#THESE FRAGILE EGGS WILL LIKELY CRACK

[vadaturner]

Elite what’s the difference between meiosis and mitosis 🙁🙁🙁

It’s pretty simple actually

So yk how stuff is divided in normal/sexual?

Ofc cells have the same thing too

Somatic cells (bone,tissue,blood,etc) are the “normal” ones. They go through the regular cell division process which includes all the stages and stuff. That is called mitosis

However with gametes it’s different, because even though they go through the same process as a somatic cell, after they’re done they go through the same process again. That is called meiosis

Now, how is meiosis different? They divide to produce sex cells and not

There’s two pairs of chromosomes on the cell so they cross over (take a part from the other, trade yk) and divide the cell.

Now we have two cells with two chromosomes in each

Now, the two new cells will have to go thru the same thing again (except they don’t have to cross over and shit).

Now we’re left with four thingies, which equal either:

- 4 sperm cells

Or

- 1 egg + 3 polar bodies

(The polar bodies of don’t have any important role on this)

So in conclusion…

✪ mitosis = regular cell division

✪ meiosis = sex cell division, which has two rounds.

Im pretty sure I’m right but still consult a textbook for help

[a-hazbin-reader]

Hiii! Your headcanons and memes are absolutely funny, I think this request fits you.

So instead of dog or cat (Husker) Wife reader saw her Husband walking around with the egg boys, and she pulls out the '🥺can we keep one?' and would like ABSOLUTELY not take no for an answer, she even pulls out a new dress for the egg boi to differentiate him from the other eggs.

I loved those goofy eggs so much 😭

Alastor X Reader Headcanons

✅️Romantic

❌️Platonic

TW: Alastor being a jealous husband, Alastor being possessive of wife!reader's attention

Description: ☝️⬆️

Okay, so it's bad enough that Alastor is stuck dealing with the eggs and he's not even allowed to crack a few of them

And he's totally not annoyed with the way your eyes lit up, and you immediately started cooing over them the moment you saw them

Of course the clumsy little things just ate it up, flexing and showing off for you, even going so far as to climb into your outstretched arms

So now they're stealing his wife from him? Those eggs have crossed a line

He skipped breakfast for this?

Alastor knows he needs to keep them away from you to keep you from getting more attached than you already are

So at the sacrifice of his own needs for your attention, Alastor makes sure to keep the eggs far away from you by keeping them close to him

Even at the cost of his sanity

Alastor hadn't even realized he left one of them behind until he came back to the hotel to find you holding one like a baby

And the little imbecile is just soaking up the attention too, blissfully unaware of the error he just made

Not even Sir Pentious can get the egg to willingly leave your embrace, the little thing stubbornly clinging to you

"No! You can't sssstay with her! You're my little egg! My minion!"

It takes much coaxing from you to get the egg to leave your side but that's far from the end of it

Every morning afterwards the egg is bursting into the bedroom and crawling into bed with the two of you

Instead of waking up to your sleepy affection, Alastor is waking up to that stupid egg babbling off to you about everything and anything

Not him shoving the egg boy off the bed and tugging you against him

Alastor eats nothing but eggs for breakfasts for the next week, there's something therapeutic about cracking them that he just can't quite put his finger on

Oh wait-yes he can

He hopes that you'll get sick of the egg boy eventually, but then you start dressing the egg up, differentiating it from the others

"Alastor look! Doesn't he look darling? He's a mini you~!"

You don't notice your husband's eye twitching

You baby that egg more than you've ever babied him and he's definitely getting jealous

He just about snaps when he hears you and Sir Pentious talking about you keeping the little egg

"Aren't you a little old for those 'egg baby' projects, my dear? You're not in school anymore."

"Oh, please, Alastor! Can't we keep him? He's already so attached to me and I just adore him! I've already named him!"

"Um...Y/N...they already have namesssss..."

"I do?"

Somehow, he manages to convince you that you don't need to keep the egg but it's by the skin of his teeth

And it doesn't stop you from spending every waking moment spoiling the egg

That should be him being spoiled by you

He starts trying to intimidate the egg whenever you aren't around but the little thing is too dense to understand it

"I wouldn't follow Y/N so closely up those stairs, one wrong step and it would be quite the nasty fall for someone as fragile as you."

"Thanks Boss!"

Not Alastor trying to crack him whenever you look away

Purposefully opening doors a little too hard in hopes that your egg is on the other side

Using his staff to nudge him out an open window...

Finding extremely dangerous tasks for the egg to do only to be disappointed when he comes back unharmed

Developing a sudden interest in baking extremely large cakes

Alastor, honey, come on...that last one wasn't even subtle

Bottom line, if you care about the egg boy then you better give him back to Sir Pentious because he won't be safe around your husband

It's an emotional goodbye but Alastor's happiness at having your attention again is worth it

It's not like you won't still see each other around the hotel, chill

He's a terribly needy man when it comes to your attention but it's just part of his charm

I LOVE THESE LITTLE GUYS

[csainzoperator]

ferrari drivers and their reaction to you kissing them in the middle of a conversation ☆

warnings: kissing (obviously), skinship, suggestive jokes, slight nsfw, mentions of sex, mentions of food.

word count: 485

charles leclerc

♡ would be yapping about his new ice cream brand, LEC. he would be talking about it so passionately and lovingly that you cannot contain the amount of joy listening to him talk brings you.

♡ he would look at you weird, tilting his slightly, his eyebrows raised in question when you don't react to his words anymore.

♡ you would lean in and give his lips a soft peck, making him giggle. "what was that for?" he would question, gazing at you momentarily, his dimples on display, a soft shade of crimson on his cheeks.

♡ you shrug, "just because." his smile brightens, making your chest tighten with warmth. the type of warmth you feel when the summer breeze brushes through your hair, when you dip your sandy toes into the cold sea water, when you have hot chocolate on christmas night. you admire his smile, unknown to the one on your own face.

♡ he would caress your cheek softly, pulling you closer to him. he always felt so ALIVE when he touched you. so real. so full of uncontrollable love. he would kiss your lips, gently, like he was touching a something so fragile, so precious, so important. because you were all that. "just because." he would mutter against your lips, a shy smile adorning his face.

carlos sainz

♡ it was a summer break, you and carlos were in your small beach house in the south of france. he was making you both breakfast. you did try to help him (tried cracking an egg and got an egg shell inside the bowl), but he refused. he wanted to give you "queen treatment" because princess was too basic.

♡ you sat on the counter as you watched him work around in the kitchen. something about this act was so homely, so domestic. how automated it was, how it all came together so perfectly. how you were so used to it, but would never get tired of it. he was whisking up his world famous (as he would like to call it) pancakes.

♡ you would lean towards him, and he would question your loving stare "no i am not letting you help, mi vida." he would wear his stern gaze, hoping it would shut you up. helping him was far from what you wanted to do. you grab his face and kiss his plumply lips, making a 'muah' sound.

♡ although surprised by the sudden affection, he wouldn't waste a second in kissing you back. his lips would make their way downwards, leaving sloppy kisses down your neck. you had to shove him away playfully to make him stop.

♡ he would have a slight pout on his face, picking up his whisk again to work on his masterpiece. "why would you kiss me!? it was distracting, baby. now i'm not even hungry." he would whine, feeding you before letting the neighbours know what his name was through your, let's say, high pitched vocals.

an: i made this while listening to bollywood romantic songs i lowk died ok. js a lil drabble for my adorable followers! hope u love it <3

[diazsdimples]

Fuck It Friday/ Inspiration Saturday

Tagged by @wikiangela @actuallyitsellie @jesuisici33 @hippolotamus @wildlife4life @exhuastedpigeon @neverevan @spotsandsocks @theotherbuckley @cal-daisies-and-briars for Friday, tagging you all back for Saturday (sorry if I missed anyone, I am SO behind on my notifications)

Okay it's Saturday here but I'm sure it's still Friday somewhere right?? HAPPY BI BUCK TO EVERYONE!!!! This fic is inspired entirely by That Kiss, and it sparked me to make a 7x06 spec fic. So, please enjoy what will hopefully be the only snippet (godwilling) of the Why Are Buck and Eddie So Dirty At Madney's Wedding fic. This snippet is from the very beginning and yes, it is Bucktommy (for now), no I will not apologise for it. Enjoy!

“You-you’ve never called me that before” he breathes. Tommy brushes the pad of his thumb over Buck’s bottom lip, releasing it from his teeth. He brushes his other hand through Buck’s hair, fingers threading through his yet-to-be-tamed curls. “What, baby?” he asks, grinning as Buck’s eyes flutter shut at the utterance of the name once again. “Is that okay?” ‘Y-yeah,” Buck nods, leaning forwards to brush their noses together again, angling his face up in an implicit request for a kiss. “I kinda liked it.” Tommy hums out a laugh and Buck feels it reverberate deep in his chest. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says softly, and he hooks his finger under Buck’s chin, just like he did the first time they kissed, and captures Buck’s lips with his. Every time he’s kissed by Tommy, Buck is introduced to a whole other side of the word “soft”. He’s had the feminine “soft” plenty of times, with the way Abby would curl into him after a long shift, or how Ali would brush his hair from his forehead with her nimble fingers, and even on the rare occasion with Taylor, when she was sleepy and would crawl into his arms and fall asleep in seconds.  With Tommy, it’s different. Tommy holds Buck like he’s a fragile egg, smoothing his thumbs over the cracks and balancing him in his palm. He’s soft in the way he holds Buck to his chest, or the way he kisses Buck’s hair while they’re watching a movie, or how he knows when Buck’s had a bad shift and needs to get out of his head for a bit, and will come over with pizza and beer and promises of kisses.  He’s soft in the way he presses his palm to the small of Buck’s back when they’re out together, but not as if he’s pushing Buck in a certain direction. More like he’s grounding Buck, showing him that he’s allowed to be out, happy, with a man.

tagging @watchyourbuck @daffi-990 @bidisasterbuckdiaz @rainbow-nerdss @babybibuck @evanbegins @fortheloveofbuddie @spagheddiediaz @loserdiaz @giddyupbuck @aroeddiediaz @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @kitteneddiediaz @elvensorceress @thekristen999 @smilingbuckley @epicbuddieficrecs @underwater-ninja-13 @shortsighted-owl @loveyouanyway (also sorry if I've missed anyone, so many have changed urls and I can't keep up sksksks)

[luxthestrange]

TWST Incorrect quotes#579 Fragile King

When You want Leona to behave at a royal party, No skipping, Not hiding and interacting with others...make new friends he of course says no...he is putting his foot down

Leona*Sitting and avoiding looking at you, sweating*...I'm not looking at you, my spouse...

Yuu*Flutters eyelashes cutely and chin to his shoulder, poking his cheek*You're going to~~

Leona*Taking a deep breath and shakes head*Nnnope...

Yuu*Wraps arms on his neck and nuzzles face into his collar bone*You like looking at me!~

Leona*Lips tremble and pout, moving head to the opposite direction you are*I'm not going to...

Yuu*Giggles and twirls his braid in your finger*Because if you do~~You'll CRACK like an egg~~

Leona*Is trembling and with eyes closed, letting out a squeaked answer*...yes

[espion7971]

IceWing tribe sheet!

icewings actually happen to be my favorite tribe, they're a little messed up but i love them. enjoy my headcanons!

Physical Appearance + Traits:

-IceWings live in the cold and barren arctic north, and have developed very specific adaptations in order to survive. Rather than being warm-blooded and keeping themselves insulated, they kept their reptillian cold blood and slowly adapted to a consistently cold internal body temperature. As a result, they require no warmth at all for their bodies to function; they do not insulate themselves with fur or fat like mammals do.

-Their scales are pale, usually with a bluish tint although other colors are not unheard of. When well taken care of, they gleam and sparkle like ice.

-They are naturally cold to the touch, giving off a chill to anyone close by. In warm environments, especially humid ones, the cold will sometimes cause moisture from the air to condense on their scales, letting drops of water settle on them and drip from them. This, at first glance, can sometimes look like they’re “melting”, and has made some believe that IceWings are literally made from ice, and they can melt in the heat. (This is another headcanon that didn’t originate with me, it comes from @flamebringer0. If you see this, I adore your headcanon, I hope you don’t mind me including it among with mine!)

-Sharp spikes bristle their necks and run along their spines and tails. This can make it difficult for other tribes to gain the upper hand in fights without being wounded by the spines. They can also use their tail as an effective weapon.

-They can summon a storm of tiny shards and crystals from the ice that tends to coat their throat and produce frostbreath, which can quickly deliver frostbite to any dragons who aren’t well adapted to cold.

-Icewing horns are sometimes straight, resembling icicles, sometimes jagged, and sometimes branch off into something more antler-adjacent. They are always sharp, but just slightly more fragile than other horns.

-Some IceWing scales tend to get a bit darker and more silvery as they age, and likewise they tend to hatch with bright, snowy-white coloration. Some will have speckled patterns and general variability between colors across their bodies.

-Their dark eyes help absorb light and allow them to see past the bright glare of sun on ice. 

-Their bodies are long, slender and elegant, especially among royals. Their faces are long and pointed, and they are more agile and maneuverable than most tribes expect. They are generally smaller than SkyWings but taller than MudWings.

-Their serrated claws help grip ice, and make their attacks more punishing. They have a sharp and sturdy point on the end of their snout, which can be used to crack ice without harming them.

-They are not a very physically varied tribe, but the royal and noble IceWings have a look distinct from those on outskirt villages. They often have fewer spines, straighter horns, narrower wings and paler colors, whereas lower-ranking IceWings have more practical antler-like horns, more spines, and a more muscular appearance. (Sketch displaying this below.)

Life Cycle:

-IceWings are hatched in small clutches of one to three. Parents will carve out a nest in the ice, lay the eggs, and then allow them to freeze over again until the dragonets break through the ice. It is believed that the colder the eggs during incubation, the more powerful the dragonets will become. 

-They take around 5 months to develop and are hatched strong enough to free themselves and big enough that most predators aren’t interested in them. They are also hatched with a delicate layer of spines all across their bodies that resemble frost crystals, though these later shed off. Dragonets can also go several days without eating after hatching, which is unusual for dragons. 

-Most parents are available to watch their dragonets, so these abilities simply serve as precautions for the case of missing or neglectful parents. 

-They grow somewhat slowly, reaching maturity a bit later than other tribes.

-IceWings, especially those of high rank, are expected to be strictly monogamous, and their marriages are usually more of a formality than a real union of affection. They aren’t incapable of love, certainly, but marriage is not treated as an act of love among nobles and royalty. Sometimes even lower-status IceWings marry out of societal expectation and not for their own happiness, but things are generally less strict.

Society + Culture:

-IceWing society is strictly ranked by class and birthright. There are seven divisions, referred to as Circles; the Seventh Circle is made up of dragons of low status, living in small villages on the outskirts of the tribe and scorned by those in higher Circles. The First Circle, meanwhile, is almost entirely comprised of royalty and other dragons of high honor and status. In the palace, dragons are expected to greet and interact with others differently depending on their relative ranking. The system is extremely strict and ruthless, and disrespect is one quick way to be lowered down the ladder. During her reign, Queen Snowfall tore down the wall used to keep track of the placement of each dragon, and made great steps toward lessening this aspect of their culture, but it continued to subtly persist long after her death. 

-Lower-circle IceWing society is simple and straightforward. They live in communities quite detached from palace life, hunting for themselves and helping each other raise their dragonets. As all IceWing animus dragons were strategically kept in royalty, most animus gifts did little to improve the lives of those outside the First and Second Circles. The best way for a low-born IceWing to rise in rank would be through military work; otherwise, the groups remain fairly stagnant. Protests and revolts, though, are surprisingly uncommon. Most Sixth and Seventh Circle IceWings are simply too detached from royalty to be concerned with wealth differences, and royals likewise rarely bother to interfere with Sixth and Seventh circle dragons.

-While in the palace, during the worst of the class division, all dragons were commanded to wear necklaces made from a heavy metal that matched their rank. First-Circle necklaces would consist of one ring, Second-Circle necklaces would have two, one inside of the other, and so on. The more circles, the heavier the necklace, and Seventh-Circle dragons, on the rare occasion they visited the palace, would be forced into a constant bow by the weight of the metal.

-IceWings are quite superstitious, not unlike SkyWings. Their beliefs vary by region, but a generally common one is that the deep, impenetrable ice cap they live on harbors some ancient, powerful force, and that if it ever were to break or melt away, that power would be unleashed and cause havoc; they see the ice as a protective field that froze over at the dawn of time, and if it unfroze it would be the end of everything they know.

-IceWings will sometimes wear polar bear fur or the pelts of elk and deer, though not for warmth. Lower-Circle dragons will wear the pelts and sometimes even antlers of their own prey, for bragging rights. Higher-Circle dragons simply wear them as a fashion statement and a show of wealth.

-IceWings are educated much more about their own tribe than others, and generally prefer to stick to their own affairs. They have few exports to trade and little interest in those of others. They are not the most diplomatic tribe.

-After the perceived theft of their last animus, they not only blamed NightWings, but also harbored resentment for every other tribe with animus magic, believing themselves to be the original carrier of the gene and therefore the rightful possessor of it. They are extremely protective of even the least useful of their animus gifts. 

Diet: Carnivorous. IceWings eat arctic mammals like elk and polar bears, and aquatic mammals like seals and even sometimes narwhals and orcas. They also eat fish and, rarely, a few species of birds. They have no way to cook food and no desire to. Other than a few types of berries in the mountains near the SkyWing border, no plants grow in the arctic, and IceWings live on meat alone.

[elithe31st]

yes. I am big enjoyer of Alejandro Burromuerto. Could I request that the reader is genuinely nice to him, they have zero ulterior motives in the show and they just mindlessly joke around and treat him with the right amount of praise that he should have gotten back home? Like, the reader is so confusing and oblivious but at the same time endearing and genuine with their words and actions.

HOW?

alejandro burromuerto x gn reader

'' these fragile eggs will likely crack ''

He didn't get it. He didn't get you. Alejandro Burromuerto was drawing a blank.

You were like Owen, except much prettier. And you weren't gross. And you didn't call him that stupid nickname. And you didn't—

"Alejandro?" You say, leaning over to look at him.

"Ah, um, yes?" Alejandro looks over at you with that famous smile. You smile back, and it's like the metal cage around his heart got it's lock picked. Again.

He doesn't understand. How can someone on this godforsaken plane besides himself have any redeeming qualities? It was like you knew how to make him happy, how to make him enthusiastic. It was like he was the dog and you were the owner. He didn't like it, but he didn't mind it either.

"You seem a little, uh, off. Is everything going smoothly in the Burromuerto-mobile?" You chuckled lightly at your own joke, but you put a hand on his shoulder afterwards. "I'm always here to talk if the confessionals don't do any good."

Alejandro tried. He tried so hard to see a sliver of something evil. But he couldn't. And...it wasn't so bad. He smiled, patting your hand. "Ah, amor. You are too kind to me, truly."

"What? Why wouldn't I be?" Alejandro's eyes went wide. "You're the coolest person on this flight, man. Also, my teammate. Gotta make friends some way, right?" You smile wider, putting your hand on top of his.

He almost short-circuts.

You went on to win some challenges with Alejandro, all the while joking, talking and laughing with him.

