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foilfreak · 3 years

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Beauty and Her Beast: Chapter 3

Warning: This fic is rated NSFW and contains graphic depictions of things some people may find disturbing or alarming, including, but not limited to: violence, gore, unhealthy family relationships, Oedipus complexes, gratuitous amount of pornographic literature, ableist language, physical, mental, and emotional abuse, etc. If you are someone who does not enjoy fiction with these elements in them, then I suggest you refrain from reading this, because this fic will have all that, and probably a lot more. So, this is your first and final warning to turn around and go somewhere else if stuff like this just isn't your vibe, because from this point forward, your emotional wellbeing is in your own hands, and I will not be accepting blame if you disregarded my warnings and ended up reading something you didn't like. Idk why I feel compelled to write one of these despite this being Resident Evil fanfic, but I figured I'd cover my ass just in case.

(Link to ao3 version in comments below)

“Going off the information I have listed here, it appears as though you’ll be receiving subject N-45, today. She’s a healthy 22 year old female. Her short, but muscular body weighs 95lbs with a childish height of 4’10” tall. She possesses primarily Romanian and Filipino ancestry, with some Dutch or Finnish or... whatever, thrown in there as well. And according to the various items we found on her person when she was first brought in, she’s apparently a graduate student at the University of Bucharest, or, at least she was, before she drove her car into a tree while driving up the mountain and was recovered by Heisenberg” Miranda explains robotically, reading aloud from a piece of paper held inside a thick manila envelope. “Of the 4 remaining test subjects, N-45 is easily the most violent and difficult one to work with, having to be either anesthetized or restrained every time I wanted to so much as take her vitals or stabilize her condition. When given smaller doses of sedatives she-”

For the first time in his entire life, Salvatore completely ignores whatever unimportant nonsense Mother Miranda is going on about, continuing to take in and analyze the strikingly unique appearance of the young woman before him.

Upon first inspection, N-45 appeared to resemble that of a normal woman in just about every way possible. Her hair was scruffy and very short, barely long enough to reach her eyes, and a deep black color that looked so soft and luxurious that Salvatore ached to run his fingers through it. Her face was slightly round, giving the young woman a very youthful appearance, with her sharp jawline and prominent cheekbones being some of the only things keeping Salvatore from mistaking her for a child. And lastly, her... figure, if Salvatore had to put such an embarrassing idea into words, was similar to that of Mother Miranda, only shorter, more compact even. It reminded the hooded man of those small packets of candy Duke occasionally gifted him that said “fun sized” on the label, in reference to them being much smaller than the standard sized candy bars and yet somehow being… better, despite technically giving you less candy.

She was already perfect as she was, but it was not just N-45’s beautiful human features that pulled Salvatore in and refused to let him escape the stupefaction he’d been placed under, but also her mutations.

A soft royal blue coated her from head to toe, giving way only to a large patch of solid white located on her chest and stomach. Her skin catches the light in a way that reveals areas of tiny overlapping scales, glimmering like stars in the midnight sky, or freshly polished armor, perhaps, along the bony ridges and tender curves of her figure.

Small white dots distributed like paint splatters across the colored sections of her flesh give a similar visual effect as freckles, starting from her hairline and extending all the way down to the very tips of her toes. These galaxies of white were invisible only on the white patch along the front of her torso, as well as on the lighter blue hue taken on by both the palms and webbings of her hands and feet.

Long Fin-like extensions grew along both her forearms and lower back. The former extended outward and inward like a windshield wiper, likely used to decrease water resistance. The latter, however, perhaps used to increase fine motor maneuverability while swimming at greater speeds or in tighter spaces, grew straight downwards from her lower back in an overlapping fan configuration that marginally covered her rear end, though not by very much. The fins looked like a soft, delicate material that was probably very flexible but very durable, if Salvatore had to guess just from looking.

And to top everything off, N-45 even appeared to even have gills, 2 different sets by the looks of it. The first set of 3 breathing slits was located horizontally along both sides of her neck, while the second set could be found on both sides of her torso, following the downward angle of her ribs but stopping just underneath her soft, plump-looking breasts.

Salvatore feels a sudden wave of heat cascade over his body and he turns his face away in shameful embarrassment as he suddenly realizes that N-45, much like every test subject undergoing cadou treatment, was still very, very nude at the present moment.

“I can’t make any promises regarding her disposition, but physically speaking, she’s ready to be released to you whenever you’d like. I’ll have some of the villagers transport and release her into the reservoir later this week” Mother Miranda says, pressing a button to close the pod now that Salvatore was no longer staring at her.

