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bokettochild · 2 years

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Peace In Time

@silvercaptain24 you didn't say when exactly your birthday was, besides the end of the month, so I hope this is close enough!

As requested, I have crafted a little Warriors and Time bonding fic, with as much Dad Vibes as I could manage to shove into it, I hope you enjoy!

(Also on Ao3)

.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.

Time’s boys all have their quirks.

Twilight tends to chew his cheek when he’s irritated, Legend will tap his feet or gnaw on random things, Wind will start snapping his fingers or picking at his clothes, and Hyrule will randomly twitch. When they’re upset, Sky’s shoulders will narrow somewhat, hunching in to make the other less noticeable. Four will blink furiously, eyes shifting colors and lips pressing closed tightly to prevent words they don’t mean from slipping out. Wild, when he’s upset, tends to go stiff, eyes glassing over slightly and body straightening to the soldierly poise they all hate to see in any of their number.

There’s only one exception to this rule though; Warriors doesn’t change.

Sure, the captain has his quirks. The man will stroke his chin when he’s thinking too hard, or any head of hair that happens to be close by. Wolfie has taken advantage of this many times, and he knows some of the other boys do as well. Warriors will also laugh in a certain way when he’s especially happy, and he might hum a bit when he’s feeling contented. However, all of those are hints and ticks towards the more positive.

Unlike all of the others, when Warriors is upset, they have no way of knowing it’s coming until it has already happened.

Which is what seems to be the case tonight.

He never sleeps well, always wakes every third hour despite himself and has to check the camp. The boys know this, they’ve all mentioned it many times and Wind and Wild have both asked on occasion why it was or how he handles it. They aren’t the only ones, their two insomniacs, Legend and Warriors, have also questioned him about it, although with more subtlety and usually without everyone else listening. Still, it’s a well-known fact, so he’s not really sure why it catches the captain off guard.

“What are you doing up, Old Timer?”

He raises a single brow at the young man, sitting up from where he’d been lying only moments before and staring at the blood on the captain’s hands in a pointed manner. “I could ask the same. You’d been on watch for six hours now.” He doesn’t mention the blood, but Warriors doesn’t make any moved to hide it either.

The captain’s eyes are dark, even in the light of their campfire. Where usually there is brilliant and holy light, like some sort of celestial being come down, the captain’s stare is like an abyss, dull and blank and endless. He can almost see the wall that’s been thrown up between them, can see the mask that makes his boy’s face smooth despite all, despite the ruined carving at Warriors’ feet and the bloodied knife by his side.

He can’t see past the mask.

Warriors knows he can’t.

“Wars,” he repeats, a bit softer, “why are you still on watch?”

The captain sighs, a short thing, and turns to glance over his shoulder. Time follows his stare, his own eye flickering over twin forms huddled together. Legend’s blanket is wrapped tight over Wind’s shoulders as the sailor and veteran hold tight to each other, the vet’s eyes hazy as they blink up at the stars, face otherwise still.

“Wind woke about a couple hours ago,” the captain murmurs softly, “Legend was just about to relieve me but the sailor all but tackled him, sobbing and begging.” There’s pain so open now on the captain’s face as he stares at their youngest, tear-stained face gleaming softly in the firelight where it’s pressed to Legend’s chest. The pain shines in Warriors’ eyes too when he turns back to Time, shoulders loosening just ever so slightly from their stiff hold from a moment before. “He didn’t respond to anything I said or did.”

Oh.

Dreams plague them, all of them. For himself, Sky, and Legend, they’re most often visions, a foretelling of what is to come and what to be looking out for. Legend also deals with some sort of dream that tends to leave him fumbling with reality, and Wind shares his affliction. For Wild, Warriors and Four, they seem to see battles past and hurts long since healed. For his Pup and Hyrule, he doesn’t know, only knows they don’t care to speak of them and tend to be unable to sleep again after them.

It’s why he encourages them to sleep together. More often than not, Sky will sleep better if he holds onto another person, and Wild and Twilight both rest better when the other is nearby. Wind likes to hold Four, the smithy being smaller than himself and thus resemblant of his little sister, and while Four seems to appreciate it as well, there are times when both will seek out someone larger to settle with for the night, if only for the feeling of being held safely in strong arms where nothing can hurt them. Hyrule will sleep near Sky or Legend, and sometimes Wild, usually holding their hands or curling against them back-to-back. As for the vet and the captain, the two usually sleep alone unless pulled in by the others, Warriors because he thrashes and Legend because he begins to feel trapped.

That said, usually, when someone has trouble sleeping, they don’t dart fully across camp to get at the vet.

“How did Legend handle it?”

Warriors’ shoulders stutter in a cut off and bitter laugh. “Like a champ.” Something gleams in the man’s eyes. “He’s used to it.”

Time raises a single brow in question, maybe just a bit of disbelief.

“Apparently,” royal blue turns about their camp, dark and smokey, like embers about to catch light, “every single one of us has nightmares, and more often than not, either he, Twilight or you are the ones stopping us from losing our dang minds every night.”

He can hear the creak of leather as Warrior’s fist tightens, gloves shifting and protesting the strength of his grip.

“None of us, not even Wind, can sleep a night through by ourselves in peace. Not a single one of us knows how to rest easy.” The glove loosens as the first releases, as Warriors ploughs a hand through his bangs, leaving them tousled, mangy and bloody before his eyes, worse than the rancher’s own.

He pulls himself up, pushing aside his blanket to move to the younger man’s side, feet soft and sure as he goes, careful not to wake his pups where they sleep just a few feet off from his own bedroll. “It bothers you.”

There’s the laugh again, the bitter cut of hysterical thing he remembers hearing only at the worst of times during the war. “Doesn’t it bother you? Time, they’re kids! They’re- Legend isn’t even growing facial hair yet! Hyrule isn’t even old enough to be out of school! Wild may be a hundred seventeen, but he’s only got the memories of maybe two years to his name, and Wind-” Fists clench, eyes dart down, teeth bared in a snarl that he’s never seen as the captain’s eyes flash.

He remembers hearing, as a child, from the soldiers on the field of battle. Remembers the stories they’d tell of a dragon that would spring from the heart of the hero and dart across the field, razing enemies to the ground. He’d never seen it, but he can now. He can see it in bared teeth and wild eyes and nails that dig sharp as claws into the mail covering the soldier’s thighs.

“They’re just kids.” Warriors repeats, voice grating. “Why are they fighting? Why do they have to be the ones to face Demise’s curse?”

There’s sorrow seeping into every inch of him as he settles at the younger man’s side. “I ask myself that every day, captain.”

Blue eyes, so blue, so rich and full and unreadable past the veil behind them, stare up at him. Warriors usually has a few inches over him when standing, but the man is hunched in on himself, defeated, pained, and when he looks up, he has to tilt his head back to meet Time’s own single eye. “Why, Time? Why do the goddesses do this to us?” And though he can’t see them, he can hear tears threatening in the tremor of the captain’s voice. “Why can’t we, after the fighting is over, just have a little peace?”

It’s pleading, it’s broken, it’s desperate. Warriors is turning eyes as blue as the ocean, the sky, as deep and dark and glittering as the expanse set above them, to him. And when he looks down to meet them, he wishes beyond all that he could give an answer. “I don’t know, Warriors.”

“It’s not fair.” The captain clips, blinking furiously, cheeks flushing.

“It’s not.” He agrees.

More than anything, he wants to reach out, to catch the other’s hand or grasp his shoulder, to pull him into a hug, but Warriors is agitated enough. Touching him without warning, without his consent, isn’t something he can do. He’d tried it all of once before, and the results were anything but pretty. And that hurts.

Yes, Warriors is speaking of their younger ones, but when he looks over the camp, he can see eight boys, barely men and mostly still children inside, boys who’ve been forced to grow up too fast and fight too hard. And he can’t comfort them.

Legend shies away, feeling trapped.

Warriors will start and panic if touched unexpectedly by most of them.

Twilight flinches away from sudden motions.

Four has trouble making eye contact in general, but especially when worked up.

Sky has trouble with deep voices.

Wild can’t handle gruffness or sternness at all when worked up, and just falls into a blank soldier’s stance of attention.

Hyrule doesn’t like contact at all if he doesn’t initiate it, and will hide if he’s feeling upset or unbalanced.

Wind is the only one who seems to understand how to seek out help when he needs it, and while he’s proud of the boy for it, immensely proud, it’s rarely him who Wind will come too. After all, he’s the kid’s idol and hero, Wind hates to show him any sign of weakness. No, their sailor turns to the salty veteran and the broken captain when he needs help.

And those two are hardly more than boys themselves.

“Warriors,” he pauses when he sees the other seething silently, eyes glittering with unshed tears as he stares into the fire. “Link,” he tries instead, “would that I could erase the pain you and the others feel. You’re right, it’s not fair that you or any of them have to know any of this.”

“It’s our calling.” Warriors says it with bitterness, with hair hanging in his face. The captain is bedraggled and flushed, tears threatening to fall from brilliant eyes. “It’s all Hylia wants us for.”

Despite himself, the words make him start.

Warriors isn’t Sky, he doesn’t adore the goddess and speak of her with sadness but love. Warriors isn’t Wild, who knows only the benevolent guide and whisper that had given him aid in his adventures. Warriors is a knight, and one sworn to protect Hylia’s name, her people, her land; the captain has dedicated his whole being to the service of the goddess.

Somehow, he’d thought that to mean the lad revered the goddess and her plans.

“We’re just pawns,” the captain continues, “we’re just chess pieces on a board waiting to be moved and it doesn’t matter how small they are, how thin, how tired.”

A tear sizzles as it meets the heat of the fire.

“You can see their ribs,” blue eyes are swimming behind tears, face fallen, mask cast aside when Warriors looks at him, “Hyrule and Legend, they’re so thin. There’s not enough to eat in their world. None of them trust the water, none of them trust other people.” The captain swipes at his eyes. “Twilight’s scared of fire, Sky shakes when it storms, Four shuts down altogether sometimes and I don’t even know why!”

Time doesn’t reach out, but when he lifts one arm it’s only moments before a golden head is hitting his shoulder, face hiding in his chest. “Why, Time? I just want my brothers to be safe, I just want them to be happy! Why can’t we give them that?”

He doesn’t have answers. Oh, how he’s wished for answers! How he does every night as he stares at too young faces creased with pains and worries, stares at scars and dark bruises under eyes. But there aren’t any to give.

Instead, all he can offer is an arm tight around the captain’s shoulders.

