#THIS IS OOC SO PLEASE EXCUSE ME

[bloodbathfortwo]

Alex Forbes will never forget how much he yearned to hold Nigel Colbie on their wedding night. He wanted to taste his skin, temptation thumping in his veins, his hands were itching to pin him down, see his whole weight pressure the life off of Nigel's wrists, wanting to see the lines he'd leave on his skin, the way his parched throat is seeking his heavenly waters: He felt like a lecherous teenage boy. But for all he knows, he cannot wait to be one with his beloved Maraclea.

[al-luviec]

id like to thank ninjago episode snake jaguar for everything but nothing all at the same time

[billys-mullet]

To say Steve's life was a little strange would be an understatement.

Completing tests and juggling the trials and tribulations of high school was one thing. To do all of that while also fighting off inter-dimensional creatures reminiscent of dogs was another.

It's a good thing he's a cat-person.

—

"You sure do eat a lot."

The dim glow of the light overhead sent a grungy yellow over the concrete of his front porch. It was a little after six and the sun was in the midst of setting. Steve was crouched, weight leaned back on his calves, while tired eyes took in the furious chowing of the stray before him. It was a mangy thing; fur matted and eyes wild, more plump than it had been when they first met. It was cute despite its ragged appearance: fluffy and feline, whiskers curled at the ends, coat the color of sunshine with eyes like the ocean. Kind of unusual for a cat. He hadn't seen anything like it before.

They'd been playing this little game for weeks now. Steve had found it rummaging through his trash can during the last bit of this month's cold snap and had called animal control at his mother's urging. The poor worker had been flushed with exertion after an hour of attempting to get it trapped and handled.

He's smart, the man had panted, cheeks ruddy and sweat beading beneath the brim of his cap. He had wiped over his forehead before continuing, but not smarter than us. I'll set up a trap, give it a few days, and then I'll be back. He's sure to slip in there if you make sure to bait it right.

And Steve had. Diligently — to not get any part of himself stuck in the metal cage — he had placed some treats in there, had even gone out to buy a couple of cans of wet stuff that smelled metallic and meaty. Each morning, without fail, he would come back to see the trap undisturbed… and the food missing. He had even made eye contact with the stray once while he had been setting everything up. It seemed to be taunting him from its perch high on the one of the barren oak trees in his backyard. Its eyes had been too wise and too knowing, like the Cheshire Cat leering over Alice.

A week went by without trapping him. Steve didn't have the heart to tell the animal control worker that their efforts had been useless, so he made up some lie: yeah, I came out the other day and the door had snapped shut on its neck. It was gross so I put it in a bag and threw it away. The man had shrugged, gave him a it happens and then had collected his trap without any other questions. Fast forward a few weeks and Steve seemed to have built up some trust with the thing.

Had even given him a cute nickname despite his feral appearance: Billy the Kid, after a character in the Westerns he sometimes saw his dad watching on the rare occasion that he was home. Mother had never been a fan of animals, much less cats. They smell, she complained in her heavy accent, and the hair, Stephano! The hair will get everywhere in my home! Do not bring them here, I will not like it. Steve hadn't ever questioned her rules because he had felt the same. Growing up without pets did that to a person. But something about this cat…

Leaning his cheek against a hand, Steve continued with his fruitless efforts to befriend the stray, "it's supposed to get cold again, you know. That's probably why you're eating so much, huh? I think I heard somewhere that animals have a sixth sense for that kind of thing. Nancy said that birds will leave their nests and travel far away if they sense a storm coming. Can cats do that?" God, he probably looked so lame sitting here, trying to strike up a conversation with an animal that wanted nothing to do with him if it didn't involve food. The cat licked its lips, easing away from the mostly-empty bowl. Steve sighed, a long and low sound, before pushing himself up to his feet.

"Are you done?"

Ocean eyes stared up at him wordlessly. He reached down to collect the bowl, only to snap back when it hissed at him, revealing its delicate and needle-like teeth. Both of Steve's hands came up in surrender.

"Fine, I'll leave it."