“W-wait just a m-moment” Salvatore calls out, prompting Mother Miranda to halt the closing of the pod.

“Yes? What is it?” The woman asks curtly, clearly not wanting to stand here and watch Salvatore any longer than she has to.

Wringing his hands together nervously, Salvatore meekly asks, “C-could… could y-you wake h-her up… s-so that I can s-speak with her… j-just for a m-moment?”

Mother Miranda remains silent for a moment, blank face staring directly at Salvatore as she contemplates what to do.

“No, Moreau,” she says finally. “I’ve had a very busy day today and I'm quite tired. N-45 is a menace that I struggle to deal with even on my best days. The last thing I need is something going wrong and her getting out and causing all sorts of chaos.”

Salvatore’s shoulders slump in disappointment, but he makes no further attempts to argue.

Mother Miranda rolls her eyes at the incredibly childish display, walking over to place a gentle hand on Salvatore’s head. “Would it make you feel better if I agreed to have N-45 be the first of the subjects to be dropped off? It’ll be more difficult than my original plan, but I suppose it was a bit unfair that you were the only one who didn’t get to “pick” their gift.”

“Yes, M-Mother Miranda… I-I’d like th-that very… very m-much” Salvatore says, leaning into the touch as Mother Miranda begins guiding him back toward the hallway leading to the exit door.

It wasn’t until after Miranda had exited the lab and begun walking down the long hallway toward the exit that Salvatore dared cast another glance back at the pod that contained N-45, wistfully thinking of how amazing her hand had felt in his, and how much he wanted to speak to her.

Just as the disfigured man was about to turn back and follow Miranda out of the laboratory, a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, prompting Salvatore to tense and snap toward the 4 pods, frantically trying to figure out what it was he saw. A few seconds of stillness pass before Salvatore sees movement again, not freely moving about the room like he originally expected, but from within one of the 4 pods, his pod to be exact.

His curiosity momentarily outweighing his nerves, Salvatore slowly approaches the metal capsule, trying to get a look through the small pane of glass that allows visual access into the holding pod.

Another flash of movement has Salvatore flinching, jumping back as though he’d been advanced upon. After several seconds of stillness, however, the hooded man regains his confidence and once again inches his way toward the capsule, moving his head up and down to try and get one more glimpse at N-45 before he has to leave. One last look before she lays eyes upon his vile and disgusting body for the first time, screaming and calling him a monster as she runs away, leaving him alone and without anyone to call his own. Just like always.

“ Hello ?”

Salvatore froze dead in his tracks, his heart pounding and his lungs refusing to take in air, as a soft, muffled, questioning voice reaches the deformed man’s ears, followed by two golden orbs with narrow black slits running vertically through the center, that slowly peek into view from the bottom of the glass window. Salvatore’s eyes widen in shock as he quickly realizes that the orbs of gold are not, in fact, just spheres of color, but rather a pair of eyes, staring intently at him from inside the pod.

“Uuuuuh… u-u-uuum… I-i… I w-was just…” the disfigured man stuttered as he struggled to move his body, seemingly paralyzed by the bewitching gaze currently locked onto him, looking at him with an intensity that makes Salvatore wonder if this is what it feels like to be a cell put under a microscope.

It isn’t until Salvatore notices the golden orbs moving and shifting from one corner of the window pane to the other that the hooded man realizes, to his immediate horror, that he might not be the only one trying to get a better look at the figure located on the other side of the pod door. Panic and fear immediately fill Salvatore from deep within, growing strong enough to allow him to finally overcome his temporary paralysis and skitter away from view. Pulling his hood even further over his petrifyingly grotesque face in shame of himself, Salvatore flees the laboratory as quickly as his hobbled limp would allow.

His heart pounds to the beat of the soft, but desperate pleas of protest coming from N-45’s pod in response to Salvatore’s rapidly retreating form, yet the hooded man cannot bring himself to believe what he hears as true. Perhaps believing that the siren-like voice he hears echoing off the metal laboratory walls to be nothing more than a trick of his sick and lonely mind, Salvatore does not stop, nor does he turn back around until he’s met up with Mother Miranda at the exit to the surface, lungs burning and legs aching from running for so far and long.

“Oh, there you are, Moreau,” Mother Miranda says suddenly, stopping just before they are about to exit the laboratory. “I’m glad you chose this time to finally catch up, because I just realized a second ago that I’d forgotten to give you N-45’s previous name. You can name her something else if you’d prefer, of course, but I offered the information to your siblings so I suppose I should offer it to you as well. Would you still like to know N-45’s name, or would you rather abandon her given name for one of your own choosing?”