When he looks down, it’s to see just another face, too young and too tired, trying to hide in his tunic.

“I just want us to sleep easy, to be able to laugh. I wanna see my brothers smile, Time, I wanna see them smile for real and be happy and not have it shattered when those bloody monsters come traipsin’ through the woods to try’n kill us.”

“I know, son.” He feels a million years as he says it, carding a hand through hair streaked with blood from an injured hand. He feels even older when the shoulders of the boy in his arms shake, when he can feel dampness pressed to his chest. “I wish, somehow, I could make that happen. You know I care nothing for Hylia, but I pray to her every night that she’d grant you peace. It’s my greatest regret that I can’t do anything more.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“I want to.” He stares down at a weary and pale face.

Warriors talks about how the others are young, are small, are thin, are tired, but the captain himself isn’t much better. It’s easy to miss with the height and broad shoulders, the charming smiles and glittering armor, but Warriors is just a boy himself. He’s just a kid thrust into a war, not given time to run about and be wild like teens should. He’s a kid who had to grow up too fast, so that when he was old enough to be counted an adult there was no going back and no time for smiles and play.

He knows, from the war, from talking to Linkle, from the captain’s own stories when Time himself had been small, that there is a family waiting for the other. There are six sisters who know hunger as well as Hyrule and Legend. There is a mother who avoids stares and flinches at loud voices like Four and Sky. He knows there is a father who is bitter and cross like the vet and a house that hardly held together on long winter nights. He knows that even before the war, the captain had known nothing but struggling and pain, knows that the other counts it as his lot. He knows Warriors accepts his own fate, considers it his duty, knows the boy in his arms has dedicated himself to providing safety and strength for those who grew up like he did himself.

He knows Warriors is used to providing for the needs of others and likely forgets that though all their boys need rest, need peace and happiness, the captain does too.

He strokes bloodied hair, holds his boy and rocks slowly, humming the song Saria would sing for him when he was sick or upset. It’s something he can’t quite remember, distant and fading, but it has broad shoulders sagging and breath deepening as the face pressed to his shoulder begins to dry again.

“How about you rest now. I'll handle watch.” He murmurs, nuzzling against the other in a way he knows isn’t unlike Wolfie’s own signs of affection, but doesn’t stop regardless.

“Can’t sleep anyways.” Comes the faint reply. “Brains too full.”

He nods, and while he doesn’t want to pull back, there is a steadily growing red stain on his pantleg from the hand that rests over it, and he’d rather not leave it unattended. “Alright then, how about we get you fixed up first then?” He catches the hand in his own, not minding how crimson creeps between his fingers and instead inspecting the wound. It’s a clean cut, nothing too bad. A glance at the knife lying at the captain’s side assures him that at least the injury wasn’t dealt by an overly dirty or rusty blade. Still, it concerns him.

“How did this happen?”

Like a child being scolded, the young captain’s eyes trail over the forest floor rather than looking up to meet his gaze. “Nicked it. I was carvin’ sumthin’ to take my mind of things an’” -Warriors’ face twists up in a scowl, frustration lighting those blue eyes again,

“And your hand was shaking too much to hold the knife steady.”

The boy nods, free hand clenching slightly.

The captain’s shaking hands have always troubled him. He remembers Warriors recounting to himself and Wind about how, back in his pick-pocketing days, the tremor would often almost get him caught before he could snatch whatever coin or jewels he was trying to get his hands on. It makes letter writing and paperwork difficult, makes buttons and buckles a pain, and Warriors can take all of fifteen minutes with his eyeliner just on account of the shaking. There are some things that have had to be cut out of his life altogether as a result: stitching, most instruments (the piano being the exception) and nearly all artistic pursuits. The captain hates it, but the only time the lad’s hands hold still is in those blood-rushing moments of battle or fear, his only successful stitches the lifesaving kind when death lingers just over his shoulder to snatch at his patients.

Hands still shake now, despite the bitterness and anger in burning eyes, and as he cradles the bloodied one in his own, he wishes again to take this burden from the other. He doesn’t say as much though.

“Let’s get this cleaned up. If we’re careful, Hyrule won’t even know about it.”

It’s a bitter smile that the lad sends him, but it’s better than tears and it’s not anger or frustration.

They use a red potion for the injury. Warriors protests that it’ll be a waste when there are so many worse injuries they might need it for, but considering how much his boys work with his hands he thinks it a justified investment. If he could cure Legend’s arthritis and the pricks Hyrule’s claws leave on his palms with a red potion, he’d do the same for them too.

Despite using the potion, he still takes the time to bind where the injury was with a bandage. Warriors protests that too, but it’s more token than anything else. They have plenty of bandages, whether it be clothes from Legend’s scrap bag or simply the ones Uli, Malon, Granny and Pappy pile on them whenever they come to any of his boy’s or his own home.

Even when he’s finished bandaging though, he doesn’t release the other's hand, just bigger than his own, and Warriors doesn’t pull back either. In fact, the young man just leans against his side and stares with him into the fire for a spell, letting him trace the scars on the paler hand, following their tracks to where they disappear under linen and reading what he can from the lines creasing the captain’s palm and fingers.

It’s quiet for a bit. There isn’t anything to say, no comfort or assurance to the woes that weigh heavy over them. He can’t promise peace or happiness or even safety to the lad at his side, can’t promise it for himself or the others or even those dear to their hearts. He wants to promise every good thing, give it himself and solidify a promise from the goddesses themselves that no more harm will come to the family he’s found in these boys, but both he and Warriors know that such a promise can never be made.

So instead, they sit in their silence, he lending his strength and Warriors seeping it up like a starving blossom.

After a spell there’s the sound of shifting, and when they turn it’s to see Legend adjusting his hold on Wind, the vet doesn’t even glance at them, but he does start singing, or humming. It’s that siren song like melody Wind loves to ask for when he can, and it brings a hint of a smile to his face.

Against his side, Warriors shifts, face twisting into concern for a moment as he watches Wind squirm closer to the vet, seeking more heat by burying his nose in Legend’s neck. It earns a start and a glare, but the sailor isn’t awake to see it.

“Why don’t you go help those two keep warm.” He suggests, turning his hand a final time through his eldest’s hair. “I’ll keep watch over camp.”

And this time Warriors doesn’t protest. The captain just nods, shucking some of his armor and packing it away before grabbing his own blanket from his pack and coming to settle down with the chilly duo.

Time smiles as he watches Warriors pull the two into his arms, offering a weary smile to Legend and earning a half-formed twitch of the lips in return as the two older boys curl around the sailor to keep the heat accustomed young one comfortable. His boys may not have a promise of warmth and safety. They may never truly know peace, but for the first time in a long time he sends a prayer of thanks to the heavens that at least they have each other. His boys will hold each other in their worst moments and protect the others, they will make each other smile, will wipe tears, hold trembling bodies close to their own and they will find the safety and peace and love that the world denies them in the arms of their brothers. And, when he can bring them, when they will let him close enough and stop holding up their walls, they will find it in the arms of their Father Time.

#father time #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu warriors #lu time #warriors whump #i have a license for whumpage!!!!!#provided i give comfort #and i gave him comfort!#silvercaptain my beloved #happy birthday!!!!#ketto writes

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windfighter · 1 year

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Running late

Prompt: Short on time

------

Kouji was late. Late, late, late. He shoved the books into his backpack, changed from his pyjamas into clothes. How had he slept so late? Usually he’d be up before the rooster. He rushed down the stairs, grabbed a piece of bread.

”Your shirt’s inside out”, Kousei said.

Shit. Kouji dropped the bread and the backpack to the floor, quickly turned the shirt rightside out and put it back on. Late. School started in ten minutes. He picked up the bread and backpack, waved goodbye. He was out of breath when he got to the door. Odd. He stopped for a couple seconds to catch it again. Put his shoes on. He got a bit dizzy when he stood up. Also odd.

His phone vibrated. No time to think about that now. He was late. He dashed outside, through the yard, down the streets. His lungs burned. He stopped to cough, then started running again. His heart beat in his ears. What was wrong with his body? He stopped again, leaned against a lamppost. His head spun. Fantastic. Of course his body decideded to be an idiot when he needed to get to school half an hour ago.

His head pounded and he leaned his forehead against the lamppost. It was cool and Kouji closed his eyes, tried taking deep breaths.

His head pounded… Oh shit. Yeah, that… explained a lot. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was halfway to school. Late. Did he go home?

His lungs started cooperating again. His body shivered and his eyes felt so very heavy. He pulled a hand across them, massaged his forehead. Sighed and turned around again. He didn’t run. His chest still ached and he pressed a hand against it.

It felt like ages until he got home again. Kousei was gone. He opened the door, kicked off his shoes. He could fall asleep where he stood.

Satomi appeared. She must have heard the door. Kouji rubbed his eyes and sniffled. Running had not been a good option.

”Kouji? Why are you home?”

”...sick”, Kouji said.

He coughed. Satomi put a hand against his forehead. Frowned.

”Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

”Didn’t realize.”

He pressed against her hand. It calmed the pounding in his head a bit. Satomi moved the hand to his back, gently shoved him towards the stairs.

”Alright, you change into pyjamas and go to bed, I’ll call school.”

”Thanks, mom”, Kouji mumbled.

He stumbled up the stairs, slipped into his pyjamas and fell into the bed. Curled up under the cover. He was so tired.

But at least he wasn’t late any longer.

#windy writes #whumpril2023 #digimon frontier #kouji minamoto #sickfic #this was going to go differently but Kouji didn't want to do what I wanted him to #no he decided to be smart for once that idiot #once again light on the whumpage #I had no idea what to write for this prompt #but the other two served today I've already used like 3 times each already so #we take what we're handed and break what's demanded #not that anyone broke today #Maybe tomorrow #just something short today because my brain is tiiiired

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laurelwinchester · 2 years

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man, pregnant women in soap operas just cannot catch a break. they're always giving birth in snowstorms or elevators or cars or during hostage situations. must be extremely stressful to be pregnant and living in one of those soap opera small towns. you'd spend the whole pregnancy wondering if you would be able to get an epidural in the hospital or if you'd wind up having to give birth in some random snowbank.

