to your sports bra and a pair of boxers. Abby hasn’t come knocking for a while, long enough for a clicker to obliterate you ten times over, but you temper your outrage.
Downstairs, there’s a treasure trove of unopened loot piled on racks, beckoning your interest. Abby abandoned her rule of two and frankly, you couldn’t care less.
Truthfully, she never wanders too far from her pack.
It’s possible she’s unaware of your whereabouts while you gather boxes from the metal racks downstairs in your underwear.
But it’s also possible she has eyes on you wherever you go.
----------------------------------------
“What’s all this?” Abby asks, lingering in the doorway.
Lost mail spills from the bins surrounding you. You’re captivated by the untold stories inside them. A peek into a world you’d never known.
“Letters, mostly,” you say.
Just inside the entryway, Abby slouches against the wall, absentmindedly playing with the fibers of the carpet using her socked feet.
“What kind?”
You’ve torn through dozens of envelopes, the contents of each one wildly different. It’s almost disturbing to imagine how many people had an entire universe they experienced through their eyes only.
You’ve already envisioned yourself journeying from one post office to another, gathering historical accounts and breathing new life into forgotten tales.
“I’m a bit lost with most of them,” you say, credit card debt and bank statements flying straight over your head. “Structures before the outbreak are a lot different from ours.”
Abby clicks her tongue, moving further into the room to sit across from you. She’s careful not to encroach on your space and a twinge of remorse worms into your belly. You offer an olive branch, handing her a photograph.
“But then there’s stuff like this,” you continue.
Abby’s eyes widen at the provocative image of a woman, her slender figure draped across a pristine silk sheet, the vibrant red of her lace panties and sharp stilettos creating a striking contrast. Attached to it is a note that reads:
When you’re alone, close your eyes, and I’ll be whispering your name.
Abby puffs a quiet laugh as a flush of pink creeps along the high points of her cheekbones.
“Who’s it addressed to?” she asks.
You search for the envelope among a sea of scribbled addresses and realize it’s a futile endeavour.
“I’m honestly not sure,” you admit. “I think I lost it.”
“Damn,” Abby smirks, running her thumb over the curled edges of the polaroid. “Lost in transit twice.”
You give a half shrug, noticing how enraptured she is with the picture. Her blonde lashes catch the candlelight at an angle that cast long shadows across her freckled skin.
“Manny would lose his mind,” Abby says, rolling her eyes. “He’s obsessed with shit like this—women in general, really. Horny bastard.”
You can feel the giggles bubbling up inside you, and you clamp your lips together to keep them from escaping. Abby Anderson, the most revered soldier of the Washington Liberation Front, sitting criss-cross applesauce talking smack about her best friend.
It is about the funniest thing you’ve seen in weeks.
“Have you—ever sent one?” you ask, treading dangerous waters and bracing yourself.
She blows out a ragged breath, pocketing the evidence.
You wonder if it’ll be a gift for Manny or something she keeps for herself. The notion causes vicious heat to rise across your forehead and down the bridge of your nose.
“Not a chance. It’s not really my thing.”
The mountain of mail between you becomes a welcomed distraction, and you make use of having a focal point to stare at.
When she tosses the question back your way, it throws your stuttering heart into a full gallop.
“Have you?” she whispers, leaning back to study you with a leg outstretched. The heel of her foot rocks to a slow tune only she can hear.
Her muscular arms bulge as she balances herself and you do your level best to pretend you don’t care. You expect her to wriggle uncomfortably or try to change the subject, but she doesn’t. Instead, she waits on you to bounce the ball she has rolled onto your court.
It’s you who can’t stop squirming.
“I haven’t found anyone worth the effort,” you say, and it feels a little embarrassing, maybe, but you figure honesty goes a lot further with Abby. “People suck.”
“Would you?” she asks. “If you found someone.”
Your racing heart leaves you dizzy.
It’s too goddamn hot in this office. You crane your neck to fire silent vitriolic arrows toward the stubborn windows, desperate for a fresh gust of air to grace the back of your damp shoulders. Abby stumbles to her feet, stepping over you to solve your problem once and for all.
With a soft click, the lock releases, and the window glides open, allowing the cool evening breeze to sweep through the space.
You squeeze your eyes shut and groan.
“I didn’t want to say anything,” Abby smirks, dropping back down to her spot on the floor. This time, she lies on her side, head propped up by her arm. “You almost had it.”
The crooked smile quirking up on her mouth hits you like a flashbang.
“I kind of hate you right now,” you say without venom. “But I should probably say thank you, huh?”
“Probably,” she grins, teeth raking slowly over the pout of her bottom lip.
She has freckles there too, and you’re suddenly envious of them.
“I won’t,” you blurt, tearing open another envelope. “Say thank you.”
“I wouldn’t either,” she laughs, and it’s a deep, warm cadence. A laugh meant only for your ears. She gestures to the letter in your hand. “What’s that one?”
The grin you’re desperately trying to hide causes your face to ache.
The brash woman you’re hardly accustomed to sharing a home with at the stadium is full of surprises, it seems. There’s a side to her that isn’t militant and melancholy, but rather the opposite.
She’s playful and witty. Her eyes, a staggering blue lake, are gentle and kind.
You could fall madly, painfully in love with a woman like Abby.
Abby herself, even. If she wasn’t an unstable box of dynamite.
You skim the handwritten letter with the tip of your finger, and another wash of warmth blooms inside you at the bulk of the sentiment.
“It’s a confession,” you explain, fixing your attention on the last paragraph. “He’s been in love with her for a long time, since they were kids.”
“Will you read it to me?”
Her gentle query sends a shiver of sunshine down your spine. Her eyelids are heavy like yours, and the shadows beneath hers speak volumes about the burden she carries. The weight of the world.
“Only if you promise to read the next one.”
“Deal,” she murmurs, sliding your bag over to use as a pillow. She snuggles into it and your whole body vibrates.
----------------------------------------
The trip home is lighter, despite the nearly crippling load. Clothing, toys, garden seeds, tools, home goods, toiletry items — the list is a mile long. You couldn’t take everything, but the mass of what hadn’t deteriorated or spoiled made it through the gates.
It’s a hopeful thing, not only to witness your group returning home unharmed, but with enough supplies to ease the strain taken from a new fruitful avenue.
The moment you and your squad walk into the chow hall together, you’re met with a chorus of cheers and applause. As Abby vanishes amidst the swarm of people, you exchange a few handshakes before seeking escape from the cacophony.
Your sleeping quarters are the chaotic aftermath of hurried packing and abandoned reading material, with your mattress being the only semblance of order in the disarray. It was Manny who taught you how to make your bed to military standards and perhaps his goal was to inspire more in you than routine, but either way, the habit stuck.
Gratitude simmers for it now more than ever, the crisp, clean sheets offering respite. Freshly showered and dead on your feet, you crawl into your cozy bed and drift away.
A thunderous crash shocks you awake.
You blink against the abyss, immediately comforted by the stadium lights leaking through your curtains. It drives other citizens insane, the absence of darkness, but you’re thankful for it.
Someone appears to be banging your door down.
“Cool it, already,” you say, scrambling for your cotton robe. The brutal assault on your sleep at this hour deserves to be outlawed—prohibited by the laws of the WLF. “Holy hell, are you trying to wake the whole neighbourhood?”
You tear open the door and any visceral anger coursing through you evaporates at the sight. Tall, fierce, and devastatingly gorgeous, all blended with the rich spice of amber liquor.
Loose tendrils of hair cascade along her shoulders and collarbone in protest of her braid.
“What are you doing here?”
“I have something for you. Can I come in?” Abby asks, and it’s not a question.
Before you can even request a moment to compose yourself, she unceremoniously dumps a heavy grey bin on your living room floor, adding to the chaos, before collapsing onto your couch.
“What’s going on, Abby?”
She may be a delightful, luminous drink of water when she wants to be. But damn, can she ever snore the walls down in record time.
You plop yourself onto the bin beside her and try to make sense of her unexpected visit. Should you venture down the hall to wake her roommate? There’s likely a sock hanging from the doorknob by now, but it’s an option.
“Anderson?”
The sound of your hands drumming on the sides of the plastic container fills the room, while you contemplate the amount of bourbon your crew has consumed from lunchtime until now. An indulgence that landed on your doorstep all the same.
When Abby whimpers and curls in on herself, you resolve to drape her in your heaviest blanket, hoping to help her tackle the unsteady beats of her sleep cycle and a looming hangover. She bundles the fabric in her fists and clenches it underneath her chin.
Captivated by her klutzy aura, you nearly trip on the forgotten bin.
The lid doesn’t want to come apart from its secured spot and you have the presence of mind to check for a locking device, just to be sure. There isn’t one, of course, but you’ll never let yourself live down the office window debacle.
It’s going to require elbow grease and a hefty tug. You hiss as it separates in several loud pops. Luckily, the noise only costs the weary girl on your couch a flinch or two.
Letters fill it to the brim, and you’re enthralled by Abby’s decision to bring them back with her. Your instinct is to open each one, but it doesn’t feel right without her there to chirp commentary at you.
“I don’t get it,” you breathe in disbelief, expecting your words to meld with the shadows and disappear.
Her ghost-quiet voice turns the thermostat up a thousand degrees.
“I was mean,” she stammers. “You didn’t deserve it.”
It appears that you’re tapping into her guilt-ridden subconscious, which feels so delicate you consider shaking her awake. You doubt she’d want to lay it all bare.
Does she always talk in her sleep?
“No, it’s okay,” you say. “Water under the bridge.”
Your response seems to placate her overworked brain. You can relate, as your own tries to lure you back to the land of lonely slumber.
You notice her face doesn’t relax, even when her breathing slows, the lines in her forehead streaked with dirt. To never find peace, even during sleep, must be exhausting beyond what most can fathom. It seems cruel to disturb her, even if she’s restless. You settle for leaving a glass of water on the side table for her before settling in at the end of the couch. If she startles awake, you’d rather she doesn’t do it alone.
Cramped onto the only slice of cushion she hasn’t claimed, you let the commotion of the day pull you under.
As morning greets you, you find yourself back in your bed.
The familiar scent of Abby drenches your blanket, but she’s long gone.
----------------------------------------
It’s your first day off in months, but you check the work assignment list to confirm. On your way back from the bulletin board, the classrooms are abuzz with joyful energy. Children eagerly play with the toys and delve into the books your squad brought home, and it gives you a sense of belonging. A goal beyond surviving.
Until now, you have thought little about your life beyond protecting the community. It always made sense to put your neck on the line for the greater good. While casually strolling past the gym, not in search of a certain soldier, you can’t help but wonder if there might be other adventures awaiting you.
Abby’s breath tickles your ear, and you leap a mile out of your skin.
“Looking for me?”
“Son of a bitch,” you wheeze.
She doubles over with laughter, imitating the strangled noise you make when you’re caught off guard. She takes a minute to catch her breath before she gives you a generous shove.
“You’ve got quite a potty mouth,” she teases, wrinkling her nose impishly at a passing group of young ones. “There are little ears around here, you know.”
“Yeah, well, they probably know better than to sneak up on a person,” you say, finding Abby’s laughter rather infectious. You bite back a grin. “Who does that? Is an apocalypse not enough for you people?”
Abby breaks into another bout of giggles, seeming to enjoy your newfound passion for merging the old world with the new one.
“Is it our apocalypse though, if we were born into it?”
“Yes, Abby, it is,” you huff, eager for your heart rate to return to baseline. “We’re in an active apocalypse and you’re awful.”
As she leans against the large window you’d been peering through, the sounds of the gym fade into the background. She tilts her head at you, eyes sparkling with intrigue. Clad in workout gear that accentuates her sculpted body, she doesn’t appear sweaty.
You must’ve caught her on her way in.
“Are you busy later?”
“Not really,” you say, fidgeting with a frayed string on your sleeve. “Are you?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Okay,” you say, staring at a scuff on your sneaker before catching her gaze.
“Okay,” she mimics, directing her nose scrunch at you this time, turning your mouth dry. “Feel like being busy later?”
It’s not as if her tone is explicit or even her language, but this woman is a supernatural force. So, tingles rise into gooseflesh from your head to your toes, regardless.
“What do you have in mind?” you ask.
The roars of a lively group of soldiers reverberate through the gym, their spirited chants urging their champion to hurry her ass up. They beckon to her as if they are a part of the kindergarten cohort, causing both of you to snicker and shake your heads. One of them wolf-whistles, the rise and fall of the pitch echoing into the hallway. Abby wastes no time throwing up her middle finger in response.
“I can come by around seven. Does that work?” she asks, reaching for your wrist. She gives it a quick squeeze and slowly pulls away, her fingers sliding to the tip of your pinky.
Her simple touch is unexpected, and it electrifies you.
“Works for me.”
She beams, walking backwards through the gym doors, brows jumping at your frozen form.
You amuse her. This much is obvious.
----------------------------------------
A rhythmic tap grabs your attention, a stark difference from the first time Abby came knocking. But to keep with tradition, she doesn’t arrive empty-handed.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you say, gesturing to the dishes balanced precariously in her arms.
“I wanted to.”
She sets the meal fit for an army battalion down onto the counter and searches your kitchen cupboards for something to drink from.
With a single, forceful movement of her forearm, she clears space by shoving your knick-knacks aside to make room.
“Juice cool?”
The way she effortlessly makes herself at home in your space leaves you speechless. You nod.
“Good,” she says, a repentant grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Pretty sure I’m off booze for the rest of my life.”
With the same delicate touch she used to tidy your countertop, she pours the freshly squeezed liquid, causing both glasses to hover on the verge of spilling. Abby takes a step back to assess the situation before bending over the rims, producing the most obnoxious slurping noise. It nearly sends you into hysterics as she levels out both glasses.
She hands one to you with droplets of orange decorating her chin and the collar of her shirt.
“Thanks,” you chuckle. “Quality service right here. Plus, I love germs.”
Balancing the glass to the best of your ability in your right hand, you pull your sleeve over your left and use it to pat her face dry. Abby snorts, her normally lively body becoming static under your ministrations. She swallows heavily, and a calmness settles over you.
“I don’t have germs,” she pouts. Her eyes drop to your mouth for a split-second before her cheeks erupt in swaths of vibrant pink. “I swear.”
“You’re a mess,” you scoff, enamoured by this clumsy woman, blazing a path directly into the pit of your stomach. “Did you know that?”
As she nods, her broad shoulders relax, and her frenetic breathing begins to slow.
“Nobody else sees it,” she says, her words hanging heavy in the air.
The pressure of that emotional cargo would cause any person to buckle under the weight sometimes. It’s a strenuous life for everyone on base, but the expectations placed on her are especially burdensome.
“I see it.”
Your confession doesn’t offend her; instead, it seems to liberate her.
She sighs an exhale of relief, and it makes your heart squeeze.
“I can live with that,” she whispers.
The food was prepared with love as is anything set aside for Abby, and she tells you all about the cook who put it together. An original member of the Salt Lake crew, and a phenomenal chef, he got them through their bleakest days.
When the WLF opened their arms, he committed fully to helping Abby achieve her goals, working tirelessly to support her training and keep himself on the straight and narrow after their tragic end with the Fireflies.
She doesn’t go into detail about what happened, and your instinct is to let that be okay. The heart-wrenching rumours are more than enough to go on for now.
“He’s stoked for me to have a little downtime,” she says, waving her fork at the spread now spilling onto your coffee table across various plates. “Hence the whole smorgasbord situation. As soon as I told him—”
She pauses, letting out a little whimper of embarrassment, seeming to scold herself for being so open.
“Told him what?” you press, detecting a subtle grin playing at the edges of her eyes.
“He wanted to make an impression on my friend, I guess.”
Your neck tickles with heat and you attempt to ventilate by pulling the collar of your shirt away from your collarbone for a moment.
“The man can cook,” you say with your mouth full. It comes out funnier than you expected, muffled by chewing. “Sorry.”
“You’re quite a mess yourself,” she smirks, leaning to drape her arms along the back of your couch, scanning the state of your apartment. “Your poor books.”
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with my books!”
She hauls herself off the couch to make an example of you, crouching at a cluttered stack. So, an earthquake must’ve hit only your room—what of it?
“I mean, this is just sad.”
“We can’t all have bookshelves and organizational skills, Anderson.”
“Says who?” she chuckles, her attention diverted by a novel that has piqued her curiosity. “This isn’t a lack of skill, either. Where’s your discipline, girl?”
Maybe it’s crouched in front of you, a blonde bombshell waiting to go off and properly reduce you to human rubble.
“I’m plenty disciplined, thank you very much.”
“Yeah?” she says, tongue tucked behind her teeth in challenge.
The audacity, when you’re currently over the moon about this delicious meal, you’ll likely never get to enjoy twice.
“Yeah,” you retort, wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve like a feral beast. You strip off your shirt and toss it into the abyss, grabbing a clean one from its home on a toppling lamp.
Her bright bursts of laughter make you giddy, a woman who never finds time to play, sitting on your carpet waiting for you to join her.
“Who even are you?” she asks, and it’s so gentle it stops you midway through redressing to ponder her question.
The cotton tank top falls past your hips and you smooth it out, sensitive to the wrinkles in a way you haven’t previously been.  
“It looks good,” Abby blurts, reading you like the sea of books strewn about. “You’re—good.”
There’s something about the fortitude of her honesty that helps you decipher between barbs and a genuine fondness for your idiosyncrasies.
Maybe she’s someone you can trust after all.
She shuffles across the floor to the bin filled with letters and lifts it above her head with ease.
“What on earth are you doing?”
As her brows jump mischievously, she dumps the skeletal remains of a past life onto your floor, filling the room with a waterfall of bones. It ignites a fierce desire to protect this girl—create a time capsule of this moment for the next generation to build upon.
A reminder that not all broken things are hopeless things.
“Well, now you’ve gone and ruined my tidy apartment.”
“My bad,” she giggles.
----------------------------------------
Each passing moment feels like tiny punctures in an hourglass, causing time to trickle away. You’re both aware of it, trying to stretch the night. Abby leaves for a spell to hunt down her chef, in pursuit of caffeine. She returns flushed and sleepy, the bitter aroma wafting through the door alongside her soothing presence.
Curiosity and exhaustion get the best of you, and you ask about her friend. His thoughts on your late-night rendezvous with history. She does a goofy impression that makes you want to wrap your arms around her, and you watch her in fascination like an old cowboy reel, projected onto your heart.
“He says you’re a bad influence.”
“Bullshit,” you snicker, tossing her another envelope.
“Okay, so he didn’t say that. But he did tell me to give him a heads up if I decide to run away with you.”
You try to push that thought aside.
“Really, now? And why does he think that’s in the cards?”
“He thinks you’re my dream girl.”
She speaks as if she’s describing weather patterns to you, and you’re bewildered. The blunt force of her words mixed with the softness of her tone leaves you shell-shocked. You search for a tether; silently categorize every reason it can’t be true.
“What did you tell him?” you ask, busying yourself with a letter you read while Abby was away.
A tale of woe between two quarrelling families. It reminds you of Romeo and Juliet, some less violent, modern-day version, and based on the contents of their struggle, you gather at least one of them was grateful for the pandemic.
“Do you really want to know?” she asks, pinning you with her gaze.
You nod, a buzz of energy flitting through you.
“Yes,” you say.
“I told him to go fuck himself.”
