#because middle aged men are fragile and SO easy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dovithedarklord · 3 months

Text

Age of Mosters - Chapter Sixteen

Pairing: OFC x Simon "Ghost" Riley, OFC x König

Tags: Slow Burn, Slow Build, Enemies to Lovers, Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, POV First Person, Not Beta Read, Medical Inaccuracies, Military Inaccuracies, AFAB OC

Trigger Warning: The story will contain violance, blood and smut in detail. Please, keep that in mind!

⚠️MDNI⚠️

...................................

Author's Note

The small team uncovers interesting clues, and Leona has the opportunity to get to know the new helpers during action.

Hello! :D

I apologize for disappearing, but I was forced to move and the last few weeks weren't exactly easy because of that:') But now I returned and I'm back to posting more regularly!

I have a lot of trigger warnings for today's chapter, please take it seriously! TW: Blood and gore, death, violence, mentions of rape, mentions of abuse, mentions of violence against minors, torture, body horror.

All this brutality has a purpose, but we have to suffer it through first to be able to see it!

Have fun!

I.M.L. - Infected mammalian lifeform. I.H.L. - Infected humanoid lifeform.

if you're interested you can find the story on AO3: Chapter Sixteen

......................................

Stormy wind blows the cool raindrops falling from the dark clouds in my face, and I'm only fleetingly aware of how the bony fingers of the dry branches sticking out of the wild vegetation dig into the straps of my uniform, as I cautiously advance towards the target despite the increasingly hostile siege of the weather. Once there was a vineyard of poetic beauty here, where people retreated from all the hustle and bustle of everyday life, and could immerse themselves in comfortable relaxation and enjoy every expensive drop of the wine sold at a price of gold, away from the big cities. However, fifty years of desolation have left nothing but an overgrown jungle of vines and an endless sea of weeds that envelop them in a suffocating embrace. But this abandoned garden still serves a good purpose, because it benevolently hides all the members of our small team heading towards the huge building resting in the middle of the large estate. And we need all the kind help of nature, because even this can hardly cover the two huge men at the head of our group.

It can't be denied that after our little trio arrived at the scene of our latest adventure, the matters started moving surprisingly quickly, after the Hunter, König, shared with us all the juicy information that he so sweetly extracted from the unfortunate gang member, who they seemingly pulled out of nowhere. After explaining the coordinates, he offered the plan at least at such a fast pace, putting the whole action together with the kind of practicality that can be expected from a member of a KorTac-like, well-oiled machine. And although the fast progression of events meant only positive news for us, but I know that I wasn't the only one who had mixed feelings and came to the rather suspicion-filled realization about what financial motivation lies behind our new team's enthusiasm.

And despite the professionalism with which my two companions move together with our new helpers and their hardworking soldiers, even through the curtain of the pouring rain, I can easily make out the tension that sits in the jacket-covered shoulders of MacTavish, who strides in front of me. Maybe I would think him crazy if he wouldn't be in a flap regarding the success of our mission, since the peace of our already fragile life depends on it, but I have the sneaking suspicion that for once it's not just our operation, twisting into increasingly complicated subplots, that is responsible for the uneasiness that lingers in him and his masked bosom friend.

My bright eyes are inevitably drawn to the huge figure, who cuts through the tangled cavalcade of overgrown plant life as if it were nothing more to him than a few unruly blades of grass, breaking down the army of twigs in front of him with a few careless movements of his long hands, as he moves forward with the purposefulness of a bulldozer. It’s not an exaggeration to say that the man with a rather German-sounding name and dressed in a strange hood successfully planted the sounds of caution in my mind from the very first moment, because even though he is now an ally to us, it wasn't by chance that Shepherd hired another SSS-class fighter to play babysitter on our mission overflowing with sensitive information. The old bastard wanted to play safe by giving Riley a playmate from his own weight group, and if there is even an iota of truth to my intuition that the two mercenaries will also include a very open ear for us along with their helping hand, then in addition to finding the serum we also have to make sure that they don't stab us in the back and inform the old man about every breath we take. Because that would be the logical step if the leader of the colony wanted complete discretion. That he silences us, who know an embarrassing amount about his rather criminal dealings. And who else would be more suitable for this chore than two killers abundantly loaded with credits, who present just the right challenge to my partners.

It's enough for me to glance at the masked Hunter, who is lurking not far behind the guy who resembles a smaller yeti, and his hand clenched on his weapon says enough about how comfortable he feels in the newly established set-up. Of course, those who are in deep shit shouldn't be picky when fate takes pity on them, but I can understand why this terrifying man is still troubled by the fact that the big boss has given us friends who would be able to give him a hard time too. I know that these thoughts have crossed his mind as well, and that is precisely why he remains in his colleague's heels like an ineradicable shadow. Because he wants to be the first to cut his throat if he tries anything even remotely suspicious.

During the raging storm, the few minutes seem like decades until we reach the end of the rows of grapes, and the line of a beaten stone fence appears in the wind-torn, knee-high grass. I obediently follow the Scottish Hunter, who kneels behind the low wall on the muddy ground, and almost immediately takes a closer look at the remains of the hotel stretching out in front of us, that once served as the site of expensive vacations. I have to admit that the bastard who leads the separatist group has pretty good taste, because even though all that's left of the once-luxurious comfort is a battered, empty skeleton, it's still just inviting enough to be suitable for hiding. But what’s perhaps even more remarkable is that, according to König, these people chose the imposing hideout not only because of the nostalgia that reminds them of the prosperity of the old days, but also because even though this den is located right in the middle of the red zone, yet it’s conveniently far from any well-known nest. Of course, this mystery could easily be explained by the fact that such a wandering troupe gains a lot of useful experience when roaming in the wilderness, but they have avoided danger too skillfully so far for it to be a mere lucky coincidence. At the head of this gang is someone who, like Valeria, has just enough experience to avoid the watchful eyes of the authorities and the sharp claws of mutants. Terribly interesting.

"That's the back door. We'll enter there." I hear the voice thick with an accent on the radio that breaks through the rustle of the wind, and I only peer at our hooded tour guide from the corner of my eye. And I'm once again reminded of the sheer size of the hired Hunter, because even though he shrunk himself down to the smallest possible size to the best of his capabilities, his broad shoulders still peek out spectacularly from the cover of the fence. And unlike Riley, whose enticingly massive measurements fill me mostly with excitement, König's stature plants dozens of sinister thoughts in my skull. My masked companion has also been blessed by nature and the kind genes of his species with a figure that commands authority, but our new mate surpasses even that. And I can't shake the suspicion that he uses this magnificent physique with the efficiency of a living weapon, which I have no problem with as long as he doesn't want to test his unparalleled skills against us. I warmly advise him not to do this, because due to the sea of crap that I experienced in these last few weeks, my stimulus threshold has decreased just enough to kill him after the first bad movement. Even if I have to be smart about it.

"It's not that heavely protected." Comes the curt observation from Riley, and now I direct my eyes toward the target in front of us instead of studying our new teammate, because it would be timely for me to dedicate my brain capacity to the mission as well. And at first glance, the whole place exudes a deceptive desertedness, but I dont let the apparent immobility mislead me. Because I immediately understand what the masked man saw so keenly. It's enough to observe the dark figures appearing through the cracks of the boarded-up windows to know that, although the vagaries of the weather are in our favor and there are no more guards than necessary, but inside it’s not certain that we will be so lucky. The task is made even more difficult by the fact that we have to catch the main bastard, because based on the information forced out from the weakest link, none of his subordinates was sufficiently informed about the group's business affairs to be able to spill wherever our stolen serum may be.

"Let's go." König immediately takes the initiative, and even before he would wait for his idea to be acknowledged, he springs up and jumps over the stone wall with such ease, as if our improvised hiding place, which is at least waist-high for me, would be nothing more than a small inconvenience that can easily be crossed.

However, there is no time to hesitate, because as soon as the man, burning with the fever of readiness to get into action, takes the first few meters on the quite open field covered with overgrown grass, he is almost immediately followed by Horangi and his stern-eyed men, leaving us no chance to wait around either. And all I need is a quick glance at the masked Hunter swinging over the wall to know, that the leadership role that his new colleague arbitrarily seized for himself is not really to his taste. Because although he doesn't voice his displeasure with a single word, I have observed him just enough to recognize the tension in his heavy steps. He has enough sense of duty to endure frustration for the sake of our goal, but I know that this charming patience won't last forever. And I have a feeling that this whole impossible situation is getting on his nerves enough to lure his less diplomatic self out of him. He will work together as long as he has to, but not for a minute longer. What a rosy outlook.

Just as MacTavish moves next to me, suppressing a tired sigh under his breath, and nimbly leaps over the fence after his bosom friend, then I finally pull myself together and throw my weapon on my back to swing myself to the other side, following the Scotsman. We cross the few narrow meters that separate us from the building at lightning speed, and I thank the increasingly fierce storm, because we would otherwise be embarrassingly easy targets even in this short distance. And the fact that the surrounding area of the structure is so easy to keep an eye on raises the suspicion in me again, that it could only have been designated as a temporary accommodation by someone who had enough experience to know what difficulty the long grassy wasteland poses for a curious wanderer trying to get close to it. And this makes me more and more curious as to who might be at the head of the separatists, because all their actions so far indicate that they aren't just a simple criminal.

In front of the beat-down entrance, the soldiers wait for the instructions of their leader, who, when he is sure that we have arrived successfully, opens the door without a second of delay and charges forward with decisiveness, raising his weapon in front of him, closely followed by his Korean comrade, who lets us know with just a wave that we'd better follow their example, if we don't want to fail prematurely by waiting around in the doorstep. Although I'm not particularly impressed by the behavior of the two men, but based on the expression on the faces of my two friends, I can be sure that they do not share my lack of interest. This may not be the first time they have had to work with strangers, and maybe it wouldn't hurt their egos to not be in control of the whole operation, but it's all the more likely that they will be at least as comfortable tolerating this treatment from Shepherd's men as if someone were pulling their teeth out. And I strongly hope, praying to any higher authority listening, that this whole circus doesn't turn into a dick-measuring contest in the middle of a world-shattering event, because even Riley, who keeps his cool very skillfully, won't tolerate it without saying a word.

My boots land on the worn marble floor with a wet thump, when, at the end of the line, I cross the threshold into the embrace of the dark little corridor, and my nose is hit almost immediately by the musty smell of mold spreading on the damp walls. Despite the late spring weather, the whole place radiates an unfriendly coldness, and as the intrusive caress of the breeze blowing through the vacant building penetrates my soaked clothes, goosebumps erupt on my back instinctively. The huge house looks lifeless enough to fool the less experienced travelers, but my eyes aren’t the only ones who notice the mud-covered footprints on the dirty stone, which spread along the hallway shrouded in darkness. According to this, these bastards are tough enough to kill civilians, but they prefer to hide from a small thunderstorm within the four walls, even if they voluntarily let the attackers into their dwelling by doing it. I wasn't wrong about these thieves being cruel, but far more stupid than it would first appear.

We start silently towards the depths of the hotel, and the hooded man leading the way guides us to the source of the dull light coming from a distance, dictating a slow but all the more determined pace, with such a soundless softness compared to his height, like a predator scouting for prey. And his caution soon pays off, because as soon as he reaches the end of the passageway, a guy dressed in ragged combat gear appears in the small room before us, who notices the danger coming towards him too late. Because when he breaks away from his deep conversation on the radio and glances towards us, König ia already in front of him with impossible speed, crossing the distance between him and his victim with three wide steps with his long legs. And before the bandit could react, and would be able to open his mouth and alarm his companions, by then, a huge hand already lands on his face, and swallowing the startled shock, which crawls there with instinctive speed when he realizes that he has fallen into the grasp of a giant. But he doesn't even have time to understand what is happening, because with the momentum with which he galloped towards him, the Hunter rams the criminal, frozen in stunned terror, against the nearest wall just as easily. And even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to do anything about the attack, because as suddenly as it came, his attacker ends his life as quickly. The crack with which the helpless man's skull splits open when it meets the concrete is stomach-churning, and the once cream-colored plaster is turned into a grotesque painting by the bloody pieces of brain tissue bursting from the shattered bones. And I have to forcefully fight the stomach acid gathering in my throat, when an eyeball appears for a moment from between the gloved fingers, staring blankly at me before falling to the ground with the lifeless body, as it's released by its killer. But perhaps it enhances the discomfort in me even more when our new teammate turns towards us with such cold calmness, shaking off the shattered pieces of slimy meat stuck to his glove, as if he had not just crushed a person's head with his bare hands, but had just swatted a naughty fly.

And even though I know how powerful Hunters are, I can only drive away the surprise mixed with disgust on my face with great concentration, because this ruthlessness surpasses everything that my dark little mind has thought possible until now. It was definitely a successful way to silence someone, but even I can see that it wasn't about efficiency. Because, when he fixes his gaze on his men emerging from the corridor, and takes in the respect and fear that appears on their faces, even I can see the satisfaction with which his back straightens. And I don't need to know this brutal man to understand, that he eased the hunger of his own self-confidence with this gruesome but spectacular stunt.

And when I, behind Riley and MacTavish, wander into the small hall leading to what may be the staff passageways, I have the opportunity to observe the grim expression slowly taking shape on their faces as well. Perhaps they also feel that this presentation didn't only take place so that the soldiers know their place, but also carries an unspoken threat, with which their colleague lets them know that it would be advisable for them to behave well, because someone has joined their company who will be able to cause them problems even without activating his ability. Shepherd… you dirty fucker. You want us to remember that help can disappear quickly if we don't play by the rules. How awfully smart.

"We split up here. One team goes upstairs, the others search through the ground floor." König turns to our small group, still maintaining the noble task of managing the mission, gesturing with one hand to the stairs opening from the back of the place, and then to the corridors on both sides, facing each other. With his tall figure, he easily stands out from among us, as he quickly scans his men, looking for any brave volunteer who would not agree with his proposal. And when he only receives a curt but obedient nod, he turns towards us to find our trio, and his eyes settles on me inexplicably quickly, zeroing in on me with embarrassing speed. And this isn't the first time since our not-so-distant meeting that he has found me so enthusiastically. Ever since he stepped out of that cramped container used for interrogation, he discovers me from time to time again, as if there would be a fucking magnet stuck on my pretty little body, drawing his attention to me as soon as I'm within range.

And although every single one of my facial muscles melts into the determined mask of expressionlessness, as his gaze sinks into mine, a visceral uneasiness awakens in my stomach. Because although I knew from the first minute that we had to be on guard, since probably at the end of Shepherd's leash made of money they are only allies for us until their master orders them otherwise, but he slowly makes it very clear that both his demonstration of strength and his behavior serves as a warning. And it doesn't make me happy at all when I come to the painful realization that, unlike my two companions, I would have a harder time defending myself if our cooperation took a rough turn. I know that he can't harm me right now, since the success of the mission is too important for that, but the little voice in my brain tells me that I'd better watch out for him, because it doesn't mean anything good that he is keeping an eye on me so readily. I could chalk it up to the fact that, being a good Hunter, he is just afraid of the physical integrity of a valuable Extreme, if I'm so exotic, but I can't get rid of the small fleeting intuition that this is about something else. And I don't like the curious glimmer in those sky-blue eyes when I stubbornly raise my head. No matter how big you are, you will need a lot more than that to scare me.

"You're goin' upstairs with Soap." Riley suddenly speaks, thus breaking me out of the tense stare-down duel that I'm unconsciously engaging with the behemoth man, and I turn with the greatest joy to the masked Hunter, who lingers on his colleague for a dangerous moment, before turning his hard gaze on me. "Stay alert." He leans closer, covering us from the audience with his back, and even this small act speaks quite eloquently of how much trust he has for our new teammates. And I can't blame him for that, because even though we need all the help, none of us lost our minds from gratitude. Especially not him, who runs circles in his head similar to my paranoid brain, probably because he has too many bitter experiences behind him to be naive. He knows too, how sensitive this alliance is.

I only hold his gaze for a heartbeat longer, and that's enough to see the weariness lurking in his dark eyes, next to which my trained little senses recognize the tiny little light that seems quite concerned even to my mind struggling with colorful imagination. And after the busy events of the past few days, I don't necessarily feel delusional anymore when it occurs to me, that he will be worried not only about his bff, but also about my safety, when he starts his lonely journey in this ex-resort that has become a crime den. And this lures a faint, but still naughty little curve to my lips, with which I silently tell him that it will take a lot more than a couple of lowlife thieves to make me bite the dust. Unfortunately, no one gets rid of my mean little person that easily. Although I have a feeling that this caution is not for the criminals who roam the walls…

But even before I could come up with a particularly witty answer for him, a hand lands on my shoulder and directs my thoughts, which have strayed into inappropriate side tracks, to their owner. And as my Scottish friend bursts into my field of vision, clutching his gun, he motions with his head towards the stairs leading upstairs, showing quite obviously that it's time for us to get to work before the gang realizes what surprise is being prepared for them in secret.

"Come on, lassie. There are bastards we need to put some holes into." He reminds me, and the serious expression, that has been stubbornly clinging to his features since the beginning of our current outing, softens from the tiny line of the cheeky smile that moves to his stubble-framed mouth. And although it's possible that the circumstances of our alliance have made him more cautious, I know that he has by no means forgotten the many horrors, some of which he owes to the outlaws who loiter here. Even if our adventure in the city is not their making, the bloodshed caused in the research institute is, and I know the man well enough to know that the possibility of paying off some of the many painful promises is responsible for his enthusiasm. And I won't stand in his way for a minute.

"After you." I gesture with one of my hands towards the path leading up, thus handing over the stage to the Hunter to let him turn into the tour guide, if he is already buzzing with such energy. And he immediately seizes the opportunity, raising his assault rifle in front of him, to bid farewell to his masked bosom friend with a last meaningful nod, and head towards the stairs. And I obediently close up behind him with my weapon pointed forward ready to attack, glancing back at Riley once more before disappearing into the maze of spiraling steps. And perhaps it means nothing to an outside observer, as he raises his head and follows the progress of our little duo with unbroken persistence, but my senses, which are desperately quick to notice every small twitch of his, quickly discover the small wrinkles that appear around the painted skin around his eyes. And I can understand from this, that he is parting from us with an anxious heart, but he is much calmer when he can put a safe distance between us and our helpers who are slowly organizing themselves into smaller groups. He would rather be alone among the wolves than expose us to the same danger. And the unpleasant nervousness awakening in my stomach only hopes that the two mercenaries won’t feel like turning against us right now.

But before long, the small gathering disappears from my vision, as the steps continue to turn towards the upper floor, and we are swallowed up by the narrow staircase. The sound of our soaked boots is blessedly absorbed by the worn velvet carpet that runs along the stairs, thus enveloping our silently sneaking pair in a dangerous silence. And the higher we get, the stronger the suspicion gets in my head, because we get to the top floor too easily and undisturbed, as if no one had taken up residence within the walls of the abandoned facility. And although the massive building offers plenty of hiding places, these wretched vermins don't know they have guests, and this silence is far more ominous than what my paranoid mind can bear. That's why my fingers instinctively tighten around the grip of my gun, preparing to pump the very first suspicious shadow full of ammunition.

MacTavish pauses only for a moment at the end of the staircase to cautiously peer out from behind the wall looking for the enemy. And when he is certain it's safe to proceed and no unsuspecting gang members have appeared to attack, he gestures forward with his gloved hand, and I understand his silent request even from the small gesture and follow him as he steps out into the wide corridor framed by carved wood. Once upon a time, it was probably a fortune to pack this tasteful covering here, but now the thin cracks run along them like a spiderweb from the moisture and the iron teeth of time, replacing the former luxury with a ghostly atmosphere. However, it attracts my attention much more, and it also makes my Scottish friend wonder, where to go on the dark road, because each of the two paths opening towards the wings of the building has the same chance of hiding valuable targets.

But I don't have to think too much about where we should head next, for the man precedes me in discovery, and I merely raise one of my eyebrows in interest, when he closes his eyes and sniffs the stale air, like a hunting dog looking after the wounded prey. Although there is already a sassy comment on the tip of my tongue about his methods, he turns his head to the side surprisingly quickly, staring with such intensity at the dark corridor opening on the right, as if he really would be hot on the scent. His super-senses probably recognized the stench of the gangsters lurking between the walls quite accurately, because after flashing his blue eyes at me meaningfully, he sets off across the worn carpet with such determination as if he had actually found his prey.

And it soon becomes clear how effectively his abilities developed by nature detect the enemy, because as we get further into the narrow pathway, the faint noise of our steps is accompanied by the characteristic, soft murmur of human speech, which although doesn't uncovers the topic of the discourse, but reveals that there is more than one person waiting for us on the other side. A gloomy, gray light greets us as soon as we reach the end of the corridor, and following the Hunter's example, I lean against the cool wall, listening to the fragments of words drifting in our way. One of the members is probably wandering closer to us, because the conversation he is having with his friends is gradually becoming more audible, and although I don't know the context, I don't like what I can finally understand from it in the least.

"Take the bitch to the boss in two hours. Until then, do something to wake her up. She must be awake." Murmurs the deep male voice, and the disdain in his tone fills me with disgust without even knowing who he could be talking about so kindly. It's not only the tone that helps plant frustration in my brain, but also the fact that there are civilians here, probably not of their own volition, because it only makes our task more difficult. Because the whole mission quickly progresses from the initial capture of the main scum to hostage rescue. And it's clear from the muffled cursing coming out of MacTavish's mouth that he isn't particularly excited by this unexpected development, and if I have to judge only by the clenched curve of his jaw, then his already not-so-rosy mood is only getting worse.

Based on his steps, the guy barking out his instructions gets closer to us, and when he comes into view at the mouth of the corridor, he stares at the two of us in puzzlement. But, when he could reach for the pistol resting on his belt, my friend with the mohawk springs into action, and cuts the throat of the man with a knife taken from his vest with deadly precision, before the guy would have the chance to alert what a pleasant new company his gang has got in our person. Like a waterfall set free, the blood gushes out of the wound, and with wide-open eyes, desperately gaping, he tries to press his palms to the slit, but the crimson liquid escapes unstoppably between his fingers, and my stomach tightens from the metallic smell. But it's more of a reflexive response than true hunger, and my eyes instinctively fixate on the delicacy that slowly drenches the man's jacket, then draws a dark puddle around him as he sprawls on the ground with one last choked gasp. And luckily for this wretch, because of my self-control and Riley's surprisingly nutritious blood, I don't feel the insatiable urge to crank up his agony with a nice little snacking.

"We're goin' in. On me." MacTavish says, gesturing towards the room with his head, and I nod, adjusting my finger on the trigger, giving him the kick-start to push forward with the determination of a true professional. And when he steps into the spacious room bathed in light, then, without hesitation, he aims at the scumbags that are hanging out there, immediately putting a bullet in the head of one of them, as soon as he jumps up to honor the surprise that we give them.