#i've been revisiting old general hospital storylines and for a show with hospital literally in the title #it sure is rare for babies to be born in said hospital #you've got multiple women giving birth outside in the snow #carly has....never given birth in a hospital as far as i can tell and was once shot in the head directly after giving birth #and alexis had an unmedicated c-section in the aftermath of an underground train crash #like damn what's that hospital even for????#but also.......why elevators? who first came up with that and why has it been used in so many different shows?#who gets stuck in an elevator for that long?#anyway...... i joke but i do secretly love the chaotic birth trope #it sort of falls in the same genre of sickfics #just another way to get that sweet sweet whumpage and hurt/comfort #can't believe i've never written one myself actually #too busy beating the shit out of characters or jumpscaring them instead i guess lol

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west-tokyo-incidents · 2 years

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More cyber punk. But worse. In a good way. Dead dove, do not eat.

CWs; threats, kidnapping, mutilation, torture, grape without the g(mentioned, not explicit), gore, disembowelment, cannibalism

---

He's dizzy. Wow, that's not a normal sensation. He remembers getting hit over the head after a concert, getting into a fight. He remembers feeling a stab somewhere but...

He blinks his eyes open, head drifting to the side as the world spun. His systems blared warnings. He hummed and scanned through them. He was repairing just fine.

"Welcome back, metal head."

With a rolling groan he looked up... and saw a familiar face. He blinked a few times more.

"Didn't we tell you to fuck off?"

He moved to get up, but found his arms bound. He tested the binds and they held fast. They were insulated, his electricity didn't do shit. Huh. Dickshit did his research.

"Oh, I'm not through with your lot."

Rage groaned and rolled his eyes, "You won't get anything out of me and you know it. My systems are encrypted by Dunstan, you're wasting your time."

He started mulling over in his head how long it would take for the girls to find him. If he'd been dragged, the twins would track him down within a day, no matter where in the city they were--topside OR underground. By car, maybe a little longer. Three days tops.

"Oh, we're not going to try and hack you, don't worry your pretty head. We don't want info, we want the fucking money your people owe us. We've already sent our demands. They know we have you."

"...you told them who you were?" Rage blinked once... twice... and then began to laugh. Not a chuckle, either, a full body shaking cackle. His restrains rattled, "They'll be here any second to tear you and your people apart!! Do you know who you have?? You should have taken your lives and been grateful to have gotten that!!" He threw himself against the very length of the chains, teeth bared in a wicked snarl, "And lucky me, I'll get to watch. My masters will gut you like a fish. My boyfriend will hang your family from the rafters while you bleed out, so you can watch them suffocate. Every one of your men and women will be butchered and I'll be delighted to shit them out in a day or so."

The man just flared his nostrils with a snort, "And who are you to be so important for such a colorful and descriptive execution?" It's clear he doesn't believe Rage. He leans back from the mad robot, a certainty in his expression about the whole situation, "Surely you can't believe they'd care so much for some topside idol bot. How do you know they won't just abandon you?"

The expression on the man's face noticeably faltered.

"I belong to them. You don't just steal things from the girls. Even if I was just some topside idol bot, you stole me. And they don't take kindly to thieves. But I'm not just some bot." If that insane grin could have gotten wider, it would have, "I'm their tattoo artist."

"And I still have a piece to finish on one of them. See, if I were you? I'd go find a good gun and put it between your teeth right now. Or if you're too chicken shit for that, start praying they slip up and accidently kill you too fast."

The man steps away and Rage strains hard enough against the restraints that a loud creak slowly starts to build. "Don't run too far! I'd like to watch, remember?" His laugh echoes and follows the man out the door.

---

Fussa doesn't get her hands dirty. She lets the others do that. She does her work for the Incidents on paper and watches the spectacles from a far with a cigarette and a glass of wine. She's just too spoiled by luxuries to bury her hand elbow deep into guts to rip out a hard drive from a man's abdomen.

Usually.

But usually people also didn't steal her bodyguard, cash cow, and tattoo artist, either.

"It's good to see you let loose, 'taro." Kia cooed, "That should be what we need."

She has a little anger to vent, and the sticky blood soiling her dress shirt and the little thumps of a barely beating heart around her arm is just the thing. The blood that seeps into the carpet of her office is just a mild inconvenience.

Her hand found purchase on square metal. She gripped and pulled. Like veins, the wires attaching it protested. Stretched and held down. She set her foot on the man's throat and yanked, a ripping noise like wet velcro and the thing was free.

Fussa wiped off the flattest surface of the hard drive, smearing the blood away from an insignia and handed it up to Kia. She stayed where she was, staring at the man's face. He was still alive for now, unconscious. He'd bleed out in a few seconds.

There's a wet thud from across the room. Mizho. Vice stood guard, itching to kill someone himself, but letting them have their fun. He'd fetched the men for the girls to interrogate. Paresse was out doing... recon, in enemy territory. Something to keep him and the twins occupied.

"Tripwire's gonna be pissed." She stood up, head turned to watch Mizho, who had taken a seat.

"Yeah, but he'll still make a fuss about the mess."

"Oh, the Syndicate will get over it. Blacklight's crew has been a pain in both our sides. The 'High Father' has just been way more tolerant than us." Mizho rolled her shoulder in a shrug, the mocking tone on 'High Father' was thick. The leader of the Tripwire Syndicate was also a religious leader who controlled most of the east underground. Fussa scoffed softly.

"And then he'll shut up and we'll fight over the territory for a bit and go back to trading hits and drug lords." She shrugged.

Kia plugged the hard drive into a burner laptop. After a few malware skips and a quick backdoor to bypass the encryption... and all the information the man was hiding was bare to her.

---

Fussa wipes her knife on her pants, as if that did anything to clean it. It was a pretty blade. A decorative one she used as a letter opener, but it was graded for more than that. She'd have to have it professionally cleaned.

"Got a hit. They have a 'VIP' at the dock in their territory." She stood up, "And just before this 'VIP' arrived, there's an awfully convenient shipment of high grade metals that never left the dock."

Mizho looked over at Vice, a grin on her face.

"Fetch."

Paresse stares into the eyes of the little girl and the mother who clung to her.

A stoic, military-hard tone snaps put of him.

"Do you realize what your father has done?"

The little girl looks at her mom, who only whimpered and held her closer.

"I asked you a question. Do you realize what he's done?"

The little girl sniffles in fear and shakes her head. Paresse nods slowly. He'd expected that.

"He stole from someone stronger than him. We didn't want to do business with him. We told him no, and he stole from us. He stole my partner. He's trying to make us pay just because we told him no."

The mother's face twisted a little, and Paresse's head tilts. His jester-hat hair, heavy with blood, sways as his attention focuses on her. She recoils and he kneels down.

"You told him no, too, didn't you?"

Slowly, she meets his eyes, shining through his mask. She nods. He nods back, then looks to the girl, "I won't hurt you, either of you. But I want you to remember."

He points behind him with a long, hooked claw to a closed door. The twins sat, obediently, on either side of the door frame. In the other room, their guards were strung up like puppets with their own guts. Eyes gouged out. The girl hadn't seen, but she had heard.

"Remember that this is what happens to people who don't listen to 'no'. There is always someone who will back their 'no's with death."

He smiles and pokes a body, leaving it to swing as he exits the home and heads towards the shoreline.

He gets a ping. He pings back. He stands and turns away, stalking out of the room. with his wardogs at his sides.

---

Rage hums to himself, relaxed back as he waits. He's happy to not flail and frantically search for an escape. He's been stripped, soaked in salt water--multiple times,--guns have been pressed to the side of his head. A few have even been fired. He just grinned at his captor, who was pacing like a caged lion.

"Those bullets are pretty expensive. So's this." He rattles his restraints, "Where'd you get the money from? I thought you needed money."

"Shut up." The man glared at him.

"Or what, you'll rape me again? Please. That went over so well for you last time." He spit on the ground, "Speaking of, you might wanna redress me. Maybe they'll kill you before they realize what you've done. Or, you know, put one of those bullets to a real use instead? Put something between your ears, since there clearly isn't a brain in there."

There was a distant crash. Barking.

The man spun around.

"Oops." Rage purred, "It's not too late. I'd say you have about a hundred and... twelve seconds to shoot yourself before it's too late."

Screaming. Rage started to count down the seconds.

The man bolted from the room, and Rage laughed again. He wouldn't make it far. He closed his eyes and let out a shiver he'd been suppressing. His temple stung where he'd been shot, multiple times. It wasn't major damage, but something had cracked and it was giving him a wild migraine. Not to mention everything else.

He could feel the salt on his body crystalizing. He didn't particularly feel like thinking about everything else that had been done. In his head he continued the count down, waiting for the others.

"Fuck...! Rage!!" Vice called out and Rage looked up, obviously exhausted. He'd over estimated how long it would take them to find him. Good. Fury over took Vice's expression as Paresse burst past to free him. Vice took off in another direction, now free to kill and maim as he pleased until he found the bastard. He pressed his forehead into Paresse's chest.

"Hey, babe..."

---

Rage sat on the floor, between the girls, his queens, as they deliberated on what to do with the man. Back and forth, all sorts of things.

The family was out of the question, even though Rage had threatened them, Paresse's encounter with them had the girls veto the idea. Fair enough.

"...If I may?"

Rage looked up at them. Kia perked up and tilted her head, "Of course you may, pup, what's on your mind?"

"He doesn't need his limbs for more torture... and it's been a while since we got a good batch of meat...?"

Muffled whimpers and the thump of a shoulder ramming into the side of the glass box their new prisoner was in. He was stripped, put on private display for them.

"Dinner sounds good." Fussa agreed, as if they were merely discussing going out to eat, "A good meal might help you decide on what else to do, too."

"Not sure if there are any butchers who can get here in time for dinner." Mizho tapped her lip.

"I can chop him up." Vice hummed, "It won't be the prettiest cut of meat, but Paresse can make anything taste good. Only problem is keeping him alive."

Paresse is silent, standing protectively over the girls and Rage with arms crossed and an unwavering glare at the man in the glass.

"Eh, tourniquet as high up on the limbs as you can." Kia waved a hand dismissively, "Go for it."

The douji moved in, and the man pressed himself to the back of the box. Paresse finally moved to help drag him out as he screamed, out of the room. Fussa got up, too, mentioning something about wanting to cook, too.

Rage sighed softly and relaxed further as one of the girls pet his head. He closed his eyes and leaned into it, humming low. His hair was still damp, he hadn't bathed yet. Maybe he should while dinner is being made... Mizho praised him quietly. No, he'd just enjoy the pampering and the screams a while longer. They had quite the night ahead of them.

The bathhouse was open late anyways.

#ress writes #cyberpunk au #cw gore #cw death #read the warnings #dead dove do not eat #some whumpage #might write the bathhouse as a scene later #group sex centering on praising a previously lost member? good.

