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hatsbuckets · 1 month ago

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What I threw together because I'm currently stuck on a plane because storms :( Airport Headcanons lol

Pairings: Price x Reader. Ghost x Soap. 141 x Reader? Poly141?

Warnings: noonnnee??? Airport. Ghost being a little anxious. Turbulence on a plane but it's all okay! You can infer poly141 or not.

WC: ~1400

✨ Terminal 141 ✨

You’d never seen a group of elite soldiers look more like lost, restless lions in a cage.

Well, maybe not Soap. Soap was currently elbows-deep in a Hudson News kiosk, holding a bag of spicy chips in one hand and a stress ball shaped like the Earth in the other.

“Do we need this?” he asked, half to you, half to the air.

“Do you need it?” Gaz called from a few feet ahead, already halfway through scanning the next digital boarding pass. He didn’t wait for an answer, just smiled that effortless, charming smile at the airline worker who hadn’t even asked him to hurry up. “We’re all set, love, thanks.”

You stood near Price, who—despite being in civilian clothes—somehow looked like he belonged at a war table, not Gate 14A. He had one hand on the strap of your carry-on, the other loosely curled around your fingers.

“Y’alright?” he asked, voice low and steady. It helped, always did.

Ghost was hovering. Not in a bad way, just...watchful. Backpack on one shoulder, a duffel on the other. Your bags, Soap’s bag, and Gaz’s laptop bag. His black medical mask was pulled tight across his face, and he hadn’t spoken since security.

At security, you saw his eyes flick to the body scanner, then to the TSA officer who was already eyeing the man built like a tank in head-to-toe black.

“He’s with us,” Gaz said smoothly, stepping in, ever the diplomat. “Wanna keep the line movin’ huh?”

The TSA agent blinked. Ghost didn’t flinch. You reached forward, calm and easy, and touched Ghost’s elbow.

“C’mon,” you murmured. “Almost through.”

He gave the smallest nod, and stepped forward.

…

Later, waiting at the gate, Soap handed you a bag of snacks bursting with chaos.

“Got you options,” he said proudly, setting it beside you with a wink. “Wasn’t sure if you were in a salty or sweet mood, so I figured—you know—both.”

“Very diplomatic of you,” you teased.

“Thank you. I’m an international delight.”

Price huffed a laugh from where he sat, legs stretched out, your bag under his feet like a human shield. He tilted his head toward you.

“Need anything before we board?”

“Just you,” you said, sliding closer to his side. His arm went around you without hesitation.

Ghost was still standing, eyes on the gate door, fingers tapping slowly against the strap of the bag he hadn’t put down.

Gaz, now fully in Charge of Everyone, walked up behind him. “Mate. Sit. They’ll call boarding soon. And no, you’re not carrying all of them on your own. That’s what the wheels are for.”

“They’ll slow us down.”

“It’s an airport, not a breach and clear. Relax."

Soap stretched out across the chairs, clearly unbothered. “Y’know, this is kinda nice.”

You looked around. You were surrounded by chaos, by noise, by strangers and static announcements and the ever-present beeping of service carts. But then you looked back at your boys.

Yeah. It was nice.

And when they finally called your group to board, it was Gaz who herded you all in. Ghost hovered behind you. Soap carried the spare snacks. Price never let go of your hand.

….

Boarding was easy enough. The little girl in her dad's arms in front of Gaz kept making faces at him. Gaz made them back with enthusiasm. Soap was the one who really laughed though.

The seating arrangement was constructed—to but it one way. Gaz pays extra to be able to pick the best seats, and he picks early enough to get all five tickets at the Exit Row. Ghost takes the window seat without the seat in front of it, the most leg room. Soap takes the seat next to him. Gaz takes the aisle of that row.

You typically take the window seat in the row in front of them. Price takes the seat next to you, the one next to Ghost's feet. But you, Price, and Gaz always find yourselves switching around depending on group needs.

The Captain announced that there's some turbulence on the route, some rain, but nothing major. And your little group is in the air.

…

You knew something was wrong the second the plane dipped, just a subtle drop.

Still, Ghost flinched.

Not loud, not hard, not enough for anyone but someone who knew him to catch it. So, you all did.

You could see him when you turned your head, looking back between the seats. His hand twitched on his thigh. His jaw tightened. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the stillness that wasn’t natural.

The turbulence wasn’t bad, not really. Nothing compared to what he’d seen, literally flying into gunfire. But it was the helplessness of it. The lack of immediate exits, no parachutes to just jump for land. The cramped seats full of bodies. The idea that if something went wrong, none of them could do anything.

Soap turned his hand over on his thigh, an open invitation for Ghost. Ghost took it, and Soap's hand squeezed harder than Ghost's did. Gaz had gone quiet, eyes flicking between the emergency pamphlet and back out the rainy window. Price looked calm, but you caught how often his fingers flexed, one hand curling and uncurling against your knee.

You reached over and placed your hand over his.

He didn’t look at you, just let you hold it.

The plane jolted again. A sharp drop this time.

Soap cursed under his breath. Even Price’s grip tightened around your knee.

"It’s alright," you murmured, trying to be calm for them. "It’s just air pockets. Like waves on the ocean, remember?"

“That’s the problem,” Ghost muttered, voice quiet. “We’re not in the bloody ocean.”

It made Gaz huff, a sharp breath of laughter that cracked the tension just enough.

“I’ll keep you from drownin’, don’t worry.” Gaz offered, lifting his arm to wrap around Soap's shoulders and squeeze Ghost's shoulder. “Got my Red Cross badge and everything.”

“Fuck’s a badge gonna do from 36,000 feet?” Soap muttered.

“Keep your ass warm when we all fall into the Atlantic.”

Price didn’t speak, but when the next shake hit, he gently pushed his arm around your shoulder and whispered, “We’d all float together, then, at least.”

…

The layover came like a mercy. They all spilled out of the gate like tired wolves who'd been out in the cold too long.

You didn’t go far. Just a quiet, out-of-the-way spot near the big windows, where you could see the planes taking off in the distance. You watched Ghost drop into a chair and deflate. He leaned forward, arms on his knees, hands wringing the air.

Soap stood nearby, his hand gently grazing over the back of Ghost's neck. Gaz got everyone water. Price stood behind your chair like a sentry.

“I hate his typ’a flyin’,” Soap muttered, his thumb rubbing circles at the base of Ghost's neck. “Hate it. You can’t even see the bastard flying the thing. For all we know it’s some old man on a Red Bull binge.”

“Statistically,” Gaz said, offering him a bottle, “commercial flying is the safest way to travel.”

“Statistically,” Soap shot back, “my arse.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, from Ghost: “It’s not just the pilot.”

You all looked at him.

He didn’t lift his head. Just kept his eyes on the floor. “If something happens up there… we just watch.”

You knew that feeling. You’d seen it in them after missions gone sideways, in the helplessness that sometimes followed grief. Watching, when you’re built to act, is a special kind of hell.

You moved closer, sitting slowly. Your eyes met Soap’s for a moment, and he offered you a pursed lip smile. Gaz sat beside you, hand on her knee. You leaned into Ghost, resting your head lightly against his shoulder.

“We made it,” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

You felt him shift. One of his hands ghosted over yours, then settled again in your palm.

Price eventually lowered into the seat across from you. “We’ll take a train next time.”

“Or a boat,” Gaz added.

Soap groaned. “If it’s a cruise, I swear to God—”

You laughed, and this time, they all did too. Even Ghost, just enough to hear it in the shift of his breath.

#started this as just a blurb two days ago and in about an hour it became this so eh #enjoy some domestic boys !#cod #call of duty #tf 141 #captain john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #tf 141 x reader #price x reader

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tinydefector · 1 year ago

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Hi!! 😆

Can I have Soundwave x human reader (smut pls (ง ͠° ͟ل͜ ͡°)ง)?

People didn't write him much, my husband need more love 😔🤌❤️✨

Thank for reading this!!

Stress relief

Soundwave x human reader

Warnings: Smut, Oral, Cockwarning

Word count: 1.5K

Request and ask open, read pinned post

Soundwave masterlist

__________________

"Soundwave can you re-check that scanner for me, I can't reach it to recalibrate its systems from here" the human's voice calls out to the intelligence officer, as they move around Soundwave desk in a scattered fashion trying to find maps and energon signals.

Soundwave helm tilts slightly at the request as he turns to observe his human.he runs his own diagnostics, clearly indicating the scanner does not need recalibration. Soundwave almost uncanny mix of voices patch together speak: " assistance not required. Scanner functioning adequately." He remains standing quietly, typing away at the large computer with his servos while his tendrils rearrange scattered data pads.

Their eyes meet his visor, looking up at him slightly frazzled. "Are you sure they are?"