After a few seconds of silent contemplation, Salvatore lifts his head, “I… I-i would like to k-know… her n-name… please...” the mutant man says softly.

Mother Miranda briefly raises a questioning eyebrow at Salvatore’s nervous body language, but ultimately rolls her eyes and shrugs her shoulders, all but tossing the Manila envelope containing N-45’s information at the hooded man before disappearing out the large metal door.

“If you’re going to read that now, feel free, but return to the meeting room once you're done. And be sure to lock the door to my laboratory behind you” Miranda commands, her voice having grown echoey due to how far away she now was.

“Yes, M-Mother” Salvatore calls after her as he scrambles to catch the thrown file and prevent any loose papers from falling out. Once he’s got a solid handle on the thick envelope, he opens it, casting a quick glance back in the direction of the pod room, where Nadine and the other 3 gifts were being held for the time being.

Returning to the file, Salvatore frantically flips through every page, trying to find the one that held N-45’s personal background information.

After several minutes of desperate flipping back and forth, Salvatore finally focuses on one particular piece of paper that looked to have been in the file for the longest. Pulling out the particular page he’d found, the disfigured man drops the rest of the folder onto the ground and begins rapidly skimming through the information printed on the page, his hungry eyes refusing to stop until they finally zeroed in on the information he’d been looking for.

Project: E.V.A. Resurrection

Subject: N-45

Parasite Administered: Cadou (Series- N; Strain- 45)

Family Name: Bogdan

Given Name: Nadine

“N… Nadine” Salvatore said slowly, feeling slightly lightheaded and out of breath as each individual letter of the young woman’s name rolled off his tongue like Camembert cheese; smooth, creamy, decedent, and likely to keep him up all night with an upset stomach and a racing heartbeat.

Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine.

The name quickly became a broken loop played over and over and over again inside Salvatore’s head, his mind unable, or rather unwilling, to think of anything else as he read, reread, and then re-reread Nadine’s name at least 100 times, before finally setting the piece of paper down.

“Nadine...” Salvatore breathes the name once again, his voice carrying a wistful tone. “E-even your n-name is wonderful...”

An already beautiful woman, made even more perfect through the power of science and Mother Miranda’s grace, only for all that potential to end up wasted in the hands of a desperately lonely and horrifically mangled fish mutant, who was more likely to accidentally dissolve her in stomach acid than woo her like some kind of aquatic Prince Charming.

“Y-ya right... e-e-even with a-another mutant… I’m s-still so disgusting a-an… and horrifying in comparison… n-not even my o-own kind can b-bring thems-themselves to love me f-for who I a-am… not th-that there’s much of m-me that’s worth l-loving to begin w-with” Moreau laments to himself, wondering if it was even worth holding out hope that things with Nadine could go his way. As if one look at his monstrous form wouldn’t be enough to ruin everything Salvatore already has an agonizingly low chance of ever having with that magnificent specimen of a woman.

Even with Nadine’s own external mutations making it clear that she was no longer fully human, her form had still retained such a beautifully strong, yet womanly shape to it, and her face still looked so young and innocent despite everything that she’s been through. Someone as beautiful as her was far too good and pure to be tainted by his filthy hands.

‘Maybe I should just kill her when the villagers arrive with her at the gate? At least then... I could say I put her out of her misery before she had to experience it for herself…’ Salvatore sulks mentally.

However, despite the self degrading thoughts running through his mind, the memory of the curious look Nadine’s shockingly bright and mesmerizing golden eyes held when trying to look at Salvatore through the pod window made the hooded man shiver, having never been looked upon in such an innocently curious manner before. Most people who got that close to Salvatore didn’t even need to see his face in order to start screaming and running away in terror. However, if the deformed man allowed himself a brief moment to believe that it was indeed her who’d been calling him to come back and show himself, then from the tone and rushed quality of her voice, it would seem as though Nadine was unsatisfied with the fact that she hadn’t seen all of Salvatore’s face and body, not terrified.

How strange...