And emerging from behind his strong figure, I launch myself into the attack, and thanks to the many hours spent with suffering on the shooting range, it's much easier for me to shoot the big guy standing guard in front of the double doors on the other side of the hall, who, thanks to my clever little ambush, falls down to the pale blue tile with a pained scream. However, there is no time to pat myself on the back for my magnificent performance, because much sooner than that, another volunteer charges at me, swinging his knife at me to try to reshape my face. But the lack of coordination in his movements gives me enough time, and my body acts much faster. I bend down to get out of the way of the blade, and taking advantage of his surprise, I point the barrel of my gun at his stomach, so that I can reorganize his internal organs with my bullets at friendly close range. Warm blood splashes on my face, but it doesn't affect me one bit, because it gives me much more satisfaction to see him stagger backwards, with genuine shock on his face, like a wounded animal. I don't feel an iota of guilt, because they didn't show a shred of compassion when they were playing hide ans seek with the defenseless staff in the research institute. Fate gives everyone what they deserve. And I don't even want to deny that it fills me with great pleasure to be able to contribute to its vendetta.

It's all but a few minutes, and all the stray sounds of our incipient fight die down, leaving nothing but the angry pattering of the rain on windows stretching up to the ceiling on the side of the room. The Scottish Hunter finishes off the last bandit as I straighten up and turn around to see how many enemies he has left me. He effortlessly pulls out the knife from the head of a bald man, which he could have sunk into his skull up to the hilt with an impossible force, and then, wiping the blade with a careless movement, steps back, allowing the lifeless body to fall into the empty pool in the middle of the room. And as it lands with a dull thud, it kicks up decades old dirt that has gathered in dirty stains on the dried, mosaic-like tiles.

"There is something behind the door that was worth being protected." I conclude as I take a look at the unmoving criminals spread out on the floor, quickly counting all eight that have got together so intimately in this cozy little hall. And since I suspect that they didn't gather among the remains of the indoor swimming pool because of nostalgia for the past, therefore they could only try to hide something very interesting behind that door, in front of which now lies the still corpse of the humongous gang member I shot.

"Probably the hostages." MacTavish notes walking beside me, his blue eyes fixed on the tastefully crafted solid wood entrance, slowly sliding his knife back into its pouch resting on his shoulder strap. And there is no mistake in his assumption, because it has already come to light that at least one person is being held captive in this magnificent shithole. But even if a dozen defenseless civilians were locked up here, far fewer armed guards would have been enough to keep them in check, especially if they were so weakened that life had to be breathed into them by force. They were trying to protect something else with such fearful concern here.

"Fewer people would have been enough for that. There is something else there." I cast my significant gaze on my friend, and he turns his head to me with his eyebrows furrowed. But as our eyes meet, he understands without words what I'm getting at. If something very important, say a super-secret chemical created by the government, is buried on the other side, then it's very reasonable for a bunch of guards to stand by, vigilantly waiting to see if someone comes to retrieve it.

"Let's go." The Hunter sets off with renewed motivation, and I follow him with no less vigor, because the knowledge that the end of this fucking parade overflowing with chaos can be within arms reach makes my steps much more faster. We cross the room briskly, so that when we reach the threshold of our next goal, I step over the bloodied man lying there and smooth my hand on the doorknob, glancing expectantly at the Hunter. And when he pulls himself together with his assault rifle raised and nods towards me, ready to attack, I push the door open with a decisive movement and let MacTavish charge forward, who rushes past me immediately.

But as I enter as well, and the spacious suite is revealed to me, I'm greeted by nothing but silence and a multitude of unknown crates, which are piled next to each other in rough irregularity, covering the space of a room that was once worth a fortune. And I don't have to tear any of them open to know what's in them, because the smell of gunpowder permeates the air like a disease. Lowering his weapon, the man with the mohawk ventures further into the room, opening one of the large boxes with bewilderment, and when I catch a glimpse of the metallic shine of the almost untouched rifles in it, I'm overcome with confusion similar to my friend's. I expected to find a couple of questionable, but all the more valuable items, but the absence of the hostages, and especially the lack of the serum, raises a series of dangerous questions in my head. Why was it necessary to protect stolen firearms so enthusiastically? Of course, I understand that goods have to be protected, but they can't just walk away, can they?

But when a disapproving grunt-like voice erupts from my Scottish companion, I quickly understand what could have needed such an awful lot of protection besides the rifles. As soon as the first bag full of white powder is found in another opened box, it becomes very obvious that these bandits got their hands on everything that could be used to bring in even the smallest amount of credits. So it's not so surprising that they were willing to cross the wilderness teeming with mutants and slaughter a whole group of unsuspecting researchers for the sake of profit. Of course, that still leaves one question open. Where are the civilians?

But I don't have time to dwell on that, because a roaring bang shakes the building out of nowhere, sending fine plaster dust from the ceiling into my rain-drenched hair. I smooth the damp dirt from my face with the back of my hand, smearing the drops of blood there, only glancing questioningly at MacTavish, on whose face suddenly the apparent gloom deepens, as if he knows that this noise can only mean trouble. And without a doubt, it does, because when he rushes to one of the boarded-up windows and peeks through the gap, he reaches for his radio in the middle of cussing.

"Ghost! What the hell is goin' on there?" He shouts into the device, and his deep voice is filled with such tension that I'm becoming more and more curious as to what his clever eyes could have seen in the yard that caused such concern on his face. But, as I walk towards him, a small, tormented whimper pierces through the chaos that has arisen, which reminds me more of the cry of a tortured animal than of a human being. And that instantly distracts me from the man and the troubling goings-on outside, as the uncomfortable pull in my stomach automatically directs my eyes to the single door on the side of the room.

"We found the target. It's a Hunter and he resists." Riley's hoarse baritone sounds in my ears, but the weight of the information doesn't reach my consciousness due to the noise of the alarm bells going off in my brain. I don't even register as the Hunter, hearing the new information, bursts out in colorful insults, because my legs instinctively take me towards my discovery, and with each step, the soft, muffled sobs become louder, which another voice tries to shush to silence.

"Woods, we have to go!" My partner suddenly calls out after me, but I don't even listen to his urging, because I'm already in front of the unknown entrance, and before he can inquire further about what the hell I'm doing, instead of rushing to the aid of our team with him, I already lock my fingers onto the doorknob and turn it without thinking, opening the wooden panel with a sudden movement.

And the blood freezes in my veins when I see what awaits me beyond the doorway. The light coming from behind me eerily paints the dim little bathroom, and licks at the figure of two strangers clinging to each other, backed into one of the corners. The boy, whose dirt-darkened face is smeared with lines of fresh tears, can't be more than fifteen, but a thousand years of pain and fear are concentrated in his eyes widening in alarm, as he curls up shivering in the embrace of protectively intertwined arms. The bony hands clenched around him bear the angry contours of several old wounds and dozens of seemingly new bruises, and even in spite of this, the woman, trembling, but all the more determined, pulls her protégé's body, weak from malnutrition, to her chest, saying with every cell that she will protect the poor kid even with her last breath. And as my eyes slide down to her ankles, where the thick shackles have rubbed spots blooming in black and purple, and then my gaze moves up and takes in the brownish scales of dried blood on the inside of her thighs, my stomach is clenched with such force by desperate rage that I can only forcefully hold back the scream that threatens to burst out of my throat. Because it doesn't take much logic to deduce who is held here in such high esteem when a Hunter is the leader of the whole fucking group.

"What the hell..." Comes the shocked question from MacTavish as he suddenly appears next to me, both of them flinching in fear at the man's voice. The boy starts to cry with renewed force, and the horrified sob that escapes from his chapped lips squeezes my insides as if someone had hit me in the stomach full force with a hammer. And this instinctively makes my hand reach back and motion to the Hunter to back away, and without taking my eyes off the pair I crouch down, laying my weapon on the ground with such caution as if with each movement I risked them disappearing into the shadows stretching behind them. And without a doubt, they would most likely want to do that, because the utterly distrustful look with which they follow me the entire time reveals that there is nothing else in this world that they wouldn't expect to hurt them, for they have already experienced so much misery.

"It's okay, you have nothing to fear. I'm a Healer too." I point to myself, and I try with every fiber of my being to move tenderness into my voice, which is difficult not because I rarely had to practice it, but because of the rage screaming in my brain, since I would rather gut the bastard who was capable of doing this. "I want to help. Don't be afraid."

And although the terror eases for a bit, with which they press themselves into the musty walls, but as the boy timidly pulls away from the woman a little, his bare legs emerge from under his outstretched T-shirt, and thus every desperate inch of his nakedness is revealed, then something quite terrifying, hot feeling flares up inside me. Because when I see the hand-like marks on his narrow, bony hips, the sure knowledge that the sick bastard who brought them here hasn’t spared any of them settles into my mind with a cruel force. And when my gaze, darkened by recognition, meets the woman's silent, distraught eyes, I can read from them that the horror that unfolded before me is only the tip of the iceberg. Fuck.

⃰

My legs take me almost automatically through the labyrinth of the unknown base, and even I'm surprised by how quickly I rush out into the yard, finding the familiar hangar and continuing my journey there. But my brain is too busy to have the energy to praise myself for my excellent orientation skills. Because every single nerve cell of mine is woven through with that icy rage that has nested itself in all the corners of my body like an infectious disease. And even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to overcome the destructive storm raging under the surface, because I still vividly remember what kind of injuries I discovered on the bodies of the two Healers when I finally treated them after we returned to the KorTac base with the separatist leader in our hands. The mission ended with a rapid success after the minor complication, and the knowledge that we are one step closer to finding the serum should cheer me up, but I felt their trembling under my own hands when I supported them out of that damned cesspool. And it isn't difficult to imagine what kind of treatment they received, if the boy was already clinging to me with fear when MacTavish tried to give him a coat. I saw in my mind's eye every single bone that had just been fused together, every single scar and bruise, and also the wounds that one can only suffer when a beast cannot command its fucking dick and stucks it into everything, it doesn't matter if the hole it found, what or who it belongs to.

I stare straight ahead as I enter the vast space of the hangar, and I'm only vaguely aware of how readily the soldiers passing by move out of my way when they see the frozen expression on my face. At other times, it might fill me with morbid joy to see what effect I can have on my environment, but now only one goal guides and directs me towards the container resting in the corner. I want to show that fucking sadistic bastard with my own hands, what kind of torture can drive a man to the point of begging for death.

But when I get close enough to the large metal cage, a strong figure appears in front of me almost out of nowhere, and it takes me a second to realize who is standing before me through the fog of fury raging in my head. The Korean man holds out one of his camo-clad hands in front of me, causing me to halt and take a deep breath, trying to muster every last spark of my self-control before I would jump on him with an inarticulate yell and help him stand aside.

"You can't go in, there's an interrogation going on." Horangi declares firmly, and even though I can't see his face, I can sense from his accent that he is very serious about his statement intended as an instruction. And maybe it's not customary for them to allow simple Healers to interfere in the busy work of the Hunters, but right now I don't care in the least what traditions and rules they keep here. Because my patience is hanging on by a thread, and every single obstacle that stands between me and my victim dangerously stretches my tolerance to the point of snapping.

"If you don't get out of my way, I'll kill you." I inform him without a flinch, and I flash my eyes at him with such a significant warning that even a brainless idiot would be able to understand that I'm one step away from sending him to the other world. And in any other case, maybe with my sharp tongue and brilliant mind, I would come up with a good little ploy to trick and manipulate him, but this isn't the point where I feel like wasting my precious time on such things.

He examines me silently for a moment, and I can almost hear the battle of arguments in his head, with which he considers how much it pays off for him to stand in my way now. He also knows that if he wanted to, he could easily overpower me, but I know that the murderous temper in my eyes promises him enough trouble if he insists on following the protocols. And it seems that my aura has become sinister enough to make him come around, because he steps aside with a staged sigh and folds his hands in front of his chest, turning his attention back to guarding instead.

"They don't pay enough for this." He grumbles almost to himself, shaking his head in resignation, but apart from the sounds of his complaining, does nothing to keep me back in my little action. And I only give him one last fleeting glance, and then without any further hesitation, I tear open the door perhaps more violently than necessary, because the anger pulsating in my muscles removes all caution from my limbs.

As the small room opens up in front of me, all eyes are fixed on me almost at the same time, my presence interrupting the important conversation spiced with violence that they are currently having. My senses catch the grimness with which Riley turns towards me, and if I were a little calmer, I would stop to analyze the force with which his fingers tighten around the knife clutched in his hand, as he studies the motionless look on my face more closely. But even though the Hunter attracts my attention, I can only focus on one person now, and he sits in the middle of the room on a battered chair with such superiority, as if he weren't surrounded by three mountain-sized men trained to kill. And even though König slowly grasps a hammer in his hands, which can mean nothing but pain to him, he has the strength to put a cocky grin on his face. And suddenly it becomes quite obvious that, in spite of the beating they gave this scumbag, they still haven't managed to get him to talk. Never mind. I'll handle this.

"Woods!" MacTavish turns to me, and from the concern in his voice, I can sense quite simply that now he doesn't want me to witness all this bloody fun in the least. And certainly not because he wants to spare my sensitive psyche from watching someone being tortured for information, but because he saw exactly the effect it had on me when I had the opportunity to admire the handiwork of this separatist bastard on his two victims.

Without a sound, I close the door of the interrogation room behind me, and it seems that our prisoner is slowly realizing that a new guest has arrived at the party organized in his honor. And as his eyes glide over me, and I discover in them the disgusting hunger with which such sick fucks usually ogle at their prey, then the anger pulsing inside me spreads to my limbs like lava. Because the first reflexive thought that pops into my mind is the body of the two Healers shaking with terror as this pair of filthy eyes stares at them from the threshold of their prison.

"You finally brought a hottie here!" Exclaims the bandit cheerfully, not even noticing how the masked Hunter takes a threatening step towards him because of this small remark, perhaps hoping that this will be enough to shut this idiot up. But it seems that although he is running a race with wisdom, unfortunately, it's still faster than him. Because if he had any sense, he wouldn't raise his head like an alpha male, and he would know what a tight spot he was in. "This is an Extreme! I've never fucked one before... Come here baby, let's talk!" He whistles to me, as if he was just trying to lure a dog to him, and there is no doubt that he doesn't regard my kind as more than pretty, useful little animals.

"Shut the fuck up!" MacTavish gets angry on my behalf, and shakes the leader of the separatists with such anger that the chair cries out with wild creak. And other times, I would feel the warmth rising in my stomach at my friend with the mohawk trying to protect me and my honor, but this turn of events awakens such a worrying joy in me that even I get scared for a minute. And I can clearly perceive the confusion on the face of the Scottish Hunter, when a seductive smile appears on my face suddenly in place of the icy anger, as I stroll closer to the stage with comfortable steps, where I will show the performance of my life.

"It's all right, Soap." I carelessly wave to the aforementioned person, and I can tell from the arch of his worriedly furrowing eyebrows, how much my mood, which took a one hundred and eighty turn, fills him with doubts. But soon he will understand what's going on, he doesn't have to be afraid. "You want to talk to me? You're in luck because I've been waiting for this opportunity. And now that you're sitting here all tied up like a gift... It all feels like a fucking miracle." I note, slowly running my hands along the line of my breasts hidden in my T-shirt, and the gaze of the captured criminal follows the path of my mischievous little fingers with such diligence, as if he were hypnotized. And it's likely the case, because it doesn't even register to him how unnatural is the carefree airiness with which I bypass a grim Riley, and with which I push König away with a soft touch, who, despite our brief acquaintance, backs up to the wall of the container without question.

"You have good taste, baby." The man grins with satisfaction, and it's easy to read from the superiority prevailing on his features that he really believes this to be true. He thinks he is a real jackpot, and I fell in love at first sight and danced in front of him, perhaps in the hope that such a big and strong Hunter boy would finally grace me with his attention. Because it's ridiculously obvious that according to his beliefs, a Healer is born only to serve. How cute.

However, when I arrive in front of him and lean forward, my hands slide onto his thighs, and my fingers sensually squeeze the flesh under the blood-stained fabric, then I see uncertainty run through his mind for a second. But that little spark that would prompt suspicion doesn't last long, because as I kneel between his legs tied to the chair, the two little brain cells that might still be functioning in his head go silent with alarming speed. His pupils dilate almost magically, and it's pathetic how his mouth hangs open as I slowly start massaging the tortured muscles with my palm. How terribly stupid.

"Why don't we play a little, hmm?" I ask softly, giving him a lustful look from under my eyelashes, conveying innocent longing to him with every cell, as if I had no greater desire in this world than to play with him. And it's true. It's an insignificant detail, that he and I are thinking of different kind of fun.

"Now?" The first recognizable wrinkles of doubt appear on his forehead, when reality suddenly penetrates the sensual images dancing in his fantasy. And I have to forcefully suppress the laughter that rises in my throat when he fixes his gaze almost shamefully on the Hunters who have retreated to be the audience. As if the sense of embarrassment had revived in him for a moment, and he would be disturbed by the witnesses, before whom he acted so confident a minute ago. But I don't allow him to sink into this wandering fear, because as one of my fingers travels up to his face and redirects his concentration back to me, I press closer to him, making sure that every inviting inch and curve of my body comes into contact with him.

"Don't pay attention to them. I'm a little shy, but I'll make an exception for you." I purr sweetly, smearing the blood that escaped from the cut across his face with my thumb, as I stroke the damaged skin almost soothingly. I can hear the air getting stuck in his throat as I slowly raise my crimson-painted finger to my lips and clean the delicious liquid with my tongue. How awfully simple.

"You're a little whore, aren't you?" That disgustingly amused grin returns to his face, simultaneously throwing aside any sanity that might have lurked in his head. But I don't blame him for being frivolous, because I know exactly what qualities genetics has blessed me with, and I've managed to sweep my victims off their feet many times with this and my perfectly honed manipulation. After all, what kind of predator would I be if I couldn't lull the vigilance of my prey?

I capture his gaze with unceasing enthusiasm, as I pull away from him to sit on my heels, and the disappointed moan that escapes from his mouth is pitiful. But I won't leave him anxious for long, because I grab his tattered shirt and release it from the grip of his pants with a firm movement, so that my nimble little hands can find their way to every unprotected inch of his stomach. And as my palm smooths over the hot skin, I feel how willingly it shivers under my gentle touch, like a real bewitched idiot.

"You like that, hmm?" I hum sensually, and when my curious energy slowly creeps into him through my fingers, goosebumps rise up under my hand as he closes his eyes accompanied by a sigh full of pleasure. And this is the number one mistake that a smart person would never make. They would not lose sight of their enemy, who, although approaches him with nice words and even kinder gestures, still wants his fall. But one learns the most from the lessons they suffer on their own skin. And now I will teach him wisdom that he will never forget.

In my mind, the intricate network of blood vessels weaving through his body appears, and my practiced little skill doesn't need more than a few seconds to find those extremely interesting little veins and arteries that will now play such an important role in pleasing this big boy. And as the slow wave of my energy causes the blood to start flowing out of the sensitive body part, I direct my eyes with the keen attention of a snake in ambush on the man caught in my claws. I don't have to be disappointed, because even I can feel in my fingertips how the typical tingle that is so characteristic of malfunctioning circulation appears in his muscles. And this disturbs his self-absorbed intoxication just enough, because his eyebrows meet with such incomprehension, as if he had just woken up from a deep sleep.

"What…. what's happening?” The disoriented question breaks out of him, and he fixes his gaze on me suspiciously, as if he would already start to suspect that he didn't quite get the entertainment he signed up for. And I no longer feel the need to continue my masterful performance, which he has so stupidly fallen victim to so far. And when the seductive mask slips off, and a cruel smile crosses my face in its place, I can almost see foreboding flashing into that weak mind of his.

"You may start to feel weird down here because I'm directing the blood out from your little friend." I note simply, as if I were stating a completely self-evident fact, and the stupid expression that appears on his face was worth all the pretense I had to show. His eyes widen almost comically, as he stares at his lap with such shocked dismay, as if he would hope that this moment will dissolve into the bizarre image of a terrible nightmare. But no. The mouth-watering feeling is very real, as after the blood slowly trickles away under my blessed ability, a numbness mixed with pain awakens in that tiny little tool of which he is so fucking proud.

"What the hell are you talking about?" He blurts out, and although he still wants to look very stern, I can hear his voice cracking with recognition. Now he can start to notice this unpleasant spasmodic feeling quite sharply, which arises as a result of my vile little activity, and which causes a dull ache to creep into his groin. And there is no more charming sight in the world than this stupid meathead sinking into despair. "Stop it, you sick bitch!" He snarls at me, emphasizing all his threatening aggression, but unfortunately, he doesn't seem dangerous as he begins to strain wildly against his unbreakable shackles. Because although he may be a Hunter, and he has increased strength and endurance, the chains prepared by my friends were invented for bad boys like him.

"Oh, what's wrong? I thought you wanted me to play with your dick..." I pout with fake sadness, cooing to him with such contemptuous disdain, as if I were just trying to reason with a hysterical child. And from the small tantrum he throws, which causes him to try to tear his hands out of the thick handcuffs amidst loud grunting, he seems no more than a overgrown baby. "Oh, my bad. I forgot to tell you that I like it rough." I spit, putting an edge imbued with caustic sarcasm in my voice, and there is nothing charming in that grin that flashes all my teeth, which I twist on my mouth.

He would try to speak, and maybe he would swear at me with some very macho harshness, but as I speed up the adventurous migration of blood from his cock with another burst of energy, a tortured moan erupts from his throat from the sharp pain that surely penetrates him by now. Small drops of cold sweat surface on his forehead, and I almost feel sorry for him from the look of terror on his face. But that's not enough. Because although he's slowly realizing what a sadistic little game I've lured him into, I still don't see the despair I'm looking for.

"Maybe I should make blood clots in your veins. You know what happens when a part of your body doesn't get blood, right? No nutrients, no oxygen..." I dwell on the endless possibilities, tilting my head curiously, and even he, with his small brain capacity, can understand what the consequences are when the tissues are left without blood supply. And, as he comprehends that neither his physical strength nor his ability to intimidate will get him out of this situation, then dread glides through his features with such a spectacular fastness that it's a joy to watch.

"Please don't..." He begins to plead, and the hoarseness that moves to his voice from the panic bubbling up in his throat is music to my ears. And when I see the first glistening pearls of tears in his eyes, the hatred burning in my stomach swells with contented joy, because the visceral desperation that takes shape on his face is quite wonderful. And the sugary-sweet smile that curls up the corners of my mouth at the sight of his misery may even seem sick, but this bastard deserves every moment of suffering, because there is so much pain stuck to his hands that no amount of shame and agony can wash away. And I'm not afraid to become ruthless and mean to help him taste what it's like to be truly defenseless and helpless.

