#could be platonic if you squint | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

startanewdream · 2 years

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Hey, a guy who suggested that Snape's reactions to Sirius/Lily bond here😅. First of all, THANK YOU so much😭, I'm sure this is going to be an excellent and very satisfying content to read, simply can't wait!

But since you mentioned you don't have all yet, I'd like to suggest one if you don't mind - please include a one where Order members come back from some mission (somewhen around OotP) and Sirius and Lily clean each other's wounds. But since they're too tired for magic they do it old fashioned way which means Lily is touching Sirius' bare chest and Sirius is touching Lily's upper body which has only bra on it.

Of course it's completely platonic for Sirius and Lily because they're completely comfortable with each other (and too worried about each other to think about stuff like this) but OH MY GOD, Snape's reaction at the sight and his inner thoughts would be PURE GOLD.

I know I promise more scenes but I just wanted to post this one sooner because this prompt was far too brilliant (and the other scenes are far less troubled — I think I'm done writing from Snape's pov truly). Fair warning that Snape's POV here is very biased and he doesn't handle it well 😏

Rated M for some cursing. 2k words of something.

***

Lily Potter was hurt.

He shouldn’t have gone to Grimmauld Place. Severus had done his part already; he’d translated Potter’s yells to the Order, had let them know that the brat somehow got in his mind the idea that Sirius Black (Padfoot, his friends had called him, thinking they were so clever with childish nicknames) had been captured by the Dark Lord, and had warned them when the kid had ran off dragging his stupid friends. That was all that was required of him.

He couldn’t know there would be a battle, couldn’t know that Lily Evans would be there fighting a Dark Lord that mostly wanted her dead, and yet—yet Dumbledore had told him, almost challenging to see how he still felt about her, that in the following battle Lily Potter had been hurt.

Dumbledore always called her Lily Potter, an unnecessary reminder that still stung. She wasn’t truly a Potter — she had lived more of her life as Lily Evans than she had ever been married to James Potter.

And if she were hurt—he had never told her how he felt, the lengths he had undergone to prove her his worth, how everything was about her. Lily should know, she deserved to know.

Grimmauld Place was quiet when he entered it. Snape hated that house, that gloomy place that Black owned as the spoiled pureblood he pretended he wasn’t; how hard it must have been, Severus always thought, to grow up with a house-elf tending to your needs, between richness and luxury, knowing his place on society, the eldest son of a noble family—

And probably because he had let his thoughts stray too near Sirius Fucking Black, he heard his loud laugh.

It was enough for the portrait of Walburga Black start screaming. Snape retreated hastily to the first room he found, just as he heard the sound of someone running the stairs.

“SHUT UP!” Yelled Black; there was a flash of light and the sound of the portrait’s screams died.

Snape peaked through the door; Black was still in the stairs, facing the other direction. He was panting, and if for anger or for running down the stairs, Snape could only guess. He wasn’t wearing any shirt, revealing muscled shoulders and back of someone who clearly had too much time to exercise and too little to do; then Black turned around—and of course he was fit, perfect biceps and torso, everything firmly shaped and did he shave his chest or—

And then a grim satisfaction broke through the acid that was bubbling inside him, because Black’s shapely chest was marked with purple bruises, giant spots that had probably hurt him when he had been hit, and how good was that—

“Sirius!”

Black turned again, following the same direction that Snape was now looking at, but from his angle he couldn’t see Lily. She sounded so disturbed…

“Come on! You won’t get away with this.”

Black sighed, shaking his head, but he climbed the stairs again. Severus hesitated for a moment before casting a Disillusionment Charm on himself; it wasn’t his best work, and if anyone would look directly in his direction, they might notice it, but he had to risk it, had to make sure that Lily Evans was fine…

Any worry they might notice him vanished from his mind when he reached the second floor. Black had entered one of the rooms of the house, and Lily was there, pulling him down to sit in the only bed of the room. She didn’t look hurt, though there was dried blood splattered in her jacket.

Snape looked at her, searching in her face for some sign of injury, or maybe that she was under pain, but there was only concern and it was directed straightly at the man that she was making sure was resting comfortable against the pillows of the bed.

“I am fine,” Black insisted, when Lily pulled a cauldron to the bedrest.

“Of course you are,” she answered, flashing him a smile that made Snape’s inside churm. Black wasn’t fine, he couldn’t be with those injuries, and yet he was clearly pretending to look brave for Lily as if she was going to fall for this act—she had to see through him… “If you were good to go argue with that portrait.”

“I hate her more than I hate Death Eaters—and that’s a lot.”

She chuckled; it was a teasing laugh, one that made Black’s lips twitch as if he wanted to laugh as well.

“I mean it,” he insisted, sounding like a petulant child. Snape waited for Lily’s spurn; it never came. “She wasn’t one, but she supported them well enough, raised all properly Black Death Eaters—”

“Not you.” Lily’s voice was shimmering with warmth. “She could never break you.”

Black smiled. “I had a good influence,” he whispered, and then Lily turned her head to look at him. Snape couldn’t see the expression on her face, but he could see how Black’s eyes were shining, standing her gaze; Black looked greedy, demanding. There were only a few inches between their faces.

Snape grabbed his wand, knowing he wouldn’t be able to help himself if Black threw himself over her, but after a moment Lily turned , moving away to bring the cauldron closer; Snape was glad that there was trouble in Lily’s green eyes now. She hadn’t felt comfortable with Black’s presence, she was repulsed by him…

“Lay back,” she told Black, and he did what was asked, laying still as Lily sat by his side, swirling the content of the cauldron. She grabbed a spoonful of the potion, a transparent almost-pasty liquid, and placed a few drops over the purple spots on Black’s chest.

He knew that Lily had always been an excellent potion maker, but still he wished that she had mistaken something, that the potion would burn through Black’s skin, melting his abs, unshaping his body, thinning him into nothing—

And for a brief moment, it seemed Snape’s wishes were granted.

“Ouch!” Black twisted in the bed, looking uncomfortable. “This burns.”

“Stop being a child,” answered Lily at once. Her words were scolding, but she sounded more fond than anything. “It will be better in a minute,” she assured, and then, without hesitation, as if that was the most normal thing in the world, she leaned closer, supporting her weight in the bed with one hand and caressing Black’s chest with the other hand.

No, it wasn’t a caress, she was just spreading the potion over his chest, and yet—her fingers were moving softly, smoothly, dancing over his skin. There was a smile on her lips that didn’t belong there; Black sighed contentedly, sinking his head into the pillows and closing his eyes.

“Fuck, this feels good,” he moaned.

“Oh, no more pretending this wasn’t hurting as hell?” She teased, amused.

“Not hell.” Her hand stopped moving for a moment, watching him. Black opened an eye, full of mischief. “Fine, but not a ninth-circle of Hell pain. Maybe a second-circle pain.”

Lily resumed her movement. “You could be in Heaven bliss if you haven’t acted all noble.”

Black opened both of his eyes now, but Lily didn’t meet his gaze; there was a severe frown on her forehead now. Black’s expression softened.

“I had to protect you,” he whispered.

That didn’t appease her. “It’s not your job, Sirius. I can take care of myself.”

“Of course you can, but—” He took her hand, intertwining their fingers, waiting until Lily looked him in the eyes. “I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

There was a long moment of silence. Lily bit her lip and lowered her head, her hair creating a curtain over her face; Snape couldn’t see her expression, but he could see Black’s, and once again, over a thin layer of fondness, Black’s eyes were greedy, lustful, as they moved over Lily’s face, admiring her, desiring her.

That was wrong, repulsive, and Snape wasn’t surprised when Lily hesitated: “Sirius—”

But Black ignored her. “Your turn,” he said, sitting on the bed, and pulling the cauldron to himself.

“I’m—”

“Let me guess, you are fine?” He winked at her. “I saw you wincing there. Left shoulder?”

Lily pulled away from him, crossing her arms; she looked annoyed, lips set in a thin line as if she was just considering not answering at all, but after a moment she sighed.

“Right,” she said, defeated, turning his back to him.