He was about to break.

He could go on and on about you. Positive things, of course. You were simply amazing to him. You treated him with respect, with kindness. He hadn't been so happy to see someone's face every day in what seems like years.

Until, Alejandro finally figured something out about you. His brain clicked in all the right places. He finally understood. He finally knew.

You were his soulmate.

One night when your team was in first class, Alejandro had sat next to you in one of the chairs.

"Can't sleep?" He whispered to you.

"Nope." You whispered back. You turned to face him, smiling. "Same for you?"

Alejandro nods. "(Name), is it alright if I use my 'free conversation' ticket?" He jokes. You say yes, of course.

"I just would like to thank you. Thank you for everything. You've been so nice to me, niceness I never knew I needed." He felt himself start to tear up. Burromuerto's don't cry, why is he doing it now? "I- it's like...you...respect me. You don't call me weird nicknames. You don't try and beat me in everything. You don't try to one up me. It's- no, you're a breath of fresh air." Alejandro says, his voice wavering. You put your hands on his.

"Alejandro—"

"I love you. I love you (Name). I don't care if a million people see this side of me anymore. I don't care about my brother, or my overwhelming family, I care about you. I care about you and I care that you care for me." Tears started to spill from his eyes. "I love you so much."

"Alejandro, I love you too." You said, wiping his tears. He kept his eyes in your hand, sobbing. You hugged him tight. "I love you too. It's alright."

[cinnbar-bun]

Popularity- Cross Guild's Day Off 2 (Cross Guild x Reader)

Summary: In which you work with the three Cross Guild officers and Buggy attempts to prove his popularity through a poll. Of course, it's never as simple as it really should be in Cross Guild.

Rating: SFW/Crack

Word Count: ~3k

Notes: No relationships are defined, so feel free to headcanon whatever you want. I know it says x Reader up there and I wrote it in mind that it's a weird ass polycule but I made sure to leave it ambiguous for your reading pleasure. Made in mind with part 1, but can be read as standalone. Features cameos from Alvida, Galdino, and Daz Bones.

A/n: I love these three goofballs so like feel free to request stuff with them or what scenarios you'd like to see them in please???

Read Part 1 here! Read this chapter on my AO3 here!

“It’s really not fair! It’s not fair at all!” Buggy screamed. Mihawk, Crocodile, and you sighed at whatever it was that seemed to be, well, bugging Buggy. 

“Will you stop your complaining? Some of us are actually trying to do work here,” Crocodile growled while his fingers continued clicking away on the calculator. “(Y/n), go and hand me the reports for-,” 

“Right here, Sir,” you said as you handed him the stack of papers he wanted. Crocodile smirked proudly while his eyes narrowed at Buggy. 

“See, why can’t you be like (Y/n)? They know how to get work done.” 

“Wha-! I get work done! Plenty of work!” 

“Juggling isn’t work.” 

“Is too!” Buggy stomped his foot. 

“Hardly,” Mihawk chimes in. 

“Grrr… you two are just jealous of me! Jealous of how I’m the Star Clown and you two will just be boring, old men!” 

Mihawk and Crocodile glanced at each other knowingly and rolled their eyes. 

“You’re still bothered by the fact you were not important enough to have any good cards in the deck, aren't you?” Mihawk states bluntly, not bothering to be gentle with Buggy’s fragile ego. 

“SHUT UP!!! SHUT UP!!!!” Buggy shouted, gaining the attention from his subordinates outside the office. 

“Aw… someone’s upset,” Crocodile teased. You huffed at the two stoic ex-warlords and tried to soothe Buggy. 

“Buggy, it’s alright. They’re just silly cards. Look around you, you have so many employees happy to work for you because they really admire you as captain,” you say genuinely while patting his head. Buggy sniffles and nods. 

“You’re right, (Y/n), you’re right,” Buggy agrees. He wipes his eyes and nose with his hand before he bounces back to life, clenching his fists. “That’s very true! All these people love me and would die for me! So those card makers don’t know anything! I’m the most popular one here!” 

“Wait, what…” you wince, while Crocodile and Mihawk groan. 

“Thanks, (Y/n), now he’s gonna do something stupid again,” Crocodile sighed. 

“Buggy, all I’m saying is-” you try to fix your error, but Buggy shakes his head. 

“Nope! You just gave me an amazing idea!” 

“Here we go again,” Mihawk mumbles. 

“W-what’s the idea?” You ask Buggy. 

“Obviously, to really settle the matter, we need to hold a popularity contest!” Buggy proclaims. 

“We really don’t have to. No one cares about this except you,” Crocodile says blandly while he opens the folder you gave him. 

“Haha! You’re just saying that because you know deep down that I will win when it comes to Cross Guild!” Buggy eggs Crocodile on. “They love me here!” 

“I really don’t care-” 

“So, to finally gather once and for all who the most popular is-” 

“God damn it.” 

“I’m going to poll the others!” Buggy announces, grabbing a random clipboard from your desk. 

“Isn’t that rather biased?” Mihawk asked. 

“Biased? What are you talking about?” Buggy raises his brow. “You think Imma lie about this?” 

“Yes,” all of you respond. Buggy lets out an offended gasp and frowns. 

“Well then, what do you suggest, smart guy?” Buggy yells at Mihawk. 

“Having only you go around and then return with results will obviously not be the most accurate. We need to send a third party that won’t lie,” Mihawk explains. 

The three men turn to look at you. 

“Why do I have to do it?” You fold your arms. “I have work to do!” 

“I’ll pay you extra for this week in order to have Buggy shut up,” Crocodile states. 

“Do you think I can be swayed so easily with money?” 

“Yes,” the three men respond. You swipe the clipboard from Buggy. 

“Damn right I am,” you state as you pick up your favorite pen from your desk. 

“Now then, since you’re going to be polling, I expect truthful and honest answers,” Mihawk demands. “No one can lie or cheat this.” 

“Before we do this, none of you are allowed to know who voted for who,” you add. “I’m not having you fire or hunt down some poor employee because they voted for Mihawk or something.” “Well that won’t happen,” Buggy comments. “No one is gonna vote for Mihawk to begin with.” 

Now it’s Mihawk’s turn to be offended. “What do you mean by that, Buggy? Do I need to silence you for good?” 

“Eek! All I’m saying is, you hardly ever step out of the office or interact with anyone!” 

Mihawk stays silent then mumbles, “I interact with others…” 

“Oh really? Name one person you’ve interacted with,” Crocodile demands. 

“You can’t do that, either,” Mihawk counters. 

“That’s just because I don’t give a shit about these people’s names. I still talk to them, though,” Crocodile corrects. 

“Fine, (Y/n)!” Mihawk huffs. 

“They don’t count.” 

“Why don’t they?” Mihawk crosses his arms. 

“Because we all see them every day in this office,” Crocodile chides Mihawk. “Name someone.” 

“Okay, I guess I cannot name anyone,” Mihawk relents. “Not that it matters in the slightest, by the way. This is a silly and pointless little game.” 

“See? No one is gonna vote for you!” Buggy laughs. 

“I guess I should kill you now, Buggy,” Mihawk says as he draws Yoru. 

“Gaaaahhh! No! Please don’t!” Buggy cries, latching onto you for safety. 

“Buggy, please let go,” you sigh. The clown does so shakily and you begin to write on the paper in your clipboard. “Okay… Buggy, Crocodile, Mihawk. There we go. I’ll go around and ask, then. See you guys later.” 

“Before you go,” Crocodile begins. You turn to hear him out while he has a big shit-eating grin on his face. “If you’re going to talk to Mr. 3… knock before you enter.” 

Your eyes practically bulge out of their sockets from what this could mean as you nod and exit the office. 

“Why the hell did you say that?” Buggy questions. Crocodile chuckles, taking a puff from his cigar as he shakes his head. 

“Oh, they’ll see soon enough.” 

-

“Favorite head of Cross Guild?” An employee scratches his head. His coworker beside him does the same. 

“Wait, uh, they’re not gonna kill us for answering this, are they?” The other one asks. 

“Crap, you’re right. Is this some way to weed us out or something?” 

You shake your head. “No, no, not at all! This is just a… uh… thing they’re testing for some new merchandise,” you lie. 

“Ah,” the two men nod along. “That makes so much sense.” 

“Buggy,” the first man states. 

“Mmm… yeah, Buggy,” the second adds. “He never harps on us like Sir Crocodile.” 

You thank them for the response and tally it to the votes. 

“I guess Buggy was right,” you mumble to yourself, seeing as he currently had seven votes out of the seven people you asked. “Maybe we could send these results in to those cardmakers and get a cut of the merchandising.” 

Just as you’re about to walk away, Alvida strolls into the room. 

“Oh, Alvida! Good morning,” you smile at her. “Can I have a moment of your time?” “(Y/n), dear,” Alvida runs a hand through her hair. “What do you need from the most beautiful woman of the sea?” 

“Well, the higher-ups wanted to run a poll,” you show her the paper. “Please vote for your favorite head of Cross Guild.” 

She studies the paper for a moment and purses her lips. “Hmm… you know what, I vote for you.” 

“What?” 

“What? Just put a tally for you,” Alvida suggests nonchalantly. 

“But, um, I’m not a head of Cross Guild,” you argue. 

“So? You practically are their fourth one. I’m sure they won’t mind. And if they do, they can take it up with me,” Alvida brushes your concerns aside and takes the pen from you. She writes your name down and adds a tally. 

“Can I ask why you want to add me?” 

“Simple, dear.” Alvida chuckles. “You’re not like those brutes upstairs. You get worked to the bone by them yet still retain your own sense of self. Do you know what that is?” 

“No, I don’t think I know what that is-” 

“Passion!” Alvida throws her arms in the air. “You are passionate, clean, stylish, and most of all, you are quiet! If anyone is worthy of my vote and attention- it is you!” 

“Wow, thank you,” you comment, impressed that Alvida actually gave you a nice compliment. 

“Yes, yes, well, what do you think about becoming my assistant instead of working for them?” Alvida winks. 

“Ah sorry, I’m pretty happy where I am right now,” you quickly shut down. Alvida clicks her tongue. 

“Hm… perhaps you’d prefer to be my partner instead? You would be a good match by my side.” 

“Would you look at the time!” You awkwardly laugh. “Bye, Alvida!” 

“Bye, darling. Don’t worry though, we’ll pick this conversation up another time~,” she waves. You sigh in relief as you walk away that she didn’t mace you immediately. Still, there’s work to be done. 

You walk into the staff lounge and greet the other members there, who cheerfully greet you back. 

“Sorry to bother you guys, but if you could just fill out this poll, that would be great. And don’t worry, no one will know of the results, so please be as honest as you can!” 

The clipboard gets passed along by the staff members, who quickly add a tally mark to the poll. In less than a minute, all twenty people in the lounge have responded. 

“Wow, thank you guys. You guys are quick,” you joke, taking back the clipboard. 

“The choice was obvious,” one of the employees answers, and the others nod. You wonder who they voted for when you look at the paper, only to see your name has now over twenty marks attached to it. Your eyes widen and you politely thank the others as you step out of the room. 

It was one thing when Alvida did as she pleased, but now the others were voting for you in droves. You took a deep breath. Crocodile, Mihawk, and Buggy surely wouldn’t kill you for this, would they? After all, Alvida herself said they could bring it up with her. Yeah, that was okay. This was just a silly joke anyways. 

You continue to collect polls, feeling touched yet also nervous when you found that every employee had checked you off as their favorite. It got so bad that you had to use a second page to collect all the tallies that the employees were adding to your name. 

As the number of employees left to ask dwindled, you remembered to get Daz Bones and Galdino’s polls. You figured the choice would be clear for them- Crocodile. After all, they were very loyal to him and even continued their work relationship into Cross Guild. It would also allow for Crocodile to at least get some vote from his current tally at zero. 

You had scoured for them all around the base, but didn’t find any sign of their presence. Just as you were about to give up, you found Daz Bones peacefully sitting, probably waiting for his next assignment. 

“Daz! Can I-” 

“(Y/n), I have no interest,” he cut you off. 

“It’s for Crocodile,” you add, knowing he wouldn’t participate otherwise. Daz nods and then urges you to step closer. You show him the clipboard and he raises a brow. 

“Crocodile really cares about this sort of thing?” 

“It’s mostly because of Buggy,” you explain, and Daz nods, connecting the dots. He quickly tallies a mark to Crocodile’s name. “Thank you, Daz!” 

“You’re welcome,” he gruffly responds. 

“Oh, and do you know where Galdino is?” 

“Why should I know? Perhaps he’s in his room,” Daz shrugs. You should’ve guessed that but wave goodbye and walk to Galdino’s room. You’re about to knock when you remember Crocodile’s ominous warning echoing in your head again. 

“Knock before you enter…” 

You were going to do that anyways, but the weird way Crocodile said it made you grimace. You nervously rapped your knuckles against Galdino’s door. You heard a huff and a lot of grumbling as Galdino swung open the door. 

“What do you w-,” he angrily yells until he gasps when he sees it’s you. “(Y/n)! Ah! Uh! Please excuse me!” 

You briefly notice a large wax statue on the table before Galdino slams the door on your face. You jump when you hear Galdino freaking out and throwing things around his studio. Something metal is grating against the floor as you hear Galdino struggle to move the obviously heavy object. 

“G-Galdino? Is this a bad time?” You call out. 

“No, no, no! It’s fine! Perfectly fine! Hahaha there’s nothing weird going on here!” Galdino answers from inside his room as something crashes to the floor and Galdino swears. 

It’s silent for a moment until Galdino opens the door, leaning against the frame and trying to give you a charming smile while some wax is now splattered against his pants and shirt. 

“So, (Y/n), what brings you to my studio?” He asks while forcing his voice to sound lower, pushing up his glasses. 

“Ah, the heads wanted to take a little poll. Mind answering?” 

“Anything for- I mean-,” Galdino coughs and lowers his voice again. “Anything for you, (Y/n).” 

He takes the clipboard from you and begins to notice the options, quickly marking a tally next to your name. 

“There you go- wait a minute!” He looks horrified as realization sets in that there’s only one tally next to Crocodile- most likely Daz, he thinks. Crocodile would absolutely know right away that Galdino didn’t choose him, and the thought makes Galdino nearly pass out. “I-I need to change my vote!” 

“Sure,” you give the clipboard back to him and Galdino scribbles over the one he gave you to mark one next to Crocodile. 

“Kh... but we’re supposed to be honest…” Galdino mutters. He glances at you, and seeing you patiently waiting and smiling at him makes his heart tighten. 

Gah! Who am I supposed to choose?! My muse or my boss?!

“Are you alright, Galdino?” You asked, making Galdino struggle to form words. Instead, he scribbled over the mark he put next to Crocodile and re-marked a tally next to your name. 

He hands the clipboard back to you and you smile and wave to him. “Thank you, Galdino!” 

“Y-you’re very welcome!” Galdino shouts, unable to control his voice properly around you. You turn around and head back to the office while Galdino lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

He was most likely going to die after this, but seeing your smile was all worth it. He could die happy, even knowing that Crocodile would probably drain him of life later. 

You, however, didn’t notice the longing look Galdino gave you as you open the door to the office. 

“Well, I got all the votes!” 

“Well, who won?” Buggy immediately jumps forward and steals the clipboard from you. He notices that Crocodile and Mihawk hardly have any, with only Crocodile have a mark. “See I wo…” 

His face darkened as he noticed he had only seven votes. 

“What’s the matter, Buggy?” Crocodile smirked. “Can’t handle the fact you lost?” 

“I… wha…” Buggy grips the clipboard roughly, nearly snapping it in half. “How the hell did (Y/n) get all the votes!?” 

Crocodile and Mihawk are caught off guard. 

“Wait, what? (Y/n) won?” Crocodile repeated. 

“I thought I told you to be fair and not cheat!” Mihawk accused you, his golden hawk eyes glaring into yours. 

“I-it wasn’t my fault! Alvida was the one who put my name on the list!” You try to defend yourself. 

“Give me that-” Crocodile snaps as he swipes the poll from Buggy’s hand. Crocodile grunts as he notices page after page marked with tallies from the employees choosing you. He sees Mihawk has none, but that his name has one mark (Daz, of course), and one crossed off (that bastard, Galdino-). Given Crocodile’s attentiveness, he does recognize that yours and Alvida’s handwriting is different, so your story is credible. He huffs and tosses the clipboard, making Mihawk lean over curiously. 

“Not even one vote…” he murmurs. 

Buggy, meanwhile, is distraught, crying on the floor and banging it repeatedly. 

“It’s not fair! Not fair at all! I hate this! I’m the star!” Buggy wails out loud. 

At first, Crocodile did this as a joke to satiate Buggy, but even his own ego is hurt by this new poll. 

“I take it back, you’re getting docked again,” Crocodile threatens, pointing his cigar at you. 

“What?! But I spent all day getting this with the promise of money!” 

“I changed my mind! I wanted a good poll, not whatever the hell this was!” Crocodile yells back. 

“Recount! Recount this!” Buggy shouts. 

“I refuse to lose this competition. Give me an hour, I will win this,” Mihawk says, pushing himself off his couch as he walks out the door to do who knows what. 

The ensuing commotion causes some of the Cross Guild members to peek through the door and watch Buggy screaming in agony at losing while you’re sobbing at the fact you’re losing money due to this dumb poll. 

Alvida rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. 

“Would you guys cut this noise out? It’s driving me mad!” 

“Alvida! This is all your fault!” Buggy yells at Alvida in tears. “I was supposed to win, not (Y/n)!” 

Alvida frowns at Buggy and twirls her mace in her hands. “Are you questioning my decisions?” 

Buggy gulps as he sees the mace casting a shadow over him. 

“N-no, not at all!” He quickly corrects himself, praying Alvida will not maim him to death. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

[levispersonalslave]

He tapped the fragile shell of the egg against the edge of the bowl, humming a small Italian love song to himself as he cracked it into the large bowl. His bangs held back by a pink clip that he had 'borrowed' from his oh so generous fiancé. He didn't bother keeping quiet, as he knew you would be sulking in the corner of your shared bedroom after the argument. His ego wouldn't let him apologize to you just yet, so you'd have to settle for the cooking he was currently making. Cookies. His mother's recipe.

One hand holding the pan with the other kneading the dough, he glanced at the closed bedroom door. He rolled his eyes, wondering when you'll finally decide to come out just to sass him again. He didn't mind, he liked your attitude.

What he didn't like, however, was how you had decided to go ahead and flirt with some other guy, just to spite him. He squeezed the dough in his fist tightly at the thought. You shouldn't be with any man other than him. Only he deserved to be yours. No one else.

He kept those feelings to himself, however, refusing to cause any problem of sorts with the love of his life.

He rolled the dough and sliced it into a few small pieces, all while thinking about you and that man you had decided to try and 'seduce'. He hadn't gotten the chance to be alone with that man, as much as he had wanted to show him why you were his and his alone. Why did that bastard get to make you laugh like that?

“He shouldn't have even gotten the privilege to live on the same ground as you do,” Levi thought to himself as he scooped a bit of cookie dough into the palm of his hand.

