#my family definitely has been dwindling. i need to cling to what i have. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ladyspaceradio · 3 years

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Population: Me + You

Summary: The last thing on Ryders mind was having kids. She didn’t even have a significant other, let alone a romantic interest. However when Tann proposes something to help the colonist with repopulation efforts, asking Ryder to be the forerunner of it, she wasn’t sure how to take it. But now she's got a missing Sage, a grumpy baby daddy, a convention that might change everything, oh and she has to figure out how to tell Evfra he's going to be a father!

Warning: NSFW SMUT

AO3 LINK

Chapter One

“I’m-I’m sorry can you repeat that?” Ryder sat there stunned, eyes unable to focus on the Asari doctor whose name she couldn’t remember.

Stepping closer, the doctor placed their hand on Ryder's shoulder. “You’re pregnant, congratulations.”

Ryder’s head tilted to the side, glazed eyes stared at the asari though she wasn’t exactly seeing her. “I’m...what?” She breathed, mind swirling in chaos not really able to grab on coherent thought. “Pregnant.” The asari spoke slower, softer, there was a frown marring her expression. She probably wondered why the human pathfinder wasn’t jumping for joy.

She’s gotten it wrong. Ryder clings to that thought. Because she couldn’t be pregnant. Not her. Because if she was-

Not possible.

“That's not possible.” Ryder sinks deeper into the bed, the white paper sheet crinkles under her. She takes note that the asari is young, not even having her matriarch marks yet.

“You would think,” The asari beamed. “Andromeda is full of surprises. We’re still looking into what exactly dissolved the blockers. Some think it's a bacteria, but I’ve been looking into those vaults. If they can make planets viable, just imagine what else they can make fertile!” Her excitement starts to dwindle as she studies Ryder’s pale face. “Erm, I’ll go get you a cup of water.”

“I can’t be pregnant.” Ryder slid off the table. Her feet feel light, and head lighter. Something turns in her stomach. “It’s not possible.” “Pathfinder,-” “Your tests are wrong.” She waved a hand. “I can’t be….” She shakes her head. The asari studies her. “If you need proof.” She opens the door to the hallway. “Follow me.”

Ryder stands in the mouth of the doorway, swaying. Her stomach twisted into knots. Lexi would probably say she’s in denial, some psychological trauma from her childhood. But then Lexi wouldn’t be lying to her.

“Come on.” The asari smiles, it seems false, twisted in Ryders opinion. Perhaps this was just another one of Tann’s tricks. He was the reason she was here to begin with.

He had contacted her, pestered and nagged her into this. Coming into the clinic to remove her blockers, to be a leading light for colonists to follow.

“They need comfort to know that it's safe.” Tann folded his spindly fingers, a smile stretched across his leathery skin. “It is your job to lead them down the path of the future.”

The future.

Her eyes dropped to the trashcan by the door, she just might vomit into the bag there.

“Pathfinder?” The asari dipped her head catching Ryders eye.

Lifting her chin she stepped forward into the dim hallways.

----3 weeks earlier-----

The humidity on Aya was a hell of a thing. Paradise that came with a price, already she could feel the droplets of water clinging to her skin. It wasn’t that it was hot, but rather misty. Sighing Ryder ran a hand over her deflated curls and eyed the surrounding Angara celebrating with pride. Their joy, while delightful to watch, gave her a splitting headache and rattled the teeth in her jaw from the burst of concentrated bioelectricity. This was the reason she chose to sit at the bar.

And because Evfra was currently nursing another cup of Taavum looking spiteful.

“Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating?” Ryder leans against the bar, her tall cup of Taavum, a lovely smelling angara beverage, cupped between her hands. She knows how potent this stuff can be and has no desire to get drunk tonight.

So she tilted her head down, letting the red curls cover her face as she studied the obviously displeased angara general who was hunched over his third glass of Taavum dissuading any of his soldiers from coming up and speaking with him.

“I am.” Short and concise, but his sour face made him look as if he’d been sucking on lemons and not being adored by his people over what they thought was the last Kett ground base on Voeld being defeated.

“Truly?” Ryder slides into the seat beside him, giving Roaan a small wave across the bar. “And is that true joy I hear ringing in your voice?” She puts her elbows on the counter, angling her body to look at him.

“It is...” He pauses looking at her, the dark blue of his iris look darker against the contrast of the white rofjinn wrapped and his broad shoulders. A gift from the initiative, one Evfra hadn’t enjoyed considering the small initiative logo stitched into the corner. He was likely to wear it tonight only for political gain, and destroy the offending material later.

A pity considering how handsome he looked in it.

“Hard.”

She blinks looking into his eyes and away from his physique. More than once Evfra had been a star player in some fantasies she had brewing in her subconscious. “What is hard?” Her voice is low and husky, she does not think he gets the innuendo.

“To believe this war is almost over.”

Almost

It’s been three years since she killed the Archon. In that time they’ve worked together to build alliance between their people, cultivate a culture of respect and peace, and fuck the kett up so hard they wouldn’t even think of coming back for fear of getting their asses kicked again.

“Hard to believe I slept over 600 years just to hear you bellyache about my cooking.” She tossed out, feeling a high as the slow releasing alcohol ran through her veins.

His face contorted in disgust. “Your food is bland, tasteless, and should have been used against the kett.”

“Hey now! I’ll have you know Prime Rib is a delicacy, you should be thanking me for sharing.” She huffed out a small laugh and nudged his foot beneath the counter. “Your people have a future Evfra, and it’s thanks to you.”

“Our people Ryder.” Evfra reaches over and touches her bare shoulder. She shivers at the power in the one hand that spans over half her back. “This is all possible because of you.”

She licks her lip, tapping the countertop. “And to think, in the beginning you stole all my credit-I’m kidding wipe that look off your face.” He’s not looking at her but rather something behind her.

Turning her head she surveyed the crowd of angara when her eyes landed on the odd couple drawing everyone attention.

Tilting her head to the side she watched Evfra observe the woman, who held the hand of a human male. It wouldn’t be such an odd sight except she was heavily pregnant. It seemed all the angara had taken notice. This was a rare sight considering there were delays on the repopulation efforts. Most to do with the fact that colonists wanted safety and security before starting a new family. Another part that so many families had been ripped apart by the war before.

The woman stopped and smiled at the man who touched his hand to her expansive stomach.

Ryder hummed softly and peered at Evfra’s face, noticing his eyes were slitted. He looked ready to shoot something. “Something wrong?” There was a noise of disgust that left his lips as he spoke. “Your people do not recluse during late stages of pregnancy?” He turned looking at Ryder, dragging his gaze down her face then form, settling on her stomach. Something fluttered inside her womb at the gaze.

Or it was the alcohol.

“Nah, we’re social butterflies.” She picked up her drink, sipping it, taking any excuse to not look at his face. “Not the same for your people, I’m guessing.” Now that she thinks about it she definitely never saw a pregnant angara.

At least she didn’t think so. She knew that the angara had pouches, and that pups were small.

“No.” He snarled, lips peeled back, his scar wrinkling under the expression. He turned back to the bar and downed the cup in front of him.

She waited to see if he said more he just stared at his hands. Silently brooding.

“I can’t imagine being cooped up.” Ryder swiveled in her chair grinning at the obviously happy pair making their way through the market. “I’d probably put a knife if anyone tried to cage me.”

Evfra snorted. “Like you did the Primus?” He offered.

She pursed her lips. “Wish I did more to her.” She muttered, taking a gulp of the drink. It had a heady salty taste that ended in a sweet tang.

Primus had been a Devil, far worse than the Archon since she had not desire to waste time gawking at the Remnant. She was pure evil, seeping a dark claws into Heleus seeking to erase everything but the Kett.

In the end it had been her pride that led to her demise. She had wanted to see Ryder die by her own hands, for the ‘glory of the Empire.’

But there had been no glory in her death as she choked on her own blood watching Ryder stand over her.

Taking another gulp of the drink, Abigail shook away the memory. Smacking her lips she looked at Evfra. “You ever just think about how you're getting older?” Eyes crinkle in the corner when his face delved into a sour expression.

“No.”

“L-I-A-R,” She sang angling her body towards him. “You think about it. I think about, we all think about it. Its like waking up one day going, huh my life's half over and what do I have to show for it? A whole lotta nuthin’” She slapped her palm on the table. “Sure I’m the savior of the galaxy but that jazz is worth what?” “Millions of lives.” Evfra offered, looking almost amused as she swayed in her chair.

“Exactly! And do you know how many of those lives I’ve had in my bed?” She threw her hands in the air, nearly knocking over her drink, if Evfra hadn’t grabbed it. “Not a one!” She sinks into the counter, both arms stretched out in front of her.

“Why would you want that many in your bed?” Evfra moves her cup to the other side of the bar.

“I don’t want a million dicks.” Ryder grumbled, lifting her head to glare at him. “I want one. One glorious dick to be my dick forever.”

“Perhaps you should speak with your doctor about this obsession-” He grunted and caught Ryders flailing hand as it smacked him in the chest.

She stares at her tiny hand in his massive one. Completely swallowed. She shivers at the heat radiating even through the glove.

“No one needs a Pathfinder anymore.” She murmurs looking up at him. “And what will I do then?”

They’re both silent for a moment before he sighs. “You find something else to occupy your time. Your nose is large enough to be in everyone's business.” He’d seen how she sought out even the little task to perform. Just the other day she stopped to show a recruit how to take apart a milky way gun.

“I have a beautiful nose.” She grunted looking at him, said nose wrinkled. Much to Evfra’s annoyance however her eyes began to mist over. “Why can’t anyone recognize that?” Her bottom lip jutted out starting to quiver.

Evfra cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with this situation. “Your nose is the right fit for your face.” He offered.

“Really?” Ryder squeaked looking up at him. “I thought it was too big.” She touched her face and sagged.

His hand touched her jaw, turning her to look at him. “You are perfect.”

Three words. Three simple words that came from the most unlikeliest of people.

Ryder stared at him even after he pulled his hand back and looked away. He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable from her silence or her staring.

“You're handsome.” She blurts as he starts to speak, her declaration silencing him. He turns to look at her, eyes roaming over her flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “You are drunk.” He decides with a sigh. “I will call the tempest and have Jaal fetch you.”

“I’m not drunk.” Ryder pushed her thick hair back. “I’m high on liquid courage.” She smiles at him, though she is inclined to think she might be drunk when her mouth continues to spew thoughts from her brain. “I always thought you were handsome. Scar really adds to the good looks.” She nibbles her lips looking at him now, eyes tracing along the scar.

How many times had she fantasized kissing those twin lines that defined his features. Oh how she pictured nibbling them down to his lips that looked so plump that she knew they would cradle her own against them.

Ryder shuddered leaning forward. He’s studying her expression when she reaches over, laying a hand on his muscular thigh.

“If you weren’t so walled off, Evfra, I’d almost suggest we hook up.” Ryder wiggles her brows.

He lets out a soft snorting chuff, his hand grabs hers and pulls it away before it could wander up to the crux of his thighs. “I think you’ve had enough.” He rasps in a husky tone, one that makes her thighs clench together as heat floods her core. “I will walk you back to your ship.” He slides out of the seat in a smooth motion that makes her head a bit dizzy.

“No thanks,” She jerks her arm out of his grip. “I don’t….I don’t want to go back there.” She curled an arm around her waist. “It’s lonely.”

They had come to Aya for more than this celebration, she’d come to say goodbye to Jaal as he and Avale were uniting their families and starting a life together. Just a few months prior Drack had left as well to be with Kesh and her second clutch of baby Krogan. Peebee had one foot out the door, Ryder could feel everyday she was itching for more than what the Tempest was doing. She knew that their time together wasn’t forever, but watching her family drift apart little by little was harder than she expected.

Evfra was silent as she slumped down in her seat, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “Let me crash at the resistance.” She grumbled.

“That isn’t something I can do.” He took hold of her arm again, and she allowed herself to be tugged out of the chair, though she misjudged the distance from her seat to the ground and landed directly into his chest with a soft ‘oomf.’

His hand settled on the back of her neck, the other holding her arm ran down to cup her hip. She looked up at him, breath caught in the back of her throat. She was pressed tightly to his chest, breast molding to the hard plains of his, nipples stiffening as she felt a knot of arousal bubbling in her stomach.

Gasping she watched his nose wiggle, eyes slitting as he bent his head. “You’re…”

She doesn’t think about it, in the future she’ll blame the alcohol running through her system, and the mix of Evfra’s heady scent, but she lunges, cutting off his words, smashing her mouth against his in a teeth clicking kiss that is more pain then pleasure.

Evfra hisses, hand on her neck tangles with her hair, pulling her head back. Her lip is busted and bleeding, eyes glazed. Ryder sucked in a breath, her last bit of dignity began to shrivel as her hazy mind grasped at the lingering sanity pointing out she just kissed Evfra De Tershaav and likely ruined any type of friendship they have built over the past 4 years.

“Evfra,” She twisted in his hold, hands pushing on his chest. “I’m-“

Her wobbly tone cut off as he bend his head, brushing his mouth against her nose, down her cheek, and ghosted over her lips. “You are too impatient, Ryder.” His husky tone sent a thrill down her spine that settled in her stomach.

She tilted her head back trying to catch his mouth. She mewled softly when he pulled away.

“Not here.” He tugged her into his side tucking her against him, chuffing softly.

He doesn’t seem to mind her wandering hands this time. In fact she can hear the faintest sound of a purr thrumming deep in his chest. She almost calls him a pussy she’s willing to stroke when he suddenly tugs her off the main road and presses her up against the wall.

Massive hands span over her hips as he dips his head towards hers. Letting out a sigh as their lips touch, he takes control keeping her head tilted with a fist in her fiery hair. He laps at the seam of her lips, but doesn’t go deeper despite her wiggling and whimpers of protest.

“I’m starting to think you enjoy torturing me.” She gasp fingers curling around the straps laying against his chest. Her body’s pressed against his, hips grinding into his front. She makes needy keens in the back of her throat.

“Are you always this impatient Ryder?” He chuckles against her skin, lips igniting a fire beneath them.

“Call me Abigail, Evfra.” She panted against his mouth. She hadn’t the will power to extract herself from those delectable lips. Oh how she pictured kissing him! The reality blew all those lusty fantasies away. She made a wanton noise in the back of her throat as he nibbled her bottom lip.

“Ahbee-gal” He purrs against her ear. The reverberating sound of his voice sends twings of pleasure down her spine, settling at her contracting core. He inhales deeply, chuckling at her reaction. “I’m going to ravish you.”

“Oh god yes!” She mewls digging her fingers into his rofjinn, tugging to bring him back to her.

He laughs, a deep throat thrum that she’s never heard before. If she had been more clear headed and less horny she would try desprately to remember the sound. Though that isn’t what is keeping her focus at the moment while ehr hands trail southward. Not that they get very far when the wall behind her suddenly disappears.

Letting out a small wail, she nearly tumbles down to her ass if Evfra hadn’t snatched her waist.

“Rude!” She huffed, craning her neck back to stare at the room behind her. Not that she can see much through the dim interior lighting. What she can see is a spare room filled with only the essentials.

Of course her mind isn’t on the surrounding area long when a hot mouth presses to her shoulder sucking the the flesh there.

“Clothing off.” She mewls hands tugging at his shirt trying to magic it off him with each tug. Why did angara clothing have so many buckles! Ryder begins to pout at the sight, muttering dark words about forbidden treasures being locked away.

Chuffing in amusement he gently extracts her hands. “Let me.” His fingers make dizzly fast work of all the buckles and clasps.

Hands free she starts work on her own clothing, while following Evfra as he tugs off his Rofjinn. Of course wanting to be naked soon as possible she attempts to take the shirt off without properly unbuttoning it first.

Ryder stumbled into the bedroom door, her arms caught up in the sleeves as she tried to rip off the blouse she wore. She could hear Evfra huffing at her. Grinning she shimmied out of her shirt and tossed it onto the floor and wiggled a brow at him.

“I would say your seduction talents needs some work.” He stated dryly folding the rofjinn and setting it aside.

Licking her bottom lip she greedily drank in the sight of him shirtless, taking in his broad chest to his tampered waist. She especially appreciated the hard muscles that moved beneath his deep blue skin. Letting out a groan she moved toward him, hands out stretched to touch his skin.

Catching her small hand by the wrist, Evfra let out a soft chuffing sound. “What happed to undressing?” He lifted her wrist and kissed the racing pulse beating beneath the skin.

“I got caught up wanting to touch this perfection.” She whispered, swallowing back the saliva that built in her mouth.

“Mmm.” He nips her skin before letting her go. “Are all humans so easily distracted or is it just you?”

She let out an indignant huff. “Oh no it’s just me when there’s a particularly inviting male….” She steps closer, hands on his stomach stroking up and down grinning as his muscles contracted at the touch. “Needing to be stroked.”

He had scars across his skin, faded blue colors, almost white. She couldn’t resist leaning in and licking the one across his ribs. He let out a shuddering purr and yanked her into his chest.

“Abigail.” Her name is a deep groan that leaves his mouth.

And then he was kissing her again. Tongue sliding against her own, tangling together as his palmed her heavy breast. The skin of his palm sends electrical current through her breast, making her nipples stiffen and pleasure rock down to the clenching of her core.

Abigail moans against his mouth, enjoying the feeling of his touch too much to even notice when it became skin to skin contact. Until he breaks their kiss to pull away the tattered remains of her bra off her body.

“Did you just he-man my bra off?” She spread her fingers against his chest, using his imposing unmoving form to steady herself. She thinks the alcohol has hit her system. She feels all warm and tingling. There’s a heat that starts in her stomach and pulses down.

“I am unsure of your word,” He presses his mouth to her throat sucking on the skin there. “But yes, I did just rip that flimsy fabric.” He licked at the hollow of her throat, paying special attention to her jumping pulse. “I will buy you another, better, one.”

“Mmm.” She tilted her head back, fuzzy brain can’t really focus on his words only on the sensation of his mouth making a path up her throat to her jaw, then his breath ghosted against her ear.

“Hold onto me.” He lifted her hands to his shoulders. And before her bogged mind could grasp his order he hefted her up, with one arm, wrapped around her ass.

Squealing she hooked her thighs around those slim hips, pressing her heated core against his side. Her eyes rolled back at the sensation of his hip brushing against the wet crux between her thighs.

Silencing her soft mewling noises he dropped her to the bed suddenly making a shriek leave her lips as she bounced against the mattress. Propping herself up on her elbows Abigail huffed at him, glaring up at his smirk. “Evf-”

Suddenly bending he grabbed the legs of her pants and yanked. Dragging them off her hips, along with her underwear. Which was left dangling of her ankle as he tossed her pants aside. They were less than flattering being the initiative issued clothing. A bland cotton cloth that as Liam described it, were ‘whitie tighties.’

If she had known the night would have gone differently she would have gotten her her red thong-

These thoughts abruptly disintegrated as Evfra lifts her ankle, looping a finger through one of the leg holes and holds the pair of plain undies up.

He drank in her scent with huffing breathes, large hands gripping the thin strip of clothing covering her soaked core. He growled as she let out a soft noise of disapproval.

With a fangy smirk he lifted the soaked cloth to his nose. “Sweeter than pairpo.” Evfra purred, licking the panties then dropping them to finish ridding himself of his own pants.

Abigail's eyes were glued to the movements, watching the fabric slide down his hips, lower and lower until Evfra was completely revealed to her.

Lips parted in surprise, she stared at his cock. It was a darker blue and violet color, speckled with white across the underside of the shaft. He was thick and similar to a human male: if you didn’t count the fluttering ridges, the tapered head and bulbous base. The thing that shocked her and had her inching up the bed was that is was writhing against his stomach as if it had a mind of its own.

Abigail didn't get to study him much before he grabbed her ankles and pulled her forward to the edge of the bed.

Kissing each ankle Evfra placed the on his elbow, spreading her wide open for him like a flower blooming in spring. His eyes glued to her flushed skin. Pupils dilated, lips curled upward, he made a low snarling sound.

Abigail flushed shifted against the bed feeling utterly vulnerable being spread before him like a feast. Which is how he was looking at her. She could even see him drag his tongue across his lower lip.

“I must look alien to you.” She whispered self-conscious of her nudity. She curled an arm over her breast and sucked on her bottom lip.

“You are….” He swallowed audibly, drawing his gaze from her pink cunt to her eyes. “Beautiful.” He purred, kneeling between her thighs. “I have never seen anything close to you.”

“I’ve been curious,” his tone has taken a raspier note. The ‘r’s of his words dragged out in a sound that makes her shiver. Warm hands drag along her thighs. Her muscles quiver in anticipation as he settled between her parted legs and inhales.

Mewling she arches into him, head tossing back and forth in frustration. She wants him to touch her-why wasn’t he touching her.

“Your kinds coupling is violent,” He strokes a hand down her skin. Petting her with the lightest touches on her stomach, hips, arms. But no where she WANTS him to touch.

There is a tiny thought that wonders at what he’s seen to make such a judgement but it’s swept away in the tidal wave of arousal beneath his gentle touches.

“Please!” Ryder keens softly her own hands trail up her body cupping the gentle slopes of her breast.

He watches her but does nothing to end her torment as he speaks with slow decisive touch’s over her skin. “Your softer than any Angara I’ve been with.” As if to emphasize this point he groped the fat of her hips. She sighs as the touch, undulating beneath him. “I will not take you as your people do.” He bends tongue drags across the divot of her hip bone up the planes of her stomach.

“Don’t care!” She cries out pinching her nipple watching him taste her skin with small licks traveling up her body. Everything throbs at the sight. She can feel herself spasm with need, a yearning to feel him slip between her thighs, to fill her to the edge of pain. To fuck her into this mattress till she can no longer move.

“Evfra!”

He smirks leaning over her. “Responsive.” He stops her hands gathering both wrist. “Much better then the vids.” He murmurs softly against the swell of her breast. She’s holding her breath, nearly vibrating with wanton need.

A small thought bubbles in the back of her mind, that she’s edging the point of no return. That this was going to be a bad idea that spirals into a pit of despair if she didn’t stop. But that little bubble popped the moment his tongue sweeps out against her pert nipple.

Crying out she arches into him, hands twist in the hold that has them. “Sensitive.” He growled lapping at the pink nub, circling it with the tip of his blunt tongue. Her toes curl at the feeling, his tongue had a texture to them and seemed to vibrate against the peak of her breast.

He nibbled down the slope of her puffy breast, switching to lavish the other with attention.

“I like how soft you are.” He growls squeezing and molding the breast to the palm of his hand. “How incredibly soft.” His mouth seals of the taunt peak, making her arch up into the sucking of his hot mouth.

He’s making a wet slurping sound while he suckles the peak of her nipple. His hand spanning her ribs moves down her side, cupping her rear that is pressed against his clavicle bone, which she’s been rutting unconsciously again.

She let out a moan as his finger slid along her cunt. He let out a rumble, seemingly surprised at how wet she was. Abandoning her breast with gentle kisses he travels down her stomach. Stopping to lavish attention to each of her small scars, freckles, and stretch marks. He grins at her as he nibbles her hip bone.

“Your scent is driving me wild.” He noses her red curls purring when she jerks against his hold. “It always drives me wild.” He lets out huffs parting her lips and stares at the pink clutch dripping with arousal. “I have longed to taste.”

“E-evfra.” Abigail wiggles in his hold, mind hazy with arousal. She mewls, trembling in anticipation. He seems to be taking his time savoring her scent that has her flushing with embarrassment. That doesn’t last long when he opens his mouth and licks along her slit with a decisive stroke.

She mewls softly, hips jerking against his mouth. His spans a hand against her stomach, keeping her in place while his tongue makes feather soft touches across her cunt. It was light and gentle touches that were driving her wildly mad.

Thighs kept spread with his shoulders, he had full control of her body. She let out a deep cry, body shuddering. “Evfra!” She grabs his sheets jerking up into his mouth, trying to grind into him.