"Oh, no, no, no! Don't cry! This is fun! It's like an experiment!" I lean closer to him, caressing his belly with mocking tenderness, and he jerks under my hand with reflexive speed from the delicate gesture. Shuddering, he tries to pull away from me, as if he wanted to merge with the back of the chair, but it's futile to think that he will be able to escape from this difficult situation. I enjoy it too much. "If we wait long enough, it will fall off! Or even start to rot! But don't worry, you'll still be able to get laid! Maybe you'll be able to fuck yourself with your own dick!" I continue my musing with unhinged glee, watching as his teeth clench with painful force, as his sanity and self-respect clash for dominance. And when a choking sound escapes from him, with which he tries to stifle the silent sobs shaking his chest, then I know I've broken him.

"Please, please... I'll do anything, just don't..." He whimpers, and a thick vein on his neck pops out from the effort he uses to force these pathetic words out of himself. I know he'd rather bite his own tongue for stooping so low, but he is just the kind of cretin that can be led on by a trick like that. He gets rid of every ounce of self-esteem in an instant with his plea, no doubt hoping that a pretty woman like me might have enough compassion to take pity on him. But he picked a fight with the wrong person. Because the circle of those who can create such tender feelings in me is very narrow. And of course, nasty pests are not among them.

"If you want me to stop, then start talking." I willingly offer him the obvious solution, and when he looks at me wild with desperation, I can see the long series of thoughts going through his head, with which he tries to process what I'm asking of him. And there can definitely be important information in that ugly little head of his, if even when he is up to his neck in a stinking pile of shit, he vacillates about whether to share it with us. "Because the clock is ticking." I remind him, imitating the rhythmic clicking of the hands of the clock with my index finger, and I can feel him twitch with increasing tension under my hands with each small tap. A suffocating minute passes as I stare unblinkingly at him and drum with unbroken enthusiasm on his bruised stomach, sending the blood further and further away from his jewels with each movement. And now the tears are starting to flow in rich streams on his face, which is almost purple in color, mixing with the sweat, which is slowly covering every inch of his skin from the pain caused by my little game.

"I don't have the serum!" He finally surrenders, almost shouting his confession, as his mouth opens wide with a tortured whimper, when I continue my treacherous little activity just to be sure. "I sold it to a guy named Rat! He has his network in Colony No. 2, he said he'll hand it over to his customer there!" He spills the info eagerly, and even though every word is raspy with the aching pulsing with even force in his lap, the obedience with which he surrenders to my will is music to my ears. And suddenly I'm filled with intense pride from the knowledge that I could be of such great help to my friends who are shrouded in eerie silence leaning against the wall, and that I got the information out of this asshole that had become our prey, which they didn't manage to beat out of him. Each vermin requires a different approach, it seems. And I'm lucky that not a prouder and smarter person is the head of Vultures, because it wouldn't have been possible to back anyone other than him into a corner so easily by threatening to make his junk fall off.

"There you go! It wasn't that hard, was it?" I pull my hands out from under the sweat-soaked textile, patting his thigh with such belittling tenderness, as if I wanted to praise a dog that performed a clever trick. And the relieved sigh with which he finally calms down a bit is quite sweet, and as soon as a breath of his confidence returns him, and he fixes his eyes on me expectantly, then I simply push myself away from him to stand up, turning my back on him to head for the interrogator's door without any further discussion. And now, for the first time, my undivided attention is diverted from my prey long enough for me to catch the expression on my companions' faces, and from the way MacTavish's brows furrow in bewilderment and dread, I have to forcefully suppress the outline of a cheeky smile that wants to curve at the corner of my mouth. I forgot that even though I had already entertained Riley with my slyness, the Scotsman hadn't yet had the chance to witness my questionable tactics.

"Hey! What are you doing? You said you would stop!" The leader of the separatists finally comes to his senses, and I just glance at him over my shoulder. And although I know that the trauma of the two Healers won't be nullified by my little revenge, it cannot be denied that the stunned distress with which he gapes at me, dispels the anger gnawing at my insides. And I wish that the two of them could see how deep a hole such a freak can crawl into, if sufficient methods are used to help him back to the edge of the abyss. But maybe it will give them a little joy to know that the bastard, who so indulgently laid his filthy hands on them in every way imaginable, will be forced to live out the rest of his pathetic life with his dick rotting away like a useless leather hose in his pants.

"It's a shame that I'm a filthy liar." I shrug my shoulders with noble simplicity, telling him with every inch of me that this is no longer my problem. And from my periphery, I can clearly see how my masked companion coks his head to the side in interest, and as our eyes meet, I see the dark little sparks in them when he realizes how freely I used the strategy that he presented to me so kindly during Valeria's interrogation. I've learned from the best.

"You dirty little bitch! Once I get my hands on you, I'll gut you! Do you hear me?!" The criminal indulges in his scary threats, and every muscle in his face tenses with rage as he spits his curses at me. And when I only raise my head with a pitying look, he loses himself in his rampage with such vigor that the chair he was enslaved to begins to shake amidst wild creaking. But no matter how hard he struggles, no matter how hard he tries to tear his hands from the chains, a D-class fool is unable to perform the same magic tricks my friends can do. Because my Scottish friend and his bosom friend would have already folded bows out of the metal by now. How utterly sad.

However, it seems that our new helper gets bored much sooner with this ridiculous interlude, in which our prisoner sinks more and more violently by the minute, because König appears in front of him so quickly, and grabs the separatist leader's throat without any warning, that every sound of his angry protest boils in his throat in a second. And he doesn't even have time to react, for the Hunter lifts the guy up by the neck along with the chair to then throw him to the ground, and as he lands on the floor of the container, the chair breaks into pieces with a tortured crash. And even before the outlaw could collect the thoughts of opposition in his brain, dulled by surprise and pain, his attacker makes sure that he stays where he had so kindly laid him down.

König's foot chruses on his victim's chest like a press, and an interesting hissing sound leaves the throat of the man lying among the pieces of broken furniture, as his mouth slowly opens to shout, but only a forced groan comes out. And although from the hooded Hunter's perspective, it all seems nothing more than when someone methodically tramples on a bug, I know how much strength it takes to coax this sick sound out of someone. The morbid sight lasts just a second longer than it should, just long enough for the halfwit writhing on the ground to feel how fleeting and senseless end his life has came to. And it occurs to me that there is no hesitation in this, only pure cruel pleasure, because as the protective wall of our prisoner's ribcage gives way with a sudden crackle under the heavy boot, even though his face is covered by the loose fabric, I see the satisfaction flash in the cold blue eyes, with which he watches the foamy path of the blood gushing from the lips of his prey stretched out in the dirt.

And I know that I'm not imagining those cheerful little wrinkles that appear around the skin covered in dark paint, as he turns towards me, towering above the now motionless dead body, and our gaze intertwines. And because of this, the restless voice in my head warns me to be careful in a tenth of a second, because I can't think of a good explanation for why I discover the invisible line of a smile around his eyes emerging from under the textile. What the hell?

31 notes · View notes

inkykeiji · 3 years

Note

clariboo have u ever thought about what would happen in the touya nii verse when they get older? would touya still want reader when she’s not the cutesy lil thing she is now? would they try to get married and have kids of their own or are they just not the type? i love analyzing dark content when put in a context like this!!

ANONNNNN <33 i have!!

would touya still want reader when she’s not the cutesy lil thing she is now?

yes, absolutely, 110%. that’s the thing about reader; she ensnares him with MORE than her looks. and this is why in the main series he tries so hard to resist it and resist the vulnerable feelings she instills in him, because this is the first time he’s actually been IN LOVE, and the first time he’s been attracted to someone’s soul just as much as their beauty. he loves everything about her, and initially this seriously scared him. but YES he will love her forever—they could be at the nursing home in their 70s and 80s and old man touya would be grabbing his cane ready to clobber that jackass across the bingo hall who’s supposedly eyeing his lady <3

would they try to get married and have kids of their own or are they just not the type?

i dunno if they’d officially get married, because u kno incest and all that, but they’d definitely get rings because she’d totally want one, maybe do a cute lil mock ceremony with kei as the officiant and their closest friends (no tomura allowed) LMAO but it’s a big huge massive NO to children. i answered something similar to this a while ago; it’s buried somewhere in the touya-nii universe tag, but to summarize what i said there really briefly: they just are NOT fit to be parents. they’re too selfish and definitely not mentally fit for the massive responsibility a child is!!

85 notes · View notes

disasterofastory · 2 years

Text

She is the man (Sihtric x Reader)

She is the man

Sihtric x Reader

Warnings: let’s pretend it’s easy to disguise your gender from the men you spent your days with, otherwise this story doesn’t work, mention of sex

Summary: The boys ask you a favor but during your journey, they find out your secret.

Your life became so much easier the moment you decided to disguise yourself as a man. You cut off your hair and forgot about dresses and jewelry. In the middle of the night, you stole some clothes from your brother and left your home on horseback. You didn’t dare to stop for days to get far enough from the village you grew up. And after some more travel, you found yourself in Coccham, and Lord Uhtred gave you a job in the stables for a small hut not far from the village’s center. Of course, you eagerly accepted the offer, and with some hard work and stubbornness, you proved yourself good enough for the job.

So you stayed in Coccham as Archie.

Of course, being a boy doesn’t mean you don’t have problems anymore. They are just different. You have to prove your masculinity all the time, even more so, because, despite your age, you are too fragile and small compared to the warriors. But it doesn’t matter. You are good with the horses, and you keep the stables as clean as possible. Most of the time, you try to stay away from everyone. If you want to keep your secret, you can’t get close to anyone, and usually, it’s okay for you. The horses are good company, and the small talks with the owners are enough for you. But there are times when you wish for more. There are times when you want to go out to drink with somebody or feel less alone in the world.

A huge sigh leaves your lips as you straighten yourself. Your breath is heavy because of the gauze around your chest. The feeling is familiar since you have to push your breasts down, and you do it every morning. The oversized clothes help to hide whatever curve you have on your body, and thanks to your job, your face is always smeared, disguising your girlish features.

Heavy footsteps break the silence after a few seconds, and soon you can hear the familiar voices too.

“And how do we want to do it?” Finan asks from nowhere. “They would recognize Sihtric and the others are too loud to spy.”

“We will figure it out,” Uhtred replies. “We don’t really have another choice.”

“Maybe we could send a woman,” Sihtric offers, but the others reject the idea rather quickly, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. You turn around to continue your work when Finan appears in front of the stall you are currently in.

“Archie,” he says your name as a greeting with a huge smile on his face. “We didn’t even hear you are here.”

As the words leave his mouth, the others join him, and a strange expression appears on their faces.

“Yes, Archie,” Uhtred says with more meaning in his voice. “We didn’t notice you.”

As they look at each other, you start to worry.

“So, what do you want me to do?” You ask them again later, sitting at the Great Hall with Uhtred, Finan, and Sihtric.

“You’ll spy on the Danes,” Finan replies like it’s the easiest thing to do in the world.

You hum in answer, still shocked and worried.

“You don’t have to worry,” Sihtric responds to your silence. “We will be there, and don’t let anything happen to you.”

“And I will pay you for it, of course,” Uhtred adds, and if you want to be honest, it’s a good reason to accept their offer. You could use some more money if you don’t die, of course.

“When will we go?” You ask them after a while.

“Tomorrow,” the Lord answers, and you nod.

“Okay, okay,” you nod, trying to process the situation. “I will go.”

“Great,” Finan grins, raising the cup in his hand.

They tell you everything you need to know and ask you to join them for some fun at the alehouse, but you refuse, saying you would rather go to sleep before the journey. In reality, you can’t let yourself get drunk in front of so many people. Who knows what would happen or what you would do while you are drunk. It’s too much risk.

As you leave the Hall, you don’t notice Sihtric’s gaze on you. The Dane has a weird feeling about you since you came here, but even after these years, he still couldn’t figure you out. You are quiet but fun to talk to, and despite the big clothes you wear, you awake some interesting desires in him he tries to suppress every damn time he sees you.

That night, after he is done at the alehouse, he makes his way to the brothel, asking for a whore who is the most similar to you.

The morning comes too quickly for your liking. Before you went to sleep last night, you cut your hair some more, not knowing when you’ll have the opportunity to maintain your disguise. You wake up earlier than usual to get ready for the journey. You pack a few things and bind your chest more securely than usual. The horses are saddled and ready to go by the time the others arrive. Finan seems like he has a hangover, while Sihtric is disturbed and quieter. The only person, who is ready for the travel is Uhtred, who comes with his wife at his side.

Gisela's smile is gentle and knowing as she looks up at you, sitting on your horse. She kisses his husband as a goodbye while you try to busy yourself with something. You always do everything to avoid her. You always had the feeling, she knows about your secret but never said anything about it, and you are perfectly fine with your unspoken deal.

“Are you ready?” Uhtred asks you, encouraging his horse to move.

“As I can be,” you nod, following them out of the village’s gate where Osferth already waits for you.

The travel is quiet and uneventful the first days. You enjoy the small freedom far away from Coccham and the stables while the other four men joke around with each other. It’s really interesting, watching them talk with each other without a woman's presence. They are not ashamed to talk about their visits to the brothel and their preferences about women.

“Did you see the redhead?” Finan asks. He is loud and merry. “I could die as a happy man between those tits.”

“And what about you, Archie?” Uhtred questions you, looking over at his shoulder to see you. “I never saw you with another woman or with anybody for the matter.”

“I-I…” you start uncertainly. “I just didn’t find the right one yet.”

You cringe at your words while the others laugh at you. How could you say something like this?!

“Are you a monk too?” Finan mocks you, still laughing. “Seems like we have to find you a woman too.”

“I don’t need you to find me a whore, Finan,” Osferth argues immediately, so you can relax against the saddle. Everyone starts to mock the poor bastard of King Alfred.

What you don’t notice is Sihtric’s glances to your way from the corner of his eyes.

When the night comes, you take care of the horses while the others make the camp. When you are done, they are already eating, and Osferth gives you a bowl of soup too.

“So,” Sihtric starts, looking at you over the fire. “We don’t really know you, Archie.”

“There is nothing to know,” you shrug. “My parents died from sickness, I left everything to travel, and I found Coccham.”

“And you good with horses,” Finan adds, and you nod.

“So, no family?”

“No,” you reply. “Just me and my horse.”

You keep your past simple and easy to remember, so you don’t get confused over your lies. You are nothing more than a stable boy, and it’s okay. It’s still better than being a wife of a fat fuck who doesn’t care about you.

The dawn comes with sunshine, and you are ready to continue your way after breakfast.

“We should bathe,” Finan says, sniffing his armpit with a grimace. “At least till the weather is good.”

“We will stop at the river,” Uhtred nods. “You smell like horseshit.”

“That’s Archie,” the Irishman argues. “There is not enough water and soap to get him rid of the stable’s stench.”

“Yes, but you still smell like horseshit,” you reply, adjusting yourself on the saddle.

“He is right,” Sihtric agrees with a mocking smile, slowing down his horse to walk next to you.

“At least you don’t smell like a whore anymore,” Finan responds, and Sihtric’s face becomes stoic for a second. He still remembers the petite woman he fucked the other night. He came onto her stomach, imagining your face.

“Go,” you tell them after a while. “I’ll watch the horses while you bathe.”

Your stomach is in a twist as you watch them disappear among the trees while you stay. You have to bathe, and you really need it, without getting caught. It shouldn’t be so hard, yes? You go into the water, wash, and get dressed while the boys are as far away from you as you can manage. Yeah, it will work.

No, it doesn’t.

Your heart beats in your throat as you hide behind the rocks. The water is cold around your waist, and your lips are dry, trying to suppress your wheezing. Your whole body is pressed against the rough surface, hoping you stay unnoticed before the strangers. You can see them, looking over your things while they talk, but you don’t understand a thing about it. They are Danes with heavy swords and rumbling voices. The fear freezes your body and your mind. You have no idea what you should do before they notice your presence, and seeing their attention turning to the river, you don’t have a lot of time.

And then, you make your first mistake.

You try to step closer to the rocks, hiding among them, but the ground is slippery, and you fall into the water. The loud splash is enough to draw their eyes to your way. The breath gets stuck in your lungs as you find your balance again, and your gaze meets with theirs. An ugly smirk plasters over their face, looking over at your naked form. Trying to hide your breasts with one arm, you step back from them, but it’s useless. Before you know, one of them is already in the water, coming closer and closer to your shaking form. The red-haired Dane grabs your arm, pulling you away from the rocks. His grip is painful, and your wrestling doesn’t help your case. He talks to you in his language, and you don’t understand it, but you know it can’t be any good.

“Leave me!” You order him, still trying to escape from his grasp and keeping your balance.

They laugh at your struggling, and the despair just grows within you into a loud scream. Your voice is high-pitched as you call for Uhtred, Finan, or anybody who can hear you. Tears flow down on your face as the world around you gets hazy. You close your eyes, still fighting against your captor as the screams burst out of your throat without pause.

The next thing you hear is shouts and swords from the fight. You notice another body beside you, but you don’t have enough composure to know who it is. An arm curves around your waist, pulling you behind him while the water splashes around you in chaos.

And as fast as it started, it ends just as quickly. Dead bodies lay on the ground not far from the river, and the man who captured you now swims down in the water motionless. Your heart still beats rapidly, trying to process everything that happened.

And you have to face another problem.

Sihtric’s arm is still around you, keeping you in place against the stream, and the air gets tense once again. Now that the Danes are dead, their attention is on you and on your clearly feminine body. Their mouths open and close without saying anything. You can see the short circuit in Finan’s head while Osferth flushes a deep red. Uhtred is confused, and Sihtric is just stoic. He stares at you with dark eyes and a clenched jaw.

“Are you done?” You spat out, pushing him away from you, folding your arms in front of your chest.

“Wait,” Finan says, shaking his head to clear his mind. “What?”

“Can we talk when I’m not naked?!”

When you get back to the camp, still wet but at least dressed, the others are there, eating and drinking. The silence is tense between you as you sit down not far from them.

“So?” Lord Uhtred asks, staring at you.

“I lied,” you sigh, and Finan snorts.

“Obviously.”

“It has nothing to do with you guys,” you explain.

“Then why?” Sihtric asks, glancing up at you from his sword. The Dane’s face is still emotionless.

“Because pretending to be a male is still easier than being a woman,” you respond. “My parents are alive, and I have a brother. They wanted to marry me off to a man, so I ran away from them. I disguised myself as a man, so I could travel more safely, and when I found Coccham, I… stayed that way. It was easier to get a job like this, and people left me alone. It was not my intention to lie to you, I… I just wanted to protect myself.”

Silence follows your words as the others process what you said. You bite onto your lip, watching their reaction.

“Okay,” Finan nods, turning to his Lord. “But we have to find somebody else to spy on the Danes.”

“I can still do it,” you respond, but Sihtric rejects your idea immediately.

“You can’t fight,” he says, and you don’t need more to snap at him.

“See? The moment you find out I’m a woman, you think less of me,” you argue. “I couldn’t fight being a boy, but none of you cared about it!”

“But now I care about it!” Sihtric snaps back angrily. He even stands up from his seat to get his point across.

“Why? Because I don’t have a cock between my legs?” You fume, and he snorts.

“I’m not arguing with you!” He says. “You can’t let her go to the Danes, my Lord,” he turns to Uhtred, hoping his Lord has some sense in him.

“We don’t have any other choice,” Uhtred replies. “We running out of time.”

Sihtric grunts in annoyance as he sits back down on the ground, busying himself with his sword once again. None of you notice the other three men knowing glances at each other.

“Well, it explains a lot,” the Irishman murmurs before Sihtric snaps at him.

“Shut up, Finan!”

The way to the Danes’ occupied village is tense between you and Sihtric. The others get over your lie relatively quickly, but the young Dane is still angry at you. Uhtred is more busy with plans, and Osferth is quiet like always. Finan is the only one who tries to improve the mood of your small group.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, turning around on his saddle to look at you. “So you heard when I gushed about the whore’s tits.”

“Yes,” you nod. “And you are a pig.”

“And that’s why you never come with us to the brothel,” he continues. “But what’s your problem with the alehouse?”

“I didn’t want to expose myself if I got too drunk.”

“And what about the man you ran away from?” Sihtric asks the first time since your argument.

You shrug. “I didn’t really know him. He was old enough to be my father with six kids.”

“Do you miss your family?” Osferth questions.

“Yes, but I would never go back.”

“So you will stay with us in Coccham?”

“If you let me,” you nod uncertainly.

“It’s your home now, Archie,” Uhtred says with a gentle smile before he pauses. “Wait. What is your real name?”

“Y/N.”

“Well, I hope you are ready, Y/N,” he says, nodding his head through the trees to the Dane village.

The men act like mother hens around you. Especially Sihtric. He makes sure to hide your every feminine feature with clothes and daggers, and dirt.

“You know, if you didn’t find out that I am a woman, a bunch of drunk assholes won’t either.”

“We don’t risk it,” Sihtric answers, giving you more daggers.

“Stay in the background,” Uhtred orders. “Don’t talk with anyone if it’s not necessary, and try to stay close to the Earl.”

“I know,” you nod once again. “Background. Earl. Coming back.”

You would lie if you would say you are not nervous. You can feel the sweat at the line of your spine as you move around the strangers. You stay close to the walls, busying yourself with an apple, stealing glances around you. Trying to find out who is the Earl. The Danes are loud and crude. They fight with each other, fuck whores in front of everyone, and shout. You are small and insignificant among them, and that is your luck. Nobody cares about you as you walk around the market until you find your way to the Great Hall. The Earl sits on a throne with a woman on his lap. He laughs with the others, commanding more and more ale as the night goes on. There are words you don’t understand, but they speak English too because of the villagers and slaves. Seeing women so vulnerable around these savages, you are reminded why you chose to disguise yourself for years.

You stay in the shadow the whole night, listening and watching until they drink themselves unconscious.

Meanwhile, Uhtred and his men made a camp for the night where they can see the village.

“Did you know he is a… she?” Finan asks from his makeshift bed. He stares at the dark sky, arms under his head.

“No,” all three of them answer in unison.

“I think Gisela knew it,” Uhtred adds. “She always laughed when I told her Archie has a crush on her.”

“Maybe that’s why Y/N acted weird around her.”

“And that’s why Sihtric acted weird around Y/N,” Osferth adds and laughs when the Dane throws an empty cup at him.

“Shut up, baby monk!”

The bottom of the sky is already bright when you sneak back to the camp. You find the others sleeping in their beds, and you don’t want to wake them. Your eyelids feel heavy as you start to make breakfast for them.

