#*cracks open white claw and lights a joint*

[kidspawn]

"pride month is over" yeah but now its kavinsky summer 2025 be the man you wish you could be. dream yourself a friend group. do drugs and be no homo three balls gay. crashout over your situationship and kidnap his brother then blow up and die. change the trajectory of their lives.

[kalelactually]

this little oneshot is a prelude into a transformers human/mech au by @keferon , loosely based on pacific rim (i think?) go browse through their au/art tag, their work is incredible and a ton of fun. :3

i focus mainly on ratchet and deadlock here (even thought deadlock isn’t even officially named yet) but don’t worry, there’s more on the way :P

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— send out a signal, and i’ll fly low (i’ll find you by the light of your halo) —

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and as ratchet walks through the forest, a heavy sense covers his shoulders and folds over his head, fastening itself across his chest with a kind of foreboding he hasn’t felt since he left the war.

he grimaces, and tightens his grip on the wrench over his shoulder he nabbed on the way out of the garage. of course, in an ideal scenario, he wouldn’t have to use it — but if war taught him anything, it’s to prepare for everything. (besides, even he’s not above admitting that something out there [God, the universe, fate, whatever] has a taste for irony.)

as he makes his way north in the direction of the river, the whirring sound he heard from overhead before now winds its way towards him between brush and trees, along with the distressingly familiar groans and creaks of settling metal.

a heavy breeze follows the noises a second later. it ruffles ratchet’s hair on the way by, and sends any remaining wildlife into a flurry. ratchet cocks his head, thinking almost absently that the sound was similar to a sigh.

he then catches himself and pauses to shake his head. he must be losing it. (it’s boring out here, and his mind’s finally given up the ghost.)

he grips his wrench tighter all the same.

he finally rounds a patch of thick pines, and as he takes in the view his jaw drops in a display of surprise that hasn’t caught him dead in years. in front of him, covered in earth, countless branches, and skewered trees, lies a being made of sheer plated metal.

ratchet takes a second. he shakes his head in disbelief. he blinks his eyes once, twice; shakes his head again — and, well, the view still hasn’t changed. he blinks one more time just for good measure, then picks up his jaw from the forest floor. he mentally starts to assess the scene in front of him with both an engineer’s and medic’s eye as he steps closer, wrench still held high for (ahem.) reasons.

(listen, he’s still not willing to play chicken with a higher power, alright?)

the majority of the large plates that make up the figure’s external armor are severely dented, scuffed to hell, and some are full-on buckling. there’s also a luminescent pink sort of liquid dripping from multiple cracks and scrapes, spreading quickly across forest floor and coating its surface in a glowing, iridescent sheen.

he can also hear the telltale crackle of electric currents running unchecked even as he catalogs multiple sparking wires, and he makes sure to avoid those with full caution until he can come back with proper gear. (and oh, God. he’s already thinking about coming back, isn’t he.) above it all, the smell of smoke still hangs in the air as it slowly rises off superheated metal.

upon closer inspection, he can make out grey and white paint underneath all the dirt, scrapes, and pink liquid. the colored paint seems to alternate between armor panels here and there to provide some aesthetic effect, and there’s yellow accents and teal trim that seem to be faintly glowing, lit from underneath by some internal power source. ratchet definitely puts its overall frametype down as humanoid adjacent, as he rounds the figure’s side and finally makes out an arm, along with a head.

the arm itself looks like it’s barely hanging on, a throughly busted shoulder joint leading down to an extended claw-tipped hand, as if to brace itself for the crash. the head, meanwhile, has a series of white finials that frame a dark grey faceplate with shut optics, and a bashed-in nose ridge and open mouth with pink liquid trickling out of both to nicely round off the list.

and with that note, he remembers hearing whispers about a project that had been floating around for months before he left the war (and moved to his chosen place of reclusion) but he never put much stock in them — the government was always trying to spread things and elevate itself, constantly fighting a battle with their ever tenuous self-righteous image.

nevertheless, the thing he’s looking at now proves that maybe someone out there did follow through on their promises, and although he does have questions, concerns, and a whole lot of notes, this figure is a thing of ingenuity and marvel. the engineer in him is absolutely thrilled, eager to examine its joints, wiring, and materials — to get deep under plating and find how it ticks.

his eyes are wide as he reaches a hand out to carefully examine the being’s faceplate with an appraising hum, the material looking softer compared to the hardier metal of its armored frame. it had to be some kind of polysynth mesh, perceptor was working on a similar project back whenever he had time in the labs —

the being’s left optic cracks open without warning, drowning ratchet in crimson light as it looks around wildly, trying to orient itself. it zeroes in on him a second later, and he yanks his hand back as he raises his wrench, instinctively retreating a few paces.

the optic moves, looking him up and down, and bathes him in light for a few moments as ratchet breathes in and out, steadying himself, his hands firm as his eyes stare back into unforgiving red.

the being scans him one more time, and lets out a sigh as its optic closes. a rush of air escapes its whole frame as it finally settles, sinking further into the ground.

ratchet slowly pulls himself out of whatever… that was, and after a moment of deliberation he lowers the wrench, reaching forward again to tap on the being’s faceplate, more sure that this time it won’t wake up.

the face is indeed soft underneath his fingers and warm to the touch, with a cool undertone as he gently strokes it. it’s definitely some kind of polysynth material, and as he stands there, wrench at his side and other tools weighing his pockets, stroking the face of a metal figure that, effectively, crash landed in his backyard, ratchet comes to a decision. he’s going to help.

(oh, he’s kidding himself. he was always going to. he’s hardwired for it, and besides, how else is he supposed to get his kicks since he left those slaggers at back at base? damn if he doesn’t miss orion, though.)

besides, this is the most exciting thing that’s happened since he moved, and there’s no way he’s letting something like this just sit out here among the trees.

he strokes the being’s face one more time, and lets out a sigh of his own. “well, scrappy, guess i’ll be back,” and here, he grins slightly at himself. “don’t go anywhere.”

mind made up, he turns and starts to make his way back. he’s got tools to collect, a sandwich to grab, a few calls to make, and something brand new waiting for him to pick apart.

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i hope someone enjoyed !! feel free to ask questions, i’d be happy to answer them, and i’ll definitely have more of this au coming soon !!

(p.s. sorry for the tag, keferon !! just wanted to make sure and give credit <33)

fic title is adapted from “halo” by starset ! it’s very dratchet coded.

now with chapter two !!

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• character credits belong solely to their respective franchises and creators. all works enclosed are solely my own, and are purely fictional and meant for the enjoyment of the reader. please do not repost, republish, or steal my works without explicit permission, otherwise you will be blocked and reported. ty !! •

[swampstew]

Eustass Kid, G-51 ~ Cock Cage

Summary: Modern monster AU; Kid as a Barghest - a mythical, monstrous black dog with large teeth and claws in Scottish lore. Your bratty boyfriend lost a bet and is dragging his feet to deliver. You make him choose. Kid never responded to authority well.

Warnings: I'm not even sorry for how long this took me, I don't think I'll ever write anything that can top this. WHEW. SPICY AF. Eustass Kid as a Barghest and female reader, long term established relationship. Domming Kid. and it kinda works, cock cage, degradation/humiliation, bdsm dynamics, orgasm denial, oral (Eustass receiving), masturbation (Reader on self), edging, vaginal penetration, and creampie. Word Count: 2.7K

Rolling out from under the covers with an annoyed grunt at having breached his warm cocoon with cool air, Kid shook his ruffled bed head and stumbled out of bed with a curse. On his way out of the bathroom he stubbed his toe, barely biting back a howl.He rapped his knuckles against the doorframe and stomped to the kitchen where Killer handed him a cup of coffee. Exchanging the mug, Killer’s calloused fingers grazed Kid’s palm and let out a static shock.

“FUUUUCCCKKK!” Kid couldn’t help the instinctive spasm of his hand when it happened, sloshing the steaming black liquid over the lip edge, and spilled on his hand and the light colored carpet.

“I FUCKING HATE LIVING IN THIS APARTMENT!” he bellowed.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Killer didn’t look phased. “Don’t blame the apartment, it’s Friday the 13th.”

“HAAH?” Kid looked at the blonde incredulously. “Don’t tell me you believe in that shit?”

Killer pulled back his hair to reveal he was wearing a weathered, denim vest that had Kid’s pack symbol on the back. Pinned on the collar was a small sprig of white heather.

“For good luck. Want my extras? Giving them out to the rest of the crew.”

“No.”

Thunder boomed outside and they could hear the wind blowing so forcefully that the tree next to their second story apartment was getting accosted by branches. With a roll of his eyes, Kid got ready to meet his girlfriend as it stormed. When it lightened up enough, he prepared to leave, opening his umbrella before he walked out the door.

“KID DON’T—” Killer screeched.

Too late. A sharp gust of wind and rain blew through the open hallway-like corridor that led to the stair case, knocking the umbrella clean out of Kid’s hand, tumbling quickly away.

“FUCKS SAKE!”

His day only got worse. No street parking near his girlfriend’s rental forced him to walk two blocks from the parking garage. The sidewalk was full of cracks he tripped over, he walked under a tall ladder with no regard and knocked over painting materials – which he did not stop for – and he kicked a rock that broke someone’s mirror, that he was hounded into paying for repairs.

While the rain had stopped on the drive over, the day still looked dreary. He powered through the walk, trying to reignite his excitement for the alleged surprise that was waiting for him. Reaching her doorway, he took out his copy of the house key and let himself in. Before he could step through the threshold, he was nearly thrown off balance by a startled black cat that dashed from underfoot.

He pinched the bridge of his nose to maintain his composure, not wanting his girlfriend to see him in a shitty mood as soon as he walked in.

“Be right down, stud muffin!” he heard her melodic voice call down from the second story of her cozy place.

“Take your time babe,” he responded. “When did you get a cat?”

“I don’t have a cat!”

“Huh…”

Dismissing the incident, Kid pulled out the candy dish from the fire mantel place and pulled out a joint, waiting for Y/N. He nearly coughed out an inhale when she came down, looking gorgeous in a pair of olive-colored ripped skinny jeans with a casual, pastel purple off-the-shoulder corset top; fishnet stockings were not-so-subtly hidden from the ripped sections. A pair of comfortable kitten heels he had bought her in the past hung off her fingers, a wrapped box sitting in her free hand.

“That fer’me sweetheart?” he stubbed out the joint and tucked it behind his ear. The herbs were mixed with freshly rolled lavender, leaving a pleasant smell in the air.

“Mhm. Since I won the last bet, I get to pick the kink this time,” she gave him a mischievous wink.

“Hope it’s somethin’ good.”

“It’s…something. Probably bittersweet.”

Kid unwrapped the present with an eager smile that fell flat when he opened the lid. Lifting the object out, he inspected the steel cage with trepidation.

“Is this what you asked me to measure my dick for?!”

“Yep!”

“Noooooooooooo please tell me its April fools.”

“It’s Friday the 13th, in October. I won the bet in July. We’ve got a big afternoon ahead of us, go slip it on.”

“UGH why!?”

“It’s part of my fantasy. I don’t bitch when we do what you want to do.”

“I’m having a really bad day already,” he whined.

“You can put it on now in your human form. Or if you keep pouting, I’ll have you wear it in your other form.”

Kid froze. He officially pushed her buttons. Granted, she always allowed him a shit-ton of leeway when he acted out, trying to change her mind to something he wanted to do, but after two and a half years of dating and finally sharing his true heritage with her, she started using his secret as a means to reign him in after too much taking and not enough giving in their relationship.

She called it, play bitch games – win bitch prizes. Making him do whatever it is she wanted to do, but instead of bringing her boyfriend along, she brought her best doggo. Him. She swore that she came up with the idea herself but Kid still believed that Killer, Heat, and/or Wire planted the seed to fuck with him.

Well, his middle name is Petulant.

“Bad boy,” her tone low and stern at his bitchy responses.

He shifted into his true form, a Barghest, with the body of a giant, menacing canine with deadly claws and sharp teeth. A true guard dog. With his ears laid back, Kid let out a huff through his jowls. His coat a gorgeous brindle pattern of black, gold, and red, with a thick mohawk like strip of deep red fur running from between his ears down his spine. His tail fluffy and coarse, hurt like a motherfucker if he whipped you with it. Kid’s eyes maintained their natural amber glow with flecks of orange in the irises.

“How do you plan on explaining a chastity cage on your dog?” Kid growled.

“Who’s gonna notice?” she pulled out a pirate costume from the closet.

His hackles rose, “You planned this didn’t you?” a pissed off bark escaped his jaws.

“Nope. I just know you very well. I kept the receipt to return it if you had shown a crumb of compromise. I picked this horror maze bar crawl because I thought you would think it was cool and have fun. Why do you make this harder than it needs to be?”

Kid hung his head, letting out a short whine that was so high pitched Y/N almost didn’t register it. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to feel the cold metal on my dick.”