He lets out a purr, vibrating that tongue against her clit that sends her spiralling down. Eyes rolling back as a slow building orgasm trickles into her system. Every muscle in her body quivers beneath the slow lazy licks of his tongue. Gasping, her knees fall open, hips ground up into his mouth. Rocking in time with his broad strokes.

“Evfra, Evfra evfra.” She chants feeling the burn of overstimulation but she can’t stop rocking into him, can’t stop the second orgasm building as he audibly gulps at her cream. She lets out a sharp yelp when he presses a thick, blunt, finger into her weeping entrance.

“Look at how you grasp me.” He purrs. “Greedy.” He sinks his finger deeper into her swollen, pink, clutch. Cooing at the way she grips his digit. Like a hungry mouth suckling him back in.

Moaning, her head tossed side to side as he filled her up, opening her wide with slick wet noises as he moved his finger inside of her. It had been a long dry season since she last been with a man. At the moment she couldn’t even remember it, only what Evfra was doing to her body as he shifted pulling her hips higher.

Nibbling her outer lip he thrust his finger deeper, both groaning as he did. “So soft.” He rasped. “How can any male leave this body.” His eyes met hers. “I’m going to make you sing for me.”

Singing wasn’t what she felt her throat was doing. Opera more like it as she shrieked at the powerful orgasm that made her body arch and clench. She practically bowed off the bed while her vision went dark. All the while she could feel him still working his finger deeper into her cunt while loudly licking up the cum dripping out of her.

“Stars.” He rasped looking at her flushed body and shaking limbs.

Abigail certainly felt like she saw stars as she went limp against the mattress. Her body jerked against him as he withdrew his finger. Drowsiness edged into her consciousness as she stretched languid.

Of course two orgasms later and Evfra was nowhere near done with her. He chuckled as he kissed up her body, saying hello to the girls before he was fully looming over Ryder.

“I hope you aren’t about to fall asleep.” He nudged his nose against her chin, urging her thighs to wrap around his waist.

“Mmm.” Ryder cracked an eye open suddenly far more awake as something rolled against her sensitive lips. Breath hitched when he nudged her entrance with the head of his cock.

“Oh!” SHe gasped as the odd sensation of being filled by something that wasn’t entirely human.

Thighs quivering against his hips, she attempted to roll away from the burrowing entity that was Evfra’s cock, only to feel the first set of ridges slip into her and go completely still. She was instantly melting into a puddle of pleasure as they rowed against the walls of her. Especially tickling her g-spot. Making her clench around him with a groan.

Scar wrinkled he closed his eyes holding her hips, soft a mewling noise left his throat. “Stars.” He looked down at her then, eyes slitted. “The way you grip me…” He rubbed the mark he left on her skin, breathing hard.

Drool was dribbling out of her mouth while she gazed up at Evfra, hips rolling against the thick cock. Toes curling, heels digging into his back to spur him on. But Evfra seemed determined to drive her mad. He moved in a slow pace, until he was completely sheathed within her warmth.

“Tight.” He growled against her skin, he was making many marks against her collarbone, sinking his fangs into the yielding skin. Ryders own nails were clawing at his back as she felt the bulbous base popping into her cunt.

“Evfra!” She cried so sweetly, tears leaking out of her eyes as he began to pull out of her at the same slow pace. He could feel her climax as he pushed in, feeling the way her walls clenched and pulsed, beckoning him to seed her.

How he thought of her swollen with his child, like the human he saw before. His lips peeled back in the though as he pulled her hips flush against his, sinking into her depths. A hand span up between the valley of her bouncing breast and lay over her vunerable throat.

She gasped, tilting her head back giving his hand more room as he cupped her throat, thumb stroking over her racing pulse. She murmured how she couldn’t give him another one. But she would-oh she would cum again on his cock, and he would fill her womb with his seed. And once she was limp beneath him he would slide down her body to taste their coupling, coax yet another orgasm from her.

Maybe then he would let her rest, but he would spend the night between her thighs.

“You’re a treasure.” He bent over her, hips gliding along her thighs, sticking to the steady pace. Those ridges rubbed against her walls. He can feel the tells of his own climax coming as the ridges began to row, seeking to interlock with a female angara’s grooves. They would become thicker as he climaxed, ensure that none of his seed escaped.

He watched as Abigail’s green eyes widen at the feeling, her wet lips parting with a soft ‘Oh!’ as a shudder rocks her body. She orgam’s against him, he can feel her soak him as a wordless cry escapes her. He growls bending down to capture her lips, sinking deep into her cunt as spurts of his seed coat her womb.

-----Present-----

She chewed on her nail, biting into the skin but not breaking it.

How did one tell the grumpy resistance leader that his one night stand led to a new life?

She hadn’t even seen Evfra since then. Much less spoke to him. Her hands threaded together behind her head as she let out a low sigh staring at the screen of the empty email. Twice she started typing, both started with an apology neither made past the second sentence. She wanted to be a coward, send him an email, throw the proverbial ball at him and wait.

Turning in her chair she pulled out the glossy black and white photo. Though it was hard to discern what exactly the picture was, she could make out the small pea like blobs in the photo as her children.

Multiple...

She shuddered, a sour taste filled her mouth, her stomach rolled. Taking gulping breathes she warded off the nausea. Apparently the Doctor, Y’lusia, Sara remembered her name after leaving, said she was in 10 weeks along. Funny considering she’d slept with Evfra 3 weeks ago. But Ryder hadn’t said a word, just numbly taken the photo.

Y’lusia informed her that she would be sending the file over to Lexi, who was her main doctor, but thought it best for her to set up another appointment at the clinic to see a specialist. She wouldn’t be returning to that clinic, Ryder thinks with a bitter expression.

It was a shame Lexi was attending the Nexus seminars at the moment, and Harry was acting at the Tempest replacement.

Gave her plenty of time to avoid, ignore, this predicament a little longer.

::Ryder, Director Tann wishes to speak with you.:: SAM popped up at his router, to the left of her elbow. She let out a low noise of discomfort thinking about talking to him.

“Any way I can put him off?” She leaned back into the chair, putting the ultrasound photo into a draw where it was to be forgotten for a time. ::I can tell him you are occupied with personal matters.:: SAM offered.

“Uuuugh no,” She stood and pulled her hair back into a bun. “It will only make matters worse.” She stood and looked at the Orb. “How do I look?” ::Like Abigail Ryder.::

She snorted softly. “Remind me to have Jaal teach you some sauve lessons SAM.’ She took a few breaths shaking her hands out. “Maybe I should change.” She glanced down at her sweat stained sleepshirt. She hadn’t bothered dressing, as there was no one needing her attention. They’d just gone to Eos, dropping Peebee off.

It had been a sad, and regretfully sober, party for Ryder. While Peebee bounced around the remaining tempest crew wishing them good tidings, Abigail had been preoccupied with thoughts of what her future was now going to look like.

Groaning she tugged her shirt off and ambled over to her messy wardrobe. She shifts and sniffs each article till she finds a decent one and tugs it on. It's here she glances at the mirror and frowns as the material stretches thin across her abdomen. A hand settles across the swelling between her hips.

Letting out a slow sigh she turns away from the mirror quickly and heads to the door.

She is lucky that she can play it all off on the removal of the blockers for the time being.

“Ryder,” Tann’s eyes blinked one just slower than the other. Abigail tilted her head to the side, was it old age? Perhaps he was having a silent seizure. She almost wanted to call a doctor just to end this meeting.

“Tann.” She says his name in a slow draw, blinking her eyes one just slower than the other.

“I see you have gone into the clinic, I will be setting up a meeting for you on Nexus, we’ll get this ball rolling. Addison will be in touch shortly, she’s eager to begin this campaign. The colonist need something to look towards.” His babbling seemed to cause the spiking ache behind her eyes. One that had her stomach turning. “Mmm.” Ryder replied, rubbing her temple. “I’ll be stopping at Aya first.” She had to speak with baby-babies-daddy about something.

Like the very impeding existence of being a baby daddy.

“That’s perfect! I’ll send the reporters there,” Her stomach drops as she tries to speak but Tann prattles on regardless of her protest. “Good scenery, the angara are good place to start. Being all about family as they are. It will be a good start, very good Ryder,” She wonders if good was the only vocabulary he knew when he waves his hand in a wide arch. “I will let Addison know. Tann out.”

Then he was gone, and she was left there, feeling bamboozled.

How did my life become this?

She sucked in a sharp breath a gurgle logged in the back of her throat and she stumbled away from the vid coms racing to the crosswalk where she jumped down and shoved Liam out of the way.

“Hey!” He hollered. “I have to piss.”

Ryder didn’t answer as she bent over the sink and vomited.

“Never mind.” He backed out of the bathroom and turned away.

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#Mass Effect #mass effect andromeda #mass effect evfra #evfra de tershaav #evfra x ryder #evfra #smut #unplanned pregnancy

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thegreenfairy13 · 4 years

Text

We Only Come Here To Sleep (2/?)

Plot: Three infants have been murdered and their bodies have been found at various places in Gotham City. The public, as well as the mob, want to see a culprit for different reasons. After everything Jim Gordon has been through, one wouldn't think an ordinary case would take its toll on him. But it does.

Read chapter one on Ao3.

Chapter 2:

The night doesn’t bring any relief. Even after sundown, the heat is unbearable thanks to the overheated pavements and the lack of any green in Gotham City. The ceiling fans keep spinning lazy circles above Jim’s head, mocking him whenever an almost imperceptible draft passes by, one that does nothing to cool his sweaty skin.

Jim stares at his papers once more, hoping against better hope that this will be the time the pieces click together and he finally sees something he initially missed. Yet the problem is, his case isn’t even a case. He has nothing but three tiny corpses and too many dead ends.

Now that the case has been made public, he has hundreds, no thousands of witnesses coming forward. Most of them only seek a way to asperse their neighbors: one claims to have seen a distraught woman, one thinks a grey car driving a bit too fast has been spotted suspiciously close to the crime scene, one saw a colleague leaving with a duffle bag big enough to hide a child inside.

With burning eyes, Jim scoots a hand through his hair. It’s a hopeless movement, and it does nothing to chase his exhaustion away.

Sighing, he leans back in his chair. His head lolls to the side as he wonders what else he can possibly do. This case has been rough on him from the get-go. Three little children have been thrown away like mere trash. They had been denied every chance before even uttering their first word. Is that fair? What could they have become if this city had been a bit kinder?

Jim rubs a hand across his face. And it’s more. They should have been loved. It’s as simple as that. Those tiny, fragile, little things should have been given love and care and devotion. Cause that’s human, isn’t it? Seeing such a helpless being and laying all your love on it is what defines a human being. This whole crime, it goes against anything Jim believes in. It’s against all the principles he had been brought up with. If he had been their father, he would have never….

His fingers clench around a strand of hair, pull at it until his skull hurts. This isn’t right. For such a long time, being a father to a child, protecting it, teaching it, had been his greatest wish in life. And another person just strangles their kid to death and lays it to rest between crumpled soda-cans and pizza-boxes? Jim feels sick to the core.

He’s thankful for being alone at the precinct right now, being allowed this moment of weakness. In the middle of the night, he mostly is, though.

It’s the time of the night when even Harvey insists on some sleep in a proper bed. Jim, on the other hand, is mostly fine with his sofa and the shower at the precinct. What should he do in his flat anyway? It’s not like anyone waits there for him, or even cares whether he comes home or not. His office is as good as a place to sleep as his dingy apartment that, to add insult to injury, only serves as a reminder of his failures in life.

Briefly, Jim wonders how he ended up like this. All those years ago, he came to Gotham with a beautiful fiancée by his side and all those grand plans and goals and hopes. He had been dead-set on starting a family, cleansing the city from corruption and crime, being the man his father used to be. He had been planning on buying a house, had already seen himself mowing the lawn, his family watching him from behind the window, a smirk on their faces.

And now all those plans have evaporated into dust and memories of a life that never was. All Jim has got left is a ratty apartment he doesn’t come home to, all the while still believing this is only a makeshift-solution, some temporary measure before he’s inevitably back on track. It’s why he refuses to paint the walls or renovate his kitchen, simply because he still keeps hoping tomorrow will be the day that gives him a reason to finally move out, to come home to a real home again.

He knows it’s futile. And yet he can’t stop himself from clinging to that thought.

Finally stretching his aching limbs, Jim gets up for a well-deserved shower and a restless night curled up on the couch beside his desk. He eyes the half-empty whiskey bottle sitting behind him on a cabinet and wonders if it still contains enough liquor for him to properly pass out. The last thing he wants to do is going out to get more.

He picks up the documents scattered across his desk, straightens them, and just as he’s about to shove them into a folder, he hears that sound. It’s a single, quick tap - followed by a longer one.

Tilting his head, he listens again, waits for that well-known scratching sound which usually accompanies it. He doesn’t have to wait long.

Tap. Drag. Scratch. Tap. Drag. Scratch. And repeat.

Maybe he should be more surprised. He should definitely be scared. And yet, he’s none of those things. Quite the contrary. Maybe that’s a sign for his dwindling instinct of self-preservation. But then this nightly visit is, even though unwelcome, not entirely unexpected.

Jim straightens his shoulders and debates with himself if she should force his unwelcome visitor to move further, to walk up the stairs, even if he knows it’s a hassle for him.

At this time of the night, only monsters come to the precinct. Be it on their own free will or against it. Falling back into his chair, Jim reaches around and uncaps the whiskey-bottle. He fills two glasses generously and waits.

Any minute now, the Penguin will appear at his door, like a demon he never summoned, like the vampire he never invited yet still crawls inside, all the rules about invitations be damned.

He empties his own glass and refills it just as swiftly. Lord, he’s too tired and way too sober for what is about to come. But to be fair, he generally is. Harvey once told him jokingly his blood must mostly consist of alcohol and caffeine by this point. He refrained from correcting him and telling him how this is very much the case.

“Cobblepot,” he growls once the pale face appears in his line of vision. He betrays his hostile tone almost instantly by sliding the glass across the table.

Jim already has a vague idea why the Penguin chose to come here in person, at this ungodly hour, too. Despite, he won’t give him the satisfaction of appearing any more hospitable than usual.

He watches the other man catching his breath, how he pulls a face as he presses a hand against his aching limb for the briefest moment, and then takes the offered seat, already smiling tightly. The movement is graceful, almost, and Jim wonders how painful it must be for the Penguin to sit down in an ordinary chair when his simper contorts into something akin to a grimace every time he has to bend his knee.

His gaze lingers on the other’s leg and then Jim shakes his head. He brought this upon himself, this pain, just like he did. There’s no sympathy needed.

Looking up, Jim motions for him to speak. If they weren’t alone, if it wasn’t the middle of a hot summer night, Jim would put on a more nuanced show, would try to prove his animosity. Like this, with no prying eyes around, he feels slightly more relaxed. Besides, Cobblepot isn’t his biggest problem at the moment. Even if he probably should be.

“Your mayoral portrait is still down in the basement right beside a stack of toilet paper,” he announces once the mobster’s long fingers are wrapped around his glass. “I can assure you, we’ll hang it up where I can’t see it once you’re re-elected,” he drawls as he downs his drink.

Pursing his lips. the Penguin gives Gotham’s Commissioner a long, hard stare. Jim ignores his displeasure. If Cobblepot wants to get rid of him, he already has enough reasons.

At times, Jim wonders what keeps the Penguin from simply removing him. Especially now that he’s running for mayor again, and probably going to win by a landslide once more, the cop always turns his car-keys with some sense of apprehension. One day, of that he’s certain, Oswald will execute his revenge on him. Maybe he’s just waiting for him to ruin his reputation all by himself. As it is, chances are high enough.

The mobster blinks but doesn’t answer right away, simply keeps playing with the handle of a cane that probably serves as a container for a deadly dagger, or poison, or both. Leaning back, Jim waits for his reply. Maybe he should focus more on Oswald and his illegal businesses, dig up some dirt on him, and prevent Gotham from electing a cold-blooded murderer again.

But then Jim isn’t certain anything he knows about the gangster would impair his reputation. Everyone knows who the Penguin is, and everyone chooses to look the other way. Whatever evidence Jim would present, Gotham would simply not care. So the Commissioner decided to focus on a crime he might be able to solve.

When Oswald clenches his jaw before addressing the cop, Jim thinks the mobster wants to maintain his composure at all costs.

“I’m simply here because it’s my duty as a concerned civilian.”

Jim snorts in response. The only thing Oswald is nowadays concerned about is Oswald. But as he has nothing better to do, he’ll listen. Maybe that way, he'll finally be able to sleep.

#gobblepot #gobblepotsummer2020 #fanfiction

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twilightbimbo · 4 years

Text

Solstice pt 1: Twilight AU

This is an expansion of the Twilight universe with my OC characters!

home is where the heart is

and i’m afraid

i’ve lost my way

Samson

“Why do you think you’ll win? I know when you’re bluffing,” I chided, laughing. Esther rolled her eyes with mild amusement. Esther is the most competitive one in our family and she always tries to best me in poker, despite the fact that I have the gift for sniffing out inauthenticity.

“‘Cus you suck at poker,” Esther pulled up the corner of her lips in a slight smirk and laid out her winning hand.

“Har har,” I huffed in frustration. I felt my eyebrows furrow as I realized what was happening. “You assholes!” I exclaimed. Suddenly, the cards of Esther’s winning hand became fuzzy and resembled a glitching computer monitor and then smoothed out into her true, losing hand. I looked up at Esther who was nearly hysterical, tears in her golden eyes from laughing and clutching Chip’s arm.

“Sorry, brother,” Chip smiled softly and brushed a lock that fell out of Esther’s bun and brushed it behind her ear. I booed loudly and pushed the deck of cards off the dining table between Esther and me in mock anger.

“Clean that up, Sam,” Sunny said to me without even looking in my direction as she walked past with a basket of laundry. Sunny liked to blend in more than the rest of us. “Keeps us humble,” is one of her favorite phrases. Sunny is the matriarch of our family, even though she is the youngest of us. Technically.

“Sam, if you couldn’t cheat, you would be terrible at poker,” Stella yelled from her upstairs bedroom. Stella didn’t need to yell, she could even whisper it and we would be able to hear her. But, Sunny forces us to act human at all times, even in our own house. Where no one can see us. Or hear us. Sunny’s word is law.

Nathalia

If I was human, I would be panting from running this hard and far. Actually, if I was human I couldn’t run like this at all. I still let air rush in and out of my lungs naturally, tasting the forest around me. I had been feeling the urge to see the ocean lately. I miss home. But, I can’t go back there for a lot of reasons. Mainly because it’s always sunny down there. So, the Oregon coast is perfect for my needs, it’s overcast here the majority of the time. And it felt familiar here, the beach was always a constant for me until I died.

I have been on the run for three years. That is so dramatic to say, but it’s true. I’ve been through nearly all of California, eastern Oregon, and about every rural area in Washington. I haven’t been around the general public in what seems like forever. If forever means three years and three hundred and sixty-two days. I’ve missed normalcy. I’ve missed being able to call a place my own. I miss belonging to something.

The trees began to clear as the river widened and gray light bled between the branches above as they became more sparse. I slowed down into a more relaxed jog, my damp hair starting to cling from my shoulders all the way to the small of my back. I relaxed my pace completely as I could see the river desperately reaching the ocean, letting my bare feet sink into the mossy and wet forest floor. I walked slowly until the ground turned into sand. I tilted my face up towards the sky and let the gentle rain kiss my face.

The waves crashing is familiar and it eased some of my longing. Longing? God, I’ve become so pretentious. In my human life, I couldn’t stand being alone for longer than hours and now I’ve gone years. I guess loneliness changes you.

While I was roaming in Washington, I heard there were vampires who tried to pretend to be humans and go to school and stuff. I was transformed only a year after I graduated high school and I didn’t get the chance to go to college. I had my eyes on the University of California, Los Angeles. But, here I am. Not alive, but also alive. On a beach. In the middle of fucking nowhere.

“Hey! Aren’t you cold?” A voice called out to me from down the beach. I’ve been practicing for this. I turned my head slowly, trying to be careful of the speed of my movements. I looked down at myself briefly. I was wearing a thin, gray sweater with jeans. And barefoot. It’s probably in the low forties right now and getting colder. So much for attempting to blend in. I looked back at their direction and while I was definitely too far away, I smiled tentatively at them.

“Got thick skin!” I yelled back, shrugging. The person behind the voice was an older man, the wind carried his scent towards me. I could smell the warm blood and as he slowly approached me, I could hear his faint heartbeat. It would be too easy. In half a second I would be right in front of him, pushing his head back to expose his neck. His red cap would fall off and in my frenzy, I would probably tear apart his windbreaker. Blood on the sand. My eyes red.

Nope, nope, nope. I’ve gone three years without tasting human blood. I’m not going to fuck this up now. I turned on my heel and went back to the forest, as soon as I was certain I was covered by the thick swarm of trees I took off sprinting.

Where am I supposed to go now? I need to get better clothes to blend in. I need to find a place to live. “Live”. To be frank, I had it pretty easy. I never had to worry about this kind of stuff. In the distance, I can hear cars sporadically driving on the wet pavement. If there are cars, there are people and if there are people, there are clothing stores and libraries. I changed my direction in order to run parallel to the highway giving myself about a half a mile distance between me and the road.

It wasn’t much longer, maybe twenty miles or so before I saw neon light tinge the fog and the smell of car exhaust got stronger. Smelled disgusting. I thought about how I would be able to wander into some random mom and pop shop to get clothes without sticking out. I’ve been practicing my self control but it’s much easier when I hold my breath. How can I go without talking to the small town locals without seeming like a bitch? I guess the only thing I can do is hope what they say about first impressions isn’t true.

Luckily enough for me, the river, which had dwindled down to a creek, ran close enough to the highway so I could wash my feet and legs so I could look less dirty and homely. Unfortunately, about every person I passed stared at me. Everyone has dressed appropriately for the wintery beach weather. Except for me.

The first clothing shop that looked like it could have clothes for people “my age” and nearly completely empty was the first one I walked into. I bought nearly everything. Well, bought is a loose term. It was about four days after my transformation that I realized I had an ability. A “super talent” he called it. If I want someone to do something I want, they do it. It’s never something intense like falling in love with me or giving me their kidney or anything like that. It’s small stuff like if I want their approval I got it. If I want their coffee, they hand it over. Small stuff like that.

The shopkeeper handed over around six hundred dollars in merchandise with a bright smile on her face. I made a mental note to make an anonymous donation as soon as possible. Sometimes I felt bad about swindling people, sometimes I felt like it was a necessary evil. A girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do.

It wasn’t that hard finding the library after the shops, and lucky for me, the librarian allowed me to stash my shopping bags behind her desk. The public computer whirred to life slowly, I could practically hear the viruses worming around. I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for, or even where. I tried local listings, Craigslist, even some dark web shit. It wasn’t until I caved and made a fake Facebook account that I was able to find a single bedroom apartment to rent.

The man who owned the place was rather kind. I hardly had to use my ability to sway him to let me live rent free for the next foreseeable future. His name was Ernie and he had quite the beer belly and a bald spot on the back of his head, reminding me vaguely of a freshly cracked egg. I assume that he felt quite flattered that I was flirting with him. Actually, it could have been the innate human experience of being my prey who is inevitably lured to his death by my inhuman womanly charm. Who could say?

The apartment was painfully small but fully furnished. I couldn’t say if it was fully furnished as a part of the lease, which I did not have, or my newfound landlord was just too caught up in our conversation. I’ve been told I dazzle people. Whatever that means. A large full length mirror hung in the bedroom and I took a full look at myself for the first time in a long time.