Cackles burst from your chest, finding her candour rather precious. Of course, Abby told the guy off. But she doesn’t look away after she tells you; doesn’t shrug or scoff. She studies your reaction and holds her breath until a tiny smile breaks her anxious expression.
You forget where you are in proximity to the earth for a second.
“I guess I’ll debrief you on that situation at a later date,” you say.
“I hope so.”
----------------------------------------
The sound of her steady breathing is peaceful as the light of early morning whispers through the fog. She idly sips at her coffee and takes her time, setting each letter into their respective piles. It’s engrained in her to keep things orderly, an obvious clash with your paper heap. Unlike you, she finds the government letters intriguing, even the boring ass mortgage and debt related ones, and reads them all thoroughly.
Your hand catches on an envelope shaped differently from the rest. Inside is a card, with a dozen raised hearts adorning the front in varying shades of red. When you flip it open, it reads:
With you by my side, every day feels like Valentine’s Day. Thank you for being my rock, my love, and my everything.
Your family never spoke of this while you were growing up.
“Valentine’s Day?” you yawn. “What’s that all about?”
You show her the card, and she rubs her eyes, nursing the tail end of her own yawn with the back of her hand.
“Give it here, woman.”
She looks it over to confirm her suspicions, and with a knowing smile, sits up straight. She taps the card against her knee.
“My dad told me about this.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, it’s um—it’s a tradition people celebrated near the end of winter. A day to do things for the ones you love, I guess.”
“Like a holiday or something?”
“Sort of,” Abby says, fumbling a bit with her own understanding of it. “Romantic stuff, mostly.”
She rubs her neck, mulling something over while you try to wrap your head around this new information. One day out of the year to do what exactly? Who was supposed to do the things—both people? Did the traditions start after breakfast or were you meant to wait until suppertime? Was it an endeavour meant to last the entire day?
“My dad didn’t really make time to celebrate it,” Abby continues. “He was always too busy at the hospital and then my mom—well, she worked there too, so.”
The veil of exhaustion lifts when you realize she’s peeling back a wound right before your eyes. You suck in a breath and hope she doesn’t mistake it for anything but your desire to let her speak. She drops the card on her lap and wrings her hands.
“They did these small things instead, you know? On regular days,” Abby explains. Her body droops as she seems to pick through her retention of their conversations.
“Like what?” you ask, your voice just a hair above a whisper.
“Like—okay. My dad loved to dance,” Abby says, leaning forward with a sad smile, the slouch of her shoulders regaining composure at the happier memory. “He was fucking terrible at it,” she puffs a laugh. “But he was a music buff and when he met my mom, he said it was the best excuse he could find to get close to her.”
You ache for her to have them here to tell the story, instead.
“So, they danced together a lot?”
“All the time, according to him,” Abby says, her face lighting up. “He told me that my mom was super shy, so she’d always give him hell about it. But he’d ask her to dance pretty much anywhere. Parking lots, gas stations, one time they danced in the middle of the grocery store.”
You try to imagine what Abby’s mom looks like, but your mind can’t seem to conjure up anything beyond Abby’s own image, a showcase of strength and grit.
“Do you remember much about her?” you ask.
“Not really. She died when I was a baby,” Abby explains, adjusting the cuffs of her shirt. “She loved being pregnant with me, though, apparently.”
“Well, duh,” you murmur.
Abby crinkles her nose at you and bites the edge of her smile.
“Dad said her stomach got so big that he started dancing with her from behind. She’d rest her head on his shoulder, and they’d just sway back and forth.”
“I love that,” you say.
“Yeah,” she murmurs, fondness heavy on her breath.
Abby’s speech becomes slurred as the birds on your balcony greet the dawn.
“Every time they danced, the scent of her reminded him of a cabin in the woods, surrounded by these giant pine trees he used to pass on his way to work. He’d dream up this elaborate plan for them to quit their careers and live off-grid. I think he promised it to her about a thousand times.”
“That sounds kind of amazing, actually.”
“Yeah,” she says, tapping her nose with the Valentine’s card, her sleepy gaze drifting to yours. “He was a sap.”
She finishes with the most outrageously loud, cavernous yawn and you’re too tired to do much more than giggle at her larger-than-life spirit.
“You can crash on my couch again, if you want,” you offer.
She wobbles to her feet, reaching for your hand to help pull you up.
“I’m on assignment in a couple of hours anyway,” she says, supporting your elbows while you try not to slip on the paper graveyard below. “I’ll be MIA for a while, but let’s meet up when I’m back, if you’re up for it.”
“Totally.”
“Cool,” she whispers, her fingers tracing patterns on the tips of yours before reluctantly letting go.
As she turns to walk away, her steps falter, and she abruptly spins around to face you.
“Can I hug you goodbye?” she asks.
“Of course.”
Before you can blink, Abby’s arms wrap around you, and you’re a puzzle piece, snug in her embrace. She melts you from the inside out, the comforting rhythm of her heartbeat thrumming against your body. The heat of her chest against your cheek lifts blissful sleepiness from the edges of your resolve and a part of you wants to ask her to stay.
As she gently moves to cup your head and support the back of your neck with her warm hands, you instinctively wrap your arms around her waist, afraid she might drift away.
“I feel so safe right now,” you whisper into her shoulder, and she nuzzles closer, squeezing you tight. Your feet are nearly off the ground before she relaxes her grip.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
----------------------------------------
Two weeks have passed since your visit with Abby and it’s hard to think about much else. It’s a pleasant distraction, even when the memory of her makes your insides flutter as if she tipped a bucket of butterflies between your ribs and set them free.
An unusually large number of soldiers from different stations have packed the grounds, and you’re grateful to have a unique job to keep you relatively separate from the chaos.
Dogs are coming home, but not all of them, and it shatters your heart to toss out their registration papers. You understand the nature of your contribution to this war machine, but it never gets easier. If you could, you’d gather up all the puppies and take them to the same cabin in the woods Abby’s father always dreamed about. Let them bask in the warm sunlight and frolic together amidst a maze of towering trees.
It’s a lovely thought followed closely by the sobering reality before you.
“You’ve done well.”
You drop the leash you were holding, and it clatters on the concrete.
“Isaac. You scared me.”
If Abby is a rare sight at the stadium, Isaac is a ghost. You haven’t seen him in months. He has expanded the WLF across several locations along the west coast and the number is only growing. Reports of a nearby prison piquing his interest have been swirling for a while now.
You’re not sure where he rests his head at night, but it’s almost never here.
“It’s nice to see you too,” he says, inspecting the four-legged fleet without getting close enough to pet them. “I hear your training program is working wonders.”
“I try. They make it easy,” you say, noticing that many puppies have tucked their tails between their legs. “What brings you to the stadium?”
“I’m—restructuring,” he explains, his footsteps echoing as he paces the unit, meticulously inspecting the facility.
Your heart sinks.
“What does this have to do with me?”
He exaggerates a smile, and it sets you on edge.
“You always ask the right questions,” he drawls, heavy hands landing on your shoulders. “I respect that about you. There’s never any fat to trim, just straight to the point.”
It’s more than you can say about him, frankly.
“I suspect you’ve heard about the prison.”
“I have,” you say, bending to pick back up the leash. A narrow excuse to put space between the two of you.
Isaac is still standing uncomfortably close, so you wrap the nylon around your wrist as an act of self soothing.
“Well, it’s proving to be an integral training facility. It’s both secure and unaffected by the flooding, which has been my biggest obstacle up to this point.”
You’d never seen the inside of a prison before, but you’ve read about them. A cold cement cage without access to sunlight, its surface striped with iron. It offered zero curb appeal. You made it a priority to give your dogs a comfortable enclosure for that very reason.
“They need me here,” you say, desperate to get ahead of his plan. “This is where I’ll be most effective.”
“I disagree.”
Your arms tingle with an icy chill as he turns to walk in the opposite direction.
“You said I’ve done well here,” you call out.
“It’s true,” he says over his shoulder. “And your expertise will be crucial. Transport leaves at oh-six hundred.”
---------------------------------------
You should pack to leave, but you’re frozen.
Isaac isn’t one to sugarcoat things and for once, you wish he would’ve.
You curl up in a plastic chair on your balcony and take in the fields below. Neatly organized rows of vibrant crops bordered by fruit trees, bursting with hues of orange and red. Berries snaking through walls of trellis, sweet and ripe. People milling about with baskets of laundry and boxes of produce, keeping society peaceful.
“You should’ve married him,” Manny sighs, dropping beside you. His hand rests on your knee. “Are you okay?”
“No,” you admit, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose. “All these fresh faces, and I’m the only one leaving.”
Manny moves his hand to your arm, offering a kind squeeze.
“You are not the only one,” he says, handing you a clipboard.
It’s a short list of dogs you’ll be taking with you, and you’re caught between wanting to laugh at Manny’s ridiculous disposition or sob at your utter misfortune. You wish the dogs could stay behind. They love when the little ones throw the ball for them in the afternoon.
“I have a life here,” you say, and it’s a plea to the universe. “This is supposed to be my home.”
Manny offers you a freshly picked apple and you roll the waxy surface between your palms. The image of Abby’s face flashes in your mind. Maybe it’s silly to feel so much, but you can’t stop it. The weight of never seeing her again makes you nauseous.
“I’m fucked,” you groan.
He wraps an arm around your shoulder to pull you in.
“Keep your chin up, Hermosa. Something tells me you won’t be gone long.”
----------------------------------------
Hey you,
I’ve tried to write this about a dozen times, and I still don’t know where to start. Fuck it, right?
I barely know you and somehow you made me miss you so fucking much while I was away. When I got home and you weren’t there, it felt like someone shot me in the chest.
Manny brought me your bin of letters and I swear I cried for the first time in years.
How did you get under my skin so fast?
I hear you were sad when you left, and that breaks my heart. It kills me thinking of you being unhappy. I hate that you’re somewhere I know nothing about.
What is it like over there? Are you safe?
I check in on the kennels every day. You’re missed around here a lot.
Keep your head up for me. I’m going to make this right.
Please write me back,
A.A.
You’re busy fixing the fence with a skeleton crew when a delivery truck arrives, and someone throws a letter at you. The thrill of it causes your heart to pound in your throat, a rush of adrenaline washing over you. It takes every ounce of self control to keep from disappearing to read it somewhere private.
Trucks come and go regularly, as they divide resources between stations. Isaac seems to prioritize the prison, especially on the artillery front.
You finish reinforcing the fence and race to your cell to lose yourself in your first piece of mail.
You can’t wait to steal a pen to write her back.
Abby,
I read your letter every day.
Okay, maybe more like three times a day, but who’s counting? Seriously… this place has no concept of time and I’m pretty sure there isn’t a single clock to be found.
It makes me sad you were sad. I feel like we’re on a carousel of sadness! We should change that. (Have you seen a carousel before?)
The dogs aren’t doing too bad. They like the open fields here and they’re allowed to sleep in bed with these smelly ass soldiers, which I think is more for us than them, truly.
Thanks for checking in on my crew there. Means a lot.
My bed feels like a hard slab of steel because it is, but at least I don’t have to make it every day. Don’t tell Manny.
It’s nothing like the stadium here. We don’t have gardens and schools and we definitely don’t have a gym. I know, devastating! How will I ever beat you in an arm wrestle now?
The hot water is a work in progress, so I’m learning how to not die during cold showers. That’s also a work in progress, but I squeal less now. Which is something, right?
Try not to worry your beautiful head. I’m tough. I miss your face, though. There’s so much I want to ask you.
Please tell me something about you that nobody else knows. I promise I’m the best secret keeper, ever.
P.S.
If you find any letters from actual prisoners, be sure to fill me in. I feel like they’d have some great tips!
Yours truly,
Me
You hope she lights up as much as you did when her letter arrives. It’s all you can hope for, aside from her safety and possibly a warmer blanket.
To: My Favourite Inmate,
You sure know how to make a girl laugh.
It’s good you don’t have clocks. That way, you can’t obsess over how long you’ve been gone the way I do.
Shit, I should send Manny over there for one of those cold showers. I gave him that polaroid we found, and he hasn’t come up for air in weeks.
It helps a bit to know those pups are there to keep you warm at night. I hope I can be that for you soon. I considered writing another letter because I was afraid to say it, but I think I want you to know. You belong in my arms.
Something I haven’t told anyone before…
Sometimes I miss being a Firefly, especially since things around here are getting worse by the day—but sometimes I guess I don’t want to be anything.
Maybe I’d like to try being just Abby for a while, you know? I’ve never tried that before. What do you think that would look like? Would you want to be a part of it?
I wish you were here beside me.
I’ve made it my mission.
A.A.
P.S.
When you wrapped your arms around me, it felt like lightning.
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seeker-of-stories19 · 7 months
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Jaime & Khaji Da Headcannons
- Khaji makes a habit of naturally and even subconsciously adjusting Jaime’s body to make it more adaptive, it takes a lot of arguments and reminders for Khaji to stop giving him extra limbs and eventually they compromise on night vision and sometimes fangs/claws
- Khaji still secretly does it at night to pull Jamie’s blankets back up when he insists on sleeping in bed because he will kick them off if he gets hot
- Jaime only wears his Gotham law hoodie at home because he’s worried Khaji will destroy it and it’s his biggest comfort item
- There’s definitely an element of horror in having his body invaded in such a traumatic way, but oftentimes the thing that freaks Jaime out more is that it feels so right. He can’t remember and doesn’t want to imagine what his life would be like without Khaji Da
- Jaime routinely spaces out while talking to Khaji and literally won’t respond to his family. It freaks Bianca out a bit but Milagro and Rudy love messing with Jaime and totally take advantage of it to scare him
- Although one time Rudy jumps on him from behind and scares him so bad he gets electrocuted again, even though Khaji knows he’s not a threat they think Rudy deserves it for making Jaime scared
- After that they stick to hiding his stuff when he’s spaced out communicating with Khaji
- Jaime goes to ridiculously extreme lengths to hide the extent of his trauma because he’s terrified of having to explain what Victoria and Carapax did to him
- Eventually his family starts picking up on it and accommodating him without him asking about it, not coming up behind him, letting sit closest to the exits, not making him wear ties or anything tight around his neck
- It gets to the point where Jaime slowly starts venturing out of his room after panic attacks and nightmares, so he isn’t alone and his family learns that the best way to support him is just looking out for him and not asking about it
- Although there are definitely moments when weird things trigger Jaime and it makes them wonder why having stuff touch his neck causes him to lock himself in his room for hours or blast off to sit on top of a building somewhere
- Khaji is the only one who knows what really happened to Jaime on the island and they’re very protective as a result
- Jaime will absolutely have a breakdown if Khaji takes more than two seconds to answer him because he’s terrified of losing that connection again
- The longer they’re bonded the more Khaji learns about human emotions and experiences, eventually they’re able to contextualize the horror Jaime feels over their bonding and feel guilt for causing him pain. They still don’t understand it in truly human way but they know they hurt him a lot physically and mentally which goes against their purpose
- Jaime spends so much time and energy looking for clothes that won’t show off the bumps along his spine, definitely has to wear stiffer fabric than he likes so it lays somewhat normally
- There’s definitely a period where he tries sticking kinesiology tape over Khaji to try and make the shape less obvious because it’s too hot to wear long sleeves and they burn it off immediately
- Finally after months Milagro points out that if people ask he can just tell them it’s a back brace or some type of medical equipment which makes him feel very stupid for not thinking of it sooner
- He has a lot of scar tissue around where Khaji latched onto his spine even with the advanced healing because of the trauma it put on his body. He also has jagged scars all over his back and shoulders with some stretching down his arms and legs from the electricity since Khaji didn’t have enough resources at the time to heal him fully
- Definitely at least one occurrence where he scares a stranger half to death walking to his car at night because his eyes are glowing yellow
- Jaime saying we instead of I when talking about things, “We’re so tired” and “Gracias we appreciate it”
- Khaji is incredibly attached to Jaime as well, having bonded more intensely to him than any previous host and like Jaime they’re also terrified of being separated, although they know it is an inevitable part of their reality
- Jaime’s family being so confused by what a symbiotic relationship is and definitely asking some invasive questions on accident
- Jaime is sort of permanently torn between horror and affection toward Khaji, a constant tug of war between the violation of being forced to share his body and not truly have control over his body and choices and the fact that their connection feels undeniably right, the understanding on a level he doubts any other human being can comprehend experiencing
- But even on the bad days he doesn’t blame Khaji, they were simply doing what they were programmed to without any understanding of the pain or trauma it would cause
- And he knows they understand it better now and regret ever causing Jaime damage
- Clothes never stop being a problem, he ends up putting all the basics in an Amazon list and reordering a cheap wardrobe every couple months
- On nights he goes to events with Jenny or other nicer things he just prays he won’t transform and accidentally destroy his one suit
- Even though he can never convince Khaji to stop burning his clothes they always protect the necklace he wears of his fathers
- No matter how long they’re bonded Jaime still answers Khaji out loud sometimes, when he’s at home it just leads to some confusion and teasing but he gets some nasty looks in public for mumbling nonsense to himself or talking over people in conversations
- Clicking/chirping sounds when he’s happy
A/N I totally didn’t expect to get this many likes so thank you, maybe I need to do headcannons more often! Anyways please feel free to add to these in reblogs if you have any more ideas and use any of these that inspire you in your own stories! But if you do tag me or send me AO3 links so I can see!!!!!
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peachseashell · 28 days
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hello! I'm really in love with your way of writing, I adore the comfort it conveys💗💗 if it were possible can I ask for opposite comfort for xiao? where the reader, being friend/lover (as you wish) of Xiao, finds him hurt, so they cooks for him and takes care of him (extra points if you could write words of comfort and lots of hugs for the poor baby) thank you very much in advance if you decide to write it💗
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❛ hold me, kiss me, tell me you'll stay ❜
୨୧ a/n: thank you for requesting anon! I'm so sorry this took me a while - I haven't been well for a while so now I'm able to start writing again. ♡
୨୧ cw's: gender neutral reader, Injury, bleeding, medical equipment, Xiao's relationship with reader can be read as platonic or romantic.
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❝ don't worry about me ❞ he would whisper weakly to you as he limped, your arm around his back trying to keep him steady. But all you could do was worry about him when he was constantly fighting his own demons and others. Poor Xiao, such a gentle and kind soul had to suffer so much; it's not fair on him.
"but Xiao, you're losing a lot of blood..." you replied meekly. You knew Xiao was trying to make the situation seem less serious then it actually was, which annoyed you slightly.
Xiao protested , trying to sit up as you layed him down on the bed inside your home. "I'm okay." he choked out, is he seriously acting like he's as right as rain with all this blood leaking from his wounds?
Your hand pushed down on his chest to make him lay back, "stay." you frowned at him. Xiao knew not to mess with you and your cold glares you always give.
He winced as your hands lingered over the gash on his torso; biting his bottom lip to supress the whimpers of pain. At last, you finished cleaning and bandaging his injury. "thank you." his breath hitched, "you're always so sweet to me." you nodded at his words, "mm, it's the least I can do, Xiao."
━━ ౨ৎ   "(Name)? Where are you going...stay with me." Xiao would mumble in his sleep quietly once he felt your warmth leave him for a second, his hand resting on your arm.