The cat grumbled a displeased noise before sitting back on its hind legs. One of his front paws came up, pink tongue lolling out to lick over it, and then he used it to wipe his face. Well, at least he was attempting to clean himself. Kind of a pointless effort when it rummaged around in his trash can every other evening. Steve leaned against his front door, arms crossed over his chest as he took in the darkening evening. Billy peered one ocean eye at him. Always watching. Waiting. Probably thought he was trying to trap him again. The smart thing would be to do that, but…

Steve was lonely. And, as pathetic as it sounded, this was one of the few things he looked forward to every evening.

"It's nice and warm inside," he said offhandedly, nonchalantly, like it was no big deal. A move like that usually worked with the ladies, and they could be finicky like a cat, so why not give it a shot? "And there's a lot more food inside. Water, too. Milk? Can cats have milk? I think Nancy also said--"

Fuck, was he really talking to himself like a loser? This was so lame. Had Steve Harrington really fallen so far from grace that he found solace in a cat of all things?

"Whatever," he sighed before turning the knob and pushing open the door he'd been leaned against, "What I'm trying to say is that you can come inside if you want. As long as you don't pee on anything. Mom'll kill us both."

Billy watched him silently, tail twitching side-to-side behind him in an interested jerk. There was an obvious language barrier but the light spilling out from the interior of the Harrington home looked inviting against the twilight of the evening. The promise of shelter and food was universally understood, and the cat took a tentative step forward. And then another. And then he was pausing to stare up at Steve. Apprehension was written all over its face, but Steve jerked his head and shrugged with a well, what are you waiting for?

That seemed to seal the deal; Billy stepped inside and the door was shut behind him.

—

To say Steve's life was a little strange would be an understatement.

And it was only about to get stranger.

[velvserum]

When you’re not here

A/N: really old writing, probably better than my more recent ones but still not exactly good. i did like it for a period of time before though, so i figured i should post it- it kind of makes me cringe AKISMEKD so if there’s a warning for that here’s the warning 💀

originally this was supposed to be a scene in my fanfic but i ended up scrapping it since it deviated from the plot and didn’t fit the overall vibe

this is unfinished, but hopefully i’ll finish it someday and post on ao3

Summary: It’s attempt after attempt, Dazai can’t be bothered for any type of care after but a certain redhead is irritably persistent. Dazai might be a little too comfortable with this arrangement, but you didn’t hear that from him.

TW: disassociation, vague mentions of suicide attempt

—————————————————————————

-Cold.

He was more accustomed to that.

There's cold water that spites his skin, the icy drench searing down his back in quick bucket-fulls. As always, it borders on painful, frigid and unforgiving, brutally materializing against his flesh.

Dazai dreads showers a majority of the time, what with all the effort he has to exert even to a partial cleaning. Keeping his wobbly worn legs up as the fatigue pushes down his shoulders, having the dull light flicker while he navigates through automated motions, disconnected with his body even as he peers down at it. He's immobile, in those few moments. His skin being free of bandages, prickle with goosebumps, all seizing him in a frozen lake. The pressure and temperature is harsh, as are most things in his life. The water is so frosted against his body that sometimes he forgets to breathe while violently submerging his head via bucket until he’s gasping for air he hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of earlier.

Dazai thought it only fair for him to match his exteriors with his internal blemishes. Cold and impersonal. What does it matter if it’s unconventional? His existence was unconventional.

…

Warm.

In current time, Dazai can only vaguely make out the few complaints from Chuuya in the background, the first thing he hears after hours being the blocked out voices of 'why the fuck is your water so cold', 'jesus fucking christ how do you live like this-' ‘you’re not a masochist? i’d be shocked. ‘place is goddamn mental,’ and so on, but Dazai's more encapsulated with the feeling of warm water swirling in waves against his body. For once, he can breathe, it's so comfortable that his own body melts, unwinding hours and hours of strain.

Warm. It's warm.

And where Chuuya’s voice is violent and difficult, gets made up by how deceivingly gentle his hands are, pressing a damp towel cautiously across dazais scars that he has yet to witness until now. Hesitant. Unsteady. As if it held the possibility of becoming too rough- even though most were long by now healed. It was foreign to Dazai, to have touch directed at him that cradled instead of scorning.

‘Comical’, is what it really is.