My dirty blonde hair was a mess. I think I can see a dread forming in the curly mess. My black eyes peered back at me in disbelief, how could I let myself go like this? Dark circles clung around my eyes covering the splatter of freckles on my face, I looked like I hadn’t slept in weeks. More like years, I chuckled to myself. I need to feed soon. An uncommitted corner of my mind thought aimlessly about what animals are in my vicinity. The other portion of my mind looked back in the mirror. I still was pale as before, still more beautiful than I ever was as a human. It’s weird, feeling this conceited but it was true. My very nature was to lure humans in, even more so with my ability. I can get humans to literally lay before me, neck exposed. But, I promised myself a while ago to never feed on humans again.

This place was definitely not intended to be left fully furnished, a laptop laid on the desk in my new bedroom. I realized I never learned about this town before I decided on it. The ocean picked me. I wiped the laptop and set it up under my preferences. This time, password protected. My google search reminded me I’m currently in Brookings, Oregon. I had made a mental note earlier when I saw the welcome sign out of the corner of my eye on my way into town.

Oh, perfect! I exclaimed internally. There is a local community college that happened to offer marine biology courses. Marine biology was my intended major before this happened to me. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe I’m being an idiot and making stupid choices by surrounding myself with humans. But, honestly, I’m lonely and I don’t think I can take this punishment much longer.

Part 2

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hubertcollins · 4 years

Text

The Eighty-Third by Katharine Fullerton Gerould

Having at last reached a provincial city of a neutral country (not my own, though mine, too, still calls itself neutral), and being provided, for the first time in many months, with the ordinary comforts of life, I feel it my duty to set down certain facts that have recently come to my notice.

They cannot possibly be printed until the war is over, and I question very much whether they can he printed then. There will be, if I mistake not, a very strict censorship exercised by the conquerors. Indeed, the mere fact that a neutral press has not yet got hold of the details I have to relate—or dared to print them if it has a hint—shows what the fear of the invaders already is.

Besides, this is not a gossipy time. We do not glory in our neutrality; we cling to it as a drowning man to a tiny splinter of his wrecked ship; we are terribly afraid of saying the least thing, publicly or privately, that may draw attention to us. Nothing but a happy series of accidents can keep us out of the conflict, and, indeed, when it is all settled, we shall have scarce more shrift than the conquered belligerents.

I do not even dare name the army to which the 83rd regiment belongs. By the time this document comes to light—if it ever does—it will be easy enough to guess.

When what, in my youth, was known as the “Great War” or the “World War” was going on—the war that began in August 1914-—I had a mighty desire to see something of its terrors. I was completing my education, and I had no great taste for learning. I thought I should do much better flying above a battlefield than acquiring knowledge—since all knowledge, I thought, was destined to be presently superseded.

My family would not hear of it, however—they had always frowned on my aviator’s ambitions. So I never got in on the “Great War” at all; and, like most other people, I thought it meant my last chance. Obviously, there was never going to be another big armed conflict. This was a madness; the world for ever after would be sane.

We were very innocent in those days. Certainly, when I sulked at being kept at home, it was honest sulking with real provocation. I never dreamed that, when I had reached the prime of life, I should see a struggle that would throw the whole world into terror—not merely half of it.

We were all proud of the Congress of 1917, you know—I speak as a man old before my time, to generations yet unborn. There won’t, I think, be even a fiction of a Congress after this war. It will be more like a gigantic peace palaver in a reeking jungle. But I am not concerned to prophesy, for, to deal with that future, we shall need vast and exotic vocabularies. Small use the Oxford Dictionary will be, alas! to our children— or Esperanto, either.

I have double-locked my doors; I have shuttered the lower half of my windows; and I have looked quizzically at my fountain pen, as if it were an object that might sometime be dug up to bear witness to a lost civilization. All the little things of every day have a trick now of seeming vitally important— they may pass so soon, with us to whom they belonged.

Outside, in the street, it is very quiet. Even in this remote little neutral town, there is no pretense of “business as usual.” Business will never be “as usual” again; it will be different. But this is as near as I can get, at present, to the atmosphere in which I was bred, and I will try to write as a plain man writes.

I have been for some months previous to this in a corner of the war zone. That is, as I intended it should be, a vague statement. Most of the planet is, if not part of the war zone, at least belligerent territory.

I am a good linguist, owing to experiences of my childhood and early youth; I speak, fairly well, a lot of languages that in my day were not considered part of one’s education. My parents were wanderers, and I had the oddest collection of nurses and attendants that any child ever had. Luckily, their talk stuck by me—I never forgot any idiom I had learned. So I got on better than most would have done when I was caught by the war in a foreign country. I had luck, too, in my country; I could actually, thanks to a nurse I had once had for a year, talk with the peasants.

I cannot say that I had any plan when the war broke out. Everyone knew that, once started, it would work as it did—spreading like a forest fire with a gale to aid it. Nation by nation, tribe by tribe, race by race came into it; and all a neutral could do was to edge along, little stage by little stage, to some extraordinary spot that by accident was not technically involved. Practically and commercially, of course, everything and every one is involved.

I have had, naturally, a good many hairbreadth escapes. Neutrals are so few that no one considers them of the slightest importance; and I have found that if you have a passport, you are likely to be arrested as a spy. I destroyed my passport early in the game, for fear it should get me into trouble. I lived like an animal, where I could— suspecting everything and everyone, and never dreaming of depending on any habitation for more than a night.

After three months of the war, as I was “inching” along to a neutral frontier, I began to hear on the timid lips of non-combatants constant reference to a terrible regiment belonging to one of the allied groups. I will not be more definite than that. I never asked questions, but I stored away what I heard. Eventually, I learned the facts.

You must understand that I traveled as light as a hobo. I had a certain amount of money secreted about my person, but wherever it was possible, I paid in physical labor for my plate of food or my bit of cottage floor. My familiarity with the language stood me in good stead. Without it, every man’s hand would have been against me, for I was obviously not a native, and might have been, to the peasants’ inexperienced imaginations, anything.

I always put my cards on the table—not merely my own hand, you might say, but the whole pack. I made no indiscreet inquiries; I helped the people when and as I could; and I told them of myself frankly that I was trying to work my way to a neutral country. My poverty of aspect robbed me, to begin with, of any too unwelcome importance. I told them directly that I had no political sympathies, but that I loathed all slaughter and cruelty, and wanted, as my own country was not at war, to get out of the way of any army whatsoever—being (this I tried to show) meanwhile, en route, a decent person.

Often, I took the man of the house—when there was one—aside, gave my pistol to him for the night, and half stripped myself to show him I was concealing no other weapons. The knowledge of my money belt I kept to myself; though, in the morning, I gave the people a coin or two if it seemed that currency would be of any use to them.

This, roughly, was the mode of my existence for three months following the outbreak of the conflagration. If my progress towards safety and comfort (both of which can be only comparative—and temporary, even more than comparative) seems incredibly slow, I can only point out the fact that every step I took was precarious and that a snail’s pace was inevitable. I had to dodge both the invading and defending armies; all means of transportation, down to the most aged donkey, were commandeered; the fighting radius of any given corps was immensely extended by scouts; the non-combatants were suspicious of every human creature not personally known to them.

Remember that everyone except the young people had been eyewitnesses of an earlier war which was supposed to surpass in horror everything hitherto known to history. This is a grave generation, all over the world; and the particular nation in whose territory I found myself has been played with after a fashion that no one—least of all itself—can understand.

I had to make wide detours, and sometimes judged it best to skulk out of a village almost before I had taken stock of it. But a number of the peasants were unbelievably humane; and a hurried clasp of the hand in the dawn was sometimes an almost intolerable parting. At such a time, a human relation becomes historic in twenty-four hours.

It was in the village of V—— that I first heard anything definite about the mysterious regiment. The one-armed son of the blacksmith had returned from the nearest town, full of tales. I listened, not too credulous, for the tales were wild. The opposing armies, as everyone knows, are a medley of races; and one hint of the exotic will breed hideous anecdote. I was welcome that night at the little public house—I know not what else to call it. for it was scarcely an inn. The villagers gathered and drank, men and women together, a villainous local wine—moderately, in no spirit of orgy, though here and there the fantastic costume of some refugee goatherd from the hills seemed to make the scene dance before my eyes.

The gist of the report brought by the blacksmith’s son was that the 83rd regiment was in the field, and that they might look for heavier trouble than was yet upon them. Every week men were hurried off to camp from this or that village. Officials would descend to prod and poke peasants supposed exempt. Unless you had lost an arm or a leg, no chronic ailment, no guarantee of over- or under-age availed you.

Presently, there would be only women, cripples, and imbeciles left. I could vouch, myself, for the truth of that; with my own eyes I had seen the little population of non-combatants dwindle terrifically in the province. Then would come the turn of the 83rd regiment. It skulked behind the others and did its trick, apparently, after the fighting was done and towns lay waste and helpless. They were on no army list, mind you. Officially, there was no 83rd regiment; but its name was in everyone’s mouth—at least, in such mouths as dared to speak in a whisper among tried companions.

“But what do they do?” I asked— my first leading question in many weeks. “Do they massacre and plunder— jackals following their fighting brothers?”

“Some folk say they are not human at all.” This was the sulky reply of the blacksmith’s son.

The women crossed themselves, and I began to disbelieve the tale, root and branch—though I had heard of the 83rd before. Still: demons—we had not come to that.

“They pass in the night—in the night; and they speak no tongue that mortal has ever heard.” An old woman crooned this in her corner, then covered her face with her dirty, gaudy shawl.

“Demons!” The word ran like a flame round the room, and presently they were all crossing themselves and swaying back and forth in a gloomy ecstasy of terror.

“Who has seen them?” The question was asked directly of the crippled messenger by a woman with a harsh voice. I judged from the attitude of the rest that only the common danger permitted her to be of their company. But the mutter of “ Demons! demons!” drowned the sneer with which she followed up her question. Children, waking, stuck their heads out of their mothers’ shawls, and their whimpering had to be quieted before the blacksmith’s son could reply.

“The bellows-mender’s wife in W—— . She saw them and ran all night through swamps and woods to reach her own place. She had taken the journey in hope of news of her husband and son. Aie! but she came running back when she had a glimpse by moonlight of the 83rd. She is half crazed, and the other womenfolk told me. She wrings her hands and tears her coif. W—— buzzes with the tale.”

“Half crazed, indeed! Who needs demons when men can be so like them?” This from the harsh-voiced woman outcast.

The rising murmur of anger was checked by the village priest, and the woman on her three-legged stool finally fell silent.

“I don’t say they are demons,” returned the blacksmith’s son. “All that is foolishness.” He assumed a jauntier air. “But they are not like other men. They do not march like other men. Some are carried in litters.”

“Oh—oh!” There was a common protest. “Regiments do not carry their wounded on the march. And if they are demons, they cannot be wounded. You have drunk the moonlight, brother.”

“I do not know the truth. Some say they are demons, I tell you. That is foolishness. Some say they are cannibals that feast as they go. And some say they are great gray apes from Africa. But all say that it is better to be shot than to meet the 83rd after a battle. They are not as other men. Now I have no more to say.”

I have recorded this as accurately as I can, because it was the longest conversation I ever heard on the subject. After that night, I met the tale everywhere, but never with such wealth of hypothesis. The rumor of the regiment ran like wildfire about the country. It was a terror too great for telling: “the 83rd”—and then talk stopped, save perhaps for a phrase of vague and desperate fear. Speech dried on their starved lips. At first, I wondered at it; but came to the conclusion after many a chilled night in a rickety grange that they positively feared lest explicit discussion should, like an incantation, raise the object of their terrors bodily before them. There was trouble enough and to spare, without the 83rd.

Death by wounds and exposure can scarcely be so bad as this more lingering dissolution to which non-combatants are presently destined. For there is no hope in this war—none. The melting-pot we used to talk of so glibly in times of peace is seething over a planet-wide fire; all races are thrust in, and are steeping in the poisons of Africa and Asia. No man knows what will come of it—but the 83rd is trying to tell.

There is good reason why a document that must be for a long time in an inside pocket should not be too bulky, so I will not describe further the months of my flight. I was trying all the time for a certain point on the frontier of the little nation which at present is offering me such scant protection as “neutrality” affords; but I had to take a zigzag course, often actually doubling back on my tracks.

Almost everyone knows something about this war at first hand, so I will not describe the prolonged despair of existence in a stricken country. I never really got hardened to it, because there has never been a single relieved moment when one could look forward with hope. You face every horror; and there are vaster horrors behind, like a rear-guard stretching from pole to pole.

The devil has been in their counsels; and he has proved himself, once again, a medievalist. Bloodshed is healthy compared with his subtleties. Ah, why talk of the devil, when we may all, before we die, have fetish officially thrust upon us? To what future am I addressing myself? And what difference can a detail like this I have knowledge of make to a posterity that comes out of such a melting-pot? Still, I was born in the nineteenth century, and some archaic notions stick—the respect for curious documents, for example—the respect for data and for historians!

I had come to the village of Z—— on the last lap of my flight. My money was running low—going faster, in point of fact, near the frontier, since there was some hope of getting across and making purchases. I always gave money, as I said, when I thought it could help. I was determined to save some, and not be absolutely penniless when I, myself, reached a neutral state. So, for some weeks previous to actual escape, I went at a cripple’s pace. I took no doubtful short cuts and put up at no inns; I no longer sought out the biggest farm in the village, or asked for meat or beer. I crawled very close to the earth; I lived like a slug.

When I reached Z—— , I walked round the little settlement—skirted it in search of the feeblest building that could call itself a shelter. I begged some porridge, towards twilight, from a farm wench, and some rods beyond I found a building just to my purpose—a tumble-down grange, all chinks and falling rubble, which was evidently wholly disused. It was essential that I should be alone, that my presence should be unsuspected.

The tide of actual conflict was rolling towards the confines of the little state, and suspicion rode on the spray of the bloody waves. Only in the dusk should I have dared to beg my porridge, trusting to the mere whisper of familiar words; for though I was browned and dirty and limping, my features were not of the country and would have belied my accent. All day I had heard cannonading, as I crept from covert to covert and rock to rock. Perhaps, I thought, as I huddled under the densest bit of thatch I could find, I should not reach neutrality, after all—should roll over in an ignominious heap on the bristling verge of safety.

I cannot say how long I slept—for sleep I did: a dogged sleep of the body which the mind was powerless to prevent. When I woke, the moon-rays were falling crazily through the jagged holes in the roof, making little idiotic pools of light on the floor. The atmosphere was thick with sound.

At first, I could distinguish nothing, though I knew physically, from head to foot, that the noise was sinister. Then something woke me out of my doze—a shadowy stirring in the opposite corner of my den. That was near, was concrete, was imminent; and I got my pistol into position. It was not a soldier, I felt sure; one soldier would scarcely be hiding in such a place. I whispered a sharp query in the native tongue; and, very slowly, the dark huddle shaped itself into a woman’s form. Well—I was not yet afraid of a woman; and I put the pistol into my pocket, though I kept my hand on it.

As she came out into one of the rays of light, I saw that she was a mere peasant girl, barefoot, in ragged clothes, her terrified mind as ragged as her garb. We looked each other over in silence; and presently, to judge from the evidence of her features, her wits began to reassemble themselves. I ventured to question her. How could we two miserable creatures be foes?

“What is it?” There was no need of being more definite than that. The thick, disturbed volume of sound outside called for explanation; if you could have heard it from Mars, you would have known it stood for danger. Yet it was a mere faint thrumming on the strings of peril—no explosions, no sharp reports, no shouting. The elements of noise were soft and stealthy—gentle thuddings on the worn earth, faint creakings, hoarse whispers, as it were, a death-rattle filling the whole atmosphere.

I cannot describe it, but it made shrapnel seem healthy—something to which a man would bare his breast gladly. This sounded rather like the nether slime of danger. The very fear it caused was unhealthy—a crooked trail of paralysis through the nerve paths. My hand was steady, but my legs shook beneath me; my blood was warm, but things mopped and mowed in my brain. As yet, I had not stirred to look; but, as if my ears had not told me enough, my nostrils began to detect a faint, sickening smell. It was as if the dead had risen out of their trenches, with a little clatter of corrupted bones and weak motions of decomposing flesh. A terror that you could hear and smell, but as yet nameless and invisible.

“What is it?” I repeated my raucous whisper.

“The Eighty-Third!” The girl gasped it out, then keeled over on the floor.

A sane little current of curiosity began to wind through my veins. If this was the 83rd, I would behold it. I stepped over the girl’s body, touching her slightly in the movement. She had fainted, apparently, and it was safer so.

I went to the slit of a window. Luckily, the overhanging thatch kept my face in the shadow; I was safe from the 83rd until they began to search. I looked in silence, guarding my very breath. It was not a time to bear witness to one’s own existence.

I do not know how long I crouched there, watching. For crouch I did; mere leaning against the wall would not have sufficed. I needed support from every direction; my hands as well as my feet demanded the close proximity of something solid. I could not count on any inward strength to hold myself upright, could not count on muscles to do their duty at any distance from a firm basis.

Can I ever describe, for cold information to those who may read this document, what I became aware of during the next quarter of an hour? I say “ became aware of” advisedly; for though now, in the half-obscurity, I saw, the facts seemed at first to beat even more heavily on other senses than that of vision.

Sight, at all events, did not utterly replace sound and smell, even though I was all a-stare in my shadowed recess. And it cannot have been for more than a quarter of an hour that I looked. As soon as I understood, I dropped back into my ruinous shelter and let the 83rd go on without my witness. Yes, it must have taken me just about that time to get through my head the quis and qualis of the 83rd.

And, after all, all I have to do is to set down those unassailable facts. I have only to announce, in one careful sentence, the particular business of the 83rd. Yet the necessary few firm words seem to rot and drop away under my pen, Moreover, since mine is evidence that must tip the scales against a monumental incredibility, perhaps I had best be chronological—so far as I can. I will be brief—I must be.

Shreds of the talk already recorded came back to me in the first moments. “They pass in the night—in the night; they speak no tongue that mortal has ever heard; they do not march like other men; some are carried in litters; some say they are great gray apes from Africa. . . .” I remembered, and I bore witness. They did not march like other men; the litters were there. . . .

The few males of the depopulated village must have been shot or otherwise disposed of when the regiment first entered. From beginning to end, I saw, of the village inhabitants, only women; yet, from beginning to end, I did not hear one scream. The horror that denied to me the comforting heat of anger and left me shivering must have stifled their voices in their throats.

Sheer loss of sense and wits, I hope, came to the victims; but if madness blessed them, it was a dumb madness. At least, near though I was in my low-pitched upper chamber, I heard no voice rise above the hoarse mutter of the soldiers. Soldiers! Well, any human creature that goes out to destroy an enemy may be called a soldier. And, worst of all, there were men there who looked like other men—a few Europeans in uniform to command that monstrous company.

Though the purpose of the invaders soon became tragically clear to me— women only were the picked and chosen prey, and, even with shut eyes, I should have known—I still marveled a little.

This was no orgy of inflamed soldiery. The 83rd shuffled and shambled about its business, under orders from its few commanders. They burned no cottages; I saw no attempt to loot even food or drink.

The very stillness of the scene made it more devilish; here was no spontaneous glutting of appetite—bestial, but natural, like all bestial things. In some human brain all this had been coldly conceived, and by human beings it was being coldly carried out. I saw a misshapen man drag a girl across the road; they disappeared among the tall rows of the standing wheat. Even then, I had not the key of the enigma.

Only when I saw a man in uniform light a match and look at his watch, then make a signal, did understanding begin to come. At his gesture, the litters were flung down, and things rose out of them. I thought I was going mad; that I was not really seeing what I thought I saw—the ghosts of misbegotten creatures in a macabre group, proceeding with motions unspeakably grotesque and vile to a sinister Sabbath. I could not believe it; the one illuminating word did not come to focus my bewilderment. I saw women disappearing by handfuls in the midst of loathsome groups—parodies of the human body that had been garbed in a nightmare. And, still, the word did not come.

Then, from a little close beneath my shadowed window, a figure—legless, armless—became evident to me. The moon, by a special act of grace, showed me the face clear—white as ice, with a fixed, mutilated grin; apishly conceived and wrought in some stuff not like flesh. Yet, in that all but decomposing medium, something stood for envy. . . . The word had come. I knew; and I fell back, crouched on guard over the fainting woman beside me. That I could, at need, kill her where she lay, was the one hint of God in the universe.

Half stupefied, I stayed there beside her for I do not know how long. I nursed my pistol with loving slyness, and watched her face, on which one ray of moonlight fell through the gaping thatch. This heavy-featured farm wench seemed to me the purest thing in the world. Why? Because, I suppose, I had a cartridge there for her; because it was absolutely in my power to preserve her as she was.

She might have been maid, wife or widow; she was absolutely saved from the 83rd. They might suspect the ruin in which we were lying hid, might search it, but I could reach her first. I was so close to her that I touched her; my hand would have to move only a few inches to reach a vital spot. Whatever happened, it would have time to make that journey. She seemed to me sacred, as I bent over her; she was like a miraculous image of Diana saved from the sack of a town. If she had been steeped in all unclean-ness before she took shelter in that disrupted pile of thatch and rubble, she would still, now, by contrast to what she might have been, appear the purest of the pure. For one forgot latitude and longitude; this village seemed the world—no less; and she, of all living women, was spared the horror of that night. Would not her coarse comeliness become a legend, and she the saint of a hew cult?

I set down these wanderings of my thought to show that it was in the power of the 83rd to divorce a man from reason. I knew, of course, that at any moment they might think it worthwhile to enter, to climb up the worm-eaten ladder and make a few bayonet passes in the dark. But I had no sense of danger; death was no peril to face, and from the things that really looked like peril, I had the means to deliver us both.

They could not take from me the freedom of my right hand—they would not have time. I was glad of that swoon, prolonging itself beside me. If she had come out of it to babble, I should have had to shoot at once. I felt a childish eagerness in having her preserved. I was all given over to my myth. If I had been a woman, I should have gone mad there in the checkered obscurity; mere consciousness of my sex saved me to this temporary light-headedness. And the possession of a pistol in working order seemed a miracle; I recognized in it the interposing finger of Jehovah. I remember once wondering dizzily why I was chosen, as minor prophets must have wondered why they were rapt from their herds and tribes-fellows.

Gradually, as the moon set and the night wore on, the 83rd girded up its smitten loins for departure. It was true, they passed “in the night—in the night”; and no man knew what or whence they were. No man save me; and still, after these harrowed weeks, I bear about me the sense of a peculiar destiny, in that I have it in my power to give this testimony.

My giddiness began and passed with that hour, and though I left my shelter before dawn and made my way westward, what I saw and heard, even as I fled from it—writhing shapes of women and guttural moans and stricken whispers from cottage windows—confirmed what my steady gaze from under the deep eaves had earlier told me. Hatred, with other normal powers, came back to me then; I developed at least a feeble, white man’s hatred of my own with which to meet inadequately the hatred that had taken shape and action before my eyes that night.

For, in the idea that created the 83rd, there was nothing so decent, because nothing so spontaneous, as lust of blood or lust of the flesh. Probably, the plan was never committed to writing or to formal speech; but the black hint must have sped southward, eastward, through a hundred minds, before the 83rd could be recruited—creatures that were polluted to the marrow in rare and horrible ways; gathered from sun-infested lands and brought overseas to furnish the last argument of hate.

This was the plan: that those who did not go the clean, cruel way of death should be defiled past hope. The fountain of life should be fouled. No surviving enemy should rear fighting men and clean women. The 83rd would take away all hope—even the winded, rickety hopes that look timidly forward to a future some ages off. The conquerors would not even mate with their victims. The rebellious seed should die utterly, and it should not have even a mongrel’s claim to a pedigree. Atavism should not have a chance with sports and mutations. . . .

The victors would then people the world from the yellow, the black, and the brown; from tradition-less creatures of whom they could be sure because they were stuff of their own souls. Did those who slew so gallantly in our youth, with shibboleths upon their lips, think of this—a war without shibboleths, where no man calls even blasphemously upon the name of God, though, here and there, a turban may be knotted in orthodox folds, or a juju be tucked away in a loin-cloth?