He had been quiet for most of the fight, watching you and your attitude that he usually handled so well. But he couldn't, not this time. How could he? When his mind kept wandering back to the image of you touching that bastard over and over again? He had half a mind to put you in your place tonight, although he pushed that thought away for the time being. He wouldn't let himself get carried away. He was angry, but he still cared about you enough to not go too far. He hadn't yelled at you during the fight, he had just been scolding and rambling on and on about why you shouldn't have let that guy touch you. Are you crazy?! He remembered himself saying.

You had to be. You knew all too well what happens when you manage to get him angry.

His hands absentmindedly shaped the dough into little balls, his thoughts already preoccupied by you. He was quickly finished with the food, letting it bake as he watched it with a blank expression. He was simply standing there, wearing a black apron, staring at the food as it cooked. He didn't know why, but he couldn't shake off the feeling of irritation. It wasn't like him to get jealous easily, but he couldn't help it this time. He let a small sigh leave his lips, turning to plate the readied sweet dish.

He left it on the dining table, not bothering to call you. He knew you wouldn't come if he called you anyway, but he also knew you'd come out eventually. You'd get hungry and sneak out of the room to find something you could eat. The corners of his lips curled up ever-so-slightly at the thought.

He turned and left to the living room, sitting down on the couch where he had made himself a cup of tea and his favorite book. He waited patiently, knowing you'd come out anytime now, until he finally heard the bedroom door creak open. He didn't spare you a glance as you reluctantly took the plate of cookies. You looked at him with a scowl, “You think I can't cook for myself?”

He easily ignored you, sipping his tea as his gaze remained fixated on the passage he was reading with a calm expression on his face. This wasn't the first time he had ignored your mere existence.

“Wow, you're ignoring me too now?” You retorted, rolling your eyes when he stayed silent. He wordlessly glanced up at you, taking a long, taunting sip of his tea, just to make you mad. His plan worked, as you began to reprimand him angrily. He simply watched you, calmly sipping his tea with one hand while the other held his book.

“Are you done now?” He spoke nonchalantly once you finished.

“No--” You began, before he quickly raised his hand for silence, cutting you off. He snapped his book shut, set the cup of tea on the coffee table, and gestured for you to come closer. Reluctantly, you did.

“Closer,” He spoke in a demanding tone. His finger gesturing you closer.

The moment you stepped within reach, he grabbed your arm and pulled you down onto his lap. You let out a gasp at his sudden act. You looked at him with your hands resting on his shoulders. His large hands held your waist, keeping you in place as he pressed a long, deep kiss to your lips. He pulled back after a moment.

He looked at you solemnly, though his eyes held a hidden warmth, “Will you behave now?”

Seeing your nod, his lips curved up into a smile. “Good girl. C'mere, angel.” He gently grabbed your face with one hand and pulled you in, planting a passionate kiss against your lips.

Once he pulled away, he ran his long, slender fingers through your hair, enjoying the feeling of the strands between his fingers. He smiled softly at you, pecking your lips once again. He held you close to him, one arm wrapped around your waist while his other hand guided your head to his chest and letting you rest against him.

He kissed your forehead, murmuring softly against your skin, “He can't kiss you like this, can he? Only I can. Remember that, yeah? I love you, angel.”

1034 words, 5504 characters

[colliope]

How date-able are twst boys? ♡

inspired by @sunsguilt

Features all chars, and gets pretty suggestive btw. Otherwise mostly crack +fluff

a/n: my first writing! I hope u enjoy :) if not then go die i guess

﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋ ♡Heartslabyul ♡

Riddle Rosehearts - I don't ljke him. If we're talking pre-overblot he'd banish you to that headlock thing with his unique magic if you ever tried to ask him out or flirt with him. Post-overblot hed be really shy in getting into a relationship but wants to be cared for and protected. But he's not standing up for u in front of his mom tho you'll have to deal with her urself

6/10 he’s a sweet boy, just too bossy and not assertive enough to his mom. Divorceablity is quite high with this one.

Cater Diamonds - low-key relatable to me. BUT. His slang gets annoying after a while. His constant posting without peoples permission is weird too. Picture this. He's meeting your family for the first time, and you sit to have dinner. Cater takes a pic of you guys and posts it with the caption "With bae their fam, I'm a bit nervous guys wish me luck!🥺"#girldad #boymom #saveme Your family assumed it's his humor. WRONG. It's his way of coping with his uncomfortability. When it's silent during dinner he says" OH EM GEE GIRLYPOPS!!!, this food is so SLAY💅!! Tysm bestiessss" Your family gives him the nastiest side eye. He never speaks again. 

7/10 he seems to be a pretty sweet and understanding person, just needs better ways to express himself . Also he calls your mother queenie.

Trey Clover - he’s an interesting guy. You'll typically see him as an npc, but he's much more than that. Have you seen his *tips fedora * "m'lady" stare?? Yeah there's definitely something strange going on there. He's a pretty family oriented guy tho, and he loves to bake for his s/o and to provide comfort and care.

8/10 he's probably one of the more normal ones that I would actually date. Or be friends with. Just keep one eye open when your sleeping with ur with him tho

Ace Trappola- I don't understand how someone could even like him. He's the kinda kid to push you off the swing during recess and when you tell the teacher he'll go like "NUH UH!! THEY HIT ME FIRST!!" . Plus he's canonically not a good partner lmaoooo

3/10 he’s not even a middle schooler. Too pebble brained. Don't date a gremlin like him. maybe if he finds someone like him he might maintain a steady relationship.

Deuce Spades- no thoughts head empty. He needs a little direction in life but he's got a goal in mind. He's a lil stupid but he's getting there. He's such so sweet and silly you have to love him. But he needs to mature a bit before entering a long term relationship 

6/10 not my type, I would go for his mom instead. Plus his dad is literally dr.eggman, that explains everything. but yeah he's got what It takes, be kind to him. He's fragile. Like an egg.

ᓚᘏᗢ Savannaclaw ᓚᘏᗢ  

Leona Kingscholar - girl he is 21 years old he should be in the CLUB!!!!! But no. He's sitting alone eating Kentucky fried chicken alone on a Friday night. If he really wanted someone, he could go for it, but he seriously can't be bothered. If you do manage to get him attached to you it'll take him a while to fully love you as much as you love him, as well as put in the same amount of effort .

7/10- I don't think he genuinely needs a partner. He's got his own issues to sort out. But when he falls, he falls hard. I wonder how hard his abs are.

Ruggie Bucchi - Rugbartholomew !!!! The scrunkly. The scrimp. It'll be so fun horsing around with this guy. Being his s/o is like being his partner in crime. It'll be fun, and you guys support each other . He really cares abt his loved ones and always tries to bring something to the table for them, literally and metaphorically. Midnight runs to seven eleven. He's working 10 jobs at a time. He's EMPLOYED. He's a boyemployee. He just needs his girlboss to complete him.

5/10 he's a bit scummy tbh. It'll take him a while to fully trust someone. He’d do some sleazy things for money. It also gives you the ick when he smells donuts and starts floating towards them.

Jack Howl- he's surprisingly normal. He's got a set sleep schedule , he's healthy, he has set routines, and healthy coping mechanisms. But that's the thing. as much as he is such a caring and gentle lover, these routines take up most of his life and time. He would be waking you up at ungodly hours for a morning jog only for you to pass out midway to Mount Kilimanjaro. .

7/10 -he dates for marriage, and he’s really serious about his future and starting a family. So he’s such a loyal and protective guy. He's just too much of a gym bro. He prefers pre-workout over partners. Also he unironically likes alpha/werewolf quotes.

𓆝𓆟𓆜 Octivinelle 𓆝𓆟𓆜

Azul Ashengrotto- I love him so much. He's so me guys you don't get it (capitalism) but that aside, HES SO DAMN WEIRD LMAOOOOOO like he thinks he has rizz but he just looks like a Reddit 'nice guy'. Legitimately says m'lady. He gives off the fake dating trope to me. He'd date you to get something out of you but then actually fall hard bc he's touch starved and longs to feel emotionally vulnerable but is afraid of it. So he's an absolute mess in a relationship and needs a lot of reassurance. But yeah he's pretty bitchless 

7/10 he's gorgeous, but he sounds like that one pufferfish singing thing. I relate to him a lot so he gets points. Also since his parents are divorced he definitely has a high divorceability. I have a theory in the works that since we don't know who his biological father is, it might just be Mr. Krabbs. Like it's never said he's a full octopus (to my knowledge). SpongeBob and squidward are Floyd and Jade respectively. SpongeBob X twisted wonderland when?

Floyd Leech- he drank battery acid as a baby. Like dude you're in love with a nuclear fission bomb. If you like Floyd, you're just as fucked up as he is. It's okay tho, he's a very physically affectionate guy and may be overly possessive and obsessive but that's just his charm dw abt it. He also does thing like "if you hug me, expect a little nibbling on your earlobe 😝" and he bites off your entire ear.

2/10 his kisses taste like fish and sheet metal, and he licks short peoples heads when no one's looking. 

Jade Leech- if you saw him eat mushrooms well no you didn't because if he eated mushrooms then he would have not eating mushroom bc no . His version of love is psychological warfare . He’s a mysterious guy. Let's set a scenario for him. You're sitting in the monstro lounge. You see a tall, dark and handsome man across the bar with a mysterious aura. You catch his gaze and quickly dart your eyes away. But his never stop staring at you. He comes up to you and you guys chat naturally . He buys you a drink, your favorite actually. He knows all the ways to make you swoon. He’s so dreamy. Then he says that he put cyanide in your drink as joke. Then he lets it slip he's been stalking you for days. You find out his a wanted criminal. And end scene. Yeah that's romance with him. 

4/10 he's an attentive and observant guy, but sadly that's way before you guys are dating and he's a psych ward escapee.

𓄼𖣠 Scarabia 𖣠𓄹

Kalim Al-Asim - OTTERRRR!!! I love otters. He’s like deuce. But rich. And more innocent(ignorant). He’s so head over heels for his s/o bro. He’d shower them with his love and gifts. He still has a lot to learn in life, but he's willing to give it all to you. You should be honored.

6/10 he's my son. Treat him well. I can’t forgive him for what he did to Jamil tho. 

Jamil Viper- AWWHH YEAH BABY!!! He’s so Fine oml. But personal bias aside, he's very much insane. He’s just a closeted insane.pre-overblot he wouldn't even date u bro he would pretend u don't exist but then hate u being around Kalim. Post-overblot he accidentally avoids you because he has no idea how to express or hide his feelings for you. Okay but definitely has w rizz. Azul seethes at the sight him. Like chewing up his fedora and spitting it out type shit. Men wish they were Jamil. 

8/10 he's so wifey, he can cook he can clean  I will give him a ring if u don't. Minus points for the attempted murder, but still he's pwetty so I forgive him (*^ω^*) . He probably once got hit in the head with a basketball with you looking.

⊹𖥔˖࣪ Pomefiore⊹𖥔˖࣪ 

Vil Schoenheit - okay this one's hard cus he's literally just my mother. But more fierce diva cunty. I've been sleeping on his character ngl, but now that I think about it he's pretty relatable. Like everyone wishes to be beautiful, in some sort of way. I think in a relationship he'll need some reassurance about his looks, but also about it his partner only wants him for his looks. I don't think he actually has high standards, he would probably want someone pretty normal, but also takes good care of themselves, not just appearance-wise.

8/10 he's pretty good as an s/o, but the fame aspect will make things very difficult. Also expect him to be brutally honest with you or pick apart your appearance. He's just trying make sure u look ur best bro he's caring like that. Would make an excellent rupauls drag race judge.

Rook Hunt - I have sent a nuke to your exact coordinates. Why would u want him bro he’s Fr*nch AND a felon. There's no good aspects of this relationship he has negative rizz and his fucking bob makes him look like SpongeBob took the gay potion from the dark web at 3 am. also, he's already mentally married you and has your wedding dress prepared as well as a loan taken out for your new family home before you even know his name. 

0/10 Mr Electric KILL HIM!!! Probably the kinda guy to post a selfie captioned "who want me" and then before epel can reply "the mental hospital " his post gets taken down due to mass reporting and his account gets suspended and he's put on an fbi watchlist.

Epel Felmier- ngl mood bro. It's so annoying being seen as fragile and weak simply for your inherent femininity.I believe in a relationship he'd want someone that tells him what he wants to hear. He'll have some trouble accepting some facts, especially with his anger issues, but he'll learn to sort that out. He's a sweet boy at heart. He just feels he needs to overcompensate due to his appearance.

6/10 I'm not an anger issues kinda guy. It takes resilience to deal with, something i don't have for that. He probs listens to red pill podcasts while on a tractor. He's a 14 year old boy who just discovered Andrew Tate (he's deathly afraid of women)

꒷꒦꒷Ignihyde꒷꒦꒷

Idia Shroud- no. I have no idea how you could have feelings for him if you've never seen him. And definitely not online bc 1. He would never engage in that 2. Theres nothing romantic about the call of duty lobby. Also another guy with negative rizz. But not like in the creepy way like rook but in a loser way. He genuinely believes he is unfit for a relationship and that he is undeserving of love. If somehow he finds someone like that he'd be attached to them until the day he dies.

8/10 I love me a loser boy. He def has trust issues and paranoia but who doesn't in this game. He's rich so he could spoil u with the battle pass for literally any game. Plus ortho ends up becoming your little brother too. It's a win-win. Also don't ask him if the carpet matches the drapes.

Ortho Shroud- would probs hire u to date his brother out of genuine fear the dude would be alone for the rest of his life.

𓆩 ♡ 𓆪Diasomnia𓆩 ♡ 𓆪

Malleus Draconia - his prehistoric charm and awkward demeanor had captivated you, it seems. But yeah he's the kinda guy to say lines like "For the world could be dying and I would have never noticed it because I would have been not paying attention to the world itself, but would be gazing into your eyes watching them shine like the stars". He's soooo down bad. he's so happy to finally have someone to love him. Very very very loyal. But sometimes toes the line of yandere. 

9/10 he's so wonderful. All he wants is to love and be loved. But he still thinks of romance in this Victorian ages and gets hard when he sees your ankles or sumn.

Lilia Vanrouge- this Gent a wee bit peculiar innit? He has connections within the furry community that could destroy your life in seconds. He's everything. He’s everywhere. All at once. He genuinely has dabbled in many different things over the years , so he'll never run out of stories to tell. Many 3 am Minecraft dates. Those upside down  Spider-Man kisses. He’s more than ready to settle down with someone have kids of his own. Maybe have a girl. Name her draculaura, you know the rest. He probably went to monster high ngl. But he's a much more mature kinda guy. Definitely knows what he wants in a relationship. He's reasonable too. But you guys don't sleep in the same bed he hangs from the ceiling in a sleeping bag.

9/10 he's a bit vertically challenged and sometimes summons ancient demons by accident. He whispers sweet nothings into your ear in forgotten languages.

Silver - he's the female gaze bro. He's gorgeous . He’s legitimately a normal dude. But I don't think he's even been near a woman before. No rizz. Just soldier and eepy. But he definitely wants an s/o who can care for him a lot considering his narcolepsy. It's something that worries him a lot, and needs a person who's full of love to give, not only to him but to his family. But you're always welcome to nap with him underneath a tree in the warm sun.

7/10 he's a bit narrow-minded, only having a few goals set in mind and a strict regimen as a soldier. You have to work around that and his disorder in order to be his s/o. It's a lot dude. Especially when he leans in for a kiss but falls asleep inside and hits his head on the way down and gets brain damage.

Sebek Zigvolt- this gator wouldn't last a day in the Everglades bruh ‼️🚫I actually despise him. I have a picture of him in my room that I chew on when I get angry. Why is he always yelling. Why is he so obsessed with malleus even outside of his job. Actually, he probably leaves you for malleus. no chance with him bruh. But seriously you need to be super determined to get with him if you manage go past his alarm clock-like exterior. he's lonely.

3/10 I would turn him into a purse.his version of dirty talk is going "do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior wakasama-" and then you make him put his clothes back on and leave.

﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

Thank you for reading!  ₍˄·͈༝·͈˄₎◞ ̑̑

[kirain]

Tav: Oh my gods ... it's happening. It's happening! Everyone, come quick!

Astarion: What the hells are you shouting about? It's barely four o'clock in the bloody morning. I know you don't get it, but I prefer to rise when the sun does.

Tav: It's the egg! It's hatching!

Shadowheart: The one you got from the githyanki crèche? You mean you still have it?

Tav: Of course! You didn't really think I'd give it to that crazy baby-snatcher, did you?

Gale: Shh, shh! Everyone, calm yourselves and be silent. I may not look it, but I know quite a bit about child-rearing. I read many books on the subject when I was Mystra's Chosen, and as I understand it, newborns require low, serene noises when they're brought into the world. Anything too stentorian could overwhelm the poor babe.

Lae'zel: That is perhaps the case for you pitiful, soft, fragile humans, but githyanki offspring are born with an innate sense of—

Tav: Quiet! It's hatching!

Narrator: The egg stirs and shakes, then cracks as the inhabitant kicks at its confines. After a few moments of struggle, the shell breaks, pieces of green and yellow debris sliding off the newborn's slender frame. Free at last, it looks up at you, is eyes narrow but full of wonder, then mews like a kitten looking for its mother.

Karlach: Ohhh-ho-ho-ho-hooo my gods! It's so cute! Look at its little feet and droopy ears! And look that that: born with a full set of tiny chompers! I want to squeeze it and never let go!

Lae'zel: Githyanki offspring are not "cute"...

Astarion: That's for damn sure. It looked like a jaundiced monkey.

Wyll: Heheh. Well, it's certainly something. It's ... well, I'm not actually sure. What is it, exactly?

Lae'zel: A soldier.

Wyll: I meant the sex.

Lae'zel: Oh. A boy.

Wyll: Welcome to the world, little man! We're going to have so much fun. I'll teach you how to use a blade and defend the innocent and—!

Shadowheart: Hold that thought, why don't you? You're getting way ahead of yourself. This is a tremendous responsibility. What do we even do? Lae'zel?

Lae'zel: What? Why are you looking at me?

Shadowheart: Because out of everyone here, I would assume a githyanki knows best how to raise a githyanki child.

Lae'zel: I know nothing of raising hatchlings. It's not my place.

Shadowheart: Lady Shar protect us ... and this child.

Tav: Don't be so defeatist. We'll be fine!

Gale: Absolutely. How hard can it be? An infant is an infant. He's probably hungry, so let's tackle that problem first. Come here, little one!

Lae'zel: I wouldn't—

Narrator: Gale reaches down and scoops the young hatchling into his arms. At first the creature seems confused, pensive even. Then, its pupils shrink, its teeth clenching. It growls like a caged animal and claws at the wizard's face. Luckily for him, it misses, but the battle is far from over. In a rage, the creature twists its body, then sinks its teeth into Gale's hand, latching onto it in a fit of fury.

Gale: Ow, ow, ow! Aaaugh!

Lae'zel: Typical.

Narrator: Gale attempts to shake the vicious newborn off, waving his arm up and down like a madman, but to no avail. The creature holds steadfast, almost mockingly.

Gale: A hand would be very much appreciated!

Karlach: Ask the babe. He already has an extra one.

Everyone: *Laughs*

Astarion: Well ... I wasn't too keen on the idea at first, but perhaps keeping the creepy little morsel around isn't such a bad idea after all.