“Y/N?” Uhtred says your name hoarsely when he wakes up. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you smile at him with a bowl in your hands. “Everything went fine.”

Soon the others wake up too because of your conversation with Uhtred. They are sleepy but ready to talk the minute they notice your presence. You tell them everything you heard, even if it seems irrelevant to you. You talk about the warriors you saw and the villagers you had the chance to speak with without exposing yourself.

“You were great, Y/N,” Uhtred praises you admiringly, patting your shoulder. “You were better than I thought, and you were a boy back then.”

“They didn’t hurt you, did they?” Sihtric asks, looking over at you.

“No,” you shake your head. “They didn’t even notice me, probably.”

“Well, if you want to be Archie, I can offer you a whore when we get back to Coccham,” Finan grins. “But if you want to stay Y/N, I can offer you drinks until I can see you drunk.”

“Ale sounds good.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Sihtric says after a while on the way home. You jerk at the sudden noise, opening your eyes and grabbing the reins tighter before you could fall. Turning your head to him, he is already staring at you.

“What?” You ask him groggily.

“I won’t watch you fall off the horse from the fatigue. Climb over,” the Dane orders, making his way closer to your horse.

“What? I won’t,” you argue, shaking your head. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. You are tired.”

“Sihtric…” you sigh. You can’t find the energy to continue this nonsense with him. Your limbs feel heavy as you climb over before him, making yourself comfortable against his chest. “Watch my horse,” you tell him, but you are already half-asleep. The warmth of his arms around you and the horse's lazy steps put you to sleep.

As the evening comes, you wake up, still in Sihtric arms. The others are ready to make a camp, and you offer to stay awake to watch out while they sleep.

“I think you shouldn’t…” Sihtric starts, but you interrupt him impatiently.

“I can scream if something happens,” you reply, frowning at him.

It's really interesting to see the others behave around you now that you are a girl. Osferth and Finan don’t really change, Uhtred is more attentive with you, but Sihtric drives you crazy. He acts as if you could break from anything, and his overprotectiveness is unbearable. And this goes on until you get back to Coccham.

“I still have my job, yes?” You ask Uhtred uncertainly as you get off the horse.

“Of course, Y/N, if you want it,” he smiles at you.

“Thank you,” you nod gratefully, taking the horses with you back to the stable.

You still dress like a man as you get back to your life. You can see people looking at you questioningly, but you don’t care about them. You don’t hide your breasts anymore, your voice stays the same when you talk with somebody, and you let your hair grow to shoulder length. You still work hard and take care of the horses, but you join the others at the alehouse. Your days become more difficult in some ways, but you feel less alone. Gisla is happy she was right, and one of Uhtred’s men always visits you at the barn, making sure you are okay, and nobody gives you a hard time.

“I should go home,” you tell the others, standing up from your seat.

“I go with you,” Sihtric says instantly. “You shouldn't be alone on the streets this late.”

“Of course,” you roll your eyes, saying goodbye to the others, despite they are too busy with snickering.

The night is cold, but the furs on your shoulder and the anger within you keep you warm.

“Why are you doing this?” You ask him after a while. The street is empty except for you two.

“What?” He replies with honest confusion in his eyes.

“Why you don’t let me do things since you know I’m a woman?”

“I let you do things,” he argues.

“No, you don’t. You act like I can’t do anything on my own.”

“Because I want to protect you, okay?” He snaps. “Yes, you are a woman, and you are capable of doing a lot of things, but you still need protection! And I want to be the one who protects you! I cared for you when you were a boy, and I care for you now too!”

While Sihtric yells at you, you stop in your tracks, standing face to face with him.

“You really care about me?” You ask him, stunned.

The Dane’s body jolts from the recognition. He said too much, but he can’t do anything about it now. His pale skin turns pink under your gaze, but he nods.

“I like you too,” you smile up at him gently, wrapping your arm around his neck to pull him down for a small kiss. “But you have to woo me,” you continue. “I’m a woman, after all.”

#sihtric x reader #sihtric imagine #the last kingdom imagine #the last kingdom x reader

803 notes · View notes

svnflowervol666 · 3 years

Note

hey! can you write one where harry invites y/n and his band mates out for drinks and they try to hand her a drink but she reveals she previously by saying like “you can’t drink when your pregnant” ...

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: I combined this one with a request for where Harry constantly refers to Y/N as his “ex-girlfriend,” because they’re engaged now. ((Super cute. Super corny. Makes my heart mush. Anyway.)) Kinda short but still sweet. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! Take care and TPWK.

“There she is!”

His voice is drowned out by clanking glasses and the heavy bass of whatever rock song was playing through the shitty speakers in the corner of the room, but it was unmistakable nonetheless. Followed by his “greeting” were the shouts and howls of the rest of the bunch, most of them raising their glass in honor of her (late) arrival.

“My ex-girlfriend!”

Harry, despite his inebriated state, smiled widely and welcomed her as protectively as he always had in the past few weeks - relieving her person of any bags or extra weight, this time being her coat and purse which he hung on the brass hooks underneath the bar table, and inspecting her facial expression for any signs of discontent or worry. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when he kicked his “dad-mode,” tendencies into overdrive, but it certainly began on that rainy, Thursday night in their shared bathroom as they sat against the wall of the bathtub with four positive pregnancy tests in both of their hands.

“Really wish you’d stop calling me that, Har,” she sneered as he helped her shake her arms loose from her coat.

“One of these days you’re gonna cause a scene.”

“'S true, though,” the drunken boy giggled.

“You’re not m’ girlfriend anymore. You’re my fiance.”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes at his antics, intending to pull him in for a quick hug and kiss when her attention was drawn away from her curly-headed brunette and towards the man of the hour.

“Y/N!”

“Hello, birthday boy,” her voice was mellow against the drunken slur that had started to take over her friend, Mitch’s.

“‘S not very nice of you to be late to my party,” he slurred as he pulled her in rather harshly for a bone-crushing hug.

“Sorry, got caught up with some work stuff,” Y/N managed to get out through a chuckle in between Mitch’s squeezing.

She saw Harry stiffen out of the corner of her eye, like he was torn between yelling something akin to, “Take it easy on her, mate. She’s pregnant for christ’s sake,” or letting the interaction play out. He knew he wasn’t allowed to do the former, as they’d agreed to wait until they could have all of their friends and family over at the same time to tell them the good great news, so Harry opted to let Mitch hug her extra tight despite his unrealistic, dramatic worries that he’d crush her fragile frame or hurt the baby in some way. She made sure to send a reassuring smile Harry’s way when Mitch let her go from his grasp.

Short and sweet was her greeting to Sarah, both of them opting to kiss one another on the cheek.

“Let me see it one more time,” her voice was quiet amongst the chatter of the bar, almost sounding like a whisper.

Y/N felt the heat climbing to her cheeks as she let Sarah take her hand in hers to examine the ring on her fourth finger. The band was gold and slim, adorned with a dainty yet sizeable single diamond in the very center.

“So pretty,” she gushed, admiring the way the gem flittered, even in the dim, tungsten-glow of the bar.

Y/N muttered a quiet “thank you,” before making her away back to the other side of the table where Harry was waiting for her with an outstretched arm, yearning to get back to what they had been doing before Y/N had to make her rounds.

As he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, Y/N caught wind of the tequila on his breath. She tasted it too, when she pecked his lips quickly and - oh god, did she taste stout as well? Maybe she’d end up taking care of him later tonight when his head was stuck in the toilet, but that seemed plenty fair considering how often Harry had been doing the same exact thing for her here lately.

“Yeh alright? Had me all worried when ya said you’d be late,” Harry’s question was asked lowly so that only she could hear.

Harry had been with Mitch and Sarah all day celebrating, hence this was the first time he’d seen Y/N since this morning when he kissed her and sent her off to work.

Y/N nodded and smiled, though her face led Harry to believe differently.

“Got sick when I got home from the office. Just took me a little bit longer to get out the door,” she shrugged, insinuating that it wasn’t a big deal, but that she wasn’t feeling one hundred percent ready-to-party either.

“Baby,” Harry half-scolded her, feeling a good portion of his buzz leave his body when Y/N mentioned that she hadn’t felt well.

“Why didn’t yeh just tell me you were sick? Coulda came home and sat with you.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to ditch your best friend’s birthday dinner just because I was throwing up for the fifteenth time this week,” she was stern in her words and made it clear that she was fine.

“I’m alright. I promise.”

Harry’s jaw softened at her proclamation, the muscles in his torso easing up from their tense position.

“Oi! Will you two stop whispering and get drunk with me?!” Mitch shouted across the table, bursting the bubble that had temporarily surrounded the couple whilst they talked about their sweet little secret that they were dying to tell everyone about.

“You,” Mitch pointed his finger towards Y/N’s head.

“Shots. Now,” he gestured to the bartender making drinks on the opposite end of where their table was.

Both Y/N and Harry chuckled nervously, unsure of how to work around the fact that Y/N couldn’t drink without spilling the beans.

“Think I need to get some food in my stomach before I do that. Why don’t you take Harry,” Y/N urged Harry forward by his shoulder and prayed it would be enough to entertain the drunk boy.

“Fine,” Mitch glared.

“It’ll just make it hard for you to catch up later then!”

He grabbed Harry by the bicep and cleared through the crowd of people in order to get his liquor he was so keen about.

The conversation with Sarah was light, mostly about what all they’d done today and bets on if Mitch would end up needing to be babied for the rest of the night. Y/N successfully dodged Sarah’s questions about the wedding and how planning was going along, chalking it up to busy work schedules and failing to come to an agreement on a venue and date.

“Harry’s dead set on a summer wedding, but I’m fighting for a winter date,” she dismissed through a nervous chuckle when the reality was that they were unsure how to navigate planning a wedding around the arrival of their baby to make any more decisions.

It seemed like ages passed before the two men returned. Y/N was picking at the fries and sipping on the ginger ale Harry had ordered her before she’d gotten there but was interrupted when Harry and Mitch came barrelling back to the table.

He was drunk. Quite drunk. And Y/N knew that because his body felt even warmer and his eyes looked even hazier than before he’d left. She imagined they definitely had more than once shot at the bar, but she didn’t have much time to ponder that before she felt his hands snake around her waist and rest on her hips. She reciprocated his touch, looping her arms around his shoulders and laying her head against his chest.

“Love you,” Harry muttered into the soft spot between her jaw and ear, then his hands wormed their way under her shirt to rest on the underside of her tummy.

“Love you too,” he said again.

She could feel him smile against her skin as he cradled her almost non-existent baby bump from underneath her oversized sweater. Harry was the only one who saw her regularly enough to notice the minute changes her body had been going through. To everyone else, she still looked like plain, old Y/N.

“We love you more, but if you don’t stop canoodling me in the middle of this bar,” Y/N began, speaking light-heartedly and quietly in his ear, “Everyone’s going to find out and you won’t get to have that announcement party you’ve been planning for weeks now.”

Harry sighed, knowing she was right, and loosened his hold on her tummy and opting to sling an arm over her shoulder to at least keep her close instead.

“I know what you’re up to,” Mitch glared at the two of them from across the table.

This gained the attention of not only Y/N and Harry but Sarah as well. Everyone turned to look at Mitch, anticipating what he was going to say next.

“And what would that be, Mitchy?” Y/N toyed.

A pout formed on his face, arms quickly crossed his chest as he huffed.

“You’re trying to get out of here and leave me all alone on my birthday.”

“Guess I’m not even here then. I’m a hallucination,” Sarah baited with a roll of her eyes.

“We’re not trying t’ leave ya, mate. Promise,” Harry stuck his pinky out across the table as a gesture of sincerity.

“Are too.”

Mitch’s drunken rambles were beginning to sound quite childish now and became more amusing by the second.

“Are not, honey bun,” Y/N requited.

“Liars. Both of you.”

Mitch launched a bunched up straw wrapper in Harry’s direction that bounced off of his most prominent curl and landed somewhere near his feet.

“Where would we even go, hmm?” Harry taunted, resting his chin on the knuckles of his free hand that was leaned against the table.

“What could we possibly planned tha’ would be better than spending time with you lot on your birthday?”

They watched as Mitch’s remaining sobriety fought hard for an answer, but ultimately giving into his drunkness and murmuring, “Don’t know! Probably going off to screw each other or something!”

The table burst into laughter, and Y/N hid her face in Harry’s chest out of embarrassment.

“Wouldn’t surprise me actually,” Sarah quipped before taking a huge sip of her cocktail.

“Look. Here’s the deal,” Mitch tried his best in his drunken stupor to be serious.

“Prove to me that you’re not gonna leave me and take another shot.”

“Fine,” Harry shrugged.

“Let’s go back t’ the bar then.”

He started to pull Mitch along but was stopped suddenly.

“No,” Mitch was quick to intervene.

“Y/N too. If you both drink, you can’t drive home and leave me,” he said proudly as if his idea was the smartest thing he’d ever come up with.

She knew it was only Mitch being sloppy drunk and acting like the idiot he always was, but Y/N couldn’t help but feel her palms begin to sweat. They couldn’t tell Mitch the real reason why she couldn’t drink with the group tonight, so she was quickly wracking her brain for another excuse now that she’d filled her belly with french fries since giving her last one.

But there was no need to think any further, as Harry stepped in for her.

“She can’t do tha’, mate. Now, c’mon. Let’s get some more tequila. Looks like Sarah needs another drink as well, hmm?”

Harry pinched his nose in annoyance. He was trying his hardest to keep this all under wraps, but Mitch was making it extremely difficult.

“Who are you? Her keeper? Telling her what she can and can’t do?” Mitch yelled.

“No, you nunce. She can’t drink because yeh can’t drink when you’re pregn-”

Fuck.

Harry clapped his hand over his mouth before he finished his sentence, but it was too late. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking when he said it. Wasn’t even sure if he was thinking at all, to be completely honest. He silently prayed that neither Mitch nor Sarah heard him, but he quickly realized that was untrue when they both stared between him and Y/N with wide eyes.

“Y/N L/N. Are you pregnant?” Sarah was the first to speak up.

Y/N felt like she was stuck in place, only able to look at Harry with a racing chest and her mouth agape.

“I, um, I - yes?” It came out as more of a question due to her state of shock.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry. Holy shit,” Harry exclaimed as he went back to Y/N’s side to console her.

He was spiraling in fear that Y/N was angry with him, but it was mostly the alcohol making him think so.

“You’re having a baby?” Mitch’s voice was unusually quiet for how loudly he had been yelling just moments ago.

“Yeah. We are,” she was laughing nervously as she spoke.

“Sorry that Harry ruined the surprise. We wanted to have a big party and tell everyone at the same time, but I guess the cat’s out of the bag for you guys.”

She rubbed Harry’s back with her palm, a silent reassurance for Harry that she wasn’t upset with him. Mitch and Sarah, however, they couldn’t read.

Mitch said nothing, only leaving his position beside Sarah to go stand in between Y/N and Harry. He looked at them both with an expression that resembled both anger and confusion, which only added to their discomfort.

In a split second, he had his arms around both of them, hugging them tightly.

“Holy shit! This is the best birthday present ever. Uncle Mitch and Aunt Sarah. What the fuck?!” he was rambling now, beaming from ear to ear as he ran over to pull Sarah, who was also losing her shit, just in her own seat and not on top of Harry and Y/N, into the group hug.

Their eyes caught each other in the midst of the friend-sandwich they were being forced to be a part of. A smile and knowing look were exchanged between them and they knew, despite it not coming out in the most fashionable way, their precious little bub would be surrounded by people that loved them dearly.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles imagines #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #dad!harry #dad!harry x reader #harry styles x pregnant!reader #asks

1K notes · View notes

holycatsandrabbits · 2 years

Text

My Hero, an original serial romance by Dannye Chase, Chapter 7

An investigative reporter falls for her kick-ass female bodyguard, while trying to conceal the fact that she doesn’t need a bodyguard because she has super powers.

READ FROM THE BEGINNING

Read on Ao3

They looked through the two-way mirror at the man Gina had caught in the woods. He was middle aged, and the flush had faded from his face, leaving him with an easy smile and a carefree attitude with the police officers in the room. But Gina could see how the man’s hands tangled together, over and over, the fingers bleached white with tension.

“I got lost,” the man said. His voice came through a speaker into the hallway, sounding slightly staticky. “Couldn’t find a deer all day and I got off the path. It was so stupid. I didn’t have my orange coat, I didn’t have water with me—”

One of the cops in the hallway with them had the man’s phone, but he wasn’t having much luck with it.

“Gina can get into it for you, I bet,” Helen spoke up. She looked odd in this hallway, pale in the artificial lights, as tiny and fragile as a doll next to the men in uniform with weapons on their belts. But Gina wasn’t fooled by Helen’s appearance. Not anymore.

Gina took the phone and worked through a few strategies before she managed to get it open.

“Sounds like you were having a real bad day,” said the cop in the room with the shooter.

The man nodded eagerly. “All my own fault, of course. The only thing I could think of was to fire my gun for help. I guess that girl heard it, but she got all upset. I wasn’t shooting at her! I didn’t even know she was there! Where the hell was her orange jacket? And then she freaks out on me, pulls a handgun—”

“Must have scared you,” the cop said.

“Scared the shit out of me,” the man said, laughing. “I dropped my rifle and put my hands up! Didn’t want trouble with a girl like her! She’s nuts. Doesn’t belong in the woods with that attitude. We’re supposed to help each other. Separates us from the animals, you know.”

Gina was scrolling through the contacts on the phone and she laughed abruptly. It echoed a little down the hallway. “Larson’s in here,” Gina said. “They’ve been texting.”

Helen looked around Gina’s shoulder (she was too short to look over it) as they read through the messages. “These people think they can afford to be stupid,” Helen said.

Gina passed the phone to the cop beside them. “Lost hunter, my ass. He’s a hired hitman. Just a really dumb one.”

As they left the police station, Helen said quietly, “I guess that’s that.”

“Well,” Gina said immediately. “We can’t assume that they won’t try again.”

Helen brightened, ridiculously, and Gina liked it far too much. Gina ushered her outside, and when the natural light fell on Helen again, she seemed more herself.

Gina Mallory had thought she understood how the world worked. But now everything was strange and new. The world did work, but it worked by a different mechanism than Gina had thought. The world was not just people and their buildings and ambitions, it was wind and rain and woods. It was Helen.

“Dinner?” Helen asked. “You should—” She squared her shoulders, looking brave. “You should come to my place. And you should probably spend the night.”

oOo

Helen lived in a house that was, of course, on the edge of the woods. When Gina stepped out of the car, the first thing she noticed was the smell of plant life, green and vibrant, washed by rain. There were plants everywhere: towering trees, bushes, and flowers, vegetables in plots in the yard, ivy climbing the house.

Inside it was the same. Potted plants in a surprising array of colors lined the rooms, crowding the windows, flowering and producing vegetables and fruit. Every one of the plants Gina could see were healthy, despite Gina being fairly certain that it was the wrong season for some of them to be so prosperous. “You have a hell of a green thumb,” Gina said.

Helen laughed. “Oh, they think this is their house too. I just let them do as they please.”

Helen’s mother had served vegan food, and that seemed to be Helen’s preference as well. Helen picked fresh tomatoes and chives from the yard, as well as a couple of apples from a tree that should not have been producing apples this early in the year. She put them into a salad with chickpeas and it was fantastic.

“So,” Helen asked, “what do you do when you’re not protecting irritating reporters? Do you like to camp? Fish? Hike?”

“Well, I’m not sure I’m as in tune with nature as you are, but yeah, I like to be outdoors. When it’s not raining.” The rain had picked up again, and thunder sounded occasionally. The sky was growing dark early as the sun began to set behind heavy clouds. Still, Gina was quite certain that if Helen decided to step outside again that the rain would let up.

After dinner, Helen took Gina upstairs. She hung back and let Gina go first, and Gina could not help her gasp of surprise.

The top floor of Helen’s house was comprised of a bedroom tucked away under a section of roof, while the other half of the floor was an open deck built among the trees. The rain fell softly, hitting the layers of leaves above them. Plants were as plentiful here as everywhere, stretching and shading, flowering and flourishing.

“My god,” Gina said. “I’ve never seen anything like this. I don’t suppose your dad built you this treehouse.”

Predictably, Helen flushed. “Um—”

“Right,” Gina said with a smile. “No questions about the dad.”

“I’m not used to being the one who’s asked questions,” Helen protested. “But— I feel like I want to answer you.”

“Will you?” Gina asked.

“I shouldn’t.” Helen looked a little lost. “There are a lot of things that we shouldn’t do.” And then she stretched up and caught Gina’s face between her hands, pulling her into a kiss.

Gina groaned with desire, opening her mouth above Helen’s, and finally drawing her into a full embrace. Helen was so tiny in Gina’s arms, a wisp of a thing, a sprite with blond hair and bright eyes, so fragile. And yet Helen also felt unimaginably large, endless, and powerful.

Kissing Helen was immediately intoxicating for Gina, enough that she willingly stepped around all the barricades she’d put up against this unwise action and delighted in losing herself. Helen tasted like apples and her hands were cool against Gina’s skin. She was kissing back as much as Gina was kissing, and it was all too tempting to press Helen against the wall and try to contain her there.

But Helen could not be contained. She was a force of nature, and Gina wanted nothing more than to set her free.

Helen moaned softly and sank her fingers into Gina’s hair as Gina paid worship and it was far too perfect, until Helen’s cell phone buzzed in her pocket.

Gina stilled her hands, her mouth, meeting Helen’s eyes and seeing dark desire and sharp heartbreak. The phone had startled them. But it wasn’t why they pulled away.

Gina was unable to look at Helen, at what she’d almost had and should not have tried for. She heard Helen answer the call and then start asking questions, slightly out of breath. Then she must have hit speaker, because Gina could hear the voice of Eric Cane, the CPA who was helping them decipher Larson’s records.

“He’s liquidating his assets,” Eric said, sounding far too loud against the gentle rain. “He’s selling his houses, disbanding two companies, and it’s all going overseas, to untraceable accounts.”

“Why?” Gina asked, in a shaky voice. “Because Helen is about to catch him? Or is there something worse?”

Outside, the rain fell harder.

************

READ FROM THE BEGINNING

Updates Fridays on Ao3, Tumblr, and DannyeChase.com

Want to create fic, art, or other works based on this series? Please do! Just dm or tag me.

My previous original serial is Tollense, an M/M vampire romance.

Ao3 ~ DannyeChase.com ~ Linktree

#Dannye writes #original fiction #original romance #wlw romance #superheroes #serial fiction

10 notes · View notes

moonlightchess · 3 years

Text

a brief interlude in which a young mortician finally meets his patron saint.

(Diaphanous).