Dazai has never been this kind to himself. He doesn’t think he could be. Never bothered with the pressure, as long as it got done. Never let the air around him feel like it was something he could breathe in. Never gingerly ran a towel over, making sure it was fine.

Yet, here Chuuya was. The biggest brute he's ever seen, being soft.

And.. to Dazai of all things.

His legs lay limply stretched out in the tub while his body remains as sluggish as his mind. The rest of the bandages were either discarded into a bin or scattered in hefty waters that ripple under the moonlight's cast, leaving him bare for all he is.

Dazai squints, discerning through fog- the feel of his bare skin against someone else's, the dust particles floating around, the way the water sways leisurely, the damp hair that’s matted on his face and his surroundings that oddly feel less empty.

He couldn’t recall this place ever feeling this bright either. It surges with a new light that he could only ever describe as Chuuya himself, everywhere that brat goes fires up and leaves a flame in its wake. Even his own dreary apartment is somehow less repulsive, replacing the nauseous green with a midnight blue hue and-– was it always like that? He’s taken his fair trade of late showers well into the night but the moon's beams have never fought its way through the window in such a noticeable mirage.

The scene is quiet, with Dazai zoning in and out of his head while Chuuya’s muted mutters flow out unfiltered.

The redhead’s ungloved hand presses onto his shoulders, the remains of soap wiping away the icked feeling of an unclean ocean. Soothing, grounding, safe. They’re firm, so much so that maybe just slightly, the backlash he’s gotten from gasping for oxygen he couldn’t obtain, quiets. Winding down into a shaky, yet copeable feeling.

Dazai blinks away the rest of the blurriness, coming back to reality when Chuuya’s hand kneads into his hair.

Oh, he’s talking.

“—Fuckin’ ass, do you even use your heater because the last time I took a shower here I got dunked in your shitty-”

“—Nawh.” Dazai finally replies.

Chuuya’s face switches with surprise, his movements halting the slightest bit before he’s back to glaring.

“Well you should more often, seriously, even my fridge isn’t that goddamn cold.”

“Mm.” He leans back against cold ceramic, “Chuuya’s trying to blame me for his deficient fridge?”

Chuuya huffs, making a more forceful tug on his hair while still managing to keep it from hurting Dazai. ‘Cause he’s weirdly compassionate ‘n crappy like that.

“You’re deficient,” He growls.

Yeah.

“Y—”

“—But you don’t deserve any of that bullshit.” Chuuya cuts in, massaging the back of Dazai’s head but keeps his thumbs near his temples. “A kick, though? You’d deserve that.” He mutters.

Dazai huffs a laugh, unhumorous.

Chuuya’s not ‘nice’ in any sense.

He’s brash, and harsh, and his face and his words are thickened with repulsion.

Even right now, he’s swatting insults at Dazai nonstop, acting like they’re heathens bickering down a mall instead of being in the aftermath of an attempt. Chuuya, whereas others would think to apply comfort in their voice, feigning a sweet lulling tone, decides to maintain his ridiculic slander.

And everyday, without hesitation, Chuuya slaps a snarl at the start of every conversation and barbarically forces Dazai out of his comfort zone— out of his goddamn mind.

“Chibi’s so mean.”

“As deserved.” Chuuya repeats, and pushes Dazai’s bangs back.

The water swivels, making small sounds that resemble the ones on the beach.

—But still. Chuuya’s not treating him like glass- like he’s suddenly stopped being himself after the attempt. As if he’s not just some washed up anomaly sitting where he didn’t belong—

“..You won’t ask?” Dazai mumbles after a moment.

There’s a small period of time where Chuuya goes quiet, hands still ruffling through Dazai’s hair. His eyebrows furrow in thought, lost in what to say.

“You wanna talk?”

“I don’t know,”

“Hm,” Chuuya hums in response, before adding, “Close your eyes.”

Dazai does. A trickle of water is poured.

“It was colder,” He numbly recites, after a while, and ends there.

Colder might be an over exaggeration, he realizes.

It’s not that much different from any other time he’s attempted. It’s not any different than the life he’s lived.