[mishapen-dear]

oh im gonna be SO annoying about bbh in a minute. i keep saying the same thing over and over again but his character is too fucking complex motherfucker is like:

"i'm a demon who is 11,000 years old and i refuse to acknowledge that im a demon nor that i do bad things (like steal furniture) but i will help people every chance i get despite saying im going to stop doing that and i am going to devote my life to protecting these fragile little eggs even though i know im going to lose them one day because i love them too much (and i know i can do that and it will one day be okay, because i have an immortal diamond to keep me company even if he isn't here now). when my friend throws himself beneath the spokewheel of the federation i will be there, bitter about my loss, but i will not start a revolution until he proves he deserves one. i will do what i can to safeguard his system against corruption because i am afraid the federation will use him to hurt us. i know he doesn't want to hurt us. he keeps hurting me. he is isolated by our distrust in him and he is still working hard to try to be a good person in an inherently corrupt system that cannot be fixed so i will build him a statue. i will not kill him when he takes a picture of me in the presidential chair (that was almost mine) and puts it on his wall and calls me 'employee of the month.' i didn't do all of that work for the federation i did it for him like i do it for others because they are my friends. i will exhaust every option i have to build a reason to NOT start a revolution. to not kill him. because i have to say that i tried. i feel like i have made so many compromises. i have held myself back to try to find reason. i will still remove his access to my base. when the island turns against me and he locks me in a cage for a crime i did not commit, i will remove everyone's access (except for my family the french and my family the eggs). i am having fun. when the eggs appear the next day with cracks and dirty shells i will worry, but i know they're strong. they'll be okay. (when i find my son's secret lab and his unethical experiments that cause him harm i will be proud because he has done what i do. he has helped. i want him to be safe but we are never safe and i trust him more than anyone else. i know now, and i can help him be safe.) when the eggs go missing i will be silent. i will look for them, and i will destroy for them, and i will bargain for them, and i will cry for them, and i will not accept their loss. when my friend who is president who once built a safehouse that saved my eggs' lives is finally damaged by the federation (like i knew he would be when he became president) and he starts to hurt people by pushing the same treatment onto them i will not be surprised. i will be surprised when he tries to marry me. i will not blame him (much) when he tries to kill me. our children are missing. he is forced to pretend that his is not. i wish i could too. i will not tell him yes or no because i need an open avenue to manipulate him (because to save him i will have to manipulate him). i will not marry him because he is out of his mind. i have said marriage is overrated. i have also said that i want to live with him in a house with our kids and my skeppy. when he tells me that he wants to be happy with me i will still say 'aw' because it is the most genuine thing he has said to me and i miss my friend. i will still try to kill him. i fail to kill him with someone else's plan. i don't place a block to lock him in place. i hesitate. it doesn't matter if it's on purpose because the next plan works. i will reveal an item that could destroy me to my closest allies (and tubbo) because it will let us save him. we save him. when he kills himself 18 times over i back away from the explosion in surprise and then step close again. while i have grieved i have thrown myself into mines. it doesn't matter. i am numb and want to feel something. everything has lost colour. we save him.

i visit federation workers and ask them about my eggs and they do not tell me anything. i know they are lying. i visit the graveyard to talk to my lost eggs. i have lost all of the eggs. i do not know how to save them. i lay in the mud. it rains and rain signifies the monster has returned to kill my children but my children are not here and so i do not care. when i go home i will become so angry and i will go down to my basement (which i have locked like my friend locked the entrance to his greatest fantasy. we are so alike and our delusions are different. he child was real; here is the secret to finding my children) where i have locked a federation worker away. i will not wash away the blood stains.

i am also part-time grim reaper and i only ever dress up in robes to make people drink more water."

[drivinmeinsane]

Officer K x GN!Reader ※ { masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

※ Summary: With a tremor threatening to shake his body, he slips his fingers under the edge of his shirt sleeve and pulls it up to his elbow. His soulmark is laid bare before your eyes. The wound that he had left in his own skin when he had tried to carve out the design has faded to a raised, pale line. “That wasn’t there before,” you murmur, taking his forearm in your hands. Your pointer finger traces over the scar. ※ Rating: 18+ for mature content and themes. Please mind the warnings. ※ Content/tags: Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Implied Reoccurring Sexual Abuse by a Supervisor, Emotional Hurt, Identity Issues, Self-Harm, Alcohol Abuse, Smoking, Eye Trauma, Canon-typical Violence, Slow Burn, Developing Relationship, No use of Y/N, No Pronouns Given for Reader ※ Word count: 15,713 ※ Status: One-shot / Complete ※ Author's note: In the wake of a mentally difficult month, I present the story that accompanied me during that time. Here's to brighter days. ※ Song inspiration: Someone to You - BANNERS

In a cruelly human twist, the moment that K is incepted, birthed from a plastic bag like an item purchased at a supermarket in the years before the Blackout rocked the world, is also the moment he begins to die. This is something he won’t mind, once he realizes that death is a gift given only to the living.

As he lays, wet and trembling, atop compressed rubber and metal grating, he feels nothing but terror. His body is stricken by the wracking sobs of the newborn. His face gradually relaxes with each passing minute. The replicant’s wailing turns into coughing when his body chooses to expel the synthetically made amniotic fluid from his lungs.

“Are you done?” comes a woman’s voice. Clinical. Detached.

Suddenly made aware of the world around him, the small sterile room that it is, he opens his sticky eyelids only to be forced to squint against the penetrating glare of the artificial lighting overhead. He lays there for a moment, twisted and gasping like a crushed bird on the pavement—filled with the old memories of the nest and waiting, beak agape, for a mother who will not come. He shivers.

When KD6-3.7 manages to focus his eyes, the first thing he makes sense of is his own hands, and then the mark on his own forearm that is slowly blossoming to life. It’s all too much. His brain feels as though it is pressing against the confines of his skull, threatening to crack the bone and spill out onto the rubber. If it does, perhaps it will slip through the grate like the yolk of a broken egg.

Feet step up to him. They’re clad in sensible heels over black socks, utilitarian. K peers through the pulsing behind his eyes and sees a worn woman’s pinched face peering down at him. For just a moment, he’s certain that she intends to snuff him out. All the same, he pushes aside his fear and reaches out for her. She will become the closest thing to a mother he will ever know. K clasps his slimy hand around her sock-clad ankle. The bones are fragile underneath his grip. One too-tight squeeze and they would snap under the pressure. She tries to shake him off. He clings on, desperate for some kind of contact. He does not yet know that he will be raised solely by the wire mother with no comfort of the cloth.

“Let go.” Her voice cuts over the faint noise of the plastic crinkling above him. Disgust mars her lined face. He will grow familiar with expression. Both from her and from others.

As if burned, he immediately does. The compulsion to obey is too pressing for him to ignore. Every blood vessel and muscle fiber in his body is hardwired for submission. K tucks his hand against his chest, shrinks in on himself. He is not praised for his obedience or comforted through his turmoil. Tools, he learns later, do not need reward.

The woman crouches suddenly. She grabs at his arm and extends it under the harsh light. Her nails bite into his skin. It is the first pain he will experience from another living being. Both he and the stranger look at the elegant lines set into his flesh. She does not speak and neither does he. She lets go of him, red crescent moons grace the pale sky of his skin in the wake of her fingers.

There is a gesture that he doesn’t understand and, suddenly, he is being hosed down. The cold water sluices over him, washing away the newborn taint. With one final look cast down at him, the woman leaves.

Time passes in her absence, minutes smearing together in a twisted tangle made only more disorienting when the lights shut off. He is left in the dark, cold and struggling to comprehend. Refrigerated. He is experiencing punishment for a crime he does not yet understand. Wallace’s creation dared to have the trace of a soul in him. The evidence of it is clearly visible to the naked eye.

Eventually, the woman comes for him and lets him out into the light. He learns that he is hers, like a hunting dog belongs to a huntsman. His madam tells him that the mark adorning his forearm is a meaningless tattoo. She had only wanted him to be special. It’s the first of the many lies she tells him.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Advertisements cut through the gloom of his living room. In them, organics emphatically gesture to convey their success with the soulmate finding services being advertised. The blue light shifts to purple then to red. In the disorienting glow, anything could look real. Seated on his couch with a room temperature glass of whiskey that is only getting warmer with the heat of his hand, K watches Joi dance alone to the easy swing of Frank Sinatra.

“Did you know this song was first released in 1954 under another name by another singer? Kaye’s last name, Ballard, sounds a lot like ‘ballad’, doesn’t it?” she asks.

K hums, agreeable. The alcohol coursing through his bloodstream accompanied with his ever-present exhaustion have left him slumped bonelessly into the rigid angles of the cushions. It had been a day. It always is.

“Sweetheart,” the replicant says to his pretend wife, “will you indulge me?”

The DiJi smiles at him. He can see a knowing curve to her lips. It’s rare that he asks her for this. With a flourish, she flickers to an outfit with short sleeves. Joi kneels by the couch and rests her elbows on the edge of it, chin on her interlaced fingers.

“Is this what you wanted?” she asks, teasing. She presents her arm with an elegant flip of her wrist. The twin to the mark gracing his own forearm twinkles back up at him. He can almost imagine that it’s real.

Wordlessly, he extends his hand out and barely stops himself from reaching right through her projected skin by accident. He manages to stop himself before breaking the illusion. She plays at resting her arm in the palm of his hand. K can convince himself he can feel the warmth of her underneath the hovering passes of his thumb. Like trying to avoid breaking a gossamer thin strand of spiderweb, he carefully caresses her. Joi preens under the attention, reaching for his own mark in return. He feels the faintest trace of static.

He closes his eyes before he can register how the pixelation of her always makes the edges of her copied mark look not quite real. The replicant has to convince himself that this is enough. It’s all he has, so it must be. He cannot afford to dream of what it would be like to feel another body against his. Their kind must never look to the stars.

───※ ·❆· ※───

There had been a time in which K had wondered if the other bearer of his soulmark was his madam. He had been made for her, after all. It would only be right if they were intertwined down to the very cells that made up their bodies.

Joshi isn’t, of course. He finds out the first time that she has him strip her bare in the privacy of her office. Her skin is unmarked by anything but the scars of being human. K cannot boast the same. He heals too fast, too completely, to carry the same marks. For him to scar with any significance, an injury would have to be so severe that an organic’s body would be grievously devastated from the trauma.

He is not sure if the emotion he feels over the lack of mark on his handler is the grieving of what might have been or the relief at what isn’t. It would have been easier if it had been her. She hollowed him out. Used him. Uses him still. His madam owns him in every way that matters.

───※ ·❆· ※───

This retirement job is meant to be routine, the same as the last dirty dozen. He puts down an average of two Nexus 8 models every month. His work ethic has proven to be top of the line, much to the pleasure of the retiring department’s lieutenant. The routine success is enough to give him the security to sleep on the way to the property he’s being sent to. The ‘9 is exhausted from the long night he’d experienced.

K had poured over files at his cramped desk until his eyes burned and his throat grew so dry as to rival the arid chemical wastes of the Nevada desert. Still, he hadn’t bothered asking for water. It would cost money he didn’t want to spend. Besides, his experiences with liquid within the walls of the precinct have come hand-in-hand with punishment.

He wakes when the spinner chimes. Head snapping up, the officer inhales and exhales hard. It’s a sign of vulnerability he feels free enough to express as he turns off the autopilot and regains personal control over the vehicle. In the distance, a scattering of structures rise out from the perpetual haze of the world like a nervous herd of bovine protecting a calf against an approaching predator. He angles towards them, passing over a broken windmill on the way.

Pulling the spinner several yards short of a dead tree, he sets it down in a sprawling waste of infertile soil. A cloud of dirt gets kicked up by the disturbance. There is no hiding his arrival.

As he does on every job, K pops the latch for the spinner’s parrotfish in order to send it lazily into the sky. He gestures up at it to begin its rounds. The replicant tugs his jacket collar up over the lower half of his face. His lungs will ache for days if too much dust finds a home among the tissue. A minor discomfort, but he prefers to avoid them when he can.

Before stepping into his quarry’s home, he knocks the dirt off his boots. He doesn’t rap his knuckles against the door.

Unsurprised, he finds the living space as bare as his own apartment. There are small hints at a life here. Everything is cleaned, maintained, loved. K ignores the stab of camaraderie, buries it. He and this replicant are not of the same kind. He can’t allow them to be. It will only make the inevitability of what’s coming that much harder.

There is a pot of something fragrant boiling away on the stove that he had smelt the moment he opened the front door. He ignores it, for now, in favor of taking a seat in the kitchen. The Nexus 9 knows that he will be joined by the master of the house shortly.

He is proven right by the arrival of the pre-Blackout model shortly after settling into position. Sapper Morton bypasses him on his way to the sink. K silently observes him for a moment, elbow on the table with his gun in hand, as the wanted replicant scrubs at his work-worn hands. The water is loud in on the stainless steel basin. A flash of his inception flares to the forefront of his mind. He speaks to shake it away.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty. I was careful not to drag in any dirt.” K bites down the urge to continue, to explain that the wind had been turbulant, to actually have a real conversation with someone other than Joi. He’s not here for friendship.

There comes the rattle of something on the window ledge just out of K’s field of view. Sapper’s resigned voice answers him. “I don’t mind the dirt,” he says with a sigh and the noise of eyeglasses being placed on his rough face, “I do mind… unannounced visits.”

Heavy footsteps trod towards him in the dimly lit room. The seated officer tries not to react as the mountain of a replicant approaches him before coming to a halt a polite distance away. “You police?”

“Are you Sapper Morton? Civic number NK680514?”

“I’m a farmer.”

Sapper seems to be just as adverse to answering questions as he is. K can respect that. Answers can be a dangerous thing to give. Any vulnerability can be exploited.

“I saw that. What do you farm?” he asks, genuinely curious.

The mountain moves across the tile floor and a massive hand rises to open a cupboard. Morton slams down a container onto the counter before withdrawing a small cluster of white, wriggling objects. K watches quietly as the ‘8 approaches and drops the mass onto the table by his hand. Nematodes.

“It’s a protein farm. Wallace design,” Morton supplies as way of explanation.

Isn’t everything? K thinks. That man has fingers in nearly every form of industry in their society, both on and off world.

Taking his hand off the gun, he points at the air with a small twirl of his finger, subconsciously mirroring the gesture he’d given the parrotfish before entering the house. “Is that that I smell?”

“Grow that just for me… Garlic.”

“Garlic…” K says, wonderingly. The word feels just as exotic in his mouth as the plant might taste.

“Do you want to try some?”

“No, thank you. I prefer to keep an empty stomach until the hard part of the day is done.” The pot starts boiling even louder on the stove, as if it were protesting the refusal of Sapper Morton’s hospitality. “How long you been here?”

“Since 2020.”

“But you haven’t always been a farmer, have you?” Silence from the other replicant is answer enough. K continues, “Your bag. It’s colonial medical use. Military issue.”

He doesn’t miss the change in the older Nexus’s body language. The almost unconscious touch on the bag’s canvas side reminds K of the way he touches his own jacket when he’s uncertain. He presses onward with his information gathering.

“Where were you? Calantha…? Must have been brutal.”

“Planning on taking me in? Huh? Take a look inside?”

“Mister Morton, if taking you in is an option…” K sighs and leaves his gun aside on the table. “I would much prefer that to the alternative. I’m sure you knew it would be someone in time.”

A frustrated exhalation of air bursts from the other replicant as he pulls off his glasses. K tosses him a cursory glance before looking down, eyebrow slightly raised. He reaches into one of his inside pockets to pull out the small handheld retina scanner the police department issues for use on the field.

“I’m sorry it had to be me.”

“Good as any,” Morton says while K activates the device.

“Now, if you don’t mind… If you could just look up and to the left,” he instructs, uncrossing his legs and getting to his feet.

He knows what’s coming. He had seen him pull the scalpel out of the bag, so it comes to no real surprise when Sapper Morton lunges at him. K catches his hand before the blade can lodge itself between the span of his ribs. In return, he gets slammed against the wall by the far larger replicant. Managing to dodge the punches leveled at him, he tries to break free to create some distance between the two of them. He doesn’t succeed. The ‘8 grabs a firm hold on him and slams his body into the wall like Cain bringing the stone down upon his brother. Fighting to keep his chin tucked against the curve of his shoulder so that the back of his head doesn’t meet a similar end to Abel’s, he takes the brunt of the force over the span of his shoulders until finally the drywall gives out beneath him and he lands hard on the floor.

There is no time to recover because Morton falls with him, dropping the scalpel upon impact. They wrestle, trying desperately to get the upper hand over the other. K doesn’t want to do this. He wants to walk this back, reset and try again. He opens his mouth to tell the farmer just that when Morton is suddenly choking him. It’s as though an iron collar has been fastened around his neck. With tears leaking freely from him, he can feel the blood vessels in his eyes bursting under the strain. He growls, forcing air through his throbbing lungs and slams his fist into Morton hard enough to drop him.

Gaining traction, he manages to straddle the other replicant and he hits him one, two, three, four, five times in the throat in rapid succession. His adversary falls back, struggling to breathe through a damaged windpipe.

K wedges his fingers on the winded replicant’s eyelids and pins the eye open, trying to get the scanner ready. Morton interrupts him by grasping onto the scalpel and driving it into the meat of K’s upper arm. The officer grunts as pain radiates in his right side. He slaps the ‘8 back down and hits him. It’s punishment. Bad dog, his madam would say.

For good measure, he hits him for a second time to quell any further resistance. He doesn’t relish the feeling of his knuckles crushing against the other replicant’s trachea. This time, when he grabs Morton’s face, he manages to hold the eye open long enough for the handheld device to read it.

The screen confirms what he already knows. The man beneath him is Sapper Morton, charged with deadly assault of organic life and wanted for retirement.

Muscles twitching with adrenaline, K gets to his feet and looks down at the replicant choking on his own ruined body. “Please, don’t get up,” he says, accompanying his words with a pleading gesture.

He already knows that he will. They always do. The taste of freedom only serves to kill them in the end. Dying for the it seems… well, K can’t understand it, not like this. His eyes have not been opened to the benefits of being free.

Behind him, he already hears the rustling of Morton sitting up. He retrieves his gun from the kitchen table. It’s heavy in his hand. When he turns around and retraces his steps back towards the living room, the other replicant is on his hands and knees. Those calloused hands are clutching at his throat.

“How does it feel? Killin’ your own kind?” the farmer grits out.

“I don’t retire my own kind because we don’t run. Only you older models do.” There it is. The distinction he must draw between them to keep sane. He won’t pass his baselines otherwise.

“You new models are happy scraping the shit. Because you’ve never seen a miracle.”

K looks at him, jaw clenching with the effort not to speak. It’s on the tip of his tongue, that he has seen his own miracle. He carries it with him every hour of every day, right in his very skin. He doesn’t have a soul and yet he’s marked.

Sapper Morton rushes him, the last efforts of a wounded bull in the arena. K puts two bullets in him. The mountain falls. The house shakes and then goes still.

He covers the dead replicant with a blanket pulled from the back of the couch before extracting his eye with careful hands. He draws the makeshift shroud over Morton’s face when he’s finished. Bloody fingerprints get left behind on the faded fabric.