No man fights now for “democracy” or any other windy word; white or black, he fights only for his personal right to live. Peace and poverty, twin-born of our last war, have brought us to this one almost unarmed; and what can the little ammunition we have garnered do against the spawn of a whole hemisphere?

Moreover, the flower of the Western world went then, and there has scarce been time for a second blooming. It seems hard to believe that there were ever mild creatures like Crusaders or Jacobites on our planet. For the end is not yet; and though a few countries are allowed still to play at neutrality like children, their toy will be taken from them whenever the strong men think it time.

The East has grimaced in front of the Western mirror until it has learned the little it wants of us. But now it is all too clear that, with whichever of the polyglot alliances the white man fights, his preservation is not really desired. Small chance of this ever getting to the light! So why waste words?

I left the girl on the floor of the grange that had sheltered us both. She had recovered from unconsciousness only to pant thickly and, when I bade her be quiet, to fall asleep. Comparative stillness shrouded the village during those few moments when she breathed so hard and muttered her questions. She could well believe that I told her—as I did—the truth in saying that the 83rd had gone. Some deep, bewildered exhaustion claimed her, for she asked no questions about what had happened while she lay there.

I left her, as I say. It was the only thing I could do. She was safe from the pestilence that had walked in the darkness. Her life had at least been touched by a miracle; she would have to face the horror of waking as best she could. My exalted mood had passed with the passing of the stench and sound—all that faint and filthy clamor—and I no longer idealized her. I was simply very pityingly glad that to one human being something had been spared.

I preserved, in my flight, no illusions about her. I was bent doggedly on my own salvation, for the situation was such that I could not hope to save others. Perhaps I was deceived as to the value of my own life; but I struggled for it because it seemed to me that my knowledge gave me some worth. Otherwise, I grant you, it would have been more decent not to save a single cartridge.

The story of my progress to the place where I now am does not much matter. The 83rd—or that detachment of it which I had seen—was very near the border; and I had not far to go. Yet, it was a hard and haunted path that I took, for I knew this enemy would take cover in the daytime, and the deep reaches of woods which I had hitherto counted most friendly were likely to hold a poisonous encampment.

I steered in the open by the distant sound of cannonading, veering hither and yon like an irresponsible breeze. In two days, I was clear of any possible route of theirs. They are not fighters, the 83rd; they are not (what is the old phrase we used to utter with perfect seriousness?) medically fit. That is it—they are not medically fit. Led by a few competents, they skulk in the safe desolation created for them by the fighting men. Even if one were given to irony, one could scarcely recommend the Red Cross to follow in the wake of the 83rd. Besides, the Red Cross is said to have died an early death in this war. The bulk of the combatants do not understand conventions, and the notion of immunity has never got inside their skulls.

Here, this afternoon, as I write, I am glad of only one thing—that I can still feel a good, old-fashioned anger with a spice of chivalry in it. We have all been unutterably foolish, I think—though I speak only as a survivor—in the generations immediately past. We praised peace; then we leaped to the sword. War depleted and enfeebled us, then turned us callous to its own horrors. We had not the strength either to be ruthless or effectually to loathe ruthlessness. With our love of little states and our distrust of big ones, we drew, ourselves, the few remaining teeth we had.

The half of the world that had not mulcted itself of its youth saw its chance. They have no need of justifying formulas; the loose and convenient solidarity of hate serves their turn. For the white men who are fighting, on this side and on that, mark my words, are negligible. They are to be used and flung aside. The strong and secret bond is among all those who are not white.

I think perhaps, in the beginning, the missionaries were to blame—or, rather, the nations back of them, who would not live up to the professions of their emissaries. In giving the lower races license, by our example, to fight, we did not inevitably impose upon them our rules of warfare. As might be expected, they took the fact and let the method go. And the cure for war is not more war. Animals all! And tooth and claw will have their way at the last.

Britons—and others—never would be slaves, I remember. Well, you cannot tame a zebra, I believe. His individuality resists all hints. But you can kill him. Kill! Kill! . . . We let ourselves in for it, and, so far as I can see, we are to be thrust back to the spawning chaos of pre-Promethian myth. How far away they sound—those tinkling, sweet philosophies!

I have finished. I should never have permitted myself these musings, for I have never been what in my time was called a thinking man. I lack the learning a publicist needs. But so definitely do I feel myself on the dizzy verge—and alone on that verge—of all that we used glibly to call “life,” that there is a kind of solemnity even in seeing my pen trace the familiar characters on the page.

Any cry out of the old time is justified, though the ghosts of our ancestors writhe in disapprobation. Had I had more hope of this document’s surviving, it should have held it (if possible) to a colder tone; to the unmalleable idiom of the perfect testimony. As it is, it is—almost—only for Heaven that I write.

But I swear before that invisible witness that, so far as lay in my verbal power, I have spoken sheer truth. And it is not fitting that a man who has seen the 83rd should perish in silence. My pessimism may be unjustified, and then my facts will serve a purpose; whereas, if I am right in my saddest conjectures, it will not matter—nothing on this planet will matter again, for an age or two.

(from Harper’s Monthly Magazine, February 1916)

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smittenwithlouis · 6 years

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Hello! i was just wondering, if you have any snippets of your upcoming tarzan fics? :D

Yes I do! I know its taken me so long to write this fic but hopefully this makes you somewhat excited for it? 🍌🐒🌴🦍🌳

(Please note this hasn’t been beta’d and there might be some grammatical and spelling errors).

Another night was spent with barely any sleep and it’s beginning to take its toll on Louis’ body and mind. He’s been on his own for about five days and his morale is swiftly dwindling. Louis knows he can’t go on another day like this or he will surely go insane. He’s thankful that he has Chip by his side but he needs to feel safe and get actual food in his system.

After a very heated internal debate, he decides to keep walking up the river in hopes that by the grace of God, he finds any clue as to where the hell he is. Chip spends his time clinging on to Louis’ back. He tried to play with Louis earlier in the day but Louis just wasn’t up for it all that much. After all, he’s better off saving his energy foraging for food than playing with a baby chimp.

He did take some pictures of Chip and wrote down his observations from last night. The whole sleeping on the ground thing really threw him for a small loop when he actually thought about it. Alas, he still hasn’t seen any sign of any troop of chimps and thankfully no signs of Bili apes as well.

It’s passed midday when Louis notices the tracks. They’re from a big cat and by the number of them, this is his territory. Louis’ brain tries to think of the quickest way out of the area but it seems like it’s either through the river or through the territory. Louis’ sure he’s seconds away from another mental breakdown.

He’s scared, hungry, tired, and a surrogate mother to a baby chimp. He’s way out of his league with this and all because he was stupid enough to go exploring on his own. Even after Bebe and professor Aoki told him not to. It’s honestly what he deserves.

Louis tries to keep on high alert even if his senses and motor skills are at an all time low. Chip stays relatively quiet as Louis makes his way through the heavy bushes and tries his hardest not to trip with every step.

Louis’ anxiety is quickly building as his eyes move rapidly from left to right. He makes sure to also look up into the trees, jungle cats are known for hiding there, sneak attacking their prey. He tries to keep in my mind that all these animals have zero exposure to humans and he’s not sure how they are going to react. He’s about to take a left when he sees it up on a tree.

Louis knows leopards are nocturnal and spend most of their daytime napping. So it’s no surprise when he sees it doing just that. Louis’ heart starts beating fast as he tries to slowly back away. The leopard must be in deep sleep because it hasn’t taken notice of Louis in the slightest.

He’s so slow in moving, petrified that his heart might rip out of his chest and wake up the leopard any second. Louis is sure he can take a couple more steps back before he makes a run for it. He takes two more retreating steps before every logical thought flies out the window.

Louis’ heartbeat was deafening to his ears. He didn’t hear any noise but his rabbiting heart rate. He did however, see the leopard snap his head in his direction, growling in defense. Thats when all his senses take in his surroundings and the very source of his soon to be downfall; Chip.

Chip is shrieking and oo-ing, jumping on Louis’ shoulders and honestly if Louis didn’t have a heart, he would throttle him in that split second. All Louis sees is the Leopard leap out of his tree when Louis’ survival instinct kicks in.

Mid turn, he grabs Chip from his back and brings him against his chest. He can hear the ferocious growls of the leopard as it takes chase. He feels it, feels the heavy weight of the huge spotted cat barreling against him. Louis falls down so hard the breath is knocked right out of him.

His only thought at that moment is to save Chip. Rebellious and sweet Chip, who has only known danger and terror since before he crossed paths with Louis. He knows the leopard is going to go for his neck so he tries to keep Chip cocooned and away from his sharp teeth or claws.

It only lasts seconds though, because the heavy weight of the cat is gone as soon as it was on. Louis’ head feels fuzzy but his body is filled with adrenaline and its telling him to runrunrun. That thought is quickly interrupted when Chip wiggles from underneath him and starts shrieking his little lungs out. He moves jerkily behind Louis, straight to the jaws of danger and that’s enough to snaps Louis right out of his frozen state. He turns around ready to grab the stupid chimp and run before he gets them both killed. However, the sight before him leaves him completely dumbfounded. Louis doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or admit he’s definitely lost his marbles.

Theres a man, a naked man growling and beating his chest in front of the leopard. The leopard is menacingly staring at the man and his eyes lock on Chip and Louis. Louis’ heart plummets to the ground when the big cat launches for them yet again. Louis lets out a blood curling scream as he falls backwards onto his ass. Chip immediately runs behind Louis with a whimpering sound but the cat doesn’t get anywhere near them. The naked man immediately intercepts the cat and knocks it into the ground.

Louis is so fucking positive he’s actually dead and this is his brain making up some fantasy story about a hot and sweaty, naked man coming to his rescue, because there’s just no fucking way this is actually happening anywhere besides his perverted mind.

His imagination sure is something though.

Louis is stunned as his eyes continue to take in the brutal scene in front of him. He keeps his eyes trailed on the behemoth of a man as he crouches down on all fours and charges towards the leopard yet again, with no ounce of fear in any of his movements.

The cat leaps backwards and growls in warning as the man rises to his full height and pounds on his chest again, accompanied with a menacing growl of his own.

Somehow, some way, the leopard starts backing away immediately. Louis knows most leopards try to avoid humans, rather feasting on primates and small game than fully sized people. Clearly, this one thought Louis would be an easy enough kill but definitely deemed hot naked jungle man superior, not thinking another second before retreating.

Only when the leopard is out of sight does the man fully turn towards them. Before anything can happen though Chip shrieks and oo’s as he leaps from Louis’ back and half runs and crawls towards the man.

Louis’ doesn’t know what to think. He’s stunned, out of breath, and most likely dead but his primatologist mind immediately recognizes the sounds. The love gargles as he likes to call them. It’s a specific low throaty sounds apes make when they meet or greet a family or troop member.

It all makes sense now, why it didn’t take Chip too long to accept Louis. The man and Chip are very well acquainted, Chip is hanging onto the man’s neck as he oo’s and kisses him all over. The man grunting and nuzzling Chip’s fur in return.

It’s a rather endearing sight but Louis needs to get the fuck out of here. Dead or not, he needs to find his camp or peers and leave this nightmare behind. He slowly starts shuffling backwards, cringing when there’s twigs snapping underneath his bum. He places his hands behind to try to push him along faster, slowly lifting his ass off the ground and using his legs to crawl backwards.

Deeming that method useless, he rises to his feet painstakingly slow, holding his breath until he’s completely upright, managing to move undetected until a rather big snap comes from underneath his boot. Louis cringes and closes his eyes tight, not needing to look, to know the naked man zeroed in all his attention towards him.

Xx.

#this is probably SHIT #but I hope its somewhat enjoyable #rip #and it's just one fic #not multiple lol #anon #mydrabbles

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bonkaisecretsanta · 6 years

Text

Dream a Little Dream

Happy holidays @sc0rpi0karma from @aint-no-baby-momma-drama!

The first time that Malachai Parker had appeared in Bonnie's dreams, she brushed it off as a fluke. Rationalized that it was just a dream brought on by something she must have seen that reminded her subconscious of him. The second time she told herself it was the weather. Convinced herself that the changing of seasons must have been messing with her head. By the third time she was pretty sure she was losing her mind.

And that's how the months from August to November went, at least three nights a week she would dream of the dark haired monster she had locked up many years ago. The dreams had ranged from simple conversations (in which she couldn't actually bring herself to be mean to him because it was a dream, right?) to deeper dreams, where he had her pressed against the mattress, skin on skin, making her wish it was real. Those ones are the dreams that bothered her the most, where she woke up drenched in sweat and unable to go back to sleep.

Caroline was the first one she told. It was over their bi weekly breakfast date on a brisk November morning. Bonnie sat in the familiar diner, holding her cup of coffee and watching out the window as Caroline talked about something at her work that Bonnie really was trying to listen to.

"I've been having dreams about Kai," she blurted out, interrupting. Caroline stopped her sentence and just looked at Bonnie with a blank face.

"Kai? Like psychopathic 'murdered his family' Kai?" She asked, sliding her plate to the side of the table so she could lean in closer. Bonnie nodded her head and licked her lips, setting her cup down on the table and looking out the window, watching the sky try to spit out snow.

"The one and only. It's been going on for a few months now and I'm actually to the point of losing my mind. At first it was annoying but... now it's just starting to scare me." She confessed, shifting a bit in her seat and thinking back to the dreams. They came in no specific pattern and always left Bonnie feeling confused and very upset with herself for not wanting to wake up.

"They scare you how?" Caroline asked, resting her chin in her hands, intrigued. Bonnie just shook her head and pulled on a face that told Caroline her best friend was about to brush off everything she was going to say.

"Seriously just tell me, Bon. I knew you've been weird lately. What's going on?" she asked, reaching across the table and resting her hand on Bonnie’s. Bonnie sighed again and looked down at Caroline's hand before opening her mouth to speak.

"Okay, this is going to sound crazy and please don't make any judgmental comments. But...the dreams make me wish he was here. I...I don't know, Care...they started so simple. He would appear in my dreams and I made snide comments until he left, but then they started changing. He would show up with flowers and we would have dinner. Or just talking, sitting outside and watching the stars." She shook her head and pulled her hands to her face, groaning. "I really don't understand it. He's a bad, awful, terrible person and I put him in the prison world to trap his evil ass but...I just...I wake up and find myself wanting to try to visit him," she said, moving her hands from her face and grabbing her piece of toast. Caroline watched her best friend a few moments, running through everything in her mind before speaking.

"Well, if it is actually him reaching out to you and not just some stress induced stuff, have you considered that it could be a trap?" she asked, leaning back in the booth.

Bonnie thought a moment before nodding her head slowly. Truthfully she had considered it many times, just as she'd considered she was actually losing her mind. But in the dreams, he was so genuine and constant.

"I've thought of that, considering I am the only one that can get him out of there. He's just different in dreams, sweeter. He makes me feel good, and listens to me. And oh my god he..." She shut her mouth immediately, realizing she was about to share a bit too much information. Luckily, Caroline got the gist and didn't push for the sentence to be finished.

"Well...isn't it possible to project yourself there? So he can't see you but you can just see him? Maybe look around and see what type of nefarious things he's up to?” Caroline asked. Bonnie nodded her head for the millionth time that morning and leaned back in her seat before shaking her head.

"You know what, no. It's silly and definitely just dreams. I'm sure of it. Let's just drop the subject," she said, waving her hand over the food she had been neglecting. The conversation moved to every day topics but Bonnie couldn't stop picturing the kinda cute psychopath with dark brown hair and blue-gray eyes that had been filling her dreams.

***

The week after Bonnie had told Caroline about the dreams, they stopped. Which Bonnie was totally fine with, she was sure they were all in her subconscious anyways. And she reminded herself each morning when she woke that a fake relationship with Kai wasn't healthy and it's fine that the dreams stopped.

But still as she went through her day or passed a package of pork rinds at the gas station she couldn't help but miss him and their conversations. He was kind to her, and it had taken her a month before she actually decided to play along in the dreams and since then it had just been a nice escape from normal life. A reliable out, if you will.

After the second week passed with no contact from dream Kai, she started to feel more and more on edge. Her sleep patterns were so messed up that when she got off early and headed home on a Tuesday, she didn't stop herself from going to bed at 5 pm because she finally felt tired.

***

When Bonnie opened her eyes she was still laying sprawled across her bed on her stomach, the darkness of the room told her a few hours had definitely passed and she was grateful for the sleep. She rolled to her back and rubbed her hands across her face before finally sitting up and yawning.

"Thank god, I was starting to get bored waiting for you to wake up" A voice spoke from the corner. In her sleepy haze, she moved quickly to turn the lamp by her bed on. Once the light illuminated the room she stood, surprised to see Kai standing in front of a chair in the corner. A pressure came off of her shoulders and she moved quickly across the room, throwing her arms around him.

"Bonnie," he greeted her, hugging her back, putting a hand on the back of her head to hold her closer.

"You're back," she said, almost feeling like crying as she held him close. "I thought you were gone." She pulled back. She knew she was dreaming but she wasn't sure that she cared. She didn't realize how much she missed him until he was gone. Which sounded pathetic in her head, that she was clinging to a figment of her imagination but honestly she needed the escape. Kai held her a few more moments before pulling back.

"No, I'm still here for now." He responded, holding her at arms length. "I didn't mean to disappear, I just needed to build up the energy. It's getting harder and harder to visit you." He said. Bonnie furrowed her eyebrows and pulled back from him.

"What do you mean?" She asked. "Not this again, you aren't actually visiting me, you're a figment of my subconscious." Kai sighed a bit. This was a debate they had each time he visited her, whether it was actually him or her mind. She was too stubborn to be convinced otherwise and after awhile he gave up. But this time he couldn't, it was too important.

"So I would really just like to enjoy this time with you because if we are being honest I have missed you the past few weeks...You've grown on me. It's been 4 months, so I should probably find a therapist to talk to about this," she joked and Kai just shook his head and let go of her.

"Bonnie I know that you've never believed me before but I am really visiting you. Something has been happening in the prison world in the past few weeks..." Kai began to pace in front of her. "I don't know exactly what’s going on but things are happening. The weather is everywhere, like 4 seasons in one day everywhere. And things aren't replenishing like they should, I wake up in the morning and the paper isn't on the doorstep anymore, the food I have eaten the day before doesn't come back. The blood bags I take from the hospital are dwindling now because they aren't coming back. And look."

He stopped pacing and turned to face her, lifting his shirt up, revealing a large gash across his side. "I don't heal anymore. I mean I know I can't die from an open wound, I need a stab to the heart but...things are changing and honestly...I.." He paused to shake his head before continuing. "I'm scared," he finished.

Bonnie smiled softly and reached up to touch his face. He took a step back. "Bonnie please, I am real. I need you to get me out of this place. I may not be able to come visit you again, I tell you every time that I'm real but this time I need you to believe me. Things are scary..." he said, gently grabbing her arms so she couldn't touch him. Bonnie frowned a bit, just watching his face. She was conflicted because if she believed him, that would mean that she had pretty much been in a real relationship with him. If she chose to continue thinking it was a dream, at least she could tell herself it was a dream and she hadn't grown feelings for a monster. Kai let go of her and tensed in place, moving his hand to his lower stomach quickly.

"Kai, what’s going on?" she asked, but as soon as the words left her mouth, blood began to seep through his shirt where the gash on his side was.

"Oh my god." She looked around before quickly grabbing a shirt off her floor and pressing it against the wound. "Dammit Kai, help me...just hold pressure to that," she instructed as his blood covered the wadded up shirt and her hands.

Soon the floors began to shake. Kai looked at her, gently putting his hands over hers a moment and moving the shirt before moving his hands up and touching her face softly, a frantic look filling his face as he still managed to be gentle to her. He started fading out of sight, slowly disappearing.

"It can't be stopped. I’m not going to be able to stay. Something’s happening. Bonnie you have to get me out of here, please. I've changed...Please don't let me die. I lo-" Before he could finish speaking, he was gone.

Bonnie sat up quickly in the bed, heart racing and breath coming in fast. She stayed a few moments, trying to regain her composure before standing up and making her way to the bathroom. But as she crossed the room, nearing the door to the hallway, the carpet squished beneath her bare feet. Bonnie curled her nose up as she reached forward, trying to find the light switch. When she finally found it and turned the light on, her heart nearly stopped. Right by the door, pooled in the plush white carpet was a deep red liquid and Bonnie’s mind flashed back to her dream, with them both standing in the side of the room and his gash opening up. She immediately lifted her hands up in front of her, looking at the almost dried blood that covered her fingers. Her emotions immediately began to overwhelm her and she rushed out of the bedroom and to the bathroom, turning the water on and scrubbing at her hands as the tears began to fall. No way was this happening to her.

Caroline woke to the sound of her phone ringing from the stand by the bed. She grumbled and sat up a bit, grabbing it and sliding the green button to answer. Before she could actually say anything, her best friend’s voice came through the receiver in a rush of sobs, the sound making Caroline sit straight up in the bed.

"Bonnie? What's going on?" she asked, swinging her legs out of the bed and sitting at the edge. Her friend continued to cry and blabber nonsense. Caroline glanced at the alarm clock to her right that read 2:04 am. She knew right away something wasn't right and stood, beginning to pace through the room as she talked her friend into a slightly calmer state, at least until she could understand her.

When Bonnie finally calmed down enough to at least be understood, she asked Caroline to come over. And that's how Caroline found herself sitting in Bonnie's kitchen at 3 am, holding a cup of coffee in her hands and listening to her best friend recall the events of the past few hours. She had already been back to Bonnie’s bedroom and seen the mush of blood and carpet, as well as the bloody footprints across where Bonnie had stepped through it all. And now she was trying her hardest to be supportive as Bonnie struggled with trying to piece everything together.

Bonnie couldn't decide what to do, she could probably work up enough magic to get herself there as a projection, but she wouldn't be able to bring him back. And for that matter, should she even bring him back? He was a monster, but he hadn't been to her, he genuinely had been different in her dreams. He was sweet, and funny. He was patient and stubborn the first month when she refused to speak to him and was rude, and then she started warming up and things got serious. She didn't think it was real. And now that it was, she found herself remembering all of the bad things he had done and why she had locked him up in the first place.

"Are you sure that he isn't just doing all of this to get out because something’s happening over there? He's smart." Caroline said, leaning back in her chair. Bonnie nodded.

"Yeah but...it’s been almost four full months since the dreams started, and this stuff just started happening a few weeks ago. I don't think he's trying to use me. I think something is seriously wrong over there," she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I think I just need to go over there and check on things. The only thing is I just don't know what to do after I get there. What if he isn't lying and the world is falling apart? Do I bring him back? So he can just kill everyone again?" Bonnie closed her eyes and thought back to the horrors that came from the man that was Kai Parker, the countless times he had tried to kill her, or people she loved. Bonnie groaned and felt herself getting irritated. "Why is this so hard?" she asked, slamming her palm into the table as she stood up.

Caroline reached out and grabbed her hand, drawing Bonnie’s attention to her. "Sit," she said gently. Bonnie complied and plopped back in the chair, dropping her head in her hands.

"I think I know your problem, and you can't get mad when I tell you. But I think that you know the right answer and you're just afraid of admitting the truth to yourself," Caroline said, waiting until Bonnie looked up and made eye contact before continuing. "I think that the only thing stopping you from going this second to try something is that you're afraid you actually have real feelings for him." she finished, speaking honestly.

Bonnie rolled her eyes but didn't respond.

"You know it's okay, if you do have feelings for him, I mean. No one is going to think differently of you and I don't think you should judge him by his past. I mean, yeah he killed so many people, tried to kill you a few times, but that sounds eerily similar to someone I know very, very well." She paused, a moment, thinking back and Bonnie knew she was talking about Klaus.

"You've never felt the attraction that comes when someone who's capable of doing terrible things, for some reason only cares about you?" Caroline quoted.