How very strange indeed…

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tipsydipsydo · 4 years

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Touched [M]

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Gender of the Reader: female

Word Count: 2.2k

Rating: 18+

Genre: Fluff; Smut

Warnings: tooth rotting fluff; Full Body Massage; Petnames; Praising; Body-Worshipping; Nipple Play; Fingering; Mentions of pubic Hair; kinda tantric orgasm (?); Yoongi is awfully sweet and adorable! 🤧💕

A/N: I wrote this here for my sweet Darling Sibi @borathae who had an incredible awful week and I just thought about how to make a little bit up for this shitty week. I love you and I hope you like it, Baby~ 🙈💖

Summary: This week was just so awful and shitty, every muscle in your body hurts and you're absolutely exhausted from this horror week. But Yoongi has an Idea to relax you and make you feel so loved in a way, that couldn't make thousands of compliments.

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「© tipsydipsydo」

This following story is my intellectual property and belongs only to my blog tipsydipsydo.tumblr.com!

I’ll not accept any kind of reposting, stealing or using/editing my work!

That includes reposting my content on other social media platforms too, even when you link me as the original author.

Thank you.

"Just relax. And if you don't want something, please just tell me.", Yoongi whispers in your ear as he lays you down on your stomach on the big king size bed. You just nod exhausted and worn out, really don’t want anything more than relaxation and rest.

This week had just been terrible and exhausting. You don't know why, but Mother Nature thought this week is a good week to let the temperatures reach 40°C. Exactly in the week where you no longer have lectures and therefore you have to work a 40 hours week in your side job. Not that it's bad, no. You work at a photographer and you study photography, so it couldn't be that bad... wrong. It is already shit if you have to renovate in blazing sun without shade a barn (for photo shootings etc). You are studying photography, not trained as a craftsman! Now you regret having applied with your craft skills.

Yoongi already said the last few days, you should finally quit and find a better part-time job, with a boss who also appreciates your photographic skills. But you need this Job, your Boss pays you well. Only you would like to do more often the things you have applied for and no other stupid work.

Especially when this man, who call you your boss, is sitting in his air-conditioned office and you had to work outside your ass off in this unbearable heat?!

But now this cruel week is finally over and you should not get upset even more with it. You’re finally at home, with Yoongi.

You close your eyes, inhale deeply the smell of the Ylang Ylang oil, which the Oil Burner on the windowsill lets spread throughout the room. A slight smile plays around your lips, Yoongi has remembered which kind of scents you like so much in the summer months. In your bedroom it’s pleasantly cool, the approaching night brings the first fresh breeze through the wide-open terrace door to you, caresses your naked skin tenderly. The sinking sun bathes the entire room in a soft red-orange tone.

It is incredibly comfortable to lie on the bed just in panties, between all the big soft pillows and blankets.

Your Boyfriend is up with something for you, something that is relaxing, sensual, tender. You admit, these last few weeks, you couldn't really be there for each other. Too much work, too many other things had just taken too much time. And the fact that he also spoils you now, only made your guilty conscience towards him grow even more.

The mattress sinks down a little, you felt him shift his weight and sit in front of your head.

He seems to rub oil or something else between his hands before bending over and stroking with his warm and big hands over your shoulders to the swell of your butt cheeks. You sigh softly at this loving touch, enjoy this single touch already so much.

His hands glide again and again in full strokes with gentle pressure over your back and then begin to massage you gently. Your breaths get deeper, undreamt-of tension gradually eases and you enjoy every single caress from him.

Circling, he lets his fingertips wander over your back, scratching lovingly with his fingernails delicately over it, which gives you tingling goose bumps.

Every patch of skin is getting pampered by him and leaves pure relaxation and deep inner peace. You no longer think, you just feel and and

gratefully accept his tender touches and this deep calm as a sensual and confidential gift from him.

Finally, he straightens himself up again and goes to the height of your hip and kneels above you, but lets his hands lie on your lower all the time, thereby not interrupting this physical and mental contact with each other.

His hands exert completely different pressure on your body through this altered Position, which is a completely different experience.

Yoongi really always knows what is good for you, even if you have never said those things before. He likes to massage you, let all his love and appreciation flow into you through these touches.

Things he would never have gotten over his lips otherwise, so that you feel downright adored.

Yoongi had always been a quiet man who had a hard time getting feelings across his lips and yet he is so incredibly soulful that he constantly tries to express all his love differently. And it is precisely through these touches that he can convey it much better than with any words.

For what he feels for you and shows you through these gestures, there are simply no words.

You groan softly and muted as his lips touch your neck and shoulders. Every single feather-light kiss leaves an exciting tingling on your skin, which made your pleasurable sigh slightly tremble.

You gulp a little, a lustful feeling shoots through your nerves and bales in my stomach, which slowly pulls into your lower abdomen.

His tender kisses and nibbles on your skin excite you. It is not a hot and craving desire, it’s a permanent subliminal and sensual pleasure that goes through your entire body and reaches, occupies all nerves and fibers.