No matter how much soap K uses in the sink, he can’t get rid of the tacky feeling that seems as though it’s part of him now. His hands will never be clean. Innocence belongs only to the freshly incepted.

Before he leaves the small house, he takes the farmer’s glasses. Some part of Sapper Morton will live on with the replicant that retired him. It’s all K can offer him now.

───※ ·❆· ※───

A fog has laid itself over his shoulders like a second skin. It feels more familiar, more his, than the actual flesh that coats his bones. His DNA was taken from a donor. K is occasionally loathe to even call his body his. Some days, it feels like it has been parted out to anyone who might want a piece of it.

The numbness he’s feeling ensures he passes his baseline with flying colors after the retirement of NK680514. He gets to keep the moniker of “constant” K.

Joshi is pleased at his performance, When he goes to her office for his post-baseline report, she assigns him to another case to keep him occupied while the dig team finishes at the protein farm. His madam doesn’t like him to be idle for too long. He will be heading out in the morning to check in on another old model number.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Having never existed in a world where the skies are clear, K finds the beauty in the varying colors of the haze. Today, the old, industrial streets are bathed in a brilliant orange light due to the rising run. It’s a cheerful hue for the grim work that lies ahead. He supposes this area must come to life at night, being so far from the main heart of Los Angeles and its daunting amount of law enforcement.

K sends the spinner into a slow dive, cruising to increasingly lower altitudes as he gets closer to his destination. As always, the coordinates were provided by Lieutenant Joshi. She had been kind enough to provide him a suspected apartment number, rather than have him go door to door down the halls to find the culprit. Even with a number, K still doesn’t like the idea that there will be neighbors that might bear witness to this.

He finally parks the machine against the curb outside of a run-down apartment building. Even from inside the spinner, the officer can see that that bricks have broken free of the structure's edifice. He deploys the parrotfish for a halfhearted backup that will be useless unless he’s outside and gets out of the spinner.

The front door is uneven on its hinges. It squeals loudly in the silence as he pushes it open. Any dream of subtly is already dashed. The tone for this visit has been set.

Here, the hallways are dusty and unpopulated. He finds it to be a novel contrast to his own living situation. There, the building’s common areas are constantly wet with snow melt and teaming with bodies. The ‘9 wonders if this is how the explorers of ancient tombs felt. Like they were navigating the body of a slumbering Goliath. Finding the door that leads into the stairwell, he mounts the stairs. They creak and shift with the settling of his weight upon each one.

“Unit 405. One known occupant. Possible second.” the message had said.

Officer K reaches the fourth floor to find it predictably devoid of anyone in the hallway. He finds the door with its brass number and steps up to it. The knock echos in the empty hall. There is a long moment of silence before he finally hears footsteps approaching the synthetic wood. A rattle of a chain against the material, and the door opens just enough for an eye to peer suspiciously at him. There’s not enough of a gap for him to get the toe of his boot through.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion. I have some questions I need to ask.”

“You’re a cop?”

K keeps the frown off his face. This is reminding him too much of yesterday. “I’m looking for someone. Civic number NK687725. John Gradus.”

“What if I shut this door?”

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” he says, genuinely apologetic.

The stranger sighs and steps aside, opening the door all the way. “You better come on in, then. Nasty business to do in the doorway.”

Trailing after him, K rolls the situation over in his mind. He already knows the face matches, even from the glance he’d taken. It is now a matter of confirming the identity with the eye scan before the next step. Either the replicant can surrender or they can be retired. As Sapper Morton had demonstrated to great effect the day before, it’s never surrender.

“Please, sit,” the older generation model says with a gesture to a worn couch before taking a seat across from it in a chair that looks to be more tape than metal.

K readily complies, not wanting to make waves just yet. There is someone in the kitchen. They’re just out of sight.

“Can you bring us tea?” Gradus calls out after giving him a searching look. “I think it would do our guest some good.”

He’s in the middle of opening his mouth to protest when he catches movement in the kitchen entrance and he falls still. The last thing he was expecting here was you. An organic. The officer had simply assumed that the other potential occupant was another ‘8 like the one he was paying a visit. There is not mixing across kind. His madam has been aggressively clear about there being lines that must never be crossed.

Taking in the hard look you give him when you emerge from the kitchen carrying two cups, he adverts his eyes to the low table in front of him. The porcelain teacup that you place on coffee table is well loved. The edges of it are chipped and the saucer it’s resting on doesn’t match the delicate floral print.

K doesn’t miss the way that you and the other replicant engage in a silent conversation before you hand him his own drink. He is thrown off balance by this situation. The strangeness of it is putting him on an unfamiliar edge. His hand clenches on his thigh.

Across from him, you take a seat next to the ‘8 on another battered chair. Cracked vinyl and dented metal legs groan feebly under your weight. K realizes that everything in this apartment has been well-used. Repaired instead of replaced. He wonders which one of you is the sentimental type.

“Who are you?” you ask, breaking the uneasy silence. NK687725 looks embarrassed by your bluntness.

Head reeling, he responds. “Officer KD6-3.7.”

“That’s not a name. You’re one of them, then.” It’s not a question. Disgust colors your voice. That, at least, is familiar.

“Easy,” John Gradus mummers to you. He reaches over to pat you on the sleeved arm with his pale hand.

K marks the difference between this model and Morton. Where the farmer had been a combat model, it looks like Gradus was meant for another line of work altogether. He is delicate in the places where the other had been robust. K decides that he is likely an old pleasure model. A doxie, perhaps, or meant to be a private client’s pet. He can be easily overpowered in either case.

“Why are you here, Officer?” the other replicant asks, addressing him. There’s a resigned look in his eyes. K’s presence here is no mystery.

“I was sent to follow up on reports on a… rouge serial number. My betters needed reassurance.”

“You’re going to take me in? I’m afraid I don’t have much left to offer.”

“If you’re willing, I will gladly do that rather than the alternative,” K responds. Maybe today, he’ll catch a break.

“He hasn’t done anything wrong!” you cut in, rising to your feet.

K ignores the twinge he feels in his chest. “He ran.”

“So? Why don’t you?”

Left without an answer he is willing to articulate, he doesn’t respond to your question. Loyalty runs too deep when there is no one else to be loyal to but his madam. The thought of running is incomprehensible. There is nothing out there for him but the LAPD. He’d become what he hunts.

He observes quietly as Gradus manages to coax you back into your seat. Reluctance and anger are painted all over your face in broad strokes. The freedom of your expressions reminds him of Joi.

The officer’s eyes flick to the tea cooling on the table. It’s a different color than coffee, differing scent as well. A faint steam trail rises off of it. He tries to focus his attention on it rather than the strange sensation tucked behind his ribs. Distantly, he wonders if he is having a heart attack. Can his kind even have them or was their DNA too tampered with during the growth process to allow for such a thing?

“What kind is it?” he asks, abrupt.

John Gradus smiles over your disbelieving scoff, seemingly delighted at the conversation change. “Green. I grow it myself right here. Please, have a taste. We do not have any sweeteners, but I have grown to like it without additives.”

Extending his hand out to pick up the cup, his mind drifts. Why do all replicants seem to have a desire to create, to put their own mark on the world? It’s an all too human behavior for beings without souls.

The teacup is dwarfed in his grip. A bit too much pressure and he fears the entire thing might turn to wet chalk in his palm. He hovers it underneath his nose, inhales. There’s a crisp scent to it, something fresh. He presses his lips to the edge of the cup and sucks in a mouthful. Involuntarily, his eyes slip closed as the mellow flavor rolls over his tongue.

“Good, isn’t it?” the other replicant says gently. K opens his eyes and carefully places the cup back on its saucer. His side tingles underneath his gun holder, like its burning a hole into his flesh. It’s a reminder that he’s here for something other than a social call.

Reluctantly, he reaches into a pocket and pulls out his field scanner. K looks regretfully at the pair seated across from him. If he could walk away, he would.

“If you could look up and to the left for me, Mister Gradus…” he says, getting to his feet.

You surprise him by also lunging to your feet and moving to stand between him and the still-seated replicant. “Leave my friend alone. Please.”

“I can’t do that. I’m sorry,” K tries to move around you, but you put your hands against the wide expanse of his chest and try to push him back. Heat radiates from your palms, soaking through the threadbare material of his shirt. He doesn’t do anything more than sway from the sudden pressure. The strange feeling in his chest is worse. Why would you protect the thing sitting behind you? He was taught that all replicants are disposable, meaningless in the eyes of organics.

You must be the sentimental one, he realizes. You can’t bare to let go of broken things.

“Just tell your boss or whoever sent you that you couldn’t find us.”

“I can’t lie. I have orders.” K tries to sidestep you. “Please stand aside.”

You don’t listen. Instead, you continue to block him by crowding into his space. He finally catches you with a hand on your upper arm. Applying just enough force, he makes it to where you have to step aside to relieve the pressure.

“Officer, please,” the other replicant speaks, finally rising from his chair after setting down his own teacup, “You have my full cooperation if you do not—”

Gradus’s words get cut off at your sudden explosion of violence. K feels you sock him in the face with all the strength you can muster. Stars explode across his vision. A tall, white fountain looms into his mind’s eye, beckoning him closer. He staggers but recovers quickly. Moving faster than the older model behind you, he clamps his hand around your wrists before the ‘8 can do more than take a shocked step forward.

You fight his hold, struggling like an animal caught in a trap. He clenches his fingers down just enough to keep you captive.

“Please stop,” he requests of you.

“Let go of me!” you snarl in return.

This visit is escalating fast, too fast. K has no precedent for this. In every other retirement case he’s been involved with, the organics have steered clear of the situation. They never interfere, instinctively knowing better than to get between two replicants. You can’t insert yourself into a dog fight without risking getting bit in the frenzy. Already, he can almost feel your more delicate skin bruising in his grip. You’re fighting him hard despite gaining no ground.

“I’m going to need you to let go of my friend now, Officer.”

In the altercation, K had made the mistake of diverting his attention from the real threat to you. He’s chagrined to find that the other replicant has chosen to level a gun at him. It had been retrieved from its place inside a basket between the two chairs judging by the tangled mess of synthetic yarn draped cross the edges of the plastic.

Gradus is turning out to have a harder edge to him than the ‘9 had anticipated. It looks like you’re the breaking point of the wanted replicant’s amiableness. K releases his hold on you and puts both hands up before taking a step back in a show of placation. The eye scanner is still in his left hand.

“If you could put the weapon on the table,” the officer says with a nod to the surface not far from his knees.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Gradus says apologetically, still pointing the gun at him.

“We all know I can’t do that no matter how much I want to… Direct orders.”

Sighing, the other replicant lowers the weapon in surrender but doesn’t set it aside. It’s still enough slack that K feels comfortable enough to step around you. It’s a mistake.

The instant you aren’t unintentionally shielding him from your friend, K sees movement. Gradus raises the firearm in a quick, decisive motion. K responds instinctively. His fingers leap for the gun holstered against his ribs.

With a deafening pop, the bullet blows a hole in the older model’s shoulder. John Gradus falls, gasping, to his knees. K watches, mentally disconnecting from the scene unfolding in front of him as the injured replicant claws at the wound soaking the carpet with each beat of his heart. K feels your absence in a way that is not dissimilar to a limb being severed when you leave his side and throw yourself at Gradus.

Strange. He doesn’t know you, doesn’t even know your name, and yet he is experiencing loss.

Forcefully dispassionate, he watches as you ease your friend onto his back to get better access to the wound. You pull your jacket off, desperately attempting to stanch the flow of blood by shoving the material against the hole until your knuckles pale from the pressure. There is already crimson smeared across your newly bare arms.

Officer K crosses the floor and crouches next to you. He presses a knee onto Gradus’s side to keep him still for what is coming next. K holds the replicant’s eye open and readies the scanner. He holds steady even when you let go of the wadded up jacket and start to rake at the back of hand he’s using to keep the eyelids apart. Even when you manage to open up cuts in his skin with your nails, he doesn’t react. The gouges you leave behind sting less than your pleading voice.

“Leave him alone. Please, just leave him alone.” You’re sobbing.

Emotions start to bubble up from the soil he has mentally buried them in, he beats them back with a shovel. He retreats into the comforting quiet of numbness until he gets a proper look at your blood-smeared forearm.

A hauntingly familiar mark adorns it. How many hours has he spent looking at the selfsame mark on his own arm? How often has he traced along the lines and let himself dream, just a little, that there really is something real out there for him? He’s even managed to convince himself at times that someone is looking for him because they want him as much as he wants them.

The scanner beeps, flashing green. It slices through his mounting alarm. He manages to spare a glance at it. The number inset into the tissue of Gradus’s eye is a match for the civic number he’d come for, just as he’d known it would be. He hates himself for the necessary evil he is about to preform.

Digging his knee more firmly into his target’s ribs, he extracts a small knife from another pocket in his jacket. He tunes you out. The blade runner accepts the harm you’re trying to inflict on him as penance for his cruelty.

K is as gentle as he can possibly be while he cuts the eye out of the still living replicant. The older model thrashes and struggles underneath him, but is ultimately unable to break free. K had been right about him being easily overpowered.

Trembling, he gets to his feet and moves away from you both. The eye is clasped carefully in his hand, optic nerve dangling freely. With his fingers slick with blood, he finds an evidence bag in one of his pockets and tucks the eye into its new, plastic prison. The bag goes back into the pocket it had come from.

You and Gradus had referred to each other as friends. The way that you’re curled over him, the protective hunch of your shoulders as you tend to him, supports the notion. Replicants were made to be isolated, sank deep in their work. Tyrell and, later, Wallace had engineered them to be the perfect servants. K doesn’t know what to make of this bond.

Before he can leave, there is one other thing left he must confirm or refute even though he already knows the answer. His own memory had supplied it. Grasping the edge of his own sleeve, he pulls it up to expose the mark etched into his cells. He looks from his forearm to yours, eyes following every memorized curve, every line.

They match.

The mouthful of tea he’d just had in what feels like a lifetime ago threatens to expel itself on the thin carpet. He’s found his soulmate. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

K gets to see the moment you realize you register what he’s looking at. Horror blossoms on your face as your mind tries to make sense of what you’re seeing, of what you really are to each other. The emotions running across your face are all caused by him. He feels sick.

“What?” he hears you mumble. It’s a broken little noise.

Stricken by the urge to comfort you, to lay himself on the floor beside Gradus so that you may flay him open, he clenches his hands and takes another step back. You’re looking up at him like he might attack again. The cut on the back of his hand weeps, doing what he cannot.

He isn’t going to hurt you and yours any further. K had already decided that the moment he saw your soulmark. It’s a choice born from a newfound sense of selfishness. His loyalty had gained a chip in the smooth surface of it, like the teacup you had placed in front of him. He is going to lie to his madam. As proof of a job complete, he’ll bring the stolen eye back to the precinct. If the other replicant survives the trauma inflicted on him, he will be continue to be free. He can go through his life without looking over his shoulder quite so often.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a cellular device starts chiming in his pocket. His madam. No one else would call him. The officer withdraws the device and presses the button to accept the call.

Lieutenant Joshi’s voice is tinny and crackling through the speaker. She doesn’t waste a breath on pleasantries. “Your dig came through. Get down here. Leave whatever you’re working on.”

The unit trills when she hangs up. He put the phone back into his pants pocket.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He means it, perhaps more than anything else he’s said since his inception.

Understandably, you don’t say anything in response to him. Instead, you try to stand despite your legs being too shaky to manage it easily on your own. Before he can show restraint, employ any measure of sense, he bridges the distance between the two of you. K offers you his hand. He’s stunned when you actually take it. Yours fits against his own, palm to palm, as though he was made for you. In a way, K supposes, he was.

There is a breathless moment where the two of you simply stand together hand in hand, eyes peering into the other’s. He wants to shift his hold. He wants to interlink his fingers with yours. Just as he is on the cusp of fulfilling that desire, you wrench your hand free of his and that’s when K knows his time here is up.

Gathering himself just enough, he puts his back to you. The door seems miles away as he starts walking towards it.

“Hey.” There is a flinty quality to your voice.

He pauses and looks back towards you. K is unsurprised to see that you’ve picked up Gradus’s discarded firearm and are now pointing it at him. He wishes that you weren’t shaking so much. He pivots to fully face you, keeping his hands at his sides. The least he can do for you is hold still so that you can line up the shot.

The conviction bleeds out of your face and your arm lowers. The gun falls to the floor at your feet with a heavy thud. At the back of his throat, he tastes the bitterness of disappointment.

K exits the apartment unit. Every step feels wrong. He wants to fight the order. He wants to turn around. The officer wants to offer something, anything, that could make this right. He wishes he could undo the blood pooled on the carpet, but he can’t do anything at all but obey. Free will doesn’t exist for him. His madam has called him in, and for now, he belongs to her no matter what the flesh might claim.

───※ ·❆· ※───

In the morgue, K doesn’t find himself to be any more stable. Joshi had called him in to make use of his intuition and rapid processing ability, but he feels numb. His thoughts keep wandering to you.

He’s barely aware of Nandez talking to him as he idly traces a thumb over his jacket where it lays draped over his arm. He thinks the material had been a more vibrant green once, before he had acquired it from an ‘8 who had, in turn, lifted it off a ‘7.

“Your box is a military footlocker issued to Sapper Morton, creatively repurposed as an ossuary. Box of bones. Meticulously cleaned and laid to rest about 30 years gone. Nothing else in it but hair. She’s pre-Blackout so DeNAbase doesn’t give an ID.”

K manages a nod. He doesn’t bother speaking.

“It was she, plus one,” Joshi says as if it were a shocking revelation. It’s not. From his understanding, organics often manage to reproduce.

Pregnancy, death, panning shots over the dead woman’s bones… His soulmark burns like a phantom brand. The fire feels like it’s spreading to his brain. He’s going under in a cloud of embers. Bits of conversation drift around him. They’re as untouchable as the pretend wife waiting at home for him.

Struggling to gain focus, he drags his intuition up from where it lies dormant and cooling. Coco is leading the forensic discovery today, a small relief. The tech zooms in too far and K gets a flash of scrapes along bone. Man-made alterations.

“Go back. Closer. Closer. That. What’s that?” It’s time he’s spoken since being recalled to the precinct. The three organics eye in him surprise.

“Notching on the iliac crest. Fine point, like a scalpel. Looks like an emergency c-section... Cuts are clean. No sign of struggle,” Coco reports.

K thinks for a moment, mulling over the information. “He was a combat medic. Maybe he tried to save her but just couldn't.”

His words cause the others to debate. They do it with little regard of what he is.

“He didn’t seem like the saving type.” Nandez sneers.

“He took the time to bury her. A sentimental skinjob…” Coco muses, but freezes, stricken “Sorry, K,” he adds.

K shrugs off the apology. He has long since been pushed past any feelings over any slights that come his way. It had been a necessary thing in order to survive here.

“Didn’t seem like the daddy type either. So where’s the kid? You scan the whole field?” Joshi says, knowing very well that replicants are sterile.

“Just dirt and worms. No other bodies.” Nandez’s response is immediate.

“Maybe he ate it.” Coco says, more serious than he should be.