Bonnie just sighed. The more she thought about the situation, the more she chided herself for even thinking for a second about not going. If he was actually real, which at this point she couldn't bring herself to pretend it was possible that it was in her head, then that means all of their moments had been real, or at least as real as it could be. Everything he had told her, all the promises he had whispered in her ear, she couldn’t believe that they were all fake. She had to believe that for the first time in forever, someone actually wanted her and thought she was special.

“No, I’m going,” she decided, pushing to her feet off the chair and making her way down the hall to her room, she quickly maneuvered around the nearly dried spots of blood, gathering the few things that she needed before moving back out to the living room and squatting down, clearing the books off of surface before spreading out the shirt from the floor with Kai’s blood on it, which she hoped would make the spell stronger. With him being the Gemini Coven Leader, it would maybe let her actually make some kind of contact with him.

“If anything weird happens, blow the candles out, it’ll bring me back,” she told Caroline before looking away and pricking her finger, dropping a few drops of blood onto the pieces of the ascendant she had left and tucked away. “Right now I just need to go and see if he’s there, or…real. I don’t know.” She lit a few candles and shook her arms out, relaxing her nerves and focusing before leaning back against the couch and beginning to speak. “Phasmatos Tribum, Invocia Cavea, Misero Mundi. Phasmatos Tribum, Invocia Cavea, Misero Mundi. Phasmatos Tribum Incoc…”

A breeze blew through and Bonnie opened her eyes, somewhere different. She was in her living room still, but it was her living room from years ago, an exact replica of what it looked like the day she banished Kai there. It had been nearing Caroline’s wedding day and Bonnies living room was a wreck from hosting the bachelorette party there the night before. She pushed to her feet and walked around the couch and heading towards the window, pausing for a brief moment to pull the curtains back and glance outside. There was snow falling and it looked to be about midday, which was odd because the prison world should have been following the real world’s times. She let the curtain close and turned, moving quickly through the house, finding empty blood bags throughout the kitchen and a trail of blood leading back to her bedroom. She moved quickly down the hallway, walking through the open door and swallowing hard at the sight in front of her. Kai sat on her bed, back up against her headboard, still wearing bloody clothes.

“You are real,” she said softly, not expecting his head to whip up in her direction as she spoke. He sat up straight on the bed.

“Bonnie?” he asked, eyes wandering around the area she was standing, which told her that he couldn’t see her, but he could hear her. She moved closer to the bed.

“I’m here, you’re real. You weren’t lying,” she repeated, Kai just shut his eyes and rested his head back against the headboard, letting a chuckle out.

“I actually tell the truth a lot, you’d be surprised. It’s so great to hear your voice,” he said before sitting up quickly. “Are you coming to get me?” he asked, looking around again. Bonnie stood by the bed, biting her bottom lip. The silence filled the room and she watched Kai’s shoulders sag down as he registered what her silence meant. “I get it, Bon..” He shut his eyes and stood carefully, so he didn’t bust the gash open again.

“Kai…” She started, moving so she was standing in front of him. “Do you at least understand my hesitation?” she asked, looking up at him and wishing he could see her. “I mean…I thought it was fake. So my mind is rushing to try to catch up with…” She swallowed hard. “You know…” She finished her sentence and reached up, gently touching his face. He shut his eyes as her finger brushed his cheek, feeling a light contact for a brief moment, enough to know she was touching him.

“Actually I don’t know, Bonnie. I don’t understand, I mean, no, I do understand,” he started, moving back towards the bed and gently sitting down, resting his hand against the bloody stain on his shirt and Bonnie found herself so badly wanting to check the wound. “I’m terrible, bad, and completely unworthy of you. I know that. But…” Kai paused, sighing and running a hand through his hair before leaning forward and resting his face in his hands. “But everything was true, every touch, every kiss, everything I said. I don’t even know how I started visiting you, Bonnie. It just happened, and you stayed true to form, annoyed by me. But then things changed, and it made my days here a little less lonely…I started looking forward to the dark nights, knowing I might be able to somehow see you again. And you started changing, it seemed like you were happy to see me and I just started going with it. And then a few months passed and now things are happening here, bad things, the weather is different daily, sometimes it's dark for a few days straight. There’s random earthquakes and I don’t know how much longer I have before this place fully falls apart and I’m gone,” he said, voice cracking a bit towards the end as he kept his hands on his face, eyes shut. “Bonnie I’m actually scared.. I don’t want to die,” he said, Bonnie stepped closer to him, squatting a bit so she was in front of his face. She stayed quiet, watching the shake of his hands pressed to his face and the wetness that appeared on the edges of his face. He was crying. She wasn’t sure what to do.

“Kai. Don’t cry, please,” Bonnie spoke softly, feeling the whole situation rock her a bit. Crying was very unlike the man she had known Malachai Parker to be. “I’m going to get you out of here. Today. I promise I’ll find a way. I’ll figure it out. Just stay alive for me...please,” she said, brushing her hand against the top of his hair.

She stood and walked out quickly, heading down the hall and to the front door which she moved through with ease. As she made her way down the street, she began to sense that something, in fact, wasn’t right. The air outside was hot but as she glanced up to the bright sky, there was snow falling.

As she neared the end of her street, a vibration started. She looked up to the sky as dark spots began to appear through the clouds and she couldn’t have counted to ten before there was a full blown earthquake, buildings around her rattled and bricks fell from the older ones. She held her hands out and began to chant, sure she couldn’t do magic as a projection, but she had to try. The rattling became worse, like she was angering it by trying to stop it and suddenly she was gasping, sitting up in her own living room, Caroline in front of her holding one of the blown out candles.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know whether to pull you out or not, but your nose started bleeding and you were shaking. I’m sorry,” Caroline apologized again. Bonnie shook her head and pushed to her feet, grabbing a Kleenex to wipe the blood dripping out of her nose.

“The world there is actually imploding. I don’t know why. I meant when the girls and I set it, everything was fine, he’s been there 5 years with no hassle. Why is it suddenly messing up?” She said, beginning to pace. “Magic shouldn’t change all of the sudden, it doesn’t.” She paused suddenly in the center of the room before turning to Caroline.

“Unless it does, the girls are almost 12, old enough for puberty, maybe their magic is changing with them. That would disrupt the world,” she said. Caroline thought a moment before nodding her head.

“Yeah actually a few weeks ago, Alaric texted me in a panic because Josie came to him with some.. girl stuff, ya know,” she responded.

Bonnie snapped her fingers.

“Well, that’s it. Because Kai said it started a few weeks ago. So we should be able to get in and get him,” she said, looking at the clock on the wall. It was nearing 4 am. “The girls are with you this weekend right?” Bonnie asked, when Caroline nodded she immediately continued.

“Can I bring some stuff over and wake them up a bit early?” She asked. Caroline thought for a few moments, always cautious when it came to the idea of her daughters dabbling in any magic.

“They won’t be in any danger, I just need them to send me there. And then pull me and Kai back. They’ll have my body to siphon from but...” she paused a moment, glancing around the room. “That won’t be enough power to move two people,” she admitted, knowing it was true and giving up on trying to talk through it. There was no way the girls alone could do it.

“Unless they siphon from me too,” Caroline offered, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t like the idea at all, just like I really don’t like the idea of possibly letting a psycho back into our world where my daughters are, but you’re also my best friend. I’d do anything for you so I suppose it's worth a try. They can siphon from Klaus too, enough power from an Original would be plenty to do what needs done,” she said.

Bonnie felt the tears well up at the offer. She knew Klaus would do what Caroline wanted, and she was right. The power that came from an Original would be more than enough to keep the girls safe and get Kai back. The two talked for a few moments and agreed that Bonnie would gather a few things and Caroline would be back around 7:30. They decided to do this at Bonnie’s since she would be bringing back a dirty and injured Kai. With enough time to set up and get ready before the girls woke and they could get started, Bonnie found herself completely ready by 6. She had gathered the tools needed and was ready beforehand. By the time the girls were awake and Caroline had arrived, Bonnie was a complete wreck, pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table, which she had set up already. Lizzie and Josie walked in followed closely behind by Klaus and Caroline.

“Hi girlies,” she greeted them, bending a bit to hug them. “Thank you guys for coming. I just need your help with something,” she explained. Lizzie hugged her back and nodded.

“Mom told us you needed to go save someone?” she asked, pulling back as Josie moved forward to hug Bonnie. “Are they okay?” she asked a second question, standing back and looking at everything on the table. Bonnie glanced up at Caroline, trying to decide how much they knew/ or would remember. They were 6 when they helped her create the prison world and they didn’t know much back then, Alaric and Caroline were really good at guarding the girls from bad things and drama.

“He’s okay for right now, hopefully. I just want to go get him before he’s not. Are you guys okay to help me?” she asked, feeling a relief when both girls nodded their heads in unison. “Okay, you guys need to hold hands and then hold mom and Klaus. I’m going to set a timer for 3 minutes, and as soon as those three minutes are up, I need you to chant the first one on the paper backwards, okay? I’m going to have a timer too and when the three minutes are up for me I’ll start chanting too, and then we should be able to come back. And then to show my gratitude I am going to take you guys out later for some ice cream and popsicles, sound good?”

Bonnie finished speaking as she lit the candles and grabbed the small measuring cup she had will some of her blood in it. She had already made a small cut on her palm and gathered some blood before they arrived so she didn’t have to do it in front of the girls. Once everyone was in place, Bonnie had rehearsed the spell a few times both ways with the girls before moving in front of the girls and in the center of the circle as the started chanting. Bonnie quickly started both timers and set one on the table, having just enough time to tightly grab the ascendant before the wind picked up and she found herself in her living room, but alone this time.

By the light coming through the windows she could tell it was nearing nightfall. The power was off, she could tell that much based on the fact that there was no lights on any of the clocks or even the TV box and the wind whipping outside, blowing hard against the windows told her that things had taken a turn for the worst since she had left this morning.

“Kai!” She yelled, moving out of the living room and down the hall quickly. After checking everywhere in the bedroom and closet, she moved out and down the hall to the bathroom, checking the timer and finding that her time was half up. “Kai!!” She yelled again, shoving the bathroom door open and finding nothing. She groaned loudly, feeling her anger rise up as she ran, clearing the rest of the house. She turned to run for the door as the timer started beeping in her pocket. “Dammit… KAI!”

She opened the door and screamed loudly, stepping out onto the porch as the wind blew hard, whipping her hair around her face. As she went to step off of the steps, she heard her name being called from the left. She turned in time to see Kai moving towards her in a quick motion, but also limping a bit. She jumped off the last step and ran across yard to meet him, throwing her arms around his neck and feeling the relief flood over her.

“I’ve been looking for you we have to go, now or never,” she said, quickly pulling the timer from her pocket showing her a full minute and a half over the time. She grabbed the ascendant from her jacket pocket and held it out for him to grab as she gripped tightly to his shirt.

“Say it with me,” she instructed him, leaning in close as he wrapped an arm around her. “Sangina Mearma, Ascendarum Cavea, Sangina Mearma, Ascendarum Cavea, Sangina Mearma, Ascendarum Cavea.” By the third round through, both shut their eyes as a blinding white light surrounded them. Bonnie stopped chanting and turned quickly, tucking her body into the front of Kai’s as the light got brighter. He held her close up against his body and tucked his face down into the top of her hair.

As the light faded, Bonnie slowly pulled back and glanced around. They were still standing in her front yard but the air was warmer, and the sun was rising. She grabbed Kai’s hand and began tugging him towards the steps, shoving the door open and letting go of his hand before running over to the girls, stopping them mid chant.

Klaus and Caroline’s eyes opened at the same time, Caroline’s moving immediately over to the girls to make sure they were okay. They didn’t even have so much as a nosebleed. Caroline looked at Bonnie next, noticing it was just her.

“You didn’t get him?” She asked, frowning as she gently pushed to her feet. Bonnie just nodded her head towards the open door as Kai moved in, still limping a bit but it getting better with each step as his vampirism kicked fully in and was healing him. Caroline glared at him a moment before just nodding her head as a greeting. Bonnie hugged the girls again and re-stated her promise of ice cream later on in the day before they left, heading back home to get breakfast.

As Bonnie shut the door behind them, she turned to face her empty living room, deciding to quickly clean up the mess there before finding him. She blew out the candles and lifted them up, walking towards the kitchen to set everything on the counter before heading down the hall. She gently rapped her knuckles against the opened bathroom door before walking in. Kai stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, and examining the healing gash against his side. She just leaned against the door frame and smiled softly, watching him shift to see at different angles.

“I’m going to shower next, wanna stick around for that?” He asked, wiggling his eyebrows through the mirror at her before turning to face her. She rolled her eyes but still chuckled as he turned to face her.

“You’re an idiot,” she told him and he just lifted his shoulders in response and stepped a bit closer. Bonnie tensed a bit and looked up at him, unsure of what she wanted his next move to be. She couldn’t decide how she felt with him being in her home, for real. Sensing her struggle, he stopped immediately and lifted his hands slowly in surrender.

“Bon…I’m here. I’m sorry...” he told her again. She nodded her head and crossed her arms in front of her chest, hating that it was so difficult to do what she wanted to do. He gently reached forward, resting his hands on her shoulders and bending a bit so she looked at him. “What do I have to do to show you that I have changed?” He asked, Bonnie watched him a few moments, eyes locked with his before she decided to speak.

“Close your eyes,” She instructed. Kai lifted an eyebrow but did as he was told, dropping his arms to his side and shutting his eyes. “I just want to try something.” Bonnie slowly took a step forward, lifting a hand up to his cheek and gently brushing it there before sliding up to her toes and brushing her lips against his. He jumped a bit, obviously surprised at the sudden contact before slowly moving a hand up to her hip, resting it there. She kissed him once again, softly, before pulling back.

“I don’t need you to show me anything. I just need you to be good, Kai. Please do that for me and the trust will grow, can you do that for me?” she asked.

Malachai pulled back from her enough to lock eyes as a grin came over his face.

“Woman, for you, I’d do anything”

#bkss2017 #sc0rpi0karma #aintnobabymommadrama #bonkai

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ellacrossman96 · 4 years

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Wazifa For Stop Divorce Jolting Unique Ideas

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How To Save Your Marriage When One Wants Out

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How To Stop A Divorce When Separated

Do you spend more time with people who have made up my mind and clear the misunderstandings.First of all, you must evaluate your part in it will take two to reunite a drifting marriage.* If your spouse has any kind of relationship you have changed your schedule just for you.Find time to equip yourself with a financial burden, support each other that the book would certainly say to your own.These elements are an ability to do that.

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#Wazifa For Stop Divorce Jolting Unique Ideas #How To Stop Divorce Of Parents

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sunflowerspectre · 4 years

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Backwash | Commission Piece

This is a commission piece for anon, who commissioned a sequel to The Backwaters.

Commission Info

Title: Backwash Summary: Five years after the Backwaters Incident, a reformed Bucky comes back to Shuri with the hopes that they can turn over a new leaf and start something new together. Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha!Bucky, Omega!Shuri, AU

A03 | Read the Backwaters on Tumblr | A03

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Trigger Warning - Miscarriage and heavy grief

Backwash | Chapter Three | Word Count: 5506

Shuri feels different when she returns to work - self conscious of the mark still on her neck and the lingering smell of an alpha that clings to her. Even as she walks, her body is tucked in, smaller, more uncertain than usual. She can feel the eyes that wander to her, the ones that linger on her neck. She spots a few curious looks and open, gaping mouths that have questions on their tongues. She dodges those people as much as she can. She doesn’t even think she could face Wanda - who has grown to be a very liberated omega with a warranted hatred for alphas.

But there is one specific redhead that she does need to face. She spots Nat in a nearby empty training space and slips in, immediately taking the chance given to her to speak to Nat in private. Bucky’s words about staying with Nat have lingered with her in a way that she feels she needs to address.

Nat slows down on the poor punching bag that she’s been using, sweat beading down her forehead as she acknowledges Shuri’s entrance. When Shuri doesn’t make a move to join her in training, instead opting to stand nearby with her arms crossed tightly to her chest, Nat’s lips thin as she realizes just why her friend has joined her. She stops, taking mercy on the swinging bag, and sits down at the nearby bench beside Shuri.

From the corner of her eyes, Nat can see the change in Shuri. She doesn’t meet Nat’s gaze, holding her head down somberly, arms still crossed as she leans against the wall beside the bench. She can spot the dark mark on Shuri’s exposed neck, the way that Shuri tries to tuck her head in a vain attempt to make it less noticable.

“He visited you, didn’t he,” Nat asks, her voice even as she starts to undo the wrappings on her hands.

Unless Shuri opts to settle this out in one of the training rings, she figures that she won’t be getting back to practice for now. Despite the way that her heart begins to pound at her chest, Nat’s expressions are neutral and don’t give away to her growing panic. It was one of the first things that she learned from Shuri.

“He did,” Shuri confirms, her voice softer and she looks up toward the ceiling with a tired sigh. “He had a lot to say.”

Nat leans back against the wall, glancing up toward Shuri who has yet to even look at her. She doesn’t blame her - not really. She isn’t even sure that Shuri wants to look at her, see her, even talk to her again after this. Talking to Bucky was a risk - a risk that she had to take, knowing in her heart the potential there was for him to become a good man again. Sending him to Shuri, however, was an even bigger risk - a risk that could have a high reward and a high loss potential. If it didn’t go well, she would lose Shuri. Possibly forever. If it did, there is potential for her to gain a sister-in-law of sorts. She still can’t tell which way it went.

“-And,” Nat presses gently, treading through dangerous waters, “Did you listen to what he had to say? Or did you just punch him and call it a night?”

She pauses briefly before continuing, “I wouldn’t blame you for telling him off and calling it… I wouldn’t blame you for doing the same to me either.”

Shuri had thought about it. She thought about storming in, cursing Nat for disclosing her location, for abusing her trust, for putting her in that situation in the first place. She can’t lie, it still hurts thinking about it. Thinking of Nat going behind her back like that. Talking to her cousin is one thing - something that a part of her would understand - but sending him directly to her, with no warning, no guarantee for safety or for it going well. But the angry fire in her chest has dwindled to that of a small, painful spark.

Frankly though, Shuri doesn’t really think that she has the energy in her to be that angry.

“If it didn’t go so well, I might’ve. But as of right now, he’s in the process of taking some of his bags to my apartment.”

Shuri snorts and glances toward Nat with tired eyes, “But that doesn’t get you off the hook. Nat - you gave my location out, you disclosed private information and you violated my trust by sending him over.”

Nat doesn’t argue, she doesn’t dispute the claims. She agrees with Shuri instead, nodding along solemnly as she prepares herself to face whatever punishment Shuri wants to dish out. It would be completely warranted and to be frank, despite the fact that it went well, she would deserve it. She can’t say anything that would excuse her disclosing Shuri’s location during such a private, intimate, and vulnerable time. Especially without warning.

Shuri slides down, taking a spot beside Nat on the bench. Up close, she looks older than Nat expected. Over the past few years, Nat had noticed the gray hairs that peak out at her hairline from the stress of the job or the creases forming at her eyes, but seeing her now, she looks even more exposed, softer, tired. She looks like a completely different person than the one that saved her.

“That hurts, you know,” Shuri starts, her voice soft and Nat can see the way that Shuri’s eyes begin to water. “But I’ve thought of you as my closest friend these past years, but you’ve been speaking to Bucky for a good while now. I don’t know if you talked to him while he was still in containment and if you did, what you discussed. So I just need to know one thing, Nat.”

She turns to look at her, meeting her gaze evenly with wide, wet eyes. Shuri absently dabs at her eyes with the back of her hand, her throat swelling as she tries to swallow down the onslaught of emotions.

“Was our friendship part of a scheme to get Bucky and I together? Were you a friend only because you wanted me to trust you - to trust him?”

The declaration is off-putting, taking Nat off guard enough that she sits there in silence a bit longer than she should have. Out of all the responses she had expected from Shuri - from curses to punches to the silent treatment - having Shuri break down in front of her, accusing her of being that manipulative isn’t one of the things that she had prepared for.

Nat is manipulative, she’s woman enough to admit it. She knows how to work people, how to achieve her goals. She knows what people see when they look at her and she uses it to her advantage. It started as a survival method when she was trapped with a man with anger issues that could lash out if she pushed too hard, but adapted into a habit that she’s since molded into one of her biggest assets as an agent.

But manipulating friends? Yes, she actually does that too, but only sometimes and usually accidentally on reflex. Always with the little things though. Never for something so big, never so intentionally for one of the one few people that she trusts and holds close to her heart. She never does it to hurt the people she cares about and while she cares about Bucky and Shuri, while she does want to see them have a chance together, she would never falsify a friendship with the woman who saved her from that backwater town.

“No,” Nat finally speaks up, her voice wavering with honesty as she wishes that she carried blunts to work. “It was never fake with you Shuri. A few other people, maybe, but you saved me from that town. You saved me and Wanda. We wouldn’t be here without you, we wouldn’t be safe if it weren’t you. Hell, who knows if we would even still be alive?”

“-I was your friend, first and his cousin, second.” Nat continues, “And as your friend I hated Bucky for a while too. Used to even hate him for leaving me with Bruce, for never sitting down and actually asking if I was happy. But he is my family and out of all our family, I always saw the most good in him and when he proved that he had the potential to be as good as I thought, to be a better man, I eventually saw the chance for him and you to give it a shot.”

“I wouldn’t have even thought about sending him your way if I didn’t know that you still thought about him,” Nat presses, “I know that you went to the cells after you heard about some of them leaving for rehab. I know that you went there looking for him. I saw that look on your face when you went in and the look on your face when you came out. As much as I think that you wanted him to still be there, to validate your hatred for him, you were relieved when you saw he wasn’t.”

Shuri can’t deny that, as much as she really wants to. She sighs and leans, resting her head on Nat’s shoulder. Nat leans into the contact, resting her own head against Shuri’s in response. Nat’s hand slithers around Shuri until it reaches her shoulder, rubbing comforting circles on her skin.

“I know the confusion you’re growing through.” Nat quietly admits, “Maybe it’s not exactly the same, but it was definitely similar. Sometimes I think about the what ifs. What if I had followed him to college and ignored everyone trying to stop me? What if I just went out to college by myself without him? Or what if we left and never returned to that fucking town? What if I visited him in the cells and he begged for mercy and forgiveness? What if he got out and we started a life together?”

“I go through a lot of what ifs,” Nat continues, “That all got answered when Bruce didn’t pass his psych exam and was labeled ineligible for rehab… But Bucky did pass and it’s time for you to at least get your answer on your what if.”

“I want to,” Shuri confesses, “I want to at least try, see what may happen. I know that I can hold my own if something goes wrong. I know that if he ever does anything shady then I’ll get the pleasure of slamming his jail cell myself. I want to see where this goes, see if I can trust him, and if he’s really changed. But I know that not everyone will like my decision.”

Everyone is vague, but they both know the most worrying prospect that would fit right into that sentence. The one person with the most hatred on alphas, who has worked to become one of the biggest rescue-relief agents for injured and abused omegas and betas. Wanda. Their liberated mutual friend whom they both love, but know her well enough that due to her own trauma and abuse, she would never fully understand the concept of anyone forgiving ant of the men from that town - even if it is Bucky.

“I’ll contain her,” Nat reassures, “I’ll make sure that she doesn’t find anything out by Bucky. In the meantime, you better do something about that mark on your neck if you don’t want an earful from her.”

Shuri’s lips turn into an amused smile, though the idea of Wanda chewing her out for letting an alpha claim her. I can’t imagine what her reaction may be if I showed up to work one day to announce that I’m pregnant. Shuri laughs a bit at the thought, but it dies off as a thread of terror shoots through her.

____________________________________

It’s been just over two months. A month of moving in, of learning each other in a mundane, normal way that they were robbed of before. A full month of tension while they learned how to compromise, what words are better left unsaid, what fights are better to walk away from, and sometimes, you don’t have to win - you just have to hold the other person close, apologize, and remember to not to do it again.