Around five years old, when he first started hearing them. Soft, muted weeping echoing lightly through the cavernous halls just beyond his bedroom door, and by ten he was accustomed to sliding out of bed, yawning, padding to his doorway to step out into the endlessly shadowed maw veining through the upstairs of his family’s home. The moaning creak of the floorboards was easily avoidable if you knew where to slide your feet, which by then he did, and he’d whisper into the dark: “You’re okay. It’s all over now, but stay as long as you need to. You’ll be getting along when you’re ready.” And even then, there was something profoundly tender and melancholy wrapping itself around little Theodore like an aura, to which the ghosts usually responded favorably. On occasion, they’d even slip into his bedroom after he climbed back into bed, gently tugging his duvet over him in thanks.

Sixteen, and Pere introduced him to the family business in the most definitive sense yet, bringing him down into the embalming room. There, he was shown how to drain the bodies, to sew their gums securely closed, to carefully apply powders and lotions to suggest sleep despite death. Pere helped him to remove the heart and lungs of a corpse in the preparation process of the old fashion, despite it having fallen out of favor in more recent years. Bellefontaine, Louisiana, lingered a decade or two behind much of the nation, in every way from embalming practices to racial sensitivity, both topics having already been addressed with young Theodore. “A person is a person, deserving of respect and love and dignity regardless of their skin, wealth, or any other such thing that the ignorant might think defines them,” Theodore senior had informed his small son firmly, long ago, meeting his midnight-blue eyes that were so solemn and sympathetic even then. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Pere.” Theodore had not understood, not entirely, back then. But at sixteen, hunched over the dead body of a local bait shop owner whose wife made the softest, sweetest beignets he’d ever tasted, clarity rose sharp and bitter. “Monsieur Dumonde,” had escaped him before he could swallow the words in the interest of professionalism. “I knew him. Used to buy worms from him when the boys wanted to go fishing, but it’s been so long. I didn’t know he was sick.”

“Everyone dies, ti-Theodore,” and he’d been in love with the way his name rolled from his father’s tongue in a thicker cajun accent than his own - tee-tay-oh-doure, Theodore junior. It was enormously soothing, even now as he considered shaving Monsieur Dumonde’s thick mustache away for his funeral - but in the end, he placed the straight razor back onto his father’s table of sharp tools, aware that his decision had been a test. “No. We leave the mustache, he always had one when he was alive. He used to tug on it and laugh at our homemade fishing poles whenever we went into his shop. His mustache was a part of him, and it’s important that we send him to the next with as much of the man he was intact as we can.” He’d been a little nervous, meeting the dusk-colored eyes that he’d inherited from his beloved father, holding his breath.

“Good boy,” and he’d exhaled. “There are many who would have shaved him, cut his hair, put on some strange new clothes he never would have chosen himself. But you, my sweet and quiet boy, you understand.”

Mere had been a dancer, once. Ballet had been her life, her identity, until a careless would-be principal prince had stumbled into her leap - during a rehearsal no less, she’d been denied even the dignity of a grand disaster to end her career in the middle of a soaringly tragic performance - and her ankle had snapped, had never healed properly. She limped a touch even then, bringing sweet tea out to their wraparound porch thick with creeping ivy and heavy flowers bursting open at random, studding the lush green like jewels in a necklace, where her teenage son sat cross-legged on a battered loveseat long since dragged out to face the elements of the swampland. Together, they would count the darting fireflies, tiny pinpricks of golden light waging a valiant war against the encroaching southern dark. “I was beautiful once,” she’d said to him. “They all used to come watch me dance, in the city.”

“You’re still beautiful, Mere.”

She’d only sighed, slipping a hand into the pocket of her pea-green silk skirt to retrieve a shot bottle of bourbon, hoarded from the liquor store in town, and poured it into her tea.

They were both gone now, six, seven years proper. He’d prepared their bodies, and in death all of his mother’s pain and longing had been exposed to him with the first incision into her cold and rigid flesh for the draining, sixty-two years of ballet and resentment filling up the glass reservoir of the tubing’s end, dark red. She’d always done up her soft, honey-colored hair into elaborate braids, draped over one shoulder or both or trailing down her back or even wound up into a twisted crown if she was in a happier mood than usual. Theodore had sat beside her, holding her stiff milky hand with his own and with the other, scrolling through youtube tutorials on how to create the perfect fishtail braid until he was confident.

Pere had gone five years after, the light in him having drained out as clear and real as every fluid in his wife’s body had eventually found its way into the belly of their aspirator in the basement. Pneumonia had taken his mother - she’d always had a poor and fragile immune system - but his father had been just shy of seventy and to this day, at thirty-two years old, Theodore had never been offered a satisfying cause of death for him. “Just his time, sug,” a nurse in powder blue scrubs had tried, patting his hand soothingly and because this was the south, “I’ll be praying for y’all - well, just you I suppose. Oh lord, you’re the only Bissonette left now, ain’tcha?”

He was. They’d left the entire mortuary to him, and with it all the responsibilities of being the local mortician and funeral director at such a tender age, and his head had at first swum dizzily with all the pressure and expectations. Theodore senior and his wife Lisette had been fixtures of their country community, familiar and comforting, always there whenever someone had passed on to arrange flowers and platters of cold cuts, to deliver gentle words to cushion the grief. They’d been known, trusted, but Theodore junior, well. Ti-Theodore Bissonette, so young to be running the whole house himself, and the folk of Bellefontaine just weren’t sure. Until the death of little Suzette Marchande.

Hit by a car, she’d been, some hideous beast driving drunk through the winding access road circling their little cajun town and pointed out toward Nola proper. He was in prison now, but Suzette remained dead, and in his huge, capable hands Theodore had poured every bit of his father’s knowledge and sensitivity into that girl. He’d dressed her in yellow, one of her own dresses supplied by her mother, but he’d also remembered that she’d loved frogs. She’d catch them in the swamp and hold them in both hands, laughing at their croaky sounds, but then she’d carefully deposit them onto some leaf somewhere. “They got big ones, in the jungle. The Amazon,” he remembered her saying when the Bissonettes had run into she and her parents in town once, years ago. “Big as cars, they are. I’m gonna go there someday and study ‘em.”

So he’d bought sparkly little green frog clips for her hair online, pinning it back from her freckled face. Her favorite stuffed froggie, named Monsieur Ourauron, Mister Ribbitt, had been lost in the crash, but he’d found one in the Amazon - or at least on amazon - that looked largely the same. When her parents had seen her during the open-casket service, they’d wept and clutched his hands, thanking him in a babbling blend of French, English and grief. That day had declared the end of one life and the beginning of another, as little Suzette had been delivered unto whatever waited after, but thirty-year-old ti-tay-oh-doure had been manifest and confirmed.

There was something to be said for how tall he was. He would have thought some would find it intimidating, difficult to relate to considering that he was six-seven or perhaps a touch over, impossibly long limbs and a hawkish nose, soft mouth borne of his Mere and his father’s nearly indigo eyes the color of a sky five minutes before the moonrise. His was soft, floppy, peanut-brown hair and a quiet timbre resonating in his voice that was immediately associated with the unthreatening sense of calm authority that his father had once carried around easy as an old sweater. Theodore would take care of everything, Bellefontaine knew. They’d be left free to grieve their lost, because he was here with his huge hands and endless legs and fleeting smile.

He lived alone, now. There had been flings, lovers, Audrey from Nola with her autumn-brown skin and fox-gold eyes, elegant and sure, but she hadn’t stayed long. “This place is charming, but you can’t actually expect to stay here all your life, can you?” she’d told him once, after the sex, the two of them naked and wrapped around each other in his sprawling bed with a gentle breeze from outside floating through his open window. She didn’t understand, and neither did the men, not even sweet Peter with his auburn curls and dimples.

“You’re all alone out here, doesn’t it get boring? Lonely? My god, you live in a mortuary.” His shiver had been all that Theodore had needed to kiss him tenderly and send him on his way. His father had been extraordinarily lucky to find Mere, he knew - so few understood, the nature of a curator of death. The ancient contract they’d signed, the tradition they’d inherited. It was sacred but horrifying to most, because everyone wanted the convenience of their holy order at the end of all things, but no one actually wanted to have to think about dying. About the fact that literally all of them, rich or poor, pious or skeptical, afraid or unafraid, was going to die. The repulsion, he understood, was instinctive, and he’d only made his lovers breakfast in the morning and never called any of them back.

Some of the ghosts never left, as it was, and there were mornings in which he’d make his way into the kitchen to find his black tea already steaming, his chair already pulled away from the table. Some of them had found their peace here with him, and so he’d leave his cello out on occasion so that they could pluck the strings or plink a few keys on his mother’s old baby grand in the living room. He was happy too, his natural introversion leaving him largely content in his solitary life. There were those who sought comfort in his touch after the funerals of their loved ones, holding onto his hands a beat too long as he bade them goodbye, meeting his eyes meaningfully, but he always released them to the hazy swamp air outside. They were hurting, vulnerable, and he was a gentleman.

It rained the night the stranger arrived, or stormed rather - Theodore’s lights had been flickering throughout the manor all night. He’d collected candles and charged his phone, but his power had soldiered on even as the thunder crashed and jagged needles of lightning slashed open the churning charcoal sky outside. He’d yanked open the heavy oak door in response to some insistent knocking, only to find a man roughly his age standing there on the porch. He was oddly untouched by the rain despite no car present behind him, moon-pale, spilled-ink hair thick and soft over limpid, silver-mirror eyes, colorless as a deep-sea creature’s, slicing through the dark.

“Saints alive, are you lost? Are you all right?” The man, he didn’t know personally, but a truth and clarity rolled from him like steam off the swamp, and he felt enormously familiar somehow.

“I wouldn’t say lost, no. May I come in?” His voice, soft and polite, still clear and steady over the storm.

“Yes, forgive me. Please.” He stepped aside, watching him enter, translucent eyes sweeping over the yawning, shadowed maw of the grand old manor’s entryway. “Who are you? I’m sorry, but I’m not taking in any bodies until morning.”

“I understand. Terribly sorry to intrude upon your evening like this, but you and I, we have a matter to discuss.” His accent was not local, nor was it unfamiliar. It felt like a forgotten dream, abruptly remembered, an old song once loved playing on the radio years later.

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize you, Sir. Have you been to one of my funerals?”

“Sweet Theodore, I have been to all of them.”

“I don’t understand.”

The stranger clasped his hands behind his back, idle as a museum patron, gazing thoughtfully up to the enormous and heavily framed oil paintings of Bissonettes past lining the walls of the entryway. “It’s my fault for allowing myself to become so fond of you, but you’ve never really understood just how rare a person you are, have you Theodore? I shouldn’t have come here, but I had no choice. I couldn’t let you leave here tonight, that tree would have rendered your car to a smoking wreck and your body to worse. And you, sweet Theodore, you deserve so much better. After all the respect and care and compassion you have shown so unfailingly to myself and my vocation over the years - I’ve come to love you, and you deserve a soft and quiet end. So much sweeter than the one planned for you, I had to make sure you didn’t die in that crash. I had to come here, on this night. For all your kindness, tonight I will be kind to you.”

Drunk, perhaps. Some sauced-up tourist stumbling through the bayou after a bar crawl, but - this far from the city proper? “I’m afraid that you’re still losing me, will you please tell me who you are?”

He turned then, colorless gaze meeting Theodore’s, an echo of sorrow in his faint smile.

“You know who I am.”

In the end, it was true. He supposed at least a part of him had known from the moment he’d opened the door.

“I do. I didn’t think I’d meet you this young in life, but I’m pleased to find you a gentleman, Sir. I can only hope that in the time you’ve allowed me, I’ve done you proud.”

“You and your whole dear family. You don’t know how much I owe you, all of you. You would have lingered, in pain, on life support, for months. It was unbearable, unacceptable. Not you, not my Theodore who has served me so gently and so diligently for so much of your life.”

“I suppose it’s time, then.” He was not afraid. Death, he knew. He’d existed out here in a kind of stasis for years, honoring his patron saint, the man standing before him in a soft black sweater and reaching out to slip an arm through his.

“It is. But I think the storm is winding to a close, and the mists are always so lovely. Why don’t we go see.”

Nodding, Theodore allowed himself to be led to the door, turning briefly to look back just one last time into his beautiful old house, his shrine to a softer death than most knew existed. He’d always done his best, to make the transition as easy as possible for those on their way to some other place, and now it was time to go.

“Will it hurt?”

“Not for you, no.” The stranger opened the door then, and Theodore couldn’t be sure that the new world laid before him looked the same to both of them, but he smiled at what he saw.

“You were right. It’s beautiful.”

The house and the ghosts left wandering its halls signed in unison with the departure of their beloved Theodore, but the rain had slowed and the moon had risen and they were patient enough to wait a while. Someone would come, someone as warm and bright as him, someone who would take care of them as tenderly as he had, some new Theodore born. In the end, after all, nothing ever really died, and daylight was coming on soon, sure as a promise.

#writeblr #writing #my writing #fantasy #death #louisiana #i'm still feeling shy about my writing but i'm completely obsessed with this character right now #just a little something i hope y'all like it

16 notes · View notes

avengerscompound · 4 years

Text

Running to a Standstill - 15

Running to a Standstill: A Captain America Fanfic

Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count: 1610

Rating: E

Warnings: Nothing for this chapter

Synopsis: While on the run from an unknown organization trying to take your son, you meet two super-soldiers. While they try to help you get to the bottom of who is hunting you and your son, feelings come out and admissions are made that make your personal life even more tricky.

Chapter 15

It was too easy to fall into a sense of comfortable security while you were navigating your relationship with Bucky and Steve. Whether it was false or not, you still had moments where it scared you how many defenses you’d let down when you were with them. Two weeks after the incident at the library and you were heading out to parks again with Geo and Bucky. A month of nothing popping up on your radar and you were relaxed enough not to keep looking around everywhere while you were out. It wasn’t a conscious thing, but if you were asked why you’d relaxed so much you might have said that it was just a hope that the people after you had seen you with the Avengers and figured you were too difficult a target to pin down.

It was hard to say if it was exactly that. The truth was that being that relaxed most of the time made those times you weren’t relaxed worse. When it all bubbled up that it was quite possible that there were people out there that still wanted to get their hands on Geo you’d have a panic attack and on more than one occasion Steve and Bucky had needed to talk you down from doing something really rash or stupid.

You wished that there would be some kind of break in the case so that whoever the hell it was that had been hunting you could be arrested and your son could get a normal fucking life. Or at least a happy and stable one. Steve kept you up-to-date with what was going on, but even after almost two months of having people undercover they’d only managed to get in with a few of the larger dealers on the island and they still didn’t have the supplier.

You figured it had to happen some time though, so even when those panic attacks hit, you didn’t run. You were falling in love and as much as you were trying to protect Geo from becoming attached to Bucky or Steve you knew he already was. And not just to Bucky or Steve, but to Tony, Pepper, Natasha, Clint, and FRIDAY too. You had to commit to this working for his sake and hope it wasn’t the worst decision you’d ever made.

They made it easy to commit to though. The three of you had been following the plan you and Steve had set out. Bucky had been sticking to your side for every outing. He came to parks and museums with you, always making sure to stay alert ever when Geo was babbling away to him or using him as some kind of organic jungle gym. Even after a month and a half of no signs of being followed he stayed alert in ways you had stopped being. He noticed everything, and it might have been part of the reason why you had started to relax so much.

The three of you had been taking time to bond with each other individually as well as together. It was working well and even when you did have small flares of jealousy over what might have been perceived as a special bond between Bucky and Steve that you didn't always feel you shared, they were quickly chased away when your own unique bond with each man was pulled into the spotlight.

This was not at all the life you had envisioned for yourself when you’d started college all those years ago, but considering the huge dip the roller coaster that was your life had taken, while this new high was unique, but you were definitely enjoying it.

Bucky had organized a trip to the Math Museum. He’d had to call ahead because the security at the venue was pretty tight and he didn’t want to have to explain why he was carrying two different handguns and three different knives into a children’s museum.

They let the three of you through the gift shop and as soon as you’d entered the play area Geo had rushed to the square wheeled tricycles and started riding one of them around in circles, occasionally needing Bucky to give him a little push but squealing with excitement anytime he got any kind of speed up.

“We really need to get that kid a bike,” Bucky said.

“Yeah, things like bikes were never really very practical,” you admitted. “I guess if we’re sticking around we can get one.”

Bucky smiled. It was a smile that made his eyes look soft and content and he wrapped his arm around your waist. “Next time we go out, we should take him to get one.”

Geo climbed off the bike and toddled over to you. You crouched down to face him and he flopped down onto the ground, his fingers opening and closing on the ground. “Down dare,” he said.

“You want to go downstairs?” You asked.

“They down dare,” he said and patted the floor.

“Okay, come on kiddo,” Bucky said, picking him up so he was upside down, kicking and giggling in delight. “Let’s go see downstairs.”

Bucky carried Geo down the stairs and it was clear even by halfway down what had been calling to Geo. The room was filled with interactive screens, battling robots, and floors that lit up with different games. Geo came alive. Running from activity to activity with no pattern you could follow but a smile that wouldn’t leave his face. There was no other kid there, regardless of their age that could keep up with him. Every machine seemed to want to please Geo and they all performed their roles perfectly for him.

It felt like you were down there for hours. Geo just jumping from one thing to the next. Eventually he started to wane and he ended up just lying down in the middle of the mathsquare - much to the annoyance at the kids trying to play on it.

Bucky went and scooped him up. “Okay, Gee, how about we go and get some hotdogs?”

“Bug-key,” Geo whined, flopping dramatically in his arms.

“Maybe we should just get him home, he looks pretty tired,” you said, as you walked upstairs with Bucky.

“Didn’t you want to head down to the farmer’s market?” Bucky asked. “You have the stroller right?”

You nodded. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

You grabbed the stroller and Bucky put the little boy in it. Geo immediately shoved his thumb in his mouth and held his hand up. Bucky dug around in this backpack and pulled out the tablet, giving it to Geo who immediately hugged it and closed his eyes.

Moments like these gave you such mixed feelings. Bucky had gotten so good with Geo he could read him without Geo using his words. He was becoming a dad to him more and more each day. It was wonderful in so many ways. Both Steve and Bucky seemed to love that role and it was rare to find men like that and here you had two who not only obviously liked Geo and cared about his wellbeing, but cared about you too and accepted that the two of you came as a package. Yet it was also terrifying. The more they fit that role the worse it would hurt if it didn’t last. It was so soon in your romantic relationship and it was so much pressure to love up to that even under normal circumstances things would feel like they were moving too fast and were too fragile to hold onto. And these were far from normal circumstances.

Bucky offered you his arm and you hooked yours around it and began the walk past Madison Square Park.

It wasn’t a long walk to Union Square Park and it was a nice day out. Geo was deep asleep by the time you arrived at the bustling markets.

“I consider myself a native and I don’t think I’ve ever been to these markets before,” Bucky said as you passed under the banner welcoming you to the markets. “There’s so much stuff.”

“What do you want to get? Purple carrots? Edible flowers? Little chilies that blow your head off?” You asked.

“Yes to all of those things,” he agreed. “But I’m hungry right now, so let's find something we can eat as we walk around.”

You found a place selling pastries and paninis and grabbed a sandwich each to eat as you strolled the markets. Bucky kept getting ideas for meals with every new stall. Your reusable bags were soon filled with colorful tomatoes and chilies, purple carrots, rainbow chard, edible flowers, crusty bread, pickles bottled in Amish country, fresh herbs, raw honey and milk, and a selection of cured meats and cheeses.

“I think we might have enough,” you said as Bucky started browsing punnets of fresh berries.

“We don’t have any fruit,” he argued. Geo likes blueberries and I could make a mixed berry pie.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t argue with pie,” you said.

Bucky had selected a few punnets and his phone rang as he went to pay. You took over for him as he answered the phone.

“Hey, Steve, what’s up?” He said, pressing the phone to his ear. “We’re at Union Square… Five minutes if I can get a cab… Alright, see you soon.”

He hung up the phone and looked at you. “Gonna have to go. Steve said it’s urgent.”

“Good urgent or bad?” You said, a familiar panic starting to close in around your heart like a snake.

“I don’t know. Come on,” he said, leading you back out of the markets. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

// NEXT

#steve rogers #bucky barnes #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #stucky #steve rogers x bucky barnes #stucky x reader #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #captain america fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #running to a standstill

216 notes · View notes

anonthenullifier · 3 years

Text

He is awed. Not an unusual feeling for Vision, the world around him always teeming with uncountable beauty, but since the birth of the twins it has become a mainstay. From their tiny fingers to the wrinkles of their skin, the effortless weight of their bodies in his arms, and the little bags under Billy’s eyes or the funny balding pattern of Tommy’s wispy hair that Wanda jokes make them seem like middle-aged men. There’s the way they stretch and move with little grace as they test out the freedom of their postnatal lives, and the fluttering expressions on their faces and the way they strain their necks and purse their lips in the middle of sleep. Even the cantankerous, glassy eyed stare Tommy is giving him now just sends a radiant awe from the vibranium atop Vision’s head down to his toes. “If you would cooperate this would go faster.” Tommy doesn’t respond to his logic beyond a deepening of the lines in his little forehead, a guttural cry no doubt on the horizon if Vision does not finish dressing him soon. “Please?” It is an empty plea, one he doesn’t fully understand the utility in offering other than he feels compelled to converse with them, desiring to provide them comfort and explain everything about the world in hopes it later on helps them navigate the sometimes tumultuous and confusing waters of existence. Vision gently grabs the baby’s arm and guides it into the sleeve of the terry cloth pajamas. He’s discovered the key to easing their often stubbornly bent arms and tightly cinched fists into the sleeve is by pinching either side of the fabric and shimmying it ever so slowly down. The final tug that reveals Tommy’s hand causes him to startle, arms and legs going rigid and his pout fracturing into a dangerous quiver. “My apologies,” Vision lays his hand lightly on Tommy’s bare stomach, palm moving in what he hopes is a soothing circle. His lips tip upwards at the featherlight rise and fall of his son’s chest. “See, there is no need to fret.” A statement that he feels ridiculous saying, not because it is factually incorrect, but because he knows it is incomprehensible to the intended audience. Once the boy has calmed slightly, Vision repeats the routine with the other arm. Now that the easy part is done, Vision moves his attention to Tommy’s legs, which are bent at the knees and held up against his stomach. This is Vision’s least favorite part of changing either boy, a feeling of fragility when he reaches down and wraps his fingers around Tommy’s calf. It is jarring at just how monstrously large his hand is on his son’s leg, an image that only stokes his concerns of how their neighbors would perceive him if they ever found out his true appearance. Shaking off this thought, he attempts to ease the leg into a straightened position that would allow him to put the pajama leg on, but Tommy won’t budge. “Again, some cooperation would be appreciated.” A second attempt gets the angle of the knee to become more obtuse, enough that he places the comical bear-headed foot over Tommy’s toes. The problem occurs when Vision releases his grip in order to snap the closures of the leg, Tommy yanking his foot back to its starting position. Vision sighs and starts again, always worried about underestimating his strength and applying too much pressure. After four similar attempts Vision drops his hand, shaking his head at Tommy with a fairly good-natured, “You are making this quite impossible.” The smile wavers on Vision’s face, the word one he and Wanda try not to use because each time they do it feels as if there is a veil that will be lifted, showing their lives to be a sham. Because it is impossible, all of it. From his synthetic nature to her powers, their love, and now the blissful, idyllic family they’ve created. It is hard to believe any of it was supposed to happen. Her pregnancy, in particular, was a surprise, which is putting it mildly. And when he begins to think too deeply about it all there is this prickle of unease, like the one he gets when he forgets something from the store and Wanda dances around the answer until he remembers, always enjoying him being flustered. Except this seems more monumental than forgetting tea. Sometimes, particularly on dangerously quiet nights, it feels as if an entire life is attempting to claw its way back to existence.