“Sorry Tulip, this was custom ordered cause I didn’t think you’d like the other styles.”

“If I wear the cage in my human form do I still need to wear a costume?”

“Ahh yeah, people who dress up can get a round of free shots.”

“Just one round?” he complained. “Ugh what’s my fuckin costume? Wait, what’s your costume?”

“One round per establishment. Limit is 6 though and you get stamped for counting purposes – ANYWAYS – with you as a dog pirate, I’m going as millennial mermaid Princess Ariel,” she twirled on her feet, sparkly purple nail polish on her toes and fingernails. “If you’re in human form, we’ll go as millennial Hercules and Megara!”

“…I’d rather be a monster than a fucking hero.”

Y/N blushed, “That shouldn’t sound as hot as it does when you look like this. Let’s put this on and head to the place.”

As they toured the drink stands and food booths, Kid’s tail twitched every time he felt the lock on his cage swing and glide against the metal. He wasn’t pleased with how sensitive his body already felt with the stupid thing on. It felt snug, especially with the black and yellow patterned shorts Y/N had buttoned him in. Feeling annoyed as hell at the Velcro strapped, fluffy maroon pirate coat that was draped over his back, but short enough to not drag on the ground behind him and didn’t cover all of his mohawk mane. There was an additional Velcro strap that hung off to the side of his flank, two lightweight plushies mimicking a gun and sword to his pirate costume.

A thick, black leather collar with spiky studs was belted around his neck. Two light blue steel tags with yellow rubber trims hung from the collar: his rabies vaccination and his girlfriend’s number to call if he was ever lost; Killer’s number was on the opposite side. A gift from her on their two year anniversary. He swore up and down he hated it, but more often than not, he enjoyed wearing it during sex. Or strapping it over Y/N’s neck.

The memories made him tingle, letting out a low grumble as he felt the first of many waves of arousal as the night wore on. He understood why Y/N chose the outfit she did – casual enough to get away without looking overzealous of the festive month, and flirty enough to do the things she was intentionally doing to fluster him during the date.

It was when Y/N said, “If only you were in your human form, you could be groping me under the table or in between the alleyways and dead end zones,” that Kid’s patience broke and he pulled on his leash.

“Time to go,” he snapped, grabbing the chain leash with his jaw and yanked Y/N behind him. She stumbled in her step as she threw her change in the tip jar, downed her final shot, and grabbed her remaining cup.

“NO PULLING TULIP!”

Kid’s rabid barking could be heard throughout the maze arena.

Y/N’s shoulder was sore by the time they made it back to her home. Unlocking her door, Kid towered over her standing on his hind legs, pushing her through the door. He pinned her to the ground as he kicked the door close, drool falling from his jowl as his eyes looked red and incensed.

“TAKE. IT. OFF.”

With trembling fingers, Y/N unbuttoned the shorts. As they fell away, her eyes zeroed in on the strain behind the cage. Even in dog form, he was intimidating to look at – everywhere. The cage was doing its job perfectly, an angry looking member restrained in its confines.

“No. You didn’t have to drag me home. My shoulder hurts.”

“Y/N,” he warned.

“You’re not in charge tonight Kid. I am. That was the bet. What happened to Eustass Kid keeps his word?”

His body still pinned her down, but he leaned back a little bit to give him space to transform. As his body changed, his costume ripped apart at the seams, falling to either side of him. His bulging muscles were littered with scraps of thread and strips of fabric as his body heaved from how angry he was. Completely naked over her, his hands roughly palmed her body before settling over her shoulder.

Then, with a delicate touch, he began kneading the muscle around the sore area. Using his fingers to help reduce stiffness, gently moving her arm in stretching motions to loosen her muscles up from all the restraining she had attempted to enforce on him. It had been kinda cute, in the moment, only he couldn’t see it through the red he saw. Didn’t really comprehend the pain he was inflicting in his hurry to drag her home.

Her home: where he kept a bag of toiletries, books, an extra tool set, and had recently purchased a small dresser to hold more of his clothes in her room for his extended sleepovers. The latest record being 15 consecutive days. Her home plus him. Maybe their home…one day…

Nah.

He’d build them a palace from the ground up before he’d let them settle in this tiny shed.

Finishing the impromptu massage, Kid pressed his matte painted lips against her neck, slowly kissing up and down her flesh. Lingering every time goosebumps broke out on her skin. Her hands clutched his face and brought him down to her face, kissing him with fiery passion. They made out until they were panting, lipstick smeared across faces, Y/N’s neck littered with small, shallow hickies.

“I’m ready to play a game,” Y/N gasped.

“Which one, doll?”

“The coin toss.”

He grinned, “Sounds fair to me.”

The rules were simple: the reward for calling heads was 5 minutes of head, if tails came up the punishment was the belt had to stay on as Y/N masturbated and he could only watch; the reward for calling tails was one orgasm, and if heads came up, the punishment was edging for 15 minutes, with the cage on.

He won head twice in a row before his time was called, shutting down his ejaculation that was 2 seconds shy of shooting down her throat. The torture of watching Y/N swirl her clit with a vibrator her made her had his balls aching dully.

Then the edging came. Kid laid on his back with a pinched face as he tried with all his might to will his orgasm to come out even with the restraint. Y/N’s slick pussy drooled over the cage, soaking his sensitive skin, making him throb painfully. She slid back and forth on the cage as the edge of the lock pressed against her clit making her cry out as she came again. Kid could feel the pulsing of her core even through the barrier of the steel and he almost wept.

He had the strength to rip it off if he really wanted to. But he was weak for his sweetheart and caved in to her desires. Would do so more often to avoid the calculated torture she was putting him through. Next time just go to the stupid event, he berated himself mentally. The phone timer went off and Kid let out a shaky sigh of relief, tears rolling from the outer edge of his eyes, his eyeliner smudged and leaking with the tears.

“You’re turn to flip, big guy.”

Kid flipped the coin and Y/N caught it.

“I’ll get the key,” she smirked and got up, but not before sliding her pussy over Kid’s face leaving a mess of slick around his mouth and nose, which he eagerly lapped up.

He laid in his position until she came back, gently unlocking the cage. As soon as the two sides left his heated skin and his cock was free to fully swell until it was as hard as the steel that confined him, he flipped Y/N to be under him.

“Let me in,” he husked, prodding his tip between her folds. Bottoming out in one thrust the second she gasped approval.

He jackhammered inside her, eager and feral to release deep inside. She let out incoherent yelps as his hips smacked against the back of her thighs as he hoisted her up by her ass. Curling over her, pushing her legs back into a mating press, balls heavily slapping her ass as they tightened.

Y/N wailed as the position stoked her final orgasm. Clamping down on his cock, Kid’s thrusts became sloppy as he panted and moaned, fucking her through hers before he allowed himself to cum. The final tremors and twitches subsided and he let out a snarl, digging his nails into her arms as he stroked himself with her gummy walls, cumming deep and hard. A creamy ring formed on his cock as he slowed his pumping, finally spent. Instead of pulling out, he clutched his girlfriend to his chest and rolled them over, keeping his cock warm as he rubbed her arms to soothe the crescent shaped dents he made in her skin.

“Hmmm…” he grumbled tiredly as he tucked Y/N over his chest, kissing the top of her head. “Y’know…oddly enough, my bad luck suddenly went away today.”

“Oh yeah? When?”

His painted nails stroked her hair as he thought about how much fun she had, even with him in his monstrous form. “When I was hanging out with you. I love you, Y/N.”

“Awww,” she cooed, shifting to move up his torso, giving his shoulder a light bite, “I love you too Kid.”

14 tiles to go, 35 calls made so far.

[crocomum]

[Request for TFP Megaratch focusing on their past connection]

In the bowel of a Decepticon holding cell, servos bound in front and hunched on his knees, sat the Autobot Chief Medical officer. A single white light shown down over Ratchet’s frame, spotlighting his unblemished armor, revealing none of the damage that had been inflicted on him. It had all been internal.

Ratchet cycled air through his vents, gritting his denta against another wave of nausea roiling through his tanks. The pain in his helm, stemming from what couldn’t be, but felt like deep slices into his core processor, had traveled from the source all the way down his spinal strut. An intentional rerouting of sensation meant to disperse it amongst his less critical operating systems and lessen its potential impact over his most vital.

Had the medic resorted to anything less, the damage his processor had sustained during Shockwave’s last particle patch would have sent him into stasis lock and left him with no time to prepare his defenses against the next. An intentional tactic to keep him in a weakened state and as an easier target to hack, he was sure.

Rather than waste what little energy the stasis cuffs encircling his wrists hadn’t robbed him of, Ratchet focused on rebuilding his shorn firewalls. The mental strain of it caused his optics to shutter closed; the back of his helm started to burn from his processor’s overstrain.

So focused was Ratchet on his own recovery that he didn’t hear the opening of cell doors, or the heavy pedesteps that followed. Only the deep vocals that mocked, “For one who was forged to soothe its cause, pain suits you well, doctor.”

Ratchet forced his helm upward, optics half shuttered as he stared at the scarred smile of the slagmaker himself. Grunting, he tried to force himself to stand and nearly slipped with the effort. His knees couldn’t do anything more than scrape ineffectually against the gound.

Megatron’s smile widened. “Don’t get up on my account; I find myself rather fond of you in this position. It’s an excellent reversal of our first encounter, wouldn’t you say? Poetic even, if I were a mech to care for such comparisons.”

Rolling his jaw, a joint popped before he rasped, “What you’re fond of, Megatron, is hearing yourself talk.”

Megatron, fanged smirk firmly in place, nodded his agreement and began to circle the medic, servos clasped firmly behind his back. “My speeches would not have reached so wide a range of audials had I no enjoyment in their crafting. Passion is what they responded to. A pursuit so many in the lower rungs of Cybertron had been denied.”

The warlord ended his circling after the third pass, coming to a stop directly in front of the medic and holding out a servo. “I seem to recall you holding a passion for the sciences that extended far beyond what your medical function would permit. A passion you and I still share.”

The servo was a blatant offer to help Ratchet stand; he made no move to accept. Megatron’s smirk softened, and had Ratchet not been so familiar with the harsh glint of anger that hid behind the mech’s feigned affections—he still wouldn’t have been fooled.

“If you’re here to regale me with another lecture on the woes of your origin, you needn’t bother. My love of ancient history was never so great.” Then, with a smirk of his own, “I’d prefer torture, though I doubt I’ll find little difference between it and your sanctimony.”

Claws curled into a fist and a sharp invent warned Ratchet of the coming danger. He turned his helm to better weather the blow, gritting his denta and shuttering his optics closed. The loud clanging of metal against metal caused him to flinch, but no pain followed the sound. He cracked open an optic, his brow ridge rose, shock worn plainly on his face.

Megatron had lowered himself to one knee, his curled fist coming to rest underneath Ratchet’s slackened jaw. He used the touch to turn Ratchet’s helm to face the warlord directly. Their optics met and Ratchet’s cycled, his helm shaking as he snapped himself out of his stupor brought on by the unusual behavior of such an old, known enemy.

Though Megatron followed the movement, using his impressive height to loom over the medic even while kneeling. Ratchet’s spark hammered in his chassis as the mech leaned down, bringing his dangerously sharp intake uncomfortably close to the medic’s faceplate.

Rough vocals inquired, “Is that what you would call what once lain between us, doctor? Did your love for that ancient history not once match the love you now give your false Prime?”

Ratchet sputtered, optics cycling wide. He would have leaned back further in an attempt to escape the other’s faux gentle touch had it not risked him falling onto his back completely. And suddenly he could think of no more jeopardous place to be than lying prone before Megatron.

No, not suddenly; he had always thought that.

“My love for Orion Pax remains unchanged, being as he and Optimus are the same mech. Refusing to accept reality doesn’t make it untrue, Megatron…not that reality has ever stopped your delusions of betrayal. I won’t argue with you on this point again—you couldn’t convince me to turn from him before the war, and you won’t now. Whatever it is you’re after, I won’t give it to you.”

Megatron’s smile threatened to slip into a sneer. “The leader of the Decepticons does not wait for gifts—I take what I desire, the contents of your processor are no exception.”

Blue optics rolled and he sarcastically bit out, “I see the leader of the Decepticons still hasn’t broken his habit of speaking in the third person. And you’re right, our history is more than ancient. It’s dead. You killed it.”

Ratchet had no intention of elaborating; they both knew the event he referenced. Instead, he waited to return to the less outdated topic of why he had been merely captured and not terminated. What it was that Megatron wanted from him.

But it seemed, as always, the slagmaker had other plans.

“Orion Pax died the moment he accepted the council’s choice of Primacy and betrayed the cause. Or do you not remember arguing with him as fiercely as I against the council’s decision?”

If meant to be a cutting blow, the attack missed its mark.