For a moment Snape thought she was staring directly at him, and he didn’t dare moving, but Lily’s eyes moved past him without noticing anything. She raised her hands to remove her jacket, but Black stopped her.

“Let me,” he offered. Lily nodded, just extending her arms to help him. Underneath her jacket, her shirt was soaked with blood. Black hissed. “Fuck, Lils,” and he ripped her shirt, exposing her skin and the black bra she wore beneath it.

She shivered, but made no movement to cover herself, standing half-naked with her bare back to Black. On her right side, from her neck to her shoulder, there was a long scarlet cut, dried blood around it. Sectumsempra, Snape realized with a sudden rush of fury; it had been misfired, luckily, or she would have bleed out by now, but still he promised he would find whoever had done it, not Lily—

And then his gaze fell, following the light of the necklace she wore, to the golden ring that was swinging over her chest. The ring shone, but he forgot it quickly; her skin was cream-coloured, with freckles splattered over her bosom, soft to look; her bra marked her curves, lifted her tits, and how he had dreamed of seeing her like this, of sliding down the strap of her bra to reveal all her beauty to him.

Once again it seemed his wishes were granted, for there was a hand carefully moving the strap of her bra down to the middle of her arm, revealing more of her skin, and something stirred inside him, blood rushing—then the rage renewed, for Black was touching her skin now, applying the potion over her cut, his fingers treading over her skin with far too much intimacy.

“Oh, god,” she mumbled, closing her eyes and arching her neck to give him better access. “I am an amazing potion maker.”

Black snorted; that brought a smile to her lips as if she had expected that reaction. Snape closed his fits, hatred filling him, even though he couldn’t take his eyes off the scene, of how Black’s hand was massaging her shoulder, his finger brushing over her chest, almost touching the exposed top of her tit.

“I would rather you were an amazing dueler,” said Black, voice barely repreensive.

“I am.”

“And how did you get hurt?”

Lily hesitated for a moment. “Bellatrix,” she admitted at last. “Your cousin is a nasty piece.”

“I was dueling her.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Lily…”

She shivered. “She was aiming at your back, you were too close to the Death Veil and—I didn’t think, I had to do something, I—” And then she broke, turning around to face him, her lips trembling. “You nearly died, Sirius.”

“Who acted all noble now?” He asked softly, caressing her arms. “Such a Gryffindor of you.”

“Stupid and reckless?”

“And brave,” he assured, and Lily smiled nervously in answer. “Just don’t die on my account, I could never explain this.”

“No one would blame you,” she assured him, turning around again to allow him to finish applying the potion. "He wouldn't," she added, her voice so low that Snape almost thought he had imagined it.

Sirius sighed. “I know,” he admitted in a low voice. Then he shook his head, a devilish grin taking control of his features as he moved the cauldron back. “Do you remember what you used to do when Harry scraped his knees?”

Lily frowned, thoughtful. “I kissed—” And then Black placed a kiss on her bare shoulder, over her cut. “Sirius!”

Snape waited for a reprimand, an unquestionable reproval of Black’s lack of limits, but Lily was giggling. “This is disgusting,” she said, nothing in her voice betraying any hint of disgust as she brushed the potion out of his lips with the back of her hand.

“You love me,” Black said easily, surely, confidently, and Snape decided he couldn’t hear her confirmation, couldn’t deal with even the possibility that Lily Evans had fallen for Black—somehow that was worse than seeing her with Potter, not him, not Black—

He brushed something on his way out, the sound waking up Walburga Black’s portrait again, and he welcomed the yells, hoping it was enough to dwindle any other sound he might hear in that house again.

#Sirius and Lily #Anti Snape #just to make sure he isn't nicely portrayed here #also I was going to end this with Lily seeing Snape #and then covering herself up because #but I didn't want to interrupt her and Sirius #I could rewrite this from Lily's pov and there wouldn't be an ounce of romance and I love this #Jily if you squint #Lily Potter #Sirius Black #platonic friends #and maybe more

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clone-anon · 1 year

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Hi. I saw that you have requests open. Could I maybe get a fic of a clone comfort for someone who is very homesick? I moved away from my family and small town. I'm doing so much better, but I get so homesick since things are so different. Any clone is fine. Thank you.

"You okay?" Mayday approached you and held out a cup of caf.

You shrugged and took it with a quiet "thank you."

"Noticed you've been quiet lately," he gently continued.

You looked up to see him looking at you with a smile of concern on his face.

"I miss home. Things are getting better, but this place is so different and I'm still getting used to it."

"I understand," he said. You looked at him with raised eyebrows and he continued. "We clones often through of Kamino as our home, or at least thought of our home as being with our brothers. When I was stuck on Barton-4, it felt so different and isolated. I hated it. I actually missed rain and crowded quarters."

You smiled at him a little and Mayday put an arm over your shoulder.

"You're not alone here," he said. "Even if you have days like today, just know I'm glad you're here. Missing something just means it mattered to you in some way and no matter where you are in the galaxy, you still have people who care about you."

You leaned in for a hug from him and sat together in comfortable silence for awhile. Mayday stayed with you, chatting and telling jokes, making sure you really knew you had someone supporting you and you could always come to him.

#mayday anon #commander mayday #mayday x reader #gn!reader #platonic reader #could be read romantic if you squint #commander mayday x reader #tbb fanfiction #commander mayday fanfiction #reader insert

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valen-nidk · 2 years

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What if trans reader (ftm) is best friends with Ayaka and, at first, they were hesitant to reveal anything-- be it fear for their lives, closeted shame and disgust, many other reasons and none of them positive. In fact, each one was worse than the previous one. But they are childhood friends and surely this wouldn't be enough to throw into the abyss years of friendship, right? Thankfully, they were proven right when Ayaka was holding their hands as they cried and showed such a vulnerable sight, feelings bare and raw.

And actually, Ayaka, Thoma and Reader all sit down for tea as they discuss such an important topic. What pronouns, is their name the same, and most importantly... It's Ayaka and Thoma becoming protective of Reader, not only from others but Reader themselves. Whether they were being down and harsh on themselves and its Thoma interrupting them to ask about their day and compliment them on their voice ("training your vocal chords is showing off but don't strain yourself, okay? I will prepare some lemon tea with honey"), to Ayaka pointing out that wrapping bandages around their chest so tightly and for so long wasn't healthy and it should be stopped immediately, how it is better to wear a tanktop and perhaps clothing a bigger size as to breath properly and not damage their bone structure and organs. Ayaka who makes sure that Reader listens to her or they get lectured about their health safety coming first and foremost, how other people's judgement on what's femenine and what's masculine and whatnot should not make Reader feel self-conscious since they are precious the way they are.

Ayato who is late, so so late to the party but both his sister and servant kept him updated and he invites Reader for a stroll to catch up. After all, he is always busy and laments not being able to physically be there and root for Reader's journey in self-acceptance, their growth and newfound interests (or perhaps, being able to fully engage in them now). Ayato who works under the shadows to threaten, make them disappear at times to educate those who feel its okay to badmouth Reader behind their back due to their ignorance in such an important subject that might be affecting a bigger population that he thought.

Just wholesome content..........................

#uhhh this is mostly platonic #i guess if u squint ur eyes u could say the three of them might have a small crush #mostly ayaka #genshin x reader #genshin x you #Kamisato Ayaka x reader #Kamisato Ayaka x trans ftm reader #trans reader #🧍 he speaks

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of-the-stars-and-the-sea · 3 months

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You will be free.

I remember the first time I saw you.

I remember the way the shadows had clung to you in the night, as if they were a second skin to you. In the dark, your eyes seemed to glint unnaturally in the moonlight. Though most of your skin was covered, I could still see where your fingertips had been stained a terrible crimson. The scent of copper and iron that trailed you was so strong I could practically taste it.

But when I looked closer, I could see the way in which you hardly seemed to breathe, as if the mere action of filling your lungs would give you away. I could see the way your nails dung into your palms as you attempted to steady your shaking hands to no avail. The way your face had been rubbed to the point of rawness in order to hide the tracks that your tears had engraved into your cheeks.

You are a disciple of death, darling, but you did not choose to be this way, did you?