They’re doing well, Shuri likes to think. Well enough. They both have their moments, but they’re trying. As long as they’re trying - as long as he is putting in as much effort as she is, she will stay. She thinks that’s what love is sometimes - after the excitement dies down, after you settle in, love is a decision you make every time you wake up. It’s not all clouds and warm hearts. A part of love is work. Compromise. Doing something for their benefit instead of your own. Not expecting things in return, except for their own love and warm hands.

But they’re still in that awkward in-between stage of moving in together. The stage where it doesn’t feel like it’s her apartment anymore, but it doesn’t quite feel like its theirs either. Her stuff is still plastered everywhere - from the fancy furniture that holds her favorite blanket to security system to make an FBI agent nervous. She still has her favorite stuffed animals on a small shelf in the bedroom.

But she’s still working on getting used to finding men’s clothes left on the floor by the bed that had been discarded in the middle of a hot night. She used to dust on a regular basis, but she can see streaks on the windowsill from where the blinds have rubbed against the small window ledge. There are times where the grocery list has foods on it that she doesn’t recognize, but she is willing to at least try, but she’s still learning his favorite foods and how to incorporate them into her meal plans while he’s still learning that she prefers the left side of the bed and needs room to stretch out her legs.

It’s that adjustment, for the both of them, of learning how to live with someone else. She stayed with him in the town, for a while, but that was such a different circumstance that it doesn’t count. They stayed together in the cabin during her heat too - but that was passionate, love making full of a fire that could have burned them.

The fire is out now. They have to get used to the mundane. The everyday. The part that’s left out of every romance movie and is skipped over in every romantic book. The part that is the most real thing that every single person has to understand and go through if they’re in a relationship.

Just like every single relationship, when sex is involved and children are possible, there tends to be at least pregnancy scare. It depends on who you are, whether you’re the person who cries from happiness from two positive marks or the one who feels their heart rip from their chest as they sit in the bathroom in silence, hovered over the counter as they wait for the results. The one who screams or the one that throws up. The one that has to tell everyone, or the one that doesn’t want to tell anyone.

Shuri isn’t sure which one she is yet. The idea of being pregnant had always been a somewhat happy idea, but the idea of it and going through it are very different things. She doesn’t know how she feels about the idea of having children right now - she’s still employed, she’s in a somewhat stable but rocky relationship, and there’s a million other things that she didn’t expect to be or go through whenever she would have to pee on a stick.

She can’t even bring herself to move, sitting on the edge of the tub, pants pulled up after taking the test. She counts the seconds, her chest heaving as she can feel her stomach turn. She feels like her heart is being torn apart. Her foot taps against the tile floor impatiently, her hands clasps together under her chin as she rests her elbows on her knees. It takes everything that she has to finally glance at the test results.

Positive.

Odd. She thought that she would feel happier. Then, without warning, she promptly throws up into the tin.

_______________________________________

Bucky is thrilled when she tells him. He practically swoops her into his arms, grinning ear to ear, and then gently sets her down. When the words start flowing from his mouth, they don’t stop and she can’t bring herself to interrupt him. He doesn’t experience the same nerves that wreck through her veins or the stress that makes her head throb. He immediately starts talking about the possibility of them moving out, buying a house more suited for a family, going to see his folks to tell them the good news, the colors of a nursery.

He doesn’t say anything about the possibility of her not surviving the birth or the medical bills that this all would bring. She’s done the reading and he doesn’t ask her about how she’ll feel about possibly wearing adult diapers after giving birth. What will she do when she passes a blood clot the size of a baseball after passing a baby. The fact that she knows she will not look very pretty in any birthing videos or after-birth pictures. That during pregnancy her joints will swell, her feet will be huge. She’ll look like any moving truck that he wants to rent while not even asking her if she wants to move in the first place.

He is already talking about sending out cards to announce the pregnancy. He admits that he doesn’t know much about baby showers, but that his mom will and that she will absolutely be thrilled about planning it. He asks her if she’d be okay with his mom organizing the party and all she can do is dumbly nod as she sits down at the table, her eyes becoming more and more vacant as he drifts on and not everyone will be alright with them having a child before they’re properly married.

“- ‘course we could always have a wedding before ya start to show,” Bucky proposes, “And I’ve got all that family wealth to support us. Enough to get a house and get us started. I’ll take care of you and the baby, pay for anything we may need. Maybe spend a bit on that wedding, but I don’t think we’ll be needing any big ol’ honeymoon or grand ol’ party. Not sure about what your work will think about you quitting your job with such a short notice though.”

Her head is spinning. She can already feel her ears ringing, but when he mentions weddings and quitting her job, she finds her voice. It comes out in a venomous fire that spews at him, spitting at him for giving her knot while knowing that she was in heat.

“Slow down, darling.” Bucky’s brows furrow as his stance becomes stiff, “I think you’re forgetting that someone begged me for my knot. Someone wanted this just as much as I did.”

“-I didn’t want this,” Shuri stresses, her words hissing through her teeth, “I’m not ready for a babe and I’m sure not ready for all that nonsense you’re spewing about us moving, having a wedding, buying a house! Quitting my job!”

Her venom makes him almost take a step back, but he plants his feet firmly on the ground and stands up tall and stiff. Shuri’s eyes are frantic, emotional, and are burning with a type of fire that he hasn’t seen from her in a while.

Bucky frowns deeply, “Pa always said that pregnancy makes women emotional, but is this really necessary, darling? We both knew this was going to happen eventually, sugar. You’re claimed, remember?”

Oh she remembers - her neck still itches from where he bit into her. She doesn’t regret that mark, not entirely, but she is regretting doing it so soon. Letting her heat drive her, tossing out logic through the nearest window and throwing herself onto him like a needy bitch.

“We may not be married yet, hell, we may not have really talked about weddings yet and I’ll give you a point for throwing that on you. But kids are bound to happen with you going to heat and me going through a rut. Kids are natural. Just like you quitting your job. It’s bound to happen at some point with us settling in together. Having a kid just seems like the perfect reason to finally do it though, don’t you think?”

Shuri’s anger eats away at her skin, her veins warming from her chest and igniting her clenched fists as she resists the urge to act. She used to be so good at hiding it - at acting calm under pressure, at holding in her emotions to spit out witty remarks and coy smiles. But she’s older. Her nerves are worn and stretched out - but her last one has finally snapped and it has acted like a spring, pole vaulting her forward at a momentum that she is struggling to slow down.

“No, I do not bloody think so. You made a promise you better uphold, you will not tell me what I will and won’t do. I will not quit work and I most certainly will not marry you just because I’m bloody pregnant!”

She wants to spew more curses at him but she bites her tongue and turns, heading out the apartment as she ignores his calls for her to come back. When she comes back, she decides to let him really know just how bad a silent treatment can be.

________________________________

(Trigger Warning - Miscarriage)

She still comes back home after work, makes him dinner and they eat it together in the thinly held together illusion of a family. He asks her how work was, if anything interesting happened, while poking at his plate with a frown. She tells him good and no. For every question he throws at her, she answers him curtly, if at all.

He tells her that the house needs some more cleaning one night and she dials a service for it with a petty aggression. When she burns his food, he doesn’t make a comment on it and eats it. On the days that she feels too nauseous to eat, he notices and brings her whatever takeout he knows that she likes. When she complains about the smell of pickles, she came out to find all the pickle jars in the trash.

They gradually start to sleep in the same room again. Bucky moves from his place on the couch - the place where she threw his pillow and her least favorite blanket, he had taken the message without complaint. It took a while before she allowed him to have his hand wrap around her waist while they slept.

When he whispers apologies into her ear with a roaming hand, she defies him. When he apologizes over breakfast, she accepts it and for a while, the tension that had build up in their little home had thinned enough to walk through, to speak through, and when it fades away, she can kiss him goodbye when he leaves for work and smile as she packs lunch for her own workday.

She tells him that she plans on quitting work eventually and he agrees that she should do it when she’s ready. But they started to talk about weddings, gradually, casually. What colors the nursery should be. Possible names. His parents start to send over baby clothes before she’s far along enough to know the gender. Nat even gave her the biggest hug that she’s ever had.

But she hasn’t begun to show yet. Not as much as she thought she would be, but she supposes everyone is different. What is her baby bump could pass off as some extra weight. It hides under flowy shirts, sweats and skirts. She’s not even 20 weeks along and the doctor tells her that her size is normal. A few more weeks and she would be able to feel the baby kick.

But then she spots. Lightly. A few drops that don’t worry her at first - she’s pregnant, a lot of weird things happen during pregnancy. But then the cramps come. Cramps that start to seize her muscles, holding onto her so tight that she feels like she is going to be ripped apart from the inside out.

She rushes to the restroom and she screams.

_______________________________________

The doctor’s office is quiet. Deafening. Despite the pristine white walls, Shuri feels dirty. Cold. Gross. She’s reminded of cold nights in abandoned buildings. When Fury sent her on missions that were dark and in caves that she had trouble navigating. Missions that sent her home covered in dust, ash, and blood.

It’s that feeling you have in the field. When you know that something bad has happened and you’re waiting for the aftermath. It’s the tension of waiting for the enemy to finally pop out and strike.

But when the enemy finally hits her, it’s a sharp knife that goes right through her heart. It leaves her speechless. Empty. Hurt. Surreal. Like she’s dreaming, that this is a twisted nightmare. A simulation. Alone.

She barely registers when the doctor is gone, when she’s left alone with Bucky whose hand is so tight on her shoulder that his knuckles are white. She feels like her heart has stopped. She isn’t sure if she even remembers how to breathe. She doesn’t even know that she’s crying until he finally reaches down and wipes them away. Once she realizes it, she can’t stop the flood gates that wash through her.

“I - I wasn’t -,” Shuri starts, unsure of how to explain the emotions cruising through her, the heartbreak of losing a baby that she knows she wasn’t ready for, but she was trying to get used to. “ - I didn’t want this to happen.”

Bucky knows - she was vocal on not being ready for a baby. He doesn’t think that she wanted any of this to happen, but he knows, deeply, that she wouldn’t stoop this low. That she would never endanger herself or their baby this way.

No one is ready for a baby, he had realized that when he had to start reading all the parenting books that Nat shoved his way. When he had started to worry about the little things that he missed like baby locks, but then finding something else he missed every time that he thought he had prepared for everything. Then he had started to wonder just how he was supposed to have ‘the talk’ with his son - and he was convinced it would be a boy and he realized that you can’t prepare for everything.

Just like they never prepared for this.

_______________________________________

Shuri quits work the day after their baby died. She tells Fury that she can’t come in that day or any day. He doesn’t argue and a part of her knows that he already knows everything about what happened. Fury has always had ears everywhere, always knew everything. She receives therapy pamphlets anonymously in the mail and she tells him thank you, but the brochures have started their own stack by the waffle maker.

Bucky tells her that it’s a good thing that she quit - that he is proud of her for wanting to put herself first, for taking some time off to be a good housewife. But the truth is, her quitting is selfish. She couldn’t go in and face everyone, she couldn’t even accept the wounds to heal enough for her to go work after a break. She knows that she couldn’t. She needs some time - time to process, time to grieve, and time to accept things.

She feels awful, her heart feels empty and hollow. She feels old and soft and spends too long in what would have been a nursery and can’t bring herself to clean up the paint cans that they had already opened. Her stomach never returns to the right shape, not in the way that pleases her and when his hand touches her stomach at night, she opts to spend the night on the couch herself. Sometimes she wakes up with her favorite blanket tucked in or she will wake up in the bed alone to find Bucky curled up on the sofa.

She never voices it to Bucky, but she thinks this is her fault. She can tell how heavy the weight on his shoulders are and can’t risk starting another fight when she barely even has the energy to do the everyday things that need to be done. But a part of her feels like maybe if she was happy if she saw the positive sign then it wouldn’t have happened. Maybe instead of fighting with her boyfriend, instead of spewing venom and cursing herself for getting pregnant, she should have rejoiced with him instead.

Bucky, for his part, lives up to his promises of taking care of her. As he works and pays off their rent, bills, and other necessities, he also is careful with her. Less stubborn. He holds her gently at night and whispers, in a half asleep daze, that they will get through this and it will be okay.

Through grieving heartaches, they have to break the news to everyone that they told. They realize this when one of his parents’ gifts arrive and Shuri spends a good twenty minutes weeping over the children's booties and bottles. But telling his parents is the hardest thing that Bucky ever has to do. Shuri can’t even begin to imagine how the conversation goes. When she explains that she didn’t even have a family to tell in the first place, she offers to be the one to break the news to Nat.

Telling Nat is one of the hardest things that Shuri has ever done. She stared down the barrels of shotguns, fought against enemies who wanted to gut her like a fish, and survived more than she probably should have. But telling the woman who can’t have children, the woman who was her best friend, who had been happier about the pregnancy than even she was, and had already dubbed herself an aunt that the child that didn’t even make it to this world yet is gone... Looking that woman in the eyes and telling her that she won’t be aunt - not now at least, maybe not for a while. It was one of the few times that Shuri saw Nat cry and Shuri came home that day with a tear-stained shirt and streaks rolling down her cheeks.

It’s a slow progress, but each night that Bucky comes home, he finds one more thing changed. The nursery slowly starts to shift into an office as the opened paint cans disappear. Bucky takes it upon himself to paint the walls back to their original color and silently, Shuri comes in and helps. He doesn’t ask her where everything went, he can’t bring himself too. He finds everything from the unopened cradle box to the clothes and bottles all shoved deep into the closet.

Then one night, they finally find their voice and the more that they talk, the more that their hearts mend.

“We never picked out a name,” Shuri muses quietly, stirring absently at a cup of coffee as she joins him on the couch, “We never found out the gender, but what would you have named them?”

Bucky isn’t sure if there’s a right or wrong answer so he goes for the honest one, carefully telling her that he always felt in his gut that it was going to be a boy. He planned on talking to her about naming him.

“Buchanan,” Shuri muses, repeating the name and mulling it over with a look in her eyes that he can’t quite read. “Buchanan.”

They do not talk about it again. They don’t have to. Putting a name to their child, to the one that they have been grieving over, a name that was a whisper when they cried, the one that Shuri had dug out from clots of blood to hold until Bucky found her. It puts a name to what they have been through, validating it in a way that they can’t explain. It makes it all real, but in a way that they can grasp.

It fills in a part of the void in their hearts that they were missing. Even though they know that the rest can never be filled in, even if they have another child. Buchanan will always be the slight tear in their lungs from when they wore out their voices through tears and Buchanan will always be that one spot in their hearts.

#marvel #alpha beta omega dynamics #alpha beta omega #omega #alpha #dynamics #shuri #bucky #miscarriage #tw: miscarriage #myworks #backwash

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brettanomycroft · 7 years

Text

Like Desert Rain [Kallura, VLD]

It's something like desert rain: uncertain, unpredictable, utterly quenching

Fandom: Voltron Legendary Defender Paring: Keith x Allura Words: 5326 Rating: T+ Tags: Kallura, crushes, developing feelings, back on Earth, embarrassment, Keith really can’t thermoregulate, fluff, some angst, bonding

Part 1 of a 2 part birthday fic for the wonderful, beautiful, fabulous @stardusted So many thanks to @flusteredkeith and @heretherebefandom for all of their help!

Read on AO3 Part Two (coming!)

...

After years of the cold crush of space, Keith’s not so sure what to make of home.

Of course, it’s not home, not really: home was a twin bed with a handmade chili pepper quilt; home was the crack and pop of bacon frying in a pan over the sounds of the morning weather report; home was his father on the front porch swing, staring up at the night sky.

But Keith’s been away from home for far longer than he’s been away from Earth, and nowadays, he supposes the creaky desert shack that’s been in his family for decades is about as close to a home as he’s going to get.

The place is sand-caked and dusty from lack of use, and Keith fumbles at an apology when Allura first steps foot in the place. She waves him off with a tight smile. At least her “It’s not like I expected you to get here early and clean up,” sounds genuine. He tests the faucets and, through some miraculous luck, the pipes have held up. He offers her the first shower, with no promise of warm water or towel, and takes the time that she’s in the bathroom to sweep as much of the sand as he can out the front door. He discovers the busted glass panel in the living room window - the primary suspect in the sand-flooding case - and patches it up the best he can with duct tape.

After that, he runs through the motions his father taught him all those years ago. The cistern is given a once-over, and the tarp is pulled off the solar panels on the southern side of the roof. The bed is stripped and linens replaced with the only other set in the shack. The mexican blanket is rearranged on the couch. The kettle is filled with water, and set to boil. He doesn’t reflect on how easy it is to fall back into that old routine. That was the purpose of a routine, wasn’t it?

The water in the bathroom stops running as he’s fishing out two MREs from the pantry. A minute or so later, Keith hears the door creak open.

“Keith?” Allura calls. There’s a note of hesitation in her voice. He hopes hard that there’s not another scorpion in the bathroom. Knowing Allura, she’d probably try and pick it up.

“Yeah?”

“Would you happen to have any spare clothes? I… may have been in such a hurry to leave that I forgot my bag on the Castle.”

“Yeah, hold on and I’ll check.”

He finishes sticking the MREs in their heating packets and leaves them on the counter to cook. The little bedroom is just off the side of the living room. Like everything else, the small dresser creaks as he tries to wiggle it open.

Though he wouldn’t admit it to Allura, Keith hadn’t even thought to pack a bag. They’d all been running around the Castle like frantic, headless chickens, trying to coordinate how the team would be splitting up and where they could best hide themselves, the Lions, and the Castle. While working through the code on one of the Castle’s atmospheric recovery programs, Pidge had discovered a tracker bug embedded deep in the system: an answer to the question of how Zarkon had been able to send a near-endless stream of warships and fighter drones to harass them for the last seven Spicolian movements. Coran and Pidge had figured out how to throw a temporary patch over the tracker, but Pidge warned it’d be ‘about as good as hobbit-sized blindfold over the Eye of Sauron’. Since Lance, Hunk, and Shiro apparently knew what that meant, they’d insisted on the need to vacate as soon as possible. Allura had fought hard against leaving Coran and the Castle, barely shielded, on the dark side of an abandoned moon, but the insistence of Coran and the others had won out.

So they’d split up with little more than a semblance of a plan: Pidge and Lance would be gather intel on a seedy swap moon rumored to host one of the universe’s largest and most advanced living servers; Hunk and Shiro would be tracking down Shay and the rest of Unoccupied Balmera to ask for the crystalline materials needed to rebuild the infected system; and Coran would be left, as long ago, to defend the last remaining territory of Altea. And him and Allura?

Keith scowls down at the petulant dresser drawer. He doesn’t remember it being jam-packed with clothes before he left, and it hasn’t been damp enough for the joints to swell or warp. He yanks at the handle with all his strength. The handle comes off and the dresser comes out, pulling off of its metal track and hitting the ground with a rattling clunk. The clothes tip out and all over the floor, and he doesn’t bother to swallow his loud curse.

“If it’s too much trouble, I’ll just put back on my battlesuit,” Allura calls from the bathroom. Her voice sounds amused, as if she’d witnessed his entire struggle, but when he looks back out the open door of the bedroom to the bathroom, there’s no sign of her.

“ ‘s fine,” Keith grumbles, “I’ve got it now. One sec.”

Dresser issues aside, he’s relieved to see that there even are spare clothes left over. He pokes through them with a toe, wary of nestled scorpions, and then begins picking the garments up once they seem clear. It’s a precaution borne of more than one first-days-of-winter-break, when he and his father would come out for a week. More than once they’d found the arachnids laying low in the shaggy area rugs his father used to keep in the house, or scampering under the furniture when they first plodded in. His father would laugh and tell Keith to keep to the edges of the room, then sweep or catch and toss them out the back door.

There’s a numb throbbing in his chest, not unlike the aftermath of a scorpion’s sting on skin. Keith gathers up the rest of the clothes in his arms and dumps them on the bed, ignoring the sensation. Thankfully, the clothes all appear to be his, though it makes for a questionable selection in terms of size. Allura was a little taller than him, and he’d grown since leaving Earth. He picks out an old NASA tee-shirt and the largest pair of sweatpants he has, which still have a chance of being too short.

The bathroom door is closed, though a little light shines out from underneath it. He can hear Allura rustling around inside. He knocks.

“I found some clothes.”

The door cracks open, and it hits Keith that it might be bad form for him to be staring directly at Allura as she pokes her head out. He catches a glimpse of loose, silvery hair curling over a bare shoulder before he averts his gaze. The floor makes a fine place to stare until her foot comes into view. She’s opened the door wider, and he’s dodged a propriety bullet. Although, from what Pidge and Lance have said about some unexpected crossing of paths in the training deck showers, the Altean version propriety may have a much looser definition.

Keith shoves more than passes the clothes in the general direction of where he hopes her arms will be. She takes them from him. Her toes flex against the wood floor. A small puddle of water has formed under her foot, and he sees the shine of the last rivulets still clinging to her calf. Which means his eyes had been wandering rebelliously upwards, sliding along the lean muscle of her leg. By no means is this the first time such an insurrection has occurred, but it seems inappropriate given their current circumstances. They were on a mission with a dangerous deadline, not lounging around the Castle after a bit of sparring.

So he now forces himself to look up at the ceiling. Allura hasn’t closed the door.

“Hopefully they fit,” Keith says, aiming for casual and missing the mark by a mile. “Most of the leftover clothes were mine.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

There’s a beat of silence. Clothes delivered, Keith commands his legs to turn him around and head back to the kitchen, but like everything else about him, they’re stubborn and insubordinate. He continues his examination of the ceiling and definitely does not take notice of how the bathroom door opens wider rather than closing.

“Is there something up there?” she asks.

There’s a loud creak and, startled, Keith looks down. Allura’s leaning against the door and peering up at the same spot he was.

“What?” he asks, baffled.

She jerks her chin up towards the ceiling. “You were staring at the ceiling. Is there something up there?” She squints to see what he could have possibly been looking at up in the shadowed rafters.

Keith feels warm again. Being in space really had done a number on his body’s acclimatization. He forces himself to look at her in the face.

“No, it’s just that you’re, uh, naked,” he says, trying to keep his voice cool. Maybe if he were lucky, she wouldn’t notice the slight warble in his words, or the heat in his cheeks.

Her lips twitch. No luck. “Well, that’s because I haven’t put clothes on yet.”

It’s such an Allura response that he can’t help but roll his eyes. “Plan on doing that anytime soon, Princess?”

“I would have already, if you hadn’t distracted me.”

The curl at the corners of her mouth becomes a full smile. He knows that smile well, the one she wore in the ticks after she’d swept his legs out from under him on the training deck. Keith feels a little like she’s done that now. Just like he does when she’s bested him, he purses his lips into a pout.

“My apologies,” he says, “I’ll try to stare at ceilings less often.”

“Sure, it was the ceiling,” she replies.

The door closes before he’s able to muster a response. For a moment, he’d almost felt like they were back on the Castle, falling into that familiar post-workout banter. The hallway feels decidedly cooler without her. He glances into the kitchen and sees the steam dwindling from the MREs. They must almost be done.

There aren’t many places for him to go - the two of them in line with their arms outstretched would be close to spanning the house from living room to front door - so he shoves his hands in his pockets and analyzes the ancient scuffs on the wood floor. More than one sweltering summer morning had been spent sprawled out across that very floor, trying to eke every bit of the night’s remnant cool. It had been years since then. The whorls and scrapes in the wood are a language Keith knows he used to be able to read, but now, like a stranger, the meaning scuttles away from him. Being a foreigner in the house he’s known since childhood does little to soothe the sawtooth edges of his worry.

“Better?” Allura asks as she steps out of the bathroom.

He answers without thinking. “Than what?”

“Than the ceiling.”

There’s not much room between them in the small hall, but Allura raises her arms and fans out her hands in display, looking like she’s about to own the catwalk. The ragged tee-shirt fits her well, if not a little tightly, and as expected the sweatpants are about an inch too short. She must not mind, though; Keith knows she’s capable of altering her size when the whim suits her. If anyone can pull off years-old hand-me-downs with a kind of casual grace, it’s Allura. A smirk perches on her face, crown-like.