Something flares, white hot, in K’s chest. He has never had a proclivity to anger. The vicious tone to his words surprises even him. “Or maybe he loved her. Maybe he took care of the kid like it was his, at least for a while.”

The silence is deafening. Three pairs of incredulous eyes stare at him. Then Joshi speaks, cutting through the silence punctuated only by K’s harsh breathing. She sounds like she’s talking to a very small child. “But your kind doesn’t love.”

“Oh, he definitely ate it,” Nandez follows up, barely able to get the words out before he starts laughing. Coco joins him.

K bows his head, thoroughly chastised. He only just keeps from curling in on himself.

His madam sighs. “Finish up here, boys. K, with me.”

Unsure of what to expect, he follows the woman to the elevator. He presses himself into the corner during the ride up to her office, unease biting at his bones. The confined space has only been a breeding ground for trouble. Having learned a few hard lessons, he takes the stairs these days unless he is with Joshi.

The lieutenant leads him through the bullpen once they get off the elevator. Nobody pays them any attention. Eyes automatically advert from his madam. When they get to her office, she leaves him to close the door behind them. Upon turning to face her, he finds that she has already seated herself behind her desk and is in the midst of pouring herself a drink.

K waits, face turned submissively down at the floor. He doesn’t fidget.

“The world’s built on a wall that separates kind. Tell either side there’s no wall and you’ve bought a war or a slaughter. Your kind is incapable of love. That’s a trait only given to humans. So whatever notion you have in your head about the skinjob and the woman, you leave that behind.” Her tone is lecturing. It leaves no room for argument, not that he would even dare dream of it. Whatever his madam says to him is the law that he must obey.

“Yes, Madam.”

“What isn’t possible can’t be.”

“Yes, Madam,” he says again.

With a sigh, she sits back in her chair. Her eyes trace over his body, appraising. His breath catches in his throat before he forces his nervous system to relax. The only sign of his discomfort is the clenching of his hand at his side.

Lieutenant Joshi’s mouth pinches. Her face takes on a harried look. With a decisive thunk, she sets the glass tumbler down on her desk. It has been emptied for the first of what is likely to be many times.

“Go home. Get your head on straight. I don’t need you wanting retirement.”

“Yes, Madam,” K agrees.

Any relief he feels as being allowed to leave is cut short when she stops him. “Hey.”

He pauses, letting that be the acknowledgment that he’s heard her. The officer waits like the obedient dog he was made to be.

“You’re getting on fine without it.”

He feels his eyebrow twitch upwards in question. “What’s that, Madam?”

“Love.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

It’s late. The sun sat below the sprawling expanse of buildings hours ago, leaving K to sit in the dark room with only his thoughts and his DiJi for company. While he looks out the window at the other apartment building across the street, at the wall of lives stored in little boxes, he feels more hopeless than usual. The mark on his forearm feels like a slap in the face.

What use is a miracle if it only serves to remind him of his failures? It is a monument to what he destroyed without even knowing what it was he was about to rip apart.

He stands up from the purple chair and takes a few stumbling steps over to the built-in table to pour himself another too-full glass of whiskey. The bottle he had opened after getting off work tonight is already more than half gone. K doesn’t know why he’s even bothering to pour it into a glass other than to occupy his hands. He might as well drink straight from the bottle for efficiency.

With the glass in hand, liquid nearly sloshing over the edges, he goes to where his coat his hanging by the door. He swallows down another mouthful of alcohol while he reaches into one of the pockets. He takes out the small knife he uses for extracting eyes on retirement cases. K figures he should have just given you the blade and let you take his instead.

“K, what are you doing?” Joi asks, tone colored with apprehension.

She is lingering by the window, nervously shifting her nonexistent weight. The replicant ignores her. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Something has changed in him.

Crossing the room again, he takes a seat on the couch. K sets his glass on the side table. Stray drops of whiskey escape over the lip of it at the careless motion. They soak into the paper of his book, his most prized possession. It doesn’t matter. Joshi already soiled it months ago with her own glass, not dissimilar to how she has with him.

Tightening his grip around the knife, he looks down contemplatively at his right forearm. He is not wearing a long sleeved shirt this evening. Maybe he should have been.

Joi starts to plead with him the instant she realizes what he’s about to do. He manages to block her voice out and sinks the blade into his skin, just below the soulmark. The metal works its way through flesh and meat until the fine tip of it scrapes against his radius. It burns as he drags it sideways, up and to the left. Blood wells up from the wound and starts dripping freely onto his pant leg. It soaks into the material.

K has decided that he is undeserving of the fragment of soul he was given at inception. The mark must be removed. Perhaps with it no longer on his body, its twin will appear on someone else. You can have a better soulmate, and he will just be another serial number. Unremarkable in every way.

Delicate hands flicker and clip through his, grasping futilely at the knife. Joi has thrown herself to her knees in front of him and is trying to stop him. Projected tears are falling from her eyes in shimmering droplets. He follows the steady flow of them to her face and realizes that he is scaring her. In her distraught expression, he can only see your agonized face as you sob over the replicant he put a bullet into just days before. Her hands are yours in the way that they attempt to pull at his, to put a stop to the damage he’s inflicting. The comparison stops him cold. He can’t do this to Joi. Even if their relationship together is an elaborate game of pretend, he can’t make someone else feel the way he made you feel.

Smothering the emotions inside of him like a flawed replicant straight from the artificial womb, he wiggles the knife back and forth to free it from his body. He sets the blade aside on the coffee table and retreats to the bathroom. Joi is unable to follow him. She is stuck to the hardline as if on a leash. He never got her anniversary present.

Away from Joi’s worried eyes, he washes the injury in the cramped bathroom sink. Water spills out over the sides and splashes onto the floor in swirls of pale pink on the tile. It makes its way lazily to the drain in the middle of the room. He will scrub the traces of his blood out of the grout later, when he has had a moment to distance himself from everything he shouldn’t be feeling.

Feeling unsteady, K finds the platelet jelly and sets to gluing the self-inflicted wound shut.

If he pinches the sides of it together harder than what is necessary, that’s only for him to know. The bite of pain is enough to ground him in reality. It clears away some of the drunken fog.

Closer to baseline than he was, K rejoins his distressed “wife” in the main room. She rushes at him and he draws her against him as much as a living being can do with a hologram.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he soothes while she sobs nonexistent tears against his chest.

The replicant can’t help but wish that she were someone else. He wonders if his role and that of Gradus had been reversed, would you have tried to protect him? What would it be like to have someone care enough to try?

───※ ·❆· ※───

After that night where he had made an earnest attempt to remove his soulmark, he shuts himself off from Joi. He barely responds to her these days. He can hardly stomach interacting with anyone at all. Still, he does not turn off the DiJi. She is left to do wander around the room and do whatever her algorithm wishes. There is a strange sort of comfort in not feeling completely alone, even if the company isn’t actually there. He isn’t real in any meaningful way either.

His evenings become routine in their spiral. He sits, he smokes, he drinks, and he very rarely sleeps in the hours before his alarm chimes. You haunt the moments of rest he is able to get. He hears your voice in the throats of a thousand others. He sees your anguished face with every blink of his eyes.

K wishes he knew even just your name. He has nothing tangible of that day in 405. Perhaps it was just a dream, a terrible nightmare that has bled into the waking world.

He has to stop eating the synthetic meat he gets for his dinners. The artificial bloodiness of it transports him back to the moment he saw your soulmark covered with the gore caused by his mistake. He should have overridden instinct. He should have done something, anything, differently.

K nearly stops eating all together. His body is slowly wasting away, eating at his muscles. He’s taken to wearing more layers to offset the loss. No one comments at the change.

───※ ·❆· ※───

If only so you can put him down, he tries to find you. The opportunity for him to dig for information comes when he’s put on a case with Nandez. The detective leaves K alone promptly at the end of second shift. The replicant is not sad to see him go. Even at the best of times, Nandez is at his throat despite not having the authority to demand anything from him. K sincerely hopes that the man never gets a promotion.

With Nandez gone, K pulls up the property records for the apartment building he found you at and starts searching. There is nothing substantial, certainly nothing for an additional occupant in the unit rented by John Gradus. No co-signer, no lease agreement, no roommate paperwork. It’s a dead end.

Frustrated, he gets out of his chair and paces. K knows full he can’t risk diving too deep into the systems. Doing so might draw attention to his extracurricular activities. His madam would want answers, and not the ones he is willing to provide. She can’t know of your existence. Joshi was very clear about the boundaries between kind. Without question, he would find a way to retire himself if given the order to harm you.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Squinting his eyes against the feeble sunlight managing to stream into his window, he registers that Joi is looking at him. Her face carries the same serious expression that it has for the past few weeks. He feels a distant pang of guilt at being the cause of it.

She’s projected herself to be laying beside him on the thin mattress. In the dreamlike quality of the light, she looks almost tangible like this. Touchable. These small moments are why he never bothered with blinds or curtains.

“Tell me about your soulmate,” she says. He realizes that she’s emulated his mark into her hologram skin.

“There’s not much to tell.” His voice is thick with sleep.

“Tell me anyway.”

At that, he closes his eyes and summons his memory of you. With each detail he recounts aloud about your appearance, Joi alters herself. She replicates your accent, your hair, your eye color. When he opens his eyes, he finds himself looking at a pale imitation. It’s almost closer to a mockery than anything else. The morning light can’t make it real. Nothing could.

Tenderly, his DiJi reaches out and tries to press her fake mark against his in the way he’d always hoped his soulmate would when they found each other. He lets her, numb. It doesn’t feel like anything more than the faint static tingle of her projection. She clips through him.

“A special boy needs a name, a real name.” she prompts, mulling the thought over.

“Don’t,” he interrupts, softly. He doesn’t want Joi to name him. She’s not what he really wants. If anyone were to give him a name, it should be you.

With a flash of hurt on her face, she pulls away. The attempt at a loving game of pretend like they used to play is over. There is not likely to be another one.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Carefully, he tears out the title page of his book. K does not have any other paper. This will have to do. With the same marker the replicant used in his spinner to label the bag containing Gradus’s eye, he writes on the alcohol-warped page.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Officer K folds the paper and tucks it into his badge holder for safekeeping. He has a premonition that this day will end with him staring into the lens of a camera like the barrel of a gun while one of the precinct’s baseline administers hammers him with questions asked forcefully enough they might as well be physical blows.

Pushing through the crowd on the stairs, he doesn’t register the turmoil around him. He breaks free once he’s out the front door. The walk to the garage seems to pass in the blink in the eye and feels like only heartbeats pass before he’s in the work-provided spinner and on the way to the apartment building he’d been to a lifetime ago.

He puts the spinner down curbside out in front of a struggling noodle place. K doesn’t want to be parked too close to his objective. If someone comes sniffing around after him for going off-map, he doesn’t want it to be immediately obvious where he’s going.

As they had been the last time he’d been here, the streets are empty. They’re marked with obvious signs of nightlife. It all but confirms what he had suspected when doing the flyover. Graffiti and broken class litter the sidewalks in front of the row of businesses shuttered for the daytime hours. The neon signs are off and the blinds closed.

The apartment building looks the same as it had last time. Despite his own world being shaken to the very foundations, the structure he is entering looks unstricken by revelation. Retracing his footsteps, he ascends to the fourth four and finds the unit. The doormat he’d not bothered to acknowledge before is still out front.

With his pulse pounding in his ears, he raises his hand and knocks. He waits for the telltale sign of life behind the barrier. Nothing. Concern prickles at his mind, and he knocks again only to get no response. For just a moment, he thinks about just sliding the paper under the door but on a whim, he tries the knob. It turns easily in his grasp. It was left unlocked.

“Hello?” K calls out as he steps across the threshold.

Silence greets him in return.

From what the officer can discern upon casting a searching look at his surroundings, little has changed. The furniture is where it had been on the day of his visit. He is not sure if any of the personal effects have been disturbed. They had not been near the top of his priority list at the time.

A loud ringing noise shatters the peace and he startles, nearly hitting his elbow on the wall. It’s his phone. His madam must have checked on his tracker code and realized that he isn’t anywhere a good boy might be found under normal circumstances. He lets it ring through unanswered. His countdown has started.

Reluctantly, he continues his investigation and looks at the place where he had dropped Gradus. The blood stain he’d left behind is a mere, blush colored mark on the carpet. Someone, probably you, had tried to scrub away the evidence. The basket of yarn that had contained the gun has been righted and moved to a place between the couch and the blind-covered window.

Showing some level of restraint, he resists the urge to wander into the bedrooms. There are two of them. A glance through the doorways reveals that each has a bed. You and the ‘8 must not sleep in the same room. Instead of trying to puzzle out which might contain your possessions, he moves into the kitchen.

There is moisture in the sink. Someone has been here recently. The apartment had not been abandoned in his absence.

The water in the basin reminds him that Gradus had asked you to bring tea to them. Could it be your usual chore? The thought sparks an idea, and he pulls his badge from his pocket and extracts the folded piece of paper. He leaves it on the counter as his phone rings for a second time. Ignoring the repetitive trill, he picks up a pen from the coffee table and returns to the kitchen to unfold the page he’d torn from the book.

Again, his phone goes off, barely a pause between the attempts at reaching him. The timer is running out moment by moment.

Underneath the words he wrote at his apartment, K presses the nib of the pen against the paper and takes a breath. In careful writing, he adds to them.

Do you feel that there's a part of you that's missing?

What's it like to hold the hand of someone you love?

Immediately, he wants to erase the words. With the feeling that he’s making another mistake when it comes to you, K refolds the sheet of paper and tucks it partially under the kettle resting on the counter. He wishes that he knew your name so that he could write it on the paper. Even without it, it’s clear enough who the message is for. Gradus hadn’t been the one with who shared his soulmark.

With an air of finality to it, the device in his pocket rings a fourth time. It’s his cue to leave. Spurred into haste, he puts the pen back where he’d found it and takes a final glance around, still curious about which decorative choices were yours.

He leaves the apartment, making sure to close the door securely behind him. The replicant all but sprints down the stairs in the effort to create distance between himself and the apartment unit. He narrowly manages to keep his pace limited to a brisk walk on the way back to the noodle restaurant. Just as he’s reaching for the lock on his spinner’s door, he hears a low roar rapidly approaching.

Looking up, he sees a police issued vehicle pull into a stop. It begins its decent as a voice projects over the loudspeaker. “Officer K D6-3.7. We’re taking you in on failure to report.”

K puts his hands up and automatically lowers himself to his knees. Acutely, he’s aware of what will happen if he doesn’t perfectly comply. LAPD beat cops are trigger-happy organics and ready to spray and pray at anything that so much as breathes wrong in their direction. He has never respected them, never been given cause to in all his dealings with them.

A cop gets out, leaving another behind the wheel, as soon as the spinner lands. In short order, K finds himself handcuffed and made a passenger in his own provided spinner. The organic makes a stab at ruffling his nerves on the way back to the precinct.

“Lieutenant’s real mad at you for taking off like that.”

K offers nothing in response.

“What the fuck were you doing all the way out here, skinner?”

He shrugs in his restraints, chooses how to interpret the question. “Noodles.”

The officer whistles, pitchy and uneven. “Oooh, she’s going to string you up.”

K is aware. He knew the cost for his apology when he set out today. He had also decided it was worth the fallout.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The stool that Officer K is sitting on is uncomfortable—a hard, impersonal thing meant to be hosed off as needed. It’s the same as the rest of this room bathed in the sterile light of humming florescent bar. Underneath the copper burn of blood is an antiseptic tang. The baseline testing room is everything but a slaughterhouse floor in name. He’d opened his eyes for the very first time in a room like this.

Ringing fills his ears followed by the whir and click of the wall-mounted camera in front of him. A disembodied voice reads off his serial number and informs him that the test has begun.

Responses leave the replicant’s throat through as though someone else is speaking through him. He’s calm, retreated so far into himself that any residual fire inside of him has been snuffed out. He feels cold. The joints in his fingers ache with the sensation. He doesn’t dare to flex them or to rub at his chafed wrists.

The cops that had been sent to fetch him had removed the handcuffs as soon as he’d been delivered to the testing room. One of them in particular had found great amusement in hauling him through the precinct by the narrow chain like a dog catcher with an animal on the end of their pole.

Finally, the pounding against the walls of his mind stops. The interrogation is over. The camera powers down and the examiner sighs, hard, almost disappointed.

“You’re free to go, Officer. Your lieutenant will see you in her office.”

K rises, stiff, eyes unseeing. He barely registers the activity of the precinct around him as he traverses the hallway and climbs the stairs in clear avoidance of the elevator once again. He feels trapped enough in his own head without the physical captivity of being in a little box.

Low murmurs roll against him akin to the waves against the seawall when he crosses the bullpen and knocks on Joshi’s door after reaching the floor housing her office. She calls him in immediately. Her tone is like an angry wasp. It provides a sting that jolts everything back into sharp relief.

She barely waits until he closes the door behind himself. “The hell is with you?”

Years of experience have taught him to let his madam work through her anger without input from him. K waits, still and patient, in front of her desk.

“You take off without informing me, you ignore my calls, and then what? We pick you up fucking around in the street outside of some shitty restaurant? What was so important about it that you had to go out there?”

“Apologies, Madam,” he says. Repentance drips from his voice like honey from the comb.

Joshi waits, looking expectant. Her expression shifts to frustration as no more words come. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me? Tell me why you were out there.”

It’s a direct order. The instinct to obey pulls at him. He gives in without a fight. “I was following up on the second retirement case. Civic’ NK687725. It was a surprise, Madam. I had hoped it would be a welcome one.”

Like magic, the severely set lines in Joshi’s face soften. She is becoming convinced that he’d meant his… willfulness as a gift, as a credit to her and her management.

“Did you find anything?”

“There was no one there,” he pauses, twists the truth in his own mind, “Hadn’t been for a while. It’s probable I scared them off and they went underground.”

Who is to say what “a while” means? Time is relative.

Joshi lifts a hand and beckons him closer, around the corner of the desk. Eager to avoid more trouble, he instantly follows her direction. She rotates her chair to face him when he comes to a stop within touching distance. He has learned through trial and error to predict exactly where she wants him based on her mannerisms and tone. It has never bode well for him to be wrong.

“Good dog,” the lieutenant says, lightly kicks him in the shin. “Just let me know before you decide to be proactive again.”

“I will, Madam.” He’s glad that she has decided to be lenient today.

“Get on out of here. I don’t need the distraction.”

“Goodbye, Madam.” It’s polite and he keeps his pace measured as he leaves. He doesn’t want to seem too eager. It would send the wrong message.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Weeks pass K by without any outward indication that you’ve received the paper he had left behind at your residence. He has made a resigned peace with the idea that your paths may never cross again when he arrives back to his apartment following a day kept late at work doing overtime, again, for Nandez. Following routine and nearly swaying on his feet, he puts his hand on the scanner for the door lock. He opens it just enough to slide through and is greeted in the entryway by Joi for the first time a while. Panic is displayed on her face. Taken aback, he’s about to question her when she speaks first.

“You have a visitor. I didn’t think you would want me to say no,” she whispers.

Frowning, he mulls over the list of potential visitors and only comes up with one idea of who it might be. But, he’d just seen Joshi at the precinct before leaving for the day. She had given him no indication that she would be paying him a visit tonight. In fact, his madam had had him sit down on the other side of her desk to share a drink with her.