You did not choose to have the mercy carved from your soul the way it was, but they left no choice for you when they laid that blade into your hands. You killed your humanity because the only other option was to let them kill you instead. And I do not blame you, darling. For I could never blame you for holding desperately into existence, no matter the cost. I would’ve done the same in your shoes.

But even if you will never be able to live freely and without fear, I ask you just this once to pause in your pacing and listen to me. You are more than just a weapon. You are more than a piece of steel to be whetted and wedded until death do you part. I need you to know that. I need you to know that there is more to your nature than the night you cloak yourself in.

You don’t need to understand them yet, but I need you to trust that my words are true. And I know it is cruel of me to ask, but I need you to trust me when I say that you are more than what they’ve made you. I need you to do this because if you don’t, I’m afraid of what may happen to you. They have never been kind to you darling, and I fear that this time will be no different.

So please. Please stay. Stay, and then once you have recovered, once they no longer share your name in requiem, we will return for restitution. We will make them regret every reproof they laid upon you for the sin of simply daring to have a soul. We will damn them in the very same way they tried to damn you. We will tear down their walls until they have nothing left to hide behind. And then once they are laid bare we will–

I’m getting away from myself.

But I really do mean it, darling. If you will allow me to, I will do my very best to hold onto you. Mark my words, if you stay with me, I will never let anyone use you as if you are nothing more than an object again.

And after all is said and done, I swear to you that you will be free.

....

inspired by this post.

#flash fiction #writing #writers on tumblr #romance #could be platonic if you squint though #the meeting between a self-made monster and someone who did not have the choice but to become one #they are going to destroy the world together #writings of a star on the sea

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staysaneathome · 2 years

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Teach A Fish (Extremely Late Mermay 2022)

“And these are our prize specimens!”

Dr. Stoker is far too exuberant for Jon’s liking. In stark contrast to Director Bouchard and Jon himself, the man seems to embody what Hollywood likes to imagine marine biologists are like; too much energy, too many cheesy quips and one-liners, and far too good looks for the field.

Jon, with his greying hair, gaunt frame, and eyebags despite all his efforts to neaten up for his first day as a project head, feels he is a far better representation of the demographic, thank you very much.

Still, he can’t quite help the dawning sense of curiosity and wonder as the giant tanks come into view.

There are two; one slightly smaller than the other, with a more reasonable quantity of sand at the bottom compared to its neighbor.

This is the one Dr. Stoker leads him over to first. “This one in particular— came to us from one of our largest sponsors, and guy who found ‘em likes to pop by and see how his favorite catch is doing. Also I think he and Director Bouchard might have, like, a thing? So yeah, highest priority is keeping this one fed and well-cared for.”

It’s hard to see through the slightly cloudy water, but Jon adjusts his glasses and peers closer.

There, hovering towards the back of the tank, is a large figure, probably as tall as him on glance. It’s tail is dark blue, with pale silver speckles and translucent grey fins. Similar fins line the skin of it’s forearms and between the fingers, and the dorsal fin extends up to where he’d call it the mid-back on a human. Its hair is tightly coiled and floats in a cloud around its head.

“This mer is a variant of the gobiidae species, correct?” He asks Dr. Stoker. “Gobius niger, if I’m not mistaken.”

Dr. Stoker whistles. “You know your stuff! Yeah, this is FR3Y. There was some bickering between the Lukases over the designation before Director Bouchard declared that it was going to be that and shut them all up.”

Jon nods, making a mental note of how casually Dr. Stoker dropped the name of one of the largest contributors to marine life studies, and the fact that the head of the Magnus Institute for Marine Research apparently has the capacity to have the final say on disputes between them.

The mer’s head turns, as if it can hear them through the tank, before a flick of its tail sends it drifting disinterestedly off into the misty waters.

“The rest kept here are our ‘problem children’.” Dr. Stoker laughs as he guides Jon over to the largest tank in the room, which appears to be one third silt and sand. “That’s what me, Sasha and Gerry used to call them— all of them in here are adolescents. Too weird or unsociable to be sent off to nurseries or aquariums, too ‘special’ to leave to the interns or grad students to poke at.”

Jon’s about to ask what Dr. Stoker means by that, or whose bright idea it was to overfill the sediment, when sudden movement catches his eye.

A muscled hand, with dark brown webbing between its fingers, pulls a section of the silt near the bottom of the tank away, followed by another, gradually clawing away a small alcove before Jon’s eyes.

“Aaand there’s one of them now!” Dr. Stoker claps an unwanted hand on Jon’s shoulder. “P3TR4 here is functionally very similar to fish of the weever family! That means she likes to dig. And doesn’t like anything that isn’t digging. Which makes it very difficult when it comes time to do tests! Or introduce her to any new friends! This lot are about the only ones she’ll tolerate, and sometimes not even then.”

A pale face with dark eyes peers up at him, close enough to the glass that Jon’s almost certain it can make him out.

One side of its mouth curls up in what might be a half-hearted snarl or maybe a sneer, showing off rows of needle-sharp teeth. It turns and begins digging away.

“Yeah, she hates you, but try not to take it personally. She sort of hates everybody, and unless she gets a good grip on you, you’ll be fine.” Dr. Stoker begins climbing the stairway that’s been built around the tank. “You should’ve seen what she did to one of our old security guards! Come meet another member of the brat pack.”

Jon tentatively follows up the rickety metal scaffolding. “So… what did happen to one of the security guards…?”

“Oh, P3TR4 managed to pull her into the tank and down into her tunnels. Took us ages to ward her away enough that the guard could get out, and by then the poor thing’s nerves were shot to pieces. Could never work here again.” Dr. Stoker says, blithely. “Anyway, this is D3S, the cutest of the bunch.”

Jon has to tear his mind away from visions of a hapless victim getting dragged down to their watery doom to focus on what Dr. Stoker is pointing at.

This mer is much smaller than the other two, and much more lively as well. The proportions of its tail are similar to fish of the Chaetodon genus, while the more mammalian upper body resembles a small boy of…maybe five years?

Jon’s never had much interaction with children, so he’s only relatively confident in that assessment.

What’s odd is the fact that it is surrounded by what appears to be a particularly colorful swarm of sea lice, all fiery reds, oranges, and browns. Crawling through its short hair, over its gills, fins, and tail. The mer doesn’t seem bothered by them at all, chittering and chirping away with a wide grin as it carefully manipulates its passengers, cupping them in its palms close to its chest and dangling them from its fingers and tail to catch like it’s playing.

He turns to Dr. Stoker. “Aren’t those…?

“Hm? Oh, yeah, no, those things are parasites.” Dr. Stoker replies. “Nasty ones too. But D3S has somehow formed a symbiotic relationship with them—they get food and shelter from him and he somehow gets cleaning and vitamin supplements from them. Separating them turned out to be a bad time all round, he keeps them…docile, somehow. Plus D3S began getting sick without ‘em, so.”

Dr. Stoker shrugs, a what-can-you-do kind of gesture. “So long as you wear the proper protective gear, he’s a sweetheart. Sasha’s currently his favorite, but I’ve got a secret plan to make a comeback any day now. You’ll have stiff competition if you want to catch up!”

Jon can’t help the small scoff that escapes him at that. “It’s not a popularity contest. They’re research subjects in our care, not, not pets.”

The look Dr. Stoker gives him is indecipherable, before the lightbulb-bright beam is back and he’s leading Jon along the walkway again.

“Well now, where’s…a-ha!”

He comes to a stop after thundering down another staircase back to ground level, gesturing proudly to something at the base of the tall fronds of seaweed that block Jon’s view of D3S.

Jon obediently follows and looks where he’s being directed. He can’t help but do a double take at what he sees.

“This is R&D’s pride and joy. They designated it R0BB13.” Dr. Stoker’s voice washes over him as Jon takes in the newest mer. Overall, it wouldn’t be too impressive, a pale brown tail lighter than its skin, hands clutching a seaweed frond to anchor itself. There are small glows of green bioluminescence brightening and dimming along its tail and sides in rhythm with its sleep, the excess the only odd thing about what’s otherwise a standard mer of the Myctophidae family. Except.