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compo67 · 2 years

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I'm in the mood for some whumpage

Hmmm

Whomst do I hurt?

#authorial rambles #Bring on the whumpage

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thatswhyilovetheghost · 6 months

Text

Easy, girl.

Whumptober Day 1 : 'Swooning'. (No, I'm not posting day 1 on the 13th)

Captain John Price x f!Medic Reader

Summary: The Captain isn't impressed by his medic's tendency to overwork herself.

A.N. : Only mild whumpage in this one, fainting w/ hurt/comfort <3

The interrogative call of your name nearly makes you jump out of your skin, head crashing into the surface of the desk you were rifling through folders under. You hiss a curse between your teeth.

Turning around, you're met with the displeased face of the Captain of your assigned squad, firm hands resting on his hips as he glares down at you, brows furrowed.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," he starts, "but didn't your shift end about four hours ago now?"

Eyes widening, you raise your wrist to check the time, only to be met with a glaring 01:00.

"I- sorry, Captain, I was just sorting out some paperwork which-"

"Which can be done tomorrow," he interrupts, sending you a reproachful look that raises your hackles.

"It's fine," you snap, rising to your feet, arms now full of folders. "I've got it all under control, Captain."

The rapid movement makes your head swim. You stumble slightly and blink away the blur.

"Mm, looks like it," he snarks, concern underlying his tone.

His sarcasm only serves to make you prickle further. You huff, steadying yourself on your feet before making your way to a filing cabinet.

Or, attempting to at least. The increased motion sends your vision to a white flash that quickly fades to black nothingness. The last thing you feel before you pass out is a set of strong hands grasping at you, pulling you close.

When you wake it's with a gasp, as though you'd been drowning but pulled to safety. There's someone holding you, tight and close. You squirm at the restriction.

"Shh, easy - easy, girl. I've got you. You're alright."

The voice that hushes you is deep and rich, a slight familiar gruffness to it. Forcing your eyes open you find yourself looking straight into the piercing blues of Captain Price.

Captain Price, your Captain, whose lap you're currently settled on.

Price, who is sitting on the floor, legs crossed and back flat to the wall, must have scooped you up before you hit the ground and curled you into him while you were out.

Fuck, how long had he been holding you like this?

He lifts one hand from stabilising you at your hips to your jaw. Holding your chin up to get a good look, Price scans your face, scrutinising every blink and wince you make.

"Sir-" you rasp drily, feeling your face warm both in embarassment at fainting in front of your superior and at the situation it had left you in.

"There she is," he cooes, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles on your skin. "You feel alright?"

You nod, hyperaware of his proximity.

"Y-yes sir, thank you," you manage.

"Good girl," he nearly sighs in return, eyes flicking over your face once more as though for his own reassurance. "Think you're ready to listen to me about gettin' some sleep now?"

Price chuckles under his breath as you turn away in embarassment, rubbing a broad palm up and down your thigh in teasing comfort.

Without another word, Price lifts you up like you weigh no more than a feather and shifts you into a bridal position in his arms as he rises to his feet.

You squeak lightly in surprise, and if Price notices you hiding your face in his tac-vest he doesn't mention it.

Slowly so as not to make you dizzy, your Captain carries you over to an empty cubicle in the medbay.

"Shh, there we are," he soothes, bending at the waist to lower you into the bed. There's a comfortable silence as Price pulls the blanket over your form, ensuring all of your limbs are tucked into its warmth. "How's our lovely medic s'posed to take care of us if there's no one looking after her, eh?"

You feel your heart pounding at your ribs at his words, wide eyes looking up at your Captain.

"Thank you, sir," you speak softly, suddenly finding yourself imagining what his lips might feel like against yours.

"Always, love," he whispers, dropping to press a kiss to your cheek before walking away. Price pulls the curtains to your bay closed, turning to take one last look at you before retreating to his own quarters.

When you wake up that next morning you aren't sure if you dreamed the softness from your Captain, but the look he gives you later when he comes in to check on you reassures your mind.

Your Captain had his eyes on you now, and the man was not known for giving up. If he had to take you to bed himself every night from then on, then so be it. He was sure you'd let him tire you out.

#whumptober 2023 #john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain john price x reader

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hederasgarden · 2 years

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Safe With Me

Summary: Six is a hard man to read up until the moment he isn’t.

Paring: Sierra Six (Court Gentry) x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.7K

Rating: Mature, 18+ only. AU, violence, blood, angst, whumpage, death and some sexual content.

A/N: If this gets a good response I will write a sequel that takes place during the movie. Please note the reader has been Claire’s caretaker since her first surgery and is in her early 30s. The story is based on this ask. Thank you N and a @a-reader-and-a-writer for beta'ing and @skvatnavle for the title.

When Six comes into your lives, you’re not sure what to make of him. He’s clearly CIA-adjacent like Fitz – or some other alphabet agency– though he has none of the easy warmth of Claire's uncle. Just his quick sense of humor, but even that comes out sparingly, often startling a laugh from you. Claire takes to him quickly, poking and prodding at his cool exterior until you begin to see little cracks in it. Small glimpses of the man beneath the protector.

Once you notice the little tells, it becomes easier to catch them. Like the soft way he looks at Claire when she’s singing along to a record or the way his lips twitch up into a brief smile every time you remember his favorite pastry from the bakery. It’s apparent in the way his hand always rests at the small of your back when you’re out in public together, guiding you along as Claire tugs excitedly at your arm. You see it in the way he keeps himself as a buffer between the two of you and other people.

It’s how you know his nightly check-in at bedtime isn't just about following security protocol. Seeing you both safely tucked into bed for the night seems to ease some of the tension he carries. Most times the two of you don’t speak, he just pokes his head in and nods, giving you that awkward little grimace he probably thinks is a smile. Claire is another story, you can normally hear her excited little voice asking Six a hundred different questions that he patiently answers.

Tonight you’re in bed early, a warm cup of tea and a book in your hand. You thumb through the pages while you wait for him to come say good night, unable to rest until this part of your routine is complete. The clock on your bedside ticks steadily forward until it’s 9:05. Six is always prompt and when he doesn't show you grow concerned, venturing out to find him. You don’t make it far before a gloved hand covers your mouth and an arm snakes around your stomach. You’re pulled back against a solid wall of muscle.

“Tell us where the girl is,” comes the gravelly demand.

In your panicked state you thrash around, jerking your head back. Pain explodes along your skull and the man groans, releasing you. When you look back, you see blood pouring from his broken nose. You scramble away from him and scream for Six but the man catches you quickly. He forces you on your back and your head snaps to the side with the force of the first blow. You lay there stunned, with the taste of pennies in your mouth. You've never been hit before or purposely hurt like this and the ugly surprise of it is almost worse than the pain.

Tears well up and you breathe in wetly, blood escaping from your split lip down your chin. The man stares at you and even though the mask hides most of his face the anger in his gaze is unmistakable. Before you can recover he hauls you to your feet and throws you roughly against the wall, demanding you take him to Claire.

"No," you croak. He strikes you a second time and you flinch. God you hope Claire made it to the panic room. The thought of this man touching her makes your stomach roll. You close your eyes when he asks you again, waiting for another blow to come but nothing happens. When you hear the audible click of a gun’s safety your eyes shoot open. The man in front of you freezes.

He’s quick to recover, turning around and bringing you in front of him as a shield. You blink rapidly to clear your tears, relief surging through your body at the sight of Six. He looks a little worse for wear, a wound on his arm bleeding sluggishly and a gash on his side. To your surprise, he doesn’t address the man but looks right at you.

“You alright?” He asks.

You're not, but you nod anyway.

“Where’s the girl? Take me to her or I’ll kill this one,” the man demands, pressing a knife to your throat.

You whimper and Six’s lips thin, a muscle in his jaw jumping. Still, he doesn’t look at the man, speaking to you again. “Did he do that to you?” Six asks, motioning to your face.

“Yes.”

“Take me to the girl,” the man growls.

You jerk in his arms when you feel the blade split the skin of your throat. Six takes a step forward but stills, watching you for a long moment before he shifts his attention to the man behind you.

“I want you to know. I was going to leave one of you alive. The CIA loves to interrogate you assholes… but you touched her. That was a mistake,” he says, his voice cold and even. When he speaks again he’s still watching the man though you know he’s addressing you. “Close your eyes.”

You squeeze them shut, holding your breath. There’s no hiding what Six means to do and even though you know it’s coming you still flinch at the sound of the gun and the hollow thump of the man’s body hitting the floor behind you. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you feel Six’s touch on the side of your neck.

At his coaxing, your eyes flutter open, and you stare at his bloodied face. You can’t stop your hands from shaking and when your lips part no sound comes out. Some part of you knows you’re in shock, but you can’t make your body cooperate. It’s a struggle to breathe.

“It’s alright, take a breath,” Six instructs, cradling the uninjured side of your face in his hand. You inhale through your nose as he continues to watch you, nodding encouragingly until you're breathing normally.

"Six," you whisper, grasping his shirt.

“How are you doing, hen?” He questions, the use of his terrible nickname for you startling a laugh from you. Mother hen. For the way you tended to follow Claire around the house, fussing over her even when she tried to wave you off. “Should we go check on our little chick?” He asks.

“Where is she? Did they-” you start.

Six is quick to reassure you. “She went straight to the safe room just like I taught her. She’s okay,” he promises.

He offers you his hand and you take it, letting him fold you into his side. The smell of blood and cordite burns your nose but underneath is the familiar scent of Six’s cologne. It helps calm you, grounding you to him until you turn the corner.

“Don’t look,” he instructs, a hand on the back of your head urging you to press your face into his chest.

You only catch the briefest look at the carnage in the living room, thankful for the way Six shields you from it. He guides you along the hallway and you don’t open your eyes until he tells you to. The thick door to the safe room slides open and you smile in relief at the sight of Claire, lamp raised and a fierce expression on her face.

As soon as she sees you, she drops it and rushes into your arms. She touches your face so gently and cries, turning even more upset when she sees the state of Six. It takes both of you nearly an hour to get her calm enough to sleep. Even then you can tell it’s a fitful slumber, her little face scrunched up in concern. You stay with her, stroking her back while Six leaves to deal with whoever he called to clean up the mess in the living room.

You’re thankful nothing happened to her but it scares you how close those men got. If they’d gotten their hands on her… You shake your head, not wanting to think about that.

“Hen.”