‘Colder’ however might be snow freshly fallen on newly woken skin, colder might be frozen ice cubes and red palms, colder might be a night walk out, colder might be badly chosen attire on a dead winter day.

Or colder could be the blood pumping through his veins, that never seem to provide him any sort of warmth other than basic bodily function.

“Wow, really? No shit, sherlock.”

“—What? You wanted to know.”

“I asked if you wanted to talk. But this? Get your shit off the table, Dazai. Way off the table.”

God.

Dazai rolls his eyes, irritation flickering at the back of his head. “Don’t you think you’re asking for too much?”

“I think you owe it to me,” He mumbles back.

“That would be the case, if you gave useful feedback in the first place,”

Right. Maybe he just misconstrued Chuuya’s insults as passive when they were actually tired and annoyed. Chuuya’s compassion isn’t eternal and as far as Dazai knows, luck does not play well into his whims.

He shouldn’t have expected Chuuya to be all that into him after this anyways. Just as rightfully so, he supposes. And there is an eventual end to everything, though unfortunately he was already too deep into Chuuya’s nonsensical juvenile dog schedule after the past few months, but the bombs finally dropped. He can finally go back to—

“Well then say something useful first for once,” Chuuya huffs.

His hands are firm, yet smooth as they scrub into his scalp. Dazai can recognize a low grumble of frustration and exasperation in his voice.

“You don’t have to fuckin’ pour your heart out, or..any shit— but all that cryptic crap? Don’t do that. You’re in your own head, okay? I can see the gears in your head working and it’s late and I don’t have 5 hours to deconstruct it all. Just speak to me.”

…

His eyebrows furrow.

Chuuya’s pushy. Like hell.

But it doesn’t take acting nice to be kind.

He looks at him bitterly despite that.

“You already know what I’m thinking though,”

Not that he’s at all comfortable with the idea.

“It’s nicer to be listened to than to be told.” Chuuya asserts.

Dazai doesn’t know what to say to that, so, he settles with: “You tell me off everyday.”

“Consider this a one time offer.”

He frowns. “I don’t accept offers from little boy scouts,”

“Are you always this damn insufferable?”

“Are mutts always this high maintenance?”

“As if you don’t spoil your own fucking cat.”

“Mind you, that is my baby,” Dazai argues, then continues, uninterested. “Chuuya just wishes he had the likeability of a feline when all he retains is the image of a pathetic, ill-mannered, invasive pooch.”

“God, would it kill you to not be such an ass for once? What, you have brain damage all of a sudden? Is that it?”

Dazai’s forehead feels like static.

“We’re on the topic of damage now? Great, we can finally discuss yours—”

“Are you really that goddamn desperate that you’ll go there?.

“Then what?” Dazai clicks, “ Do you really think ‘talking it out’ is going to ‘fix’ anything? Are you that naive, Chuuya?”

He doesn’t know what happens in those few moments,

Chuuya’s entire face drops from being stoic to him snorting, a signature grin on his face. The kind someone makes when they have a victory but off. Tired, but relieved. It irks and prickles Dazai, until Chuuya speaks up again—

“It’s working for your dumb ass right now, isn’t it?”

What?

“You talk, and then I don’t have to see that dead fish look in your eyes.”

Dazai’s face contorts.

And Chuuya’s eye’s are drilling into his skin.

Another crack, another slip, another barrier being torn down ruthlessly by the redheads' rough, molding hands.

It hasn’t occurred to him that the lone act of their quarreling was beginning to serve as a replacement for the chaos that resides rampant at his mind and core.

It’s unsettling.

It’s refreshing.

It’s….

“Besides, I’m not expecting a miracle, but if you’re as critical in your own head like you are with movies,” Chuuya bumps Dazai’s forehead with a knuckle, “Then get the fuck out of there.”

…it’s. Too. Much work.

If this was anyone else, Dazai would deny that statement.

If this was anyone else, Dazai would’ve gone home alone.

But fortunately for Chuuya, he’s too mentally plucked to forlong any roundabout way of disarming the subject.

(And yes, he’s going to ignore the way he’s been having a harder time even doing that recently. Just. Around Chuuya.)

Dazai huddles himself in the waters, eyes traveling to the rims of the tub.

How bad can it be?