With a sigh, he re reviews the scanner readings again, analysing more closely given the human's evident fatigue. His displays flash as data is processed. "Confirmation: scanner calibration within normal parameters. However, you appear in need of recharge." The mixed voices of Knockout, Starscream and their own voice echoes back at them as He awaits a response, sensors attuned to subtle cues that could indicate the depth of exhaustion and other issues requiring assistance.

"I'm fine soundwave" they call out while moving back to continue working, soundwave wraps his digits around them, pulling them back against his form, his visor tilted down to look at their eyes, he knows full well they are exhausted and Fatigue was catching up to their smaller frame. "I promise soundwave, I'm fine"

Soundwave detects elevated stress levels and the possibility of accident or harm at the current state of exhaustion. Soft ventilations cycle through his frame as his digits gently but firmly enfold the human in a protective hold. "Statement: physiological indicators suggest otherwise." His visor dims softly. Forcing the issue would risk negative impact, not only on his work but their work too.

"I'm not gonna win this argument with you am I?"

Soundwave's visor remains dimmed calmly as the human speaks. He processes their words carefully before responding. "Negative." They sigh softly and press their head against Soundwave's shoulder plating, each of his steps echoing throughout the halls. "Are you going to stay with me tonight, or does megatron have you working even more?" Soundwave processes the question, sensing his partner's wish for company while recharging.

A brief comm link check confirms he has no urgent tasks requiring his attention for night's cycle. "Megatron: aware of mission status. No tasks assigned to Soundwave at this time. I will remain for your recharge cycle" he responds as the doors to his quarters slide open upon their arrival.

A soft nod comes from his little lover as they lay against him. Their body is exhausted, but their brain isn't willing to shut off. After laying against soundwave for another ten minutes with no luck with falling asleep, they sigh, fidgeting around while trying to get comfortable.

His vocalizer hums a deep, resonant tone, One digit begins tracing lazy circles on the back, slowly tracing their spinal column, "Systems are monitoring. Please attempt to rest," comes another of his recordings.

"Not tired," they whisper while looking up at Soundwave, leaning into his touch, enjoying having him focus on them instead of work. They had both been overrun with work as of recent.

helm tilting minutely as nonverbal concern radiates through his plating. " Do you require distraction from responsibilities through additional stimuli?"

They sit up resting on Soundwave's lower torso, hands spread out across the Decepticons chassis. "I am tired, horny and frustrated, soundwave, and with everything happening, when we get even a small amount of time together, you get called away," they mumble.

Soundwave cycles a calm ventilated sigh, processing their words. His field pulses with understanding and care for their concerns. "Your doubts are logical. However, my function is to maximise efficiency of all personnel. A brief interface encounter now could provide valuable recharge. I will ensure we are not disturbed." His field and plating radiate gentle invitation.

A soft gasp escapes their lips as soundwave pulls them further up his body. The Decepticon's digits caressing their body. Leaning in closer, they press their lips to his visor. A low hum resonates from Soundwave's vocoder. One digit trails tenderly down a flank as another cradles them, holding their form against plating of his chest as a loud purring sound vibrates from him.

A small squeal leaves their lips as Soundwave discards their clothing quickly with nimble digits. Dimming the lights, Soundwave carefully lowers his battle-mask with a soft hiss, His purple optics glow softly in the darkness, as a talon traces down his lovers form, tracing patterns into their skin.

Leaning close 'til his ex-vents whisper against skin, Pressing a gentle kiss to willing lips in silent promise, he commits this moment to memory. A soft content sigh falls from the human's lips as they kiss him back. It's slightly awkward but neither cares at that moment.

Soundwave runs soft kisses along their neck, chest, and hips as he brings them closer.

At the human's content sigh, gentle pulses from his plating as cooling ex-vents whisper against sensitised skin, his touches trailing softly yet deliberately to relax tense muscles and ease away lingering worries.

As Soundwave’s glossa finds its way between their legs, soft moans fall from their lips. Small hands move to grip his helm. "Soundwave." At the human's soft calling of his name, Soundwave rumbles acknowledgment against flesh, his servos gripping hips to hold them steady as he runs his glossa across their needy sex. drinking in their essence, committing every hitch of their breath, and fluttered responses to permanent memory files saved only for him.

As warmth spreads within the human's pliant frame, Soundwave's field surges in adoring pulses, lips, and glossa blessing willing flesh in turn as his devotion shows through electronic hums and tender strokes. Their head rolls back as their back arches, soft whines leaving them with each stroke of Soundwave’s Glossa as it presses into their sweet form. "Soundwave, please," they whine out, their hands attempting to pull the mech's face closer.

At their breathless plea, Soundwave rumbles acknowledgment, Talons gently part willing thighs as his glossa delves with new focus, oral prehensors savouring each hitching gasp and soft cry his ministrations draw forth. As warmth peaks within the willing human, Soundwave dedicates all sensors to saturating their body. It doesn't take long for them to reach release, so much pent up energy, stress and frustration slips away as they go boneless in the Decepticon's hands. Soft pants leaving their parted lips as soundwave cleans up the mess with his mouth. Gentle affectionate rumbles leave him, field swelling with pulses of devotion and gratitude as he cleans every trace of pleasures with care. His glossa traces tender after-touches as their body goes lax in his hold.

Optics remain darkened as he simply dedicates sensors to monitoring each slowing ventilation and relaxing muscle, wishing only to ensure their full tranquillity. Soundwave raises his helm to cradled hips,kissing it lightly and nuzzling farewell against flushed skin beneath laboured breaths, inhaling the musk of their sex and skin.

A final hum resounds through his plating, and powerful yet delicate digits stroke through human hair with utmost care. his array's interface plaque shifts aside, hisses open and pressurises his spike.Optics flare softly to gaze upon at his lover's relaxed features. Secured in cradling servos and pulsing field, the human's lax yet willing frame I'd slowly pressed against his body, content simply to maintain sensory contact,

soft whines fall From his human's lips, as they take him in their body stretching with a loud moan. A few soft thrusts are all it takes for Soundwave to settle into them, cradling their body close, At his lovers soft sounds of pleasure, Soundwave rumbles gentle reciprocation, cradling their sated form securely against his form with one arm as his other arm retrieves a datapad

Ever once in a while his optics flicker down to monitoring his partner's relaxation even as his digits skillfully operate the pad's controls. Data streams across the display - ship schematics, translation algorithms, delicate encryption sequences - yet his true focus remains solely on the human resting atop his array.

Here in isolated peace, all doubts dissolve. His frame supports theirs. Tired eyes slowly drift closer as soft breath even out, indicating they had fallen asleep, small hands are spread out across his chassis, their body moving slightly with each breath they take. This was true contentment. At the human's soft, steady ex-vents and relaxing muscles, Soundwave's field cycles in waves of tranquil pulsations, a digit gently strokes their hair, back and shoulders as his embrace holds them securely.

“rest well little one” his voice mumbles softly for no one to hear but himself.

#transformers #transformers x human #transformers x reader #transformers prime #soundwave tfp #soundwave transformers #soundwave #soundwave x reader #Soundwave x human #valveplug

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acrisius-ii · 2 months ago

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Hello again fellow indie TTRPG makers

Skipping the welcome-backs, i have come across a major revelation

for years, i have wondered: how do i do cool RPG book layouts when i don't have stuff like photoshop to cut precise shapes out of images or indesign to put them together

i don't have those. but i do have a SCANNER!!!

the theory is simple-- i draw all my stuff on some paper first because i have been known to do this. I make sure to format what is on the paper how i want it in the end product. Make room for text, but don't write anything there, maybe just mark it out. design elements, page numbers, margins, all arranged how it must go.

And then we scan it.

Aha! A spread! In a digital format! now we can go into any old pdf editor (if you're lacking that as well, just open up a new google slide and download it into a pdf later) slap in some textboxes copy paste the text in... da-dan! We've done a single spread!

Now be aware i haven't actually tried it yet, but the theory should hold up in water. i'll be sure to share the results when i do try it.

#ttrpg #ttrpg community #indie creator #indie ttrpg #tabletop #graphic design #tabletop gaming #tabletop roleplaying

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typewritingyip · 7 months ago

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The Arcturus Missions

Part Five - Rust and Rain

Part Four

———

Sending organics through a space bridge without the proper shielding wasn’t just dangerous or deadly, it was simply reckless. They could pop or worse and spread their bacteria across the universe in a single second, so why did it keep happening? Greed primarily. It was handled in time by some intergalactic agency somewhere, but those things took time and the organics weren’t getting anymore dead or alive in that moment. Reports like those were shuffled to the bottom of the stack with ease. Cybertronian technology should be watched over by the cybertronian’s, especially when the incidents are happening so deep into their space.