A sharp wail breaks his spiraling thoughts, Tommy’s patience gone. Vision gazes down at his son, thumb rubbing up and down the tiny calf in his hand, and smiles. Whatever it is they are forgetting, it is inconsequential to the joy and wonder of their lives together. He has Wanda, and Billy, and Tommy and there is nothing else to be unraveled to know that this is perfection. Gently he applies pressure to Tommy’s leg, straightening it enough to snap shut the pajamas. The grin on his face grows wider as he slides his hands under his son's neck and bottom. Carefully he lifts the boy up so that their noses are touching, “Impossible is fine with me.”

#Wandavision #vision #scarlet vision #mine

37 notes · View notes

urrone · 2 years

Text

I posted 2,164 times in 2021

62 posts created (3%)

2102 posts reblogged (97%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 33.9 posts.

I added 601 tags in 2021

#loling forever - 182 posts

#julie and the phantoms - 69 posts

#relatable - 67 posts

#fan art - 58 posts

#dragon age - 49 posts

#cats make everything funnier - 42 posts

#meme - 42 posts

#yes - 32 posts

#star wars - 32 posts

#me - 28 posts

Longest Tag: 82 characters

#but if average middle aged white men get to process their problems through fiction

My Top Posts in 2021

“Scars show you where you’ve been, they don’t have to dictate where you’re going.”

Criminal Minds just noodled my entire brain.

13 notes • Posted 2021-04-30 18:15:32 GMT

wip wednesday

tagged by @nug-juggler and @swaps55

tagging @agirlnamedkeith @mallaidhsomo @shadoedseptmbr @theoriginalladya @nightmarestudio606 and anyone else

This is from my Lavellan/Cullen fic, set on the night Lavellan drinks with Bull to celebrate having slain a dragon.

“We have to have a very serious conversation,” she says, hiccupping.

“Do tell.”

“You’re not allowed to break my heart.”

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

“It’s just,” she sighs. “Everyone will find out and then we’ll be answering questions for weeks and everyone will be tiptoeing around us—”

He stops her with a finger over her mouth. “Hold on, we can’t break up because you’re worried about what the rest of the Inquisition will say?”

She nods.

Cullen thinks about how quickly their kiss on the ramparts had turned into a full blown discussion he’d had to have with Josephine. “You’ve made your point,” he says.

“Also,” she says, slumping into his very inviting chest. “I’d be very sad.”

Okay so I was tagged twice and @swaps55 said some people might actually care about my Hunger Games fic, so here’s a snippet from a future chapter of that:

For all that she mostly raised Prim, Katniss has no idea how to be a mother. The baby crying frustrated her at first, just wishing he would open his tiny mouth and tell her what’s wrong. Peeta was the one that would reach for him, checking his diapers, rocking him gently and shushing him while he asked Katniss when he last fed. He kept the baby’s schedule on a pad of paper in the kitchen and tried to get her to use it as a reference point, but she couldn’t stop the well of panic every time he cried.

When she thinks of Prim as a baby, she remembers the solid weight of her, her own small arms shaking with the strain of carrying Prim just across the front room. She didn’t realize then that babies seem to actually be made of spun sugar and glass, their fragile little bones and the papery thin skin stretching across the misshapen dome of their heads, spotted with small tufts of the finest, wispiest hair she’s ever touched.

The girl was colicky, and Katniss got really good at bouncing. So good, in fact, that Peeta caught her more than once bouncing a bag of dirt absentmindedly while working in the garden. “You’re a natural,” he said, but Katniss knew she was anything but.

14 notes • Posted 2021-04-28 17:36:01 GMT

daniel: what year is it?

sam: 1999

me: hey swaps what happened in 1999?

@swaps55: makes a sound like a cryptkeeper

18 notes • Posted 2021-11-13 04:42:52 GMT

I hadn’t taken as many shots in 2 as I did in 1 but then I found the actually good lighting on Aeia.

19 notes • Posted 2021-05-27 14:34:45 GMT

Scenes From a Cargo Bay

Gen - James Vega & FemShep friendship story

Summary: A friendship unfolds.

A million thank yous to @swaps55 for her enthusiasm for all things but most especially this story, and for betaing it last night.

The first time Shepard comes down to the cargo bay, she still has soot streaked across her face. Sweat and maybe a few tears cut thin lines through the gritty gray. She attacks the clasps of her armor with hands that James can see shaking from behind his stack of crates. Piece by piece, it gets thrown on the table in the corner.

He drops a box of ammo, just so she hears it. He doesn’t think it would be that easy to sneak up on the great Commander Shepard, but it still seems polite. She doesn’t startle, but then, he knew she wouldn’t.

“Kaidan’s going to be fine,” she says when she’s done with the armor. Just a white t-shirt and her thermal pants underneath, indents from the armor still visible on both. She leans over the table, arms spread wide and stiff. Spots of sweat make the shirt stick on her back in odd shapes.

The only words they’ve exchanged since leaving Earth were right there, right where she’s standing, when he yelled at her to go back, to fight the Reapers, to make a difference. But he’d been thinking small, even though he was thinking of the whole Earth. Like any good marine, he solves the problems in front of him, often with enormous guns. It’s different for Shepard, he knows it is.

After Mars, it still isn’t different for him, but he doesn’t resent her. Not for leaving Earth, anyway.

He wonders suddenly if it’s weird for her, him being on the ship, a reminder of her time in that small room on Earth, held captive because of the terrible decisions this war keeps forcing her to make. He wonders if he’d have had the cojones to blow up a relay.

Read on ao3

52 notes • Posted 2021-03-06 21:08:21 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review

6 notes · View notes

technicolor--dreams · 3 years

Text

The object of her affection: chapter 1

Plot summary: Summer 1937. Flighty heiress Susan (Merle Oberon) has been in love for years with her father’s business partner Joseph (Fredric March), and will stop at nothing to get the obejct of her affection, even if it means involving a wise cracking cab driver named Connor (Joel Mccrea) who has little patience for her silly antics.

p.s. i put the actors name and screencaps because that’s how i write, picturing a movie with actors. i hope it’s alright. also if there’s some spelling mistakes english is not my first language so bear with it.

If you had asked Susan Holbrook if she was a sore loser, she would've denied it vehemently, but that was only, of course, because she did not contemplate losing as an option altogether. Since she was born eighteen years before, life had bestowed every blessing upon her. The only daughter of Russ Holbrook, heir to the famed railway dynasty which settled in the United States a century before, she acquired money from her father, beauty from her mother, and her intelligence from both. Since she was an infant, she had been spoiled and pampered, not only by her parents, but also from nannies, servants, and family acquaintances who never failed to stop by the Holbrooks bearing gifts for the littlest one. Her life had been an easy one for most part, as anything she wanted was at her disposal, be it a toy or a pet, or a new shiny pair of shoe handcrafted in Paris. That was, until a fateful spring day on her fifteenth year of life, where she fell upon the only thing her parents couldn’t buy her – love.

She'd first met Joseph about two years prior at her father's annual company picnic. As the boss' daughter, she was required to attend, but in all frankness, she didn't care much for the event. Everyone in attendance was either too young or too old to keep her company, as most of her peers had been sent to boarding school abroad by their parents once they became of age. Those who had once been her childhood friends were now across the ocean, while she had been left behind to be home schooled, her parents far too sentimental to send the only daughter a continent away.

That year's picnic hadn't seemed remarkable in any way. The weather had been considerably favorable, and the park adjacent to Susan's family's country estate provided the perfect scenery for relaxing and playing around. Conversation with her parents had been pleasurable, as much as it can be for any sixteen year-old girl, that is, and she indulged their friends in small chit-chat whenever they stopped by their table. Food and drinks had been good and plenty, and by the time two p.m. rolled round, she was ready to settle on a blanket with a book and doze off in the sun for a couple of hours.

It was during a particularly enthralling passage of Wuthering Heights, that a handsome stranger approaching her father caught her attention by standing in her light. When she put her book down and turned around he was already gone, immersed in chatter with her father a few feet away from her. From where she was standing she could only see his back, but she admired his tall, slender figure and his broad shoulders. She noted that his left finger was bare, not to mention he had a whole head full of hair, which was not something to underestimate in her limited opinion. How many times had she met perfectly handsome men who from the front sported luxurious locks, only to find out when she turned around that God had not been as generous in the back!

The man appeared beside her, after ending his conversation with Mr. Holbrook. "Do you mind If I sit here?"

"Not at all." she replied, scooting aside to make room for him.

"I don't think we've met. I'm Joseph Westley." he extended his hand, "I just started working for your father a month ago."

"I'm Susan." she shook his hand in turn, "But you probably already knew that."

"Firm grip." he observed.

"Father says it's the mark of a great man."

"But you're not a man."

"Who says a woman can't be as great as any man?"

"True. Say, how old are you? Fifteen?"

"I'll be sixteen next month."

"Hm." Joseph picked a grape from a nearby container and popped it into his mouth. "You got moxy for your age. I like that. I bet you could convince someone you were a tree if you talked to them long enough."

"Perhaps. I've never tried. How old are you?"

"Thirty last month." He replied, looking far away pensively. "You know, it's nice to talk to someone young for a change. Everyone here's either five or fifty."

"Tell me about. I had to go to these things since I was a baby. You know, you should bring someone to keep you company at this sort of boring engagements ... “ Susan said coyly, trying to suss things out. “a girlfriend, or a wife."

"I don’t have any. Maybe someday. What about you? No one to keep you company?"

"Oh, no. I'm just there to play good little daughter and be the belle of the ball."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"Why should it? I'm not one in a position to complain. Besides, once I'm eighteeen, everything's gonna change. I'll do what I want."

"Now, you sound exactly your age." Joseph laughed.

As they continued talking, Susan's fascination with Joseph only grew stronger. It was so different from any other male she'd met. He actually listened to her when she talked, never breaking eye contact and keeping her engaged with questions born out of genuine curiosity rather than mere duty. He treated her like a peer instead of fragile china doll, or a puppy that you pat on the head condescendingly after giving them a little treat.

Susan hadn't been the only person impressed with Joseph, though, as Susan's father himself had nothing but praise for the young man. His arrival to the company had improved business tremendously, and he found him to be a shrewd businessman, not to mention a trustworthy employee. He saw a great future for him in their company, and soon he was a staple in their household, coming to dinner twice a month, much to Susan's delight. In a matter of months, he had become not only a close associate, but a close friend of the family and everyone could only say that the day they had met Joseph Westley had been a blessed one.

* * *

Months flew by, and they soon became years. Susan’s eighteenth birthday rolled around, and with that, her certainty that Joseph would finally reciprocate her love.

"Happy birthday to youuu, Happy birthday to youuu. Happy Birthday, dear Susan, Happy birthday to youuuuuuu."

The crowd surrounding Susan concluded their off-key rendition, clapping and cheering as the maid hauled a white sheet cake with an emblazoned gold eighteen on the table.

"Come on, darling, make a wish." Mrs. Holbrook urged her, patting her shoulder with her lacquered hand.

Susan leaned down on the table and rested her index on her chin, pretending to think it over. In truth, she knew all too well what she wanted, or rather who. In fact, she had been trying to get the object of her affection for years, to no avail. Her eyes glanced across the room where Joseph stood, his dark hair peeking over in the middle of the crowd, and before darting back on the cake she could’ve sworn she was him winking in her direction. She smiled, then blew on the burning candles with all her might. She was gonna get her wish this year, she swore to herself, If that was the last thing she'd do.

* * *

Susan walked towards the balcony, where Joseph leaned over the railing, smoking a cigarette.

"Here," she said, putting a slice of cake on the marble in front of him. "I saved you a corner piece. Those are the best ones."

"Thanks" he replied, putting out the cigarette on a nearby ashtray. "There was so many people trying to get a piece, I figured I'd never get close anyway."

"Consider this one the perks of being close friends with the birthday girl."

"So, how does eighteen feel?" He asked, digging with his fork into the white frosting.

"Don't you remember?"

"It's been a while," he chuckled, "You're gonna have to refresh my memory."

"Exactly the same, and completely different at the same time. There is so much I couldn't do yesterday that I could do now. For example, getting married ... I could just run off to Vegas with anyone and be done in a few hours. I'd be set for life, and no one could object." she said casually, hoping Joseph would catch the hint.

"Except voting, or drinking." he quipped.

"Oh, well. What's three years, anyway?"

"Three years is a lot of time at your age. Anything could change."

Susan waved her hand dismissively. "Why must you always be so practical?"

"Occupational hazard." he polished off the last bit of cake left on the plate, leaving a light smearing of frosting over his upper lip. “Listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you a-”

Susan giggled, unable to contain herself at the sight of Joseph’s serious frown next to his sugary moustache.

"What's so funny?"

"You got a bit of -" she giggled some more, coming closer to reach for his face, then ran her thumb over his mouth.

"Susan." he said firmly, but not without a hint of fondness in his voice, retracting as gently as possible.

“All gone.” She reclined back on the railing, and licked the frosting from her fingers. "You know, I think a moustache would suit you. Look at Clark Gable. Before he had one he was nobody, then boom, he won an academy award. You should think about it."

"Maybe. That's a big change in a man's life." he said, averting her gaze and picking up his empty plate. "I think we'd better go back inside, it's getting chilly out here. Everyone is probably wondering where you are."

* * *

If there wasn’t one thing Susan couldn’t resist, it was a good piece of gossip. Mind you, she was not one to engage directly in the activity, but in her opinion, there was no harm done in being a passive listener. If wasn’t her fault if other people couldn’t keep their tongues tied, after all, and if she happened to be in earshot, she certainly couldn’t help what she ended up hearing.

So, of course, that monday, when she ran into some of her mother’s friends sitting poolside at the Country club after her weekly tennis practice, and found them immersed in deep hushed chatter, she couldn’t help but stopping by - not because she wanted to eavesdrop, of course. It would have just been quite impolite not to say hello, that was all. Etiquette and whatnot.

“Good morning, ladies.”

The small group immediately stopped their chatter, turning their attention to Susan.

“Susan! Come, come sit, darling. You must be parched.” Mrs. Vance, one of her mother’s fellow member of the daughters of the American revolution said, before pouring her her a glass of iced tea.

Susan thanked her and sipped on her drink, as the woman kept talking.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t come to your birthday party last week. It’s my Benjamin. The flu, you see. He’s always been sensitive to temperatures, but now I’m afraid age is catching up with him. He’s all bones and his skin, all wrinkles.”

“Poor thing.” Susan said, sympathetically. “Send him my regards, and tell him I wish him a quick recovery.”

Mrs. Vance furrowed her brows, uncertain what to say. “I will, If he can understand what I’m saying.”

Susan put a hand on her heart. “Oh, gosh, I didn’t know his health that bad.”

Mrs. Hoover, a little octogenarian with fiery red hair sitting on Susan’s right side, leaned into her. ”Benjamin is her sphinx cat.” she whispered.

“Oh.”

“Anyway,” Mrs. Vance continued, “We’ll have occasion to see each other soon. Your family is coming to Martha’s Vineyard this fourth of July, right?”

“Oh, yeah, we wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.”

Every year during the days leading to the fourth of July, Susan and her parents flew to their Martha’s Vineyard property, alongside some of their close friends who also happened to have properties in the same area. It was a full on extravaganza filled with music, food, and games, leading up to the big party the night of the fourth, which the families took turns in hosting.

“You better not.” Mrs. Vance replied, “I heard this year it’s gonna be quite the event.”

Her dark eyes closed into slits, her mouth thinning into an enigmatic smile, giving her the appearance of an elder Mona Lisa.

“Really?” Susan asked, perking up.

“Yes, but I shan’t say more.” the woman mimed zipping her mouth.

Mrs. Hanson, a plump blonde woman around her mother's age, jumped in from her seat across the table. “An engagement is gonna be announced on the fourth, or so they say.”

“Oh, how fascinating!” Susan sighed, dreamily. “Whose?”

“Phyllis, I said no talking!” Mrs. Vance objected.

“No, dear, you said you would say nothing. I’ll talk as much as I please!” Mrs. Hanson replied, before turning back to Susan.

“So, I was at the hairdresser yesterday, and who I run into if not Louella.”

Louise Carson, neè Wilson, was known to her family members by her birth name. But to everyone else who mattered she was known as “Louella”, due to her more than average-sized mouth.

“Her sister-in law lives right next door to the brother of the widow of the younger Wilson. You know, the short one, not the tall one.”

“And?” Susan pressed on.

“She says the daughter of the other Wilson brother is announcing her engagement at the party.”

“Which Wilson? the short one?”

“The middle one.”

“Age or height?”

“Both.” Mrs. Hanson replied, before turning to Mrs. Hoover. “Martha, what’s his daughter’s name?”

“Helen.” her friend supplied.

“Yes!” Mrs. Hanson exclaimed. “She’s the one getting engaged. Do you know her, Susan?”

“Not really. We only met a few times. Wasn’t she studying in London?”

“She graduated a couple of months ago and came back home.”

“You left out the most important part, Phyllis!” Mrs. Hoover urged her friend. “The boy!”

“Oh, right. Who is she marrying?”

Mrs. Hoover smiled wickedly through her wrinkles, eager to share such a juicy piece of information.

“You know him. It’s that nice young fellow who works for your father,” she thought it over for a second, ”Joseph.”

All color drained out of Susan’s face as the grip around the cold glass in her hand tightened, her heart beating a hundred miles an hour under her white tennis outfit. She didn’t dare move a muscle, or reply for that matter, fearing her feelings could have transpired in her reaction. If her shock was evident, she couldn’t tell either way, since the ladies around her seemed much more concerned with the sound of their own voices than anyone else's, buzzing like bees.

“Now, you have to promise to keep this hush-hush. It’s supposed to a surprise.” Mrs. Vance said.

“Hmm-hmm.” Susan agreed, nodding, before gulping down the remaining of her tea, her mind barely registering what was happening around her.

The ladies continued talking, engaging Susan in polite chatter, but the whole ordeal had clearly lost all of its appeal to her. What was the fun of gossip when you were at the offending end, albeit indirectly?

So, she got up on unsteady feet and excused herself, leaving Mrs. Vance with the promise of coming over soon with her mother to visit Benjamin and share a cup of tea.

She checked her wristwatch on the way to the wooden building housing the changing rooms. It was only eleven in the morning, but she already couldn't wait for the day to be over.

#novella #original fiction #the object of her affection

11 notes · View notes

arceneades · 3 years

Text

Yeah. Still Hurts

It’s weird how easy it can be to find yourself punching down. Like, you might feel like, if your profile says something like:

“dni if you’re an anti-anti/pedophilia apologist, are homophobic, transphobic, racist, or antisemitic“

Then you might feel free to post something like:

“not some middle aged man trying to argue w me that adora murdered prime in cold blood this morning . not today or any day actually“

And then bask in the piling on that commences. Good on you, kid.

But... here’s a couple of things about that. Let’s skip past the fact that the words “in cold blood” are yours, not mine. Weirdly, I’m not in the mood to discuss the plot of She-Ra right now.

What I want to bring up is that I’m not a man.

You commented later that you’re “just here for the lesbians”.

I am a lesbian.

And those are two facts about me that are sometimes hard to own, sometimes hard to say. They make me fragile in a way that I’ve been trained not to be. But they are true. I am non-binary, and I am a lesbian.

I get it. You might not think so. You might think that I have no right to call myself a lesbian. You might think that I have no right to say that I’m not a man. After all, I was AMAB and I haven’t gone through gender reassignment or changed my name or anything. And I’m non-binary, not trans-fem, so maybe in your mind I’m not really trans, and it doesn’t matter if you misgender me.

You might think that groups like the LGB alliance are right, and that my classifying myself as a lesbian is a threat to your very existence, and if you do, I’m sorry that you have that fear, but I’m not a threat to you. I’m just trying to exist.

To be fair, though, lots of people talk like the LGB Alliance. They say they aren’t transphobic, but that some people aren’t really trans. They’ll say that about people who have changed their names but haven’t had reassignment. They’ll say it about people who have done both. Lots and lots of people say that transwomen aren’t women, transmen aren’t men, and that non-binary doesn’t exist.

And when they say that, I think that there are probably cases in which you might say, “That person is transphobic.”

And that person would say, “I’m not a transphobe, I just think that (xyz criteria) hasn’t been met!” or something. Or that they aren’t transphobic, they just don’t believe in nonbinary people and also think they/them pronouns are silly. They will say they aren’t transphobic, and the transphobic statement you are pointing out is totally blown out of proportion and doesn’t really matter.

Much as I’m sure you would. You aren’t transphobic, you just think that I’m a cisgender, straight man, despite the fact that I’m telling you I’m a nonbinary lesbian. You aren’t transphobic, you just know more about me than I do, and you know that I’m mistaken. I’m sure you didn’t think twice about it.

I’ve written a bit about why I love She-Ra so much. About how watching She-Ra helped me to understand things about myself, open up decades old wounds and honestly look at them. How it’s hard to be someone so far out of the target market of a show and yet having it mean everything.

And one thing I wrote in that was that on Etheria, maybe I wouldn’t have those fears. Maybe on Etheria, at least outside of the Fright Zone, I wouldn’t have those scars. On Etheria, no one would misgender me.

I guess I was wrong. Or maybe we just watched a different show, and the one you watched made it okay to be transphobic if you’re aiming at the right target.

But maybe think about how your post would read if you removed the ageism and the transphobia and the inaccuracy and wrote:

“not some non-binary lesbian trying to argue w me that adora killed Horde Prime intentionally and with forethought this morning . not today or any day actually“

Because, if you don’t want to have that experience today or any day, you should probably avoid Noelle Stevenson as well.