━━ ౨ৎ   "...bleh." his brows furrowed as he tasted the bitterness of the medicine you fed him, refusing to take the spoon in his mouth any further. "Xiao, you caught a cold, come on-" "It tastes like ass"
━━ ౨ৎ   "you're very good at cooking, (Name)." Xiao's mouth was stuffed with food which you only gave him a minute ago, how did he gulp it down so quick?
━━ ౨ৎ   you have no idea how embarrassed Xiao was for the next few weeks as he remembered how vulnerable he let him be around you, but it's okay as long as it's you. "Just...don't tell anyone else, it was a ...special moment, our moment "
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vibratingskull · 7 months
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Fake dating
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I took @al-astakbar​‘s idea and run with it.
Thrawnxf!reader
Resume : Alone on an strange planet with a little chiss girl you walk desesperatly trying to reach coordinates given by a beacon. Here you are saved by Grand Admiral Thrawn’s crew and he proposes you an incongruous solution to your problem...
You hold her hand, never letting her go. You advance on the precarious terrain, stepping over trunks and gullies. The tall grass is as tall as her and she can’t see far away in the forest. 
“Keep going… walking farther…” You try to communicate. She looks at you with round eyes, like you’re asking the impossible. She sighs with a tear rolling down her cheek. You sit her down and take off her shoe.
It is not pleasant to see.
And without a bacta pack you’re afraid amputation awaits that little girl. But she didn’t complain once, walking straight without slowing you down, she’s far more resistant than you were at her age, she’s impressive.
“Show me beacon, please.” you try to articulate. This little girl, Moarorou, if you understood well, doesn't speak a word of basic and you don’t speak a word of her language. So you opted for your very poor Sy Bisty, the only language that sparkled a reaction in her. She hands you her weird necklace, it’s still beeping, still giving you the same coordinates she translated for you earlier, you only know that you're approaching them.
This is your only certitude.
You don’t even know if you could reach it in time, or ever. Too many parameters out of your control.
Your gaze lowers down on her foot again. The poor thing got stabbed by a metal tube in the foot and it got infected due to the grease and rust. You tried to wash and bandage the wound as well as you could, but without proper medical equipment, a miracle is all you can hope for. Right now you wish you could give her a painkiller, an anti-inflammatory medication, anything…
She pulls on her collar on wince, gasping for air. 
Those shock collars…
You take hers in your hands and try to find some slack to break it off, but once again to no avail, you look at her and shake your head with a sorry expression. If you're once again at range of your captors you're done for. You feel yours constricting your throat. The symbol of your enslavement… 
You wipe her tears with your thumb and smile at her, trying to give her the hope and courage you’ve long lost, putting your forehead against hers you caress the back of her neck in a soothing manner.
You palp the rifle at your hips and pass your arms under her.
“I carry you.” you explain standing up “Hold on.” She encircles your neck with her emaciated arms and lays her head  on your shoulder. You walk with her in your arms for hours, in the stifling air despite the shadow provided by the enormous trees. You only stop to permit her to ease her pain in a fresh stream of water and eat some berries off a bush. The cold water seems to be efficient but as soon she takes her feet off the water the pain comes back as grave and powerful. 
“Destination… help…” You promise every time, but the walk is so long and your chances so thin.
At night you hold her as she cries in pain and fear. You’ve never seen her species before, she must be so far away from her home… So you squeeze her, chant her some old melodies your mum sang when you had a nightmare, doing your best to not get wet by the rain, your rifle never far away. When she finally sleeps it’s you who can’t, reviving the crash with such precision… The panic, the horror, the screams. You see the Hutts, your captors, you see your chains, and all those nights parked in the slave cell; pressed against the other slaves, shuddering and cold.
And now you’re lost on this forest planet, blindly following an alien antiquity to find your way.
You wake up to the hot air, even more oppressive than yesterday, but without any sun. You examine her wounds. The flesh all around started to darken and the bad odor indicates you the necrosis started. She’s sweating and is really hot, taken by a fever.
If you don’t find civilization in the next 48h you’re afraid even amputation might not be able to save her.
Once again you carry her, on your back this time and walk straight ahead, crushed by the heat. She sleeps and talks at the same time, in complete delirium, you don’t understand a word as she’s talking in her strange language but imagining with ease that she calls her mom. 
You seem to hear some sort of… humming. 
You press your steps, hope rising in your chest. Is it the ship here to save you?
When you arrive at an open clearing you stop dead on your tracks.
You understand now why there isn’t any sun : An ISD of the Empire is floating just above you, finally free of the foliage that hid them until now.
Your stomach drops, escaping the Hutts to end in the empire’s hands is not an improvement. You gulp as you see a corvette slowly going down towards you, menacingly.
You stay on your toes ready to sprint off at any sign of danger. Strangely, only one woman exits the small ship, in the green uniform of those monsters that she seems to wear with pride. You take a step back as she continues towards you with assurance. When you decide she’s close enough you draw your rifle.
“Stop right there!” You shout.
She stops and gauges you up and down in silence, like she’s measuring her chances. But to your surprise she holds her hands high and visible. You think you see some commotion behind her in the dark of the ship, but you can’t say for sure
“Why are you here?!”
“Hello madam, I am commander Karyn Faro of the ISD Chimaera, I-”
“Why are you here!?” You shout back again, the temptation to shoot her between her eyes is so tempting, but that would for sure be your sign your own death warrant.
“Calm down madam, I am here to help.” She tries.
“Help? No. Your kind doesn’t help, it never does!” You start panicking, counting your options.
“We do. Often.” She tilts her head on the side. “We are here to help the child.” You feel Moarorou’s head resting on your shoulder moving a bit. The denominated Karyn takes a step towards you “Listen, we are here because of a distress signal. Let us help you.” Your gun starts to tremble in your hand but you don’t lower your arm “We can give you food and shelter, we can heal that poor child. The Grand Admiral Thrawn asked that no harm be given to you.”
“I don’t know that Thrawn!” You warn. “What value can I give to the words of an Imperial anyway?!”
“The highest value.” She’s almost on you. “The Grand Admiral is a man of honor. You can trust him…” With the tip of her fingers she traces the canon of your weapon. You search in her eyes any trace of humanity, she doesn’t seem to lie. “Do it for the child.” 
Slowly she invites you to lower the gun, and very gently take it out of your hands. 
“O…Ok…” You mumble, at the end of yourself.
She nods and spins on herself in a swift movement. With a snap of her finger she calls two all black stormtroopers that head towards you with their gun pointed at your chest. You’re tempted to run away but you know they shot in your back, therefore Moarorou’s back to stop you. The first one comes and just grabs Moarorou off your shoulder, tearing her from you. When you hear a weak whine of pain you immediately see red and ready to jump at their jugular. You throw yourself at them but you're stopped by a prodigious smack of the second’s knee in your stomach. You fall down, panting for air, they force you on your belly and handcuff you unceremoniously. You’re dragged to the shuttle and thrown into a seat.
“Hey!” You protest.You frantically search around you to find Moarorou. You find her on a stretcher with two droids busying themself around her. You rise up to go to her but you’re shoved back down right away.
“She needs me.” You plead to the black stormtrooper. They remain silent but threaten to hit you with their rifle butt. You turn back to Moarorou in despair as you hear here faintly calling your name.
“Here, Moarorou. Am here.” You answer, praying it comforts her.
“Don’t worry, our meddroids are the most competent across the galaxy.” Karyn Faro calmly enounces. “Now remain calm and everything will go smoothly. We are going.”
As she finishes her sentences you feel the shuttle take off. You gulp. In what mess did you end up? Your stomach is turning acidic by the minute and the closer you get of that gigantic ship the worse you feel.
__________________________________________
Then everything went so quickly.
Someone grabbed your arm without any care, stripped you of your old ripped dress and throwed you in a shower where you’ve been clinically cleaned with water blasts attacking your delicate and wounded skin. Then someone scrubbed all your body and hair thoroughly with a very efficient chemical product with alcohol lingering scents. You scream and protest, in pain, but the people in combination are deaf to your cries. Once cleaned you are asked to put on those pajamas for the hospital's patients and Karyn Faro guides you through the ISD, your arm in hand. You have no idea where you are going, your questions remain unanswered. She just lets out a stern “You’ll soon see.” 
You end up before a large door guarded by two stormtroopers, they salute her and open it, you end up in some sort of short corridor with two doors, one on your left from which you hear some grunts and metal impacts, but she pushes you towards the one in front of you. She looks at you up and down, pulls on your t-shirt to flatten it and pushes any strand of hair out of your face. 
“Alright, be polite and you should avoid the cell.”
“Wha-”
She pushes you inside and the door slams back shut. You drum against the cold metal.
“Wait! Don’t leave me alone! Please” But she’s far gone. You slowly turn to see where you are. It looks like an office of some sort with art decorating its walls. Behind an impressive desk, taking center stage are two statues of a lizard of some sort, holding a world in their claws. You consider the seat in front of the desk, wondering if you had the right to sit. Surely not. You must be in a high officer’s office, a low person like you surely remains standing.
A shudder spreads across your spine as you hear the door shuffling behind your back.
You feel a presence behind you.
Something cold and merciless. Something imposing…
You dare not move nor make a sound, not even turning to greet the person. You feel them move more than you hear them walking.
“Sit.” Say a calm voice.
You obey, eyes low.
They walk around the desk to sit in front of you.
You dig your nails in the fabric of the pajamas, greeting your teeth.
They remain silent but you can feel their burning gaze on you, gauging you, judging you.
After a full minute, no words were exchanged.
You hold your breath.
“Are you going to remain like this? Are you not going to look me in the eyes?” He asks softly. Too softly for someone with such a presence, it’s hiding something…
Looking at him in the eyes? You don’t know if you would dare. The last time you looked up to someone higher than you you earned 30 whiplash. You’ve learned your lesson. Your collar is still strangling you…
“Look me in the eyes.” He says. You don’t move an inch, too terrified. “It is an order.” The tone calls for no resistance.
So you obey.
Reluctantly you raise your head, and slowly you open your eyes.
And air gets caught in your throat.
This man…
Moarorou!
They are the same.
Detached from all of this, he observes you behind folded hands.
“Is it not better? Speaking eye to eye…” You gulp, knowing better than to speak your mind. Or speaking at all… “Relax, you are not in any immediate danger.” He assures taking a datapad in his hand. “I am Grand Admiral Thrawn. I only need you to answer me some questions.”
You observe his red eyes, piercing with intelligence. You feel like they could read you like a holobook. So he’s the Grand Admiral? An alien? You observe his stature, tall with prominent muscles he’s surely a warrior. Your eyes linger at his large hand, terrified at the idea that they could go for your throat in the immediate future…
“Are you mute?”
Your gaze crosses his once again and you lightly shake your head.
“Then answer me.” he hits you sternly. “What is your name?”
You answer with a small voice.
“Louder.” He says, eyes on his datapad.
You repeat.
“Good. Where do you come from?”
“I… We come from a crashed ship.”
“Owner?”
“My master’s name is Nattai Gleula.”
“No. The ship owner.”
“Oh…” you feel embarrassed now “The Hutts.”
“How did you encounter that little girl?”
“She was brought to the Palace one day. I don’t know much, we don’t speak the same language…”
“I figured you did not. Do you know for what works they purchased her?” This time he looks at you, and you would rather he did not because his gaze is terrifying. You always find Moarorou’s eyes pretty but from an adult warrior they are just terrifying…
“Huh… For cleaning and cooking. That’s what most children of her age do.”
“Did they ever take her to a ship?”
“No?” What a strange question “I mean, I never saw them do that…”
He nods pensively.
“What were the reasons for your trip?”
“Family reunion. They always travel with their court of slaves.”
“Do you know who could have something against your master?”
Your eyes widen, who couldn’t would be easier.
“Huh… He’s a crime syndicate so..”
“Excuses. Let me reformulate : Do you know who could have attacked you that day?”
“Attacked? I thought the ship just malfunctioned?”
“I think not. I think you ended up in an ambush set by an enemy. So?”
You think, but no one comes to mind. They all want your master dead and they all failed until now. Or maybe not, you didn’t stay behind to ensure the safety of your master, you took your chance and runned.
“I don’t know, I’m sorry sir.”
“It is okay, I already have an idea. Describe me the crash in more detail.”
You gulp.
“I was performing for my master when I felt the ship tremble. It was terrifying. Then it brusquely tilted on one side and everyone fell against the wall. I think I hit my head because I lost consciousness. I woke up with flames all around me, I used them to melt my chains. I tried to find an exit and ended up in the slave quarters, that’s when i heard Moarorou’s cries : her cell comrade was already dead and she got something metallic through her foot, locking her on the ground. I had to tear it up from her foot. There was so much blood… I managed to more or less cauterize the wound and we runned to the escape pod. I knew we couldn’t join space with them from the ground but they could project us far enough to escape. So we launch them and almost killed ourself when we landed. Since then we walked through the forest following her beacon’s indications and… then you found us.”
You remember the necklace, too weird and of poor metal to be worth anything, was in fact your life saver. For now….
He nods.
“Yes. This beacon comes from our people and is distributed to the likes of her.”
“The likes of her?” You dare ask.
“Children, of course.” He smiles.
“Oh… okay…”
You're disappointed. For what need a species would give a beacon to all of its children?
“And since when were you in that forest?”
You count mentally.
“A week, sir.”
“Hmmm.” He holds his chin and contemplates you. “I find myself in a precarious situation, miss.” 
That’s when he’s gonna tell you he can’t keep you like that, that he’s gonna imprison you and sell you back on the black market, unless you prove yourself to be nice and docile and earn some moment of liberty against some favors. If only you could secure Moarorou’s place at the medbay.
He rises from his seat and turns towards the statues, hands folded behind his back.
“You see, we are very few of my race in those parts of the galaxy. And the apparition of a child is not a good auspices in my humble opinion. If I am right, we are going ahead with some serious problems.”
You look at the back of his head, mouth agape. Some problems? What is he talking about? 
“Do you care for the girl?” He turns towards you, looking down at you from his height.
Why would it count? Why should your opinion count? Why does he care? You look at his eyes, searching for malice or a trap. 
But his gaze is clear.
“I… Yes.” You nods firmly. “Yes, I do.” 
“Good. Then I will ask you for your help. We must protect the child, at all cost, and send her back home as quickly as possible. But we must protect her identity.”
You blink, you’re not sure you’re following everything. And it’s been a while since someone “asked” you anything.
“Hum… Alright. And how should we do that, Sir?”
“I ponder this question since I have been made aware of your existence. I expected to only find a child, not two people. I have a plan, but I would understand if you refused.”
Flashes of Moarorou’s calling desperately for you appear in your mind.
“I want to know!” You exclaim. “I want to protect Moarorou!”
“Moarorou is her name?”
“Yes, I think…”
“We will know soon. We will find her once her operations at the medbay are over.”
“Alright.” You nod, reassured. “So… How do we proceed, sir?”
If you ever thought you would partner up with an imperial. But to protect little Moarorou you would do anything.
“We should pretend to be family. If I pass myself as her father, nobody should question her existence and search for her past. I would need you to pass for her caring mother.”
“But… That would make me your…”
“My wife. Exactly.”
You could burst out laughing if you were not that shocked. 
You?!
Pretending to marry an Imperial?!
A God-Damn Imperial?!
A slave trader ?
No!
“Wha-? Sir, you cannot be serious!?”
“I am completely serious. It is a necessary wrong to protect her.”
“But… Why would she need protection in the first place? She’s just a child!” 
“She is more than just a child. She is a key.”
“What is she?”
“That I can not tell you.”
“Then I think I cannot help you...”
“Then know you are condemning her.” He shakes his head with a sorry expression.
“What do you mean?”
“Only with this comedy I can fully protect her to the full extent of my capacities. The other option is keeping her locked and hidden from the world, but that is not a life for a child. She should be able to learn, to live freely, and I do not think you might want to inflict that on her.”
“No. I don’t, I…” You lose your words.
“Then consider my proposition. Think about it for a night, and give me your answer tomorrow.” He proposes.
Your head is spinning. Too many things to think about. 
“Come.” He proposes. “Let us see her. She must yearn for your presence.”
He looks into your eyes, and you can only see intelligence and an inalterable resolution.
“Yes…” You murmur “Let’s go.”
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magicantare · 5 months
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mmc magical girl AU lore dump:
The year is 20XX. The world is slowly approaching a post-scarcity utopia supported by unprecedented advances in technology and science. Quantum and classical physics have been united, asteroid mining has made electronic components cheap and abundant, medical technology guarantees a higher quality of life, and most recently, inorganic matter has been able to be converted into data and back.
Dr. Light and Dr. Wily developed a “robotic support system”, a type of protective suit integrated with incredibly advanced robotic tools for specific dangerous tasks, like rescues, handling hazardous material, or performing tasks in extreme environments. Light wants the suits to be used to help advance the frontiers of science, while Wily is more interested in its military applications despite large-scale conflicts being minimal in the present day. These support systems are integrated into the body to the point that removing them requires special equipment (think like an HEV suit), but the suits themselves are very powerful and cutting-edge. Light’s proposal to use them for scientific reasons is what ultimately wins out, and Wily is shunned for pushing for military use. Soon after this, Wily simply vanishes without a trace, which bothers Light but he can’t do anything about it.
At some point Light saves his oldest son, Blues, from dying of a heart condition with a suit prototype (LRSS-000) that regulates his heart rate and provides strength for his weakened body, but Blues had already accepted his death and doesn’t take having his body tampered with super well and ends up leaving home. Light creates generic support systems in the form of LRSS-001 and 002, proving the non-weaponized potential that the support system has, where his twin children Rock and Roll happily volunteer to demonstrate them with great success. Light then deploys LRSS-003 to 008 with handpicked candidates, qualified university graduates and trade employees, for use in scientific and industrial fields.
Wily shows up some years later and declares war on the world with his own version of the robotic support system, and a handful of 20-somethings that he’s coerced/bribed/blackmailed into piloting them, calling them “Bion Masters”. The suits are ridiculously powerful and there are far less military resources out there than in modern day due to the general state of peace in the world, so nothing can stop them. Rock and Roll both volunteer themselves to fight against Wily, but Light can’t bear to let either of them face danger after nearly losing Blues. Though Light’s Bion Masters try their best to fight back, they don’t have the same weaponized capabilities that Wily’s do and are slowly defeated and abducted one by one, each disappearance further weighing on Light’s conscience.
The most egregious act comes when Wily and Shadow Man break into the Light residence and kidnap Rock and Roll and their support systems, absolutely shattering Light’s will to fight back. Before he vanishes, Rock tells his father that he can’t give up here and urges him to resist Wily for everyone’s sake.
Light makes the difficult decision to weaponize the second series of support systems he’s been developing and seek out people who have enough courage to take on Wily’s forces. He finds the first seven users relatively quickly, but the last support system, 016, has so much dangerous potential that Light hesitates to find a user for it…
Light’s (Current) Bion Masters:
LRSS-009 “Concrete Man”
Good Point: Gets the job done Bad Point: Self-righteous Likes: Fulfilling work Dislikes: Laziness
The support system was designed for construction. In battle, he’s most effective at backline support, civilian rescue and damage mitigation, but has quite a lot of raw physical strength for defense. Concrete Shot can immobilize enemies.