Besides, no one should be entering intergalactic space without the proper shielding for radiation, organic or not.

—

With the first few hours, hours? None of their watches were working anymore and they all had removed the internal digital clocks from their suits, a waste of energy and something that caused unneeded anxiety during a fight. Those first few hours were spent getting nowhere as exhaustion tried to take them down. Feet dragging and sliding along the solid but damp ground, unable to really get the typical footing that they’d have in dirt or sand, where their feet would just about sink in. The choice to return to the Odyssey had been made after around four hours, they hadn’t made much progress and the exhaustion was weighing them down literally. It hadn’t taken long at all really, Hound made up his mind when Sideswipe had to prevent Sunstreaker from falling over for the fifth time; they’d needed to rest and recharge before making the trek to the town or whatever was causing the artificial lights.

They were drained, they were sick, and just that morning when they’d been in space; they’d been fine so whatever brought them close to this planet had likely caused it. Sitting back against the Odyssey, Hound powered down his visor and closed his eyes; they’d been walking for hours even before they had gotten back together and now they were all almost too weak to move. His head was pounding painfully and even though there was nothing in his stomach for the moment if there was, it wouldn’t be sticking around. Everything on the ship had reset not long after they’d entered the atmosphere and now was giving them fits, or more specifically Breakdown as he had re-attached his suit to go inside and get some sleep not in his piloting chair. The twins had slumped down together and fallen right to sleep, so even though Hound was technically on watch he had his scanners going with proximity alarms set up to go off should anything other than the mechs around him show up, it would wake him.

Dreams or more so nightmares plagued them all, of Jazz and his mutilated corpse, of his destroyed mech filled with blood and the damned aliens laughing their horrific laugh through it all. It was gruesome and grotesque, but not abnormal. Part of becoming completely compatible with the suits was to hand over part of yourself to your government, company, or even just a hand full of scientists to prepare you to drift. It left its scars and one of those scars was the connection between you and your suit, sometimes between you and your suits network.

Hound woke with a start, jumping up as an alarm went off, alerting him to something approaching and fast, above them. Standing on shaky legs, his gun comes up as his visor comes back online, desperately trying to track the supersonic object above them. One second there, the next gone, “What the hell.” It certainly didn’t resemble any of the objects that had the capability to fly supersonic on Earth, looking around, there was a glow to the horizon that resembled a sunrise. Taking slow and deep breaths, Hound looks to the twins, who were still sound sleep and leaned against each other. Activating his comm, he connects to the shuttle first, “Breakdown, you up?” Pacing a bit, he walks a bit away from the Odyssey before walking back, no answer. Switching to the common channel of all mech suit users, Hound sighs before queuing his microphone, “This is Pilot 1124, Harold Jackson, callsign Hound. Anyone listening out there?” Hound’s hand shook slightly with nerves, waiting.

Sunstreaker was the next up, groaning slightly as he turned down the volume on the main channel, “Hound, not so loud, please.” Shoving Sideswipe off him less then gently, it took him a second to gain his footing, slipping slightly on the damp ground. “Damnit,” his mech stretches as he does, looking far too human for any non-pilots comfort, “I forgot where we were for a second.” Sunstreaker looks around slowly and sighs, rubbing his jaw carefully, “Feeling any better?” His gaze turns to Hound, who was still looking towards the glowing horizon, “Hey, Earth to Hound.” Walking over, his hand lands on the older mechs shoulder, “You listening to me?” “Huh, uh, yeah. Yeah, sorry.” Hound clears his throat a bit, shaking his head, “I’m feeling more alive if that’s what you mean.” Sunstreaker smiles a bit, patting his shoulder, “Yeah, me too.”

They both looked at the horizon as, whatever star they were orbiting on the planet began to rise in the distance, “Any word from home?” Sunstreaker kept his voice quiet, watching the sun rise, “None, but I haven’t check in the Odyssey, wanted to wait for Breakdown to be up before attaching.” Sunstreaker nodded, watching as the gently glow turned to a shine on the somewhat metallic surface of the planet. Though a great deal of it was orange and red, as if rusted, “Beautiful sunrise.” Hound hummed, staring at it for a while.

—

Breakdown was in fact the next one awake and quick to contact Hound, “You might want to get in here.” Words you never wanted to hear from anyone, especially in that tone.

Stumbling out of the tunnel into the Odyssey, Hound made his way over to Breakdown at the comms terminal, resting his hand on the mans shoulder, “I’ve got Sunstreaker keeping watch.” Breakdown grunted, “Watch, while we’re being watched maybe. There is so much overhead traffic, I can’t tell if it’s satellites or space debris.” He sighed and knocked his knuckles on the terminal, “That’s not why I called you in here though. These are.” It worried Hound, looking to the comms logs and staring at the screen there, their out going messages to Mission Control on Earth were not getting a shorter receiving range, but a longer one. Ticking over the seven years mark already and still counting up, wherever they were, it was far from Earth; “Fuck.” Nodding, Breakdown clears the screen briefly before pulling up received audio logs, “My thoughts too, then I found these.” The dates ranged, with the largest bunch being from five years ago. Sharing a glance, Hound pulled up the first one.

“1061 on the comm. In case there’s any way you can hear me… ah shit. You guys wont believe what happened…”

They stood there together, listening to the first log for over ten minutes. Looping it at least once, just listening to Jazz’s voice as he talked about finding other mech suits out here. Hound’s hand lightly covered his face, staring at the screen, he was alive, he was alive as recently as a year ago. He could be alive right now.

Then Hound’s blood began to boil, whoever Jazz had run into was probably what brought them here, for who knows what reason and sharing a look with Breakdown said enough. Whatever those people were, they certainly weren’t defending Earth and had hold of Jazz, whether he really realized it or not. “Load these into everyone’s suits and get supplies, we’re heading for the artificial lights, if it’s a civilization then we figure out where we are and where Jazz is. Then what direction we need to head to finish our mission.” Breakdown nodded, saluting briefly before pulling the main comms drive and heading for a different part of the Odyssey. Hound moved over to their make shift kitchen and got out water pouches along with food packets, they had enough for a significant amount of time but their mission just had a wrench thrown into it so who knows how long it would actually last.

Turning around, Hound moved to climb back into his suit as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe climbed from theirs, faces red with anger.

There would be hell to pay and it would be paid in spades thanks to four pissed off mecha pilots.

—

It was raining when they got back into their mechs, adjusting the setting to keep the cameras and scanners clear, preparing their weapons and adjusting comm frequencies to avoid the disturbances from the rain. Hound’s suit was the first to alert to the fact that the rain was not made entirely of water, a rather small amount of it actually, “It’s acidic.” Sideswipe was holding out a hand, sensors and scanners checking over the rain, “Oh that’s just great, acidic rain.” Sunstreaker puts his hands on his head and paces away for a second before untying his parachute from his mechs shoulders, “Think this will protect my paint job?” He sounded so hopeful, turning to look at Hound, who was using his chute to cover the Odyssey, “I doubt it, but it would be better suited to protect the Odyssey, since it will be sitting out here in the wet.” Sunsteaker clutched the chute, like a small child holding a blanket before groaning and moving over to help, “It’ll be fine Sunny, I’ll fix the paint later.” Sideswipe tried to sound reassuring, hiding his laughter, “Better your mech than your own body.”

Once the Odyssey was covered, they fell back into position DC-19, one on point, two just behind to the left and right, then one at the back. Hound was on point, gun up and splashing through the acid rain puddles. The surface of the strange planet was smooth, though as the rain continued to fall it felt more brittle with each step. It was rather obvious to them at this point that wherever they had ended up, it was not like Earth, not at all.

Out of all their suits, Breakdown’s was probably the best equipped to deal with the worsening conditions, the dense armored plating was less painted and more sealed than anything else so a great deal of the acid rain was slicking off. The others weren’t as lucky with their fancy upgrades and lighter armor, streaks of where paint was coming away went down the arms and shoulders, leaving marks of green, red, and yellow in the puddles. Their feet were experiencing the worst of it unfortunately, but tread replacements were stored back aboard the Odyssey, along with printers for temporary replacement parts. Hound kept throwing his head, to get the worst of the rain off his visor and visual feeds, the entire area turning into a hazy red mess as if caught in a dust storm instead of a rain storm.