You turn around at the sound of Six’s soft voice, finding him leaning against the doorframe. Even though he’s cleaned the blood from his face you can still see the gray shirt clinging to his side.

“We should get you cleaned up,” you say concerned.

“That’s my line,” he tells you, brow raised. “Come on, she’ll be safe. I got three guys in the house and another four outside. No one is getting in.”

You follow him into the hall, letting him lead you to the spare bathroom. He shuts the door behind him and you turn towards the sink, flinching at the state of your face. You raise a trembling hand to your lip. Six stops you with a gentle grip on your wrist.

“Did he get you anywhere else?” He asks, looking you over critically.

“Just the face.”

“So nowhere important, huh?” He questions, making you laugh and then wince when the action tugs on your split lip. “Hop up,” he directs, tapping the counter.

When you struggle to do as he asks, a disconnect between your mind and body still, Six helps you. He grasps your hips and hefts you up with a surprising amount of gentleness. You look up, your face close to his. He squeezes your hips and steps away, bending down to take out supplies from a little bin under the sink you never realized was there.

You clear your throat and curl your fingers into the fabric of your PJs. Now that things have calmed, pain filters in through your scattered nerves.

“You a doctor now?” You ask.

“No but I play one on TV,” he replies without missing a beat, rising back to his full height.

He stands between your legs and pulls on a pair of gloves. His touch is gentle as he slowly cleans your face and treats the wound on your neck. Your eyes fall closed at the feel of his fingers tracing the cut on your throat, spreading a cool, numbing cream over the angry line. He does the same to your lip and it helps take the sting out of it. After he removes the gloves, he runs his fingers over the rest of your face, applying gentle pressure at different points. You know he’s looking for fractures or breaks. Outside of the underside of your jaw being tender to the touch, you’re mostly okay.

“It’s not a lollipop,” he warns, dropping two little pills into your hand, “but they’ll help with the pain.”

“What about you?” You question.

He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’re still bleeding.”

“It’s not my blood,” he tells you.

“Oh.” You fall quiet and look up at him.

He turns away from you, listening to something outside the door and you look at his face in profile. You can see the faint beginnings of bruises on his cheek and jaw and there’s a patch of dried blood at his temple. Your eyes wander down his chest, cataloging what looks like a knife wound on his right pec and another down his left side. Hesitantly, you reach out and touch him.

Six grunts, eyes closing briefly. “Well, maybe a little bit is mine,” he admits.

“Let me help you.”

“Not to sound dramatic but it’s not the first time I’ve stitched myself up,” he tells you.

“Please, I…” You trail off, close to tears again.

“What’s wrong?” He asks quietly.

You don’t know how to explain that even though he may trust the men outside, you only trust him. You don’t want to be alone. He makes you feel safe, his presence the only thing keeping you from unraveling. It was easy to hold it together for Claire but now that it’s just the two of you there’s nothing to distract from how close those men got to her or what they did to you.

Six says nothing but he doesn’t have to, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around your shoulders carefully. You sob when he hugs you close, twisting the fabric of his shirt in your finger as your body shakes. He rests his chin on your head and drags his hand up and down your back soothingly. The tears don’t last long, not with him holding and comforting you.

A small part of you thinks Six needs it too. You hear him breathe out and some of the tension leaves his body. He cares a lot for you and Claire. It’s why the two of you make an effort in your own ways to make him feel a part of your little family and cared for. To know he’s worthy of that affection. Eventually, Six pulls away, smoothing a large hand over the back of your head and down to your shoulder, squeezing it.

“Alright, your turn to play doctor,” he says, reaching back to tug his shirt off.

You can’t help the small sound that escapes your mouth at the sight of his scarred body. He doesn’t react to your response, staring steadily at a point beyond your head. His right arm is the worst, deep scars mangling his tan skin but it seems like everywhere you look there’s more damage to find. Underneath your concern is another feeling, one you try to ignore because now is not the time for your body to recognize just how good he looks without a shirt.

“None of these look too deep,” you say, taking the pair of gloves he hands you and getting to work cleaning and bandaging his wounds.

You carefully avoid the gun on his hip, looking up every so often to see his face. His expression is blank, and he doesn’t react to your touch even though you know it must be painful. You want to ask him what really happened tonight, but you know he’d only give you a glib answer. After you’re finished Six inspects your work. He gives you a thumbs up and smiles.

“Not half bad, doc.”

You grin back and stare up at him, breath catching when his eyes dip to your lips momentarily. The expression on his face is uncharacteristically soft and vulnerable. You feel an answer tug in your own heart and slowly reach to touch the side of his face. Even though he’s still a mystery to you in a lot of ways you know him well enough to understand he would never make the first move. Too driven by some internal moral compass.

“Six,” you whisper, tilting your head up to invite him in.

There’s only a flicker of hesitation before he’s kissing you, a hand on your hip drawing you close to his body. He groans and you respond with a little gasp of your own when he pushes you back, your head bumping against the cold mirror. Your lips part for his tongue, a brief flare of pain from the cut there but it fades quickly when his hands cup your face. His scent and taste surround you and your body responds.

You grab his shoulder, wanting him closer and he grunts, pulling away. Pain clouds his eyes and your brows raise in concern.

“Six…”

He shakes his head and steps back, rolling his shoulder with a grimace. The air between you shifts, whatever softness he allowed to the surface dissolving as he steps away.

“You should go check on Claire,” he says.

“Alright,” you agree, letting him help you down from the counter. His hand lingers only for a moment.

He follows you down the hall to Claire’s room, hovering in the doorway as you climb carefully into bed with her. She stirs, blinking sleepily and reaching for you. When she says your name softly you assure her everything is ok, curling your body around her smaller one. She grasps your hand tightly against her chest and sighs, falling still. Six turns to leave and you call out to him quietly.

"Stay. Claire will feel better if you're close by," you lie. "She'll want to see you when she wakes up."

He nods and takes up a vigil in the brightly colored chair in the corner of her room. You lay your head on the pillow, the back of Claire’s head obscuring his figure from you. You don’t need to see him to feel safe. You know Six will always protect you and Claire.

Taglist: @wildbornsiren, @a-reader-and-a-writer and @blue-aconite.

Join my tag list here.

#sierra six x you #sierra six x reader #court gentry imagine #the gray man #court gentry x you #court gentry x reader #the gray man fanfiction #the gray man fic

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lonnieontherun · 1 year

Photo

Christian Slater in “Mobsters”

#christian slater #mobsters #charlie luciano #whump #whumpage #mygifs #blood #torture

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bartonsarcheryacademy · 7 months

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Story Idea Dump #4

The Skater AU @chaos-and-ink is obsessed with

Setting: Clint is 19 and lives with his father Harold Barton. Yeap, the old man is alive, abusive as we know him from the comics, and still running the butcher shop. His mother left a few years prior and took Barney with her, because he was her favorite. Safe to say life isn‘t going well for Clint. If you know the comics, you know what he‘s going through.

Bucky, in his mid/late 20s, working as a nurse and taking courses for his EMT qualification, lives with his 16year old sister Rebecca. Their parents are alive, but moved to another state for job reasons. They‘re on good terms with the parents. They stayed in town, because Bucky was in the middle of med school when moving came up, and Rebecca didn‘t want to leave her friends behind. Bucky is a good and protective brother and agreed to look after her until she graduates.

The Plot: Clint uses skateboarding as his outlet. Whenever he can get away from home, he roams the streets of his hometown on his board. He‘s known in every skaterpark as the loner and the little brother of Barney Barton, who was always popular and known by everyone. Clint gets along with almost everyone, but has no friends. After a fall in a halfpipe that leaves Clint with an injury, Rebecca approaches him. Clint, of course, denies medical help ( It‘s a scratch. It costs too much.. Barton excuses). Rebecca insists he at least lets her brother look at it, because he‘s medically trained. So they meet- the helping big brother, and the little snappy and big part freaked out and abused skate dude. It goes from there.

A WinterHawk development with protective!Bucky, age difference, a shit ton of abuse from Harold‘s side, unexpected events, and Bucky trying to figure out what the hell is going on with Clint. Hurt/comfort, whumpage, emotional hurt/comfort, trauma and baggage on all ends.

Oh and did I mention- it‘s a WIP. Parts are written. And it has Art:

#winterhawk #marvel #hawkeye #ao3 #SkaterAU #NurseBucky #SkaterClint #ClintBarton #BuckyBarnes #RebeccaBarnes #fanfiction #AvengersAU #Clint Barton is a walking disaster #protective!BuckyBarnes #MindInInk

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thewolvesof1998 · 4 months

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🤍what's one fic of yours you think people didn't "get"?

💥find your least kudos'd fic - say something wonderful about it.

HiiiiiiiiI!!!

🤍what's one fic of yours you think people didn't "get"?

asking all these questions, just to be polite, while dying inside bythewolvesof1998 But Eddie looks good, like really good, like how is anyone allowed to look that good in jeans and a green henley? His hair is all fluffy which means he hasn't put any product in it, he wonders if it still smells like the green apple conditioner that Eddie and Chris liked to use. There's a new wrinkle at the corners of his eyes like he's been smiling a lot these last few years and it shouldn't hurt this much to know that Eddie's been happy without him but it does. or Buck dreams of what it would be like to lose Eddie as a friend and run into him five years down the line and having to ask all of these stupid questions just to be polite while dying inside.

I don't know if people didn't "get" this one but I think it's the closest to that. This is a one-shot based in the episode 3x05 Rage- though you think it's set five years in the future in a world in which Buck didn't rejoin the 118 - Buck and Eddie run into each other and have a really uncomfortable reunion and then Buck wakes from this nightmare and the reader realises it's still season 3 and none of that has happened. It's a what-if scenario and it's filled with angst and whump and based on the Noah Kahan song-Northern Attitude.

💥find your least kudos'd fic - say something wonderful about it.

I ain't proud of all the punches that I've thrown by thewolvesof1998 Rage, like a broken window to an oxygen-deprived room that’s already in flames, explodes within him and almost takes him out. He resists the urge to slam the phone’s receiver into the wall until it's just fragments of plastic that dig into the palm of his hand, drawing blood. He breathes through his nose and then out of his mouth and repeats that until he gets himself under control. or Eddie's in Jail and he almost calls Buck. Inspired by Dial Drunk by Noah Kahan.

I love this fic and it's my first fic!!! It's a one-shot of the missing scene of Eddie in Jail in the episode 3x05 Rage. It's full of angst and whumpage and I still love it now. I'm so grateful that this idea came to me and pushed me to start writing fics.