Except it has clearly been fitted with a prothesis for the lower half of its face. One that appears to fit near seamlessly, advanced enough to have Jon torn between twin urges of getting closer to examine it or looking away out of ingrained politeness.

“Poor thing was half-dead when it was rescued and brought to Magnus. We think it ran afoul of Leitner and his poachers.” Dr. Stoker continues, grimacing with Jon at Leitner’s name. “Point is, R&D were hankering for a test subject to fit their newest gizmos to and nobody was going to let them lop anything off the mers already in custody. Then lo and behold, the perfect specimen dropped right into their laps. They were bringing in Prosecco for weeks after the initial success.”

“Initial?” Jon asks, his curiosity having won out over his manners. He is now mentally willing the mer’s loose curls to drift out of its face so he can have a better look. “But this is. It’s phenomenal. What this means for our understanding of medical treatment and rehabilitation of mers, particularly ones that would’ve been written off as lost causes, it just. It beggars belief.”

The mer lets out a stream of bubbles in sleep and turns its head into its far arm, much to his annoyance.

“Well, their attempts to restore R0BB13’s vocals weren’t as successful as other functions. Which on it’s own, y’know, wouldn’t be a problem, it’s amazing that this allows them to chew and swallow with no problems, even yawn and emote, as you said, revolutionary really, but. Even the most solitary mers rely heavily on vocal call-and-response to establish territory.”

Dr. Stoker’s hands are stuffed in his pockets, and when Jon glances back the other man’s staring at him, for some reason. “So here’s the rest of our problem children, getting along with mostly no issues, and then this weirdo is dumped into their neat little world. And no matter how many times they try to reach out, extend the olive branch, form a rapport, this stranger just won’t get it. Refuses to engage, no matter what they do. Even seems to be insulting them, in some cases, getting preferential treatment from their handlers. Is it any wonder there were some ruffled feathers in the beginning?”

Jon frowns, looking from Dr. Stoker to R0BB13. “Hardly. It wasn’t the mer’s fault it came in with this handicap. It didn’t ask to be put here, and it’s not at fault it can’t respond in the way the others are used to. It seems irresponsible to just—just dump it in the same tank as the others without some form of socialization beforehand. The Lukas family mer gets it’s own tank—surely providing one for this one isn’t out of the Institute’s budget?”

Dr. Stoker raises an eyebrow, but nods to him, turning his gaze back to the tank. “Yeah, me, Sasha and Gerry heavily advocated for that. Gerry especially, but Director Bouchard kept saying ‘oh but that will set back all the progress we’ve made on socialization so far’ as if that progress wasn’t D3S hiding in fear until he learned they just wanted to play too, or P3TR4 using R0BB13 as a nail file, and—”

Dr. Stoker cocks his head to the side, cutting himself off suddenly. A grin Jon is very sure he doesn’t like spreads over his face.

“And,” He continues, as though he hadn’t stopped, shifting so his stance is oddly set. “It’s long past time for them to be up and about. It’s important to maintain a regular schedule, you know. Not healthy to oversleep, right?”

“I-I’m sorry,” Jon starts, confused, watching as Dr. Stoker raises a hand, winding up like a pitcher. “But what on earth does that have to do with an—”

Before Jon’s befuddled and horrified gaze, Dr. Stoker throws his hand forward to slam on the glass of the tank, bellowing, “WAKEY-WAKEY!”

R0BB13 jolts as its eyes fly open at the BANG, bioluminescence bright with alarm. It releases both a copious amount of bubbles and its hold on the seaweed in shock, then panics as it begins to drift up and away on the current, grabbing futilely for its previous handhold like it’s forgotten it has a tail to swim with.

On the other side of the tank, there’s a flurry of activity as D3S presumably flees for cover. A little closer, Jon spots a plume of sand burst upwards as P3TR4 pokes her head out of the sediment, teeth bared in a irritable growl.

But all that’s soon forgotten when in a blur of bubbles and claws and teeth, something rockets out from the undergrowth and SLAMS right back into the glass.

It does so with such ferocity that Jon really can’t be held accountable for stumbling back, tripping, and landing quite painfully on his arse. “What, what the hell—?!”

Dr. Stoker is laughing uproariously, even as a mer seems to be trying its level best to peel away the glass between them to get at his face.

A door at the end of the room bangs open. “DAMN IT TIM, STOP!”

A tall woman in glasses, lab coat, and lanyard storms out.

“If my samples get contaminated because of you, Stoker, I swear—”

“Pay up Sash!” Dr. Stoker points one finger at who Jon can only assume is one of his new subordinates and another at the mer attempting to murder him. “That’s three times now! It’s a pattern, you can’t deny it!”

The woman referred to as “Sash” scoffs. “3M1L’s mad you’re tapping on his glass Tim, it’s a territorial response! Oldest trick in the book. You can’t possibly expect me to believe—”

“Then why doesn’t he go Kill Bill on me when R0BB13’s not near enough to get freaked out by it?” Dr. Stoker says, in the tone of someone who believes they’ve won an argument.

The woman begins spluttering. “Wh—I—this is why D3S loves me more than you! Because you keep bullying poor, innocent fish to further your, your shipping agenda!”

“It’s not an agenda if it’s happening, Sasha!” Dr. Stoker sing-songs. “Changing the subject is just admitting I’m right!”

“Could someone please tell me what on earth is going on?!” Jon bursts out, tired of the conversation going on literally and figuratively over his head.

The two freeze.

“Oh! Oh I’m sorry!” The woman reaches down and pulls him up, dusting him off with quick, efficient strokes, before pumping his hand up and down. “Jonathan Sims, right? Dr. Sasha James, at your service.”

“And that,” Dr. Stoker adds, directing Jon’s gaze towards the tank where the mer has tired of its attacks and settled for glaring daggers at the three of them, eyes dark blue and murderous. “Is 3M1L. He’s of the ghost knifefish genus, does his best to live up to that name, and loathes absolutely everything except R0BB13.”

“You.” Dr. James fires back. “He loathes you, you mean. Because you keep banging on the glass—”

“Irrelevant!” Dr. Stoker proclaims. “Thing is, if you want him to not try to have your guts for a necklace while doing tests on him, make sure R0BB13 is nearby. He’ll behave in front of them. Or he’ll act out for attention! Luck of the draw, really.”

“The latter more often than the former, recently.” Dr. James concedes with a grimace. “Still, just because you fancy yourself matchmaker—!”

“I am nothing so facile as a matchmaker, James.” Dr. Stoker sniffs, in a passable imitation of Jon’s accent. “I see true love, and I follow my sworn duty to—”

“You said they were adolescents.” Jon’s voice sounds accusing to his own ears. “So this is all, all academic. A waste of time and resources trying to theorize about!”

“I don’t know about that.” Jon feels his blood run cold at the sound of his new employer’s voice. He spins on his heel to see Director Elias Bouchard standing behind them, not a hair out of place. “Peter was sixteen when I met him for the first time, and that meeting eventually lead to a highly enjoyable first marriage. Maybe an equally enjoyable divorce.”

There’s a moment of profoundly uncomfortable silence.

“…and you were…?” Stoker finally ventures.

Director Bouchard shoots the man a sardonic look. “Fifteen, if you must know, Dr. Stoker.”

“Does that make it better or worse??” Dr. James whispers.

Jon…honestly doesn’t know.

“Still, I see you’ve met two of the researchers on your team, and the subjects who’ll be in your care.” Director Bouchard comes to stand besides Jon, briefly clasping a hand on his shoulder. “There are technically three, but the last is currently on the night monitoring shift, though I’m sure you’ll all be introduced soon enough.”

“Michael Shelley, right?” He hears Dr. James say, as he watches 3M1L give them all one last snarl, then turn tail to swim towards the top of the tank, where R0BB13 is still flailing in panic. “I met him a few times—he’s cool.”