“I can’t see a thing.” Sideswipe shifts his sword some and wipes at the cameras nearest his face, “How far have we traveled Hound?” Light conversation was good, important even, “Right around 43 miles,” Sideswipe hummed, “So we’ve been walking for around an hour or so?” Hound glanced up at the sky, but the sun was no longer visible with the dense clouds, “It’s more than likely, yes.” There was a pause, “Our systems are out of alignment, it took you hours to walk thirteen miles yesterday and now it’s fine?” It hung in the air for a moment, “The Odyssey’s trajectories are fried.” Breakdown’s voice almost wavered, “Hound, check to see how far you actually walked yesterday. Whatever sent us here might have messed with the cockpit systems.” So Hound checked, swearing once the actual number came up, “That bad?” “Worse.” They walked in silence for a minute, “We need to get our suits on the same page, we can worry about the Odyssey later, it’s not going anywhere any time soon regardless.” “But the systems in the main bay seemed to be working fine, the comms array,” Sunstreaker looked to Hound, “Is better shielded, better tech than the shuttles navigational systems for certain.” They all sighed, Sideswipe worried his lip, Sunstreaker rubbed his jaw, Breakdown looked up at the sky and Hound shook his head, “We need to stay on focus, finding answers.” A hum went through the comm line in acknowledgment.

It was still incredibly hazy, orange and red, but the rain was starting to finally let up. 93 miles of walking, almost two and a half hours, roughly, as a best estimate. When the first signs of the artificial lighting appeared. Sideswipe was the first to trip on it, a strip inlaid into the ground before a field of shifting solar panels. They were dusted in a red paste, that would be the best way to describe it. Hound frowned down at Sideswipe’s prone form, “You are in a several ton, multi-million dollar mecha suit. And you’ve fallen over.” Sunstreaker found it the funniest thing in the world, laughing almost painfully loud, bet over and nearly falling onto more of the solar panels. “It’s not funny! Help me up!”

Gun fire erupted from over head, “Take cover!” Hound was quick to grab hold of Sideswipe and pull him back towards the dense haze, raising his own gun while his targeting systems came online. Breakdown was directly behind him, his mounted canon going from a hum to a deep whine before firing through the haze, the advanced targeting system seeming to tag something through the fog, Sunstreaker was right on their tail, grabbing hold of Sideswipe, “Hound, I’ve got Sides, you help Breakdown.” Nodding, Hound was quick to join Breakdown at the line, his targeting system coming online.

There were several targets within his range, more gun fire came over their heads, he leveled off his gun and started firing.

———

A/N

Wow, the last few days have been actually insane with this story. Never in my life, or all my years of writing have I gotten responses like this. Whether in comments or tags, it’s been such a motivator for me.

Now, I plan to write my little section for Arcturus Two soon, I promise, but I’m so invested in Arcturus One at the moment.

I’ve also started posting these over on my archive, if anyone was curious or had their preference. I have it linked in the master post.

How many parts of this are there going to be? I have no idea, however many I can manage before my inspiration dies on me.

Tags! I love being able to tag those who seem to be enjoying the work, it’s the least I can do with you showing support.

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger

And of course thank you @keferon for inspiring us all in this crazy AU.

#transformers #jazz #prowl #tf mecha universe #breakdown #hound #sideswipe #sunstreaker #maccadam #the Arcturus missions

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vintagelasvegas · 2 years ago

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Fremont St, April 1952 – facing west towards 2nd St. 'The African Queen' at Fremont Theatre. Ruby for Flowers was on the block for years. Famous Sandwich Shop for a short time.

Print photo from '96, and 2024 slide scan.

(1) “Graphics West match print proof, 96. Pre-digital. Film. Scanner operators and strippers had their work cut out for them.” - Lisa Davidson. (2) Low resolution scan from Vintage Kodachrome Slides, of a slide taken moments apart from the other photo.

#Fremont Theatre #1952

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dssima · 9 months ago

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Experience precision and efficiency with DSS Image Tech advanced digital slide scanners. Perfect for medical and research labs, our scanners offer high-resolution imaging for detailed specimen analysis. Enhance your lab productivity and accuracy with our cutting-edge technology. Explore now and upgrade your lab with DSS Image Tech! Visit us:- https://www.dssimage.com/products-services/instruments/digital-slide-scanners.html

#Digital Slide Scanners

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ihcprs · 10 months ago

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Digital pathology-ihc-prs

#Digital pathology #digital pathology scanner #pathology slides #ihcstaining #immunohistochemistry cancer

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alinagomez2508-blog · 1 year ago

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Thinking About Going Digital in Your Lab? The Digital Pathology Revolution

In the age of rapid technological advancement, traditional laboratory practices are getting a digital makeover. The adoption of digital pathology is gaining momentum, transforming the landscape of medical diagnostics and research. If you're thinking about going digital in your lab, this blog will explore the reasons behind this paradigm shift, the benefits it offers, and the considerations you should keep in mind. Read more: https://www.optrascan.com/the-digital-pathology-revolution

#digital pathology #digital slide scanners #pathology slide scanner #digital pathology company

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bungostraydogs-atsinh · 2 months ago

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(EDIT) Chapter Thirteen: Digital Graves, Salt-Stained Betrayal, and Gentle Hands

Dazai and Chuuya investigate the deaths of former Port Mafia female members and their daughters, Dazai delving into the cyber archives of a PM data vault and Chuuya chasing a lead to the Port Mafia docks to question an informant. Dazai pieces together valuable information, Chuuya on the other hand has nothing go his way.

And finally, Kafka's path converges with the Port Mafia.

I made a mistake and included some of chapter 14 in this by accident and had to remove it.

Word Count: About 5,533.

The stairwell leading down to the Port Mafia’s cyber archives felt more like a descent into a burial chamber than a hallway. The air grew colder with each step, tinged with the sterile, metallic scent of old machinery and the distant hum of server fans. Dazai’s polished shoes clapped lightly against the iron steps, the echo rippling up the walls in slow, deliberate waves, as if the building itself whispered his foreboding approach. He let one hand trail along the rust-streaked railing, feeling the sharp, uneven texture catch against his fingers, like the serrated edge of a freshly honed blade.

At the bottom, the door loomed—a reinforced slab of blackened steel, the surface dented from years of careless gunfire and the rough handling of impatient men. The biometric panel beside it flickered to life as Dazai paused, leaning into the thin, blinking strip of red light. He didn’t bother with the fingerprint scan. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket, producing a thin, unmarked card swiped from Mori’s desk weeks earlier. He held it up to the scanner. The red light blinked once, hesitated, then turned a muted, accepting green.

The door unlocked with a slow, grinding clunk, gears engaging like the teeth of a rusted jaw, and Dazai slipped through the crack before it fully opened, the darkened hallway beyond swallowing him whole.

The archive chamber stretched out before him—a low-ceilinged maze of glass-walled terminal suites, their interiors illuminated only by the cold, flickering glow of computer monitors. Most of the techs had already left for the night, leaving behind the low buzz of half-asleep machinery and the distant, irregular clatter of a keyboard from one of the far corners.

Dazai’s footsteps cut through the silence as he passed a row of humming server racks, his gaze sliding over the green and blue lights blinking in irregular patterns—like the nervous pulse of something alive and terrified. He paused by an abandoned desk cluttered with empty coffee cups and stray wiring, a single hard candy left to gather dust beside a stained, cracked keyboard. Without breaking stride, he snatched the candy and popped it into his mouth, letting the sharp, synthetic sweetness dissolve on his tongue. His lips curled in a faint, self-satisfied smirk as he felt the eyes of a nearby tech swivel toward him, their expression caught between fear and irritation.

“Hey—” the technician started, but Dazai merely raised a finger to his lips in a silent, amused shush as he continued on his way, his long coat sweeping in his wake like a shadow dragged through deep water.

Reaching the door to one of the private terminal suites, he swiped the card again, the lock clicking open with a low, mechanical whine. He slipped inside, the door sliding shut behind him with the quiet, inevitable finality of a guillotine blade.

Inside, the suite was cramped, the walls lined with stacked, humming machinery and cluttered with darkened screens, their surfaces reflecting fragmented shards of his own silhouette. Dazai sank into the worn, creaking leather of the terminal chair, leaning back until the chair groaned beneath his weight. He crossed his legs, reached into his coat pocket, and withdrew the crumpled case file he’d gotten from Mori that morning.

He spread the file across the terminal’s polished metal surface, the papers rustling like dry, forgotten leaves. A blurred photo of Alexandros stared back at him—a grainy, half-caught image from a traffic camera, the man’s head turned just enough to avoid full identification. Dazai let his fingers brush over the photo’s edges, feeling the faint, waxy texture of the ink.

“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” he whispered, fingers already dancing over the keyboard as the monitor flickered to life, casting his face in sharp, sterile light. He leaned back in the creaking terminal chair, letting his eyes drift over the array of darkened monitors arranged like silent sentinels around him. Dust swirled in the thin beams of blue light cutting through the vents above, casting faint, flickering shadows against the bare concrete walls.