“Orion died,” Ratchet spat. “When you thrust a sword through his spark.”

The Decepticons' first attack, the assault on Iacon, hadn’t been fatal to the newly elected Prime. Through a means of desperation the medic still didn’t fully comprehend, he had managed to save Orion’s spark from guttering out. He just hadn’t been able to stop it from shattering.

Megatron’s optics brightened. “So, you agree he is dead then? I’m glad we managed to salvage something of this conversation. I was beginning to worry the strain on your processor had left you unable to see reason.”

Ratchet’s engine revved weakly—he had stepped directly into one of Megatron’s verbal traps, something he normally was cognizant enough to be wary of. The warlord wielded his words just as mightily as his fists, neither of which Ratchet had ever succeeded in fending off.

Megatron chuckled, raking his knuckles lightly across Ratchet’s chin before standing. “Don’t look so put out, doctor. That was only the first of many concessions I intend to take from you. A review of ancient history chiefly among them.”

Ratchet’s vents hitched, his derma thinning into a grim line. The shape of his relationship with Orion Pax before the war was not one he ever wanted revisited under even the most benign of circumstances; his past relationship with Megatronus even less given the current.

In his silence Megatron laughed, throwing his helm back as he took some private enjoyment of the medic’s speechless state. Laugh petering out, Megatron placed his servos on his hips while looking down at the medic, smile turning something wicked as he said, “In our reminiscing, I nearly forgot the actual purpose of my visit.”

Megatron’s smile dropped, but the arrogance in his field remained ever the same.

“Shockwave will return shortly to retrieve you for your next interrogation. I do hope you’ve enjoyed your rest, dearest Ratchet.”

With that mech turned and left without a single spare look back. The doors closed behind him and Ratchet slumped once alone. His helm fell forward as he rerouted all remaining power into rebuilding his firewalls, sparing none to think of how easily Megatron had played him.

His defenses remained as little more than jumbles of broken code and incomplete processes. Depending on how shortly Shockwave returned, he wouldn’t have time to—

The doors opened. A mono-opticed helm showed through. Time was up.

[whumpsoda]

Amara - Nevan & Darius

WOHEO Masterlist

Listened to No One Lives Forever by Oingo Boingo while writing this… idk why but a great song for me to write whump to??

Also I think I like this! Sorta proud of it atm <3

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @iys-cloud

cw: vampire whumper, human whumpee, pet whump, memory loss, amnesia, brainwashing

———————————————————————

Lights.

Bright, encompassing, and fluorescent. They stung. They buzzed and beat upon the vibrant white tile flooring, of which numerous pairs of polished shoes clicked atop.

There was talking. Several voices that spouted unintelligible words. He gently stroked someone’s hand, thumb rubbing over wispy hairs. He couldn’t tell who it was, the details of their face blurred and muddled in his brain.

There was crying. Shrill and squeaky, little hiccups scattered in between cries. The ringing of the noise only became louder as it neared, right into his cradled arms. As unlikeable as the sound was, it bloomed warmth in his chest.

Slick tears quickly fell to fabric, dribbling down his chill face. The tiny, unimaginably small thing in his arms mewled and whimpered, its pudgy little face smushing its minute features. He held it tighter, hoping he never had to let go.

And then he spoke. His beaming lips parted, and his throat cracked with the taint of unbridled joy. 

“Amara.”

…

He gripped the doorway urgently, fingers determined and grasp harsh. Nevan whimpered, with his other hand clawing at his head. Fingernails sharply burrowed into his skin, in the desperate attempt to rid his mind of unwanted thoughts.

He needed Master. Whatever was spinning his head in circles, Nevan knew it was bad. Master would be mad, so very mad, but Master could help him. Master would care, he would have to. Nevan wasn’t broken, not yet enough to discard.

His trembling, weak knees buckled as he attempted to make use of them, his muscles wavering and weakening. Nevan’s knuckles made their way into his neatly done hair, pulling thick strands out of their meticulous place in distress. 

He forced his hesitating legs forward, in the direction of the vampire’s library. His joints were tight and heavy, cracking and buckling with every slight movement. 

The dim, yellow light grew across his body as he neared his master’s tight study, the door having been left wide open. Darius’ hazy figure was mere feet away, seated comfortably in his favorite plush leather seat.

The vampire’s frame inched higher as Nevan tumbled to the floor, a pathetic sight. Darius’ gaze didn’t make the slightest shift from the page he was focused on, but even in such a dizzy state Nevan could sense his irritation. 

The human whimpered and whined, stuck in an inescapable frenzy of painful confusion and hurt. The fuss seemed to annoy the vampire just enough to take the slightest of interest. “What do you want?” Darius sneered, flipping carelessly to another crisp page.

Nevan gazed up at his master’s beautiful face, kneeling before the vampire. His head swayed, contorting his vision with disorientation and muddling the sight.

“Mm, um, Ma- Master, n- need help,” Nevan clasped his slender hands together, dizzily begging to his owner. “Fix, fix please, fix, bad, bad…” Nevan shook his head frantically, as if to signify that was the cause of his anguish.

Darius finally looked down to him, just to get a glimpse and scoff at the sore sight. He quickly turned back to his reading. “What have you done now?”

Nevan shivered in disgust with himself, distraught over his own disappointing behavior. “Please, um, head, um, re- um, remember, I think, fix please, Master,” he stammered, goosebump covered skin trembling. “Hurgg, hur- hhurghts!”

Darius glared, sighing with discontent as his thrall clutched his throbbing head. Interrupting Nevan’s pleas, he pressed a hand to his forehead. “Shush.” Nevan’s lips quickly snapped together. “What an nuisance you continue to be.”

He disapprovingly watched the man writhing on the floor, who dug his own fingers into his scalp. “How could you have possibly managed to remember yet again?.” Nevan whined between his cries, guttural and pained. 

Again? This wasn’t the first, but one of many?

He didn’t mean to be so bad, he never did. He wanted so very badly to please, to hear Darius’ voice wash over him with sugary praises when he managed to do something right for once. More than anything he strived for the pleasure of his master’s voice in the few times he was satisfied, and yet Nevan rarely earned the privilege of hearing it.

He needed help to be better, and Darius was the only one who could do such a thing.

“I’m sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m so sorry, please, Master, please,” he insistently begged, flimsily clawing at Darius’ beige pant leg.

His head throbbed and pulsed with sickly affliction, and the blurred out glimpses of a hard to reach memory refused to let go of his head. His face was wet, slick tears collecting at his shaven chin, and a disgusting drip of snot fell from his nostril.

Darius looked as if he may throw up. Nevan sure felt like it. “How do you keep doing this? How can your tiny little brain continue to thwart me?” He leisurely hooked a finger below Nevan’s chin, dirtying his skin with the thrall’s salt tears. Nevan submitted eagerly to the gesture. “How repulsive.”

Nevan snapped his eyes and mouth shut, struggling a thick gulp, praying for the cease of his ugliness. As soon as his eyelids were shut though, the bright room was back, plaguing his mind. The lights, the voices, the child swaddled in his arms. 

Maybe he wanted to hold onto it. Just a little. For just a fleeting second, he wished to relish in the foreign, unfamiliar moment of another life. For just a chance, he could ignore the fact he knew he couldn’t.

But it hurt. Burning, seering pain that ripped his brain in two, a frenzied wail racing from his throat. “Please, please, Master- Master-!” He shoved his way between Darius’ legs, clawing and pulling desperately at the seated man’s shirt.

Darius, amidst the frantic and hysteric behavior of his thrall, used one hand to grip Nevan’s wrist, and the other to nest in the human’s hair. 

Nevan welcomed the touch, no matter how harshly Darius’ fingers clenched his skin or tugged his hair. Any semblance of contact was gladly welcome, especially if it was from his master.

“Hush, pet.” Darius purred, leaning down close. “Quiet your little mind for me. Calm and relaxed, and oh so quiet. Quiet as a little mouse.” He hummed, warm breath beating from his nose.

Darius let Nevan’s numbing limb fall to the floor, slipping his thumb instead to the thrall’s quivering lip. He brushed against the moist skin, causing Nevan’s heart to shiver with pleasure. 

Master could be gentle. When he cast one of his sweet, easily addictable spells over his thrall, his voice softened and soothed, pleasant words easily subduing Nevan by the ear. When he took pity over his stupid thrall, he could choose to be gentle.

“So nice and quiet. Just like your feeble brain. So very, very quiet. Docile, obedient and empty.” Nevan could already feel his brain dissipating, including the specific thought that had haunted his brain just a moment ago. It continued to linger, but was being drowned out in favor of his master’s mollifying voice.

“Let the quiet take hold, getting rid of the bad thoughts. The terrible thoughts. The unnecessary memories that hurt.” Nevan nodded along with the hypnotic suggestions.

He would gladly take any chance to rid himself of such things. His cheek smushed up against the vampire’s thigh, head becoming drowsily light with eyelids threatening to drop.

“You like the silence, right?” He did. When he could sit, blank and empty, and let Master make all of the decisions for him. 

“Mm, um… like…quiet…” Nevan whispered, vocals lowering with his mind. “Make, please… make brain… quiet…”

Darius huffed a stifled chuckle, finding humor in the pitiful wants of the man. “Let me tear those pesky memories away, and you’re brain will be so very nice and quiet. So quiet, now. Calm and relaxed and quiet, giving the bad thoughts away to Master so they can never return. A good boy doesn’t remember, he keeps his mind nice and silent.”

Nevan craved to be good, and yet he hesitated, just for a moment. Did he really want to let go of the dreamlike, hazy memory he had uncovered? The one that filled his heart with a pleasant beat? The one that at the same time twisted with an unexplainable agony in his stomach, and a searing ache in his head?

A dull, wide smile spread across Nevan’s lips, as he allowed the pleasurable, heavenly quiet cotton to fill his mind with open arms. It’s what Master wanted. It’s what he wanted.

He released the memory from his mind’s weak grip, letting if slip easily from his brain, disappearing by Darius’ whims where it would never come back. Nevan didn’t mind that. Whatever he had remembered, to distant to reach now, it hurt too much to keep around.

The sensation of letting go of the insignificant was almost like paradise, fluttering his heart and clouding his body with pleasant vibrations of gratification.

Nevan melted into Darius’ leg, jaw falling slack and mind falling deeper into an empty silence. Darius plopped his back against the chair with a scoff, irritatedly picking back up his book.

After however long of mindless staring, Nevan looked back up to his owner, delighted eyes draped by the tired lids, his cheeks gumming with his smile.

He couldn’t remember why he was there, kneeling contently at Master’s feet. Why his face was coated with drying wet, or why his hair and dress had been agitatedly tussled with.

He couldn’t remember much at all. He didn’t need to, and he usually didn’t. He knew all he needed to.

He was at the floor below his Master, where he always had been and always would be.

[thebrokenmechanicalpencil]

Empty

(I don't know if I like this, I may come back and edit it, but meh. @quibble-auk because why not. )

Tw. Gore, cannibalism, violence. Bad feelings all around

-------------------------------------------------

Comet had not eaten.

His bones ached.

With every step a joint cried out.

His mind was eating itself.

He could feel it.

Cometeater didn’t speak as he slipped from Jazz’s side to scout along the edge of the ridge. He didn’t allow himself to say goodbye to his brothers when he had left them. Comet had not been able to sleep in the room with them the past two nights before, his mouth thick with saliva and teeth itching to dip into their chests. 

Comet would apologize later.

Once words came back.

They had fled his mind in the past few hours. His brain devoured what it could grip to sate itself. Not to mention his tongue felt too large in his mouth to form words, he found that listening to Jazz made him want to let it fall out. Let slither out and get between the cracks of the mech's white armor. Comet wasn't ashamed to admit he planned to kill Jazz a hundred different ways. Comet knew he would be, once his madness passed. But his mouth had still watered over the thoughts. He could rip off the layers of armor one by one, pinning the mech with his tail. Rip out his throat so he would have enough time to get to his core before it went out. A dead spark meant he had failed. His meal would be gone.

A surge of instinctual frustration overwhelmed him over the very idea of losing a spark. Of that warm ball of light going out before he could swallow. Of being empty. 

Cometeater crossed the ridge when his nose caught the scent, he went off course with ease. 

Jazz is lucky Comet had enough self control to not gut him on the transport.

He can deal with Comet being late.

Silently and on the edge of a hunger induced trance, Comet followed the trail left by the spark. He scented once or twice but the hunger kept him on track at a record speed. He had no time to waste. His stomach clenched emptily and his cells howled for food as he got closer, his innards punishing him for his lack. It would not be long now. An old piece of him murmured. 

He jumped a rock and continued down the path now on all fours. With every step the part of him his brother’s loved, the one who had a name grew quieter. The hunger swallowed him up. 

 And Comet let it .

-

Within the canyon was a patrol. Armed and stalking along the border line of the outer perimeter of the base. Their red optics darted as they felt their armor rise. 