LRSS-010 “Tornado Man”
Good Point: Confident Bad Point: Slacker Likes: New experiences Dislikes: Working
The support system was designed for weather management and mitigating storm damage. In battle, he acts as the leader and has quick mobility, focusing on clearing out large groups of enemies and moving victims of Wily’s assaults to safe areas. Tornado Blow can throw even heavy enemies into the air and damage them upon impact with the ground.
LRSS-011 “Splash Woman”
Good Point: Hard worker Bad Point: Moody Likes: Self-care Dislikes: Having her time wasted
The support system was designed for rescuing shipwreck survivors. In battle, she can fight up-close and excels at underwater combat and has small fish-like robots she can call on for extra support. Laser Trident can cut cleanly through metal and destroy robotic enemies.
LRSS-012 “Plug Man”
Good Point: Quick learner Bad Point: Over-exciteable Likes: Technology Dislikes: Boring tasks
The support system was designed for delicate but high-powered electronic manufacturing. In battle he’s a long-ranged fighter that can use both physical and electrical projectiles. Plug Ball can spread across surfaces and short-circuit any machines that aren’t hermetically sealed.
LRSS-013 “Jewel Man” Good Point: Stylish Bad Point: Self-Centered Likes: Interesting things Dislikes: Being rejected
The support system was designed for jewel mining. In battle, he’s a very fast and up-close brawler that can even claw metal apart. Jewel Satellite can protect him from energy shots and damage enemies on contact.
LRSS-014 “Hornet Man” Good Point: Compassionate Bad Point: Pushover Likes: Nature Dislikes: Selfishness
The support system was designed for botany and environmental science work. In battle, he’s primarily a backline fighter that provides remote support. Hornet Chaser can pursue enemies and pierce through metal with lasers.
LRSS-015 “Magma Man”
Good Point: Calm Bad Point: A little dense Likes: Traveling Dislikes: Staying indoors
The support system was designed for work in volcanic environments. In battle, he’s a very slow but powerful frontline fighter. Magma Bazooka can melt through metal armor with direct shots.
LRSS-016 “Galaxy Man” Good Point: Creative Bad Point: No people-skills Likes: Science Dislikes: Strangers
The support system was designed for performing spacewalks and maintenance on space stations and satellites. In battle, they’re highly mobile and can hit devastatingly hard, but are themself fragile. Black Hole Bomb can suck up pretty much anything that isn’t tied down or attached to the ground, so it can destroy huge groups of enemies at once.
...That's everything I have formally written down, at least, but I've also made a lot of offhand remarks when brainstorming for this.
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blogdays · 9 months
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Mybabyfor - Devasa+
When it comes to my baby for care, ensuring the health and well-being of your little one is of utmost importance. Regular check-ups with a pediatrician play a crucial role in monitoring your baby's growth and development. These check-ups allow healthcare professionals to assess your baby's overall baby health, address any concerns, and provide guidance on various aspects of infant care, such as feeding and sleep. It is recommended to follow a vaccination schedule to protect your baby from harmful diseases. Vaccinations are an essential part of maintaining your baby's health and child development preventing the spread of infectious diseases. By adhering to the recommended vaccination schedule, you can ensure that your baby month by month receives the necessary immunizations to safeguard their well-being. As you prepare for the arrival of your little one, packing a hospital bag checklist is an essential task. This bag should contain all the necessary items for both mom and baby during the labor and delivery process. It is advisable to pack this bag well in advance to avoid any last-minute stress or confusion. The hospital bag checklist provided by The Bump can serve as a helpful guide in ensuring that you have all the essentials packed and ready to go. Some items to include in the bag are hospital paperwork, identification, insurance cards, birth plan (if you have one), comfortable clothing for mom, diapers, and clothing for the baby firsts. Being prepared with a well-stocked hospital bag can help make the birthing experience more comfortable and organized. In addition to the immediate needs for the hospital stay, it is essential to have a well-equipped diaper bag for outings with your baby. This bag should contain all the essentials required to care for your baby while on the go. Some items to include in the diaper bag checklist are diapers, wipes, extra clothing, burp cloths, bottles, baby formula resources (if using), pacifiers, and any necessary medication. Having a well-stocked diaper bag ensures that you are prepared for any situation that may arise while outside of the home. It allows you to provide your baby with the necessary care and comfort wherever you may be.
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I'm obsessed with the logistics of the Spider-Society so here goes nothing
My hc is that Miguel dethroned his father. I don't think Tyler Stone would willingly give Alchemax to Miguel, and wouldn't put him on his will either.
But all that equipment we see in the movie is expensive, even for 2099 where they have an orbital lift and flying cars. The size of the building alone must be a fortune, after all, it is New York.
So, Miguel probably dethroned his father and got Alchemax, and that's where his money came from. SS building might been listened as a subsidiary of Alchemax with a bunch of classified projects no one (private sector or otherwise) dares to bat an eye.
Now the fun parts!
We have not only humans on the societies but also all kinds of sentients species. A T-Rex, a pork, cats, and even Lego! Do you think he recruited one by one? Oh, so many types of bathrooms...
Miguel had to design a DTD (that's what I call their "watches", Dimension Travel Device) for each of them, to deal with their specific molecular vibarations. Or maybe he lets Layla do it while he deals with other things? I can't take the image of my head of Lego Peter waiting for his DTD, watching a 3d printer work on it like the hand of the creator, and he's star-struck.
Having to make a full battery of exams when the physiology is different, to make sure the DTD works like it should but also that they are capable of taking the strain of travelling across the multiverse.
There's probably an infirmary somewhere that most resembles a hospital. Fully equipped. Employing nurses and physiotherapist and every type of doctor in every type of speciality.
A rotatory shift with Spider Doctors from different realities, and Layla tries not too overwork them but still all of them with a headache for having to deal with not only a bunch of injured self-sacrificing heroes but!! Different anatomies!!
Do you think non-human Spiders have to bring medical encyclopedias with them?
Spider Scientist (and medical doctors too) that are so glad and excited to finally have resources to use, but still need to go through Miguel and get their researches approved (it's hard for him to say a no tbh, he's a scientist too after all)
Physics and engineering and biologist and all kinds of scientist
Mechanic workshops. All kinds of different technologies interacting more and more. The SS equipment improving with each passing day because of Spiders from universes that are further in the timeline sharing their advanced tech.
It's so many departments to have. Logistics and TI and Security. Do you think it has a daycare? Teams that deal with holes in the multiverse (like that one in Mumbattam), the Strike Force itself, which probably is divided in squadrons with its leaders. And– so many people
Soooo much food. Spiders are constantly refueling. It's insane. And SS probably caters to all kind of tastes, nutrition necessities and allergies too. Spider Chef working overtime.
Probably has some temporary dorms. It has therapy offices!
Do you think Miguel would pay the workforce? He looks like he would want to pay, even those that are working part-time.
Probably gives them something valuable instead of actual currency, something they can exchange for currency and may be universal but not hard to find, like diamonds.
And Layla? She's a Supercomputer not only running SS but probably managing Alchemax too, not to say being Miguel's personal assistant and still giving support to any Spider that summons her (like Jess in that scene with Gwen)
Underground the building there are levels and levels, floor to celling with servers and servers and processors for her.
I don't think it would be all – in the tech sense – free 24/7 access, though. There's a limit there to prevent Heroes from spending too much time there, or from getting gadgets that they could bring to their home and accidentally (by butterfly effect or even directly) prevent a Canon event.
Even the infirmary probably only deals with heroes that got injured on missions, too. Again, to prevent a Canon event from not happening. It probably doesn't treat the common cold.
Oh, gosh- can you imagine if there's an epidemic of a powerful cold that knocks out them? Can you imagine the headache of coming up with a vaccine????
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redprotons · 2 months
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First Aid - DoctorRose Bingo
Summary:
Rose ends up hurt on the estate at a time where the Doctor is avoiding her at all costs.
Notes:
warnings: minor description of injury, hint of past turbulent relationship, emotional angst, swearing.
Embarrassed, really. She was embarrassed more than anything. She’d lost count how many planets and people she helped save – not that she ever counted, but still, she knew it was a LOT. She’d faced death hundreds of times, outsmarted aliens; Ice Warriors, Slitheen, the flood. She’d done all that and come out with barely a scratch, and she trips down the stairs… just off of the estate… stairs she’d walked up and down her whole life, and, she was pretty sure,  broken her arm.
God, what a bloody plonker she was, the throbbing pain was well deserved.
For a while she just sat on the steps, staring into space. Part of her thought she was in shock, but shock that she’d been hurt like this, this after everything else that had tried to kill her in the last week alone.
It was her own fault, though.
She’d spotted Jimmy’s mother in Tesco. A wretched woman who she once tried so hard to please, but no matter what she did there was always something wrong. She’d go to sleep crying some nights over dishes stacked the wrong way. And the worst thing was, because Jimmy was Jimmy, she truly believed it was her who was in the wrong – that she was being too sensitive, too much of a bitch, too whiny. Well, she wasn’t such an idiot these days - ha. She strode right up to the hag and gave her a piece of her mind, and maybe, just a little, looking to reassure herself. She launched into how her son was a horrible piece of shit who manipulated women – because she knew she was not the first,  she was just convinced into believing otherwise back then – and bled them dry, and it was no surprise because she was a horrible mother in which her perfect little angel could do no wrong,  and thank God her family got her out before he dragged her down with him.
She was expecting a fight – screams of ‘how dare you talk to me like that!'.
Instead, Laura Stone burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably.
Jimmy was dead, killed way back in the Auton invasion.
Utterly mortified, she fumbled out an apology and left, her cheeks burning, fully accepting, that from now on until she perished,  she’d have to walk a mile out of her way to the Sainsbury's local further down the road.
It felt weird. She wasn’t sad he was dead… or maybe she was. It was all sort of muddled. She was absolutely in love with him at one point in her life after all – would do anything for him. But the fact it was Jimmy was almost insignificant. No, it was more because someone from her past had died. Someone she knew from school had lost their life to the adventures she lived every day. It made it real; the danger. The fact that she could die, that her mum, that this world's Jackie Tyler, could really die. That Mickey might be dead, but now she would never know.
It was more difficult to convince herself it would never happen to the people she cared about, when it already, in a way, had. And she'd not had a clue.
Maybe Jack had died after all, and the Doctor decided to let her live in ignorance.
It scared her, and that horrid niggle in her stomach lingering from Pete's Jackie's death intensified.
Taking a deep breath in, and an even longer breath out, Rose pushed it all down. Scared or not, it didn’t change the fact that her arm hurt… a lot. She would need to see someone about it and, as much as she had figured out, she had three options.
One, find the Doctor. She didn’t have anyway to contact him, but the Tardis wasn’t parked far away. She could call her mum to let her know something came up, and wait in the console room. He'd eventually come back from wherever he’d actually gone to hide from her. With all the advanced medical equipment on the Tardis, a broken bone would basically be first aid. She’d probably be able to go home for dinner, her mum none the wiser.
Two, call her mum to come and get her. They’d go to A&E, and she’d get patched up the old-fashioned way. And it takes so long to be seen, the Doctor would eventually worry something was wrong… she hoped, and call her. She’d lie, she’d stay a few days with her mum, and, with how he was acting at the moment, she doubted he'd notice.
And three, tell neither of them, and go to the Tardis and see if she could work out how to heal her arm herself.
At this present moment in time, she was leaning more towards three. The Doctor was being weird with her lately. Whether it was because of Mickey and Pete world’s Pete, or the whole France incident, she didn’t know, but he'd avoid her one adventure, then not leave her side the next. There was a dread in her gut that told her it was because he was getting ready to give her the chuck. Which she didn’t really want at the moment, and especially now. The Doctor made her feel safe, despite how much of an arse he could be, and with this sudden reality check, she wanted to be somewhere safe right now. But if he saw her hurt, and from such a stupid accident, it might speed up the process. And also, he was so annoyingly curious and bloody nosy, that he’d know the whole Jimmy story by the end of it, and she was, admittedly, ashamed of that chapter in her life… and sometimes,  with this new-new doctor, she wondered if the same thing was happening all over again.
So, then there was her mum. With Mickey, and now Jimmy, she was extra sensitive. She missed home and missed her family and friends. She’d even made a plan to see Shareen while they were here. But her mum was also nosy, and she would question why she didn’t want to go to the Doctor to get sorted, and then she’d have to say, and then her mum would slap the Doctor into a new face,  shout bloody murder at him, and threaten to cut off his crown jewels if he didn’t clean up his act.
Rose smiled despite herself.
The Doctor would never admit it, but he feared Jackie. Yet, more than Jackie, he feared any sort of social uncomfortableness. In his current body especially. He’d run to the Tardis and never come back. She’d have to get a job, and go back to the Rose she was before him. Which, she now realised, wasn’t that far below the surface as she initially thought.
Grimacing, she heaved herself off the step, walking in the direction of the Tardis.
So… three it was.
“Rose?” the Doctor asked, popping his head up through the grating just as she reached the corridor.
Her shoulders slumped, of course he was there – typical.
She plastered on a smile before she turned around. “Yeah?” she asked cheerfully.
His face dropped instantly. “What happened!” he asked, springing out of the gap in the grating and rushing over to her. His eyes were fixed on one side of her cheek, and she realised she must’ve hit her face as she tumbled. With the pain from her arm, she hadn’t noticed.
“It’s nothing.” she said.
 “It doesn’t look like nothing.” he accused.
  Yeah, well, he hadn’t noticed her arm yet. She didn’t say anything.
The Doctor pressed his lips together. There was an argument there, a demand, but he didn’t voice it. “Come on.” he said instead. “Let’s get that healed up.”
Then he took her hand, the broken one. The pain had already been getting worse the closer she got to the Tardis. She guessed it was the shock wearing off. His grip was sharp, and it really, really hurt. She couldn’t hold back the sob.
The Doctor let go instantly. “Rose?” he asked, the concern, and absolute horror that he’d hurt her, clear in his voice.
But the pain was too much. She’d been trying to be brave – be strong with everything she was feeling, but this was her limit. She started crying. He quickly scanned her with the screwdriver. God, she was so embarrassed.
“Okay, Rose, listen to me you’ll be fine. Rose? I’ll fix this, I promise.” She nodded through her tears. “Just stay here, don’t move. I’ll be right back.” he said, before rushing off into the depths of the Tardis.
When he returned, there was a ratty old gym bag slung over his shoulder. He must’ve sprinted the whole way, because he was out of breath, which he rarely was - all the running he did coupled with his ‘superior biology’ he loved to mention… all the time.
He was really worried.
“Okay, this -” he began jovially, unzipping the bag and pulling out a clunky metal tube cast that looked akin to a torture device crossed with a rusty cyberman arm. “- is the best bone healer of the 97th century, will fix you up in a jiffy.” he explained. “Just need to tune it up a bit and run a scan so it heals you nice and proper.” He beamed at her, an invitation – or maybe a plea – for any sort of positive response.
She felt too awful to muster the effort. She just wanted him to heal her up. She nodded.
The smile slid off his face, and he got to work. He was gentle, oh so very gentle, despite the clear tenseness in his shoulders as he worked – the way his jaw was set.
The machine made an ungodly rattling sound when he switched it on. A wave of tiredness crashed over her, while, at the same time, the pain dissipated and lifted her mood.
“Better?” he asked cheerfully.
She yawned and forced out a smile. “Yeah, thanks.” she said, and saw a little of that tension leave him. She knew he was going to ask, so she spoke before he had the chance. “I better get back to mum’s then.” she said. “She’ll be wanting the milk for her tea.”
“Did someone attack you.” he asked darkly, all preambles gone from his voice.
 Her face fell. She hadn’t thought he’d drop the façade so quickly. Unable to meet his eye, she fiddled with her sleeve. “It’s so stupid.” she said. “I tripped down the steps at the back of Spring.”
The Doctor’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Spring?”
“The block with that little post office.” she clarified.
“Ah.” He studied her for a long moment. “And you tripped?”
“Yeah.” She didn’t look up.
“Rose.” From the tone of his voice it was obvious he didn’t believe her.
“It’s true!” she protested. “That’s why I didn’t say because it’s so bloody embarrassing – alright!” she snapped back at him.
He gaped stupidly for the second it took him to work everything out. Why was he so smart?
“It was that loose pave-stone, wasn’t it? That one you yourself warned me about. You’re always careful on those steps since you cut your knee open when you were a child – that’s what you said.” He was mad now. “Something happened. What was it? And more importantly, why’d you try and sneak off by yourself and not tell me.”
“I don’t have to tell you everything.” she bit back on the defensive. “You never do.”
He gaped at her, thrown that she’d brought such a topic up. Admittedly, she was a little startled herself. The conversation stopped and the hum of the Tardis filled the space. But the Doctor had to know. “Did someone push you? And you might as well tell me now, because you’ll know I’ll find out.”
Her fury bubbled over. He was threatening her like she was a Dalek, or a Cybermen or something. “Oh so you care again now? Make up your mind!”
The Doctor’s brows furrowed, then morphed into outrage. “Of course I care! Why would you ever think otherwise!”
She was the one baffled now – surely he couldn’t be that unaware of himself. “Oh, wow." she scoffed, remembering who she was talking to. "Okay, what about Sarah-Jane, you said you wouldn’t leave me, and then we end up on a spaceship where you leave me and Mickey to go… ‘dance’ with some French queen, without having anyway to get back? What about that time in after Rome – I mean we actually kissed, and then on Plass-6 you put me on a different team to you for a whole week, and worse with that arsehole robot Mars-65? And what about now!? You spent the whole time we were on Pete’s world with me, and now were here you’ve been hiding away on the Tardis for days… or wherever you’re lying about being!” she yelled.
 Her breaths came out harsh while he just stood. She hadn’t planned on it all coming out, but it’d been building for so long, and she was so angry at him, it’d just sort of happened. Part of her wanted to apologise, but the other part of her thought, fuck it. All of it was how she really felt, and she shouldn't back down this time. “You know what? I’m going back to mum's for a few nights, so if you want to leave me behind, here’s your chance.”
Shereen took one look at her and hugged her tight. Honestly, it was what she needed. They ordered take-out and stuffed their faces with chocolates watching scary films. It was like she was a kid again. Yet, her mind kept wondering to the Doctor and his stupid puppy-dog eyes. She’d left before he healed the bruise on her face, so every time she laughed, he was there with her.
Oh, please, please, let the Tardis still be there when she got home.
She stayed another two nights at Shereen’s. They had a lot to catch up on, but really, the longer she stayed the more she could avoid the absolution of seeing the empty space where the Tardis was last parked.
As she rounded the corner, she held her breath, trying to prepare herself. The Doctor out of her life for good... oh, what had she done? She should’ve just shut up and said nothing… but it was too late now. She was brave, and she would face this.
The Tardis was still there.
Rose’s whole body unwound right to the core – the soul. He was still here. A smile lit up her face. Her walk turned into a jog towards the most brilliant blue box in the universe. She turned the key, stopping just as she opened the doors. She had to remember how she left things, she needed to brace herself.
He wasn’t there. She tried the usual places, the library, his workshop, the kitchen. Nothing.
“Mum have you seen –“
The Doctor poked his head cautiously around the hallway from the living room, like he’d taken a biscuit from the tin, and she knew he was the guilty party.
All the tension left. She smiled at him. “You’re here.”
Believing it safe, he stepped fully into the corridor. “Well I didn’t have a choice, she’s keeping me hostage.” he said, pointing to Jackie.