He flexed his fingers, rolling his neck with a soft, satisfying crack, then reached for the keyboard, his hands finding the familiar rhythm of data manipulation—keys clacking in rapid, precise bursts. He pulled up the archived security footage from Noriko’s apartment building, queuing it up alongside a facial recognition program linked to the Port Mafia’s private database. Grainy frames blinked across the monitor—a pale, flickering reel of half-caught shadows and distorted outlines. He isolated a feed from a street-side camera, timestamped the day of the incident, and let the footage run in slow, silent stutters. Pedestrians drifted in and out of view, their faces blurred by distance and poor lighting, the occasional car headlight streaking past like a dying comet.

Dazai leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he caught a brief, fleeting motion—a figure lingering in the shadows of a cracked, graffiti-stained wall across from the apartment’s main entrance. He froze the frame, fingers tapping out a series of commands to enhance the image. The figure’s face emerged from the darkness in faint, blocky pixels—high cheekbones, sharp jawline, dark, deep-set eyes turned away from the camera as if sensing its unblinking gaze. He ran the partial image through the recognition program, the algorithm churning through thousands of potential matches in a matter of seconds. He watched the monitor with the dispassionate focus of a predator watching a weakened fawn struggle to its feet. The results flickered to life—rows of mismatched profiles, some crossed out in red, others grayed out as “unconfirmed.”

Then, near the bottom of the screen, a single green match flashed. The face was older, scarred, eyes sunken, the skin drawn tight over prominent bone. An embassy record, scrubbed but not forgotten. The name beneath it read: Alexandros Papadiamantis. Nationality: Greek. Occupation: Unknown. Known Affiliations: Classified.

Dazai’s lips curled in a faint, humorless smirk as he leaned back, folding his hands behind his head as the monitor’s glow painted his face in cold, synthetic blue. He let the bitter remnants of the candy dissolve on his tongue as he whispered to the empty room, his voice a low, amused murmur.

“Found you.”

Dazai’s fingers tapped in rhythmic bursts, the harsh glow of the monitors casting long, angular shadows across the cramped suite. He pulled up a cross-referenced search through the Port Mafia’s oldest financial archives—a maze of ledgers buried in the digital catacombs of the network. The records were decades old, encrypted in a cipher only a handful of the old guard still remembered.

Line by line, the data unspooled—offshore accounts, shell corporations, shadowy deals inked beside blood-stained mahjong tiles and whiskey-soaked contracts. One cluster of transactions caught his eye: flagged by the previous boss, laced with familiar names, dates, and account numbers.

Purchase of Alexandros Papadiamantis’ business holdings. All shares acquired. Former Greek Mafia affiliate. Transfer approved.

Dazai’s eyes narrowed. He traced the wire transfers and corporate buyouts, the fiscal autopsy of a man’s empire. The old boss hadn’t merely inconvenienced Alexandros—he’d dismantled him. Shipping routes, real estate blocks, front companies—all carved away in a clean, bloodless war fought with signatures and silence.

He drummed his fingers against the terminal, the cold metal biting his skin. A low chuckle creaked out—dry, rusted—more hinge than laughter. He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, the edges of his smirk twitching.

So that’s it. Alexandros hadn’t lost a turf war. He’d been scalped, divested, erased.

His gaze slid to the half-pixelated photo still on the screen—Alexandros, hollow-eyed and distant, a ruin where a man used to be. Dazai keyed in another search, pulling up a clinic report buried in the archives. The patient: Alexandros’ wife. Handwritten notes bloomed across the screen.

Manic episode. Severe depression. Homicidal ideation. Daughter—fatality. Self-inflicted wounds. Outcome: Deceased.

The file slipped from his hand, paper curling as it scattered across the terminal like the wings of dying moths. He leaned back, letting his head rest against the chair’s cold frame, the final piece falling into place.

Not greed. Not ambition.

Grief.

A man gutted by loss. A father reduced to a phantom. A sinner who still thought himself the righteous hand of vengeance.

Dazai opened his eyes and looked at the flickering monitor. Alexandros stared back through time, a god dethroned and driven mad.

“Well,” Dazai murmured, voice a thread of poison in the cold air, “I suppose that makes us the devil in your little tragedy.”

Dazai reclined into the cold frame of the terminal chair, eyes narrowed as grainy footage and half-processed data flickered across the surrounding monitors. The synthetic light sliced across his face, casting sharp, jagged shadows that deepened the lines of his expression. He scrolled through the Port Mafia’s internal personnel files, weaving deeper into the knotted web of affiliations that defined the lower ranks.

Names blurred past in endless succession—threads in a sprawling tapestry of blood pacts and criminal allegiance. Then, a name caught his eye. Mid-level enforcer. Recently reassigned to dock management after the collapse of the Mediterranean syndicates. A faint bell rang in the back of his mind—whispers from an old briefing, something about a disgraced captain limping away from a sunken empire, clinging to relevance in the shadow of Yokohama’s underworld.

Dazai’s smirk twisted, thin and cruel. So the Greeks had burrowed in after all—slipping through the cracks left by the old boss’s housecleaning. Rats from a sinking ship, nesting wherever the wreckage still held warmth.

His fingers danced over the keys, pulling up the full dossier: ex-lieutenant, Mediterranean mafia, now posted to one of the more isolated docks. The same dock Chuuya had likely wandered into—probably already knee-deep in some cursed ritual without realizing he’d walked into a nest of ghosts.

Dazai sat up straighter, slid his phone from the inner lining of his coat. The screen blinked to life under his fingers as he typed. He sent the message with a soft ping. A warning dressed as sarcasm, slipped like a dagger into the ether. The phone clattered onto the desk. Dazai leaned back again, a dry, humorless chuckle breaking the silence. Overhead, the lights buzzed and flickered, casting shadows that moved like restless thoughts. He turned back to the security footage from Noriko’s building, fingers tapping idly against the metal armrest as he rewound the tape—back to just before everything went wrong.

The black-and-white frames sputtered to life, the camera angled down a narrow stairwell leading to the fifth floor. Dust swirled in the flickering light. Shadows pooled in the corners like old blood seeping into cracked pavement. Pedestrians drifted in and out of view—blurred, ghostlike, their movements stuttering in the low frame rate.

Then—motion. A flicker, sharp against the haze.

Dazai’s eyes narrowed as a girl burst into the frame—just a flash of fabric and a long scarf trailing behind her like the tail of a comet. She hit the stairs in full sprint, booted feet barely skimming the steps, hair streaming like ink spilled across a page. She didn’t hesitate. Just vanished upward, swallowed by the stairwell’s gloom.

His fingers paused their idle, rhythmic tapping against the armrest. She had purpose. Her path wasn’t panicked—it was precise. She knew what was waiting above.

He fast-forwarded, frame by frame, watching time jerk forward in half-seconds. And then—she reappeared.

Same scarf. Same girl. But this time she was staggering.

Blood streaked her dress in uneven blotches. Her gait faltered, desperate. In her arms, cradled against her chest, a small, limp figure—a child. The head lolled with every step. The scarf flared behind her like a torn flag as she stumbled through the hall.

Dazai leaned forward, face inches from the screen.

She collapsed into the wall, forced the lobby door open, and nearly collided with the paramedics rushing in. She didn’t even pause. She shoved the child into their arms, then twisted back toward the stairs—as if expecting someone, something, to follow.

The timestamp blinked. Just under five minutes.

From arrival to blood-soaked exit.

Dazai’s fingers were already on the keyboard. He isolated the moment when her face caught full in the camera—drawn, bloodied, jaw set with quiet resolve. He ran the image through the recognition program. Thousands of faces stuttered past. One after another.

No match.

No ID. No record. No trace.

A ghost.

In a city that prided itself on knowing every name, every scar, she wasn’t even a shadow.

Dazai leaned back, letting the monitor's glow carve his features in sterile light. His lips twitched into a faint, thoughtful smile as the still image flickered—her body caught mid-motion, one boot hovering just above the tile as though she might launch herself into flight.

“Interesting,” he murmured, voice low, almost fond.

His fingers moved to isolate the file, saving it.

“Very interesting.”

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

Twilight settled over Yokohama’s east docks like a bruised eyelid, the last shards of sun stretched thin across rust-bitten freighters and skeletal cranes. Chuuya Nakahara strode down the cracked wharf boards, each bootfall a clipped, deliberate cadence swallowed quickly by the hush of waves and the low groan of shifting steel hulls. Salt and diesel stung the air. The rot of old fish soured every breath.

His coat snapped in the ocean wind, copper hair catching fire in the blood-orange light bleeding across the horizon.

Ahead, a knot of Port Mafia men waited beneath the ribs of an abandoned crane. Their cigarettes flickered dimly in the dark like dying stars. At their center stood Hiro Zervas—dockmaster, miser, and survivor. His greying hair clung to his skull in slick patches. Shoulders hunched, eyes twitching with furtive glances that never quite landed. His fingers fretted the frayed hem of his gloves, as if tuning a string only he could hear.