It had kept him occupied for the better part of the hour while she got intoxicated enough to insist that he give her a kiss before he leave. She’d failed to push things further by not ordering him to his knees before her or manipulating his hands onto her body. K thinks that she’s grown bored of him, at least for the moment. The thought makes him feel relieved.

Joi touches him on the shoulder, putting an end to his thinking. “Good luck.”

Anticipating, despite the unlikeliness of it, to see his madam, he passes by the DiJi into the main room. K stops in his tracks, stricken dumb. He’d have sooner expected Coco spread out on his couch in nothing but his clear, silicone labcoat and an artificial rose in his mouth than to be staring at you. Somehow, you don’t look as out of place as you should among his sparse possessions.

“How did you find me?” the replicant asks.

“You said your identification number the day you showed up. KD6-3.7.”

It’s strange a strange thing, hearing his “name” come out of your mouth. He doesn’t supply the nickname he’s been given during his time as a blade runner. He’s already pacing on the knife’s edge. This evening could tip him in any direction without forcing any further familiarity.

“You got the note.”

“Yes.” Your tone is matter-of-fact. “You wanted to know if I felt like a part of me is missing.”

He is left waiting for a follow-up that doesn't come. The thought hangs there, uncontinued. In the quiet of the room, K shrugs off his jacket and goes to hang it on the hook by the front door. He unholsters his gun and puts it on a nearby shelf. No matter how things go, he will not be using it on you.

Before he faces you again, K approaches the controls for the hardline crossing the ceiling. When he casts a look at Joi with his finger hovering over the power button, she looks at peace. She gives him an encouraging shooing motion of her hand. He turns her off for the first time in months. You and K will not have any outside distraction.

“He lived, by the way.”

K feels a tightness loosen in his chest. “I’m glad.”

“Why? You could have easily made the shot fatal, why didn’t you?”

“Somebody cares about him. He would have been missed.”

“And that matters to you?” You don’t sound judgmental to his ears, only curious.

“Yes. I’m sorry I had to do it.” He swallows hard, voice breaking as he continues. “I didn’t choose this.”

The replicant knows that he is only what he was made to be, nothing more, nothing less. Nature had dictated his obedience. Nurture had molded him into being what the Los Angeles Police’s retirement division had had in mind when he was purchased for their use.

Under the weight of your gaze, he begins to self-soothe by clasping his hands together in front of him and rubbing one thumb over the other. He finds himself relieved from the burden when you shift your attention to your surroundings. He watches, fascinated, as you begin to explore.

Your fingers trail over the box where he stores his cigarettes and the lighter he’d found in the pocket of one of his previous retirement jobs. Moving onward, you pick up his book and flip briefly through the alcohol warped pages. He sees the recognition dart across your features when you find the place where the torn out page had once resided. The care in which you set the volume back down on the table surprises him. His madam had never displayed that level of consideration. Neither had Joi with the projected clone of it.

“These don’t look like yours,” you say. In your hands are Sapper Morton’s glasses, held as if they might break apart in your grasp with so much as a wrong exhale.

“They’re not.”

“Whose are they, then?”

“Sapper Morton. He was a retirement case,” K pauses, hesitates, then quietly adds, “I didn’t want him to be forgotten.”

“Why?” you ask, rolling the word in your mouth like a pearl.

The question makes his skin itch. He stills as though he had just taken a seat for his baseline. The only betraying movement is the continued motion of his thumb atop the other.

“Why?” you repeat, softer this time. There’s something close to tenderness in your voice and that makes him afraid.

“He was more than a serial number.” K admits, feeling the answer clawing its way out of him. “I… they all were.”

“Are you?”

“No.” His response is immediate. Firm.

“Why not?”

Unable to answer, he looks away. Shame laps at him with an overeager tongue. There is a divide between the older models and him. In some ways, Morton was right. The ‘9s are happy scraping the shit because it’s all they have been taught to know.

He’s aware of you setting the glasses back in their resting place on the shelf, but it still surprises him when you cross the small amount of space separating the two of you to stand in front of him. You’re so close to him that he can feel the heat of your body. It makes him want to burn in your fire.

“I do feel like there’s something missing. It’s like there’s an empty space next to me that should be filled by someone, but that someone never comes. It’s the part of the reason I came here. I… wanted to talk to you knowing what we are to each other,” you tell him.

K nods. Words catch in his throat, tumble over one another. In the end, he is unable to utter any of them.

“Will you show it to me?” you ask with a gesture to his covered arm. “I want to be sure.”

With a tremor threatening to shake his body, he slips his fingers under the edge of his shirt sleeve and pulls it up to his elbow. His soulmark is laid bare before your eyes. The wound that he had left in his own skin when he had tried to carve out the design has faded to a raised, pale line.

“That wasn’t there before,” you murmur, taking his forearm in your hands. Your pointer finger traces over the scar.

His breath catches at your touch. Overwhelmed, he has to close his eyelids against the moisture welling up in his eyes. He opens them again when the pressure of your hands leaves and sees you taking off your own coat to toss it over the back of his chair. The replicant barely has a moment of respite before your left hand resumes its position cupping the underbelly of his forearm. You keep him steady as you raise your right arm and nestle it alongside his to place the soulmarks side by side.

K’s eyes hadn’t been deceived back then. They are perfectly identical.

It’s more than he can handle. He curls into himself, instinctively seeking the fetal position. His chin is against his shoulder, face turned away from you. He’s not sure if he’s burning up or drowning.

“Hey… hey.”

Suddenly, your arms are around him. K feels himself being guided in until he’s all but cradled against you as you ease the both of you to floor. He finds himself pressing his face against your neck as you rub a soothing hand up and down his back. For each moment that passes, the replicant grows increasingly more worried that he’s overstaying his welcome, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you gently rock him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding choked even to his own ears.

“I’m sorry too. I misjudged you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still pissed, but it wasn’t… I have an understanding of why you did what you did.”

Forcing himself to put some distance between your bodies, K finally pulls away. He doesn’t want to risk being reprimanded for taking too much. Your hands fall into your lap in the void he leaves behind.

There is a part of him that keeps expecting to discover that this is a vivid dream. Will he wake up and be staring at the water-damaged ceiling instead of your face? The hard floor under his knees, the chill of it creeping through the fabric and trying to find a home against his skin, seems to signal otherwise.

“Please don’t apologize. What I did was unforgivable.”

“John’s not mad at you, you know?” The words come as a surprise. He searches your eyes for a joke only to see sincerity reflected back at him. “He said you probably extended his life a few years by taking his eye and turning it in. Nobody’s gonna come looking for a dead man.”

“He’s not on our radar anymore. His file has been greyed out,” he says, getting to his feet.

Automatically, he reaches down to offer you his hand. It’s a mirror of your last interaction. He can tell by your expression that you are reliving the same memory as he. Still, you once again take his hand without hesitation. You hold it for just a moment before letting go. He doesn't think he imagined the reluctance.

“I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Officer. I don’t want to intrude,” you say, turning to pick up your coat from where you had left it.

“Please. Stay,” he bursts out. The feeling of imminent loss batters at the walls of his chest, “unless…”

“Okay.”

He blinks, not expecting the ease in which you had agreed. He’s left cycling through various scripts in the effort to find something to say. Latching onto a familiar interaction with Joi, he asks, “Do you want coffee?”

“Sure, I’d take some.”

K finds himself with you in his narrow kitchen. He heats the water while you take down two mugs and locate the instant coffee grounds after some direction from him. It’s domestic in a way that he was never able to have with Joi. With her, he didn’t need to worry about knocking elbows together or pressing her into the cabinetry while trying to reach for a pot holder.

Once the hot water is ready and split between the two mugs and stirred together, the two of you take seats on the couch. Between sips, conversation flows, a trickle at first and then a flood. You talk for hours, long after your mugs are drained and sat aside.

Following the natural progression of all things, the words begin to slow as tiredness sets in. Pauses between sentences lengthen like shadows. At seeing your eyes between to flutter shut, K rouses himself out of his own comfortable stupor.

“I’ll take the couch if you want to sleep in my bed tonight,” the replicant offers. He’s relaxed, at ease in a way he’s not sure he’s ever been. You’ve changed him.

The effort that it takes for you to keep your eyelids open as you think over his stab at hospitality only endears to you him further. Finally, you shrug and smother a yawn. “I’ll take you up on that. I don’t think I need to be behind the wheel like this.”

While you pull out your phone and send a message to your roommate to let him know your plans, K gets up and crosses the room to fold down the bed. He opens a nearby drawer and pulls out the pillow and blanket to put on the mattress. With a helpless twinge sigh, he surveys the setup. It’s not the lap of luxury, he knows, but he hopes it will be sufficient.

“All yours.”

“Thank you, K.” The light press of your fingers against his soulmark warms him almost as much as the use of his nickname. You had slipped into using it when he had admitted his preference for it over his job title or serial number in at some point in the previous hours.

He nods, a shy dip of his head and lets you slide under the blankets. After fetching his jacket off the hook to use as a blanket, he turns off the lights and lays down on the couch. Sleep comes to him almost immediately. It’s dreamless.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Morning comes to him with the shrill chiming of his alarm. Fumbling for his handheld, K silences it and lays still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. The replicant fell asleep on the couch again. He knows that he has been doing that more often than he should. Too much alcohol and flipping through the pages of his book time and time again on the hunt for any new meaning that he can gleam from the words he knows by heart have contributed to this being a regular occurrence.

With a stiff back, he sits up and swings his legs to place his feet on the floor. He freezes right on the cusp of standing up. There is a body tucked into his bed and it’s not Joshi. Yesterday evening hadn’t been a whiskey soaked dream brought on by too much wishful thinking. It had been real.

K knows he needs to get ready to go to the precinct and pushes himself through his morning routine accordingly no matter how much he would prefer to wait at your side to resume the domesticity the two of you had begun to forge. By the time he’s out of the shower and dressed, you’ve gotten up and put the bed back in its stored away position. The bedding is neatly folded and set on a shelf with the pillow.

With his hair still damp, he observes you for a moment from the kitchen. You’re tracing the faded letters and numbers on the back of his jacket with a finger, clearly trying to decipher the characters.

“N7H00105,” he supplies, sparing your eyes.

Amusement causes the corners of his mouth to rise into a smile as you turn to him with an incredulous look. “How did you…? It’s so faded.”

“It was easier to read when I acquired it.”

“Another one of your job finds?” you ask, offering him the jacket when he approaches.

“Yes.”

While he’s pulling the comforting weight of the garment over his shoulders, he tracks you with his eyes as you step into your shoes and tie the laces. You haven’t put your coat on yet, leaving your arms bare. There is a moment of silence, the two of you regarding one another. He does not want to be the first one to make the gesture to leave and, it seems, neither do you.

Your teeth are worrying your bottom lip. He wonders what you’re thinking about, but in the clear light of day, he finds himself unable to ask. The sun has burned away some of the ease of last night.

Finally, you speak. “If you had the option, would you leave all of this behind?”

He blinks, uncomprehending. “What?”

“Your job. Your life here… Would you leave it behind?”

“I… I don’t have anything else.” His words are uncertain, shaky.

“What if I’m offering you something else?”

“My kind doesn’t run.”

“It’s not running, K. It’s living.”

Rattled by the conviction in your voice, he sits down on the couch. His chest feels tight as barely defined images of things he’d hardly dared to dream of race through his mind. The enormity of what you’re suggesting is all but unimaginable. He has been loyal to his madam’s cause since the day he was incepted. There could be no deeper betrayal than slipping free of his tether.

The sensation of your hand on his shoulder jolts him back into the present moment. He meets your concerned eyes for a heartbeat before he has to look away.

“You don’t have to decide right now. You can think on it.”

“Saturday. I’ll be ready on Saturday,” he chokes out. His heart is pounding in his throat. He knows he cannot risk sitting through another baseline in the wake of this. He will fail.

“You’re sure? You won’t be able to come back here.”

“Yes.” Recklessly—impulsively—he has made up his mind.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The Saturday of his departure dawns like any other. The sunlight peering into the apartment’s only window would make K’s morning wholly unremarkable in its routine if his surroundings hadn’t been wiped clean of any personal possessions but a select few items that he is leaving behind for his madam to repossess. His entire world had fit into one furtively purchased duffel bag.

His nerves are alight with restlessness as he waits for you to arrive. The replicant had spent a few fitful hours laying on his mattress before rising ahead of the sun to ensure his readiness for the life ahead. As part of his preparations, he finally purchased Joi’s anniversary present. An emanator. He had transferred her to it after yesterday’s shift at the precinct. She had been joyous, nearly overflowing with excitement for him when he had explained the situation to her. He had cautiously let himself share his own tentative optimism.

At the DiJi’s suggestion, he had snapped the emanator’s small antenna after deleting her save file from the main console. The risk of being tracked or leaving behind damning information was too great to allow for cloud backup. Despite his own trepidation, Joi had insisted the risk of her being able to die like a real girl was worth K’s freedom.

A firm knock against the door alerts the Nexus 9 of your arrival. With haste, he moves through the entryway to open the door for you. Both of you wait until it’s securely closed before you greet each other.

“Good morning,” you tell him.

K is just opening his mouth to respond in kind when you surprise him with a hug. The replicant wraps his arms around you, careful to not apply too much pressure. It’s a novel thing, getting to hold someone like this. Reluctantly, he lets his hold on you loosen after a short moment. He knows there is work to still be done. A final step in the plan.

Without you needing to ask him, he gestures to the table in front of the window. The supplies for the task ahead are already laid out on the surface. He strips off his shirt and sits backwards in the chair as best as he can while avoiding the armrests. K closes his eyes and tries to relax.

“I almost thought you might not come back,” he admits.

He hears the snap of disposable gloves against your wrists followed by the sound of your voice. “You’re my soulmate. The mark on your arm says I’m going to keep coming back for you.”

“Not everyone likes their soulmate,” K says quietly.

There’s the sound of a packet being torn open. He experiences the sensation of a disinfecting wipe passing over the area at the base of his neck. It’s cold against his skin. You focus most of the attention on the column of his spine, right in the center of his middle trapezius.

“True, but I realized the other night that, despite everything, I do like you. Congratulations, you now have me digging a tracking chip out of your back.” Your voice is colored with fondness. It makes him want to smile. How rare. He had kept his positive emotions hidden under cloth as though they were something precious to sequester out of sight.

Hissing against the sting, the tip of K’s eye extraction knife punctures his skin. The sensation of blood trickling from the wound begins shortly after he hears you set the knife on the table and pick up the tweezers. There’s a pinch, a strange pulling sensation, and then he opens his eyes just in time to see you drop the small device on the table alongside the bloodied blade. The tweezers clatter against the laminated surface and your gloved hand snatches up the platelet jelly.

“That was in deep. They nailed you between the vertebrae. John’s was right under the skin.”

“Wallace learned from the tail-end Tyrell models. Mostly what not to do.”

He hears you hum, interested. Packaging crinkles behind his head and he’s aware of you pressing a gauze pad against the sealed wound. Your touch is so gentle as to make him believe you think he is something worth care, that he might even be special.

“Hand me a bit of tape, please?”

Obligingly, he tears off a strip and passes it to you. His bare fingers brush against your gloved ones as you take it from him. You secure the tape in place and pat him on the shoulder. “You’re all done.”

The skin feels tender beneath the bandage. But it is as though his collar has been cut. He puts his shirt back on and layers his jacket over it while you peel the gloves off. To avoid leaving more identifying forensic evidence behind that would point to you as being the accomplice, you flip them inside out and tuck them into a pocket for later disposal.

At your searching look, K nods. He is ready. The replicant picks up his bag and, together, you make your way to the front door. He pauses on the threshold, door open. Your fingers find his and give them a squeeze before he adjusts the angle and interlinks them together. Like this, he can feel your pulse beat in time with his. He feels close to human.

With one final look at the apartment that has been his cell for the past few years, he gives it a silent goodbye and closes the door for the final time. He is free.

───※ ·❆· ※───

On Monday, when Joshi arrives with two organic officers as backup, she finds the apartment stripped of any personal effects. She picks up his discarded phone off the coffee table where he had laid it between his firearm and his badge. The woman throws it against the wall so hard it shatters. Pieces of plastic rain down onto the tile. He hadn’t even left her a note.

If she ever finds him, she is going to put a bullet in him with the gun he left behind. Still, there is a part of her that is grudgingly proud of him for finally biting her hand, taking it off right at the wrist. Her replicant was a lot of things—obedient, kind—but never a coward. He better have a good life while he can. She’s going to place a purchase order for his replacement the moment she gets behind her desk.

Do not repost, copy, or reproduce my work to other sites or in other media formats. Do not use it for anything to do with AI. Thank you.

[starwrighter]

I am not a baby!! (yes you are)

(Ao3) (Masterpost) (Previous) (Next)

(Chapter 8)

Cutting through the water with practiced ease, he snapped his tail, an audible crack sounding as he boosted forwards. A rotten egg. He was tasked with watching a rotten egg. Did Father think him incompetent? A mockery of his skills and a slight against him as a person. Why did he have to guard a dead egg while the others fought reapers and patrolled dangerous waters?

Safe shallows, a place mainly inhabited by herbivores, bright and colorful. His tail dragged uncomfortably against the seabed waters too shallow for this form to move at full capability. The egg was in site, floating at the surface. Strangely, it smelled better than it had before. There was still the lingering scent of festering rot but weaker than before.

Peaking through the see-through bottom, the egg appeared to be empty. Not a peep was heard inside the egg, lights glowing brightly. All the babies who lived for more than a few seconds had eggs that glowed inside. This egg wasn't glowing before, but now it was, and there still wasn't a baby.

Did it hatch while he wasn't watching it? They were under the assumption the egg was dead. If it hatched earlier, no one would've been there to protect them. Fragile creatures with a tendency to die spontaneously. They stood no chance on their own. The shallows were relatively safe, with barely any predators, if the baby did hatch its body should still be floating around here somewhere.

Using his arms to drag himself through the shallows, some oddities began to arise. Metal boxes that used to be firmly planted into the ground were gone, fish frazzled, drifting curiously towards something in the distance.

Damian had expected a corpse or the sight of red blood from a baby freshly killed. A metal building standing strong near the borders of the grassy plateaus was something he never would've expected. It was a purer white, maintained, or recently built. Unlike any of the buildings in Jellyshroom caves or the deep grand reef, this building was active, functioning not a speck of rust-coating metal tubes.

Like the previous buildings, part of it was see-through. He couldn't help but wonder if this baby would be like the friendly, curious one who'd stare at everything through the clear barrier in awe. The babies never strayed too far from their nests unless they were migrating or collecting materials. Chances were, if a hatchling were alive, it'd be in there. Drifting over to the see-through tube, he peered inside...

It was tiny...

Smaller than any of the babies that ever hatched. Larger than the Peepers swimming around the base, yet no bigger than a Mesmer. Smaller than what Father said he was when he hatched more than a thousand years ago. A hatchling running in circles, more active and excited than any of the other babies ever were. Running too fast for him to get a good look, it was unclear whether this was normal behavior of a healthy hatchling.