“Oh, give over. What are you like, honestly.” her mum complained, thwacking him on the arm as she walked over to Rose and gave her a big hug. “Have a nice time? Feeling better?”
She smiled. “Yeah, I did, yeah. Like we were kids again.”
The Doctor smiled at that.
“Right, there’s dinner in the oven if you want. I’m off to see Bev – she’s down for the week, over in Eltham, that guy she used to date Martin, he’s got a flat down there now, said he’d put her up, and you know what Bev’s like. She’s been asking for you, be nice for her to see you before you run off. Mind you, you know she’ll bring up that year bad-driver here brought you back – twelve hours my arse.” She gave Rose a kiss on the cheek, and reached behind her for the house keys.
The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.” he added flatly.
She gave her mum another hug, grateful that she was making herself scarce so they could talk. “I will, promise.”
Rose could hear the hoover in the flat above, banging against the walls. For a while the two of them just stood watching each other, the Doctor rocking on his heals, his hands deep in his pockets.
“You said a few days. But then when you didn’t come back, I worried something else happened, so I asked Jackie. She told me you were at Shereen’s… been a prisoner ever since.” He gave a half-smirk, an invitation to joke.
She couldn’t help it. She smirked back, just for a moment. “What else did she say?”
His expression turned serious. “That you ran into an ex-boyfriend’s mother in the shops, and she upset you.” He paused, reconsidering whether or not to push on. “She didn’t tell me why.”
Thank you, mum, Rose thought. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
He studied her up and down. “Fair enough.” he said, dropping it, even though he hated not knowing things, especially about her. “It’s not because I care one second and not the next.” he said, throwing Rose off balance. She was sure they'd fall back into the same old routine, where they ran off to the next adventure and pretended stuff like this never happened. “It’s because I care too much, it terrifies me so I run, but I can never stay away for long.”
Rose’s jaw dropped. Her mind whirled so much it became a thick dough of goop. She tried to clear it, snap back. “Why are you telling me this?” she wondered out loud. “I mean we never talk about this stuff.”
The Doctor scoffed. “Why? Because you asked me to leave, Rose, and that’s only one step away from you leaving on your own, and I – I don’t want you to go.”
Okay now her head was really properly spinning.
He nodded to her arm. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” and she heard what he really meant.
She was taking it all in, but apparently, he wanted her to say something. “Am I?” he prodded fearfully.
Her brows furrowed, not putting it together. “Are you, what?”
“Going to lose you.” he said, the slightest crack in his voice, so quiet Rose convinced herself she was imagining it.
She straightened, standing tall. “Depends, if you keep messing me about.” she stated. “We act like we’re together; it feels like we’re together, but then you run off, or avoid me, and leave me wondering what I’ve done, or if I’ve read things wrong. So.” She stared him down. “Are we? No... wait.. do you want to be?”
The Doctor balked, his eyes wide. He shuttered his expression.
“And don’t lie.” she added. “Or say what you think you want me to hear.”
She waited, watching him in apprehension. He didn’t look at her, keeping his gaze on the carpet.
“Yes.” he said at last.
Oh.
She fumbled with her hands, not quite sure what to do next. She hadn’t expected this to happen quite so easily. “Right. Well. Okay then, will you stop running away from me now?”
He nodded weakly. “Yeah.”
Again she waited, but he didn’t look up. “Right, so… do you want to go down the chippy, then we can half what mum made for us?”
He glanced up at her, befuddled, his brow furrowed. “That’s it?” he asked disbelievingly.
She shrugged. “Well… yeah. Unless you have anything to add?”
He shook his head, unable to hide his utter relief. “No... nothing from me.”
“Right, good…. so… chips?”
He beamed. “Chips! Oh, yes!”
Walking through the estate, she felt his hand gingerly brush against hers before he took it. She linked arms instead, so she could snuggle into him. He let out a breath, and she felt the tension leave his body.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked. “You don’t have to tell me what happened, but I need to know when you’re hurt.”
She pondered for a moment, then smirked at him. “Well, my face still hurts a little.” she admitted. “Don’t suppose you’ve got anything for it?”
He smiled at her, true gratefulness in his eyes. “Oh, Rose Tyler, I have just the thing.”
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heliads · 4 months
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everything is blue • conrisa space au • Chapter Eleven: I Still Miss You Most of All
Risa Ward escaped a shuttle destined for her certain, painful death. Connor Lassiter ran away from home before it was too late. Lev Calder was kidnapped. All of them were supposed to be dissected for parts, used to advance a declining galaxy, but as of right now, all of them are whole. Life will not stay the same way forever.
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Connor Lassiter should not be alive.
He is aware of this before he even opens his eyes, before he even wakes up at all. The knowledge is lurking somewhere in his mind without Connor being able to vocalize why it’s true. He doesn’t remember the explosion, not at first. That comes later, with the realization that he will never be wholly Connor again.
Other than the yawning maw of the terrible truth that he should have died many standard hours ago, Connor wakes to dead silence punctuated occasionally with the expensive sort of beeping only heard in nice medical zones. There’s a certain clarity to the mechanical chatter that you don’t get in haphazardly patched together med bays like the ones on the Graveyard. Connor can’t describe it with words, but he’d know it when he hears it, and he knows it now. There’s something to the fact that nothing whines or groans with exhaustion, maybe, like everything is new and actually works the way it’s supposed to. When you’re used to listening to your world collapse around you, anything that’s properly functional stands out like a sore thumb.
Connor wakes up, dreamy and relaxed. He is calm for once in his life. A voice in the back of his head tells him that isn’t right, but he shuts it out for now. Connor has been stressed for years. Can’t he have one moment to himself?
Already, though, the peace is draining away from him, collecting in puddles on this perfectly polished floor and slipping through invisible holes between the tiles. There is no grime in this room. Everything is bright and clean, and the linens covering his body are pristine white. Connor hasn’t seen something that’s actually pure white in months. Everything in the Graveyard accumulates dust and rust so quickly that it’s no use trying. It doesn’t matter how many times you wash your clothes, they’ll wear out soon enough anyway. Might as well save the effort for something that matters, like not dying.
The Graveyard. For some reason, the name of the place strikes an odd chord somewhere in Connor’s mind. He should be there now, shouldn’t he? He wasn’t supposed to leave it for a while, at least another year, but now he’s in this chamber of expensive lighting and legitimate medical equipment, so obviously something’s gone wrong there. This could be Death, but Connor doubts he’d have to deal with medical infrastructure after his heart ceased to beat.
He has the brief, horrible thought that maybe he’s been unwound and this is just some part of his brain waking up in another kid’s head, but then a nurse in crisp scrubs walks through the door and greets him with a resounding, “Good to see you awake, Connor,” so maybe he’s still himself after all.
Connor squints at her. “What’s going on?”
The nurse smiles placidly. “You’ve just woken up, of course. We’ll need to run a few tests, but after that you should be cleared to go.”
Connor frowns. “Go where?”
Her smile doesn’t waver for a second, even despite Connor’s outpouring of questions. “To meet our boss, of course. He’s been waiting for a while, but of course you can’t be blamed for your tardiness. Truthfully, we weren’t even sure if you were going to wake up at all.”
Somewhere between his ribs, Connor’s heart begins to hammer. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I wake up? Who are you?”
“Connor,” the nurse says sweetly, laying a hand on his shoulder in a gesture that’s probably meant to be comforting but comes across more like a prison warden keeping her inmate in line, “You survived an explosion that decimated an entire star cruiser. No one would blame you for succumbing to the blast.”
As she says it, the memories come back in a rush. It’s not like he’d been suffering from amnesia, more like he’d been willfully trying not to think about all of the horrors he’d just experienced. Images flash through his mind in one fatal string:  the Juveys, boarding the ship, the screaming of the Deadmen as they were dragged off to their fates, Risa, climbing into an escape pod, Connor’s own pod destroyed in a shrieking of metal come undone. Roland, chasing him down. The fight in the engine room and the resulting inferno.
Nothing makes sense after the explosion. Connor remembers Roland yelling in surprise, the sudden upheaval as the ground beneath his feet was shot away, and then falling, falling without respite. For what could either have been half a second or perhaps an eon, Connor’s mind had been a mess of confusion, like he was hearing not just his own panicked thoughts but Roland’s terrified inner monologue as well, but then everything had sorted out and Connor was just Connor, unconscious in the burning wreck of the Graveyard, utterly alone and waiting to die.
Except he hadn’t died and he had woken up here. Connor doesn’t remember getting picked up, but he hadn’t remembered a lot after losing consciousness, which is often how unconsciousness works in the first place. Another thing that Connor doesn’t remember is what happened to Risa, and that troubles him even more than whatever happened to him. What if her pod was engulfed in the blast? What if she’d come that close to getting out alive just for the Graveyard to pull her back into death?
Connor would never forgive himself. Although the explosion in the engine room wasn’t necessarily his fault– he distinctly remembers yelling at Roland to stop shooting wildly, after all– but he was still there, and that puts enough blood on his hands to paint everything in red.
Connor needs to see her. It’s an urge akin to dying of thirst, he craves the sight of her more than anything else. If he dies here and now, at least he could see her one more time before he goes. He misses her like a chopped off limb. If this is where their stories diverge, Connor thinks he will nurse this wound until he can do nothing else. He’ll lose his mind gnawing at the stump of where there was once something bright and beautiful, a girl who knew him better than anyone else and still wanted him at the end of the worlds.
Maybe she’s here. Maybe this is where they put all the victims of the explosion. “Where is she?” Connor asks, voice thick and dry.
The nurse cocks her head to the side. “Where is who?”
Connor opens his mouth to answer, but it occurs to him that, if these people aren’t one hundred percent on his side, he probably shouldn’t give them any more reasons to look for Risa, so he snaps his jaws shut again. It won’t matter anyway, they already knew Connor and Risa ran away together back at the start of it all. Even if they both die from this, their names will always be spoken together in the same breath, two halves of the same story. Connor likes that far more than he would care to admit. It only makes sense that she would be a part of him forever.
The nurse is still looking at him quizzically, so Connor starts talking again to distract her from his slip up. “So, I can leave after you declare me fit or something?”
The nurse shakes her head. “You’ll have to talk to the man in charge, of course.”
Connor nods impatiently, “Yes, but after that, I can go?”
The nurse laughs as if he’s told a funny joke, although Connor isn’t sure that he has. “Oh, no. You’re still to be distributed, of course. We’re not going to let one conversation get in the way of that.”
Connor immediately tenses up and starts to catalog all the ways he could get out of here. His body still feels a little tired, but that’s nothing. The door is at the far end of the white, shiny room, and although this nurse is between him and the exit, Connor is fairly certain he could knock her down if he needed to.
“You’re going to distribute me?” He asks, trying to buy time while he thinks of an escape plan.
“Why wouldn’t we?” The nurse queries, seemingly oblivious to the obvious answer. “Distribution benefits the galaxy, Connor. Surely you don’t think just one life is more important than all of us in the grand scheme of things. Besides, I thought you would have seen the importance of distribution by now, especially considering your arm.”
Connor’s frantic search of the room comes to an abrupt stop. “What do you mean, considering my arm?” He asks slowly.
The nurse gestures to his right arm, which up until now has been comfortably hidden beneath the pristine white linens. “It was replaced in the explosion. Funny how that works.”
Cautiously, carefully, as if expecting to see a monster instead of a limb, Connor reaches out his left arm to pull the sheets away from his right side. Immediately, he has to clap his good hand to his mouth to stifle a scream. There is still an arm attached to his right shoulder, yes, but it isn’t his. The skin is darker, the muscles stronger in unfamiliar places. And, most pressingly of all, there is the tattoo of a shark inked into the skin of the forearm that is not Connor’s. Which means, of course, that this is Roland’s arm on Connor’s body.
Connor presses himself back against the bed, trying to swallow back the wave of nausea that crests over him. He’s heard rumors of things like this happening, of course, freak accidents out in the farthest reaches of space that ended up with two people accidentally swapping parts, but  he always assumed they were just ghost stories fabricated to scare students out of making hyperspace jumps without correctly calculating their trajectories. He never thought it would actually happen to him, nor that, of all the donors, he would end up with the arm of someone who wanted to kill him. Who tried to kill him, and was shooting at Connor until his very last breath.
As if thinking along the same lines, the fingers on Connor’s stolen right arm twitch a little, forming a fist before relaxing again. Connor does not remember ever commanding the digits to move, which means that some part of Roland is still in control. The doctors saw the arm swap, obviously, but how do they know for certain that Connor’s brain wasn’t affected? What if there are still bits and pieces of Roland left in Connor’s head, never to return to normal again? When Connor thinks of Risa, when he thinks of hurting someone, will it be his own choice or Roland somehow, poisoning his mind?
Fighting back bile, Connor asks the nurse, “Can you put it back? My arm, I mean. Can you give me back my arm?”
The nurse chuckles. “That would be incredibly difficult. The donor is in a, ah, precarious position right now. The explosion decimated his body so much that even we couldn’t use it. So no, you can’t have your arm back.”
Something in Connor feels a strange sense of sick joy that these people, whoever they are, wouldn’t be able to use the rest of Roland as distributed material. He may have died, but he got out without giving in, and that’s more than most ferals can say. Again, Connor isn’t wholly certain if the thought is his or Roland’s, but regardless of the source, he gets the feeling that they’re both in agreement over this.
While Connor is at war with himself, the nurse stands, checking a few readouts on a holopad before gesturing for him to stand. “You seem in fine condition, so we’ll take you to meet the boss. He’s right down the hall. I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting for long.”
Connor eyes her closely, but the woman gives nothing away. It’s probably smart to run now, but Connor is, admittedly, a little curious to see just who’s in charge around here. There are no logos anywhere, no clue as to where he is, so getting some answers would be nice.
The second the nurse escorts Connor out of the med room, he’s greeted with the sight of at least a dozen soldiers loitering in the hall outside. So much for trying to run away. Trying to instill a sense of false bravado into his voice, Connor asks casually, “All this security for me? Gee, I’m honored you think so much of me.”
The nearest soldier glares but says nothing. So much for getting a reaction. Committed to the cause now, Connor steps in front of him, grins, and says, “Nice socks, idiot.”
The soldier glances down at his boots, confused, thus breaking his cold demeanor for what he eventually realizes is just a little trick on Connor’s end. Connor flashes him a jaunty smirk, which makes the glare return to the soldier’s face in full force. One small victory is enough for Connor, though, and he heads down the hall to his fate with his spirits high.
The nurse leads him to a door, and knocks once before ushering him inside. The door shuts tight behind him, leaving Connor with no choice but to face the man waiting for him.
They stare at each other for a long moment. Something about the guy fills Connor with a sickly sort of dread, although for the life of him, he cannot explain why. He looks a little young for someone to be treated with this sort of respect, more like mid-thirties instead of in his fifties or sixties, but this, again, feels wrong. 
As the man leans forward to get a better look at Connor, the harsh lighting overhead reveals details of his face that hadn’t been visible at first glance. Although great care has obviously been taken to ensure that each surgery was as smooth as possible, evidence of many new pieces of flesh still reveal themselves under the bright lights. The cheekbones are a little too high for his facial structure, his eyes are too bright for a man of this age, and his skin is impossibly tight and smooth. Connor has seen many rich parents with a lot of work done, but this guy beats them all out. Connor can’t imagine how many kids must have been put under the knife to keep this man looking fresh, but they probably could have filled the whole damn Graveyard.
“Who are you?” Connor hisses.
The man smiles. “Honestly, Connor, I was hoping you’d piece that together a little sooner. Here, I’ll give you a hint:  you’re speaking to the head of the Proactive Citizenry.”
Alarm bells go off in Connor’s head. Of all the people to want Connor in pieces, the PC has got to be at the top of the list. They’ve hated Connor ever since he stole that Juvey-cop’s ship what feels like a lifetime ago. Hayden, Connor, and Risa have listened in to Centerworld radio frequencies on countless nights, laughing themselves senseless over the vitriol of the pro-distribution propaganda aimed at Connor. It’s not so funny anymore, though, when Connor is in the belly of the synth-beast with no friends left to protect him.
“So, you’re the CEO or something?” Connor asks. “Fascinating. Do you meet with all of the kids you’re about to distribute? Do you like to know our tragic backstories before you steal our parts?”
The man scoffs. “We’re not stealing, Connor, we’re taking what we’re owed. And no, I’m not the CEO. Try again.”
Connor squints at him. Maybe the guy’s older than he thought. “You’re the, uh, father of the CEO? Grandfather?”
The man rolls his eyes. “Don’t be silly, Connor. I am PC. I started it.” 
Connor shakes his head. “No, that’s impossible. Proactive Citizenry is old-Earth ancient. It was made when humans first started exploring the galaxy. There’s no way even your great-grandparents could have started it.”
It’s unthinkable. Connor hasn’t brushed up on his history in a while, so he doesn’t remember the exact name of Proactive Citizenry’s creator, but it can’t be this guy. That was centuries ago. Whoever started this whole mess is long dead, their bones withered away to ash.
Unless.
Unless, of course, they found a way to stay around. Maybe the creator’s original bones are ash, but who’s to say that they couldn’t just swap them out, piece by piece? Donor by donor? Distribute by distribute?
Connor draws in a sharp, horrified breath, and the man nods, looking pleased. “You get it now, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. I always liked the eyes, I must say. That was the part I hated getting rid of the most. I held onto my original pair for as long as I could, but they gave out in the end. Everything does. No matter what anyone tries, Connor Lassiter, resistance will get you nowhere. Even if you’re the Akron AWOL.”
Connor feels like he might throw up. “You’re the one who created the PC? You must be centuries old. There’s no way you could have kept swapping out dead body parts that long, you’d have to give out at some point.”
“Maybe if you didn’t have the money for it,” the man muses, “But that has never been a problem for me. The Heartlands have always been blessed with wealth. Any problem can be solved if you just give people a good enough reason to solve it. Money often does the trick.”
The Heartlands. That does it. Mental gears click into place, and Connor remembers the guy’s name at last. “You’re Dorian Heartland. The original supporter of distribution.”
Heartland spreads his hands indulgently, as if expecting applause. “There you go. See, maybe I’ll be able to turn a profit from your brain matter after all.”
Connor stares at him unthinkingly. “You want my brain?”
“I want all of you,” Heartland says soothingly. “That’s how distribution is meant to work, remember? No part wasted. I would love one of your eyes for myself, though. Mine are starting to get a little foggy, and I only take parts from the best characters. Having the irises of the Akron AWOL, now, that would be something. I am made of history, Connor Lassiter. Both the successes and the failures. It’s a reminder to all of my people that they can join me in two ways:  under my empire, or under my knife.”
Connor’s stomach roils. “Those aren’t all just feral parts, then. You’ve had adults unwound.”
Heartland tsks. “Naughty word, Connor. Unwinding. We’ve made it a professional process, there’s no need to degrade it like that. But yes, you’re right. The parts still work, even when they’re not young. I am made of many men and women. Do you remember that cop whose ship you stole? I have one of his ears so I could hear you in a crowd and know it was you, just in case. There was a parts pirate once who thought he could outdo me, a man named Divan. I have a good chunk of his brain, now there was a man who could do business. Another pirate was a little too brutal for my tastes– the Burmese Dah Zey, I’m certain you’ve heard of him before. These are his hands. And then, a woman named Roberta Griswold– I told her to make cyborgs a thing, and she let me down. Now her lungs keep me breathing.”