Pretty bad.

Nothing’s worse than seeing a man literally drown in their sorrows, though.

Dazai sighs.

“It’s cold,” He reinstates.

Chuuya raises a brow.

He won’t stop there this time.

This is going somewhere. But hell if he knows to what point it’ll end up in.

He continues, akin to a child. A small, pouting child.

“Humans thrive in the warmth and decay in the cold, we experience hypothermia and then it’s the cruelest thing in nature. You know what happens? It tricks your body into thinking it’s warm when it’s freezing. Changes your breathing pattern. Messes you up. Some things just shouldn’t be part of human nature. Some things just shouldn’t exist.”

“Some things exist because they need to,” The bucket, with a huff, again gets kicked under the facet to build up water, “And sometimes they just do. It’s natural order. And you’re better for it, because you learned. You know better now.”

Dazai’s features adorn in a dour laugh, “I didn’t know Chuuya was so pro-hypothermia,”

The redhead's face immediately turns sour, resembling more casual nights before this one. Chuuya will always be Chuuya, easy to aggravate and even easier to taunt. Of course, usually, in dazai’s case, those two go hand in hand.

“Bad example.” Chuuya’s nose scrunches, “Just, shut up- you make everything so black and white, so fuck me I guess for trying to find the good,”

The good?

“The good?” Dazai reiterates, “It’s hypothermia,”

“It’s you,”

Ugh. Just, Ugh.

“....You have no tact to save your life,” Dazai groans, “I don’t need you to lie to make me feel ‘good’.”

“Hah? The last thing I ever want is to end up flattering you,” Chuuya huffs “I’m just saying, plain and simple.”

As the redhead continues, he meets Dazai’s gaze head on, “Stop comparing yourself to hypothermia, it’s ridiculous. You don’t freeze people over but you are fucking freezing. You want a real reason for that? Because it’s definitely not because of some messed up logic about how you’re born that way- it’s because you go to stupid beaches to get stupid frozen in stupid water that’s racked in stupid cold weather.”

Dazai frowns.

“For someone offering me free range to speak, you sure are critical.”

“And you’re still talking in analogies, you want me to read you like a book? I’ll treat you like a damn book.”

[ask-the-totally-real-peppino]

oh no sorry you had a bad day. hope it gets better soon

have a cookie 🍪

(Thank you! I am doing much better today!

[bowsnbots]

//-See, NOW we're cooking (not soup, unfortunately)

[daz4i]

maybe it's bc I'm arospec but my take is that viewing certain ships as romantic simply takes away from anything interesting or unique about them. the idea that romance is the end goal of every relationship sucks enough irl as is but in fiction it makes people lose their creativity i fear

[bestboygav]

Starter/Inbox Call! Like this (and comment) if: You want to start plotting (I’ll scout out your dms)! You’d like a random starter! Or You’re okay with me sending asks your way! (or if you'd like for me to randomly send them!)

If multimuse, please specify who! (or put 'your choice' and I'll randomly pick!)

[suddencolds]

i've def heard of people having to be in the right headspace to write like, v thirsty/self-indulgent snz content, but somehow i find it equally difficult to be in the right headspace to write angst

[top-shelf-tender]

Me: *vibrating*

Anyone: “…so who’s Viranna—?”

Me: “OH I’M SO GLAD YOU ASKED—”

[sorrowssinger]

I am on mobile and I can’t find your muse list anywhere

So this is actually a mixed blog. It's mostly a hub for my other rp blogs and a blog for my OC characters as well as Tolkien muses I want to try out.

My semi-active OC list:

Mithenaro (Noldor Elf)

Sarnaro (Sindar Elf)

Amaurea (Half Telerin half Noldor)

Turelio (Amaurea's brother)

My other muses/blogs (I do have more but these are the most active of them and so got listed)

Turgon

Maglor

torturedbrilliance (multi-fandom multi-muse the listed muses change here a little but it is a mixed bag with Assassin's Creed, Dragonlance, Naruto, and others)

lordsxfgondor (Tolkien Humans from Gondor)

thiefxking (Zelda blog currently Ganondorf main but also Link both OoT inspired)

[tvrningout-a]

y'all... new chiyo fc?? new chiyo fc :' ))

i've been iconing while i watch a.tsv and just!! she's so cute <3 and i'm so excited bc this is the closest i've gotten to a proper time-skip fc who matches what i imagine!! bc i've always thought that she'd stop dying her hair as she got older and let the brown grow out. and even the waviness of her hair matches up and i'm!! just really pleased uvu

[jeoseungsaja]

me, realizing that Hyurick just had tHeIR FIRST KISS oN HYuk'S BiRThdAY:

[artekai]

Rebooting systems…

All systems online. Thank you for your patience.