That wave of familiar ease hits again, and Keith lets it wash over him. He shrugs and looks her over, as if he hadn’t already.

“Fewer spiderwebs than the ceiling,” he observes, and then, as an afterthought adds, “Probably.”

The expression falls off of her face, leaving blank confusion. She shifts her gaze back up to the rafters of the ceiling. It’s been long enough now that he can follow the signs of her thought process: the faintest wrinkle along her forehead, the slightest flare of her nose. This time, he follows her stare, and hones in on a dusty cluster of spiderwebs tucked between two beams. Her eyes narrow. Her jaw clenches. Belatedly, he knows he’s dead.

Allura’s syllables are slow and measured. She fixes him with a blazing glower. “Is that… an Earth joke… in relation to my age?”

“Wha- no?” comes his strangled reply. His heart gives one last farewell thud as he measures the wrath growing in Allura’s features.

“I’ll have you know,” she starts, voice indignant, “that just because I spent ten thousand years in cryosleep-”

Keith puts his hands up, placating, and curses Lance and Pidge for ever teaching Allura about Earth things like Halloween and antiquing. Of all of the stupid, stupid ways he could insult her without realizing it-

“That’s not what I meant, I promise!” he insists, but Allura slams her fists to her hips and puffs her chest out.

“Alteans hold their looks exceptionally well,” she continues, “and I guarantee that by the time you’re all old and wrinkly, I’ll just be-”

There are a few memorable occasions when Keith has been on the wrong end of Allura’s wrath. Some were more deserved than others, but in every case, there’d always been Shiro to talk him down, or a training simulation to run to. But now they’re stuck on Earth, just the two of them, on a tech recovery mission that’s going to last at least a week, and he’d rather not have Allura mad at him for all of that time. He’s going to have to channel his inner Hunk, and fast.

“Allura, I really didn’t mean it, I swear,” he starts, “This whole thing’s got me rattled and I didn’t think before I spoke, I would never joke about your age.”

The anger evaporates from her features and is replaced with amusement, but now Keith’s fight-or-flight response has him torn between making amends and throwing himself out the front door and letting the coyotes eat him. He stands his ground against his better instincts, the ones that remind him that he’s watched Allura tear a Sentinel apart limb by limb with her bare hands.

“Obviously being in cryosleep doesn’t mean you actually aged any,” Keith continues.

Allura bites her bottom lip, then cuts him off with a, “Keith, it’s fine, I was just teasing-”

“And you look beautiful regardless of how much time you spent in one of those tubes, so-”

As immersed as he is in his apology, his words don’t register until Allura’s eyes go wide. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He looks away.

“Oh,” she breathes.

Keith remembers in vivid color all of the ways Allura responded to Lance’s attentions over the past three years. He waits for the inevitable tirade, but nothing comes. He glances over at her, but she’s as still as he is. At least she doesn’t seem like she’s going to dismember him.

“I… please just forget that I said anything,” Keith manages. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Allura levels him with her gaze, expression unreadable, like she was still deciding how to react. A tick later, she quirks an eyebrow. “Shame,” she says, “I was rather hoping you did.”

He flounders for a moment before settling on an articulate, “Oh,” an echo of her own sentiments. “Okay.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, but the motion seems defensive. He’d like to assure her that he did, in fact, mean it like that, though he hadn’t actually meant to tell her that, but he’s not sure it would make anything better. The silence laps between them. He looks down at the floor.

“What now?” she finally asks.

“Dinner’s ready. I’ll bring it out if you want to sit on the couch or whatever,” he says, eyes still fixed on the seam between the wooden floor slats.

“How very courteous of you, Keith,” Allura replies, voice rich with amusement. He glances up, and catches a glimpse of a small smile and two flush-darkened cheeks.

Awareness washes over him like a frigid bath. Sure, they’ve been together alone before - in the pods, in Red, in the black void of space. But there’s something, well, alien about being with her like this. They’re on Earth, in his family home. She’s got her hair tied back in low ponytail, and is wearing his old clothes. He’s made her dinner.

It’s like they’ve been transplanted into the scene of a movie he’s only ever seen the beginning of, but has now walked into the middle: he’s familiar with the actors, but never seen them like this, and still hasn’t figured out how it ends. Allura stares at him, brows furrowing a bit in confusion. He’s forgotten his line, so he exits stage left.

There’s no reason for the kitchen to feel as warm as it does. The kettle is electric, and the MREs self-heating. They’ve finished steaming and have cooled down enough to touch, but Keith blames them nonetheless. He empties the cupboard by grabbing two grimy bowls from the shelves, and pours some water out from the kettle until they’ve reached tolerable sanitation. Without a towel, he’s left to dry the dishes out with his shirt, and is glad for the half-wall blocking him from Allura’s view.

Maybe it was being back in the desert after so long that’s making him feel like he’s about to break out in a sweat. It’s certainly not the prospect of serving Allura food meant to withstand nuclear winter from a bowl he’d cleaned with his shirt.

He tears open the first MRE and dumps what looks like beef stroganoff if it’d been left in the Garrison canteen trays for a few days past regulation. Even after years of space goo and the occasional non-Hunk created paladin lunch, the meal looks as soggy and repulsive as it did to him when he was a kid. It’s with brittle hope that he opens the second MRE. Out comes a more passable, though sort of in a wearing-the-same-socks-for-the-third-day-in-a-row way, helping of cheese ravioli.

Sighing, Keith opens the silverware drawer. There’s one spoon. Belatedly, he remembers melting down the rest of the utensils to try and repair a part of one of his dad’s leftover transmitters. He’d been alone in the cabin for months on end and getting closer and closer to figuring out the source of the massive energy spikes and strange dreams, and proper cutlery just hadn’t seemed all that important. He sticks the spoon in the ravioli, sends the stroganoff a forlorn look, and hopes that Allura will find nothing unusual about the meal.

He pads back into the small living room, bowls in hand. Allura’s seated on the couch, but her glassy gaze far beyond the opposite wall tells him that she’s light years away. She’s propped her elbow on her knee and chews absently at her thumbnail. She startles when he leans over and places the bowl of ravioli on the coffee table in front of her.

Allura blinks. She bends over and peers into the bowl. “What’s this?”

He sits down on the other end of the couch - a misnomer, really, given that the size of the furniture puts him right next to her anyway. Keith gives her a half-shrug.

“It's Earth food,” and then, feeling as though he shouldn’t give her any more misconceptions about Earth, “Well, sorta.”

She picks up the bowl and spoons at the small pasta squares, then glances over at his food. As far as Keith can tell, she doesn’t look impressed… though she doesn’t look repulsed, either.

“Ah, so the myth is real,” she teases. “Though I must ask, is it Earth food by Hunk's standards, or your standards?”

“Okay, look, it would have been a waste to throw out the food goo just because it was burned,” Keith huffs. While he had plenty of inglorious memories to relive, that one was particularly embarrassing. “Hunk just doesn't get the need to conserve resources when it comes to food!”

She raises an eyebrow and waits. He tries glaring at her, but ends up glaring at the wall.

“... This stuff would definitely not meet Hunk's standards.”

Laughter fills the cramped living room. A genuine laugh from Allura is a rich, rare sound - not unlike him, she’s more inclined towards a surprised guffaw or a side-eye snicker - and the rosy fullness of it settles on Keith’s shoulders and prods at his lips until he, too, smiles.

Her next question is interspersed with giggles. “But it meets yours?”

Keith looks over the MREs. Warm, carb-and-protein dense, recognizable as sustenance. He nods. “Yeah.”

“Then it's more than good enough,” she declares.

The normal thing to do would be to turn to his own food and attempt to eat it before it got cold. But they’re not sitting around the long table in the dining room, about to partake in their customary food goo, and to be frank, there’s next to nothing normal about the situation anyway, so instead he reclines a bit on the couch and watches her take try to take her first bite of Earth food. Slippery and more than a little mushy, the ravioli slides off of her spoon twice. A delicate pout dips onto her face as she spoon chases the pasta around the bowl. With a grumble, she spears the ravioli with the tapered end of her spoon, chopping it into pieces but managing to get some of it on.

“Is Earth food always this elusive?”

“Some of it,” he replies. “You guys had the right idea with the sporks.”

She hits him with a half grin and then tries the bite on her spoon. Her eyes drift to the ceiling as she chews on the ravioli. It’s clear she’s taking in each sensation from the little flickers of emotion that cross her face, too quick for him to register. She gives a thoughtful hum, then swallows.

Pleasure blooms on her face. Her eyes widen.

“Oh Quiznak,” she hisses. “This is amazing.”

She shovels two or three more spoonfuls into her mouth and chews like she hasn’t eaten in weeks. Her eyes flutter shut. Soft noises of contentment escape her throat. She swallows hard.

“It’s so- the sort of salty, savory flavor-” she starts.

“The cheese, probably.”

“You all have told me about cheese before!” Allura says, sounding excited. “I thought you were all being ludicrous when Pidge and Hunk first explained what someone could do with Kaltenecker. If I’d only known…”

Like laughter, true delight is something seldom seen to cross Allura’s expression. Pride, sure. Uncertainty, occasionally. But Keith thinks he could count all of the times Allura’s looked truly happy on one short hand: the first time Coran mentioned the space mall (she’d looked almost like a petulant teen when Coran vetoed her trip; Keith supposes she was, though); seeing the AI of her father (joy soon smashed by the overwhelming reality that he was gone); and after the first time they’d formed Voltron with her piloting the Red Lion (it was the first reprieve from worry over Shiro any of them had experienced). The last one had them all so overwhelmed, relieved, that he’d thrown his arms around her and they’d done a dizzy spin around Red. With the way she looks now, he feels the urge to do the same again.

“If you like this, you’d lose it at an Olive Garden,” Keith says with a chuckle.

“What’s that?” Allura asks. Her words are muffled by the food in her mouth.

“A restaurant where they serve ravioli and stuff like that.”

“And that’s what this is?” she follows up, pointing at the pasta with her spoon. “Ravioli?” She tastes the syllables as carefully as she had her first bite.

“Yeah,” he says. He lets his head rest on the back of the couch, and looks over at her out of the corner of his eye. “If we weren’t supposed to be keeping a low profile, we could go into town and have a real meal.” He sighs a bit. Funny, how he’d overlooked the comforts of things like food that didn’t come out of a packet when he’d spent all those months here on his own.

“I suppose that settles things then,” Allura says, face screwing up. “We need to defeat Zarkon immediately so we can come back and you can take me to one of these 'Love Gardens’ for ravioli.”

The high wheeze of his voice matches the sudden tightness in his chest. “It’s ‘Olive Garden’,” he manages.

“Oh, I can hear the difference now,” Allura says. She scoops up another bite of ravioli like she hasn't just obliterated all remaining vestiges of his composure.

They eat in contented silence, Allura slowing down between each bite, likely to savor the sensation, and Keith doing his best to slurp up the beef stroganoff without it seeming strange. He must not do a convincing enough job, for she offers to share the spoon with him not long after. He protests, but she insists, and as was often the way, her resolve won out. He takes two of three bites of his dinner, passes the spoon back to her, and stares so hard at the bowl that he’s surprised it doesn’t crack. He’s not sure how he keeps a neutral expression through it all.

Once they’re done, Allura stands up and gently tugs Keith’s bowl from his hands. She stacks in on his, and heads towards the kitchen. He scrambles up to follow her.

“You don’t have to do that, Allura, you’re-”

“A guest?” she asks, turning back. One side of her mouth curls into a grin.

“Yeah?” he replies, stopping short. Her voice is amused, he can hear that much, but there’s something about the situation he can just tell he hasn’t gotten a read on.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, stepping into the kitchen. “It’s the least I can do - you flew us all the way out here. Besides, it would have been mine and Pidge’s night on cleaning rotation back in the Castle, and it just…” Allura hesitates. He leans up against the door to the kitchen and looks in, but her back is turned to him. She places the bowls in the sink. Her shoulders slump. “It would feel out of place not helping.”

Keith gets that. He’d fought hard not to question why Shiro had sent him and Allura to Earth instead of going on one of the other, clearly more useful missions. Pidge had wanted a team to go back to Earth and investigate the cave where they’d found Blue, which was understandable to be sure: Blue had managed to avoid Zarkon’s notice for millennia, meaning there had to be some significant shielding technology within the cavern - something they were currently in desperate need of. But why Shiro had picked Keith - who was better with a knife than a computer screen on his worst days - and Allura - whose chameleon-like ability to change her appearance and deadly hand-to-hand combat skills would have come in handy anywhere but a desert devoid of life - to travel to Earth is a mystery to him. Maybe that, he thinks, is the source of the nagging strangeness he’s felt ever since they left the Castle. The sense of being useless from so far away. Allura runs some water in the bowls, using her hands to clean out any clinging bits of food. She doesn’t seem perturbed by the lack of soap or other form of sanitization, and if halfway through drying off the first bowl with the edge of her shirt when she jerks and looks up at Keith.

“I should have asked before I started, is this all right?” she says, gesturing at the bowl and shirt with a dip of her chin.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” he says. He steps into the kitchen. “I did the exact same thing. Pass them here and I’ll put them up.”

Keith takes the bowl from her and shuffles to the left of the sink to stick it back up in its otherwise empty cabinet. With as small as the kitchen is, it’s an effort not to brush shoulders with her as he reaches up and places the bowl on the shelf.

“I guess you do a lot of cooking here,” Allura says, humor sharp in her voice as she dries the second bowl. “This is always what I pictured when I imagined Hunk’s dream kitchen.”

He chuckles and turns to lean against the short counter. This time, their shoulders do brush. Once again Keith can’t help but notice how warm the kitchen has gotten. If he had the time he’d need to do a thorough once-over of the place and look for more cracks or structural damage. The place had lasted decades; it wouldn’t be on his watch that it fell to total shambles.

“To be fair, we weren’t exactly the hosting type. Most of the time, we cooked and ate over a fire anyway.”

“We?”

“Me and my dad.”

Keith takes the second bowl she offers without looking at her and puts it up. He crosses his arms over his chest when he leans back against the counter. As if it hadn’t been years, the images race back in an instant: dragging the large stewpot and a cooler full of vegetables out to the back of the cabin; his father distracting Keith with stories of the constellations as he skinned a rabbit caught in one of the traps near the cabin’s foundation; the tang of smoke and fat curling in his nostrils.

He knows he doesn’t quite keep the twisting grief off of his face, so he looks away from her, fixating on the wall. No doubt she’s been well aware of his past; he can picture Shiro briefing her on it, reporting “no mother” and “father disappeared when he was fourteen” with the sort of gentle neutrality that only he seemed able to pull off. Keith’s stomach lurches at the thought of what he might see in Allura’s expression if he were to turn. They’re here on a mission. He doesn’t have time to navigate her pity.

She stirs beside him. There’s the clink of the bowl as she sets it on the counter. A moment later, he feels the soft pressure of her hand on his arm.

“Thank you,” she says. Her voice is low and clear, and despite himself, he looks over.

Allura’s lips press together in a tight line, and she gazes down at him with serious eyes. There’s an undeniable regality to the way she holds herself taut.

She looks sad.

An unspoken understanding surges between them. He is, after all, not alone in the loss of a father, of a home. Keith reaches up and settles his hand over hers. He stares back at her, into the crystalline stillness of her eyes. The silence is marred by the steady pick up in his pulse, loud enough now to be a low thrum in his ears.

“It’s fine,” he says after a beat. She gives him a small smile. He doesn’t let go of her hand. “We should probably go set up the low-frequency transmitter Pidge stuck in Red. With us being out in the desert, we won’t have to worry much about weather interference, but we’re going to have to find the right place to set it up so it’s unobstructed, since the signal’s different.”

Allura’s small smile grows into a grin, and she squeezes his arm. “Roof?”

Keith nods, unable to hold back a chuckle. “Yes, we’ll climb the roof.”

#kallura #keith x allura #kallura fic #vld #vld fic #my writing #developing feelings #alone together #part 1 #stardusted #birthday fic

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tentoriwrites · 4 years

Text

War of the Constructors: C-375

Light poured into the cavernous space from towering vaulted windows on one side of the grand cathedral. A huge table filled the center of the room though no one occupied it. Blue energy rippled over the surface of an obsidian hued wall on one side. It stood in stark contrast to the brightly polished surfaces elsewhere in the room. A cursory glance and one would think it was solid. Under scrutiny, the blackened surface shifted and rearranged minutely each time energy pulsed through it. A tall, stately being stood facing the wall with one hand pressed against it.

“We are poised atop the point of the smallest needle.” A commanding voice filled the vast open room. “What are we to do when the merest whisper could topple us into oblivion?”

“The Grand Union has made its decision then?” a smaller, though no less authoritative, voice questioned from a behind him.

“The Grand Union has voted to remain neutral.” the imposing figure answered definitively. “We are to prepare for the end of the war when we will rebuild.”

“Neutral?! You can’t be serious! When there’s so much proof against the Decepticons?” a booming, but rough voice echoed off the walls.

“The Grand Union holds the pragmatic belief the war is a necessary part of the growth and expansion of Cybertron,” he explained this with no emotion in his voice. He removed his hand from the wall and it melted away. Then, he finally turned to face them.

“Many already blame us for letting it go on as long as it has. This is only going to inflame popular sentiments against us,” a female half his height objected getting up from her kneeling position.

“The Grand Union acts solely with the best interests of Cybertron at heart.”

“We are being accused of being blind to the suffering of the people!” the gruff toned male grumbled.

“The preservation of Cybertron and its citizens has always been the primary objective of the Constructors.” He touched a different wall and every surface of the room illuminated with scenes from the history of the planet. “That is not to say the means are always correct. Progress is our driving force. Progress means change.” He turned to look at them wistfully as his hand slid off the wall, falling heavily to his side. “Alas, if only changing patterns were as easy as changing appearance.”

“Master Prime?” The female approached him carefully.

“C-375.” He smiled and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “The Decepticons are so popular because they seem willing to make the hard choices to ensure the survival of our people.” He crossed the room on long strides and looked out at the capital city below with its great structures and spires stretching out far as even the strongest optics could see. “Yet even they fail to recognize the obvious. They are fighting over a dying world. There is no hope of survival if we remain here.”

“Then what can we do?” C-375 asked forlorn.

“Find a new home.” He smiled warmly as he turned his attention back to the shorter pair. “I thought this day would come eventually. I started a far-reaching experiment to determine if we could colonize another planet somewhere. The experiment has yielded promising results and is now in the final stages. I need both of you to help me see it through to completion.”

“It would be an honor,” the gruff voice male answered, though not without reservation in his voice.

The female was less than enthusiastic in her response. “As you command.”

“C-376. I know you have always sought to protect what is precious to you. For this reason, you are to create the colony’s defenses and train the colonists to use them.”

“Of course, just tell me what we’re up against and I’ll build the best defenses for any terrain!”

“You have reservations, 375.” He turned his attention to her.

“You’re supposed to be the Prime Constructor. Our leader. Yet you defy the Council so openly? What do you expect us to think of you now?” she spoke with no hesitation.

“Our people are dying.” The sound of a distant explosion seemed to punctuate his statement. The floor trembled slightly as he proceeded.

“It has always been the purpose of the Constructors to serve the needs of the people and to push them forward. Always. Right now, their primary need is survival. We can no longer cling steadfastly to the hope of saving our planet. Even if the Autobots succeed, we do not have the manpower or resources left to survive here.”

He loosed a long sigh as he turned to look out at the growing plume of smoke in the distance.

“Even with the war on their door step, the Council cannot see this. It then falls to us to defy the last vestiges of order and embrace the chaotic so that we may restore order in time.” He turned back to her. “Surely you see the truth in this?”

“The outer lands have not had power in many cycles. The inner lands have suffered from rolling blackouts with increasing frequency. Supplies are scarce outside the major cities.” She took a deep breath and looked up at him determined. “We will need many things.”

The Prime smiled at her pleased. “I have already dispatched Active Reconnaissance Constructors, ARCs, for short. They have located several viable planets with no intelligent life to compete with that are also rich in resources. They have also started mining operations on comets and dead planets unsuited to habitation for any life to bolster the dwindling resources here. We have all we need to proceed.”

“What about energy?” 376 wondered.

“We have all we need thanks to your sister. That was her mission. She concluded an experiment recently and ported back the results. It is more than enough Energon to power a full planet sized colony for several hundred cycles at conservative usage. This will give her time to finish her other experiments and develop a long-term solution.”

“I thought her experiments were related to her trying to make her own monolith like yours…” 375 looked deeply confused.

“They were. But she was able to surpass the technology utilized to create the monolith. She then used it to create an energy extraction system able to adapt seamlessly to any environment. Capable of drawing power from any energy source. Her monolith on the other hand only draws power from her.”

“I see.” She still didn’t sound convinced of the explanation.

“We will need you to design ships, 375. I will do my best to attract colonists without drawing too much attention from the warring factions or the Council.”

She snapped out of her fog long enough to answer. “Yes! I’ll get started right away.”

“It is imperative that this is done offline as much as possible. If you need to communicate with me, come to me directly.”

“Understood.” They spoke and bowed in unison.

“When the time is right, I will contact 377 to meet you on our new home. Creator watch over you.”

“And also you.”

“It’s been a long time since I was in here.” 375 placed a hand on the door to her sister’s work room. “The last time I was here we had that fight…” She got a melancholy look on her face as she recalled all the terrible things she had said that day.

“When are you going to do something useful?! What’s the point of having your own monolith if you’re never going to do anything worth recording?” She raked her arm across the workbench and sent everything into a jumbled heap on the floor.

“Unlocking the key to ancient technologies like the Monolith could be the key to our survival in the future!” 377 yelled back defiantly.

“Are you even a Constructor? Listen to yourself! Our creed is to keep pushing forward. Yet, you are always looking at the past.” She gripped her sister’s shoulders and made her look up.

Defiance still shone bright behind her eyes. “If we forget all about the lessons of the past, we will be doomed to repeat the mistakes of our ancestors. Someone has to keep the records. That’s what I want to do! But I want to be able to do it with a completely sustainable energy source!” She held up a small black cube. “I saw a plan for something like this in the archives. It’s an energy converter that turns solar energy into Energon. This model is very inefficient but if I can get it working, then there’s nothing stopping me from solving all our energy needs! But sure, you can just keep on thinking this is just about me selfishly wanting my own monolith while my head is stuck in the past.” 377 turned away from her sister and went back to cleaning up.

“You know they abandon that project because there’s not enough solar energy on Cybertron to make it viable. That’s why they never bothered to make it more efficient,” 375 replied somberly as she rolled her optics.

“Our ancestor’s vision was lacking. Solar energy isn’t the only source we could utilize for Energon.”

“Oh? What would you propose instead?”

“Wind, kinetic, heat.” She turned and looked her sister square in the optics. “Besides, who said we’d be confined to Cybertron forever?”

“Cybertron is our home. It will always be our home,” 375 huffed as she turned towards the door.

“Now who’s stuck in the past?”

“You’re impossible!”

“Runs in the family!”

“You were trying to tell me without telling me, weren’t you?” 375 sat down heavily on a makeshift stool and looked down at the workbench. It was littered with incomplete, burnt up, or crumbling tablets and cubes. She rubbed one of the charred spots idly when she realized there was an out of place divot on the workbench. When she slid a digit into it a popping noise was heard elsewhere in the room.

“What are you hiding?” 375 looked around slowly. After scouring the room for hours, she finally thought to pull the workbench out. Hidden in a small vault in the floor was a clear jar. It looked empty in the dark hole, but in the dim light of the workshop, a very faintly iridescent shine could be seen dancing around the jar.

“Seriously, what is this?” She focused her optics as much as she could but still couldn’t make out what was in the jar. Finally, she twisted the jar open and poked a digit into the shining contents. Nothing happened.