Heartland takes a deep gulp of air, chest heaving with the passion of all the people he's dismembered. Connor wants to yell at him to shut up, but some horrified part of him is fascinated by all the names, all the sick ends, and he stays silent.
“Part of my heart belongs to a useless boy named Argent Skinner. You probably don’t remember Argent, actually. He was really obsessed with you, you know.” Heartland’s voice is wheedling, like a teenager teasing a friend about a schoolgirl crush. It sets Connor’s teeth on edge. “You didn’t even notice him. He worked at the boundary checkpoint where you slipped under the radar. He was going to track you down while you were passing through his little station and take you with him, but you managed to give him the slip. That made him so angry that he came to the PC. I took that anger and I made it glorious. I made it me.”
Connor’s right arm twitches at his side, the foreign fingers curling into a tight fist. He wants to slam it into Heartland’s nose, hear the bones crack and watch the blood gush forth. Connor’s been in fights back when he was still in school, and he’s definitely been angry before, but nothing like this. This rage consumes him, but it isn’t Connor’s. Judging by the way the arm with the shark tattoo keeps jerking forward like it has plans of its own, Connor would wager a guess that it’s Roland bursting forth again, wanting to make his vengeance known.
Heartland follows Connor’s line of vision and his lips curl into something almost akin to a smile. “See, Connor? I’m not the only one with borrowed pieces. You’re just like me.”
Connor shakes his head frantically. “I’m nothing like you. I didn’t want this. You did.”
Heartland tilts his head to the side, acknowledging this. “True, I did want it. I wanted it better than anyone else, too. Even when Centerworld started losing steam for distribution, I wanted it still. I had to step in a few times to convince them to keep it up, but they got there in the end.”
Connor feels like screaming. He kind of wants to, except he’s afraid that if he shouts too loudly Heartland will come to admire his vocal chords and decide to take those, too. He has a twisted mental image of Risa hearing his voice from the shadows and running towards it only for Heartland to emerge, smiling as coldly as her as he is at Connor right now.
“This has all been a lie, then. Everything about distribution being used to further the life of the galaxy. It was never about the galaxy, was it? It was only about protecting you. Your life.” Connor chokes out.
Heartland nods, extending his hands in a theatrical gesture. “I don’t care about the rest of them. Why should I? I made the distribution project work in the first place. They didn’t help, why should they reap the rewards? It’s about equal labor for equal pay, and they didn’t contribute one thing. Now they will. I mean, don’t you hate it when slackers get all the privileges that you had to fight for?”
Connor’s throat is tight. “Why are you telling me all of this? Why are you even talking to me at all? Does monologuing make you live longer, too?”
Heartland chuckles. “No, no. I just want you to understand. I hate to say it, Connor, but your little adventure has caught on across the galaxy. I want you to release a holo saying that you condone any attempts to avoid distribution, that you’ve learned your lesson and it’s better for everyone to follow the rules. Once you prove you’re with us, the little hero of the ferals will be forgotten, and no one else will be inspired by your misguided attempt to run. It’s as easy as that, boy. Five minutes of your time, that’s all I need.”
Connor’s brow furrows. “So you want me to go against literally everything I believe, and then what? You let me go?”
Heartland’s borrowed eyes dance with mirth. “No, no. You misunderstand me. This is not a deal we’re making, this is an order. You will make the speech, and then you will be distributed. I do not trust you to live in any world. I want all loose ends tied up, and that involves you.”
Connor’s stomach does a slow roll. “If you’re going to kill me anyway, why the sunfire would I help you? Usually, when someone wants something, they have to give a little first. Thought you’d know about that from all your high profile business bullshit.”
“Watch your mouth, Connor, or I’ll take your tongue first,” Heartland says chidingly. “This isn’t business. This is me extracting use from a useless bit of biological matter. I don’t need you alive. I don’t even need you to want to do this. I have ways of making you comply.”
Connor takes an involuntary step back. He tries the door behind him, but it’s locked; Connor didn’t even hear the pin slide into place. He must have been too distracted staring at the monstrosity before him.
Heartland smirks. “There’s nowhere to run, Connor. Nowhere to go. Your only option is me.”
The man sinks back into his chair, not even bothering to block Connor. And why should he? They’re high up in some kind of office building, several stories off the ground. There are no other doors except the locked one behind him. According to Heartland, there really is no way out.
Heartland, though, has had several centuries worth of comfortable, cozy life. Heartland has not had to risk himself in a very long time. Heartland has no idea the distance a feral would go to survive, because he has not had to fight tooth and nail for so much as one more day alive. Connor, however, has, and Connor will never go out like this. As long as there is any way out, Connor will take it. Even if that way out involves the window overlooking a drop at least five stories to the ground.
Connor launches himself towards the glass pane. Of all the ideas he’s had, this is probably the worst, but it’s that or get distributed, so no hurt feelings there. He grabs an office chair as he goes, slamming it through the window and breaking it instantly. 
Heartland’s face goes waxy. “Lassiter, be serious. You cannot possibly–”
Connor silences him with a glare. “Never tell me what I can’t do. Don’t you know ferals never follow the rules?”
And with that terrible bit of drama, Connor throws himself from the window. He turns as he falls, catching hold of the narrow lip. He’s not strong enough to hold himself from this forever, but he doesn’t have to be. All he needs is to slow his fall bit by bit, piece by piece, by dropping from ledge to ledge until he’s on the ground. An awning stretching over a few windows catches him for a while, letting him roll to a stop before crawling to the next ledge, and so on and so forth until he’s halfway down the side of the building. 
Victory practically within his grasp, Connor makes the incredibly stupid decision to look down, and immediately regrets it. The ground, although closer to him than when he’d first leapt out of the building, seems lightyears away. Connor’s feet loll perilously over the precipice, and he has to snap his eyes shut so he doesn’t lose it completely. It’s not about making it to the bottom. All he has to do is find the next window ledge. Connor reaches out with trembling fingers and it’s within his grasp, then he can awkwardly shuffle his body down and over. Then the next ledge, and the next. He can do this.
Eyes still shut, Connor stretches out a foot to find the next ledge, but his legs refuse to go any lower. Risking another glimpse down, Connor realizes that he’s actually on the ground. He shades his eyes with his hand, staring up at the building he’s just escaped. Heartland may have centuries of knowledge over Connor, but the man has no idea how to handle a mad runaway. Funny, except he’s definitely sending reinforcements to track down Connor right now, so he’s got to get a move on.
Right on cue, the doors to the building burst open and a swarm of soldiers flood out. Connor turns and runs into the city around him, not caring where he’s headed so long as it takes him away. He has absolutely no idea what planet he’s on, let alone what system, but that doesn’t matter. Connor always knows how to run, regardless of his exact position in the galaxy.
He takes an abrupt turn down some alleyways, hoping the tight quarters will shake at least a few of the soldiers as they scramble for position. Connor whips around corners left and right, but his mad dash comes to a sudden halt when he comes face to face with a dead end. Swearing under his breath, Connor doubles back, but the soldiers are bearing down on him and there’s nowhere to go. The walls are high and slick with something that’s hopefully just oil, so Connor can’t climb his way out of this one.
Well, he’s never backed down from a fight, has he? Connor swallows hard, glancing around for something he can use as a weapon. There’s no way he can fight off all of these soldiers, but maybe he can try, at least. There’s no way he’s going down without giving it his all.
Just before Connor can pick up an unwieldy piece of metal pipe and hope for the best, a door swings open to his left and a voice hisses at him, “Quick! In here!”
Connor has no other options, so he lunges for the door, which slams behind him just as the soldiers round the corner. Connor is immediately plunged into darkness, but he can just make out the snap of a lock into place.
A handheld light flicks on; harsh and fluorescent, probably an old industrial bulb. That design is common in outer territories, but Connor didn’t expect to find anything so cheaply made here. He hadn’t been able to get a good glimpse of the city due to the fact that he was running for his life, but the brief snippets of the cityscape he had caught seemed polished and very, very expensive.
The light doesn’t just reveal income, though, it also draws into focus several faces all clustered around Connor. They seem to be of various ages, but all are teenagers and, judging by the slightly haunted look in their eyes that Connor saw most fiercely in the Graveyard, all are kids running from distribution.
One of the younger boys stares unabashedly at Connor. “So, it’s true. You’re actually the Akron AWOL.”
An older girl with bright streaks of pink in her hair glares at the boy who had spoken. “Shut up, Emby. You promised you’d be cool about this.”
“I am,” Emby protests, “I’m just asking, that’s all. No need to get defensive, Mai.”
Connor chuckles in spite of himself. After hearing Heartland’s little sermon, he wasn’t entirely sure that he would ever be able to laugh again, but the easy banter broke through his defenses before he realized what was happening. Painfully, it also reminds him of the Graveyard, all the conversations he’ll never hear again.
“He’s fine,” Connor assures Mai. “And yes, I’m Connor. You’re, uh, Emby?”
“That’s what they call me,” the younger boy assures him with an audibly congested sniff. “Mai came up with the nickname. Short for mouth-breather. She said it’s right on the money.”
“You don’t have to directly quote me every single time,” Mai grumbles.
Connor smirks, then turns to the other teenagers still standing around him. “Who are the rest of you?”
“Diego,” another boy announces himself. His eyes flash, giving the impression of cleverness. Clever enough to not get involved in Mai and Emby’s squabbling, at least, which gives him some credit.
An older boy introduces himself as Vincent. The harsh light from the bulb shines off of countless piercings all over his face; Connor has no idea what piercing shop would have agreed to give a teenager that many studs, everyone knows that giving tattoos or piercings to AWOLs is just damaging the merchandise, but Connor himself is standing here with someone else’s ink, so maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to judge. Seeing as Vincent is idling rather close to Mai, Connor immediately suspects them of being together, and his theory is proven correct when their hands brush together in a move that’s probably not nearly as slick as they think it is.
Two more teenagers introduce themselves as Blaine and Bam, respectively. Both of them seem vaguely unapproachable, but that energy kind of extends to the whole group save Emby. It makes sense, though; if you want to survive on your own in the underbelly of a city like this, you’ve got to be able to cut off anyone at a moment’s notice. These kids are used to living off the skin of their teeth, although this doesn’t explain why they risked their necks to get Connor to safety.
Connor folds his arms across his chest. “Why am I here?”
Bam scoffs. “Would you like it better if we dumped you back out there for the soldiers to find you?”
Connor arches a brow. “If that’s your attitude, why did you save me in the first place? Suns, how’d you even know I was here?”
Blaine flashes Connor a sharp grin that’s about as warm as light reflecting off of a scalpel. “We keep close watch of everyone in this city. Dozens of Juvey-cops converged on one building out of nowhere. When the Juveys made that mass arrest on some unclaimed cruiser two days ago, we all waited for the news that Connor Lassiter had been caught, but it never came out. There’s no way they’d pass up a chance to brag about getting you at last, so we put two and two together and figured out you’d have to be here. We’ve been keeping an eye out in case you managed to run, but we didn’t think you’d be lucky enough to run right by us.”
“That’s a great coincidence for me, then,” Connor says, still not entirely believing it.
Diego snorts. “He left out the part where we hacked into the citywide security cams months ago. We tracked you the second you left and hurried over so we could catch you before it was too late. Coincidence is for cowards.”
This earns him an irate glare from Mai. “Feel free to spill any more of our secrets while you’re at it, Diego. I’m sure caution means nothing when it comes to the starloving Akron AWOL.”
Diego just chuckles, which Connor has to respect, because Mai looks like she wants to tear the boy to shreds. “He’s not going to trust us unless we give him a reason, obviously. Look at him. He’s already thinking about running.”
This is, admittedly, true. Like Connor thought at the start, then. Diego is the smart one. Well, if they’ve got access to every sec-cam in the city, maybe they’re all the smart ones. That would explain how they survive down here, certainly.
Connor does his best to look as casual as he can. “You want something from me, obviously, or you wouldn’t have bothered to save me. How about we cut to the chase and you tell me what that is?”
Bam shrugs. “We want you gone. Sooner you’re offworld, the better. We don’t want the Juveys nosing in on our operation. Plus, we’ve got friends at some of the distribution colonies. Figured you’d be inclined to at least pretend to help.”
Connor frowns. “What friends? Maybe I know them.”
Bam actually looks a little chagrined at this. “Well, I don’t know him personally. But, uh, we tuned in to his radio show. Thought it was great. He convinced us to try and rescue AWOLs if we found them. That’s how we got Emby and Vince. He’s a friend of yours, actually. We want you to save Hayden Upchurch.”
Connor feels his shoulders sag in relief. “Hayden’s alive?”
“For now,” Bam mumbles. “He’s in a colony somewhere, so time is ticking. It feels wrong that he should die when he’s done so much for us.”
Connor can’t help a wicked grin. “So you’re a fan, huh? I’ll have to tell Hayden that he’s got admirers across the systems.”
Bam slugs him in the shoulder, which, ow. “Shut up, Lassiter. Just do it.”
Connor rubs his aching arm. “Alright, alright. I’ve got no problems with that. Say, how do you know where he is? Have they been announcing where the kids from the Graveyard went?”
He tries to keep the obvious longing from his voice, but clearly he doesn’t do such a good job of it, because Emby pipes up loudly, “You’re looking for Risa Ward, aren’t you? Is she, like, your girlfriend?”
This immediately earns the younger boy swats on the head from Mai and Bam at the same time. “She’s not my girlfriend,” Connor hastens to say, which only makes him feel more like an idiot instead of less. 
His cheeks heat up while he forces out the words, so he’s pretty sure that no one believes him at all. It’s not Connor’s fault if he got distracted by the idea. It seems nice, after all. Having Risa be his girlfriend. It would probably be cool. If, you know, Connor had any idea where she was, or if she was still whole.
Mai’s visibly smirking now. “Relax, she’s still alive. Actually, we caught a transmission yesterday that you’ll probably want to hear.”
Confused, Connor follows her to a corner of their little hideaway, where he’s presented with an absolute abomination of a radio unit. It’s been patched together from the wrecks of several old computing systems, practically a distribution project in its own right, but it turns on when Mai presses a few buttons. She has to knock it on the side a couple of times before the control panel turns on, but then Mai selects a past broadcast and Connor doesn’t care about anything anymore, because he hears his own name crackling out of the system, and best of all, it’s Risa who says it.
The voice is grainy and heavily distorted, but Connor would know her anywhere. “Hey, Connor,” Risa’s recording begins, “This is Risa. If you can hear me– well, you’re alive, and that’s a relief.”
Connor feels as if he’s falling forever. Maybe he did slip when he was trying to climb down from Heartland’s building after all, and maybe this is just a hallucination his brain has cooked up to distract himself from a slow, painful death at the bottom of a skyscraper. If this is what death brings him– Risa talking to him at last, wanting him there with her like he wants her– then maybe he’ll accept it after all.
Connor mentally shakes himself, trying to focus again. Risa keeps talking, heedless of Connor’s mental distraction. “I made it out, but I’m stuck on a planet somewhere near the Graveyard. My pod was damaged and I can’t leave, but I can’t stay here, either. I don’t know your situation, but I need you, Connor.  I’m on–”
A break in the recording. Connor leans forward instinctively, terrified he’s missed something, but then he hears faint sounds in the background and realizes that Risa must be talking to someone else in the room. She asks a question, and the voice that answers her is distinctly male, which makes Connor irrationally angry. He does his best to calm down, though. Risa is stranded. She can’t help it if there’s some guy with her. She’s still talking to him, trying to reach him against the odds.
A rush of static and Risa’s voice appears again. “I’m on Molokai. Find me, Connor. Please.”
The transmission ends and the room fills with silence, but Connor stays there still, swaying slightly, hoping that she’ll say something, anything more. He would listen to her describe the weather or the flight over to Molokai in her escape pod, even the boring things, just so long as he could have one more moment with her voice in his ears. He misses her desperately, he realizes. More than the Graveyard, more than anyone he’d met on that doomed cruiser. It’s been him and Risa for so long that he’s almost forgotten how to be by himself again, despite the fact that every other year of his life was just that.
The quiet persists, and Connor comes to the understanding that the others must be waiting for him to say something. “Well,” he says awkwardly, “I need to get to Risa. You don’t have a ship that I could borrow, by any chance, do you?”
Mai beams triumphantly. “I was hoping you would ask. We don’t have a ship of our own, but we have something better.”
Connor turns to her curiously. “And what’s that?”
“A way to get into any ship,” Vincent answers him. “Any ship, any building, anywhere. We figured out how to make fake grounds licenses, but these hack the system every time. It doesn’t know how to handle your license, so it just bypasses every security barrier on instinct. It’ll let you in any door. You can walk right up to a shipyard and take whatever you want. That’s how we’ve stayed undercover so long, we’ve all got new licenses. We have a few extra just in case, you can take one.”
Connor eyes him cautiously. “You’re just going to give me one? Free of charge? That’s awfully nice of you.”
“We’re not terrible people,” Blaine snorts. “We just expect you to uphold your end of the bargain. Get to Risa, then get to the colony. Pick a ship big enough to hold the kids you save. We have friends who don’t want to get distributed, and more than Bam’s celebrity crush.”
This earns him a vengeful kick to the knees from Bam, but Connor’s the one who feels like his legs have been knocked out from under him. “You want me to storm a distribution colony?”
“We want you to repay the favor we’re giving you now,” Mai clarifies. “You owe us, Lassiter. Don’t die with the debt.”
Connor nods slowly. “I’ll try. You’re not the only one who doesn’t want their friends in pieces.”
“You’d better mean that,” Blaine threatens, but he allows Diego to open a carefully locked box and pull out a holopad.
“This is your new identity,” Diego announces. “You’re now Elvis Robert Mullard, a Juvey-cop who recently celebrated his nineteenth birthday. Congratulations.”
He flicks through a few holoscreens, snapping a quick photo of Connor which probably looks terrible so he can enter it into their prepared false license registration. Connor frowns. “What about the real Elvis Mullard? Won’t he be mad that I’m stealing his life?”
Diego shakes his head. “Elvis died in the Graveyard explosion. I’d say rest in peace, but he wanted us in pieces, so actually I hope it was, like, super painful for him. Now you get his license and we all live happily ever after.”
Connor nods uncomfortably. “I’m fine with that.”
“Good,” Diego says crisply, “Because from here on out, you are Elvis Mullard. Forever.”
He swipes up on his holopad, and a blue band of light appears around Connor’s left wrist, flashing fast-paced streams of text before disappearing again.
“So that’s it?” Connor asks, staring at the place above his hand where the hologram had just been.
“That’s it,” Diego confirms. “You’re a new man. How does it feel?”
“The exact same,” Connor mumbles.
Blaine chuckles. “Well, you did nothing. Not yet, at least. Remember your end of the bargain.”
“I’m going to,” Connor assures him.
Bam eyes him suspiciously. “You’d better. Anyway, you need to get going before they send reinforcements down on all of us. The shipyard’s just a couple of blocks from here. Steal any one you like, get to Molokai, then repay your debt. If we think you’re backing out, we can cancel your license and set the cops on your ass in a heartbeat. Just remember that.”
Connor holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not going to back out. Jeez. Trust a guy, will you?”
This earns him six blank stares, and Connor sighs. “Fine, fine. I’ll save them. I promise.”