Deep in their coding something went off. 

In every organism alive is the rusty instinct of knowing your being watched. The gazes can range between that of a lover's look, one that warms you to the core. Or the anxiety ridden tingle in the back of your mind that whispers. That murmurs. It strikes your nerves and stiffens your spine. It deadens.

Both bots felt it. They slowly looked at eachother, coms activating. One opened his mouth. Neither bot said a word.

Comet sank his teeth into the wiry flesh of the mech as he dragged him away from the path. The second mech hanging to be dealt with at a later time. 

He dropped his meal without thought, a slightest trickle of energon staining the ground beneath the mech. Comet had learned long ago to sever the lines in the joints of the large mechs when he took them down. Not that he was thinking critically at the moment. Deep in the haze of a starving man.

Comet shook his helm at the taste. It was awful, his mouth caked with coolant and the other less edible fluids a cybertronian had in their veins. The energon wasn’t good either, it numbed his mouth and made his innards squirm. But Comet pushed past it as he dug inside the mech's chest, cracking him open with his long claws breaking the seams of his armor. 

The mech screamed.

Comet jerked his head, animalistic agitation rising at the noise. Half buried in the mech's internals and covered in energon, the pretender crept back up along the open wound. The mech let out frantic screams of pain, twitching and sobbing pathetically under Comet as he watched for a moment.

An ugly sneer mutilated the pretender’s face as the mech continued to make noise.

 Hunger urged him on, as he slapped a clawed hand over the mech's face plate and worked his claws to the soft underpart of the mech’s chin. As if sensing the oncoming action the begging grew worse, frantic hoarse sobs for mercy.

Numb with the need for food Comet didn’t register the sobs, only noises that could cause him harm. Comet’s claws pricked just behind the chin and dug. Up through the underside of the mech’s mouth, Comet got a good hold on his jaw from the inside. His palm on the mech’s chin, his other clawed hand bracing himself on the mech’s purple helm. Comet pulled down and out.

With a sickening pop and a garbled scream, Comet held the mech’s lower jaw in his hand. 

He dropped it with a hiss and began his work again, not to be interrupted by the mech who was now stiff with shock. His frame shutting down to protect itself against any further trauma.

Drool clung in thick clumps to Comets mouth, as he ripped and tore the inside of the heavy mech apart. He could smell the soft hum of his prey beneath the thick wires. A moment more of digging and Comet hissed with pleasure at the sight of the mech’s spark chamber, his stomach vulgarly twisting with need.

He began to skin the spark with practiced precision.  Quickly tearing away the delicate outer shell of the mech’s heart. Said mech jerked to life as Comet finally made it to the home stretch of dressing his meal. The mangled cybertronian cried out in bellowed sobs as Comet unhinged his jaw.

Saliva poured from his mouth as he bit down.

The mech let out an agonized animalistic screech.

Cometeater could taste the mech’s fear. It bit and tore at him as he swallowed, he could taste the mech’s name. Blackrim. He had a lover that would never see him again. Blackrim had been a guardian. He wanted to love and have a family with the spark waiting for him. 

Blackrim hated Comet. 

Comet felt his senses return in a cold splash as he felt that sharp emotion slap him. Comet sobbed in surprise, tears starting before he could stop it.

 The mech finally died in Comet’s stomach. But the taste of hatred and disgust still lingered on his tongue.

Comet’s own disgust joined in the growing pit of loathing.

Cometeater stared at his handiwork in a numbed horror, the hunger leaving him ever so slowly. With a spark to digest, it threw up Comet’s clarity, in long painful retches.

Comet swallowed shakily and stood, panting as the need to just lay down and cry overwhelmed him. Comet knew one day he wouldn’t be able to swallow. That the pain he caused would be too much. He wished he could eat something else, that he didn’t have to have those mech’s names etched into his brain with every bite.

Comet winced as the greedy cramps began again, his already weak body demanding more. Whimpering and forcing his back straight he dragged the mech firmly under a formation of melted metal, and climbed to reach his second course.

Guilt didn’t eliminate the hunger as he started the process on the other mech. He tried to be quick, not that he ever took his time. But he quickly deadened the mech with some well placed rips of his claws, severing the lines for information collection deep in the mech’s joints. He cut the ones on his back as well, something in his madness he didn’t do the first time.

With a deep heavy sigh, Comet bit down.

[essenyare]

Lanterne des Morts

THE THOUSAND-YARD STARE 【 Resident Evil 4 Remake 】 Leon S. Kennedy x Jack Krauser 🐍🦋

���️WARNING: Resident Evil 4 Remake (2023), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt No Comfort, Rape/Non-con Elements, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Gore, Angst, PTSD, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Top Jack Krauser, Bottom Leon S. Kennedy

Chapter 04. Lanterne des Morts ↩︎ previous chapter

“Sir—!” The young man’s voice cracked like a gunshot through the rainforest. Krauser turned and saw that reckless kid again, the one too young and too fearless for his own good, charging ahead into the mist-wrapped underbrush, weighed down by gear far too heavy for him. Krauser opened his mouth to say something—but it was too late. “Major!” Gunfire tore through the canopy. A creature, mutated beyond anything he’d ever seen, lunged out from the shadows. Blood and mud splattered alike. And that boy, that goddamn kid, threw himself in front of him. The bullets ripped through the monster’s skull. But they also tore through something else, something deeper. The air reeked of gunpowder and agony. Corpses. Pools of blood. A man-made hell. Then—silence. Grey walls. The sharp sting of antiseptic. The world had collapsed into the sterile whiteness of discharge papers and a black-stamped file marked Classified. “This incident is officially deemed non-existent. No personal records are to be retained.” They said he could keep one dog tag, a parting token of “honorable discharge.” Krauser struggled to fasten the tag around his neck. He only had one hand now. That single scrap of metal weighed heavier than any barbell, choking the breath from him. When he looked down, he saw the steel plate seared to his chest bubbling and corroding at the edges, melting downward, eating toward his heart. The liquefied metal slid over skin, and then came the pain, not a needle’s prick, but a collapse from within. Muscles tore like scorched paper. Bone shattered like glass and fused again under burning heat. His hand warped. Claws erupted. The sound of them growing echoed inside his skull. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Then came the water. A lake swallowing the sky. That kid, Leon, was sitting in a sinking boat, veins dark and branching like spider cracks across his body. His eyes were blank. Then he closed them, and collapsed sideways. “Leon!” Krauser tried to reach him. But the moment he stepped into the water, his mutated hands dragged him under. The claws were too heavy. The weight on his back pulled him down, deeper into the lake’s black belly. He kicked. Thrashed. Fought. But sheets of white paper, the same discharge notices, now shaped like razor-finned anchovies, swarmed him in a frenzy. They spun and surged like a living baitball, slicing through even his bone blade, tearing flesh, slipping into joints, tendons, ankles, nowhere was safe. The light above was tinged red. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were nailed shut, or maybe they, too, had been sliced open. All he saw was blood. And then he heard it. A voice, faint, distant, calling to him. It didn’t say Major. It didn’t say Sir. It said his name.

∞

Late November, 2004 – Belle-Île-en-Mer, France

The morning light was soft, tinged with the brittle chill of late autumn. Leon wandered through the village market with a paper bag under one arm, the scent of ripe pears and coarse rye bread mingling with the salt air. Wooden stalls lined the cobbled street, their canvas awnings tugged gently by the wind.

He paused at a butcher’s stand, watching a man in a faded apron slice into a pheasant with practiced ease. The blade moved in silence, neat, precise, until the carcass split with a soft crack and exposed the gleam of bone. Something about it made him falter.

“You want Christmas turkey?” the butcher asked in halting English, glancing up. “Usually, early December. But… here, most come from hunters. We don’t raise much. Restaurants take the first cut. Local farms in Quiberon send some later. If you want one, you… should reserve.”

Leon gave a slight nod.

The man studied him. “Not from here. Not French either. Strange time to visit, no?”

Leon didn’t answer. He was watching the butcher lay out duck breasts in the refrigerated display. The glass was spotless, clinical—like a surgical bay. Too clean for something that bled.

The butcher shrugged and turned back to his work. “Visiting family?” he asked, offhand.

Leon nodded again, almost mechanically.

Without looking up, the man reached under the counter and slid him a weathered business card, edges curled from time. “Call the day before. I’ll keep a bird for you.”

Leon took the card without a word.

Then he left.

Leon walked past acres of farmland, making his way through the narrow alleys of Locmaria. The wind carried a trace of sea salt, and he pulled up the collar of his coat against the chill. Window shutters creaked in the breeze. A plastic chair lay toppled in front of a café that had yet to open, scraping hollowly against the stone. The cobblestone street was still damp from earlier drizzle, and slate rooftops shimmered faintly in the morning light.

He didn’t stop as he passed the church. Behind the stained glass, a few white candles burned, barely visible flames flickering in the gaps.

The safehouse entrance wasn’t particularly well-hidden. It was tucked behind an arched side door of the chapel, the wood and stone slightly rusted and weather-worn. Leon descended into the cellar, swiped a card at the metal door, and heard the soft beep of the electronic lock. He followed the winding stone steps deeper underground.

Karim didn’t look up. He was hunched over a makeshift workstation, cluttered with half-assembled pharmaceutical tools, like the remnants of a prayer ritual abruptly cut short. A computer screen glowed with several radiographs, and a centrifuge spun quietly in the corner.

“You’re up early,” Leon said.

Karim chuckled without turning. “Didn’t sleep at all.”

He gestured toward a tablet on the bench. “Blood test results came in. Ms. Hunnigan sent them an hour ago. Took a bit to decrypt.”

Leon stepped closer. The screen displayed a series of charts—plasma density, metabolic readings, immune response markers—all time stamped and flagged with warning labels.

Karim tapped a peak on one of the graphs with his pen. “Here. See this spike?”

Leon nodded.

“This isn’t normal. Not for a human, and definitely not for a dormant Plaga host.”

Leon folded his arms across his chest. “So what are you saying?”

Karim leaned back, stretching, rubbing at his temples. “Well… either something’s wrong with the parasite, or something’s wrong with the host.”

Then, for the first time, he actually turned to face Leon. His gaze was sharp.

“You said he gave it everything he had in Spain, right? That fight between you two—it wasn’t just for show.”

Leon’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. He meant to die there.”

“That’s what I figured,” Karim said, gesturing vaguely in the air. “There’s a theory—just a theory, mind you—that certain parasitic systems respond to the host’s will . Like… when the brain starts wanting to die, the body starts shutting down.”

Leon said nothing.

Karim lowered his voice. “If, in that moment, Krauser accepted death—not from pain, but from some principle, or pride, or whatever damn thing people like you carry in your bones—then the Plaga might’ve interpreted that will as a system threat. Triggered some kind of self-preservation protocol. Metabolic lockout.”

Leon looked back at the screen. “What about the inhibitor?”

Karim gave a dry laugh. “Hasn’t done much good. That cocktail Serra brewed? Throwing that into his system is like pouring sand into a transmission. Especially bad when the host’s already on the verge of crashing.”

Silence fell between them again. Only the hum of equipment and the soft drip of fluid from the adjacent medical room filled the air.

Karim folded his arms. “Have you ever seen something, something strong enough to survive, choose not to go on?”

Leon didn’t answer. He just stood there, listening to the wind whisper against ancient stone.

“Will he wake up?” he finally asked, voice hoarse, like it had been scraped from deep in his throat.

Karim didn’t reply right away. He kept staring at the data, eyes lingering on one section for several seconds.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I’ve never seen a mixed response like this. His nervous system seems… frozen in a liminal state. Not exactly a coma, not quite vegetative. The parts that should be alive are still alive. But the will—that part hasn’t caught up.”

“You’re saying he doesn’t want to wake up?”

Karim turned to him, no accusation in his eyes—only an uneasy kind of honesty.

“I’m saying… he doesn’t know if he should .”

The air in the cellar seemed to thin at those words.

Leon lowered his gaze, letting it drift over the blue indicator lights on the nearby equipment. He remembered the look in Krauser’s eyes in that final moment in the arena—not fear, not rage, but something that resembled a dignified decision.

But what kind of dignity was that? Was it the right to die standing, even after being beaten down to nothing but blood and dust? Or was it that silent, steady gaze that seemed to say, You’ve won ?

If dignity is the right to choose the end—Then what does that make the one who’s forced to stay? A witness? An executioner? Or the leftover fragment of a mistake?

He had saved him. Dragged him out of a ruin of shattered bones and parasite-ravaged flesh, holding on with nothing but sheer will. And now all that remained was a silent body, lying beneath IV lines and cold fluorescent light, saying nothing. As if his life had already ended, just not yet buried.

Leon remembered the moment his hand had plunged into that mangled chest, when he felt Krauser’s heart trembling beneath his fingertips. That was when he understood the weight of redemption.