#SPOP #transphobes #no I am not going to name names #angst #heart of etheria #obviously not avoid Noelle all the time just avoid talking about this topic #nonbinary #queer is beautiful #gender

8 notes · View notes

elyella · 4 years

Text

How MewGulf saved me

¤Sorry I don’t speak english, it’s poorly written¤

They call this ↓ ↓ ↓ fan service.

They know exactly how to act, how to show us the right “lover look“. They are well aware about every move they have to make so we all believe this ship is real. They care about the smallest details; the way their lips move, the gazes, every touch, every blink, every smile... Everything is calculated.

But you know what? It’s one thing to be a good actor, and it’s an other to fake All. The. Time. Seriously, they never get a break, they are always together, always working: photoshoots, interviews, live events... It goes on and on, endlessly since.... last year? So, if this is all fake, as an actor, I would be EXHAUSTED right now. And as an individual, human being, I would be MENTALLY EXHAUSTED too. Always pretending just to please all the fans? No way, my brain would have exploded long ago. I would be screaming for a break, for vacations, for freedom, for rest.

So, why those two didn’t become insane yet? Well, maybe because all of this is not 100% fake. Maybe they are not pretending all the time. Maybe part of them enjoy this shipping thing a little because... Well, I would not say they have fell in love with each other, but there is a genuine connection for sure and a true friendship between those two that could explane the obvious pleasure and easyness they have in playing their role as a couple.

Of course we wish that this relationship could be real. But why do we want this? Why do we wish them so bad to be a real couple?

Maybe because since the beginning they created a real bond, not a fake one just for the sake of their job? Maybe because whenever they are together, in front of a camera or not, they always act natural, always stay themselves and genuine?

And, well, look at them. Look at this chemistry.

How can we not ship them? Body language is natural behind the staged behavior. We want them to be together because they give us the illusion that what they share is real happiness. Illusion or not, I think fiction became somehow reality. They transcended their characters literally. Unlike a lot of BL actors, they never give the vibe that what they have to do for fanservice is a trick so it is very easy for fans to fall in deep fantasies. And with other BL couples, there is often an awkward moment, a second of hesitation, before they move and oblige the fans. But MewGulf? Never they hesitate, and they go for it, they even anticipate what fans are expecting from them, but never we feel that they force themselves; they respect each other. They are natural and authentic.

It is obvious that they get along very well in their everyday life. Moreover, we can feel the harmony and goodwill even when it comes to play silly games and promote products such as tooth paste (!) or talking pillows (!?).

It is often said that this couple had brought fan service to a next level. Indeed, they did. But to me it is not just about the way they are inconsciously so clingy and touchy to each other. Nah. Without realising it, they brought fan service to a much esssential level and they did it without calculating anything, without measuring anything, without preparing anything, unlike those staged stances during fan meetings. And I’m going to tell how they did it.

I discovered those two little sunshines in the middle of the world confinement. Unlike almost everyone else, I couldn’t stay safe at home. At that time, I was scared, I was working on what we called the first line, I was depressed, tired. And those two little sunshines kept entertaining their audience as the whole planet was on lockdown. They made me laugh, they made me smile, they made me forget about all my worries, all my fears, each time they appeared on the Net.

I found them in a pretty random way -I didn’t even know that thai drama existed at that time, much less BL! - but I like to say that destiny brought them at the right moment.

We live in a world full of horror and madness, a world uncertain and fragile, and to see them singing along with a weird microphone, for example, was a ray of light in the darkness of reality. As for me, I needed this. I needed to witness such a beautiful relationship.

The lover thing is fake or is not –who cares? what happens in their personal life is not of our business, cause YES they do deserve some privacy even if they are big stars- but there is definitely a real bond, a real friendship, a real brotherhood between them that makes each live session unique and endearing.

They give us ... hope? Yeah, hope it is. Hope that love (and I’m not talking about love as a couple concept. I’m talking about love in its purest form; a strong link between two spirits regardless gender, age, race) can overcome everything, can be powerful and genuine, pure and innocent, true and blissful. Both their characters and the men behind them have taught me a lesson; true love has no gender, true love has no frontier, true love can have many aspects, many descriptions, many meanings.

“Two brothers that love each other” That is the way they described their relationship. Well, I think what they share, what they show to us, is beyond the word love, beyond the word brother. It’s something stronger and purer than that. And I don’t think there is a word that had been invented yet to describe that kind of relationship, simply because we have never seen this before. It is unique and indescribable and that is why they reached our heart deeply as no other BL couple had ever done. “Soulmates” sounds too cliche to me, but it is the closest word that could describe what I see when I watch all those “fan services” stuff.

Now let’s hope one thing: I know, in a near future, those two will have to move on. One day, life will lead them to different paths. It’s a fatality. But I hope they will always be thankful for what they shared together. I hope this duo will survive their own aura of success, because this industry can be really cruel and so toxic. I saw too many partners fall apart and end up their relationship in bitterness. I wish they will learn how to deal with the pressure and how to protect their bond from the dark side of celebrity.

Over all, I hope that they will be aware that they made people like me happy. Even though all of this was just a game for them -a job, an act- what they brought to me was real and precious.

They saved my life in many ways. Last spring, during lockdown, all I was doing was work-work-work, in an environement considered not safe and at the end of each day, I was confined at home, feeling lonely, exhausted, and stressed out. Many people around me at work had medical prescriptions for anti-stress pills, or started drinking alcohol or started using drugs just to calm down their nerves. We had a lot on our plate, but we could not give up, people needed our help more than never in this great time of need, so we all found our own way to deal with the situation and stay operational.

As for me I found the perfect cure for anxiety: MewGulf. I didn’t know I needed this. Didn’t know that two guys living on the other side of the planet had somekind of healing power over me. But it happened anyway.

You can be a hero by doing simple things; sharing a live from home while baking cookies

and playing videos games, or singing along with a weird microphone,

or wearing an Hawaiian skirt dancing Baby Shark

or putting stickers and flashy make up on your face

and so much more goofy stuff like that ;) Just by being themselves, with their happy energy, together they became my heroes. I’m glad and I’m grateful to have found them when I was really in a bad state. Each night, after another stressful day at work, they recharged my batteries. God, I don't even speak Thai! I don't get a word of what they're saying, but just the sound of their voices, their sweet laughter and their beaming face had the effect of a lullaby that sang me to sleep.

I hope they know that they have made a real difference. Difference between salvation and depression, between hope and despair, between life and death. And that is the ultimate fan service level they could reach.

Thank you my little two sunshines.

Be happy. Stay safe.

Ely

#mewgulf #tharntype #gulf kanawut #mew suppasit #long post #bl series #thai drama

99 notes · View notes

gatheringbones · 4 years

Text

Juno Roche, from “Queer Sex: A Trans and Non-Binary Guide to Intimacy, Pleasure, and Relationships”, Jessica Kingsley Publishers, 2018:

“I needed to have control over my newly created vagina. I put up metaphorical barriers and warning tape signalling to the world that this was still a fragile place. Over the next few months I felt elated, depressed and confused in equal measures. I imagined that I was the kind of woman who wanted to feel a penis slide inside of her. I was definitely heterosexual and I imagined that this would all be straightforward and that questioning my sexuality or even my gender makeup wouldn't ever be something that I'd have to face or deal with. The script was simple: Bits of my body felt wrong, so change them and then get on with being an incredibly binary heterosexual woman who happens to be looking for a husband, hopefully one with an average-sized penis that my vagina can comfortably accommodate. I assumed that now I had the body, a much-more-in-line-with-the-way-I-felt body, things would be easy: I would find a man. He would desire all of me, not just some of me. He would be a nice man, a kind man, a handsome man. We would make virtual babies (lots of them) and then in turn spoil my dogs, making them our family. It would all be plain sailing. Post-vaginal landing, everything would work out fine. I assumed binary and I assumed heterosexuality.

That was the script. The truth was that as time went on I just didn't know anymore who I fancied, desired, or wanted to be fucked by. Did I even want to be fucked anymore? Was I heterosexual, bisexual, was I a lesbian or was I all of the above and then some? It seemed as time went on, my vagina rather brilliantly posed as many questions as were answered.

I assumed very early on, by the way, that my vagina must be nonbinary— poetically so due to their possession of two symbolically different representations: penile and scrotal skin made vaginal, perfectly inter-binary.

I knew that my being HIV positive might get in the way. For many people it's still an unknown hurdle that they are unwilling to step over. Sometimes it's because of fear, sometimes because of ignorance. I can't blame people, as I do not know how I would react in their shoes, and besides, blaming is shaming and it leads nowhere. Yes, it hurts to be rejected by someone because of my HIV status, but in truth there is no loss because they would never be right for me. For some people I think that the intersection of trans, HIV, and middle-age is just easier to walk away from than negotiate.

But I don't think my current dilemma is due to that intersection. In truth, I never get close enough to anyone for them to find out. I honestly believe that my dating, relationship and sex dilemmas are centered around my own feelings of confusion about my sexual identity. I'm not sure who to approach or how to approach them. I'm not sure if I have to tell someone I'm trans or that my vagina has a different construction, or how to have sex with someone who may have a trans body like mine. I assumed simplicity and didn't prepare myself for new levels of ambiguity and unexpected exploration of new lands. (...) So, and this is a confession, I think that I am probably quite inexperienced at becoming more experienced. I, for many years, did versions of the same very limited repertoire.

My lack of experience prepared me to be a binary, vanilla heterosexual, which is exactly what I presumed I was and would be in my post-vaginal town.

I'm sure that there would be some people interested in me but I am bewildered by my emerging world of choice and, if I'm honest, slightly terrified about how to have the kinds of sexual and loving relationships that have opened up in front of me. When it comes to these new frontiers, I am hopelessly naive and despite my past— it's well-documented, I feel quite timid about the spaces I have never even imagined exploring.

Nothing is a given anymore. I seemingly find lots of people attractive, and the further I have moved away from focusing on my own genitals as being key, I have had to move my focus off others' genitals as being a place to find love, sex and desire. Genitals alone weren't going to provide the answer. If I find lots of different people attractive— cis men, cis women (especially handsome, butch lesbians), trans men and some of the nonbinary community— what does that make me and what should I do about it? What dating site should I join? Is there a dating site? Is there a label for me that fits at 50 and naive, and at 50 should I really be open to a new label?

Am I not being silly to be over 50 and experimenting with new labels?

I'm sure there is a word, or a label, and I'm sure there are spaces into which I could fit, but part of this exploration is about allowing myself all of the options without tagging myself or restricting myself to exist in one box. If I look back, I can only see restrictions I placed on myself, further implemented by society, which operates in an incredibly limiting way. I can only see transparent yet rigid boxes in which I placed myself, often for no reason, other than for fear of experimentation.”

#juno roche #trans literature #lesbian literature #wasteland radio #gender stuff #terra preta

102 notes · View notes

boneswriteswords · 4 years

Text

Alien Boyfriend: Duxob

I wrote this over a year ago and it was on my wattpad so I decided to move it over here too. Its my first crack at an alien and a space story. Let me know what you think and if I should continue this world building.

I reread it and I’m not a fan but I never like any of my work so eh. Its unbeta’d because we die like men here.

Length: ~7900

Male Alien x Female Reader

~~~~~~

The sun that rose in the west was at its peak as you pretended to rummage through your backpack. It was the kind of hot that evaporated the sweat from your body before it even had a chance to drip and you could feel the skin at the back of your neck boiling. Stealing the large tub of sun cream you in preparation for your days on this hell-site of a planet was honestly one of the smartest things you had ever done in your life.

A few feet away, Duxob leaned against your bikes, tinted band hiding half his reptilian face as he scanned the area - particularly the cargo wagon by the gateway- under the guise of adjusting something on one of the handle bars.

It was a believable enough scene. Your bikes looked like they were on their last legs, barely functional and ill-maintained, what with all the scratches and chipped paint, the dangling wires and exposed gear shifts. The tires were covered in duct tape. The seats were tattered and stained. The metals looked rusted and dangerous.

No one needed to know that they only looked that way though.

No one needed to know that you designed them to look like heaps of junk. Aside from the things that you needed to fix on them the next time you hit a decent port city, they ran smoother and faster than anything on this side of the galaxy. But, for the purposes of keeping your head down and not getting robbed, life was easier when they didn't look appealing.

Across the clearing, you could hear the men attaching the empty wagon to the jump ship, checking over the mechanics one last time. They're yelling something The driver of the jump ship revs the gears in quick bursts, filling the silent port with noise, and you know that you only have a few minutes before they leave.

You adjust your band down over the bridge of your nose, turning up the the tint so your eyes weren't visible. If anyone was watching, you didn't want them to have any more identifiers than necessary. It was bad enough that your roots were showing, revealing your natural hair color to the world.

Glancing up at Duxob, you nod. His scales shift colors -green to blue to purple- in silent agreement, running his hand over his pants and mounting his bike. There was no need for words when you've been working together as long as you have. There is no doubt between you and it makes picking out the best targets easier than breathing.

Like the driver. You would have approached him. He was an old Culxan, wrinkles deep in his wide face and expression set in a way that shows he has never known much other than struggle and hard labor in his long life, but he was soft around the edges. He likely had a family or at the very least, he wished he had one. You'd be able to play into that if you had the time, chipping away at him with curious glances and innocent but intrusive questions until he broke rules about stowaways and border jumping.

But time was the one thing you didn't have at the moment.

Which was why Duxob was taking the lead while you kept watch, one hand on your gun and the other on your bike handle. There were no visible security measures - the region you were in was way too poor to afford drones and bots and all the other high tech shit that smothers the galaxies - but that didn't mean much. This was an outlaw station - used more for transporting produce and drugs than intel and technology - and that meant anyone could have some sort of weapon on them at any time.

Which meant that they all did.

It also meant that you both needed to be extra careful. What you were doing was still illegal - Duxob could be arrested the moment he set foot by the gates - but there was a lawlessness about the way they dealt with criminals. There were no questions. There were no arrests. There were no calling the authorities.

You didn't just have to watch for guard passes through the jump, you had to watch for anyone who looked at your partner for longer than 10 seconds.

It made you anxious but you knew Duxob could handle himself. He was Alzeanian after all - one of the most deadly species to exist on this side of the cosmos - and while they were rare and were hardly ever seen off their own planet, everyone knew what they were capable of.

It was an advantage you had utilized many times since you met him.

Still, you also never looked away from him as he approached the cargo wagon. Between the whirring of refueling pods and the grinding of the lines, the whole area is drowned in a sea of noise that made it damn near impossible for you to pick up what Duxob was saying. He was off his bike and if you hadn't redesigned it yourself, you would have thought it was turned off.

'Not safe yet,' you thought, watching as he adjusts his gait into a saunter as he approaches the driver. His wide smile is all sharp teeth but his flat nostrils are closed into slits as he scented the wagon. After a moment, the slits flared open again and He stretched, his lean body on display as his dirty shirt rode up.

You tried not to stare but it was difficult when your job was literally to watch his scales to see if they shifted or not.

Duxob's toothy smile morphed into an easy grin as he reached down into his pocket and pulled out a small bag, slipping it into the driver's pointed claw in a pseudo-handshake. He flashed green and you knew you were safe for the moment.

Relieved, you hitched your backpack over your shoulders as Duxob drove back over. "We good?"

"Yeah. One bag of units and four ounces of dust," he husks, removing his own backpack from where it was hooked onto his bike, "Pretty cheap but then again, the wagon is empty, they're jumping through a moon shift, and its heading to the Triquaz region so anything more than that would have been bullshit and he knows it."

"Ew."

You hated the Triquaz region. Hated it. On your list of choices for destinations, it wouldn't even make it to the top 500 but the reality was that you didn't have a choice at the moment. They needed to get off this planet and find a port where they could stock up on their dangerously low supplies. You were human, which limited the amount of things you could consume in the galaxy apparently, and finding stations that imported Earth produce and the like took a bit of research to find.

"I know but at least the temperature doesn't fluctuate so suddenly or so dramatically."

"This is true," you sighed, adjusting your grip on your handle bars as you walked alongside the bulky alien, kicking up dust as you did so "Do you know which planet we're going to?"

"No but I do know we will be confined inside the back for a good five days before we get there."

"Well fuck," you groaned, "Do we have enough to get us through til then?"

His lips quirked up and you couldn't help be annoyed at it. You had real concerns damnit! You knew how much you had in your bag but that was it. You didn't touch your partner's bag unless it was a severe medical emergency, like the time you got bit by a Qon and needed a poison pack or when Duxob accidentally burned off an entire forearm's worth of scales and skin trying to readjust the thrusters on his bike without your supervision.

"Don't fucking smirk at me dickhole."

His grin widened minutely before disappearing completely, "We will be fine. We have enough to last until we get off-world and find somewhere to sleep."

God you missed sleep. It felt like ages since you were able to get more than an hour here and there. The tension in your body was tight enough to choke someone to death. Your body was not made for the rough interstellar outlaw lifestyle that you found yourself in and it loved to remind you of that.

The alternative wasn't any better so you tried not to bitch too much about it.

The wagon was attached to the jump ship, the back door closing as it prepared to jump. The gatekeepers on both sides of the portal gate were bustling too and fro, making sure everything was secured for a final time before departure.

"Ready?" Duxob grunts, picking up the pace.

This part, along with literally everything else about being a stowaway, made you nervous. Jumping was a very serious, precious thing. If you fell back, it usually wasn't so bad. Depending on how far you are, you could come back unscathed. If you fell to the side.....well, it wasn't pretty thats for damn sure.

"Ready."

As one, you run forward, kicking up even more dust and shoving your bikes upwards, hopping into the wagon just as the doors close. You can hear the clicking as the metal latch seals and the overpowering light from the east sun was consumed in darkness. You quickly dropped to your knees and clutch onto the metal door handle, feeling the start-up of the initial burst of speed that is required in order to jump.

Duxob worked quickly to secure the security locks and activate the bracer shields on the bikes, knowing full well how awful it could be if the bikes remained unsteady during liftoff.

The wagon rocks as the buildup increases. There is heavy clanging happening outside, slowly being drowned out by the familiar ghostly noises of the portal as the wagon approaches it. You brace yourself as the rocking turns into lurching, knowing full well that no matter how hard you clutch onto the door, you are going to be flung.

It always hurts and this time is no different. The bruises on your back are going to be a fucking bitch.

"Y/N?" Duxob pulls a light stick from his bag as it ends, snapping the two ends together and holding it up. The wagon illuminates and you give him a thumbs up from where you landed on the floor on the opposite side of the wagon.

"Is anything broken, you weird fragile creature?"

The thumbs up quickly turns into middle finger and he snorts, which makes you bend your arm and snap it up a few times to emphasize the level of 'fuck you' you are directing at him. You hated everything.

The wagon lurches again and flings you over to another side of the wagon yet again. Pain shoots into your side but its quickly quashed when you realize it hurled you right into Duxob's body, causing him to grunt and slam back into the wall forcefully.

Fucking aftershocks.

"Ish what you get for talking shit asshole," you mumbled, face pressed uncomfortably into his abdomen (?)- you had no idea because Duxob dropped the light stick on impact and it rolled underneath one of the bikes and died.

A solid hour goes by before either of you move, wanting to be completely sure that the jump was successful.

"Only five days to go," you grumble as you finally shift away from the chilled body of your partner, "Fuck."

Five days of sleeping on a hard floor, working in the low lights of your remaining sticks, sucking on dehydrated food packs and ignoring the grumbling in your stomachs, and trying not to go stir crazy in the darkness of space. Again.

"We'll get through it. We always do."

"I know," you sigh, "I just wish it was different sometimes."

He doesn't say anything but you can feel his clawed hands stroke the top of your head and you hum, content despite the complaints on your lips. You'd cope. You both would. Just like you always do.

Because you weren't alone and neither was he.

~~~~~

Five days was four days and 23 hours too many to be confined in the dark with nothing to do. You were ready to tear your skin off just to have something else to focus on. As awesome as it was, travelling the galaxies wasn't a luxurious process if you didn't have the money to book passage on a tourist ship or buy your own. More often than not, if you wanted to get somewhere off-planet, you either hitched a ride or you snuck your way into empty crates and bag holds, spending hours upon hours being quiet and still.

It was maddening at the worst of times but you always felt better knowing that Duxob was with you, keeping you company in the quiet.

Nevertheless, the moment the secondary engines turned off, you were up and ready for action, securing your stuff back onto your body before the clinking and clanging of the descent even stopped.

Duxob was too by the looks of it. His face was always hard to read but you could tell he was just as anxious to escape your wooden prison as you were. You couldn't see it too well in the dark but his scales were more red than any other color and bright than normal, indicating his level of irritation. You watched as he pressed close to the wood, listening to the shouting coming from the outside through his comm chip.

You would have but yours was damaged and the parts were too small to see and repair in the total darkness of the wagon. The universe was filled with other languages and you picked up what you could but everything on the outside sounded foreign.

"Can you make anything out?" you whisper, already straddling your bike with your hand on the starter. After being confined for so long, the rush of adrenline was blinding. You wanted to go.

Duxob jerks away from the wood quickly and hops on his own bike, "We've descended. They'll be opening the door any minute now. Get ready." His long clawed hand turned his bike on before reaching over and flicking yours on too, "We have to be quick. This port is more heavily armed with border agents and just as ruthless. Be careful."

"You too."

The seconds seem to drag on and anxiety causes your grip on your handles to strengthen even as you start to sweat. Border patrol agents were nasty pieces of work, hired to check and process travellers as they come and go off planets but, because there were no uniform regulations to keep them in line, they often just did as they pleased to people, especially those that are illegally jumping.

Like you and Duxob were.

"We will be fine Y/N," Duxob mumbled quietly, his voice hoarse from disuse and oh how you loved how he said your name "They haven't caught us yet. They never will."

The darkness seems deeper in the contours of his face as you look at him, emphasizing the brightness of his golden reptilian eyes and the gold pseudo-eyes that rest above them and bleeding over the contours of his cheekbones. (He never explained to you what the 'pseudo eyes' were - you weren't even sure if they were eyes to begin with- or what they did and you couldn't bring yourself to care about you- not when he was looking at you and you had more important things to focus on).

He's all hard lines and safety, a reminder of all you've gone through the last few years to get where you are, and you relax just the slightest bit.

"No. They never fucking will."

His lips quirk up again, "Now get ready. Its almost time."

And he was right. No sooner than you had turned back to face the wagon door, did it open with a hiss, revealing several border patrol guards with scanners and tasers and all the pretty toys you wish you could get your hands on.