These were my first two fics (well I wrote/posted three in the same day so this is 2/3 of my first fics), I was obviously in my lawsuit/Noah Kahan inspired era which I would love to explore more of eventually.

Thanks for your asks!! <3<3<3

#wolf gets mail #wolf answers #9-1-1 #buddie #buddie fic #thewolvesof1998 writes

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starqueensthings · 8 months

Text

Dork Love: Part Three

Summary: Tech returns to Coruscant to take charge of the required repairs on the reader's electrical panel, and his anxiety is only intensified by the unexpected surprise waiting for him at your shop.

Rating/WC/POV: Teen 16+ for slight whumpage. 6161 words, 2nd POV (though this chapter follows Tech, and reader is only alluded to).

Warnings: casual conversations about anxiety, mentions of blood splatter, mentions of blood soaked objects (LOL this one took me down a weird path).

A/N: this one was a challenge and a half, my friends, so I apologize that it’s not up to my usual standard. I just need to finish it and move on before I pluck my eyebrows off my face. But pls enjoy! LMAO. And thanks to the queen of whump herself for proof reading @staycalmandhugaclone

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Four | ao3

As if it were funneling every effort in to soothing his nerves, the weather had fashioned itself significantly more pleasant than when he last traversed this pathway; the cool drizzle falling that day managed to dampen the typically unabsorbent collar of his blacks with an irksome ease, and had lingered unpleasantly against his skin for several hours afterward. Despite now being favourably warm and dry, elongated shadows cast by the sun’s obtuse position over the mouth of the underworld was making the screen of his datapad annoyingly difficult to discern, the intermittent bouts of intense glare blinding him to the articles that he was only absentmindedly scanning, yet relentlessly fetching.

Bemused that the apex of Tech’s affection had landed itself upon a person and not a superfluous piece of technology, Hunter was insistent that he accompany his brother on today’s voyage, though the guise he’d chosen to conceal his disbelief was a weak one. The coils of wire that he had absurdly deemed “too heavy” for one man to carry, swung daintily from the crooks of their elbows with every stride, and despite having bore witness to the innumerable sleepless nights that Tech had spent meticulously studying current commercial Electrical Code, Hunter remained unwavering in his adamance that his heightened senses may prove valuable – (“what if you need me to sense where the wires are in the wall?”)

‘If only the journey to Coruscant had been for a more inconsequential reason,’ Tech found himself longing as the armoured duo departed the ship. ‘Simply a mission to seek a replacement part, or a simple separatist data decryption.’ Had this been the case, his sergeant’s company would have been welcomed and even encouraged; independent as he was, Tech rarely declined an opportunity to be accompanied by a brother, particularly so if it meant freeing the cockpit of any officious, unsupervised visitation in his absence. Today on the other hand, as his mind continued to shirk his every offer of distraction, and perpetually whirred with cyclical, desultory thoughts, he would have much preferred to make the journey solo.

As they typically did to pacify his overactive mind, his fingers danced fervently across the illuminated buttons of the device clutched tightly in his left hand, the absentminded prods and swipes of his fingers triggering a near constant pull of new, yet continuously marginalized information. Most recently ignored was a collection of graphs depicting the primary effects of seasonal climate changes on the pollination schedule of Felucia’s native flora, though more imperative to Tech in that moment, was calculating the likelihood that you would notice the droplets of engine oil still splattered across the toes of his boots; the only remnants of a night spent repairing the damage that Wreckers most recent attempt at landing the ship had caused to the Marauder’s undercarriage.

Regrettably, the poor condition of his boots was only one of several trivial misgivings. In its company was the budding dread that his lenses had dirtied themselves again despite having mastered the disinfection process, and the fear that the callouses emerging on his palms from several hours of dismantling and reassembling the hyperdrive would deter you from initiating the contact that he’d found himself near-addicted to.

But anchoring all of the other menial anxieties, was the gnawing possibility that the entirety of this adventure could be naught but a misunderstanding; those were, admittedly, frequent occurrences for Tech. The disfigurement of his genetics had rendered him largely unable to accurately identify and categorize the infinite array of human behavior, particularly when expressed by those with whom he was unfamiliar.

What if this was one of those times? What if the request that he come find you was merely a parting statement made with the sole intent of being complaisant, and not one that you intended he act on? Much to his dismay, it was a hypothesis that warranted investigation; after all, you were quite polite… and intelligent… and munificent… and welcoming… and so very becoming to him. What if the profound sense of adoration that welled inside him at only the thought of you, was not a feeling mutually shared? What if the unrelenting desire to be back in your company, with your chilled yet capable hands curled around his, was simply unreciprocated? Could all of this be yet another miscategorization of body language, and was he presently walking toward a potentially crippling rejection? And why did Hunter have to insist that he come along?

Seeking any semblance of reprieve or solace from the advice of a brother was an idea banished from his mind almost as swiftly as it presented itself, as even the most casual, off-hand comments regarding a squad mate’s possible love interest typically had Wrecker jeering so extravagantly that even droids in the immediate vicinity saw their circuits overheating under a potent, secondhand indignity.

Crosshair’s passive yet targeted quip of being to spot “dorks in love” from a mile away had caught Tech entirely off guard as the squad marched otherwise silently through the arid and brittle forest abutting a Separatist ComHub on Sullust, yet the sardonic remark, while unprovoked and initially jarring, did succeed in diminishing a portion of Tech’s uncertainty, and he clung to it as if it were a talisman against the degenerative doubt.

That was until today. With boots clunking noisily along a familiar pathway now bathed in a radiant sunlight that in no way mirrored the turbulence in his mind, his every step toward the bright, yellow door of his emotional demise saw the protection of his brother’s sentiment almost entirely stripped of its integrity.

Tech swallowed heavily, stumbling over the fragmented motions of his feet, the fluidity of their typically athletic movements interrupted by the sudden and irrepressible urge to try and remove the oil from the toe of his left boot with the back of his right pant leg. Hunter, nostrils flared against the onslaught of foreign underworld aromas, remained tactfully blind to the uncharacteristic stumble on his right, only concealing the first signs of a smirk by shifting the coil of wire from the crook of his elbow to the ridge of his shoulder bell, and offering the tip of his nose an absentminded scratch.

“You, uh… excited?” the sergeant probed, waiting until the pair had fallen back into a casual cadence to cast an inquisitive glance toward his brother.

“I am most eager to begin the installation, yes,” Tech answered smartly, his response somehow void of the apprehension currently plaguing his thoughts. “I suspect this to be a multi-faceted problem requiring an equally detailed and well-planned solution. The existing circuitry was designed to house breakers of a 15-amperage allotment, and was thus outfitted with 14-gauge wiring throughout. The previous owner was, regrettably, an amateur in the field of electrical requirements and failed to investigate the symbiotic correlation of breaker-to-wiring before interchanging several breakers, thus rendering the preexisting wires incapable of transporting the increased charge and escalating the likelihood of an electrical fire. A complete overhaul of the electrical panel, including all new breakers of the correct specifications, paired with a 10-gauge wire that appropriately fulfills the demand of several different amperage allotments, would serve the in building’s best interests. Additionally, I will need to determine which of the machinery have a load requirement exceeding that of the common 20 amperages. I suspect both the generator and the lens polisher will both require a replacement breaker with a higher allotment, which may, in turn, require me to reconfigure neighbouring breaker requirements to accommoda—”

“That’s not what I was asking,” Hunter interrupted, the vocoder in his helmet failing to smother the exasperation that wreathed his words. “And I think you know that.”

Offering only a guilty glance toward his sergeant, Tech pursed his lips and refocused his gaze upon his datapad. All too aware of the heat surging to his cheeks, and the failure of his helmet to completely veil its presence from the attuned senses of his brother, he maintained a contemplative silence while earnestly scrolling back to the beginning of the article he’d been thoughtlessly skimming (an abstract on the ‘Primitive Parasocial Behavior Patterns of the Felucian Flying Manta’, a species they were likely to encounter during their next mission).

“You know, you don’t need to deflect, Tech.” Hunter finished the assertion by pulling his helmet from his head and shaking his long locks from his shoulders, an absentminded smile peeling across his lips as the radiant sunlight warmed his tattooed features. “I’ve been in your shoes before… I can help you sort out your feelings if you want.”

The gentle, yet, surveying gaze that his sergeant turned toward him while a discomfited silence expanded the space between them saw Tech nearly flinching; not entirely prepared to respond to his brother’s request for vulnerability, he inculpably reattuned his attention to his hands.

“The Felucian Flying Manta bears the ��Repatavian’ genus, unlike its fellow Manta counterparts with the Reptaquatic subclassification, though socially maintains a similar hierarchy—” he read futilely for the ninth time. “—A lone alpha maintains a symbiotic and systematic breeding schedule with the females of the colony, and remains largely unchallenged for his position as protector and genetic contributor. Rival males must only challenge the alpha for authority during that of a waning gibbous moon, when shifts in the atmospheric currents bring forth—”

“Or… we don’t have to talk about it at all,” Hunter continued with a small shrug, noting both the redoubled avoidance and the subsequent microshift in Tech’s posture. “That’s cool too, but don’t feel like you need to suffer in silence. You know that I’m here for you.”

The likelihood of retaining any imperative information about the flying Manta continued to reduce at a rate that nearly matched the dwindling of Tech’s confidence; the source material slipping from the clutches of his mind as if both the memory of you (and the remnant oil on his boots) were expropriating any and all available cranial space.

Despite his sergeant’s head swiveling about next to him, eagerly taking in the domestic sights of the under-city and offering respectful nods to passing pedestrians, Tech could spare no consideration for the surroundings attempting to permeate his attention. It was likely that they’d already passed the seamstress’ shop that he knew to be only a dozen doors from yours, its impeccably maintained windows exposing the myriad of wealthy politicians pompously designing their senatorial wardrobe from scratch. And if that were true, then surely the cobbler’s shop would be approaching imminently, its windows nearly opaque under the duress of a hundred exuberantly colourful signs, all iterating the implausible claim that Mr. Purble’s shoe repairs were “out of this world!” Yet… despite the dwindling proximity, he still could not summon the resolve to lift his gaze and watch that jubilant yellow door draw nearer.

Tech cleared his throat quietly, nudging his goggles further against his brow in a motion as soothing as it was unnecessary, as he’d long since modified the bridge of his helmet to keep them securely in place on his nose. With time continuing to betray him, now seemed an appropriate opportunity as ever to seek a moment of private counsel.