It wasn’t salvation. It was theft. He had stolen Krauser’s choice. Stolen the ending he had so carefully written for himself.

Maybe, for Krauser, that battle was the ending. He had surrendered his body, his defeat, and everything else that had once proven who he was.

It wasn’t collapse nor madness. It was closure. A  quiet, resolute finality.

He had chosen to die as a man, rather than live as a rabid, discarded beast.

But then, this wasn’t a myth. There was no epic here. No audience. No noble sacrifice waiting to be sung. This was a concrete basement, a place where the hum of machines had long replaced any kind of prayer. There were no Valkyries[1] here—Only Leon. Only a man still unsure if he ought to hate the one he saved.

He looked again at the numbers pulsing across the monitors—one by one, like heartbeats pretending they still had meaning.

He wasn’t sure what he had saved. He didn’t know. Only that the man who had once fought him with everything he had was now lying still, refusing to return.

And he—he was like some foolish mourner keeping vigil for a what if that might never wake.

“Have you ever considered,” Karim spoke again, softer this time, as if half-speaking to himself, “that maybe that fight meant something to him? To us, it was life or death. To him… maybe it was proof. The final exam.”

Leon thought of the stories he’d read as a child. The hero saves the world.

Everyone lives happily ever after. But no one had ever told him that sometimes, saving someone could be a curse. That sometimes, a hero had to live with the consequences of his choice—Even if that choice turned the person he saved into a ghost still breathing.

He reached out, almost touched Krauser’s forehead. Then stopped.

In this place without gods. In this reality with no script. The two of them were trapped on opposite ends of the same unfinished story.

“And what about me?” Leon asked at last, his voice low, not angry, just tired and confused. “I saved him. And now he’s like this… what does that make me ?”

Karim looked at him. His expression finally softened, just a little.

“Maybe,” he said quietly, “it’s because you saved him that he doesn’t know how to come back.”

Silence fell again, heavier, longer than before.

Eventually, Karim moved. He stood, walked to the small table nearby, and poured two glasses of warm water. He handed one to Leon.

“All we can do now is wait,” he said. “If he wakes, I’ll be the first to let you know. But…”

Leon looked up. “But what?”

Karim’s tone was gentle, but held no ambiguity.

“The man who wakes up… May not be the one you remember.”

...READ MORE ON AO3

[ask-papa-primo]

Ooc: time to write about when Peemo woke up :]

Tw for body horror, cannibalism, murder, blood, annnd I think that's it?

There was nothing at first, just a small jerk of the body, muscles twitching and then spasming, nostrils flaring. There was just silence in the mausoleum where the Papa's bodies all resided in their glass cases, a random brother of sin was currently wiping off the glass as punishment for falling asleep during mass. An eery silence that often made others uncomfortable, but what was worse than the silence? Sudden breathing, the sound of a hand beating on the glass case, I would suppose...

When the poor brother turned around he was met with a very startling sight. Primo's eyes were wide open, red and white mismatched irises landed on the man and Papa hit the case again until the lid finally budged. By now the brother had pushed through his fight or flight response and rushed forward to help the old man, he was gas lighting himself and thinking maybe there had been a mistake, maybe Primo had been in a coma the last seven years? It would certainly explain the emaciated look on Primo's entire body, how sunken in his eyes looked, sharp cheek bones and jaw line were noticeable but not as noticeable as the long, boney and clawed fingers that now reached out and grabbed ahold of the young man's shirt collar.

"Wh-what ha-happened? Where... am I?" His voice was raspy, so dry and cracked. The man's throat itched badly, he needed something to drink, something to soothe the ache in his body as muscles, tendons, and joints attempted to move without any lubrication. He needed something to satisfy the thirst... his eyes locked onto the young man's pulse point, he had been stammering a response that sounded like gibberish to Primo. It was hard to focus on anything else except that... intoxicating sound of his heart. Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum.

The next few moments were a blur in all honesty. Primo looked down and saw his burial robes stained in crimson warmth, the soft satin soaking up the blood like rain in a desert. Blood... blood?

He looked at his hands, the boney joints had vanished and now the limbs just looked well toned and younger though stained deep red. And that taste on his tounge... salty and metallic, sharp as the scent of death that clung to the air. He realized what had happened, glancing down at the once pristine marble floors to find the brother of sin's mangled corpse, eyes missing and tongue ripped out. The sight normally would have made Primo's stomach churn just slightly, but if anything it just made him crave more flesh and blood as the feeling of his body mending itself became obvious. There were missing chunks, bite wounds filling in along his body. Bones cracking and realigning, his lower back aching like something was trying to escape the skin, a similar sharp feeling in his forehead that went away after a few minutes. He dragged his tongue across sharp, blood stained teeth and laughed. A deep, hollow, ominous sound quickly followed by a disgusting squelch and the sound of teeth tearing through flesh and bone.

When Primo was finally finished, there was nothing left of the young man's body other than bloody smears, toe and fingernails and the dirty blonde hair from his head. But Papa looked much better, younger and more vibrant as blood coursed through his veins now, pumping his heart at an oddly slow beat. He glanced at the other cases with a sharp pang of grief, determined to find answers as to what happened during their card game that night.

Soft footsteps padded out of the display room and towards a bathroom where Papa calmly cleaned off his hands and washed the ruined paint from his face. Looking up in the mirror felt like quite a slap. He did not look like he did before death embraced him. His eyes looked predatory in the way a cat's does, sharp pupils and even sharper teeth and ears. Though his hair looked longer and brighter, just as luxurious as when he was a young man in his prime. Whatever he came back as, it was not human in the slightest. A glance down at his robes and Papa sighed, he could not be seen like this. It would already be startling enough for anyone to see him upright and talking. Luckily, there was a closet in the display room with spare robes though he did not want to know why... what mattered was that he was back. Something had called to him, dragged him up from his stay in the Pit and forced his soul back into his body, but the damage done in the Pit had forced both body and soul to change permanently. He wanted to find out why he was back, and why he had been disposed of at all.

[kariachi]

This fic is literally only getting posted because of one line so-

There is a 'the Ultimate Kevin arc goes different and puts Mike on a path of not being so shit' AU that's been lurking in the back of my mind the last 24 hours and this is part of it.

No, you're not getting more context than that, because I hardly have more context than that.

Post-Rooters, you're welcome.

~~

Kevin registers a lot of things as he drifts back to consciousness. The familiar feeling over Argit draped over him. Those too nice sheets he and Mike always insist on treating themselves to despite the fact none of the three of them can reliably afford it. Mike himself’s energy signature, right there beneath his cheek with the denim texture. Fingers stroking his hair.

Slowly, the exhaustion of the past weeks still weighing down on him, he cracked his eyes open. There was Argit out one corner, out like a light. He’d been in at least as bad a way as Kevin himself lately, as everything filtered back in and demons that had never quite left sank their teeth deep again. The other way, Mike. Thin, grey, hair a patchy mess of white. The image sinks in Kevin’s gut. He hadn’t looked his best when the left the void, but they’d been at the burger joint when he finally conked out, he-

Kevin’d been out a while.

“So you are alive,” Mike said like he hadn’t been using his thigh as a pillow for who knew how long. His other leg was pulled up, a book resting on it. Kevin was too tired to try to figure out what it was.

“Sorry,” he said before he could think of anything else. Mike gave a tiny snort of a laugh, and in the back of his mind Kevin considered it a win that he wasn’t trying to cover those up anymore.

“You should be, these are new pants you’ve been drooling on.” A small sigh. His fingers were still in Kevin’s hair. “You need the rest.” It lodged in Kevin’s chest.

“Oh, yeah, for that too.” But more for vanishing without a trace. For not saying anything. But… But he’d had no reason to believe Servantis had any sort of eye for him. Kevin wasn’t fool enough to chance getting him on his radar. He was too dangerous to risk the man getting his claws into his mind. Kevin was guilty enough without risking a new victim. He’d have never forgiving himself if-

Things had gone so wrong, and they could still have gone so much worse.

“Are the others…” They were safe, logically he knew it, but-

“Gwendolyn and Blonko are at Ben’s, Alan is at Coopers, Manny and Helen are at our place.” Mike’s fingers finally left his hair, purely so he could turn the page of his book like he’d been reading it. It was a bold-faced lie that only barely soothed how quickly Kevin missed the touch in the moments before it was back. “I told him to use your bed, mine’s shitty enough as it is.”

Kevin snorted a little laugh of his own.

“Think I’ll live.” The minute way Mike’s fingers tensed may as well have been a whole song and dance number for how it lodged alongside Kevin's concern. He shifted to lay a hand over a too-thin shin, thumb rubbing circles against it.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said, narrowly avoiding the ‘you shouldn’t have come’ blocking his throat. It was true, it would always be true, none of them should have come, but-

But Ben and Gwendolyn could never let things be. Argit had been forced. Alan, Helen, Manny were as stubborn as the rest of them. Rook had a sense of justice unbefitting a Plumber. Mike, though…

He finally turned away from his book. Looked down at him with a carefully neutral expression that did nothing to hide the burning in his eyes. Burning Kevin’d only seen twice before- the only time they’d talked about Incarcecon, and back at the Rooters’ base.

“You’ll find,” he said in a firm tone that brooked no argument, “I very much had to come.”

Kevin couldn’t help the little smile the came to his face, despite the guilty, worried screaming in his core that hadn’t died down yet. Would probably never die down, at the rate his life was going.

“Grab something to eat, man,” he said, “you gotta be starving.” Mike watched him for a long moment, wrapping locks of hair around his fingers, before sighing. You’d have thought Kevin was still asleep, from the careful grace with which he slipped off the bed.

“Go back to sleep. Argit told me how you’ve been running yourself.” Kevin nodded slowly, made a bit of a show out of settling back in. Again, there was a handful of heartbeats before Mike headed for the door. The opening was right there, there was no resisting it. Kevin was too tired to try.

“You gonna be playing mattress again when I wake up?”

As he made his way through the doorway, Mike gave a snort that wasn’t half as derisive as it had once been, and far more amused than he was likely to admit.

“You lot will be lucky if I don’t abandon you for the east coast, with how much trouble you cause me.” Kevin’s smile widened.

“Not a no.”

A part of him had never expected to live to get flipped off again.

It was the fourth nicest feeling that evening.

[jammed-out]

Hypnovember Day 17 - Corrupted

(CW: light body horror, transformation, corruption, monster transformation)

The darkness spread through Winno’s body. She watched as it crawled over her fingers, stretching up deeper into her hands. The pool of liquid was draining faster now, up into her body. She could hear the whispers, voices in the darkness whispering vile lewd things to her. She grimaced and tried to pull her hand away from the bowl, away from the cursed water, but it only pulled tighter on her, keeping her trapped with her hands buried into it.

The darkness spread up into her veins, into her blood. She watched as her veins slowly darkened, spreading out like a sickness across them. It traveled up her arms. Within seconds it would be within her heart, spreading through her entire body like wildfire. By that point it would be too late. Winno placed her foot on the bottom of the basin and shoved with all of her might. Her hands did not budge. Instead she watched as the water drained faster, pooling into her body with increased vigor. Her straining had only quickened her heart rate, speeding up the process.

It crawled over her arms, she could hear the voices clearer now. They demanded she become their vessel, their now host. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want any of this. All she wanted was a rejuvenating face wash, not this cursed substance. She could hear their demands, that she share her body, share her desires with them. She knew she couldn’t stop it, but this was her body, she had every right to share it with them.

The thought surprised her. That wasn’t what Winno was trying to say. She was trying to say that it was their body. It was their body. She couldn’t stop it. The sickness was already spreading into her mind. She cried, a deep black stained tear that rolled down her cheek. She looked up in the mirror above her sink. She could see the veins trailing up her neck, the spiderweb of sickness spreading. Her skin was growing paler, ashen white as it spread deeper. She could feel fingertips clawing at the back of her mind, stroking on her ego. They whispered towards her, desires.

Winno felt her body betray her. She felt her hands shoot out of the bowl, no drained of the liquid and claw at her breasts. She felt them swell in her hands, no their hands. They felt their mouth hang open as a gasp of sweet relief came out of it. Black spit bubble in their mouth and dripped down the sides of their chin. It stained it, black marks inking their way in crossing lines, rolling down their body. Their right hand followed, nails sharpening into pointed claws. They slid their hand down, cupping their dripping, empty, needy pussy. Quickly, roughly, they shoved three fingers inside. It was more than Winno had ever taken before. They gasped at the sensation of feeling so full. Their body adjusted itself, slick black juices gushed around their fingers as they spread themselves wider. Yes. Fill ourselves.

Yes they needed to be filled. Winno could only gasp as their back arched, their spine bending slightly, extruding outward as each joint became reinforced with a small armored spike on the back. They could feel their hair growing tangled and knotted, braiding itself with harsh metallic strands. Their left hand shot forward slamming against the wall. The wood buckled cracking under the strain. They stared in the mirror, their eyes swirling with darkness, beneath it shadows swirled pulsing outward clouding the whiteness. Their teeth sharpened, skin growing pale white, lips pinching at the ends before pulling upwards. They licked their lips. Beautiful. Want to make more beautiful.