Emby waves as Connor heads to the door. “It was nice to meet you, Connor!”
Somehow, Connor finds it within himself to grin. “It was great to meet you too, Emby. Don’t let the rest of these killjoys get you down.”
“I won’t,” Emby pledges.
Connor breaks into a broad grin, letting that be the last the shady group sees of him, then heads back out into the street. The soldiers have evidently attempted to retrace their steps to find Connor, because the alleyway is long deserted. 
Connor stands for a moment in the dull darkness. Somewhere above him, a small, one-man starship screams up to the atmosphere. Connor tracks it with his eyes until it’s gone. In that ship could be a Juvey-cop ready to sentence another feral to death, or a flight student taking off on their first solo trip. Or maybe it’s holding a boy, a boy like Connor, utterly alone again but this time bolstered by the knowledge that he will not be that way forever. He will find Risa. He will find his friends. And then, at the end of the galaxy, they will rest in the knowledge that they outsmarted a man older than distribution itself. There is still time for everything to go according to plan.
a/n: at last, the dorian heartland easter eggs make sense.
unwind tag list: @schroedingers-kater, @sirofreak, @locke-writes
all tags list: @wordsarelife
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camillasgirl · 11 months
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Queen Camilla’s Patronages
The Langford Trust (Patron from 20.11.2006)
Founded in 1990, the Langford Trust for Animal Health & Welfare supports the University of Bristol School of Veterinary Science at Langford in North Somerset. Our main objective is to relieve suffering and to further animal welfare by:
Promoting the practice, advancement and teaching of veterinay science
Fostering public education in animal health and welfare
Financially, the Trust supports the veterinary school through funding for clinical research and equipment and clinical facilities for the treatment and hospitalisation of animals. Veterinary science and skills are advancing at the same breakneck speed as medical science but are much more complex. Unlike newly qualified doctors, vets must be highly skilled in surgical techniques from day one. It is imperative, therefore, that they have the facilities in which to train to an extremely high level of proficiency. It encompasses smaller companion animals, high value large animals such as bloodstock and rare breeds and the exotic creatures and stranger species that many of our students and graduates encounter both at home and overseas. The most up to date equipment needed for new advanced techniques is vital but expensive and the facilities for animals undergoing such treatment must be superlative. For the next generation of veterinary surgeons, high standards and new technical skills are vitally important for animal health and welfare, not only in this country but all over the world.
I was delighted and honoured to be asked to become Patron of The Langford Trust for Animal Health and Welfare earlier this year, and it gave me great pleasure to accept. As an animal owner myself, I had heard a great deal about the Trust and wanted to help highlight and promote their invaluable work for animal welfare. The Langford Trust supports the work of the University of Bristol Veterinary School by promoting the practice, advancement and teaching of veterinary science towards achieving the highest educational standards for vets and veterinary nurses; this, in turn, gives us first-class diagnosis and treatment of sick and injured animals. The Trust’s mission is guided by the experienced research groups based at Langford, whose work informs both teaching and treatment and makes the Veterinary School a true centre of excellence. The Langford Trust for Animal Health and Welfare is indebted to its many supporters, with whose sustained commitment it can continue to improve the health and welfare of animals both in this country and abroad.
- Queen Camilla in 2006
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kadavernagh · 5 months
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Hitchhikers || Regan & Eleanor
TIMING: Current LOCATION: The morgue at the ME's Office PARTIES: Eleanor and Regan SUMMARY: Eleanor is in research mode for her novel, and she's thrilled to be invited to watch Regan conduct an autopsy so she can write an accurate medical examiner. Regan is pleased to have a curious mind to engage. But the autopsy turns out far more horrifying than Eleanor ever thought it would when things get squiggly, which is great for a horror novel, right?
After rejecting two autopsy viewing requests from people whose reasoning was “I just wanna see,” it was a refreshing change of pace to be welcoming in an author today. An author who cared about doing her due diligence to represent Regan’s profession. 
When Marcy alerted her to the visitor, Regan was quick to offer her usual brisk greeting. The winter coat lacked professionalism but she would make up for it in every other way. “Dr. Kavanagh. I assume you’re Eleanor. If you’re ready, follow me.” She guided Eleanor toward the door, carded them in, and led her down the long hallway that terminated in the autopsy suite. “Did you have that breakfast we discussed?”
Death greeted her as the doors swung open, tugging her closer. Whatever had happened with Beau the other day wasn’t a constant. Right now, the death was a familiar comfort and light touch; a far cry from the smothering weight it had become before. It would need to stay that way. Yesterday she had been forced to retreat into her office in the middle of an autopsy, crushed by her surroundings, yet electrified. She couldn’t escape it, even there. Glass still needed to be swept up.
Today would need to be more favorable. Regan pointed over to the personal protective equipment and wriggled into a lab coat herself – two sizes too big so as to fit over the coat. She turned to Eleanor, explaining. “Take notes if you wish. While I haven’t made a determination yet, I selected a decedent whose death seems to be of an accidental manner. Your novel likely involves homicide, but I don’t want to bring you in on an autopsy for an ongoing investigation.” She picked up the clipboard by the autopsy table, where the cadaver was waiting patiently, already washed and ready. The body’s short, freshly-washed mop of curly hair was drying on her scalp and without contesting muscles, gravity was not kind to her face, aging the woman considerably. “I suppose I should acquaint the two of you, too. This was Martha Williams, 41 years old, Caucasian, five-foot-seven. She was found by the bushes in front of her home a couple of days ago. When I went to the scene, her state was consistent with a post-mortem interval of one to two hours. But one must never be closed off to other possibilities.” She looked between the very dead woman and the very live one. “Any questions before we begin? The waste bin is in the corner. Do not stop me if you have to vomit.”
Although Eleanor had been a nervous wreck after being offered what she considered to be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, she had made sure to get a good night’s rest and, per instructions, successfully put down a good hearty breakfast. She’d always believed in doing extensive research whenever writing about subjects she wasn’t familiar with but had never been granted with such an honor before - she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.
Upon her arrival at the medical examiner’s office she was immediately made aware of the lack of living people around and while Eleanor knew full well what to expect in advance, it still gave her an eerie feeling. It wasn’t like being around the undead: they could communicate with her whereas the bodies that filled the morgue had been reduced to place holders, evidence of people who had passed onto the great unknown. More than anything the utter silence of it all caused a shiver to run down her spine.
“Yes! Hi! I had a great breakfast, thank you.” Eleanor had reached out her hand for a shake but let it drop and immediately fell into step behind Doctor Kavanagh. From their short exchange online Eleanor had picked up that the other didn’t engage in lengthy conversation so she didn’t take the clipped sentences and monotone words as an insult. She was there to be professional, not to visit a friend at their place of work, so she followed silently, her eyes wide and her ears open. She’d also tried to get a read on the pale woman and was happy to find that she seemed relaxed and mellow, moreso when they entered the actual autopsy suite.  Eleanor sighed and mentally thanked the doctor for her stable mood - there would be no battling her abilities, just pleasant note taking as she had planned.
Eleanor wanted to ask about the winter coat but decided against it and obediently pulled on her own lab coat. Surely if Doctor Kavanagh wanted to explain her fashion choices she would, and if she didn’t it had absolutely no effect on why they were there in the first place. She nodded, her notepad and pen already out and scribbling furiously as the other spoke. Her eyes roamed over the body in front of her and that same shiver ran down her spine - she wasn’t frightened, it was just strange. “Yes, how were you able to determine how long she’d been dead?” Eleanor eyed the trashcan and the corners of her mouth turned up in a small smile. “I think I’ll be alright, but I’ll be careful not to bother you if I do prove to be weaker than I believe.” Returning to her notepad she asked one more question, “What about the scene makes you believe the cause of death to be accidental?”
Eleanor’s chipper attitude was bothersome, but Regan approved of her professionalism. She had clearly come ready to take notes, and if someone was going to watch an autopsy – the most intimate medical procedure one could receive, Regan thought – the observer should be getting value out of it. And Eleanor was already asking questions. Good. “We have different tools to determine PMI, depending on what stage of decomposition is occurring. In this case, rigor mortis had not even begun when the body was found, and a neighbor confirmed that she had a brief conversation with the woman only a few hours earlier. We also use body temperature. Bodies cool at a predictable rate… though influenced by many factors.” Regan reached down and wiped a couple of blow fly eggs off the woman’s cheek. The freezer had rendered them invalid, but they clung to her skin even through the bath. “Insects help, too. The flies had just found her.” Admirable little things. They were quick.
If Regan could smile, she might have. “I’ll show you.” 
With practiced hands, she rolled the body into a prone position, revealing what had been invisible from their previous perspective. In the upper right quadrant of the woman’s back there was a large hole – too big to be from a bullet, and the margins were flush with blood. Regan had already stuck a ruler into the hole earlier, needing to make an early assessment of the situation. She went four inches deep before a rub pushed against the ruler, halting its progress. She suspected whatever had tunneled into the woman had gone straight into her heart. Around the hole was a series of smaller holes and places where the skin was raised and irritated concentric to, what looked like, pinhole-sized bug bites. “I could be wrong, of course, but this is suggestive of an animal. You can tell from blood that this occurred ante-mortem – that is, before death – and when the cause of death is animal-related, insect envenomation, or similar, the manner is classified as accidental.” She looked down at the holes. “Had a person done this, I would expect overt signs of a struggle. Is that what happens in your novel?”
“That said, we still must be thorough. Everyone gets a complete autopsy. Not only in case initial impressions are wrong, but because we may find something else that could be important to the family. Even beyond the decedent. Many findings have a genetic component.” It made sense to start with the woman’s back, considering everything was currently served in front of them like a feast-filled dinner plate. “I will be dictating my notes today, which will be to your benefit.” She pressed the START button on the recorder. After speaking a brief overview of the patient’s demographics and findings at the scene, she attempted to document what they were seeing. "A deep, well-defined cavity is situated in the dorsal upper right quadrant, approximately 4 inches in depth and two inches in diameter. Consistent with a traumatic or penetrating injury, suspected from an animal, with clean edges and no evidence of irregular tearing or avulsion. Upon examination, the depth of the cavity is noted to extend beyond the subcutaneous tissue, reaching into the underlying musculature." She turned to Eleanor. “When we open her, we will be able to know precisely how deep it goes.” Regan continued, next describing the smaller surrounding wounds. “What do these look like to you?”
Eleanor hardly had time to look up from her notes when Regan started to throw information at her left and right and her hand flew across the notepad as she tried to keep up, her tongue poked out past her lips in concentration. She hadn’t even had time to truly feel intimidated, though she was sure that would come at some point, because she’d been immediately tossed into the thick of it. While her hand continued to scribble messily she looked up when Regan rolled the body over and sucked in a quick breath while her eyebrows knitted together. What could have possibly made that hole? She’d wanted to ask, but there would be no point since that was the reason they were there, to find out what exactly had happened.
“Since you mentioned you could tell from the blood whether an injury occurred before or after death, how soon after one dies does blood flow stop entirely? And is it true that you can tell what position a person was in when they died by the amount of blood pooled into a certain area of their body?” Eleanor was certainly out of her comfort zone and thought it best to ask as many questions as she could since up to the point her main form of information on the subject had been true crime podcasts and TV shows. She wanted to know the truth from someone who actually worked in the field and didn’t just make content for the masses. She nodded in response to Regan’s question. “Yes, in my novel there will be signs of struggle - wounds on the hands, among other things, to show that the victims attempted to defend themselves.” She was glad to hear that the notes would be recorded because it meant that Regan would be sure to thoroughly explain everything for the recorder, if not for Eleanor herself. 
Something about the way the phrase “when we open her” sounded made Eleanor’s hand pause for a brief moment before she went back to scribbling down her notes. It amazed her how calm Regan was and had to remind herself that this was something she probably did nearly every day, the shock had more than likely worn off long ago. She glanced at the doctor for a brief moment as though making sure it was alright for her to approach the table and took a long, close look at the wounds on the corpse’s back. “They look to me like bite marks. So, would whatever did this have gone inside of her or just taken a couple chunks out?” She was sure she knew the answer but, again, wanted to be thorough.
After the tumultuous couple of weeks Regan was having, Eleanor’s questions were music to her ears. They reignited her sense of professionalism and expertise when she was not feeling as though she understood much of anything at all. She wasn’t sure what the right way forward was – staying or leaving – or if she could have any semblance of a say on the matter. But death, she knew; death, she could speak on. “Blood flow stops immediately, technically, but it takes about fifteen to twenty minutes for that to become physically apparent. You’re referring to a process called livor mortis. When the blood stops flowing, it moves toward gravity-dependent regions of the body, causing a sort of… redfish-blue coloring of the skin. This is said to become “fixed” after about 6 to 8 hours, and can be informative for both post-mortem interval and how the body was positioned.” Regan gave the decedent’s back an amiable tap. “You won’t be seeing any livor here. She wasn’t left out long enough, and the freezer spared her most of it. But she was found prone, like this, and her shirt was full of holes. Much like her back.”
She noticed Eleanor seemed to hesitate for a moment. She was doing well. Many could not tolerate this much. But that jolt of a pause spoke to her nerves, or thoughts. Regan was pleased that Eleanor was able to quickly regain her focus, keeping it where it ought to be. “I also believe them to be bite marks.” And her question was a good one. The smaller marks were not very deep – it looked more like an animal had been sampling the skin, or had decided there were too many obstacles in those locations – the scapulae, or the spine, for instance. The large hole in the middle, though, was clearly an entrance wound. The way the skin peeled inward was indicative of that. And much like a gunshot wound, Regan would have expected more of a stellate pattern had something come out there instead. “I don’t see a clear exit wound. But it could have come out the same hole it created to go in.” And if not… well, Regan wasn’t sure what they’d find inside of this woman. But whatever it was, her fingers itched with anticipation. She nodded toward Eleanor as if to say they were done back here, and then carefully rolled the decedent back into a supine position. For a second, she felt something. Like some force inside of the body resisting the movement. Pushing against her hands. Regan denied the thought; it made no sense.
What other opportunities could she provide Eleanor? If it was for the good of this book, for the good of scientific accuracy and literacy among the fiction-loving general public… a thought occurred to her. Regan reached for the dead woman’s hand; the fingers were stiff but not set in rigor. “Have you ever touched a decedent before?” She asked Eleanor, her eyes inviting. It was obvious why she was asking. “Only if you want, and only her hand.”
“Livor mortis…” Eleanor repeated under her breath as she hastily paraphrased the doctor's informative words. There was another wave of satisfaction that came from Regan, though not much of anything else, and it kept the empath focused and ready to learn more - there were no sudden changes in mood, no overwhelming feelings of sadness or anxiety. Regan, she realized, was just as easy to be around as the undead. “Have there been any other deaths that were common to this, or is this the first to have these kinds of wounds?” In her novel the medical examiners would notice a trend when it came to the victims’ wounds so it made sense to her to ask if the strange holes in the woman’s clothes and back had ever been seen before. Eleanor felt the doubt behind Regan’s words more than heard them. She didn’t like the idea of whatever had burrowed into the woman still being inside of her, but because she didn’t want to make her host regret allowing her to witness the autopsy she kept her concerns to herself and simply nodded along as Regan spoke.
Once again Eleanor was pulled from her notes and stared straight at Regan with wide eyes. “No, never.” She remembered vividly that awful funeral she’d been forced to go to for a relative of one of her foster families. She’d never met the man, didn’t know anything about him except for the things people said about him during the service, but she’d been told she had to be in attendance because her babysitter had canceled. Already terrified, she had had a panic attack upon viewing the body since it was her first time seeing a dead body and her first time not being able to get a read on someone. She was fine with observing from a few feet away but could she honestly handle physically touching the cold hand in front of her?
Of course she could if it meant being able to obtain accurate information for her novel. As she nodded she reached out with the hand that still clutched her pen and, ignoring the way it shook, lightly brushed her fingers along the back of the woman’s cold, dead flesh. Curiosity gripped her then, stronger than it’d been before, and her mouth pulled down at the corners as she made to hold the woman’s hand. Had she imagined it or had the body reacted to her touch? But that wasn’t possible, of course, the woman had been found dead, not to mention had been living in a freezer for the past couple of hours.
“Did you see -” Eleanor started to ask but was cut off by another convulsion. She immediately pulled back, her eyes fixed on the supposedly dead woman. “Tell me you saw it too.”
“I haven’t had any other decedents with wounds quite like this, though it’s possible Dr. Rickers – the other forensic pathologist here – has. I expect he would have told me, though. He tells me… everything.” Far too much. “Communication is important; it can be the only way we notice patterns. They’re… unusual wounds. Not the strangest I’ve seen, not even close, but they demand answers.” Regan presumed Eleanor had a good reason for asking about that, whether simple curiosity or a literary purpose. Either way, she would continue to entertain questions. Eleanor has been exceptionally polite in how she asked, never objectifying the body she was learning from or making rude remarks about Regan’s profession. Like calling her a coroner. The woman had seemingly done enough research to know not to do that. She was, all things considered, a model attendee. And Regan was interested in seeing how she would fair with the invitation she’d extended.
Everyone responded differently to touching death, even seeing it, whether it was a bird that flew into their window or their grandmother’s wake. Regan had observed people shy away, averting their eyes like death was the ugliest thing one could possibly look in the face. Others had childlike curiosity, understanding very clearly that the cadaver before them was no longer a person, and what remained was something worthy of both fascination and respect. Others yet simply voided their stomach. Eleanor was affected in some way, but Regan couldn’t tell if her reluctance was born out of some innate fear or distaste of death, or the humbling that inevitably came with confronting it so plainly. Regan believed that no one should be seeing a loved one as their first dead body. To be able to separate death from grief pulled back the veil, and allowed people to understand that it was not something to be feared. Too often it was entangled with a sense of loss.
But as Eleanor reached for the dead woman’s hand, something… rippled inside of the cadaver. Regan’s eyes snapped to her torso, where it seemed like the skin had shuddered. It was still now, like nothing happened. Had Eleanor somehow managed to do that when she’d made contact? Had it been in the way she’d gripped her hand? She seemed just as surprised, if not more. Regan swallowed back her uncertainty, knowing she was the authority here. For multiple reasons. “I saw it.” Despite the cool composure in her voice, her eyes widened and she found herself straightening up, readying herself for something. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a cadaver seem to move. Though past incidents could be explained by her asfís bháis, this was also witnessed by Eleanor. So… maybe it was the first time. “Sometimes cadavers become so bloated, the gas – it can make noise, cause some motion. But…” …But the cadaver in question had not yet reached the bloat stage of decomposition. 
With a sickening squelching sound, something long exploded out of the dead woman’s stomach. Scraps of skin flew across the room, coagulated blood spattered across Regan’s face shield, and a hissing, snapping noise filled the room. For a second, she wondered if she had done this. It was in line with – but no, they weren’t alone. She quickly noticed the writing creature on the floor, snaking closer and closer to their feet. It had a perfectly round jaw set with rows of serrated teeth, attached to a long, fleshy, pink body that was covered in bits of viscera. The shade reminded Regan of Teagan’s skin. Eugh. Regan’s slow heart quickened when she realized they needed to do something. This had obviously been the cause of those wounds. And right now, it seemed more interested in the two of them than going back to snack on her decedent.