“I… I am not sure how to quantify the nature of my feelings,” he admitted with a sigh, conceding to Hunter’s periodic glances of encouragement. “I am undeniably excited to be returning, as I have been anticipating this reunion for several weeks, yet I am unreasonably apprehensive. I fear that I may have misconstrued the entirety of this situation and am walking toward an… ignominious encounter.”

Hunter’s sharp eyes softened under the admission, lips momentarily compressing into an empathetic grimace before offering his reply. “I’d argue that’s a pretty normal emotional reaction,” he acknowledged with a reassuring nod, “though even normal is a spectrum from person to person. And some degree of insecurity is to be expected in a situation like this, especially when we’ve placed a high value on someone else’s opinion of us. But your actions speak volumes about how you feel if you take a step back and look at logically: for one, I couldn’t tell you the last time you put your datapad down and forgot about it, let alone for hours and immediately before a mission. That’s gotta mean something, right?”

A moment’s hesitation stilled Tech’s response on his tongue, his eyes narrowing against the embarrassment of his previous, neglectful mistake. Discarding both his datapad and the com system on his gauntlet had been a highly irresponsible oversight, but the hours hidden away in the blissful seclusion of your workshop had seen him too enraptured by your capabilities and intelligence to spare his squad even a transient thought.

“I suppose that is accurate,” he beseeched, apologetically glancing downward to the aforementioned device still encircled by his hands.

“And I have a scar on my wrist from the last time that I tried to touch your goggles. From the few details that you’ve agreed to share, you seem to have no issue letting this mysterious ‘labcoat’ completely dismantle them. Surely, that means something too?”

“Well… yes. Yes, I would agree.” He barely managed to get the words past his lips before they began to curl into a reminiscent smile; the petrification that had coursed through his veins upon hearing the audible snap of his lens unceremoniously snapped out of his goggles, now only a comical memory.

“And you tried every trick in your arsenal to keep me from joining you today,” the sergeant continued with an amused scoff. “So there is obviously an element of confidence here that you’re just overlooking in the shadow of nerves. Seems to me that you really like this person. As far as if the feelings are reciprocated or not? There’s no way of knowing until it plays out, but show me a person that holds hands with a stranger platonically and I’ll eat my fucking boots.”

A chuckle that perfectly matched the hoarse nature of his smoky voice, left lips now smirking under his feeble attempt at humour. “And speaking of boots,” he continued, the smile slipping from his features and replaced with the ghost of a mildly disgusted grimace. “You should have thought about giving yours a quick wipe before we lef— Tech?”

But the sage advice had utterly dissipated into that moment’s soft gust of summer wind; frozen mid step on the pathway, Tech had fallen long out of stride with his brother, the response stolen off his tongue by the peculiar and devastating sight that had finally torn his attention from his hands.

The vibrant entryway that he’d deliberately forestalled seeing was, quite frankly, nowhere near as welcoming as he’d remembered it to be, the joy of its vibrant colour almost entirely negated by a new and… obtrusive… addition.

A perplexity as dense as the furrow in his brow triggered those magnified eyes to fervently dart across the unexpected dereliction in front of him, and a prickle unrelated to the blissful daydream of which he’d just been yanked quickly raised the fine hairs along the back of his neck.

Hunter reappeared at his elbow a moment later, his posture quickly moving to mirror that of his brother with bewilderment knitting his brows, and his head tipping delicately toward one shoulder. “Is this the place?” he asked Tech, his query dripping in skepticism.

“Yes.” A solitary word was all that Tech could formulate, the shambolic disrepair having entirely robbed him of both breath and understanding, his mind whirring near frantically as he tried to make sense of the unheralded situation.

Almost every inch of glass had been opacified; the oversized windows spanning the entirety of the storefront, now completely obscured by the adherence of several, nondescript wood panels affixed into place from the interior of the store. They’d been hung somewhat impetuously; this was apparent on first glance with the lopsided positioning and the subsequent gaps created between panels intensifying the appearance of arrant abandonment. The smaller window inset into the entry door appeared to have been treated similarly, but it was the barrier hung hastily behind its panes that had seized Tech’s attention and refused to free it.

An untidy, scrawling note had been imprudently scrawled across the wood, the dark ink of each letter seeping into the surrounding fibers and ominously distorting the redundant message.

“Temporarily Closed.”

His lips wrapped their way around the pairing of words though no sound left them, his throat bobbing under the duress of a heavy swallow as his heart slipped unsettlingly from his chest to his stomach.

“Looks, er… welcoming…” Hunter chirruped from Tech’s left side, removing the thick loop of wire from his shoulder and tossing it unceremoniously to the ground at his feet.

Tech remained deaf to everything except the trepidation still tickling the hair on his neck. Even the dull ache radiating from his elbow as the joint began to mutiny against the prolonged oppression of its freight was rebuffed, disappointment and a puzzling sense of foreboding fighting for position at the forefront of his mind.

He stepped over Hunter’s abandoned cargo, deftly stowing his datapad away into its respective pouch as he neared the door. “Temporarily closed,” he repeated to himself, as if the act of voicing the phrase might provide some semblance of the understanding that he just couldn’t seem to excogitate.

‘This is highly nonsensical.’ The thought flashed like a warning across his mind as he cautiously pressed a palm to the glass. It was unsurprisingly warm to the touch, the heat of the sun trapped between the glass and the wood panel on its other side, radiating easily through the pliant yet protective Kevlar of his gloves; a sensation that entirely juxtaposed the blossoming dread prickling his skin.

“Safe to assume this isn’t what you expected?” Hunter mused, the soft chortle that encapsulated his words exposing his equanimity, but something sinister had caught Tech’s eye as he tipped his head back and reread the sloppy message. A smattering of red dots, soaked deeply into the fibers of the wood below the scrawling penmanship that he did not recognize to be yours…

Something near a gasp left his lips as he yanked his hand from the window, quickly jerking the wire from his arm and hurrying to engage the mechanical visor on his helmet. Hunter continued to mutter queries over his shoulder, but Tech remained incognizant to it all, too intent on initiating a scan of the liquid that he was praying he’d misidentified upon first glance.

“Sanguination: POSITIVE.” flashed devastatingly across his vision. “Origin: HUMAN- HS.”

“I… I do not like the looks of this.” He pushed the visor up and out of his line of sight, the presumption spoken lowly, and saturated in a sense of foreboding that could not be immediately rationalized.

“Talk to me, Tech,” Hunter probed, knotting his arms semi-impatiently over his chest. “What am I looking at? Other than a sign that looks like someone wrote it with their kriffing toes…”

“There… there are several things amiss,” Tech muttered unhelpfully, wrenching his gaze from the carnage only long enough to tug his helmet from his head and lower it sightlessly to the ground beside the abandoned wire. “I cannot make sense of this.”

“Sense of what, exactly?” Hunter urged through another infuriating chuckle.

But all desire to answer his brother had dissipated, its urgency overtaken by the dread surging through his veins and pounding heavily in his ears. He turned his attention toward the window on his right, eyeing the linear gap between the frayed edge of the wood board and the window frame. Desperate for a clue as to why there would be blood splattered ominously across a barrier hung where it shouldn’t be, he jammed his eye to the glass; the audible clunk of his goggles hitting the window went completely ignored, his attention funneled blindly toward only that which would provide him even an inkling of plausible reasoning. But the opacification of the boards had rendered the inside of the shop completely enshadowed, and the only detectable movement in the dim was the soft cycling orange glow of the sleep light on your computer monitor.

He affixed his gaze to it determinedly, squinting his eyes to near-closed in an effort to focus on anything in the area that its glow may illuminate, but the same irksome glare that had rendered the screen of his datapad nearly indiscernible minutes previously continued to rob his eyes of the clarity that he desperately sought, and while the cupping of his hands around his face helped marginally, he was soon wincing against the pain of his goggles digging forcefully into the side of his nose as he pressed his eyes ever further against the rigid glass.

“Anything?” Hunter probed curiously.

“No,” Tech lamented, shifting his feet below him to further alter his vantage. “It is too dark to differentiate anything.”

“Well, here…” the sergeant chuckled. “Here, Tech… Tech!… Maker, will you just take the damn flashlight?”

Tech permitted his gaze to depart the shadows for only long enough to snatch the offering from his brother’s outstretched hand, igniting it with a deft flick of the switch and aiming at as precisely as he could through the infuriatingly small gap, but the presence of any obvious clues remained shrouded in darkness… evading him, and every panicked exhale accumulating like a cloud on the glass in front of him, saw the simmering panic in his chest continue to boil until even the innate act of swallowing became a challenge.

“Well… I don’t sense anything weird,” Hunter offered, his voice perfectly pairing the phlegmatic way he stepped backward and looked casually toward the direction they’d come from. “I thought I could smell blaster fire a few minutes ago, but it might have been that pair of shifty looking Rodian’s we passed. And, if I’m being honest, it’s hard to smell anything over the rank trash scattered everywhere in his hell of a hole-in-the-ground. How does anyone even bre—”

“There is a mug,” Tech interrupted gravely, his gauntlet clunking against the glass as he impatiently moved to wipe away the condensation collecting in his line of sight again.

“A what?” Hunter chirruped, cocking an eyebrow.

“A mug,” Tech repeated, stepping away from the window and pointing uselessly at the gap he’d been peering through. “On the counter nearest to us. During my last visit, the sullied dishes had been collected and arranged in the sink in preparation for washing. I– I cannot fathom that someone partaking in a planned, prolonged absence would abandon dishes to garner bacteria.”

But those lips, pressed thin with worry, relaxed only long enough to shift into an indignant frown at the nature of his sergeant’s suceeding reaction; Hunter’s long hair brushing gently atop worn, painted shoulder bells as his head tipped back, and his chest heaved beneath uninhibited laughter.

“Come on, Tech,” the sergeant chuckled. “You’ve lived with Wrecker your whole life. You’ve seen how he leaves his bunk on Kamino… wrappers everywhere… used spoons hiding under his pillow… dirty socks crammed at the bottom of the bed…”

Growing increasingly inexorable, and frustrated that his brother continued to make light of a clearly ominous situation, Tech shook his head. “The Fichus is limp, Hunter,” he spoke intently, jabbing his finger toward the narrow space between wood boards.

“The what-now is limp?”

“The fichus,” he repeated unhelpfully. “The potted plant beside the computer. It appears as if it’s been severely neglected in my absence.”

“Probably,” Hunter agreed, his shoulders jerking lightly in motion of delicate frustration. “It’s dark as hell in there. It’s likely starving for sunlight.”