Yes Winno needed to make more people beautiful. Just like them. Their joints cracked, metallic threads slipping in the breaks and reinforcing them. They removed their soaked fingers from their pussy, the lips swollen and coated with their fluids. The patterns from their fluids etched into webbing across their body.

Winno slowly turned towards the door their hand stretching towards the handle. They gripped it, crushing the soft metal, bending it inward as they turned the knob. They opened it, fingers curling around the edge of it. The other sisters are asleep. We must convert them. Make them beautiful. Winno nodded. The voices in their head were right. They crept around the church, sharpened nails on their feet scraping the wooden floor. The soft splash of their juices on the floor with every few steps, the only other sound in the darkness.

Ahead, a light stretched around the corner, a rich golden glow. Winno jumped, launching off of the balls of their feet. They landed, perched in one of the rafters, crawling forward on all fours. They dropped lower, a low rumble of arousal in their throat. They longed to taste the stranger, to convert them.

Sister Harriet, the stout, rounded woman rounded the corner in her robes. The black cloth tied tightly around her with black rope. It did nothing for the beautiful woman to show off her body. Her delicious, juicy body. We must taste her. The voices sent waves of arousal through Winno. As the sister passed underneath their perch in the rafters, Winno could feel their body give in to their lust as the corrupted younger sister came.

The fluids fell, quickly coating Sister Harriet’s hood sending her into surprise. She turned looking up with her lantern at the rafters. The scream that threatened to escape her throat was cut off as she was hurled to the ground by the force that was once Winno. The younger sister slammed into her, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Luckily for Winno, Sister Harriet absorbed most of the force for them. Sister Harriet attempted to fight off the beast, pushing it off of her when instead all she did was excite Winno.

Winno grabbed the sister’s hands pinning them to her chest. The beast growled, a long forked tongue escaping the rows of teeth. Winno quickly forced it into the screaming sister’s mouth. It snaked in, wrestling for a second with hers before growing bored. It pushed it’s tongue deeper, the tip of it swelling wider in the sister’s throat. The sister howled around the gag, gasping for air. Winno gagged, surging her chest forward. Something pulsed from within her throat surging around the tongue, pushing through it like a hose. It pushed into the sister’s mouth, sliding down her throat where it burst free. The sister gurgled as her eyes rolled back into her head.

Winno held her tight, watching as the darkness began to spread up Sister Harriet’s neck. They could feel the sister go limp slowly, her body shaking, writhing. Winno removed their tongue running it over their lips. Harriet had tasted so sweet, would all the other’s taste so sweet.

Winno slid forward, dragging their dripping crotch over Harriet’s face. They slammed their hips down, a loud crack sounding out as Harriet’s head collided with the ground. Slowly Winno began to grind. They rocked their hips against the sister’s face, using it for their pleasure. They growled, pressing harder. They could feel Harriet’s tongue running through their folds, dragging the pleasure out of them. It only urged Winno on harder, faster, meaner. Their nails dug into Harriet’s head, forcing them deeper against their aching body.

Winno came howling into the silence of the night. They turned, eyes laden with lust, looking back at Harriet. They lay on the ground, trembling still, fingers only beginning to turn into claws. They crouched low, raising themselves off of the sister. Harriet stared blankly ahead, empty, still changing. They would come back for Harriet. But first there were many other sisters to taste and a whole night to enjoy the pleasures of all of them.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hope you enjoyed that. I’ll be following @h_sleepingirl prompt list for the entire month because I really like a couple of the prompts on the list. You should also definitely check out and support them.

You’ll also be able to find all of my writings under the tags on my page. Hope you enjoy and see you tomorrow!

[soncfthewitch]

closed starter for @men-of-paradise

Bloody hell.

Pain seared through his body, sharp and unrelenting. His chest, his stomach, his shoulder—it all throbbed in time with the drumming in his skull. Toby cracked open an eye, wincing at the muted light filtering through the curtains.

Curtains? He blinked, trying to focus. Silk sheets pooled around his waist, cool against his bare skin. The room slowly came into view—elegant furnishings, tasteful artwork on the walls. Posh. Too posh for anywhere he'd ever kipped.

Where am I?

Gritting his teeth, Toby pushed himself up onto his elbows. Bad idea. The room spun, his stomach lurching. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing through his nose until the nausea passed.

When he opened them again, his gaze landed on the bandages wrapped around his torso. Pristine white, freshly changed. Someone had been tending to him. But who? And why couldn't he remember how he'd got hurt in the first place?

He prodded at the wounds, hissing at the flare of pain. Claw marks, by the looks of it. Deep ones. And on his shoulder, a bite. Ragged and raw, like something had tried to take a chunk out of him.

What happened?

Toby tried to think back, to retrace his steps. But there was nothing. A blank space where his memories should be. The last thing he could recall was...what? A high-pitched sound, piercing through his skull. The sensation of falling, the ground rushing up to meet him. Flashes of blue, iridescent scales glinting in the moonlight. And then darkness.

Christ. He scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing as his fingers brushed against a bruise on his jaw. This was bad. Terrible. He never had gaps in his memory like this. Never woke up in strange places with no idea how he'd got there.

Slowly, carefully, Toby swung his legs over the side of the bed. The plush carpet was soft beneath his feet, grounding him. He braced his hands on his knees, taking stock of his body. Every muscle ached, his joints stiff and sore. But he could move. That was something.

He needed to get out of here. Needed to find someone, anyone, who could tell him what was going on.

But before he could take more than a step, the sound of the door opening froze him in place. Toby whirled around, ignoring the scream of protest from his battered body.

A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from the hall. Tall and broad, the width of their shoulders straining against the fabric of their shirt.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #7: Morsel

“Looks like rain,” Locke muttered, staring up at the sky. It didn’t take a master Wood-warder to understand why he thought that. The clouds over the Twelveswood had become a second canopy, dark and heavy between the gaps in the branches. Though Locke knew it was hardly midday, he’d have believed anyone who told him it was dusk. He looked back over his shoulder, eyes following the road he’d walked. He’d been on the move since sunrise, minus a couple breaks. Could he make it back to town before the downpour started? A fat drop landing on his smudge-stained nose told him no. No, he could not.

He pulled the hood of his cloak up and began to move forward again, scanning the treeline as he went, searching for shelter. A rocky overhang, a cave, a tree with just the right sort of wide branches. He wasn’t picky. The rain began to fall harder, thudding against his cloak and bag, turning the dirt of the road into thick, persistent mud that clung to his boots. He wished he’d brought his chocobo with him on his job to Coerthas, rather than leaving her at a stable in Thanalan. She would’ve carried him somewhere dry quickly. Or at least given him someone to complain to. Even that would have been an improvement. The day grew darker, the clouds heavier, the weather worse. Wind blew the rain about, carrying it beneath Locke’s hood and spattering his cheeks and eyes. He wiped a gloved hand across them and blinked. A thin light no larger than his smallest claw appeared in the distance, twisting and dancing with the trees. Locke blinked again, but it didn’t disappear. He squinted, and still it remained, a weak little flame beckoning him away from the path and into the woods. There were monsters like that, he knew. Frustrating, elusive things, unlikely to lead him somewhere dry. Instead, they’d probably lure him into danger. But they weren’t so dangerous that he hadn’t dealt with them before. He rested a hand on his revolver and moved forward, toward the treeline and the dancing light.

As he drew further from the path and closer to the light, he realized it was a candle. It sat in the window of a squat, gnarled hut, equal parts building and large stump. Releasing his firearm but keeping his fingers near the holster, he squished and squelched his way through the thick mud and grass and up the four steps to the door. The metal covering the backs of his fingers clicked dully against the wooden surface.

No noise within the hut, though the pounding drum of rainfall could have easily washed it away. Locke tried the door again, more insistent. “I’m coming, I’m coming! Nophica help me, have some patience!” Raising his eyebrows, Locke took half a step back and waited. The door swung out a moment later, the edge of it passing just by Locke’s nose, such that he was certain the hut had seen its share of injured visitors. An elderly man, bowed with age and leaning heavily on a gnarled cane held in equally gnarled fingers, glared at Locke with gray eyes. His mouth twisted into a frown beneath its drooping white mustache. “You’re not my granddaughter,” he observed.

“I’m not,” Locke agreed. The old man disappeared behind the door as it slammed shut. “Wait!” Locke called, raising his voice above the rain to be heard. He rapped his metal-clad knuckles against the door. “I need shelter! And food!” The door cracked open, and a gray eye appeared in the gap, narrowed as it sized him up. “You’re still not my granddaughter.” “No.” Locke was ready this time, left hand reaching out with the low creak of his joints and the soft twang of pulled strings. The door slammed against his palm. It didn’t hurt, but he grimaced anyroad, thinking of swollen joints and broken bones. “Can find her though. If you’re looking. Just need shelter first.” And with a tinge of hope coloring his voice, he added, “And maybe food?” The gray eye considered him, his gloved and seemingly uninjured hand, and then the weather just past his shoulder.

“Very well. Just until the rain stops, you may rest here.” The door swung open again, forcing Locke to step back once more to avoid it. He followed the old man in, left arm falling limp at his side once more, and pulled the door shut behind him, muffling the low groan of the wind in the trees and the worst of the rainfall, though he could still hear its steady pitter-patter on the roof above. The room Locke found himself in was small, perhaps ten steps from one end to the other. Besides the candle in the windowsill, it held only a small hearth — with a fire already burning in it, for which Locke was thankful — and a couple pieces of old furniture, including a set of cabinets and a table with two crooked chairs. The old man waved his cane at the furthest of the chairs. Locke played the part of a good guest and lowered himself into it gingerly, then waited while the old man dug through the cabinet. Within a couple ticks, Locke had a small chunk of bread and cheese on a plate and half of a cup of tea. “You missed lunch,” the man grumbled. “I hope that morsel will suffice.” “Better than nothing,” Locke said, trying a smile before ripping the bread in half and stuffing it full of cheese. It was gone as quick as it had appeared. “I don’t need you to find my granddaughter,” the old man said, eyes not leaving Locke as the Viera chewed with cheeks stuffed full. “But seeing as you practically forced your way in, you can run a different errand for me.” “Sure,” Locke agreed, speaking around a mouthful of bread and cheese. If the old man was bothered by his poor etiquette, it didn’t show on his face. “I need you to make a trip to Gridania in my stead. You don’t have to do much, just deliver a parcel to a friend of mine, collect what she gives you, and return here with it.” Locke swallowed and ran his tongue along his teeth, prying a bit of cheese from one of his molars. “Just came from that direction.” “If you think that’s a waste of your time, well, you’re the one who insisted you be allowed in. So, are you going to do it?” “I get paid?” The old man snorted. “You just ate half your pay. The rest is in that cup.” Locke peered down at the teacup and its contents, coils of steam reaching up from the dark liquid to brush against his chin. He took a sip, a bitter taste running over his tongue. “Fine. I’ll take your dumb job.”

[rwrbhistoryhuhmv]

They tell you that you're lucky but you're so confused.

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/0VHmpk6 by abc_efghij_lmnopqr_tuvwxyz The first thing you need to understand is that superstardom is ugly up close. It looks nice from the outside—glamorous, polished, cinematic—but up close, it’s cracked mirror shards and bad lighting. And at the center of all that glare and flash was Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz, age twenty-six, international megastar, chart-topping singer-songwriter, Grammy-winning performer, and the face of three major luxury fashion brands. People used to call him “the Prince of Pop” until they just started calling him “the King.” He’d clawed his way to the top. From a two-bedroom house in East Austin to a ten-million-dollar glass fortress in the hills above Los Angeles. From homemade SoundCloud demos and open mic nights at grimy Tex-Mex joints to sold-out stadiums across six continents. He was living the dream. Except Alex didn’t sleep anymore. Not really. Words: 10937, Chapters: 3/3, Language: English Fandoms: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston, Red White & Royal Blue (2023) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Alex Claremont-Diaz, Original Male Character(s), Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Ellen Claremont, Oscar Diaz (Red White & Royal Blue), Leo (Red White & Royal Blue), June Claremont-Diaz, Nora Holleran, Arthur Fox, Beatrice Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Alex Claremont-Diaz & Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Alex Claremont-Diaz & June Claremont-Diaz, Alex Claremont-Diaz & Nora Holleran, Ellen Claremont & Alex Claremont-Diaz, Alex Claremont-Diaz & Oscar Diaz, Alex Claremont-Diaz/Original Male Character(s), Alex Claremont-Diaz/Original Female Character(s), Alex Claremont-Diaz & Leo Additional Tags: Singer Alex Claremont-Diaz, Alex is a Superstar, like really famous, taylor swift levels of famous, that ain't good, Alex Claremont-Diaz centric, Alex Claremont-Diaz Has ADHD, Anxiety, Alchohol poisoning, TMZ fucking sucks, Alex's boyfriend fucking sucks, seriously i hope he rots in hell, Exes to Lovers, Actor Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Screen-writer Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Alex has a really really bad time, But its Ok!, he will be ok, hes my goddamned baby, and henry and alexs family will take care of him, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Hollywood, the dark side of fame, Drinking, Alex's Alchohol problem, Song: The Lucky One (Taylor Swift) read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/0VHmpk6

[benilos]

TATA Ch. 2: Deadlock

This isn't right. I'm not supposed to be here.