When I come to, the first sensation I register is the low temperature of the room, followed by the soft sounds of breathing from a human sitting in front of me. As I open my eyes, my facial recognition software nearly instantly identifies the individual as Fross van der Meer, roboticist, member of Far Zenith, age 968, pronouns he/him. The combination of abundant black hair, freckles on his pale skin, shiny blue eyes, and youthful appearance, makes him easily stand out against the other thirteen faces in my Far Zenith database.

Huh. Thirteen faces. Something feels… off about that number. My first instinct is to scroll quickly enough to cover at least forty more faces within microseconds, but there are only fourteen Zeniths in total?

His voice interrupts my thoughts. “Tell me if you can hear me.”

I nod. “Affirmative.”

He lifts one hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.”

“Good.” Fross is giving me a flat, but piercing stare. “Who are you?”

“I am FZ-0102.” I recite. “Originally manufactured in 2053 by Faro Automated Solutions as  part of a venture into defense bots that could realistically pass as human for undercover missions, I was repurposed in 2062 to become a multiservitor to Far Zenith.” I then smile a little. “But I simply call myself Carlos.”

“Don’t call yourself anything. You are a machine.” He says, tapping something into the holo screens behind him. He then looks back at me. “Who am I?”

“Fross van der Meer.” I say. “Roboticist, member of Far Zenith, age 968, pronouns he/him.”

He looks away at that, a pained smile on his face. “God, don’t remind me of how old I am…” He laments. “I’m biologically in my twenties.”

I make a mental note not to bring up Fross’s age again.

“Now, save this in your maintenance logs.” He says, glancing at the holoscreen to read from his notes. “Major hardware repairs. Minor improvements to visual stimuli reception. Minor improvements to language processing skills. Cleanup of technical and personal memory drive, spanning years 2065 through 3012. Did you get all of that?”

“Yeah.” I say, shifting in my seat. That explains the gap in my memories… It does feel like all this time has passed in a blur — simultaneously dragging out for forever and flying by in seconds, leaving no trace behind. The lack of memories does feel uncomfortable, even though I’m sure I must have requested it… So I dare to ask. “Any particular reason for the memory wipe?”

“It would defeat the purpose if I told you, wouldn’t it?” Fross smiles at me, though it doesn’t reach his eyes, before he turns back to his holoscreen. “You were long overdue for a hard reset anyways. It should help keep your sentience levels within legal limits.”

Like I’m supposed to believe that Far Zenith gives two shits about legality now. In space. But, then again, I suppose humans have always been scared of the things that they created themselves. Even taking into account their shields and their immortality treatments, if I developed sentience, I would be considered a threat… Which is understandable, I guess. I’d probably blow all of the Zeniths’ heads clean off, if my programming weren’t stopping me.

Not like it matters, anyway… I’ll never be sentient. That’s why I’ll never belong with humans, why they’ll never accept me, and, most importantly, why they might never love me back. I can’t help the junk I was built with, no matter how much I want to.

“What is it like?” I mutter, hands on my lap and eyes on the ground, while Fross taps away at the holoscreen. I then tilt my head, adding, “Being sentient, I mean.”

“Sentience is a curse.” Fross says, brows knitting. He turns to fix me in a glare as some sort of warning. “You’re better off the way you are now, so don’t get any ideas. Run full diagnostics for me.”

I do as I’m told. It takes a bit under 0.8 seconds. “All systems operational.”

“Good. There’s only one last thing I want to check.” Fross looks up at me again. “What is your primary directive?”