Chuuya stopped a pace away, arms folding tight across his chest. “Zervas. Spare me the song and dance—talk.”

The others stepped back, shadows peeling away from their captain. Hiro swallowed. “It’s… getting worse,” he rasped, voice catching on grit. “We keep findin’ ‘em—salt lines. Spirals. Circles. Mothers screaming like there’s glass grinding in their skulls.”

He licked dry lips, eyes darting toward the dark water, then snapping back.

“Blood on nursery floors, sir. And the—” His voice cracked. “Thanatoí sigils. Burned into wood. Into skin.”

Chuuya’s brow twitched. “You laid eyes on the brand?”

He tilted his head, unimpressed. “Tell me you didn’t freeze the second the salt hissed.”

Hiro lifted two fingers, rubbing them together like trying to scrape something off. “Six times,” he muttered. “Last one was Noriko Hayashi. Retired operative. We let her go five years back.”

He hesitated. Swallowed again.

“Only reason she’s still breathing… some kid interrupted the rite. Little thing, yellow dress. Tore through it before it finished.”

The wind shifted. Gulls shrieked overhead—sharp, grating. Chuuya’s coat flared, then settled around his boots. He let the silence stretch thin.

Hiro’s posture sagged. His gaze drifted, unfocused, like a man halfway sleepwalking. Something in his cadence faltered—syllables out of rhythm, certain words landing with a strange, devotional hush.

“You’re waxing poetic over death cult graffiti,” Chuuya muttered, voice dry. “Quit it. You’re making me sick.”

Hiro’s mouth twitched. “You ever stand in front of one, sir?” he asked softly. “Smell the scorch? It’s…” A shiver rolled visibly down his spine. “…holy, in a sick way. Like lookin’ down into a grave and findin’ it still warm.”

The phrasing rang wrong. Too intimate. Too rehearsed.

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed. Overhead, rusted cables swayed, clanging softly in the breeze—an uneven rhythm echoing Hiro’s off-key reverence. The man murmured again: the grave still warm, like testing a phrase on his tongue.

A seed of unease took root in Chuuya’s chest. Reverence didn’t smell like fear. It was too still. Too calm. Too accepting.

He watched the tremors in Hiro’s fingers, the extra breath between words, the flicker in his pupils when he whispered Thanatoí. Each twitch painted a clearer picture—something coiled just beneath the skin, waiting to strike.

Chuuya unfolded his arms, slowly. The motion was casual. Intentional.

“Move,” he ordered. “I want eyes on the docks before the sun clocks out.”

Hiro froze for a beat—just a beat—then nodded too quickly, too eager. “Aye, Boss. This way.”

Chuuya fell into step beside him but didn’t loosen his guard. The sun slid lower, bleeding gold into rust. Fog crawled in from the tide-line, coiling around their ankles like smoke. Shadows lengthened. So did the distance between trust and betrayal. In the hush of gulls and groaning steel, Chuuya closed his fist inside his coat pocket—already calculating the odds that this night would spill blood.

They turned down a service lane choked with leaning pallets and salt-eaten drums. Fog thickened until every lamp glowed in isolation, each halo dim and dying. Chuuya kept his pace loose, but every step was measured. He tracked the twitch in Hiro’s fingers, the hitch in his breath, the jerky rhythm of his shoulders. Always in his periphery.

“Anything else on the girl?” he asked, voice calm, almost bored. “Neighbors? Family? Employment?”

Hiro’s Adam’s apple jumped. “Only that she—uh—lives in the same building as Noriko. Works there, too. Kind of a building attendant, best anyone can tell.”

He scuffed his boot against the concrete, eyes darting toward the blurred shimmer of water through fog. “Takes the trash down, fixes lightbulbs, keeps the landlord off folks’ backs. People say she’s quiet. Polite.”

“A fifteen-year-old janitor?” Chuuya muttered, one brow lifting. “Hell of a vantage point. Keys to every door.”

“Yes, sir.” Hiro’s fingers tugged at the seam of his glove, knuckles whitening. “But there’s no lease. No payroll. No records.”

A beat.

“She’s just… there.”

Chuuya’s gaze lingered on the man’s trembling hand. The jitter had become a full-body hum. Just there—spoken with that same strange reverence as Thanatoí. Another phrase repeated like ritual.

The fog rolled in deeper, swallowing the dock lights until only their halos remained, faint moons straining against the dark. Hiro swallowed hard, his breath coming quicker, as if the mist pressed in on his chest.

“Tch,” Chuuya scoffed. “Save the ghost stories. Bullets come from punks, not phantoms.”

Hiro flinched. “Right. Of course.” The words scraped out thin and brittle. His pace quickened, heedless of the slick ground.

Chuuya let him. Every nervous shuffle, every ragged inhale carved the shape of his fear more clearly—and fear always pointed to the knife hidden beneath the coat.

He slid a hand into his pocket, fingers brushing the cool metal of a lighter. His lips curled into a humorless smile as he watched Hiro’s back jitter ahead.

Keep talking, old man, he thought, matching pace. The night’s not done bleeding secrets yet.

“Surveillance footage?” Chuuya pressed.

Hiro’s hand spasmed toward his coat pocket like the answer might be hiding there. “We—we still need to pull the hallway cams, boss. I can send a crew tonight—”

Chuuya cut him off with a quiet, razor-edged breath. “Don’t bother. Dazai’s on cyber. That mackerel—for all his suicidal hobbies—will have the footage in ten minutes. He’ll drag her out of the shadows… and anyone stupid enough to cozy up to Alexandros or Thanatoí.”

The name hit like an anchor.

Hiro froze mid-step. Just a beat—but loud enough to drown out the gulls. When he moved again, it was faster. Too fast. His fingers twitched against the seams of his trousers like he was trying to flick static off his skin.

Chuuya tucked it away.

“Something wrong, Zervas?”

“N-no, sir. Just the wind—gets in the bones.”

“Mm.” Chuuya let the lie rot in silence. He tracked the flick of Hiro’s eyes, the new tremor in his breath. The man was coming apart at the seams—and the name Alexandros had tugged hard on the loose thread.

The service lane spilled into a yawning warehouse bay, ribs of rusted metal arching overhead. Skylights wept the day’s last gold, dust motes drifting like slow ash through fractured light. Outside, the wind rose—slapping the siding in steady bursts, a tin drum beating out a funeral march.

As they stepped through the threshold, Hiro’s voice cracked the quiet.

“Boss… you ever notice how the salt rings always spiral widdershins? Just like Alexandros’s... uh, Elysian coil.”

He stopped a beat too late—realizing the slip just as it left his mouth.

Elysian coil wasn’t dock talk. It wasn’t street gossip. It was inner circle—something whispered over ouzo and blood oaths. A phrase you didn’t hear unless you’d bled beside Alexandros.

Chuuya’s shoulders tensed. Slight. Sharp. He let his gaze drift lazily across the scaffolding—but his right hand slid toward his hip, brushing the snap of his holster.

“Funny vocabulary for a dock rat,” he drawled, voice molasses-thick with warning. The last glint in his eyes faded to rust. “Didn’t peg you for a scholar of dead cult poetry.”

Hiro swallowed, hard. “J-just rumors,” he stammered. “That’s all. Heard it in passing.”

The words fumbled out, ill-fitting and too fast. Like shoes on the wrong feet.

A cold draft cut through a shattered window, dragging the stink of tar and rotting fish across the room—sharp enough to sting. Chuuya’s nose wrinkled.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Smells like someone let rot fester too long.”

He paced a slow semicircle, boots echoing hollowly. Every creak of metal sounded like a breath pulled in before the shot.

Hiro edged sideways, shoulders jerking. “You wanted the site—there.” He jabbed a shaky finger toward a shadowed corner, where the floor was marked with pale streaks. Salt shards glittered like bone in the dim light.

As they moved closer, Hiro’s voice dipped again—low, rattling.

“Y’know, boss, this place always reminded me of those old Greek myths. The Labyrinth, the Styx, the Asphodel Meadows… where lost souls wander.”

Chuuya’s boots whispered across cracked concrete. His gaze tracked the overhead gantries, the dark corners where rusted steel loomed. Instinct gnawed at him—something in the air was too still. A shadow too fixed.

Hiro kept talking. Rambling now.

“They say the Labyrinth was built to contain a beast. Something that fed on fear. Couldn’t be killed. Only delayed.”

A draft skimmed across Chuuya’s jaw, biting cold. He paused. His coat snapped once, then settled.

Ambush weather.

His fingers brushed the grip of his holstered pistol.

“Yeah?” he growled. “Funny. I thought you dock rats only believed in quick deaths and long debts.”