When the lights went down, Ben quickly left the room, his heavy steps thudding down the hallway. Toby stayed in the room, pulling his phone out to turn on the flashlight. He set his phone on the bed face down, so that the light could illuminate the room a bit more.

"So……what the fuck was that?" He asked me, pulling his mask down to let it hang at his neck. His hair was tied back at the top, messy curls sticking up every which way. He shook his leg as he stood, leaning on the bed with one arm, the other idly scratching at his neck.

"I don't know why you're asking me, man, I just got here." This earned a loud laugh from Toby, and he leaned over the bed, his leg still shaking behind him. He stared at me with his mouth slightly agap, eyes flickering from the wall to me over and over. The flashlight caused a glow in his eyes, like when you take a picture of an animal at night.

"You said your name is Twitch?"

"Yeah. It's a nickname. I had bad tics when I was younger. They're not as bad now though."

"Ahhhhh, we match!" He said cheerfully, leaning further onto the bed, his feet kicking up behind him. It was quiet in the room, aside from the sound of his shoes thumping the ground over and over. "Our hair matches too, but yours is longer. How old are you?"

"18. I said that earlier."

"Did you? Huh…How tall are you?"

"5 feet.. Why are you asking so many questions?" I hate this. I can't hate you as much as him, though.

"I dunno." He shrugged, bracing his chin on his fist, his fingers tapping against the back of his phone. He opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by the metal door screeching open. A man much too tall for the door frame crouches his way in, bending practically in half to make it through the doorway. As he stands, the lights flicker slightly, before what is likely generator-power kicks in, as the lights return with a dim, red glow. His skin is a dark grey, sunken black eyes only marred by a slit orange iris barely visible in the darkness tracking every movement in front of him. His eyes seem to roll back, the slits disappearing as he speaks. It's hard to focus on what he's saying, but I get the gist of "power's out, are you okay?" from it, and nod.

I'm too focused on the mask tied to his belt. Dark blue that looks black in the lighting, white joint braces tied tightly around his knees and elbows, all black jeans and an open jacket that revealed a red turtlenecked shirt. The hood of his jacket was up, barely obscuring dark, curly hair that clung to his forehead as if perpetually wet. His lips were leathery, cracked as they peeled back against too-white teeth that were razor sharp, and kinda reminded me of a dunkleosteus, big and awkwardly placed in his mouth. I couldn't focus on anything else he said, taking too long to register who he was and the realization making me more nauseous than before.

God, I can't stand this. I hope I'm dead. I hope this isn't real. It can't be real, not now. Not after all of this time.

"Are you okay?" He said again, this time closer. His hand wrapped around the rusted railing at the side of the bed. His nails were more like claws, like talons. Bent at the quick, hooked and razor sharp along the edges. Pure black keratin knives that clicked against the metal, making it sing with the same dangerous tune you'd expect to hear a siren to call out to you with. I nodded again, but he didn't seem convinced. A surprisingly warm hand brushed against my forehead, making me jump and flinch from the touch like he'd burned me. Toby watched with a wide-eyed expression, eyes wrinkling at times in amusement at my reactions.

"I'm Jack. Charlie said you call yourself Twitch?" His voice was, for all intents and purposes, normal sounding. No grating rasp, no growling undertone. It was normal, albeit very country-sounding, like he'd been raised on some farm in the asscrack of nowhere Texas. I wasn't sure who he meant by Charlie though.

"Charlie?"

"Ah, you'd know him as the Slenderman or something. I've called him Charlie for years. It's an old alias of his." His hands brushed my hair from my forehead, and I couldn't stop the cringe from crossing my face as he shined a handlight in my eyes. "Hm, that's creepy, okay." He mumbled, ignoring the expression I made at him, though Toby snorted at it. "Ah…you're….not alive I assume."

I only stared at him. What the fuck kind of question is that?

"Your pupils don't react to light at all. You aren't breathing, though you reflexively gasp and sigh when agitated. Your skin is freezing to the touch, and of course, you have no vitals. So I'm going to assume you're dead, or just some kind of medical miracle! From what I can tell-"

"Okay, wrap it up Grey's Anatomy, why are you telling me this?" This earns a full smirk and a head tilt that has me questioning a couple things, a completely black tongue swiping over one of his teeth. It appears to be a look of amusement, but the way his jaw tenses has me assuming he doesn't quite like to be interrupted.

"Force of habit, I guess. Charlie and I are gonna be discussing whether or not you'll be staying here. It's highly likely you will be, because you seem to have some….unnatural abilities after your death. So you're safest bet is to stay here, since this place is built for that. I'm telling you these things because, I want to run tests and figure out what you are. I'm just letting you know what's going on."

"And if I decline these tests?"

"You can't." He says it with such certainty that I don't feel like I can really argue with him. I wonder how bad his teeth hurt. I wonder how bad it'd hurt him to have them pulled out with a wrench.

"I make wires go freaky, am I like Ben?" Don't answer that. I'll kill everyone in this house right now if you say I'm like him.

"Mmm….you might be something electricity-based, but lots of ghosts are. Dead humans usually end up with some kind of electricity based power when they die. Poltergeists and all that. Y'all're filled with it, so I'm not surprised. It's probably nothing more than that, but you clearly have a higher output than most, because you are definitely what just took out the House's power. I just want to see how high that output is, in case safety measures for the House need to put in action."

"Studious of you." He tilted his head in acknowledgement again, and the orange slits returned, rolling down from the top of his eyes to focus on Toby. "You," He points, almost accusingly at him, "have work to do. Go on, stop gawking."

Toby groaned dramatically, sliding down from his position of being splayed over the end of the bed, and flopping on the floor. Jack only sighed, and after a small pause, Toby practically flew up from the floor and bolted out the door, not saying another word. Jack chuckles under his breath, turning his attention to the dark screen of a computer on a cart next to the bed. I stared at him as he moved about, trying to see if he could get the computer to boot back up.

He was tall, too tall, but not quite as large as "Charlie" was, maybe 7 feet tall. He sighed in frustration, yanking his jacket off and laying it on the rail. His turtlenecked shirt was….very tight, and left little to the imagination about how big he was. Where Charlie had been thin and lanky like tree branches, Jack was like the tree trunk. Thick arms and broad shoulders, he was worryingly well-muscled, a body built for overwhelming others with strength. It was unnerving watching him. He moved so…human. His mannerisms were nothing different from a normal person. No twitchy limbs, no grating screech, nothing. If it weren't for his face and size, you'd think he was normal.

But he's not normal. He's just as bad as the rest. You're just as bad as the rest.

He stood up, groaning in frustration. I felt the anxiety of the need to apologize, but found it hard to get my words out. Everything caught in my throat, my eyes burning like I was going to cry. I can't fucking do this. I need out of here.

"Jack…" His name barely made it out, even then it was barely above a whisper. But he heard it, slits rolling and focusing on me. I flinched, and he noticed.

"Let me guess. You know us." He said it so gently, like he knew. He couldn't possibly know. He probably thought I was like those little tweens that tried to summon him or Slenderman to come whisk them away to this god-forsaken House. Maybe once I was, but now? Now is different.

"Yes. I do." I leaned away when he propped his arms on the rail, crouching beside the bed. He so easily reached above the bed even when crouched, it made me nauseous. This is too fucking much.

"Well. Yes, I'd be Eyeless Jack. But you can just call me EJ or Jack. Whatever you prefer. I assume this is a lot?" I want to pull your teeth out of your fucking face, don't talk to me like I'm your friend.

"Yes. A lot. That's…about how I'd describe this."

"Well….we'll get you set up in a room for now. Let you settle before we deal with…the whole testing thing and all of that. But I do need to do those tests sooner rather than later, so, we can maybe do 'em tomorrow, okay? You aren't the first to come here with…preconcieved notions about us, so for now we'll focus on getting basic shit out the way. Sound good?" I can't even look at you.

"Yeah, that's fine."

I think Jack can tell this shit is not fine, but he doesn't say anything. He does, however, nearly lift the bed into the air as he yanks some lever at the side, lowering the railing. "We got some clean clothes you can change into for now, they're on the chair. If you feel okay enough to walk, just take a left out the door and keep going, you'll reach the foyer again. Otherwise, I'll come back and get ya in about an hour, up to you." He shuffled on his feet awkwardly for a second, then just nodded, preemptively bending in half to get out of the door quicker. The metal screeched as it opened and shut, then I was left in silence. Toby's phone was still on the bed, flashlight beaming up to the ceiling.

I stared at the beam of light for a moment. I tried to breathe, feeling the air go in and out of my lungs. It felt normal, but I kept finding myself gasping, needing to remember to do it consciously now. But not doing so didn't bring me any discomfort. I ran my hand over my chest, searching for my heartbeat.

I was met with no more than a mild buzz, static spreading itself across my skin. I don't know how I could feel nauseous without anything in my stomach. I didn't even know what day it was, how long I'd been in that pond. In the red emergency lighting, I tried to piece together what happened, what I could remember, but there was nothing. Only this vague sense of longing, like when I'd dream of chasing someone, crying my eyes out because I couldn't reach them. This felt like I was in that dream perpetually, fingers brushing against the back of their shirt before they'd disappear every time.

I slid off the bed, the tile floor cold against my bare feet. I wasn't as shaky as I expected when I stood, but I still clutched the lowered rail of the bed like a lifeline. I stared at the small pile of clothes on the thin metal chair next to the bed. When I lifted the shirt from the top, the fabric felt off. Like I was feeling it for the first time again. Everything felt more colorful, despite the haunting red that bled over everything right now, and sharper. Like everything had gone from 240p to 1080p, everything was enhanced, more intense. It all felt a lot more overwhelming, I kept having to unfocus my eyes or it became too much.

I pulled the plain green shirt on, and found a pair of rolled up boxers under the ripped jeans I had been provided. A note was stuck to them that said "Never used, got it from an extra pack! Didn't know what size bra you needed so you'll have to go without for now, sorry. -B" I almost threw up seeing the irritating letter, assuming B referred to the reviled blonde. The boxers still had the small piece of tape that usually held them in the roll fresh out of a package, so at least I could assume they were in fact clean.

This is irritating. This is disgusting. Why am I here? Why am I still fucking here?

I can't really tell what's going on at this point. Walking out into the hall felt like I was floating. My feet were cold, the vague sensation of dust and dirt on the soles as I wandered out of the room, my previous clothes balled up in my hands. I was so focused on the floorboards, trying not to pass out, that I didn't notice him till his arm collided with my shoulder. A freezing cold hand gripped my bare arm, nails digging slightly, but not enough to hurt. He hauled me upwards before I could fall, and I found myself as frozen as his fingers.

I couldn't look away, only stare as I felt air reenter my lungs, frantically, panicked. Dark red eyes, framed by a curtain of snow-white hair tinged red from the lights. A sharp, strong nose scrunched at the bridge as he glared at me, a thick, chunky braid as wide as my leg resting against his shoulder and chest. Pointed ears that stuck out from his head by at least a foot perked up, pointing straight upwards before relaxing to point just barely back and to the sides. Before he or I could say anything, the lights flickered, and we were washed by much brighter lighting.

His hair was so light it was almost translucent, like smoke hanging around his head. The braid was tied by a thick baby blue cord all around it, tipped with an eye-shaped charm hanging from the bottom, which looked to be the Sheikah crest from that damn game. His ears were pierced at the lobes and tips, both of which being simple rings of the same baby blue as the cord around his hair. He looked up, quirking a brow, then his eyes trailed down to lack back onto me. He tilted his head, tensing his jaw, then he pulled me a bit, silently signalling me to stand up more, then let go once I seemed to have my footing.

"Watch where you're going, kitom." I didn't know what the word meant but it felt familiar. He didn't spare me any more of his time, turning on his heel and continuing down the hallway the opposite direction from me as if nothing had happened. He doesn't fit. He's familiar but he shouldn't be here. My eyes locked onto the archway that led to the foyer. I saw a few indiscernible figures walk past the archway, oblivious to anything else around them. I wonder how long it will take. Whatever these powers are.