He vaguely knows that Director Bouchard is shaking his head, saying something else, but Jon can’t help that his attention is caught by the farce going on in the tank. He watches as 3M1L bullies R0BB13 into remembering they have a tail to swim with, nudging and prodding them back down to sediment-level, snapping toothlessly when they threaten to drift off again, before abandoning his fellow mer at the base of the seaweed to vanish back into the large cluster of rocks from whence he came.

R0BB13 looks…oddly forlorn, left alone like that, before they too disappear into the vegetation in a flicker of pale brown scales.

Jon wonders if they’ve gone off to find 3M1L or D3S to play with, but then he notices that P3TR4’s tunneling has brought her close to the glass again, her face pressed against it and focusing intently on something. But her eyes aren’t watching any of the four humans who are moving and talking not two feet away from her head, so what…?

“…but yes, given Dr. Keay’s departure following this to help bring Jürgen Leitner to justice, we are tremendously grateful that you agreed to come head this program, Dr. Sims.” Director Bouchard pats him on the back again, forcing him to re-zone in on the conversation. “You came very highly recommended by Dr. Robinson, so we expect great things from you here.”

Yes, because that’s no pressure on him at all. Jon takes a moment to long for the days when his thesis supervisor brought him on as a research assistant, where he, Jack, and Emma only had to monitor the relatively sedate 4GN3S and 4NN4B3LL3. Back before Gertrude strode in one day and dropped the bombshell that maybe it was time for Jon to have a project and research assistants of his own.

But Director Bouchard is waiting for a reply, so Jon clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. “A-hem, y-yes, well, I’m. I look forward to working with you all, and with, ah. Such a unique group of mers.”

“That’s certainly a word to call them.” Dr. Stoker mutters, as Dr. James delivers a well-placed elbow to his side.

Weeks go by, and Jon almost feels like he might have some form of understanding about this new situation that’s been thrust upon him.

Still no idea what he’s actually meant to be doing, beyond making sure the mers in his care are relatively healthy and noting down anything they do that’s particularly odd, but some understanding nonetheless.

For instance, he understands now why the position of being D3S’ favorite is such a coveted one.

It means that D3S will actually behave while being examined and won’t, say, attempt to nervously shred the protective gear Jon’s wearing out of anxiety or boredom, exposing Jon to his “little friends” and the many, many unpleasant rashes they bring.

He also understands why Dr. James is and mostly likely always will be D3S’ favorite despite Dr. Stoker’s harebrained schemes to the contrary—she’s thoughtful and considerate enough to anticipate problems and provide the solutions with minimal judgement and much commiseration, such as an experimental cream she’s developed to counteract the rashes.

He understands that Dr. Stoker isn’t anyone’s favorite, except maybe FR3Y’s and that’s more down to the mer’s apparently endless well of patience for Dr. Stoker’s incessant chatter while he pokes and prods about than anything else.

Jon understands that Dr. Stoker and 3M1L should ideally be kept separate at all costs.

He also now thinks he understands what exactly P3TR4 is looking at when she’s staring out of the tank from her tunnels.

He’s conducted a few experiments, nothing major, and it turns out that her gaze is usually fixated on (and gets much moodier if it is in any way blocked from) FR3Y’s tank. And oddly enough, the occasions when Jon’s caught her staring usually line up with the occupant of said tank being close enough to the glass to be clearly visible.

There are still things Jon doesn’t understand, of course.

He doesn’t, for example, understand exactly why P3TR4 keeps staring at FR3Y’s tank. His hypotheses so far— that she’s either curious about a place that she doesn’t have access to or feels threatened by a potential intruder to her territory—don’t hold up when taking the sheer length of time she’s been doing it for into account. By all rights, she should’ve gotten bored or realized FR3Y is no threat to her territory by now.

He doesn’t understand why Dr. James and Dr. Stoker insist that he’s 3M1L’s favorite. The mer clearly dislikes him, and if he scratches less with Jon than with Dr. Stoker or Dr. James, it’s probably only because he’s realized that Jon just wants to get the examination over with as quickly as possible.

He also doesn’t understand why Michael Shelley’s handwriting has undergone such a drastic change when he flips through the entries in the Night Shift log, going from near-illegible curls that nonetheless includes all the pertinent information to neater, less flowing print that either fails to provide certain data or delves into subjects almost totally unrelated to the monitoring of the mers.

He suspects it may be a hazing thing, Shelley deliberately antagonizing him because he thinks that just because he doesn’t see his new boss thanks to their differing shifts, he can mess around however he likes.

He doesn’t understand where the tea comes from. It’s there at the start of every shift he’s had so far, three gently steaming cups at just the right temperature to drink. The tea’s flavor has also gradually been improved over the course of Jon’s employment, so now when he picks up the purple mug with white, grey and black kittens running across it, the drink inside is exactly to his tastes.

He’s tried asking where it comes from, but Dr. Stoker just keeps saying “maybe it’s the ghoooost~!” and that’s really not conducive to any information gathering.

And he doesn’t understand why, aside from instances when they are deliberately woken up, he’s never seen R0BB13 awake during the whole of the day shift. Occasionally they’ll wake up by the time Jon’s preparing to leave, but more often than not they’re asleep from early clock in to late clock out

“I just can’t understand it.” Dr. James sighs. “Their species is diurnal, and they never used to behave like this. But the weirdest thing is that we feed all the problem children during the day, right? And R0BB13 is missing all of these feedings, because they’re asleep, but they’ve not lost any weight. Even put some on if the last measurement was right.”

Dr. Stoker shrugs. “Maybe 3M1L hides food for them to find later? Or whatever is keeping them up at night is feeding them then.”

Dr. James shrugs and goes back to slurping her noodles, but Jon finds himself coming back to the conversation even as he munches on his prawn cocktail crisps.

He feels oddly disquieted by the idea of a—a stranger coming in and deliberately interfering with one of the mers under his care, intentions unknown and completely unnoticed by Shelley on the Night Shift, the useless ass.

The more he thinks about it, the more intensely he dislikes it. This is something Jon needs to get to the bottom of, pronto.

Jon watches the cameras, scrubs through hours upon hours upon hours of footage.

It’s as Dr. James said: R0BB13 used to be much more active during the day. But over the past few months, something appears to shift its sleep cycle later and later, until it’s almost completely nocturnal.

But in all this time, it doesn’t seem to be stressed by the change. On the contrary, the mer’s health has steadily improved over the course of this period, scales it has scratched off on rocks or the bottom of the tank or lost to 3M1L’s or P3TR4’s mood swings growing back strong. When it is awake, it’s animated and sociable, bioluminescence growing brighter with each passing week.

Bright enough that, on the most recent tapes the cameras have caught several strange objects and what looks like a distorted figure perched by the top of the tank.

“Got you.” Jon hisses at the interloper threatening the sanctity of his project.

Jon pretends to clock out a little early at the end of the next workday, and goes and hides in the mens’.

Aside from a hair-raising moment when a security guard strode up and down the room banging on all the toilet-stall doors, this somehow works like a charm.

Jon resolves to have a strong Word with Elias about increasing security measures when everything is sorted—what if this is how the intruder’s been getting in?

He stays curled up on top of the toilet seat for a while even as the hours tick on. He doesn’t want to run into Shelley by leaving too early and allow the intruder the chance to escape in all the confusion.

Eventually his alarm vibrates at 2:00 AM, startling him out of the half-doze he’d fallen into. Jon has to take a moment to stretch out his stiff limbs before entering the main observation area.

The large, blocky shapes of the tanks are profoundly eerie, but Jon can’t chance using his phone’s torch until he’s found and confronted the interloper.

He strains his ears and eyes, watching, listening for…

There.

At the top of the tank, there’s the green glow of R0BB13’s bioluminescence, oddly tinted by what appears to be a weak, orange light.

Under the rush of circulating water, there’s a low murmur, barely audible.

Jon toes off his hard-soled oxfords and creeps up the metal stairs of the walkway with socked feet.

As Jon sneaks closer, the murmur resolves itself into faintly recognizable sounds, then into legible words.