When the hatchling finally exhausted himself, it slowed down to a pace. Fluffy black hair with splotches of white barely reached his ears, the hatchling occasionally running pudgy fingers through it. His face was a bit red, but a feeling of excitement radiated off the child in consistent waves.

Tap...Tap...Tap

Claws clinking against the tube, the hatchling froze in place. Vibrant, blue eyes stared directly at Damian, widened, shocked by his sudden appearance. It wasn't his intention to scare the hatchling, he just wanted to check on them. Preparing to give another gentler tap, the hatchling raises his arms, a tool in his hands, a flash of light blasting Damian in the face. Not quite blinding but blurring his vision enough for the baby to dart away deeper into the tube so he couldn't see him anymore. A shy hatchling was easier to keep alive, but it still hurt seeing the baby hiding from him.

For a minute, he entertained the thought of keeping the hatchling's existence a secret. To bond and secure his place as favorite sibling early on. Only remembering the sheer fragileness of the children changed his mind. Being the favorite of a dead child would do him no good. If the hatchling was smart enough to survive this long, he'd be smart enough to see that Damian is the superior sibling.

"Father, the hatchling from the shallows is still alive,"

The utter chaos that erupted through the bond was almost worth risking a potential title.

@ashoutinthedarkness @avelnfear @meira-3919 @thought-u-said-dragon-queen @hugsandchaos @blep-23 @zeldomnyo @bytheoldwillowtree @justwannabecat @shepherdsheart @starlightcat04 @stargazing-bookwyrm @pupstim @dragongoblet

[scribbling-dragon]

30 for seablings? not sure if you've ever written them before

shared history (forgotten past)

summary:

Leaving the egg behind, despite how she might later look back on it, was not easy. With the rose-tinted glasses of the future (a phrase she’ll learn and forget, and learn again as she has this realisation) she can say it was as easy as breathing. As easy as taking one step and then another. It was not easy.

(ao3 link)

(1,892 words)

[quick warning that this fic does talk A LOT about death. it's a recurring thing within it, and not something that i want people to be unaware of when going into this fic. take care! <3 this fic was also done for these writing prompts!]

Leaving the egg behind, despite how she might later look back on it, was not easy. With the rose-tinted glasses of the future (a phrase she’ll learn and forget, and learn again as she has this realisation) she can say it was as easy as breathing. As easy as taking one step and then another.

It was not easy.

It was days and nights of sitting and considering. Cradling the delicate egg close to herself. It is the only thing she has. She is the only thing it has. There is nothing left for them in this world other than each other.

Still, an egg is not good company. She has sat beside this egg, day in and day out, hiding when she can. Fleeing when she cannot. She uses the currents to her advantage, hides in places where the salmon cannot reach them. Where they are safe, if only for a little bit, if only until the salmon figure out how to reach her and the little egg, and she is forced to flee again.

She is not certain that whatever is in the egg – a sibling, it’s something related to her, a sibling – is still alive. She can’t be certain that the egg she carries with her, the egg that despite it’s small size makes her arms ache and bring tears to her eyes, still contains some kind of life.

For all she knows, she might be carrying an egg that has already begun to rot from the inside out.

The egg has not hatched yet, and it feels as though hundreds of years have passed. Maybe it will never hatch. Maybe it’s just an oddly shaped rock that she’s been swimming around with no justification for it other than she cannot be the only one.

Sometimes, she almost swears she can feel a heartbeat pulsing through the shell. Can feel it in her claws and in her fins, but when she shifts her hands slightly it fades as quickly as it had arrived. Maybe the egg is empty, has nothing at all within it, and it can only imitate that which is around it. It echoes her own heartbeat back into her eyes, giving her the false hope that she clings to.

(Please, she finds herself begging with increasing frequency, please, please, please, don't let her be the only one. Don't leave her alone. She’s not sure she can survive that. Not sure that she would want to.)

She presses on. Forges onwards despite the doubts that continue to claw at the edges of her mind.

The salmon continue to attack. They are mocking and malicious. They taunt her with their silence, refusing to utter a single word that would break the silence she has wrapped herself in. Layer after layer of silence covers her, tightening around her body as another layer is added, day after day after day.

Maybe all the muscles in her throat have atrophied. Maybe she will never be able to utter a single word.

She can’t bring herself to speak into the shell of this fragile egg. This small thing cradled close to her chest. Her heart beats, strong against the weak shell of the egg. She fears, sometimes, in the quieter moments, that her heart may beat too fast, too hard, and the egg will simply crack under the pressure.

She snaps and snarls at the salmon the next time they approach her and the egg. Lashes out at the few that attempt to dart forward and steal the last egg from her grasp- as though they haven’t taken enough already!

Waking amongst the destroyed shells of her siblings was a horror she doesn’t like to linger on. The cracked eggs, empty and devoid of life. The frantic scramble through a nursery turned graveyard. The panic that had overtaken her, the one that has not yet unhooked its claws from her skin, the one that lingers.

The dizzying relief of finding another egg is also something she has never experienced again after that moment.

A single egg, trapped beneath the tossed aside shell of one of her – their – siblings. She had almost given up hope on this egg, too, had seen the flattened side from where the shell had rested on it too long.

But it had been intact. And there was a heartbeat inside of it. One that slowed to follow the gradually slowing beat of her own heart.

She had sat beside that egg for months.

She had watched it, day in, day out. She had barely dared to move from where she sat, fearful that if she pulled herself away for even a moment, went to chew on some seagrass or try and find some kelp, that she would come back to a cracked egg. A slightly larger graveyard.

That looming loneliness had kept her rooted to the spot, even as the sand gathered around her. Even as it began to gather beneath her scales and itch.

As the months dragged into years the bitter taste of fear began to rear its ugly head. She squashed it at first, dismissing the worries for something unfounded. This egg was smaller than the one she hatched from. Was smaller than most of the eggs around it. Maybe it was younger.

There was no one to ask how long she had remained in her egg for.

The egg might take another hundred years to hatch. Might take another thousand.

She would wait. She has waited. There’s no reason to stop waiting now, no reason to abandon this egg for dead when she may as well lay herself in front of the salmon and ask them to kill her.

To abandon the egg would be to abandon the hope for companionship.

She is not alone, never alone, even if her only company is an egg. One that thumps the same heartbeat as she does. She doesn’t dare utter a word to its shell, doesn’t dare breathe a word into the shell, for fear that there is an emptiness within it that would echo the words back.

So, she clutches the egg close. She weaves it a sling of kelp and seagrass, one to keep it close to her chest and free her hands.

The salmon continue to grow. No matter how many she kills and eats they come back stronger. She kills one and two return. She kills the two, and four take their place.

There are only so many places she can run to. Only so many places she dares to venture this deep. This dark. There are things lurking here worse than the salmon. They would not appreciate her waking them from their slumber, just as she would not appreciate staring into a deep-sea trench and discovering that it is staring back at her.

The light of the ocean above looks more tempting by the day.

It looks warm and comfortable. Safe from the salmon that lurk in the shadows and pursue her slowly.

They are waiting for her to tire. She knows this. She fears this. Can feel the exhaustion beginning to tug on her bones, making her just that fraction slower as she escapes. The salmon get closer each time, closer and closer until she’s just barely avoiding them.

They are mocking her, she knows. They speak in that silent language of theirs and mock her for carrying an unhatched egg.

She clutches it ever closer and prays that there is something, anything, out there that might take pity on her.

No response comes. And she takes matters into her own hands, sick of waiting and tired of the dark and the cold and the loneliness. She seizes the first opportunity she has and forces herself into those warmer waters.

The egg does not pulse at her. Does not imitate her heartbeat.

The egg drags her down, makes the ascent difficult. There are many opportunities to abandon it. To untie the sling that keeps it close and watch it sink into the depths. Just another sibling to join the graveyard she’s left behind.

But this egg has colour. This egg has the potential for life and she cannot bring herself to abandon the thing that has pushed her forward this entire time. Cannot abandon the opportunity for companionship.

Until she does.

Until the warmer waters prove to be hostile too, and the land begins to look more and more safe as the days roll by. Time had been an unknown thing in the dark depths, but here there is a clear order to it, a darkness and a light. A day and a night.

The salmon here are more vicious. Faster. They have fed well on the prospering lands in a way their relatives in the deep had not. The salmon there had been meek, she realises, in comparison to these warm-water salmon.

It is with a heavy heart and a decision that is not as easy as breathing – she may say it is, in the future, a tease, to a companion she hadn’t known she lost until she found him again – but it is not easy now.

It is not easy to rip through the sling, grief slowing her movements. She tucks the egg away into a place it will be safe. Somewhere the salmon do not patrol.

The warmth seems to have done the egg some good.

That new confidence, that new hope, allows her to lean close to the egg, floating serenely in the shallow and muddy waters of a swamp, and bring her mouth close to the egg.

“You're okay,” she breathes. “You’ve got to be okay. You’ve got to be. You're okay.” She doesn’t recognise the sound of her own voice. It is as though a stranger is speaking her mind, is speaking with her mouth. It is her voice, she knows, but it is not one she recognises. “Please,” she begs. “Please be okay.”

The egg does nothing.

She cannot help but be relieved. The fear of the egg echoing her words back to her; there being nothing within the egg other than the false hopes she has built up over the last several centuries. All of it has been proven false.

She strokes a hand over the egg and swims away.

She doesn’t look back as she pokes her head out of the water, observing the dry sand ahead of her. Leading into a lushness that looks like an entire field of seagrass, only above ground. A great, large greenness stretches up towards the sky behind it, like an entire kelp forest.

She cannot help but glance back then, when she can no longer see the egg, bidding it a farewell. It will find her, she tells herself. When it hatches, it will find her, and she will no longer be alone. And it will be warm.

The sun is warm as she climbs out the water, thoughts of the egg trickling away as easily as the water trickles away from her skin.

She stands beneath the sun, feels the warmth of it on her back, staring off into the distance. She blinks, and then shakes her head, wet hair flicking about her face and sticking to her skin.

There had been something…something that she can’t remember.

There was…something important in the swamp?

Well, can’t have been that important if she’s forgotten it!

[humblequestvinyl]

mountain with a view

MOUNTAIN WITH A VIEW, EDDIE DIAZ X FEM!READER

APART OF THE ‘ROLLING UP THE WELCOME MAT’ SERIES

SUMMARY: after one too many late nights, y/n l/n is sitting at their kitchen table, debating if her and her husband's marriage is even worth fighting for.

inspired by mountain with a view, by kelsea ballerini

previous chapter, | next chapter,

lowercase is intentional! wc: 1.9k

warning: angst!!!!! swearing, marriage problems, trust issues (?) if there’s anything i missed let me know!

a/n: AHHH NEW SERIES W EDDIE <33! i'm so excited for this!! also my deepest apologies in advance bc i am so mean to eddie in this LMFAOO hope u guys enjoy <333

“COUNTRY STAR Y/N L/N HAS FILED FOR DIVORCE FROM HER HUSBAND, EDDIE DIAZ AFTER FIVE YEARS OF MARRIAGE.”

the voice of a news reporter flooded through the tv as photos of the former couple were placed on the screen. 

“L/N on instagram asked her fans on instagram to be mindful, and that both parties are fragile, and to respect their privacy.”the reporter went on, before a photo flashed of the h/c girl, “L/N is currently gearing up for her fifth album release; SUBJECT TO CHANGE this september.”

the video came to a stop, and she saw her best friend standing in front of her, with a horrified look on his face, “you and eddie are getting a divorce?” her heart hurt. this wasn’t how she wanted him to find out.

“it was bound to happen buck.”y/n’s voice was strained due to all of the crying she had done for the past two months, with a heavy feeling in her chest, “you and i both saw this coming.”

“i didn’t.” evan buckley’s voice dropped, and y/n slipped the shades to the top of her head, revealing her bloodshot eyes, “never once did i see this coming.”

“this wasn’t how we wanted you to find out.”her voice cracked, playing with the strings of her hoodie, “eddie said he was going to call you about it.” buck’s eyes watched as the girl avoided his eyes, refusing to make contact with them, knowing if she did she would probably burst into tears.

“why did you file for divorce?”

(TWO MONTHS BEFORE.)

STARING OUT THE BIG OPEN WINDOWS OF THEIR PENTHOUSE,

y/n could see the sun rising as she finished making breakfast for her and her stepson, making sure to leave some for her husband in case he came home in time.

eddie diaz and y/n l/n had first met when she was 21, and he was 23, one kick-starting on their music career, while one had just become a single parent to a son from a former marriage. somehow, they still made it work. getting married at 23 and 25,  going from texas, to los angeles, becoming a mother figure to his son chris, and making sure she could still go on tour.

they thought they had it all figured out, with everything working and a fixed schedule.

until they didn't.

so here she sat, waiting for her husband to come home while her stepson got ready for school, knowing she’d have to force a smile, make everything seem like it was okay, and be able to play the part of the perfect wife, perfect wife. it wasn’t until she smelt smoke that y/n realized the toast was burnt to absolute crisp, and was ruined, meaning she’d have to make more.  

“shit.”she muttered, rushing to make more, as she saw chris come down the hallway, and she forced a smile, brushing her h/c hair out of her face, making sure to tie it back.

“did you burn the toast again?”chris asked with a smile, and y/n forced a laugh, nodding before she brought over a plate with pancakes and eggs on them. “unfortunately, i did. i’m making more right now.”

a knock on the front door came, before it opened, revealing carla, and she had a wide smile spread across her face as she came in, and y/n waved as the toast popped up, less burnt than before. quickly placing it on a plate, and putting it on the table, making it so chris would be able to get to school on time.

“you go get ready for the day, i’ll make sure chris eats.”carla told the 28 year old, giving her a soft smile, and y/n nodded, before rushing off towards her room, and grabbing the clothing she needed for that day.

walking into the bathroom after she had changed, her eyes glanced down, seeing a wedding band that wasn’t hers sitting on the counter. 

it was her husband’s.

she felt anger run through her, with a million thoughts racing through her mind. why would he take it off? or why did he leave it at home? did he forget it? did he take it off intentionally before he left for work? 

why did he take it off?

“bye n/n!’chris yelled, breaking the girl out of her thoughts, and she gripped the counter, trying to keep her anger under check. “have a good day at school chris!”she yelled back, and the front door slammed, as she took a deep breath in.

it was a few moments before she walked back out towards the kitchen, noticing everything was put away, except for the burnt toast. opening up her refrigerator, y/n grabbed the butter out, and brought it over towards the kitchen table, before spreading the butter against the toast, and taking a bite out of it.

her eyes scanned back over the mountains as the clock struck 7:30 am, realizing her husband was over three hours late coming home, and had missed seeing his son in the morning for the second time that week.

it killed her. it absolutely killed her that he wasn’t coming home, and she was the one who was carrying all of that weight on her shoulders, trying to keep this marriage going when it was all one sided. she felt like a glass plate, and was breaking into a million pieces.

hearing boots come towards her, her head snapped towards it, seeing her husband eddie diaz walking towards her, before placing a kiss on the top of her head, with no words spoken between the two.  the tension in the air made her uncomfortable. it was so thick that you could almost cut it through it with a knife.

it was a while before any words were spoken between the two, and when they were, they were laced with anger and confusion.

“you left your ring at home.”y/n spoke up, taking another bite of the burnt toast, afraid to see the look her husband was giving her, “and you were late coming home again.”

“i forgot it when i left.”eddie admitted, glancing over at his wife for a moment, before looking back at his plate of food, “and i was finishing up something with buck.”

wrong. he wasn’t with buck, because buck had texted y/n back at five, saying he hadn’t seen eddie since he left his shift at 4am. 

“what? you don’t believe me?”eddie questioned, as y/n got up to throw the toast away, keeping silent for a moment, debating on how to handle the situation, before she shook her head no.

“i don’t believe you.”y/n admitted, placing the plate in the sink, avoiding eye contact with him, and she could feel the anger radiating off of him, “because buck texted me at five that he hadn’t seen you since you left your shift at four.”

she saw eddie freeze, knowing he had gotten caught into a lie, and y/n had seen right through it. he wouldn’t be able to hide whatever he was away for.

“okay fine, i wasn’t with buck.”eddie admitted, causing y/n to lean up against the kitchen counter, facing her husband to read his body language.

“so, where were you?”

“i don’t understand why you need to know.”eddie shrugged, getting defensive, causing y/n to read all the red flag, “it doesn’t matter to you at all.”

“it does matter to me eddie.”y/n spoke softly, fearing of an argument breaking out, but it was enviable with the two. “i want to make sure you’re not sitting in the goddamn morgue.”

“well guess what, i’m not.”eddie spewed, catching y/n off guard, “i’m standing right in front of you, trying to eat breakfast while you’re bothering me.”

“because i want for you to realize that i’m worried about you.”she told him, and she could tell he was dismissive, “i wait up for you every night, only for you to not come home until chris is about to leave for school.”

“and i never asked you to do that.”he stabbed his eggs with his fork, and y/n tensed up, “that’s your own doing for staying up and waiting.” y/n gave him a look as she took his words like gut punches, making her absolutely sick, “maybe you should just stop staying up and waiting.”

“maybe you should come home on time.”y/n shot back, folding her arms as she watched him closely, “to the family you have. to your son.”

“i do!”eddie defended, and y/n shook her head, “no you don’t! for the past four months you’ve been late coming home after every single shift eddie!” 

“you’re forgetting your ring, you’re not coming home on time and you’re distant.”y/n pointed out as eddie brushed past her to put his plate in the sink, and walked towards their shared bathroom, slipping his wedding band on, “there! are you happy now?”

“no i’m not!”y/n exclaimed as eddie started to change, and she followed him, “we’ve been in and out of therapy for the past three years and absolutely nothing has changed eddie. i’m so tired of it.”

“i mentally cannot handle another year of us being just fine.”y/n whispered, causing eddie to snap his head towards her, with a shocked look spread across his face, “what are you trying to say?”

“i want a divorce.”y/n spoke aloud, making all of her feelings real, and she saw eddie’s face fall.

“you want a divorce? all because i’m taking extra shifts to try and provide for our family? to pay for the mortgage for the house you insisted we had to have.”he shot back, and y/n felt her anger bubble over, causing her to snap, “you don’t even pay for the house! i do! it’s under my name and everything! not yours!”

“i’m the one who pays for the cleaners, the groceries, the electric!”she yelled, as the two stood in their bedroom, one that hadn’t felt like theirs in months. “i feel like i’m the only one who’s doing all the work all the time because you’re never home!”

“you loved me way more at 23 than you do now eddie, and that's a fact.”she told him as she brushed past him to pack a bag, “i cannot keep doing this anymore.”

“you’re just like your parents. giving up way too easy on our marriage.” eddie swore, and y/n felt something snap inside of her. “first off, don’t you dare talk about my parents! secondly, i have tried for months to get through to you.”

“you’re the one who never came to nashville when i called you begging to hop on that flight, one i paid for by the way!”y/n exclaimed, zipping up the bag she had packed, “i knew you had the week off and didn’t have chris at all and you still refused to come.”

“i’m done trying eddie.”she finished, before storming past him and walking towards the front door of their penthouse.

“so you’re done?”he questioned as she grabbed her car keys, and opened up the front door, staring right back at him with tears in her e/c eyes.

“this is when it’s over for me.”