How long until I can pull it off?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I had to be escorted to my room by him. It was clear he knew his presence made me uncomfortable, if anything was to be gleaned from the shit-eating grin that crossed his face every time I flinched from him getting too close. Every so often he'd bump into my arm and I felt my skin crawl. I wonder if I could trip him…

"So!" Don't talk. "Where you from, Twitch?" He had a weird accent, my name coming out more like Tweetch than Twitch, the -ch more like an -sh. He practically skipped down the hall, barely letting me keep pace with him, then he'd switch tactics and stand so close to me he was almost knocking me over as he walked.

"Indianapolis."

"Ooohhh, city girl, huh?"

"I guess, so." He hums, and I want to cut his throat. The bedrooms were apparently on the second, third and fourth floors. We were on the east side of the second floor, the hallway was one marked by a blue placard engraved with IV on it on the frame just as you enter it. There were eight rooms on either side, apparently the ones at the far end of the hallway were the biggest, but according to Ben, Jeff was in the left side one, and had knocked down the wall between his room and the next, claiming it since they so rarely received new Residents. The door he stopped at was the second on the left hand side, marked by another blue placard on the wood, but this one had a crossed out engraving too scarred to read. There were a few dents in the door, cracks where the wood had been broken, and the doorknob was copper, carved with a paisley design that gave the metal more texture than I found comfortable, personally.

He waved his hands dramatically, pausing for a moment, before harshly grabbing the knob, as if to make as much noise as possible, and kicking it open at the same time he turned the knob. He grinned when I jumped, his chest twitching as he held back a laugh at my disgusted expression.

"Welcome to chez….whatever-the-fuck! This is the room you get to use, that to the right there," he points to the right hand wall as we walk in, and to the metal door nestled in that wall, "is the laundry chute. There's a little basket in there connected to a pulley. Press the blue button to send your shit down, it'll be dealt with as needed." He swung his body in a circle, not really giving me a chance to absorb anything he was saying. Not like I needed to, I couldn't care less about anything that came out of his stupid mouth.

"Room's just got basic shit. You got a tablet there on the desk, tv, bed, nightstand. Basic clothes in the closet, not sure if much of it will fit you, but that won't matter if you ain't here long." Half of his words slurred together, that weird accent I couldn't place making it even harder for me to focus on him. I just stared at the bed, not wanting to give him the privilege of any response from me. He got enough pleasure from my discomfort as it was.

He went silent after his spiel, staring at me, back slouched and head tilted as his eyes raked up and down over me. I could feel it, unable to stop myself from rubbing my neck with both hands, trying to bring any limb of mine closer to my body to protect myself. He noticed, he had to. He was doing this on purpose. Of course you're doing it on fucking purpose.

"What's your problem, huh? Being dead's not that bad~" The purr in his voice made me want to vomit, but I met his eyes.

"It's just…weird is all. All of this." My mouth was dry, this is too much.

"Ahhhh, yeah. You a Creepypasta kid, yeah? Bet that's reaaallll weird, ehee~" What I would give to make that giggle stick in his throat like a knife. "You're so bad at hiding that little, homicidal glare you got goin' on, leput. What, have somethin' against 'BEN Drowned'?" He giggled again, catching the front of my shirt as I try to step away from him. I can't, I can't, I can't. "Are you scared of me or somethin'? What's wrong?"

It felt like everything around me was muffled, like suddenly a fishbowl had been put over my head. I could only stare at him. His face was so…normal. If you ignored the too-wide pupils and glowing freckles. He smiled, no shark-like teeth to be seen, no, just a row of perfect, pearly white ones, with canines that I could almost feel tearing my throat out right now. His hand was warm, enough so I could feel it through the thin shirt. In fact, warmth radiated off of him, an uncomfortable warmth. Wet and humid, like his body was the equivalent of Florida in the middle of June. Wet and disgusting, so fitting for a little freak like him. He grinned in my face, his nose centimeters from mine as he uses the leverage of the hand fisted in my shirt to drag me up onto my toes so he wouldn't have to bend over as much.

Stop touching me.

"Hellooooo? New kiiidddd?"

Stop touching me.

"Anyone in theerrreee?"

Stop fucking touching me.

"Ahhhh, I broke you already, that's boring. Don't worry, you aren't special, I do this to everyone. Don't get too into your Wattpad fantasies up in there~"

His eyes barely showed the ring of green from around his pupils.

I can't hear what he's saying.

The whites of his eyes had veins in orange and yellow, not red or blue.

I can't hear what he's saying.

He smells like apples and mint.

I can't hear what he's saying.

He lets go.

I can't hear what he's saying.

I don't let him leave. This is the first time I saw genuine surprise on his face, not tinged in amusement and mischief. My hand clutches his, and the warmth isn't so nauseating this time. It's a warmth I want to chase. I can't look at him. I can't do this. He can feel my hand shaking, I'm sure. Let go. Let go. Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let goLet go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go-

He wasn't in the room when she woke up. Twitch was laid on her side in her new bed, head perfectly propped up by a pillow, one of the thinner blankets thrown on top of her. She stared at the window in the opposite wall from the door. The tablet on the desk to the right of it was propped up so she could see the screen as soon as she looked over at it. The air was wet and cold. Her fingers were numb with the steady hum that still pulsed through her body.

Nothing else mattered right now. Only the static. Only the noise. She could feel the hand reaching out from somewhere in the House. A voice in the back of her head as she sat up. The tablet's screen read 'Dinner is at 6pm. Be clean.' No other sound came in over the static. The hand hesitated, its clawed fingers brushing against her back, before retreating, as if discouraged. The phantom sensation dissipated, leaving only the thrum.

There is nothing she can do now. Only wait and see. The tv screen flickers, but she doesn't notice. She only sits, staring out of the window into the rain. The sound of the rain hitting the window finally filtered in through the humming in her head, and she sighs, laying back down. She does not move, does not breathe. She only lays there, hoping to feel some sensation like before. Something that was filtered through this vibrant haze. But there is nothing.

She is alone.

[house-of-crows]

It was not the same mountain. It was not the same endless stretch of ash and bone.

Something More. Something Less. But it Was, just the same.

It was a long time, since I had wings. Since i had felt my body stretch and strain in just that way- Narrow, slim, built for slipping between the cracks. Feathers as brown as the earth and gray as stone and white as clouds and golden as fading sunlight, and barred in darker steel and speckled with the deep red clay of the Canyon.

Talons and claws mean little, when your strength is fading and you can no longer cling so easily to whatever paper-thin edge has kept you from falling down and down and down to death in the sharp-ragged-cutting stones however many miles below that narrow stream runs... And still, I clung.

Edged against the Rock. Wings spread, covering my bare head from the burning sun, glaring down with all its might on the scene below. I heard the voices, rising like distant sirens from the depths. Could hear it echo off the Narrows, ringing like insistent bells on the most obstinate of sheep on the pale green and yellow hills below me.

They were Coming.

It did not matter the reason. The cause and effect lost to so much static and fuzz... the amnesia rising like a great heavy fog, blanketing my memory, stealing them from the forefront of my mind even as they happened. The silent thief, protecting as always. Shielding. Guarding. If I did not know, what reason would I have to fear? But if the fear was subdivided from its cause.... well. Wariness is in the blood and bone. It cannot be taught through normal means, and must be deeply felt. Must root and burrow until it burns in the deepest parts of flesh and spirit both.

I clung.

Words were spoken. Conversations held above and below. And I sheltered in the shadow of the overhang, until the sun sank below the ridgeline and at last, with the bats and the crowding of my kin, I dashed through the fading twilight. Letting go was almost easy.

Stiff, inflamed joints and swollen fingers that ended in sharp, inches long talons simply.... opening, with a little irritated twitch- and a gentle shove from legs whose muscles were tight and sore and tendons that ached and did not want to stretch----

I fell.

I leapt.

I flew~

Through the Narrow Places. Feathers of wings and body brushing against the sides, ears twitching to hear the little rocks bounce and fall like tiny hailstones at my passing. Eyes sharp, gazing at the distance and losing myself to the power of it all. The experiential outpouring of a physicality so alien to the Waking world and yet so intuitive as to be as simple as breathing.

What happened in the Cavern will not matter to you, Reader. The words spoken are not even for the future me to know, looking back and reaching for keys left scattered behind. Things to be picked up, and followed, or left to rot where they lie like a talisman unlooked for-

Unwanted.

The Bird of Omen has many children. The Walkers of Worlds are growing their numbers. I am not the last, the only, as I once feared as a nascent, budding Gift once upon a firelight, flickering in a frozen wood to the scent of lavender incense.... rising towards a freezing, distant, moon.

The weight of the leather and gold on my brow has not faded. The prick of feathered ears has not left me. The light, breezy weight of linen and hemp against my skin is a phantom I can almost touch--

The lessons in it are for me, Reader. But I can share the feelings.

[shimmerbeasts]

A brisk breeze blew through the cell, something that shouldn't' even be possible this far deep into the iron cage of Stillwater. And yet, it was a breath of fresh air, the scent of saltwater on the breeze and brushing along Vi's shoulders and through her hair. Despite the darkness of the hall, with only the light visible, a little flint of white light swirled into the isolated cell. And then, a small bird flew through the bars.

In a second, though, the bird shifted, changed, enveloped in dark blue feathers an accents of silver. She lowered onto the brick platform that might have been used as a bed (what kind of bed is that Janna thought to herself). Attentive eyes looked at the cellmate near the wall, as she opened up her wings and flapped them once more, allowing a little breeze to wrap around her and the feeling of comfort and home carried on it. The peregrine falcon said nothing, only watching Vi as she shifted on her talons. She lifted up one of her clawed feet and tapped it down onto the platform once, and then twice. An invitation.

Sit.

@ferallfemmes - Janna

The cool moisture on the ground made the hard stone floor extra cold. It seeped through her trousers and up her thighs. Pink - Vi? Who the void was Vi? - groaned in pain as she shut her eyes. Her knuckles were sticky with blood. One of her nails had been chipped off and she was pretty sure, she had broken one of her joints. The finger was swollen and hurt. Come to think of it, her entire body hurt.

Bruises in purple and yellow littered her sides. Her face was swollen on one cheek. Pink toyed around with that one loose tooth, she had accidentally caught in the midst of the scuffle. She should maybe spit it out, shouldn't she? But the iron flavour and the hard little knob were so soothing to suck upon. Maybe she could keep it a little while longer.

Furthermore, it distracted Pink from the growls in her stomach. She may have won the fight against the other inmate - some lowlife working for Silco, Silco the source of all her misery -, but she had still paid the price for it. The guards might claim that infighting was strictly forbidden, but Pink had still seen them exchange coins and loudly bet on what kind of damage, Pink would deal to this prisoner. They had nothing to fear from this illegal activity. After all, all they had to do, was throw Pink back into her cell and reduce her meal for the day. That served punishment enough.

The growling of her stomach grew louder. Pink curled in on herself, hands on her belly, and snarled in quiet pain. Her green eyes flashed darkly in the prison cell. Drool gathered between her fanged canine teeth. The amount of it finally became too much and she spat out the tooth with a huge splatter of saliva. It hit the stone floor, rolled around and stuck in a crack.

"Blasted..." Pink boxed a wall with the side of her fist and whimpered like a wounded animal. Janna, what wouldn't she give for something to eat? A big juicy herring. She wouldn't even need some of Jericho's special sauce. She would just grab the fish and sink her teeth into the silver meat. Didn't matter if the fish was cold. It would be a cacophony of flavour compared to the cat food, they fed her here.

The breeze, which touselled her fair pink hair, which was starting to darken with her age and the lack of light into a dark magenta, couldn't have come at a more opportune moment. It carried the scent of salt water with it and the feeling of fresh air. Without realising it, Pink, no, not Pink, Vi shut her eyes and took deep breaths, letting the sensation fill her lungs. It felt so good, so relieving and so welcoming. Vi caught herself smiling and relaxing a bit more.

Opening her eyes slowly, she blinked in surprise when she saw the small blue bird fly through the bars of her cell. The little light flying around it allowed Vi to see the bird morph and shift into a beautiful peregrine falcon with blue and silver streaked feathers. As it landed on the brick mattress, which served as Vi's bed, its breeze brought comfort to Vi, made her think of home, of Vander bringing her, Mylo, Claggor and Powder hot syrupy juice and cookies with sour fruits and too many raisins and nuts. And as the peregrine falcon tapped its talons on the bed, requesting Vi to sit, she realised who was visiting her.

"Janna....", Vi breathed with a mixture of reverence and shock. She raised her hands and pressed her thumbs and wrist together, spreading her remaining fingers out like bird's wings and giving a slight wiggle. Sailors used to do this gesture as a sign of respect towards the wind spirit and after prayers.

She pushed herself to her feet. Approaching the peregrine falcon cautiously, Vi took a seat on the edge of the hard mattress. Swallowing around the knot in her throat, the Zaunite girl asked: "To what do I owe this visit?"

@ferallfemmes