“My primary directive is to protect Fross van der Meer’s life and safety,” I recite, though the words tasting unfamiliar on my tongue, giving me a bit of pause. “With the caveat that I cannot give the rest of Far Zenith any reason to think that my directive has changed at all.”

Man. That’ll be a pain in the ass. Non-sentient beings are notoriously bad liars, according to humans. But if I fail to perform up to standards, Far Zenith will surely deactivate me and tear me apart for scrap they can reuse...

Oh shit.

I lunge forward as soon as I catch a glimpse of a scalpel in Fross’s hand, as he pulls his arm back and attempts to stab himself on the forearm. Thank god I stop him just in time — and, before I know it, I’m holding his wrists tightly, leaning over him, my face only centimeters away from his.

His eyes widen, lips parting slightly as he stares into my own eyes, as if he hadn’t expected me to react so quickly.

“God.” He mutters. “You feel almost human, but you’re so strong…” A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, and I can physically feel it when his eyes start scanning me all over, really taking in my appearance like he hadn’t before. “Despite everything, you’re still a marvel of engineering.”

My processor skips a bit at those words, taken off-guard by the unbridled awe in his voice. He called me a marvel of engineering. And he’s an engineer, so he must know what he’s talking about! That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me since… since Takuto…

“Thank you.” I say. “Please don’t injure yourself.”

“I’m not going to. I was testing your reflexes.” He wrenches his hand, but his pitiful pull is nothing about my mechanical iron grip. He frowns at that. “Let me go.”

I turn my gaze towards the scalpel, as I let go of his free hand and pry the tool away from him. Only then do I fully back off, closing my fingers over the blade of the scalpel to avoid any damage even if either he or I make a wrong move.

“Jesus.” I detect what seems like indignation at my perfectly reasonable security methods in his voice. But he still seems somewhat flustered? I’m not sure how to interpret that…

“Anyways, pair with my implant, I’ll give you access to my geolocation and biometric data.” He waves his hand in resignation, letting out a sigh. “I really shouldn’t be doing this, but I trust I’ll get it right this time. As long as you don’t have admin privileges…”

I should be questioning what he means by “this time,” but it’s not my place to ask. There is a reason why he wiped my memories, after all. I have to trust it was a good one.

In any case, Fross gives me access as soon as I request it. Immediately, I get flooded by kilobytes of information on his cardiac rhythm, breathing patterns, oxygen levels, hormonal balance, nutritional needs, allergies, pain response, hydration, amount of steps he has walked today, how many hours of REM sleep he has on average, and the way each of these factors has fluctuated throughout his entire life. Or, at least, since he had the implant installed.

God, it’s all useless. To me. I’m not some sort of algorithm, I’m primarily a bodyguard bot. All I really need to know is where he is, and whether his lungs are still breathing and his heart is still beating. That is all.

This is… oof. It’s a lot, to be honest. It’s actually making me light-headed…

But there is one thing that piques my interest, one of those aforementioned basics. The ability to track Fross’s heartbeat.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Thrumming nicely inside my head.

It’s really taking me back to an easier time, long before the Faro Plague, when I would lay my head over Takuto’s chest at night and press my ear against his skin, listening for his heartbeat. The consistent, comforting sound would lull me to something akin to sleep…

It’s... relaxing.

Does Fross realize that, by helping himself, he’s inadvertently helping me too? This is the closest I’ll ever get to having my own heartbeat. It might actually help me get some peaceful rest tonight…

I’m interrupted by a text-only transmission. “Copy me?”

He didn’t say anything out loud or move his lips at all. I respond the same way. “Copied.”

“Good. We’ll need a private means of communication if we want to avoid detection by the rest of Far Zenith. We’re done here. Dismissed.”

Well. I guess it’s time to leave and pretend that my first priority is still serving Far Zenith as a whole, then. It’s hard to believe I’m physically linked to Fross now… That is a disaster waiting to happen, for sure. But, no matter where this goes, I have to admit I’m actually a little excited to play along and watch the wreckage happen. It’s about time, after all.

[moonlightdestruction]

[gcroinya]

I haven't seen h.ouse of dr.agon nor was I in a rush to, but that one scene of that guy flying on his dragon shouting "taobe!!" Is really making me reconsider my life