“‘It is the star nearest to ours.’” A soft, lilting male voice is saying, as though in recitation. “‘It is four light years away. If you were invited to tea on Alpha Centauri in four years’ time, you would have to set off now and travel at the speed of light if you wanted to get there before all the cake had been eaten. Fortunately, you are here today, and there is plenty of cake left.’ Abel Darkwater smiled. He was better at smiling than Mrs Rokabye, but Silver—”

“Ah-HA!”

“AAAAAAH!!” A large, soft-looking man screams, nearly losing his grip on a hardback book in his hands.

There’s a small splash as R0BB13 falls back under the water in a panic.

In the light of his phone torch, Jon can now make out that the man sitting cross-legged by a whole host of the Institute’s scientific equipment (does he need to add theft to the list of this man’s crimes?) has extremely curly hair, copious freckles dotting his face and neck, and large, liquid-looking eyes squinting against the bright light that’s being shone into his face.

“Who-wha-who are you?!” The large, soft-looking stranger has the audacity to demand from his cross-legged position next to the tank’s edge. “This, this is a, a private area, in, in fact the entire Institute is off-limits to the public at the moment, how—?!”

“I can go wherever I like within my own department.” Jon snaps, brandishing the lanyard with his company id like it’s a police badge in some fast-paced cop procedural.

“Oh.” The blood drains from the man’s face and then surges back into his cheeks as he glances between the unflattering photo and Jon himself. “Oh! Oh, you’re. You’re Dr. Jonathan. Sims. I. Nice to meet you?”

“What,” Jon seethes, incensed by this stranger’s apparent inanity. “Exactly are you doing?”

“Oh, it’s, uh.” The freckled man with large, liquid eyes closes the book so his fingers are trapped between the pages, holding up the cover for Jon’s perusal. “It’s called Tanglewreck? By, uh, by Jeanette Winterson. I’m reading it to them.”

“What?” Jon demands, “Why?”

“W-well, we got through Winnie the Pooh and, and Paddington pretty quickly, and they like learning BSL, but, it seemed like they were a bit disappointed when I stopped reading to them? And, and I wasn’t really sure if they’d enjoy Malorie Blackman or Neil Gaiman yet, and Jacqueline Wilson always seemed a bit heavy, to me, like great stuff but, but sad, and J.K. Rowling is just. No? But I know Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit was important to me when I was younger, really helped me figure some stuff out. But that’s still a bit old for them, so when I discovered Jeanette Winterson had done a children’s book, I thought why not, you know? And, and it’s pretty good so far! Very in-depth about some topics, like time and how it functions differently on different planets, and—”

“Why.” Jon grits out, determined to cut off this nonsensical jabbering. “Are you trying to read to them in the first place?!”

That appears to stymie the man for a moment. “I. Um?”

“Who are you?!” He barks.

“Mar-Martin! Martin, Martin Blackwood, sir, no, sorry, doctor, Dr. Sims!” The man, Martin Blackwood, stammers.

“And what, Mr. Blackwood, are you doing in this Institute after hours?”

Martin Blackwood actually has the audacity to blink quizzically at that. “Well, I, uh. I work here.”

There’s a moment of profound silence.

“No you don’t.” Jon says with unflinching confidence.

This, this charlatan actually has the audacity to look confused. “I, um? I, I do?”

“No you don’t.” Jon repeats, looming over him. “My department researchers include Dr. Timothy Stoker, Dr. Sasha James, and Dr. Michael Shelley. And you? Are not them.”

Jon settles back, proud of having won the argument. He tries to ignore the small splashes R0BB13 keeps making in the tank besides them.

For some reason, the man’s brow only creases further. “Wh-but-wh—what?! Dr. Shelley left the Institute months ago!”

There’s another, less profound moment of silence.

“…No he didn’t.”

“Yes he did.”

“No he didn’t.”

“Yes.” Martin Blackwood’s getting up now, something fierce and burning in his liquid eyes, and good lord but how tall is the man? “He did. He left about a month ago to help this, this poacher-hunting investigative legal thing, and Gerry left to join him not two months later! I was transferred from the Records department to be his replacement!”

He gives a little decisive nod at the last part which makes his curls bounce.

Jon’s opening his mouth to retort when a wave of something freezing and wet hits his lower legs.

He can’t help giving a wordless holler, stumbling backwards til he hits the railing in an attempt to escape the deluge.

R0BB13’s eyes slit like a cat’s when his torch swings around to find them, the metal wiring that prevents them from crawling out of the tank casting criss-cross shadows over their face. Their bioluminescence is so bright it’s practically neon.

Their fins are spread wide in an obvious threat display, that’s only made more unnerving because Jon’s never seen R0BB13 perform one before. Though no sound comes out when they bare their sharp little teeth, Jon’s fairly certain they would be growling at him if they could.

Jon makes a wordless splutter, but is cut off from truly saying anything by Martin Blackwood sternly going, “No. No, Robbie, that’s not a nice thing to do to people, we do not do that. You know it’s very cold in there for us, it isn’t nice to splash if we’re not playing. There are better ways to ask for us to look at you, okay?”

“Robbie?” Jon sputters. “Wh—that’s not their designation, you—!”

And then he stops.

R0BB13 is repeatedly making a circular motion over their chest with one hand curled into a fist with an expression that mingles both regret and mutiny.

Beside him, Martin Blackwood huffs out a breath and continues in a softer, fonder tone. “Alright, I know you’re sorry, just don’t do it again, you hear?”

R0BB13 gives a small wiggle in response, obviously reacting to the positive tone of voice, because that’s all mers are intelligent enough to recognize, certain signals and sounds, they can’t actually understand human language or words, like dogs or corvids—

R0BB13 is using their hands to form more signs. Slightly crudely, webbing between their fingers impeding it somewhat, but still legible. And not repeating any of the phrases Martin’s just said. Responding, with new ones.

Martin gives a nervous laugh in reply, eyes darting to Jon. “Not, not right now, Robbie, we’ll continue the chapter later—”

“How are they doing that.” Jon demands.

Martin Blackwood and the mer give him identical strange looks. “Doing what?”

“That!” Jon gestures wildly with his torch to R0BB13, who’s begun sinking back down under the water like they can escape this. “The, the signing! There’s, there’s been studies, and, and tests, mers are nowhere near intelligent enough to—! How do they know how to do that?!”

“Be-because I taught them?” Quavers a man who clearly has no idea how many academic studies he’s just overturned. “I, I mean, it was just, Gerry mentioned how much trouble they were having socializing since they, you know, so I thought, well, I had to learn BSL for a retail position at the London Aquarium, and they’re a kid so it’ll be easier for them to learn a new language than an adult, right? I mean, all of them spend all day surrounded by us talking in English, and Robbie seemed to understand a bit of what was happening in Winnie the Pooh when I was trying to make them feel better and get settled down for the night, so I thought…?”

Jon has to take a moment to sit down, heavily. His wet socks squelch as he does so. “That isn’t possible. It shouldn’t be possible. It’s like something that someone who’d only ever seen mers in, in Disney would think up. It can’t. All those studies, and not one of them using immature mers…?”

“Hey!” The man who has forced this total paradigm shift on Jon protests. “I, I do have a Masters!”

“Do you?!” Jon’s retort isn’t so much a retort as an anguished cry. “Do you really?!”

“Yes.” Martin Blackwood asserts, not quite meeting Jon’s eyes.

Jon sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Look. I came up here to find out what was interfering with R0BB1—ugh, with Robbie’s sleep schedule. They’ve obviously been up all night with you, so they’re sleeping during the day when they’re a diurnal species. Bad for them and their socialization in the long term.”

“Oh.” Martin Blackwood looks down, eyes shining and sad. “I didn’t…”

“But now.” Jon lets out a laugh that sounds only mildly hysterical. “Now I will need to go to Director Bouchard about this. This is… It’s...”

“Oh.”

Martin Blackwood fiddles with the book’s dustjacket, shifting it up and down the book proper.

“Am I going to get fired for this?”

Director Bouchard isn’t the only one waiting outside the tank room when Jon gets in the next morning, in thankfully dry socks.

Martin Blackwood isn’t a surprise, nervously fidgeting with the sleeves of his soft-looking jumper and desperately stifling yawns behind one hand. The way the light reflects off of his curls is much more distracting under the fluorescents than under Jon’s phone torch.