“Maybe they’re out of power…” She closed the jar again and started shaking it thinking maybe kinetic energy would do it. Again, nothing happened.

“Do they need an Energon jolt or something?” She unscrewed the cap again but this time she used her digit to give the contents a small jolt of Energon.

The contents glowed brightly for a brief moment before shooting out of the jar. When the glow faded, a small tablet floated in the air in front of her face. “You really did it after all…” A fond smile made a home on her face as she reached toward the tablet.

“Welcome Constructor 375.” The tablet spoke to her in a generic voice.

375 pulled her hand back startled. “You… recognize my voice?”

“If you found this it means something happened and you are looking for answers.” 377’s voice filled the room. “I can offer you little now, but when the time is right, the Prime Constructor will contact you. This tablet contains the earliest records of my experiment. These nanobots are… imperfect… but they will give you an idea of what I’ve been working on. You are the only one I can trust with this information, sister. Please keep it safe for me.” There was a long pause. “I promise I’m not doing this to gloat either.” A second, even longer pause filled with static. “If anything happens to me, shut it down. Shut it all down.” Her tone took on an ominous quality that didn’t suit 375’s image of her sister.

“Why are you so worried about this sister?” Without getting an answer to that question, the tablet’s glow faded leaving nothing but a black brick. “I guess it need more juice…” She took the tablet and another jar from the vault and left the workshop.

Once she was back in her own workshop, 375 tried to power up the tablet again. It took a long time for it to come to life though. Once she could get the screen on, she immediately started digging through all the files. The information simultaneously astounded and horrified her. The tiny machines in the jar were designed to seamlessly adapt to any and all shapes and forms so they could harvest Energon from any possible source. Although this process was largely automated, they could be commanded to take on specific shapes to collect and expel energy.

“Because the source of energy could be anything, I have opt’d not to place any restrictions on the shape the nanobots can take. Understanding the risks of this decision, a security protocol will have to be instituted to ensure the NBs are not used for purposes outside intended.”

375 looked down at the entry on the tablet dumbfounded for a moment. “You… you… YOU FOOL! You absolute idiot! You buffoon! I CANNOT believe you thought something like this would be okay!” 375 fumed as she stalked around her workshop. “And just what kind of security features did you put in place?” She finally said in an utterly mocking tone.

Each experiment exists in isolation from every other experiment. They are unable to communicate with each other.

Only respond to commands delivered through a specific channel. Channel can only be accessed at specified terminals.

The channel transmits Energon signature of user. NBs will only respond to commands from users with approved Energon signatures.

Only 2 entities are approved to command the NBs at this time.

“You and who else can command them? The Prime Constructor, I’d wager…” 375’s fury cooled as she slunk down on to a stool at her workbench. “But is this really enough? Can the final models be hacked another way?” She let out a long sigh. “Later. I have my own task to work on.” With that, she tucked all of her sister’s experimental items away and set on her own.

“It’s a good design. The pods can be launched separately but join together to form a space colony or a colony on the ground. It solves several issues at once. Excellent work.” The Prime Constructor’s smile positively beamed as he cast a fond gaze at 375. “I was right to choose you for this task.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “It is very different for you though. Where did you find inspiration for the design?”

“From my sister, actually. I found an old design of hers in her workshop. The design was terrible but the note on it was very helpful.” She had a nostalgic air as she spoke fondly of the moment. “We can transform into other things, why shouldn’t other things in our lives do the same?”

“Hm…” He scratched his chin idly for a moment. “Interesting.” He donned a warm smile again and turned away. “Once 376 finishes the defense design we will be able to proceed with the final stage. Please stand by until then.”

“As you wish, Master Prime.”

Leaving the Prime Constructor and the Spire behind, 375 went back to her workshop. The jar of defunct nanobots mocked her the moment she sat down at her workbench. She huffed out a frustrated noise. “This isn’t right…” She lifted the jar up between two digits and rolled it around. “Nothing about this is right.” She quickly sat the jar down again. She tried to focus on something else but her optics kept drifting back to the jar. She roared with frustration as she slammed both fists into the table. Then, she laughed. She laughed for a long time about seemingly nothing at all.

“I apologize, Sister. It seems I’m the one who’s stuck in the past.” She picked up the jar again and rolled the kaleidoscope around in the light. “Leaving Cybertron once and for all feels so wrong. Even the Council agrees. All of this leaving business is the desire of only one among us.” Her grip steadily tightened on the jar the more she dwelled on it. “What great wisdom does he possess to have the sole authority to make this decision?” Her hand clamped shut around the jar. “None…”

“The Constructors stand at a crossroads. To date they have chosen to walk a straight down the middle. Flaunting their self-righteous neutrality while turning a blind eye to the suffering of the masses.” A charismatic voice echoed through the usually bustling city. Now it was quiet save for that one voice. “With the resources at their disposal, they could easily bring about the end of this tragic war. All they need do is choose the right side…”

As those final words echoed through the lifeless streets, it was unclear if it was an invitation or a threat… Or both.

“I had a feeling it would come to this,” the Prime Constructor commented grimly. Silence fell over the crowded room full of all the remaining Constructors. As they waited for him to continue, not one of them could deny the truth behind the announcement. They could help end the war.

“Some of you have already chosen a side. I will not begrudge you that. However, we are, and shall continue to remain, neutral. If you cannot continue on this path, please go now and walk the one you have chosen.” His gaze stayed fixed on the blackened sky outside the grand windows. It seemed the clouds of war stretched out forever now blotting out the very sun in the sky.

Once all the shuffling of those leaving subsided, he finally turned to address the remaining crowd. “Our world has been slowing dying.” He said this decisively and outside the words echoed through the streets. This was his answer to the Decepticons just as much as it was a reassurance to the remaining Constructors.

“This war has hastened the end of our planet by accelerating the destruction and use of what resources remain. The Grand Council has chosen to remain neutral and I stand by that decision. What I cannot stand by is the foolish logic behind that decision. They believed… still believe the war will end quickly and we Constructors must be ready to rebuild. It was clear to me from the beginning this would be a protracted war from which there would be no recovery.” He let those words linger for a long moment.

“It has always been the prime directive of the Constructors to move Cybertron forward. Always forward to ensure the evolution and survival of all our kind. That is why I ordered the building of evacuation ships that will ferry us to a new start. A new planet has already been selected. Anyone who does not identify as an Autobot or Decepticon is free to board and join us.”

The looks on the faces filling the room were mixed. Some hopeful, some conflicted, some out right horrified.

“The decision is yours. We will start sending off the first ships in the next few cycles.” On that note, he passed through the large doors to the Grand Council room.

“Foolish old man…” 375 hissed as she watched the Grand Constructor leaves the room. She clenched her fists closed tightly, sparks arcing off the digits as she did. She glared down at her workbench littered with tiny scorch marks. “What am I missing that you figured out?” She hissed in frustration as she scratched one of the scorch marks until there was a divot.

“Sister…” A gruffy voice at the door pulled her back into the moment. “Did you see…?” The door slid open and 376 peeked his head in.

“Yeah… You can come in.” She motioned for him to enter.

376 plopped down on the floor heavily and sighed. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”

“Yes… but…” She shook her head a moment and looked down at the scorched workbench again. “Does it really have to be this way?”

“I don’t think there’s any changing the future now.” 376 stared at the floor in front of him as his shoulders hunched.

“There is… I just have to figure out how to make it work.”

376 stood up so he could get a good look at what she was talking about. “I don’t understand…”

“It’s probably nothing… Just something I’m playing around with right now but can’t figure out how to make it work.” She sounded despondent as she turned to look at him again.

“Maybe you should talk to the Prime Constructor. He may be able to help you find the solution your needing. Or the resolve to follow this new path before us.” He gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder.

She studied his monolith! Of course!

“You may be right… but I want to try just a little longer to figure it out on my own.” She rested a hand on his while a smile found its way to her face.

“I’m going to be busy coordinating the protection for the pod launches but you know I’ll always find time for you.” His hand slid out from under hers but a soft smile offered more reassurance.

“Thank you.”

He left her to her own devices once again. After the door had slid shut, she slumped over the workbench. “He is far too loyal to the Prime Constructor to understand what I’m doing…” She pulled the jar of nanobots close to her. “Now how can I get ahold of his bots?”

She looked out the towering windows of the Spire’s meeting room. In the wastes beyond the city there was the bright streaking glow of a ship taking off. She immediately recognized the shape as one of her design. For a moment she felt a deep sense of pride knowing something she designed was now a working vehicle. That feeling quickly faded when she remembered the purpose of the vessel and her purpose for being in the Spire.

The Grand Council adjourned for the time being after they decided on the course of action for dealing with the Prime Constructor. Though they conceded he had not violated their decree to remain neutral in the strictest sense, they ruled he acted outside the rules of Council of Constructors. For that he was currently being imprisoned as an enemy of the people.

Naturally, the Decepticons relished this news. They used it as further proof that the Constructors were harmful elements of society that needed to be brought under the thumb of someone other than themselves. The Autobots saw this as the Grand Council kowtowing to the Decepticons. Although, she suspected the Autobots didn’t think he was serious about leaving Cybertron for another planet either.

Whatever the case, all eyes were on the launch and the Spire was abandoned. With the Prime Constructor incarcerated, it was the perfect opportunity of 375 to steal a piece of his monolith for study. To her surprise, the doors to the Grand Council room opened with little effort. Though she had never been in the room before, she was underwhelmed by it. It looked exactly like the meeting room she had just left only somehow larger. Looking around briefly, she proceeded to another large set of doors she knew led to the stairs to the top of the Spire. That’s where the Prime Constructor lived, after all. What better place to find his monolith.

She stared at the door at the top of the stairs for a long time before finally pushing it open. A single window did little to illuminate the circular room. Instead, it made the stark emptiness feel even more eerie.

“I don’t understand. There’s nothing here…” She took a few tentative steps into the room and looked around confused.

“I wondered how long it was going to take you to end up here…” A friendly voice echoed off the walls just before the door shut on its own. “You’re here for answers. And because you cannot live with your do nothing sister making such a discovery.”

“How do you…! That has nothing to do with this.” She schooled her voice calm indifference.

A warm and hearty laugh filled the room. “Every single one. I was there when every single Constructor was brought into this world. I know your very Spark.”

“I’m not sure why you’re bringing that up.”

“I know you. I knew what you were going to do before you even knew this path before you. That’s why I told 377 to entrust all her research to you.”

“You what?”

“She was to be my protégé, after all. To take my place after I could no longer lead the Constructors.”

“Was?” Pain wove through the word.

“When the time is right you will have answers. They may not be the ones you want, but you will have them.”

The door slowly opened behind her letting light from the hall infiltrate the eeriness. She glanced at it over her shoulder.

“Just what are you planning?”

“To save our people.”

“Is that really all?”

“Of course.”

She turned towards the door but made no effort to walk towards it. “All this talk about sending us to a new home world. No talk of social structure, government, no administration discussions whatsoever.”

The warm and hearty laugh filled the room again. “It has all been accounted for in the plan, 375. Worry not.”

Knowing she wouldn’t get anything else she left the room. She made sure to slam the door behind her to voice the feelings she could not put into words.

“I cannot just blindly follow this. There are far too many unknowns.” She spit out as she tromped down the stairs. Her rage boiled inside of her the whole way out of the Spire only to be instantly cooled the moment she walked outside.

A crowd had gathered at the base of the stairs to the Spire. They started cheering once they realized she was there. Steeped in confusion, she could do nothing but stand there staring at them.

“I knew it the whole time! I knew the Constructor’s would come up with something to save us!”

Her optics danced around the cheering crowd until it landed on a glowing flyer on a building beyond them. It was advertising a Constructor lead utopia free of war and fighting. A world where there is plenty for everyone.

A hand, covered in battered plates, where plates still clung, gently grasped hers. Instantly shocked back into the present, 375’s gaze shot down.

“Please. Please tell me there are more ships.”

“It… ah…” She vacillated in her response before finding something inside herself to steady her thoughts. “Yes. There will be more ships. As many as are needed to help everyone who needs them to escape this place.”

And suddenly, the villains became the heroes…

“Well this got out of hand quickly.” 376 sighed as he held his head in his hands. He looked down at the conference table of the Spire. In the middle of the table was a pile of Constructor insignias. Each one had suffered varying degrees of destruction.

“He knew this was going to happen. That’s why the first 5 ships were mostly Constructors,” 375 commented from her place on the opposite side of the table. Her arms were crossed on the edge of the table and she was talking into the floor as her head rested on them.

“There are only a handful of registered Constructors left on the planet, that is true.”

Silence settled over the room again and a voice could be heard in the distance through a now shattered window. “The Constructors and anyone who follow them are traitors to Cybertron! Any Constructors or anyone found associating with them will be killed on sight!”

“What do you think they’ll do when there’s no more Constructors to target? Go back to fighting each other?” It was clearly a rhetorical question 376 was asking.

“They will increase attacks on the ships as they’re loading or leaving,” 375 answered him decisively anyways.

“They are very quickly losing the favor of the populace over this. But the Autobots aren’t actually too popular now either. They are no longer willing to assist us in protecting the ships or their passengers.” He changed directions now. “I guess I’ll have to make you a weapon.”

“The polearm with a plasma blade isn’t a weapon?” She used a joking tone as she finally looked up at him.

“Being able to attack from range might be good too.” He gave her a bracing grin when he looked up. He reached out and solemnly wrapped his large hand around all the insignias, pulling them to his chest.

“I’ll be fine now that I have my secret weapon.” She sat a clear jar on the table while smiling broadly.

“What is it?” he wondered looking intently at the jar.

“The thing that’s going to save Cybertron.”

He gave her a dubious look. “Let’s say that was possible. It still doesn’t tell me exactly what it is.”

“Boundless potential.” She smiled at him coyly.

He looked increasingly unamused with each evasive response. “If you aren’t going to tell me, just say so…”

She glanced around before speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “Not here. Meet me at home.”

This did little to soothe his worry but he followed her back to their house anyways. On their way out of the Spire they were met with an unlikely face. “PRIME CONSTRUCTOR!” 376 bounded towards him with barely contained joy. “How did you get out of prison?”

“It appears the Grand Council has finally come to terms with the truth.” He gave 376 a bracing grin. “They agreed to my release on the condition they be given passage on one of our ships.” He ushered both of the smaller bots on out of the Spire. “We are moving very quickly to finish the rest of the launches. There will only be two more ships launching from the Capital. The rest will launch from the other cities or the wastes. I would like you two on the next ship off world.”

“What about you?” 376 was genuinely concerned about his leader.

“I will leave with the Grand Council on the last ship. This is my idea, after all, I should see that everyone who wants to leave has the chance to.”

376 seemed to reluctantly accept this answer. For her part, 375 said nothing. She only followed behind them watching very closely.

“I don’t suppose you’ve…” 376’s voice trailed off.

“Not yet, if I hear anything else I’ll let you know immediately.” Even the Prime Constructor sounded grim.

“Understood. If someone needs to go…”

“I will advise you if the plan has changed before you would leave on the ARC ship.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

They parted ways with the Prime Constructor and went back to their home near the Spire.

“You’re acting really strange, Sis. You’re not up to anything danger…” The rest of his thought died as soon as he cast his optics on her workspace. “What the scrap…” His optics focused in on a huge, amorphous blob undulating in the air above the workbench.

“Remember 377 was trying to figure out how the Prime Constructor’s monolith worked?” 375 was giddy as she gazed at her creation.

“Yeah…”

“She figured it out and then some. These are based off her prototypes. The Grand Monolith was only meant to store information. But hers… They can become anything! Buildings, batteries, temporary or permanent bot mods… Weapons… Whatever the controller desires!”

“And what exactly is your desire?” 376’s voice was sharp as a blade as he stared down his sister with ever-deepening suspicion. The plates of his arm tinked and clinked, ready to change into a gun at a moment’s notice.

Sensing his anger, 375 gently wrapped her slender digits around his forearm to keep it from changing. “I’m going to bide my time until the Autobots and Decepticons have destroyed each other. Once they’re gone, I’ll use the nanobots to rebuild everything on Cybertron. Then everyone can come home!”

If she had stopped there, he would have been okay with the whole situation. Angry for taking something that wasn’t hers and using it for a purpose it was not intended for, but okay.

“More than that, this is the leverage we need to protect the Constructors and keep everyone else in line! No one would dare fight us when we have something that can kill them before they realize what’s happening!” She let go of his arm and turned to her workbench. It was clear from the resolute and hopeful tone of her voice she saw no issue with her plan.

“Please tell me you’re kidding…” His voice almost cracked in pain as he bore holes in the floor with his gaze. “Answer me!”

375 was looking down at the workbench in disbelief. “They aren’t here…” She immediately started scanning every nook and cranny of the room.

“What’s not here?”

She didn’t hear him as her search became more fevered and frantic. “I didn’t take them out of this room once I found them…”

“Sister! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing.” She answered him absently as she continued searching.

“You aren’t acting like this is nothing!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him.

But she couldn’t look at him for some reason. Her optics strayed back to the workbench. “377’s prototypes are… missing.”

“What do you mean, they’re missing?” It was an uncharacteristic growl.

“They were here a few cycles ago and now they aren’t.” She answered quietly, sheepishly as she continued looking at the work bench. “But it’s fine! I wasn’t going to glean anything else from them anyways!” She donned a happy smile and looked up at him finally.

“Could anyone have gotten in here and taken them?” Barely contained rage simmered under every word now.

She looked at him confused. “No… the door will only unlock for me.”

376 released her shoulders and closed his optics. His chest heaved dramatically before he spoke. “The replicator twins defected to the Decepticons.”

“What?!” She seemed genuinely shocked to hear this.

“Which you would KNOW if you weren’t so thoroughly buried in your own selfish ambition for half a millicycle!” A fist flew past her face, a mere hair’s breadth away, and impacted the solid metal wall. The impact left a crater in the wall and sent the shockwave reverberating through the whole room. Once the drone finally quieted, he turned to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To find our sister before the Decepticons.”

“You don’t know where to look…”

“A fear of the unknown has never stopped me from moving forward before.” The door made a soft thunk as it closed and he was gone.

For a moment she thought about going after him, of offering to help. It was clear to her how that would end. “We walk two different roads now…” She picked up a slim tablet from her workbench and danced her digits across the surface. The amorphous cloud solidified into a rocket pack on her back and a pair of plasma guns on both arms. “I will have my answers…” She mumbled as she grabbed a pole. As soon as she wrapped her fingers around it, a blade of energy formed on one end.

After what felt like an eternity of descending into ever-growing darkness, 375 finally stood in front of a towering set of all black doors. She pushed on one door with all her might and it inched open. When she slid in, the Prime Constructor was there deeply focused on a console in front of him.

“I suspected you would show up eventually.” He stopped working and looked up the moment she entered the room. “Unfortunately, I do not have the answers you seek, much to my own chagrin.”

“What does that mean?”

“It is your desire to end the fighting and restore Cybertron, is it not?”

“Yes… I want us to always call Cybertron home. For everyone to come back one day.” Her answered was direct and resolute.

“Then our goals align. At least on that point.” He finally turned to look at her. There was a softness about his features for a moment before hardening to stone. “It seems I miscalculated… It should have been you.”

“What… are you talking about?” She lowered her arms, but not her guard.

“I know not her motives in doing so, but 377 has locked me out of all her systems.” He turned back to the console and started pattering away at the control surface. “I keep telling myself there must be a logical reason for this. Perhaps she was attacked by the Decepticons and locked everyone out as a precaution?” His digits stopped abruptly. “We cannot rule out the chance she betrayed us to the Decepticons either.”

“What if she betrayed us to the Autobots?” It was a probing question.

“I doubt the Autobots would deny her contact. Although that is a possibility as well, I suppose.” He brought a hand to his chin and stroked it thoughtfully for a moment. “If they were in possession of her work, they are much more apt the keep it a secret.”

“And the Decepticons?”

“Would use it at the first opportunity.” His answer was grim. “At the very least they would have flaunted it.” He turned to look at her again. “There may still be hope of seeing our dream come to fruition.” He reached out a hand to her, inviting her to come closer.

“And what of 377’s dream?” 375 took a pensive step forward.

“Her dream is to see our people prosper. Do we not owe it to her to see that dream through to the end if she cannot?”

She looked at his outstretched hand long and hard while she processed her best course of action. In the end she gave him a smile. In fact, she looked down right relieved. Instead of taking his hand, she hurtled into his arms nearly knocking him over. The prototype bots melted from around her as she went falling like water to the floor.

“I know you would never REALLY betray Cybertron and turn your back on it!” Though she smiled, there was something off about it. Something forced. The Prime Constructor couldn’t see it though.

“Oh… please for forgive me for making your worry so.” He gave her a few gentle pats on the back. “Come now. You have a long journey ahead of you if you are going to reclaim for sister’s work for us.”

“Constructor 375!” An authoritative voice stopped her on her way to the private shuttle the Prime Constructor had directed her to.

“Master Prime!” She bowed deeply as Optimus, leader of the Autobots, approached her.

“We come seeking answers. Once the war is over how can we contact those who left?”

“I don’t even know how to contact the others.” She gave them a pressed smile. “The Prime Constructor controls everything. He even personally programmed the navigation to make sure the Decepticons can’t find us.”

“In order to quell all remnants of war and violence we must remove those elements who would incite it. Perpetuate it.” The Prime Constructor’s answer to Optimus’s question sent the Autobots into an uproar.

Optimus eyed the Prime Constructor with a challenging, searching gaze but said nothing.

“Bringing this fight to our new home is not a risk I am willing to take. I hope you can understand it is just not something I can tell you right now. However, if you can end this war, I can reach out to you.” The Prime Constructor seemed genial enough as he spoke. Quiet settled over the room again.

“Was this decision based on the old wisdom?” Optimus’s question was well and truly loaded.

“Not entirely, no.” His genial tone took on a hard edge. “It is true there have been conflicts on Cybertron in the past. None to this existent. None this widespread. Certainly, none that exacted such a toll on lives and resources.” He looked wistfully out the broken windows of the meeting room. “You are still here because you think Cybertron can yet be saved, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“I am of the same mind. However, until the day comes when we can rebuild our shattered world, someone must care for its people.”

“I… understand…” Optimus was reluctant to say so.

“There are emergency pods located throughout the city. I have programmed a protocol into them. Once we learn the Decepticons have been defeated, the protocol will activate. Then you will be able to find us.”

“You seem to have thought of everything.” Optimus tried to hide his suspicions but they still filtered into his voice.

“I had a great deal of help. Even if it was largely… unwitting…” He gave Optimus a pressed smile. “I’m afraid I must take my leave. The ship for the Council leaves tonight and I have many preparations left.” He slowly sidled along towards the door. As soon as he got far enough away from the pulsing black wall it melted into nothing.

“Do you really think we can trust him to contact us once this is all over?” Arcee put to voice all the skepticism that filled the Autobots once the Prime Constructor was gone.

“The Prime Constructor has always been… calculating. This is more than I ever expected of him though. I think it is important to remember the Constructors are not our allies and we should not expect anything from them. Even after we defeat the Decepticons. From here on out, we’re on our own.”

“These are all the known coordinates of your sister’s experimental bases. Retrieve the contents of all her experiments and I will name you the commander of our forces when we destroy the Autobots and Decepticons. If there’s anything left of them.”

The sinister look in the Prime Constructor’s eye made 375 shudder involuntarily as she recalled it. Still, she couldn’t deny there was something appealing about the prospect of the Constructors being the ruling faction of all Cybertronians… A beeping from the tablet 377 left behind pulled her out of her deep processing.

“If this message is playing, you have left Cybertron. Probably at the urging of the Prime Constructor. Please, sister. Listen very carefully to what I have to say. There’s something very important you need to know about the Prime Constructor…”

#transformers #multiple franchise #original bots #original faction #parallel plot #fanfic #fanfiction

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