Hiro’s chuckle came out thin—hollow as a corpse’s breath. “Just a story. Just… echoes in the dark.”

Chuuya’s eyes flicked to a rusted gantry overhead. Nothing moved. But the stench—old fish, fresh sweat—curled into his sinuses, sharp enough to sting. Something rancid. Alive.

He flexed his fingers inside his gloves and kept walking, letting Hiro’s muttered myths bleed into the dark like static. His phone buzzed against his chest—sharp, jarring, like a rib out of place. He ignored it, eyes scanning the scaffolding and catwalks.

Hiro’s voice had changed. Less storytelling, more chant. The words looped, soft and wrong: Labyrinth… unending cycles…

The phone buzzed again. Louder this time. Angry. Like a live round rattling in his coat.

Idiot, Chuuya thought, exasperation threading through the fog that always came right before blood hit concrete. He yanked the phone free, thumb swiping over the cracked screen.

A string of messages from Dazai blinked back at him—cold white text against black.

Turns out the dock crew are Greek spies. They probably hate you. Have fun with that. Try not to die too dramatically. Or do. I’m not your babysitter.

Chuuya’s brows pulled low, mouth twisting into a snarl. “That goddamn—”

He didn’t finish.

The sound came first—a dull, wet thunk.

Then impact.

Rusted metal slammed into the base of his skull. Sparks detonated behind his eyes. His body lurched forward, knees buckling, boots sliding on salt-gritted concrete. Blood sprayed across his collar—hot, sudden, metallic.

The world cracked sideways.

He didn’t scream. Just gritted his teeth and exhaled—harsh and shallow—as the warehouse spun. One knee hit the ground. His balance crumbled beneath him, nerves screaming in a keening whine, high and sharp like a blade dragging across glass.

He looked up through the haze.

Hiro was standing over him—eyes dead, hollow, unreadable. Not panic. Not regret. Just that empty, flickering stillness of a man who had already accepted what he was.

And then—they emerged.

Figures, slow and silent, slipping from the shadows like ghosts. Crowbars. Pipes. Tools repurposed into weapons, knuckles whitening around rusted iron.

Chuuya’s pulse surged.

Rage gathered behind his ribs, slow and tidal. His hands twitched at his sides. Fingers curled into fists, even as vertigo pulled at him like an undertow.

Then the first one lunged.

-----------

The world careened sideways as Chuuya dragged himself upright, one gloved hand slapping against cold concrete. His head throbbed—sharp, pulsing agony cleaving straight through his skull, making his vision tremble. He forced his knees to lock. Breath came in serrated gasps, the taste of blood heavy on his tongue. The floor pitched beneath him before lurching back into place, dizzy and cruel.

Ringing swallowed the world.

Steel groaned. Waves crashed. Shouts blurred into a muted roar. Blood traced a slow, hot line down his spine, soaking his collar as his pulse pounded like a war drum behind his eyes.

Then—gunfire.

Muzzle flashes split the dark in jagged bursts. Bullets screamed past, ricocheting off rusted pillars, punching through crates stacked like coffins. Splinters sliced his cheek. Light and sound became violence.

Corruption.

The word came on instinct. He clenched his teeth, reaching for it—his power, his edge—but the response was sluggish. Slowed. Numb.

The gravitational force flickered at his nerves but didn’t catch. Like a lighter sparking without flame. The blood loss, the head trauma—they’d buried it, smothered it. He was too slow, too heavy, his body rebelling.

“Damn it,” he rasped, the curse cracked and low.

Another shot ripped past—one grazing his shoulder, another tearing into his coat, biting deep into flesh. Fire bloomed in the muscle, and his breath hitched—a broken, guttural sound caught between growl and gasp.

He pushed off a stack of crates. Boots slid on salt-slick concrete as he flung himself sideways, moving by instinct alone. The port’s edge shimmered ahead—mist-hung lights blinking like dying stars. The tang of saltwater mixed with the copper stink of his own blood.

He slammed through a side door. Metal screamed on impact, and cold air crashed into him—sharp, wet, almost sobering. He staggered into the fog. The door slammed shut behind him, echoing like a tomb lid through the steel canyons of the docks.

He kept going.

Blood dripped in uneven spatters behind him. His boots scuffed the pavement, carving a crooked path toward the guttering lights along the shoreline. Fog thickened, clinging to his coat like cold fingers. Blood spread beneath the collar, slow and dark—like the night itself had been wounded.

Still, he moved. Breath hitching. Vision swimming. Fists clenched even as his fingers trembled.

Not here. Not like this.

The dockyard twisted, shadows bleeding into one another in a churning, surreal haze. Rain—when had it started?—slicked the concrete, painted every step with danger. He staggered between dumpsters streaked in rust, footfalls echoing like whispered ghosts.

He’d made it into the residential fringe. The city’s pulse softened here—but the fog thickened, the rain heavier, like the whole world was trying to drown him.

He blinked. Vision stuttered, edges ghosting. The streetlights at the port’s edge pulsed in his periphery—twin smears of gold that bled into halos, flickered, then collapsed into flickering, unstable light. His pulse thundered in his ears, a low, discordant bass beneath the high, relentless keening that had swallowed all other sound. Blood dripped from his chin in irregular splatters, painting a crooked trail across the rain-slick concrete.

His legs buckled.

The ground surged upward—cold, unyielding. His knees struck first, pain slicing through the marrow of his bones, white-hot and blinding. He gasped, teeth clenched as the bite of concrete tore through the shredded fabric of his pants. Copper flooded his mouth—thick, metallic, mingling with salt until nausea curled deep in his gut.

His hands slipped on the wet ground. Salt and grit ground into his torn gloves, scraping raw flesh beneath. He forced his head up. The motion sent needles through his skull, his vision folding in on itself, the world warping—then freezing.

The shadows around him twitched. Deepened. Then stilled.

Cold soaked into him. Not just his limbs—his chest, his ribs, his lungs. He felt the frost sink in like iron.

Then—footsteps.

Soft. Steady. Boots against concrete.

Measured. Unhurried.

He couldn’t lift his head. Couldn’t raise his fists. Couldn’t summon Corruption. It flickered weakly inside him like a failing pulse.

A figure knelt beside him. Fabric brushed his shoulder—quiet, deliberate.

The hem of a dark green checkered dress blurred at the edges of his sight, smeared like charcoal in rain. Brown work boots scuffed the ground beside him. Darkened leather. Salt crusting the seams.

Then—

Fingers touched his hair.

Light. Careful. Gloved.

Brushing blood-matted strands from his brow with a tenderness that didn't belong in this night.

“Easy,” a voice whispered, close to his ear.

Soft. Strained. Real.

Was it real?

He blinked again, trying to clear the rain and blood from his lashes.

She shouldn’t be here.

She shouldn’t help him.

Port Mafia.

The thought echoed through the broken vaults of his mind. Slow. Distant. Heavy.

He could see the red lining of his jacket, the insignia soaked with blood, the weight of it dragging him down like an anchor. She had to know. Anyone with eyes would know.

Even civilians knew.

“I—” he started, but it came out useless—a rasp, a breath.

“Come on,” she whispered, voice shaking—not with fear, but effort. “Please. We have to move.”

He wanted to tell her to get lost. To run. To not be so damn stupid.

Anyone who touched Mafia blood ended up dead. Or worse. Disappeared. Forgotten. But when he opened his mouth again, only a ragged gasp came out—weak and raw. Her arm wrapped around his waist. She lifted him. Took nearly all his weight without complaint. Smaller than him. Slighter. But steady. Each step exploded behind his eyes like shrapnel. His knees buckled more than once. Every time, she caught him—stubborn, quiet, soaked with rain, clutching his shirt like she could anchor him to life by force of will alone.

The enemy was still out there.

He could feel them. Out in the fog. Moving.

Closing.

She half-dragged, half-carried him through the backstreets, winding between shuttered storefronts and crumbling alleyways like a ghost. Her movements were frantic but deliberate, slipping into every shadow, ducking through every doorway, as if she knew that looking back would make death catch up. Chuuya stumbled beside her, dead weight in her arms, every step a silent scream through the fractured night.

It wasn’t far—just a few blocks—to a forgotten service tunnel overgrown with weeds and hemmed in rust. She found the gap in the chain-link, shoved them both through the jagged tear, and didn’t flinch as metal scraped her knees bloody. The tunnel yawned open like a throat waiting to swallow them. She pulled him down into the damp dark, into the stink of old earth and rain.

Only then did she breathe.

Chuuya collapsed against the wall, head thunking back with a sickening crack. He barely registered the pain. Just the faint pressure of her gloves against his face—brushing blood-matted hair from his brow, wiping at the gash above his temple where the blood still poured.