The bald gentlemen dressed like what a rich person must think a sea captain looks like is a surprise though.

“Jon, this is Captain Peter Lukas, FR3Y’s sponsor.” Director Bouchard oversees the introductions with a thin smile. “Peter, this is Dr. Jonathan Sims, head of the Rehabilitation department. He and Mr. Blackwood here apparently have something very interesting to share with us that could affect FR3Y’s development.”

“Nice to meet you.” Peter Lukas says airily, releasing the grip quickly. “Hopefully this isn’t a waste of our time!”

Martin gulps. Jon inclines his head but doesn’t answer, hoping his face doesn’t give away that he feels exactly how Martin sounds.

They enter the room to the sound of Tim shouting “All the animals have gone mad!” in the extremely poor Australian accent that means he’s quoting Finding Nemo again.

To be fair to him, it’s not a totally inaccurate assessment. All the mers in the main tank are clearly agitated to varying degrees, with 3M1L feint-charging at anything that comes close enough to the tank to be visible, D3S flitting from hiding place to hiding place in a swarm of sea lice, and P3TR4 digging deep into the sediment, with only flashes of tail and fins visible.

It’s even influenced FR3Y, who’s bobbing near the glass as if to see what’s going on.

And in the middle of it all, R0BB13, following Sasha and Tim around whenever they get close enough, floating aimlessly by the glass when they get too far away, expression exhausted and frantic, hands forming six letter signs over and over again.

M-A-R-T-I-N

To his credit, Martin Blackwood immediately goes up to the tank, gently tapping on the glass and cooing, “Hey, hey, easy there Robbie, easy duck, here I am, I’m here.”

R0BB13 darts down to press against the glass, hands splayed wide and relief evident in their body language. It’s enough to get 3M1L to swim over to investigate as Martin keeps soothing them, without any threatening overtures. Even D3S and P3TR4 venture slightly closer.

“My word.” Director Bouchard breathes behind him.

“…I’m sorry, what are we looking at?” Peter Lukas cuts in. “The fish makes a bunch of odd hand motions? Why do we care about this?”

Director Bouchard claps a hand over his eyes and releases a very tense breath. Jon would swear he hears his boss muttering, “…the wedding date wasn’t already arranged, I swear I’d divorce you again.”

“Jon!” Sasha practically collides with him on one side. “Did you know about this?? That, that R0BB13 can communicate using BSL? Do you understand what this means? All previous communicative studies originated back in the 50s and relied on adult mers brought in for temporary captivity or attempting to teach adolescents to pronounce human language words, but their vocal cords aren’t built for that, so people just assumed they were learning animals on par with corvids and no real steps were taken to test the results of those examinations, when actually they do have the capacity to understand, just not the means or inclination to communicate that to us!”

Tim leans against him from the other. “Do you think that means that every time we were talking about 3M1L’s crush on…you-know-who, he could understand us?”

“You.” Sasha quips. “He could understand you. Because you were the one blabbing about it all the time.”

“You helped.” Tim snarks back.

“I did not—!”

“At any rate.” Jon shrugs off two of his three research assistants and faces his boss. “I hope that this convinces you of the validity of my proposal?”

Director Bouchard visibly has to tear his gaze away from the mers and gives Jon what he thinks might actually be a more genuine smile. “Well, I’ll admit that I was…skeptical, at first. And it will be a bit awkward to find another night shift replacement on such short notice.”

Martin stiffens, turning back to them. “I-I’m sorry, but what, what are you talking about?”

Director Bouchard tilts his head to the side. “Your promotion to the day shift, of course. The work you’ve done so far is far too valuable not to be recognized, and Dr. Sims here was very insistent of the potential upsides of you help monitoring and potentially replicating its effects. I assure you the move will come with a pay raise, as Captain Lukas here has helpfully agreed to subsidize.”

Peter Lukas grumbles, “Oh, have I now.” under his breath, only to be met with what appears to be Director Bouchard’s elbow to his side.

Sasha is giggling to herself gleefully, muttering about the differences in sign language and whether what language the humans a mer first came into contact with spoke could in any way influence the ease of learning.

Tim is grinning easily, “It’ll be a shame to lose the tea, but how about it, Marto? Want to help out with the problem children during the day?”

The man still looks slightly lost, as if this is all some kind of practical joke he’s waiting for the punchline to.

Jon coughs, “I know we got off on the wrong foot, and I do apologize for my…behavior towards you, last night. But I do sincerely believe you would be an asset to the research we’re hoping to start with them here. If nothing else, your tastes in literature should be enriching enough to be its own reward.”

Martin Blackwood’s smile is even more distracting than any of his other features put together.

Jon feels an instant commiseration with 3M1L at the way Tim starts shooting him knowing glances and snickering.

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bri-does-art · 2 years

Link

Rating: T/PG-13 Relationships: Sun & Moon & OC, Helpy & OC Warnings: Canon-typical violence, for both FNAF and Subnautica Summary:

It was probably all very silly, considering the precarious situation I found myself in, but it really was all I could think about.

Could you really blame me? I never expected to find myself in this kind of a mess. I was not some big shot, thrill seeking space explorer. I was no seasoned freight worker. No avid alien world survivalist. Not even a simple cruise liner flight attendant.

I was a gardener. My feet belonged firmly planted in the soil of a garden world. I had spent my entire life up to now solidly anchored on Earth, and never dreaming of leaving the safety of gravity and atmosphere, despite the increasingly uncomfortable quality of life on the crowded homeworld. Sure, I dreamed of greener pastures. Of fresh air and fertile land. But frontier life and adventures in the big expanse of space? Not quite.

A FNAF x Subnautica crossover, about the challenges of survival, surprise friendships with quirky software and alien merfolk, man made horrors beyond our comprehension and unexpected mysteries to be uncovered within the depths.

---

First chapter is up! There’s no update schedule planned, updates when I finish a chapter.

#five nights at freddy's #fnaf sb #security breach #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #i guess if you squint and tilt your head it could be a reader-insert #the relationship between the protagonist and sun/moon is written as platonic but it's up for interpretation #SO UH #ENJOY Y'ALL #it's gonna be a wild ride #each chapter i've written so far rounds up to about 10k each lmao

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bi-demon-ium · 1 year

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37 72

falling asleep together/sharing a bed + hiding face in neck/shoulders (nicholas/milligan) (ao3.)

All but collapsing in a shitty motel room was just the sort of way to end the week they’d been having.

Mr. Benedict had gotten a tip from his shrinking network of contacts about possible information on a company that worked out of Harbor Island—but they were based a city away, and so they had to travel.

It had been simple enough from there—information-gathering, a bit of light infiltration, but nothing dangerous, right?

And then, naturally, everything had gone horribly wrong.

They’d gotten out safely—if barely—but Milligan had had a worryingly close call with a rather large group of foes, and Mr. Benedict was certainly hiding bruises.

(He was actually concerningly good at hiding injuries, but couldn’t help the occasional wince, nor the conspicuous way he tugged his sleeves down to cover his wrists.)

The motel was far enough away that it was unlikely they had to worry about pursuers, but it was also, unfortunately, in the opposite direction of the house. They had another long journey ahead of them tomorrow.

But that was tomorrow. For now, it was over. They could rest.

The room was… not exactly amazing.

There were two beds, dingy but decently sized. It was small, but fairly clean. There was a small bathroom, a single closet, and a little fridge.

Well, both of them had slept in worse places. Besides. It wasn’t a prison cell or the trunk of a car. It would do.

They were both so exhausted and had little supplies at the moment, so it was really just a matter of stripping down a few layers—Nicholas had taken off his shoes and his blazer (now disheveled and smudged and with a hole in it) and undone a few buttons on his shirt, and Milligan had similarly removed his vest and shoes—and collapsing on their respective beds.

It was dark, and quiet.

They sat in silence staring at the ceiling.

Neither of them were really sleeping, despite the exhaustion. Milligan found he was still achy, and restless, and unable to stop thinking about—well. everything.