“Behind me,” Regan said, though she didn’t exactly have a plan. Screaming was out. But – right, she had everything she needed right here. Her eyes flashed to the table. Of course. Her hand darted down and her fingers frantically clenched onto the bone saw’s handle. 
By that point Eleanor was taking notes so quickly that her hand was a blur as it raced across her notepad. She was overjoyed by the amount of unrestricted information that Regan shared and admired the woman even more for the amount of work that she did, but the admittance that the wounds the Williams woman had sustained weren’t nearly as strange as others that had come through the morgue stumped her for a moment. She wondered what could possibly be stranger than bite marks around an open wound that appeared to have been burrowed in. It certainly wasn’t anything that she’d ever heard of before but, then again, she didn’t spend a whole lot of time around or inspecting dead bodies.
Gas, right. Regan was the expert, she literally did this every day, but still Eleanor couldn’t stop herself from thinking that something wasn’t right. Gas was a perfectly acceptable excuse, especially since she herself had no way of actually identifying whatever had caused the strange ripple, so for a brief moment she simply nodded and tried to bury her head in her notes again, trying to convince herself that she’d just witnessed something unsettling but completely normal. Honestly, what were the odds that something not normal would happen on the day that she’d been promised a thorough walk through of the autopsy process? Eleanor believed that she had some really bad luck but it couldn’t have been that bad.
She hardly had time to react to the awful noise that filled the room because of the explosion that accompanied it. Letting out a bloodcurdling scream, Eleanor dropped her notepad and pen and held her arms up over her head in a failed attempt to protect herself from the blood and skin. “Can gas do that?” She dropped her arms to try and get a glimpse at the state of the body but her eyes went straight to a large worm-like creature on the ground that had started to move toward them. For a split second that felt like an hour she wanted to simply drop onto the ground right where she was in a dead faint, but the realization that that would put her closer to the creature’s teeth kept her upright. Regan’s voice helped clear the fog that had started to fill her mind and Eleanor responded immediately, jumping behind the other woman without a second thought; she noticed immediately how Regan had been stirred from the dead-like state she’d been in since they’d met. “What the hell is that thing? It’s just been sitting inside of her this whole time?!” Again, she was by no means an expert, but she thought that a giant flesh-eating worm would have been pretty hard to miss and the thought that they’d been so close to it the entire time made her sick to her stomach.
“That wasn’t a very impressive scream, you kn–” The snapping of the worm’s jaws cut Regan off and reminded her that her scream queen status was not the most pressing matter right now. The bone saw was tight in her hands and the worm writhed across the floor with carnivorous intent, swerving a trail through the decedent’s splattered blood and flesh. It didn’t have eyes – at least from what Regan could see – but nonetheless seemed to be angling itself toward them, like it otherwise sensed them. She would not let it harm Eleanor. The woman was under her supervision right now. And she preferred her patients dead on arrival. “It’s a– I mean, it looks like a worm.” That was obvious. Eleanor probably hoped Regan knew a little more than that. But it wasn’t like her patients were full of worms that sprung out in the middle of an autopsy.
Her lungs banged with a sensation of fullness, of panic. Something crying to come out. One look at Eleanor’s giant eyes and trembling bones was all it took for her to gulp it back down and remind herself to be stone. She was as dead as Williams, or at least she needed to strive to be, and Williams, in death,was not subjected to such shameful emotion. Regan would not be either. Why should she fear a worm? It was a worm. And she was a force of nature. In a swift motion, Regan lunged forward, the saw making a clean slice through the center of the creature before it could jump at her or squirm out of the way. She allowed herself a moment of victory; it warmed her, and she looked to Eleanor with satisfaction that was only absent a smile. 
Both halves of the worm squirmed, a clear fluid spurting across the floor. But then they turned, both of them, the motion catching Regan’s eyes again. And where there should have been a clear bisection, the worm’s layers of flesh and innards visible, there was instead another row of glistening teeth. “Lámhaigh.” Regan muttered. This was the first time a bone saw had ever caused a problem for her. She was filled with the dreadful realization that it would only create further problem if she tried that again. Was this some sort of replication? She scanned the room dizzyingly, looking for a solution. Her scared companion would be no help. This was not what she had signed up for. Maybe next time Regan should add the possibility of this happening to those autopsy attendance consent forms. “Okay, forget the saw,” Regan said, setting it frantically aside. She didn’t even want to tempt herself to take another swipe at it. “The bag! Can you get the body bag?” It was off to the side, closer to Eleanor, and the two worms were rounding on both of them like a pair of hunting wolves. “You have to reach it. Move. I do not want to autopsy you yet. So stop being a scared thing and help yourself.”
Had she not been more terrified than she’d probably ever been in her life Eleanor might have spent more time questioning Regan’s judgment toward her scream, but since an alien-looking worm was inching its way toward the two of them she decided that it could wait until they weren’t about to be devoured by a creature from the most twisted of nightmares. “You’ve never seen this before?!” She wasn’t sure what kind of response she’d expected, but it didn’t make her feel better to know that this wasn’t something the other had experience dealing with. How the hell do you always find yourself in the middle of these kinds of situations? It was a question she’d found herself asking a lot recently. When Regan lunged forward Eleanor closed her eyes tightly, not wanting to witness a murder firsthand. When she opened them again she was surprised to find the medical examiner in one piece but the worm in two.
“Are you crazy?” It was the first thing Eleanor could think to yell until she realized that Regan’s quick, although foolish, thinking had probably saved their lives or at the very least allowed them a few extra minutes. “You’re crazy but kinda amazing.” But the feeling of terror bubbled up inside of her again as she realized that the fight was not over - the two halves didn’t seem ready to give up just yet. “M-move?” That was the last thing she wanted to do. Whenever it came to fight or flight she’d always defaulted to the third and most pathetic of the responses in her opinion: freeze. Her mouth went dry and her heart beat so quickly in her chest that she thought she might actually be in danger of a heart attack. “I really don’t think I can…” She managed to tear her eyes away from the worm and located the body bag, pleased to find that it wasn’t nearly as far away from her as she’d thought, but she’d still have to risk moving from where she’d firmly planted her feet. Eleanor shook her head quickly and wiped her sweaty palms on her pants. This wasn’t the kind of thing she did, she wasn’t someone who could just muster up the courage to face off with something from a horror novel -
A horror novel! Wasn’t that the whole reason she was there? She needed inspiration and, in a terrible turn of events, she’d found herself in a horror novel. What would the main character of her story do? She sure as hell wouldn’t cower in the corner and hope that whenever the monster eventually got to her it wouldn’t prolong the process and save her from feeling too much pain. She’d get the damn body bag and follow any other orders thrown her way. Without thinking, otherwise she might convince herself again not to do it, Eleanor reached for the bag and missed by inches, stumbled, then reached again and found purchase, yanking it roughly so that she could return to her position behind Regan. She shoved it into the doctor’s arms and tried to stop herself from hyperventilating. “Please tell me… you have a plan… an actual plan.”
The worms twisted, still leaking fluid all over the shiny floor, and Regan didn’t wait to wait around to learn what they would do when they reached them. Maybe they couldn’t do anything. Or maybe they’d bore through flesh and muscle and bone, burrowing inside just as they had with Williams. So Eleanor needed to move. But the woman was looking to Regan to know what to do. And as clueless as Regan felt about this situation, she was determined to earn that status and recognition. If Eleanor thought her competent enough to handle even this – and she was right – then by Fates, she needed to step up.
She frowned. She was not crazy. But the compliment was acceptable and now did not seem like the proper time to argue. “The plan is to put the bag over the worms and get rid of it before they chew through it. Sound sufficient?” Regan wasn’t sure it was. She also wasn’t completely sure she wanted to get rid of it. Actually, she had another thought about that. Amazingly, Eleanor listened. Regan must have done something right. The body bag was shoved into her hands with a loud crinkle, and she realized that it was now on her to do what needed to be done. No further help from Eleanor, then. That was fine. Regan’s lungs tightened and she tried to summon the cool composure she knew she needed. What was a worm, anyway? Nothing. It was nothing, yet it dared to interrupt an autopsy. Any remnants of fear twisted into disdain, and Regan pounced before she could second guess.
She ended up on the floor. The bag was successfully slammed over both worms, but one of them was sticking out from under the edge, writhing and far stronger than it looked, like it was made only of muscle. Regan buckled at the force but didn’t let herself get thrown off. She slapped the tail end of the creature and through what was probably dumb luck alone, it worked to get it stuffed into the bag. Now she had them both trapped. But the opening was against the floor. It was like trapping a spider under a glass, right? If she could just… in one swift motion, Regan swooped the bag to the side, and she could feel the two masses tumbling down to the bottom. She clenched the neck of the bag with her fist, and gave Eleanor a startled, incredulous look. It worked?
For now.
Two violently wriggling worms pushed against the bag in her hands, and she wasn’t sure they had very long. She managed to clumsily tie it shut. “Open the fridge door! The empty one that Williams was in.” She pointed to the right section. Eleanor better not pontificate about this. “If you do not open it, you might as well tell me your medical history now so I can start writing your autopsy file in my head.” There. With a deep hiss, the door opened and Regan had never been so glad to see a completely empty compartment before. What was usually a disappointment was now to their benefit. 
In, with a thud, went the animated bag. Eleanor wasted no time closing the fridge, which was good. Learning.
Regan immediately twisted the thermostat down as low as it went. “If the cold doesn’t kill them, I will.” A glance to the gleaming set of tools by the table, and the bone saw she did not get to use today. She realized her breath was catching in her throat and her heart was pounding. Now, she could feel panic receding even if she hadn’t allowed herself to feel the actual panic. Regan swallowed, looking from the closed fridge to Eleanor. “They’re not, um, all… like that, you know. For your book.”
Eleanor had a lot of concerns regarding Regan’s plan, most of all how they were going to carry it out without losing a limb or two, but because she didn’t want to annoy the doctor with her questioning she decided to remain silent and nod along. Anyhow, she was distracted by the almost tangible shift in atmosphere as Regan apparently simply decided that she would no longer be fearful of the things in front of them - it was like nothing the empath had ever witnessed before and it left her confused, impressed, and in awe all at the same time. Swaying nervously on her feet, Eleanor tried to tap into Regan’s confidence thinking that even if it was fabricated it was better than being scared out of her mind and of no help whatsoever.
She forced herself to watch the entire struggle and silently swore that if things looked as though they weren’t going in Regan’s favor that she would jump in and do… something, but she wouldn’t just stand there and let the person who’d given her such an amazing opportunity get brutally mauled by an alien-thing. But as it turned out Regan was a lot better at wrangling the worms underneath the body bag than apparently even she’d anticipated. Keeping her promise of acting and not speaking, and Regan’s threat of immediate death at the forefront of her mind, she quickly followed her orders of opening the fridge, everything moving too quickly for her to fully process it in the moment, and slammed the door shut with all of her body weight.
Her back still against the fridge and her breathing ragged, Eleanor slowly slid down to the floor. She focused all of her attention on trying to get her hands to stop shaking, then her legs, her shoulders… “How the hell - why does this kind of stuff happen to me? Am I really that big a magnet for trouble?” She let out a choked laugh, somewhere between impressed and annoyed that the only thing Regan seemed to really be concerned about was how her autopsies might be portrayed in a fictional novel. “I’ll take your word for it. I think I’ve had my fill for the time being. But I am very concerned because where did they come from? Are there more?! How are you not just a little more freaked out?” She tried to take a moment to rest but gave up on trying to get her breathing back under control. “What’re you gonna do with those things? I’m sure it’s not lost on you, but we almost just died - you’re not serious about trying to kill them yourself, are you?”
With the danger (probably) passed and self-preservation instincts being quelled, Eleanor was overcome with the type of full body panic Regan herself had once been prone to (no – that was someone else). She looked down at Eleanor, her gloved hand itching to reach out, but it did not. The whole display was embarrassing – for Eleanor – and Regan felt pangs of something meant to be long-forgotten. “You? You think this happened because you were here?” She raised a brow. Humans were terrible at understanding that the universe did not work in such a way. Most banshees would handwave it by saying it happened because it was fated to happen. Regan chalked this one up to a random present from the universe. Wrong place, wrong time. Though Williams was even worse off than Eleanor in that respect. “This town has a way of bringing out the most unfortunate of experiences. By staying here, you resign yourself to that. Consider this one of them.” She ushered Eleanor up and away from the door so she could drag a desk in front of it (with some difficulty). “Just, uh, to be safe,” she explained, grunting as it pushed in front of the door.
Where there was one, there might be more. This seemed like something to ask Kaden about, if she could tolerate it. Right now, though, she did not need Eleanor telling the entire town that the worms were taking over. She realized that, to Eleanor, this had been a life-or-death experience. Oh. She had been primarily concerned with her decedents (and, fine, Eleanor), barely even considering the potential for her own death. “We were not going to die.” But she also knew all too well how quickly the tides could change. And despite her confidence, she could feel her own muscles relaxing. They had been pulled more tense than she’d realized. “I don’t get freaked ou–”
There was a hollow thwap as something thrashed against the metal door of the refrigerator… from the inside. Regan’s spine stiffened, and she forced her expression to calm before it contradicted what she had almost just said. “I - don’t worry about how. But when I kill it and understand it, I will preserve a cross section for you. You have earned it. You must come back for another autopsy, though. They are not… this hasn’t happened before. It will not again.” Probably.
Another thwap.
She needed Eleanor gone before the worms managed to escape. And also before she could actually proceed with worm-icide… or attempt to. In the meantime, Williams was decomposing on the table. And Eleanor continued to display a hive-inducing amount of emotions. “These old fridges, you know, they – um, why don’t you go write up what you’ve learned before you forget it?” Regan gave Eleanor a gentle nudge toward the door that left no room for interpretation; she was being dismissed. “Except for the worms. Leave those out. No need to include them in your story. Oh, but be sure to sign out with Marcy at the front desk before you leave. She has coupons for therapy sessions.”
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legolasghosty · 4 months
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I got Parents AU and Dystopia AU and now I am Concerned
Oh gosh I am also concerned but like... let's see what happens? Also, I am far from an expert on dystopian concepts, as I tend to not enjoy them much in stories. So I make no promises about staying perfectly with the concept.
Following N-Day, when several countries ended up shooting nukes at each other and essentially destroying human civilization as it was previously known, the survivors banded together to prevent the entire eradication of the human race. No one is really sure where the old borders were due to the destruction, along with the massive amounts of tectonic and volcanic activity that was triggered because of all the explosives. It didn't matter, a person was just a person back then.
But things changed within the first century. 'Survival of the fittest' became the thing, as finding medical equipment to care for those dying of radiation poisoning was basically impossible. And for those fortunate enough to not suffer any major physical trauma from the explosions, it seemed a waste to spend their time on those who had. A kind of class system developed around how close you'd been to a blast, with those few who were fully outside of the range of effect being at the top.
Flash forward about 150 years since N-Day (yeah okay I suck at naming things), most of the direct radiation is gone but the society developed from the fallout has become basically a feudal system. Birth defects due to parental radiation poisoning and general sucky living conditions are super common. You got the rich elite on top, living it up, and everyone else stuck under them with no hope of advancing.
Julie, Flynn, and Carrie work together to run a sort of orphanage for kids who have lost their parents/caregivers to the many dangers that face the lower classes. Flynn does a lot of the admin type stuff, Carrie uses her upper class connections to get them funding, and Julie works with the kids themselves. Ideally it's a temporary place for kids until they find a family for them (either by blood or choice), but that isn't always the case unfortunately.
Yes, the rest of the gang is around too. Reggie is a teacher at the local primary school and comes over to the La Rosa (the orphanage) after work a lot to help out the kids(and the grown ups). Luke is officially a delivery person, but he can often be found playing music on a beat up old guitar with anyone who will listen. The kids love him, he's basically the cool uncle. Alex is a weaver, has always been good with his hands. And since his shop/home is right across the street from La Rosa and he doesn't mind a few kiddos hanging around while he works, he's become a sort of godfather to some of the kids that have been there forever. His partner, Willie (yeah the authorities don't like it, but Alex is the best fabric worker in the area so what are they gonna do?) has an insane garden that they care for along with his official work as a cleaner.
Lots of kids move through La Rosa within a year or so, but some have been there for ages. There's Isa, a 12 year old who can go toe to toe with Alex in snark and will deck a bigger kid for the people she cares about, and Damian, a 15 year old who rarely talks and would rather spend time weeding in the garden with Willie than interacting with people. Next is Aiden, who is 10 years old and goes back and forth between acting like he's 20 and 5. Julie is working on not taking on everyone's burdens with him, while Reggie is teaching him to play nice. And then there's little Dizzy, who is 7 and just arrived but has already trashed several things by accident. She says she's clumsy but Julie figured out pretty fast that she's mostly blind. She's working on getting the little girl to trust Luke, cause he's big on seeing the world with all your senses, and often plays guitar with his eyes closed.
It's a hard business though, trying to take care of all of the kids who lose their parents. Most of the people in higher classes would rather the kids either get over their 'issues' and start being productive or get lost. Funding is difficult. And some of the top folks are pushing to shut down organizations like theirs. But the gang is determined to keep taking care of their kids, legal or otherwise.
Cue some creative generation of additional revenue sources. Also lots of soft parenting, trauma management, and just the gang taking care of the kids and each other.
I got no clue if any of that makes sense, but that's what I got! Hope you enjoyed!!!
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So, I’m in my senior year of college getting my bachelors in aerospace engineering, and I accepted a job offer for after I graduate. The job is a few states away from home, and I’ve never done a ‘permanent’ move before, so do you have any advice? I would really appreciate it cause I’m pretty anxious about it even though the job starts next July
I think that it's a really good thing that you want to start planning this now. That gives you the time to manage things in small chunks rather than having to do everything at once. Here's the advice that I have after completing a big move several states away:
Find a place to live. Depending on where you're going, housing can be very competitive and places will fill up quickly. Starting the looking process early gives you the most options.
Look up the cost of living in that area. If you already have a budget, that's great, but you'll probably need to adjust it for your new income/cost of living. Some of this can't always be done before you have boots on the ground, but you can probably anticipate a lot of what's to come with some thoughtful research and planning.
Record all of your information. I'm a big spreadsheet guy, but you can use whatever format works best for you. Include the address you'll be moving to, the website for the place/a tenant portal if they have one, resources that you might end up needing, etc.
Try to anticipate your needs in advance. Are you someone who goes to the doctor a lot? Find a primary care physician in the area. Do you take medication? Make sure to get enough so that you don't have to worry about running out after you move in. Do you have a pet? Look up vets.
Have a plan for transportation. Will you have a car? What's the public transportation situation like? What's within walking distance of your new home?
Pay attention to what you're using/doing now. What are the objects in your home that you interact with on a regular basis that you'll need to take with you? What can you choose to leave behind? (these two things are important for estimating what kind of equipment you'll need to move your stuff) Are there regular activities that you'll want to start up again after the move?
Deliberately seek out social activities. The trick to making friends is being with the same people over and over again. Look up gaming stores, religious institutions, community centers, libraries, gyms, etc and visit them once you get there.
Finally, I want to congratulate you! Getting a job after graduation is a big deal, and you've already cleared the first hurdle! Remember that you've gotten this far for a reason, and that you are capable of handling what the universe throws at you. This will be stressful and maybe even a little bit scary, but you can do it.
-Reid
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