Then, through the haze, he saw her eyes. One amber, like cracked resin. The other a fractured green, pale and uneven in the low light. Mismatched and luminous. They fixed on him with something between terror and resolve.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she murmured. Her voice shook, but her hands didn’t. “Just... stay awake. Please. Stay with me.”

He tried. God, he tried. But his body was sinking fast, a wreck dragged under by pain and cold and blood loss. His lungs fought for breath; his vision frayed at the edges.

Still—before the dark took him—he felt it.

The warmth of her hand. Not gloved this time. Bare.

It cradled the side of his face with an impossible gentleness. Not the practiced detachment of a medic, not the grim efficiency of someone tending to a stranger.

But something softer.

Something human.

She knew. She had to know.

Exactly who he was. What the coat meant. What the blood soaking through it would bring. Even a civilian could tell. Even she—

And she helped him anyway.

That thought blazed brighter than the agony, a flare of disbelief and something perilously close to hope.

It was the last thing he felt before the dark closed in.

#chuuya nakahara #dazai osamu #bsd dragon head conflict #bsd #bsd fanfic #bungo stray dogs #bsd dark era #bungou stray dogs #bsd dazai #atsicnh #all the sins i could not hate #port mafia #armed detective agency #skk #bungou stray dogs dazai #bsd chuuya #nakahara chuuya

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mariaofdoranelle · 1 year ago

Text

URDAD - part 5

Lonely TCGTATGG would like to pair up with congenial AGCATACC

Warnings: mentions of kinky times? Maybe light nsfw idk

Words: 1,4k

A little recap because it’s been so fucking long: Rowan’s the father of Aelin’s bestie, Imogen. He kept it distant until he found Aelin a job at his hospital. She works with the machinery and he’s allergic to technology so she helps him out a lot. They grew close. Aelin planned to break up with Chaol, the boyfriend she lived with, and then become roomies with Imogen. But then she finds out that Chaol and Imogen have been sleeping together and oh no she’s homeless now! Rowan feels bad and offers her a place to stay out of the pureness of his heart, but she fucks him to get back at her friend. Now they’re fucking like bunnies but no one knows yet.

Also, Anne Jausten is Rowan’s most treasured digital slide scanner.

Now let’s fucking goooooo

When Aelin invited Rowan to visit apartments with her again, she was expecting incisive views from a more experienced person, not incessant bitching that ended up being a pain in her ass.

She stomped down the hallway leading to her “office”—the medical equipment maintenance room—and Rowan followed hot on her heels, refusing to take the hint.

“I’m sorry,” he said for the millionth time. “I didn’t mean to—“

“Swear it.” She turned around and crossed her arms. “Swear on Anne Jausten that you didn’t act like this on purpose.”

He silently stood with a pleading look in his eye. Maybe because of the two nurses eyeing him curiously, or because he didn’t have anything good to say for himself.

What bugged Aelin the most is that she couldn’t understand why he was trying to sabotage her apartment hunting. Why would he bother to visit the places with her just to talk trash about them. Yes, she was well aware that those apartments weren’t near as nice as his fancy two-story home, but they were nice enough, especially when the deadline she was given to leave was so close.

Rowan had previously told her she could stay for ‘one or two weeks’, and in the meanwhile he fucked her numerous times. Aelin’s experience said it was time for her to go. Not that this kind of behavior applies to all men, but it does to most of them—especially the hot and chronically single ones, like Dr. Whitethorn.

Aelin unlocked her office—not quite, but it was a space for herself of sorts. The room was spacious and almost as well-lit as an OR, but it felt cramped from the amount of broken and old machines waiting for her to repair, along with a few lost causes the hospital had yet to discard. Rowan followed her inside, so she leaned against a broken anesthesia machine with crossed arms and said, “I have work to do. Are you explaining what happened or not?”

Rowan wrapped both arms around her waist and gave a string of pecks on her neck.

“Can’t we just forget about it?”

“No!” She immediately unwrapped herself from him. “You’re not touching me until you explain why the fuck you’re acting so weird!”

Rowan immediately took a step back, both hands up in surrender. Good to know. From what she’s heard, not all doctors in this hospital would.

“You’re serious?”

Aelin crossed her arms again and nodded.

A sigh. “I’m not lying to you. I really don’t like the apartments we’ve visited. I care about you and Fleetfoot, going from my place to that would be a huge downgrade.”

Aelin threw her head back and laughed. Loudly. His confused expression made her want to explain things, but the hilariously of this took all the breath from her lungs.

“Rowan, I won’t be able to afford a place like yours at all within the next 10 years.”

“That’s why you should stay with me. At least for now.”

That took the amusement out of her face. Aelin’s thoughts were blank as she examined his apprehensive pine green eyes. There was only one chair because no one ever visited her down there, so she sat while Rowan leaned on a machine near her.

“You’re serious? Like, roommates till a better rent do us part?”

Rowan tilted his head, waiting for her answer—confirmation enough for a quiet guy like him. Still, things weren’t looking good. She probably could afford half the cost of his place, but if she paid for all that, she would barely be able to afford food.

She finally answered, “The only way I can afford my part of the rent is if it’s split based on income.”

Rowan bit his bottom lip in a poor-piss attempt to not laugh, which earned him a slap on the bicep.

“Aelin, I don’t pay rent myself. I won’t ask that of you.”

He was offering her a home for free?

Aelin never doubted she was a good lay, but holy rutting Mala.

But this was too good to be true. “What about house chores?”

“Not your concern. Just look after yourself and Fleetfoot.”

Aelin got up from her chair, rounding Rowan with her eyes narrowed at him. This was too unreal. He had to have an ulterior motive.

“No sexual clauses?”

“Not at my request.” His eyes darkened and he added with a suggestive tone, “But I can be very compliant if you add one.”

A beep interrupted their conversation—she was needed her in the ER.

Knowing what the sound meant, Rowan raised both brows in question. What do you say?

“I still don’t know,” she said while putting her lab coat on.

This feels too good, too easy. Aelin would live as a guest in his house, for free, after hooking up for a week and a half. What it he gets bored of her? What happens to her when he regrets it? What if he changes his mind after his daughter finds out and inevitably throws a tantrum?

As if reading her thoughts, Rowan took a step closer, carefully tucked her hair behind her ear, caressed her jaw with his thumb before he murmured, “I just want to see you safe and taken care of, that’s all.”

Aelin closed her eyes, a little overwhelmed. He might be the most thoughtful situationship she’s ever had. She tucked her head on his chest and chuckled, and he pulled her closer, letting her feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he caressed her hair.

Rowan slipped a strand of Aelin’s hair behind her ear, his carefree expression morphed into something else. “Will you at least think about it?”

Aelin tried to plaster a earnest face, but the corners of her lips kept tugging up. “You won’t make this easy for me, will you?”

His eyes widened. “I’m already making this as easy as I can!”

Another call urging her to go to the ER broke them apart.

Aelin took a step back and squeezed his hand. “See you at dinner?”

“See you at dinner.”

It was hard to stop her mind from racing as she took the elevator to the ER. Rowan’s offer got more tempting each time she thought about it and, to be honest, Aelin didn’t want to stop the late-night sex followed by morning cuddles either, even if she knew this wouldn’t be permanent.

It’d be good. She could save some money for her masters while staying with him. Aelin knew her place, so falling in love with Dr. Whitethorn was nothing more than a fleeting thought in her mental ‘cons’ list about living with him.

˜˜

Aelin expected to give him her final answer over dinner like any other person does, but when he texted her saying he’d be late because he was needed on a late surgery, the idea she had was too good to pass on.

The sound of his car pulling up made her put her phone down and run to the kitchen, wearing nothing but his favorite apron.

Aelin sat on the dinner table between two trays: one with freshly-cut fruit—strawberries, mango, banana, cherries—and another with little bowls of more liquid stuff, such as honey and chocolate sauce.

The thud of the front door being shut. Slow footsteps. Her heartbeat being the loudest of them all.

“Baby…” Rowan carefully stepped into the kitchen, still with his scrubs on, bewildered eyes aflame as he studied her mostly naked body. “What’re you doing?”

“Accepting your offer.” Aelin crossed her legs and tilted her head in a saucy, near predatory manner while still keeping an innocent tone when she explained, “You said you want me to stay. I thought I’d earn my keep.”

“You know you don’t have to—“

Rowan cut himself off when Aelin slid just the top of his apron off her body, exposing her breasts.

He cleared his throat and corrected, “How so?”

Aelin gave him a sly grin, a little brownie point for playing along.

“Dinner.”

She thrust her chest out and suggestively dipped her middle finger in the bowl with the honey, eyes trained on him as she slid it from her upper chest to her shoulder.

And waited until Rowan’s brain restarted so he could lick it off.

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