"Show time."

~~~~~~

The getaway was as dramatic as you would expect. The air tasted wet, the humidity of the planet already working its magic on your already beaten body as you sped away from the guards. The port was a mess - Duxob finding it absolutely necessary to snatch one of their stun bombs and let it off over the entire port. There was a pain spreading from your side and you knew without a doubt that you got hit.

But it was worth it.

Duxob was unharmed.

You glance over your shoulder and assess the chaos left in your wake. Its nothing more than a smoky ball of dirt on wet and slimy hilltop and you grin when you see that the guard patrol bikes are still hovering around the port.

"They didn't see us. I think we're good," you shout, grinning wide despite the pulsing pain in your side. You could feel the blood dripping down your back, a burning sensation crawling over your flesh. Carefully, you engage your auto-drive.

"Lets get farther away before we get comfortable," the reptilian man warned, doing nothing to stop the smirk forming on his lips but kicking his bike into the next gear. You untie and retie your jacket's belt quickly, using whats left of your clothes as a makeshift bandage to staunch the bleeding, before putting your bike into the next gear to catch up.

"Where to?" You could feel drops of water splashing up from your wheels and you pointedly do not think about how much fucking mud you are going to have to clean out of your rechargers later. Instead, you focus on how exhilarating it feels to be alive.

Alive and with Duxob.

"There is a city not far from here but I think we should head out farther. When they release we got away, they'll immediately head to it to try and smoke us out."

"Sounds good to me." It really didn't, not with the way the fire in your side spread and consumed you but auto-drive was a beautiful thing and it wouldn't be the first time you passed out and needed your bike to take you to safety. Duxob was more than capable of syncing your bike to his so you didn't get separated and he was more than used to you passing out due to your human stamina.

It would be ok.

~~~~~~

It was not ok.

You had been on the road for at least a full 12 hours before Duxob found a port city to stop in, every rock, bump, and hurdle ripping at the ever-growing wound on your side. There was nothing special about this particular port - same lost cost rooms, dingy dive bars, questionable food marts, and horrific pleasure buildings, all the same shit that comes with being a hub for the transients and the poor - and that what made it the perfect place to lay low for a bit.

It also meant that there likely wasn't a med bay anywhere in the vicinity and you're going to have to try and fix the wound yourself when Duxob went for food.

There were plenty of buildings advertising rooms but Duxob was picky, choosing the one that had the least amount of skeevy employees and cleaner bathrooms. It had a parking lot right outside the rooms, which was good since being able to get to their bikes at a moment's notice was vital in your combined survival.

Your room was all the way in the back of the building, on the first floor, another thing Duxob insists on when you bunker down in actual rooms for a night or two.

"I got us a room for five nights," he says, flashing the card keys and slipping them into his jacket pocket.

The surprise on your face must have been obvious because he snorted, "We need a rest. And we need to restock. Shipments are due to come in all this week at this port. Better to lay low and stay than run off with half empty gas tanks and no food."

Point.

"They didn't charge me too much," he murmured, knowing how anxious you got when you ran low on units, "I bartered."

Bartered meaning threatened the clerk until he was satisfied that they wouldn't bother you both. You smirked up at him, "Good. I'm assuming we also have an hydration pod?"

Duxob leveled you with a stern look before it broke into a small grin and a wink, almost sending you to your knees in shock.

"Oooh, whats got you all playful?" you joked, subtly adjusting so you could poke his abdomen through his thick jacket. The movement was enough to make you want to die but you could not pass up the opportunity to tease him.

"You're going to stop smelling like shit and I'm excited about it."

"Fuck you, you stoic cumstain," you cackled, knowing full well that he was right. A downside to the life is that cleanliness often had to be traded for survival. Weeks could go by with only light rinsing and scrubbing through hoses and water containers and lakes. Soap was an almost nonexistent luxury as was conditioner and lotion.

Honestly, it was one of the hardest things you had to give up when you first left Earth and the thought of slipping into the pod and being able to do a deep cleansing of your body and wound was heavenly.

The scales on his head shift to a deep violet, spreading down his neck and chest in striping patterns and you know he is just as excited as you are to bathe. He reeks just as much as you do, the skin between his scales caked with ingrained dirt that probably drove him insane.

You made a mental note to offer to swab them out for him after his initial wash. You know, if you didn't pass out from the pain.

He swipes the card through the door before walking back outside to secure the bikes. You immediately drop all your stuff onto the bed in the corner, slowly lowering your body down next to it. You side screamed in protest, sweat starting to drip down your body as the wound shifted from a spreading pain into paralyzing infection.

Which means that it wasn't just a normal blaster the guard was wielding.

Which means that it was one of the million different kinds of biological weapons they had at their disposal.

Which means that not only did it feel like your flesh was being fried and eaten, it likely was being fried and eaten to create the ideal environment for whatever chemical or disease that was inside it to make itself at home and infect you.

Which meant you were fucked.

The world got really fuzzy.

"....hey....Y/N? Are you ok?" your partner said, voice sounding distant.

'Oh...I think I'm dying,' you thought sluggishly as Duxob's face appeared above yours, handsome reptilian face slowly fading.

"Nope," you slurred, making sure to emphasize the pop of the 'P', "I got shot at the port. Thought it was a normal blaster shot but looks like its not...."

"What?"

Oh, he sounded mad.

"Yeah. Don't be mad."

"Oh. Mad doesn't even begin to cover what I'm feeling," he growled, easing off your jacket and the majority of your shirt off as carefully as he could to inspect the damage. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"We had to get away." There were pieces of fabric melted into the wound and no matter how gentle he was being, it was not pleasant and you couldn't stop the choked noises from escaping. Something cold was sprayed on the blistering skin and you vaguely recognized the smell of antibiotic spray.

'He's so smart,' your mind supplied as it floated in dead, squishy remnants of your ability to think rational and continuous thought, 'Knows just what I need.'

"We could have stopped sooner! This needs to be dressed and treated!"

You didn't have the strength to argue, blinking to fight off the very tempting urge to just pass out and ignore the way your body was succumbing to the infection. There was an unhealthy amount of sweat pooling in your collarbones and in the small of your back but there was ice in your bones.

"Stay awake. Stay the fuck awake Y/N! Do you hear me? I'm going to wrap you up and get some help."

"Too dangerous."

"Fuck you, I swear if-"

You didn't hear what he said next. Everything went silent, like when audio is cut right in the middle of a movie. You were positive he was still talking but his lips were moving way too fast for you to read them and it wasn't like you could see them clearly anyway.

A feeling of calm washes over you before the world goes black.

~~~~~

The first time you regain consciousness feels like something out of one of your nightmares.

There is pain.

Lots and lots of fucking pain.

And you can't move. Your body was frozen, limbs unresponsive and weak.

And there is one - no, two - faces hovering above you covered in blood and neither of them was Duxob. You didn't recognize either of them but you knew that the blood was yours.

The screams formed and fizzled out before they could reach your teeth.

'Please. Please let me die. Oh my God, please let me die. I can't....help me. Someone help me!'

The darkness gripped you tight and you hoped that you never woke up again.

~~~~~~

The second time you wake up, you are in a different room and the pain is gone but it was replaced with a throbbing ache in your joints. Its dark, the only light coming from a small light stick in the corner of the room, but you can make out the shape of something moving in the room behind weighted eyelids.

"Dux?" you rasp, mouth dry and disgusting, "That you?"

The shadow figure moved closer. Right away you knew it wasn't Dux and you couldn't stop the anxious whine from escaping. It crackled painfully in your throat. The dark hid everything from you, fear slamming back into you forcefully.

"Shhh. Shhh little love," the shadow whispered, voice feminine and sweet, "Dux is nearby. Cade had to take him to the back room while R fixed you up."

A cool cloth was placed on your head and you flinched, whining again when you realized you couldn't move away from it. The ache spread throughout your body as it tried to shiver. The bed beside your hand dipped before a soft hand stroked your cheek and hair.

"Rest. You are out of danger now. I'll let Dux know you know you woke up," the shadow said, a smooth lilt to its voice as they continued to soothe you. "He worries."

As much as you want to protest, to jump up and demand answers, scream for Duxob to come in and protect you from the shadow and this strange, awful place, you couldn't help but the shadow's touch was comforting. Something beeped somewhere in the darkness followed by a burst of sweet-smelling aroma.

Before you could stop yourself, you slipped gently back into unconsciousness with the bitter knowledge of waking up alone on your tongue.

~~~~~~

The third time you woke up, you felt better. The throbbing ache was centralized to the spot where you knew your wound was. You kept your eyes closed for a few moments, cataloging your body, relieved when it seems that all your limbs seemed back online and capable of movement.

"Y/N?" a familiar voice asked and you couldn't help the grin as it formed on your mouth.

"Dux?"

"Yeah, its me," the sound of wood scraping on wood filled the room and the bed dipped a little, "I was starting to think Jazza lied."

"Who?"

"Don't worry about it right now," he murmured quietly and you didn't have to look to see that his face was next to yours on the pillow, "How do you feel?"

"Sore," you whimpered, shifting a bit on the bed, "but good. Better."

"Good. Good."

After a moment of struggle, you were able to roll your head to side and open your eyes. Duxob's face was, indeed, very close to yours on the pillow. Close enough that you could trace the green patterns in his iris's.

"Hi," you whispered.

"Hey."

"You ok?"

"Yeah, I'm ok."

"Promise?"

He chuckled at that, the sound reverberating through the pillow, "Promise. Go back to sleep. You need more rest."

As soon as the words left his lips, you yawned, sending what was probably a really nasty-smelling gust of gross-mouth into his face. His face contorted in mild disgust but stayed put. You admired his restraint.

"Sleep." There was a hint of command in his tone.

So you did, eager to fall into a place that was just Dux's cool hands and vibrant scales.

~~~~~~

Weeks had passed before you were able to stay awake for more than three hours and each time you woke up, Duxob was there with fresh blankets, soup, and a new story about what he had done while he waited for you to wake up again.

You quickly became acquainted with Jazza, a fiery little humanoid Flazian woman with artificial purple eyes and scars across her pink body who you recognized as the shadow who lulled you back to sleep, Cade, a small golden alien (you couldn't place his species for the life of you) with bright orange antennae and tattoos covering his body, and R, a tall tentacled Carcog who trained as a doctor on Pantone but left the practice to lead a rebellion after he discovered that the institution that hired him had been giving placebos to the poorer populations of beings instead of actual medicine.

You had also learned that the building you were in was where R worked to heal the disenfranchised and those injured by border agents and those they work for in the various riots and rages he leads and organizes. It was beaten down and broken, windows boarded up with wood and red tape, floors splintered and decayed, regularly infested with at least three kinds of parasites at any given moment - seven if Cade didn't parasite bomb once a week -, and the smell was enough to make you vomit. It was incredibly well-hidden - it had to be in order to fly under the radar for extended periods of time.

However, despite the shitty state of the building and most of its rooms overall, the healing rooms were immaculate and perfectly sterile. The medicine cabinets were lined up neatly along the walls and labeled with the different medicines they stored. There were neat charts and lists hanging on the walls - patient schedules, post-its with cute doodles on them, restock lists, all manner of relevant papers.

Air purifiers hung in every corner just high enough to reach and adjust if needed and you were thankful for them because without them, you could imagine it getting quite stuffy in the room.

Cade had found the building right before the last time they had been forced to run - over 3 years ago - and they still hadn't been found, which put you at ease. You wouldn't be able to fight your way out if there was a raid on the building.

Especially since you were unarmed and unable to get out of bed without risking rupturing all of R's hard work.

They were quite the trio, always on the go and doing something, getting in each other's way - sometimes on purpose just to get a rise out of the other - but, despite their strangeness, you were grateful. They saved your life and, from what Jazza had said, kept Duxob from losing his shit all over the place while you were out.

"Dinnertime!" Jazza sang as she sauntered into the room, a steaming bowl of gross mush that was supposed to promote rapid healing.

"Oh goody," you reply sarcastically, dog-earing the page you were on and putting the book off to the side so she could place the bowl on your lap table.

"Hush now," she mock-scolded, purple eyes whirring as they focused on you, "This is helping."

"But it tastes like shit," you whine loudly, exaggerating random syllables, "Its NASTY!"

"Child, I will spank you."

"Pfft, that is sooooo not a punishment," you smirked, wiggling your eyebrows at her as she cackled.

"If it makes you feel better, the rest of us are stuck on this canned garbage until we can make another run and it tastes even worse than the shit R is making for you."

"You're right, I do feel better."

"Oh fuck off."

You laughed, only stopping when your side started to throb. R had told you all about the stuff you had been shot with, and, because you waited so long before getting it treated, you would likely always have a residual pain in your side from where the nerves had been frayed and rebuilt. Over time, the pain would fade into a more manageable level and you'd be able to resume most activities but it would likely never go away.

It bummed you out in more ways than you could ever imagine and for once, you were thankful Duxob wasn't in the room. You were 90% sure R had already told him everything a;ready, there was no way he wasn't going to get some answer from R after he had fixed you up, but you sure as hell didn't want to have a conversation about it.

"So, I have more questions," Jazza smiled and you groaned obnoxiously, causing her to shoot you a playful glare.

Jazza had grown up with very little knowledge of the worlds beyond her own, having come from a very secretive sub-community on a moon in some quadrant you hadn't even heard of, and only started experiencing other beings when she hitched a ride with Cade off her birth world. As a result, she had at least 20 new questions for you every time she came in and grilled you endlessly as she tried to understand. Most of the time, her questions were about humans and Earth but there were times when her curiosity drifted to your partner.

It was sweet, the way she lit up when something made sense to her. She's get all starry eyed and excited and you felt a pang of loss over your own loss of wonder.

"Ok. Shoot."

"What is up with Dux's scales? One minute they're green. Then they're blue. They get really bright and then dim down like a Hashi craft. I fucking turned around yesterday and he had bright red fucking elbows for no reason and I don't know dude, is he sick? Does he need a catheter too?"

If you had been drinking, you would have choked, "First of all, thank you for reminding me that I have one of those in right now. I really needed to be reminded that I can't pee on my own."

"You are welcome," she responds with all the seriousness of condolence.

" Secondly, its partially how he communicates," you said, rolling noodles onto your fork, "Alzeanian scales are a lot more complex than what people think. Probably because they don't leave their planet often and anyone who visits their planet gets killed so no one really has any data on them." You shrug, dipping your fork of noodles in the little sauce pot. "Each scale looks like its just a flat color from a distance but the closer you get, the more you can see that they are more of an iridescent duo-chrome. Alzeanians can control how muted or how bright their colors are and can make them shift from regardless of where they are standing in the light. Duxob has a green to blue-purple shift in the majority of his scales. In others, he has a gold to red shift and he has a tiny patch that shifts between purple and red but that's literally just on his elbow. Depending on where we are and what we are trying to do, he uses them to talk to me from a distance."

"That is so cool," Jazza whispers, eyes wide and whirring as she slurps down her own food with her double-tongue.

"It can be," you acknowledge, "and its always nice knowing that your partner is adept at handing any kind of situation and can alert you real fast if things get...unsavory. I lucked out big time that he took me on."

You couldn't help the twinge of sadness that came when you thought too deeply about Duxob's presence in your life and the implications of how recent events were going to change that.

"How so? I saw your Wanted reel. You are quite handy with a gun," she grinned, nudging you with a dirty hand and you couldn't help but grin back. You were extremely proud of your Wanted reel. It really captured your insanity and desperation for freedom. Other outlaws try to seem as scary as possible when they know they are being filmed to dissuade anyone from coming after them.

Not you though.

You welcomed the challenge.

'Come and get me. I dare you.'

"I try."

"You succeed."

"Its all I know how to do. Wield a gun and fix bikes," you shift your now empty bowl away from you. There is a bitterness lurking there, something you try to keep down as much as possible. Jazza seems to understand.

"Lets change your bandages," she suggests and you are grateful for the change in topic.

~~~~~~

You hate physical therapy.

Hated it.

You also hated Duxob.

Because the piece of shit loved to get you up early and do the exercises with you until you cried.

This morning was no different. The stupid lizard wouldn't stop smiling as he guided you into each stretch.

"Stop enjoying this," you grumbled as he pushes down on your torso so you get an actual stretch instead of one of the fakes ones you did before he took over because you didn't see the point of putting yourself in more pain.

"I'm not," he said, smile stretched, sharp, jagged teeth on display, even further on his usually stoic face. Fucking liar.

"You are, you - ow, ow, ow, owwwww," you screeched as he eased you into the most painful of the stretches, "Whhhhhyyyyy?"

"You need to use your muscles again. You were in a coma on and off for two weeks and you've been recovering in bed for two more. You're going to get squishy and useless."

"I already am squishy and useless though!"

"No, you aren't," he murmured, letting you come out of the stretch and falling back onto the bed, "And you need to get your body used to movement again."

"Leave me to die," you whine dramatically, turning your head and throwing your arm over your eyes like a princess.

The words formed and hit your mouth before they hit your brain and the silence that follows is deafening.

"I think recent circumstances would suggest that I wouldn't," Duxob says, soft and displeased.

"I know," you sigh.

~~~~~~

"Tell me," Jazza begins, a couple of days later, "How'd you get hurt anyway? I feel like we've talked about literally everything else since you've been here but that. You had a pretty sizable wound when you came in. R wasn't sure you were going to pull through and he's done multiple surgeries on Gorglax creatures."

"Oh um, well," you wrack your brain for a good explanation but the look on Jazza's face suggests a finger right in your side if you lie. "Ok well. We had gotten off a port wagon and the usual 'run for your lives before the space coppers get you' game ensued. Dux had managed to get a hold of one of their stun bombs and released it, paralyzing the border guards. Most of them anyway." You take a deep breath, a weird flash of emotion flowing through you as you relived it. Ew. Not going there. "There was a smaller one following close behind us as we fled from the port. I don't know if he saw me or what, maybe he completely disregarded me as being the less important catch - whatever - but he aimed at the back of Dux's bike. His recharger wasn't in the best shape - I only had duct tape with me when I rewired it - and any sort of hit would have caused an explosion. He took aim at it and I swerved in front of him, causing him to slam on the breaks and swerve away."

Your side throbbed dully at the memory of your skin splitting open as the gun went off anyway, haphazardly, hitting you just enough to burn away a chunk of your body.

"It went off anyway and got me in the back as I was speeding away."

"It wasn't a direct hit?"

"No, thankfully."

"Then why was it so bad?"

You chuckled awkwardly, "I, um, didn't tell Dux I had gotten hurt so we, kinda, sorta...drove for 12 hours before I collapsed and he brought me to you."

The furious look on Jazza's pretty face would have been hilarious if it hadn't been for the fact it was directed at you, "You are an idiot."

"Hey, no I-"

"Yes you are! Did you have some kind of death wish?!"

"No-o...I-"

"You what? What could possibly have gone through your head that would justify you allowing yourself to burn and rot?"

It was silent for a moment as you tried to think of a reason other than the truth but, it just wasn't worth it. Not anymore. You were tired.

"I thought it was a normal hit, something minor," you whispered, unable to keep looking into the girl's pretty purple eyes, "I thought that I'd likely be okay. We'd stop, I'd patch myself up, and we'd rest. It wasn't until we got there that I realized I was fucked but even so, I was content. It hurt like a bitch but I've long accepted that I'm going to die in a shoot out or in a shitty sleep room in some shitty port," you sighed, leaning back into your lumpy pillow and rubbing your face, "And you, if I was gone....Dux would be safe. Safer, I should say."

Jazza's round face softened, the anger melting into a calm understanding.

"How so?" Her voice was soft, like the night she had soothed you to sleep in the shadows.

"I am a liability. I am no use to him, not really. I get hurt more. I eat more. I sleep more. I am more high maintenance than he is. I require things he doesn't and that make being on the road difficult. There is a reason humans aren't an ideal partner, especially when you are running from space cops! I mean, look at where I am now? In bed! Hurt! He had to go around in a strange place and put himself at risk to try and find someone who could help. And he's waiting for me out of some misplaced whatever when we both know he could dip at any moment and he'd survive just fine!"

You didn't realize you were screaming until you stopped to catch your breath, throat hoarse and frustrated tears rolling down your face. Everything that had bottled up the last few years poured out, exploding in a tsunami of bullshit you didn't want to have to deal with. There was a throbbing in your side that you knew was from overexertion but you didn't give a fuck anymore.

"He would be fine," you reiterated, suddenly feeling sluggish. The drip in your arm had turned up on its own at the feel of your elevated heart rate and increasing level of agitation. R had set it up to monitor your activity and keep you from doing something stupid out of boredom and ripping yourself open. It was such a staple in your life that you had forgotten it was even in.

"No, I really wouldn't."

Oh shit.

He did not.

"Dux?" your mouth was slow, dripping over the syllable as he entered the room. A silent conversation took place between him and Jazza, one too fast for your slushy mind to process, before Jazza took off out of the room without another word.

The door closed and he sighed, all but collapsing on the chair next to you bed, looking more ragged than you had ever seen him before. His scales flashed and shifted uneasily as he looked at you.

"It seems we need to talk," he said, the finality of his tone telling you a talk was going to happen despite his phrasing.

"If you want."

"No but we're going to."

"Fine, you start."

Coward, you scolded yourself but hey, feelings were scary, which is why you never dealt with him.

"Fine," he growled, scooting the chair even closer and putting himself all in your personal bed space, "Things are going to change."

"I figured," you shrugged, "I can't run anymore. My side will never allow me to do all the strenuous activity of being an outlaw."

"Agreed. You can't do that anymore," he said, eyes roaming over the bandages peeking through the shredded top you were wearing before meeting your eyes again, "So I came up with a solution."

You leaned your head back, your neck unable to hold it up due to the sedation pumping through you, "Where are you going to take me?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'd like for you to drop me off in a place I'll be able to get around easily enough. I liked that little blue planet we stopped at like 2 years ago."

"You aren't going anywhere."

"But you just said I can't run anymore. I can't stay here forever and we are still Wanteds. I'm going to need to be in a place where I can live and blend in without drawing suspicion."

"Who says you can't stay here?," he asked, harsh golden-green eyes boring into yours, "And who says that I'm going to ditch you on some random planet?"

"Dux, I can't," you pause, mind really blurry because he isn't making any sense and it's making you anxious, "I am very drugged. Please stop."

His gaze softens and he reaches a stubby clawed hand out to stroke your head, "Calm down, ashistoiro. You are ok. You are safe. I am here."

"Ashi-what?"

"Ashistorio, Y/N. Beloved in Alzeanian...well, the closest translation for it," he murmured, claws scraping gently along your skin, "I discussed it with R. He is letting us stay. There is a bunker attached to this building that he is going to let us have until its time for all of us to leave. I am not leaving you. I won't. I can't. You are my biggest asset."

It wasn't a normal confession of love, not by a long shot, but it was one of the most meaningful you had ever heard.

And you hated that you were passing out in the middle of it.

"Yeah?"

He smiled as he watched you nod off, "Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

You couldn't wait to wake up.

~~~~~~

#monster story #monster boyfriend #alien boyfriend #space adventure #male alien #My writing #Alien

70 notes · View notes