The mission (Nicholas’s frightened eyes when he’d been surrounded and nearly dragged away, how he’d gone limp—and the men surrounding Milligan, too, fighting and fighting and nearly being overwhelmed, nearly losing everything) and old, old wounds (drowning, drowning, cold water and his leg going numb, falling from a great height, feeling helpless and lost as something he needs to save, to protect, is just out of reach, the feeling of something important slipping through his fingers and from his mind like fine sand, of animals and moss and dirt, of yelling and thrown garbage and cold cruelty—) and the memories blend together until he’s just—

Lying there. Staring at the ceiling. Unable to sleep.

He tries to distract himself, but can’t. He feels cold. And, despite the fact he can hear Mr. Benedict’s breathing—quiet and even, although not deep—he feels alone.

(The memories blend together until he’s drowning and falling and frightened eyes swim out of view, someone he’s failed to save, he reaches for them but his hands grasp nothing, his arms close around nothing but cold water, rough hands and the bite of an eel and men surround him, cold metal pressed to his skull, he hears Nicholas cry out his name—)

He feels weak, for letting this affect him. He wants to—he wants to feel warm, to know Nicholas, at least, is safe, that they’re both safe and he is here, here, not there.

Abruptly, he realizes what, exactly, he’s wishing for. He wants to hold him, or perhaps be held, or—just to be close to another person. To Mr. Benedict in particular, who was safe and okay and only several feet away but his brain refused to believe it.

It’s. Weird, right? It’s probably weird?

…but then, it had been a long, bad day. They were both tense and tired and still shaken—a little frightened, even—and. well. both of them have always found touch grounding.

(Milligan discovered it early on, during a particularly bad nightmare, one late night dozing off in the study. He only calmed when Nicholas’s hands—shaking as they frantically and uncertainly hovered—gripped his shoulders, and then, upon realizing, then cupped his face.

Nicholas, on the other hand, had known for a very long time. He just never mentioned it. Milligan discovered this, too, upon noticing that he utterly melted in a rather impulsive hug.)

It would be grounding. And he’s exhausted and they have a long journey ahead tomorrow and Milligan will most likely need to drive and he has to rest first.

And—somehow, Milligan doesn’t think Mr. Benedict would mind. He certainly wasn’t the judgmental type.

(He’s awake, too. Milligan can tell by how he quietly stirs, over and over, trying not to make noise but clearly restless.)

…he shouldn’t. He probably shouldn’t.

(Cold, cold water. Rough hands, fists. Frightened eyes. A bite to the leg.)

He needs to sleep. To get them both home safely.

(Moss, dirt. The squeaking of rats. Disdain, yelling, disbelief. Fear.)

It takes him a little while to work up the courage.

Just say it. Just say it.

“Mr. Benedict,” Milligan says into the darkness, quiet, in case he really isn’t awake, but it’s only a moment before he hears Mr. Benedict’s soft voice answer, not even altogether that sleepy.

“…yes?”

Milligan realizes that there is no way to ask that isn’t extremely awkward, but it’s too late to back out, and anyway, he’s—he’s so tired. He’s exhausted, and Nicholas is right there, barely even out of reach, and Milligan just wants to rest. He wants to remember that they’re both safe and whole and warm, and that no one is drowning.

“…would you.” he pauses, thinking of any better way to phrase this, but nothing comes to mind, “…would it be more comfortable if. we were. together?”

There’s a beat of silence. Mr. Benedict’s surprise is almost audible.

“Neither of us are sleeping well,” Milligan says lamely. “I…”

And then Nicholas says, sounding very quiet and like he’s hunched in on himself, “You don’t—I wouldn’t want you to make yourself uncomfortable on my behalf.”

Milligan blinks. “…what?”

Nicholas sounds, if anything, even more uncomfortable. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to…” He’s squirming; Milligan can hear the covers rustling.

Millian stills. After a moment he says, with some amount of realization in his tone, “You… want physical reassurance?”

Another beat.

“…I have lasted a long time without,” Nicholas says finally, which is extremely depressing.

(What he was intending to get across was, so clearly, I don’t need it, and am fine. What he was getting across was so clearly I need it very badly.)

“Nicholas,” says Milligan at last, after processing that for a moment, and he thinks he’s startled Nicholas for a second time that night. “I was not asking for you.”

“…oh,” says Nicholas, and he sounds very small indeed.

“But I am glad, then,” Milligan says, “If. it helps.”

“…oh,” says Nicholas again.

There’s a moment of silence, then shuffling as he sits up. “Then. ah. yes, yes, I wouldn’t… yes. Shall I…?”

Milligan silently lifts the covers in answer.

He shuffles out of the bed—barefoot—then.

Nicholas, very hesitantly, settles next to Milligan in the bed. Milligan pulls the covers over them.

They’re fully clothed, and—perhaps it should be awkward. No, it really should be awkward.

But Milligan wraps an arm around him and pulls him closer, and Nicholas all but melts into his side with a little content sigh, turning over to bury his face in the juncture of Milligan’s neck and shoulder.

Milligan can feel the tip of his nose pressed to his collarbone. He relaxes into Milligan’s chest, tension bleeding from his body remarkably fast.

Milligan, too, can’t help but relax. He feels much warmer now.

"Thank you," says Milligan softly into the darkness.

Nicholas doesn't open his eyes. "I think we've established that this is quite mutually beneficial," he says wryly. But after a moment he says, far more quietly, "...but you're welcome."

(Always, he thinks, but doesn't say. You're always welcome.)

Milligan stares up at the ceiling still, feeling Nicholas’s breathing, the warmth of him pressed close. He’s relaxed, no longer shifting restlessly, instead lying slumped against Milligan almost bonelessly. Not asleep, yet, but clearly much closer to it even after what must be only a minute.

He’s safe. Safe and sound and whole. Both of them are.

The physical reminder—both of where they are (safe, in a small, dingy motel room, and together, far from water or cliffs or roves of people intent on harming them)and the fact that they’re both quite safe (Nicholas is fine, not dead or drowned, Milligan escaped that place and those waters and has a home, now)—it’s enough to leech away the remaining tension from Milligan, too.

Even the awkwardness couldn’t survive long: it’s too comfortable, and warm, and safe. Nicholas fits under his arm and pressed close, hiding his face in Milligan’s shoulder, like he belongs there. One arm, slowly—not carefully, but more as if not realizing, like unconsciously hugging a pillow—drapes itself around Milligan’s waist, too, and Nicholas shifts just a little to curl closer.

He's already half asleep, which isn’t common for him. Rather ironically, he never seemed to sleep well, or at least, not for long. But now his breathing was already getting deeper, even and slow.

Milligan lets his hand drift up to gently bury his fingers in Nicholas’s curls, dragging his fingertips up along his scalp. He hums a little, tilting his head into the touch, and Milligan closes his eyes. He runs a hand through Nicholas’s hair.

Holding him, being held in return.

It’s warm.

(They wake in the morning tangled up together and close. Neither of them have ever slept so deeply, and in fact, end up oversleeping past when they’d planned to leave.)

(When Nicholas wakes, warm, an arm around him, holding someone close and being held, it feels like a dream, hazy and unreal. He doesn’t want to wake up, to extract himself from Milligan’s arms and untangle themselves. So he drifts off again. Surely it can wait?)

(He’s never slept so long, or so without nightmares. He vaguely recalls—the memory is fuzzy and warm—the phantom feeling of hands in his hair.)

(They don’t really talk about it the next day, or afterwards. But the next time everything goes so horribly wrong, Milligan silently offers Nicholas a place next to him in bed, and Nicholas goes without thinking.)

#this is INCREDIBLY self-indulgent #listen ive had some bad days lately. I think they should cuddle #nicholas/milligan #mysteriousfisherman #askbox #my writing #snippet #mbs disney #could be platonic if you squint but its meant to be pre-relationship lowkey #OH MY GOD I NEVER POSTED THIS??? I THOUGHT I HAD WHAT THE FUCK #me: oh no one reblogged it :( oh well fair enough #me checking later: HANG ON THIS WAS JUST SITTING IN AN OPEN TAB READY TO POST

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