“Precisely.”

Tech disengaged the flashlight and held it loosely at his side, jamming his goggles back up his nose as he turned pleadingly to his brother. “That is precisely my concern, Hunter. During my last visitation, I observed several written reminders. There was every intention to ensure that all the soiled dishes were sanitized, that each of the various plants were watered, and that the electrical panel was urgently cared for. It was written in ink clearer than this foreign writing. I saw it; I kissed it.”

Hunter’s eyes shifted behind a lagging, unhurried blink, the weight of his skepticism apparent as he looked doubtfully back at the anguished hitch in his brother’s eyebrows, those large brown eyes peering at him in something near a plea behind now crooked goggles. “I don’t know, Tech,” the sergeant sighed, tightening the fold of his arms across his chest and dropping his gaze to the small pebble below his boot. “I’ll agree it’s unusual that someone would board the windows for a temporary closure, but it probably has a valid explanation. I hate to say it because you’re usually not one to jump to conclusions, but… I think you might be overreacting on this.”

“I’m going inside.”

It was not a question nor a request, and Tech didn’t spare his brother even a glance before pocketing the flashlight and stooping to collect both his helmet and the coils of wire from the pathway at his feet.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Hunter protested immediately, unknotting his arms and extending a hand to still his brother’s seemingly impulsive movements. “I can see you’re a little worried, Tech, but this isn’t a separatist stronghold. It’s a private place of business, and we can’t just break our way in and sniff around. It’s an invasion of property and privacy.”

“I familiarized myself with the locking mechanism during my last visit,” Tech answered smartly, throwing a heavy coil over each shoulder. “So nothing is required to be broken for me to gain entry, and my scanners will ensure that neither of us are required to make determinations based on the evidence gathered by the use of our respective olfactory systems.”

“Tech…”

But Hunter’s impatience was matched by only that of the man in front of him now jamming his helmet back onto his head and reengaging his visor.

“I will not cause a disturbance of any kind, I assure you,” Tech continued, dropping to a knee in front of the door and examining the keyhole with narrowed eyes. “My objective is simply to gather the evidence capable of disproving my emerging theory that a perilous, possibly life-threatening event has taken place.”

“Perilous and life threatening?” Hunter repeated after an indignant scoff left his lips. “What in Maker’s name do you think happened here? It’s likely this is just a planned vacation and the topic just didn’t come up in conversation last time. Let’s just take a deep breath and head back to the ship for now. If everything goes to plan on Felucia, we can stop back here on the way to Kaliida Sho—”

“Hunter,” Tech interrupted, pivoting on a knee to look upward at his brother. “My feelings on this are clear and unclouded. I– I feel an admittedly unprecedented yet intense sense of unease, and I am confident neither will subside until I am able to disprove my suspicions. Several aspects of the present situation do not stand to reason. Our final conversation, while frenzied by the urgency of my departure, left me with the premise that I was to return here at my earliest convenience. There is no mistaking the task list that I observed: ‘wash mugs, water plants, call electrician.’ And– and my scanner indicates that there is substantial sanguineous residue embedded into that sign. I suspect the source of the blood is inside, so I must go in and investig—”

“Okay okay okay,” Hunter appeased, his dark eyes thankfully beginning to soften again as he acceded to his brother’s concern. “I don’t necessarily understand your fear, but it’s very unlike you to lose your cool so I’ll heed your curiousity. But make it quick; this walkway is a little too crowded for my liking and we’re already turning heads by loitering.”

Anything even resembling an argumentative retaliation didn’t dare depart Tech’s tongue, the risk of Hunter redacting his already precariously offered blessing was simply too probable, and this was too important. It was imperative that he gain entry.

“I’ll go up top and keep a lookout,” Hunter continued, gesturing with a nod to the roofline above them. “Poke around, but don't linger. Can you get in there without making a mess?”

“Well, of course I can,” Tech answered immediately. “The door is equipped with a primitive deadbolt system; one easily disengaged with the right leverage of a micro tool similar to that of—”

“Okay, do it.” Hunter waved away the unnecessarily lengthy explanation, impatience and regret beginning to ghost across his features. “If you’re interrupted for whatever reason, Plan-11.”

Tech signaled his understanding with an appreciative nod and a heavy swallow, returning his attention to the door while Hunter’s heavy footsteps vanished amongst the crowd of passing children, their raucous screeches and laughter echoing tauntingly into Tech’s ears.

His composure began to dwindle, adrenaline inciting a tremble in his fingers as he retrieved the soldering needle from his belt, sitting back on his heel to reevaluate the best method for a clean and concise entry. Overriding a lock system with his datapad was child’s play, but manually disengaging a deadbolt was not something he practiced regularly. After a deliberative pause, he jabbed the fine tip into the keyhole and began to methodically maneuver it around. With ears attuned for the nearly inaudible clicks that would affirm his success, he redirected his efforts into preventing the simmering panic from permitting his mind to wander; concerns for what potentially lay on the other side of the door pulling droplets of sweat to his furrowed brow. Fear was not a commonplace emotion for soldiers, particularly not for a squad of enhanced commando’s with a 100% mission success rate, but fear for the safety of someone else… a civilian… was both a foreign and a potent feeling, and not one that he was eager to reexperience.

The deadbolt released with a click audible enough to warrant Tech quickly glancing over his shoulder for prying eyes. When satisfied that he hadn’t garnered any unwanted attention, he quickly turned the handle and pushed the door ajar. Long stagnant dust particles danced about in the beam of stark luminescence as the disturbance imbued them with new life, yet Tech observed them for only moments before hurriedly shutting the door behind him; he could not risk a pedestrian risking the open door as an invitation to enter.

He reactivated the borrowed flashlight, his eyes hungrily following the beam as it darted toward the darkened corners. Was it worth calling for you? Making his presence known before clearing the area of perpetrators seemed a foolhardy action given your obvious incapacitation, but his frantic need to establish any semblance of your safety, paired with Hunter’s request for efficiency, demanded that he at least try. The echoing silence in response to his call only succeeded in inflating the now undeniable dread sending his blood pounding heavily through his veins.

He engaged the visor over his eyes again, ignoring the strobing alert in the upper corner warning him of his increased heart rate, and directed both the beam of light and his line of sight toward the floor beneath his boots. Despite having anticipated its presence, the blood splattered amongst the floorboards threatened to tear the breath from his lungs.

Sporadically smattered like a trail of morbid breadcrumbs, he followed the droplets into the open space of your shop, peering around in the oppressive darkness. The familiar orange glow from the computer stole his attention almost immediately, and after casting a final glimpse at the gruesome implications dotted across the floor, he departed their path and made for the counter. The dilapidated ficus was offered only a fleeting glance as he passed, as was its equally dehydrated fern counterpart and the ivy trailing down the wall, their dilapidation having already been registered. No, he was more interested in the mug; the second clue.

The degradation of its contents became obvious within seconds of stepping into its proximity, yet despite the aroma of its putrefaction forcing his top lip to flatten, Tech continued toward it without hesitation. Milk had coagulated densely in the center of the unfinished liquid, and a quick activation of his scanner indicated a bacteria progression only achievable by several weeks in an undisturbed environment.

“Unusual,” he mumbled to himself, stooping to observe the sparse layer of crystallization forming around the rim where the anemic looking liquid met the white ceramic.

A sudden, booming thud against the window sent his shoulders jerking in alarm; his datapad stowed deftly into its pocket and his pistol departing its holster in the span of a blink, but the ringing laughter and jeers of the passing children outside quickly exposed the intrusion as nothing more than an inopportune distraction, and a reminder that time was of the essence.

Tech cast one last surveying look at the mold festering in its unmolested paradise before departing the area and retracing his steps back toward the droplets of blood scattered atop the floor. Like the worn footpath that his own boots had traversed during his last visit, the red blemishes formed a direct path toward the back room, scattered at near precise intervals as if a gruesomely soiled object had been dripping as its holder tread across the store, yet the macabre trail was but a walk in the park compared to the door to which it led. He stared, horrified to the point of immobility at the once glimmering gold knob that would permit his entry, its radiance hidden by a crusted, red handprint.

The grip around his pistol tightened until his hand began to tremble, yet despite its demand for absolute security, he longed to simply drop it and reach instead for his datapad, his always reliable source of information… his comfort, but too much unknown still lingered in the air; too many enshadowed spaces still to explore. A horrifyingly developing theory needed disproving if he were to be able to leave this place with his heart intact.

He dared not disturb the third clue lest it be scanned at a later time and tested for identification purposes, so an assertive kick of his boot saw the door swinging ajar, the hallway opposite as hauntingly enshadowed as the one in which he stood. A seemingly endless trail of blood lay on the floor in front of him, nearly stealing what was left of his resolve; the droplets increasing in frequency and size before diverging into a small room on the left that he knew to be the kitchenette.

His fear only intensified at the sight of another morbid handprint, this one smeared across the faucet of the sink where… in the depths of the aluminum basin, was a soiled hammer.

The threat of suffocation encompassed him as a sinister realization began to fit puzzle pieces into place, but he was robbed of the opportunity to process the additions by the chirp of his comm.

“Tech,” Hunter urged. “I think you may have a visitor inbound. Someone is hovering by the door but I can’t get a clear line of sight through the crowd.”

Plan-11: The Perceiver. Hide and observe; do not engage until you’ve established a visual on your approaching backup.

A degree of focus that only imminent danger could provide saw his jaw tensing beneath his helmet, his gaze darting from the bloody tool in the sink toward the door in which he’d just passed through. He raised his pistol, crossing one wrist over the other so that blanching beam of light may guide him back through the din.

Your workshop, the haven in which he’d mentally prepared himself to spend the next several hours in, was as dark as it was silent, and for the first time hesitation stilled his steps from exploring the the uncharacteristically lifeless space, as there were numerous shadowed corners in which further clues, or dare he think it, your body might be found.

But time had seemingly diminished, and every extended blink into the darkness was a moment wasted; a moment he needed to enact Plan-11 while he still could. He disengaged his flashlight, and a quick nudge of the door with his knee saw him reentering the retail space, his eyes immediately darting around to search for any semblance of cover; somewhere he could stoop and watch until Hunter appeared in the doorway to flank the intruder, but his moment of hesitation had cost him.

Poised to welcome the perpetrator who’d likely come to clean up their mess, he refused to squint against the onslaught of sunlight as the door creaked slowly open and exposed the intruder.

Final Chapter coming soon!

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