His body slides backwards, his hands wander over your butt. It was just a gentle stroke over it and yet it aroused you even more. He continues this loving, slow treatment on your legs, massages and kisses every conceivable place. Even the soles of your feet and toes were kneaded with calm pressure. Your body is completely relaxed and yet you feel pleasure. Lust that let you otherwise expectantly tense. It is new and exciting to experience it like this.

His fingers are back up on your thighs and each of your two butt cheeks is now nestled in his palms.

From your coming sigh your excitement can now be heard, which makes him hum contentedly. There was still the thin stuff of Panties between you, but that doesn't stop your excitement for more. Rather, you feel your nascent moisture between

your legs just even more. At some point, his hands glide once more over your entire back, over your arms and hands, which you have placed at a laterally bent angle next to your head.

"Please turn around, Darling.", he breathes into your ear. A little sluggishly and slowly you turn on your back and notice how some blush rises on your cheeks. Your Breasts are bare. Even though Yoongi is your Boyfriend, it was often unusual for you to show yourself so naked, so vulnerable.

He spoils you now just as tenderly as it has done before with your back. Massages and rubs your scalp, temples and stroke all over your body in long strokes.

Every now and then a fresh breeze pulls over your body, brings the Lust in your blood more into action and makes your nipples hard. You you’re feeling warm, even quite hot. Yoongi feels your Lust now downright, nevertheless he spoils you slowly further, which became a sensual tormenting. He bypasses your erogenous zones, cancels them until the end of the extensive Massage.

Kissing every accessible spot of my skin and you feel as valued as you haven’t felt for a long time. You are tough and don’t get overwhelmed and emotionally exhausted easily, you want to show that you, as a woman, can be strong and independent. But you are also just a normal person, you struggles sometimes too, you also need from time to time a shoulder to lean on.

Yoongi gives you exactly this shoulder to lean on. He is solid as a rock and catches you when you fall. You are not alone in this cruel world. Yoongi is with you.

A light sweat film lies on your skin and you bite down on your lower lip softly, trying to hide your moaning away. Your breath is still deep, but it trembles a little with excitement and arousal.

Every Pore begins to tingle longingly, all over your body, from the hairline to your toes. From your feet, his hands glide in a fluid motion across your shins and the insides of your thighs. Caressing strokes, no more than a breath of wind over your Vulva.

You sigh tremblingly, automatically open your thighs a little more and your fingers run through your hair, which is spread like a fan around your head.

His touches give you immense trust in him. You present to him your soul. Your wishes, dreams, ideas, but also your fears and insecurities. He accepts you, he accepts you the way you are.

Touch you almost reverently, as if you were something so precious that is not worthy his touch. This realization of being valued and on an equal level with him, with him as a man, almost brings tears to your eyes. He shows you the respect that every woman would have deserved.

His fingertips dances across your Vulva up to your stomach and draw blurred lines that find themselves somewhere invisible.

They keep sliding back up and finally, they find your breasts. Finally. You wanted to be touched by Yoongi there so badly.

His fingertips drawing a spiral that circles ever tighter and ultimately reaches your nipples.

Carefully he caresses them and gently breathes his hot breath on them. Your body trembles.

Your folds were swollen and wet with Lust. This sensual game arouses you completely. How badly would you be touched there by him, caressed... Suddenly, his warm lips closes around your right nipple and caress it with light sucking, touching it with the tip of his tongue.

Your body is completely relaxed and yet it seems to you that everything in you is contracting with longing for him.

He plays the same game on your other nipple and you put your head in the back of your neck with your eyes closed. You whole body is so hot... A soft lustful moan escapes your open lips.

"You are so beautiful... you’ll ever be.", Yoongi whispered softly. His voice is also shaky and... there is a certain awe in his deep harsh voice. Another gasp comes out of your throat, his deep voice makes your hot, aroused body tingling. Makes my body pulsate. His lips touch your chin and kiss a trail down between your breasts across your stomach to your hot center.

Just before your Panties he stops and hooks his thumbs under the waistband on each side. Slowly he takes off the last piece of clothing before he lies next to you in a sideway position and lets his one Hand slip between your thighs.

You gasp for air and open your thighs a little more. His fingertips glide through the soft curls of your pubic hair, tugging gently on it to make you mewl. Moving lower to your folds before dipping with two of his fingers between them.

Gently he caresses them, playing gently with your entrance, while you quietly gasp out my Lust. Yoongi kisses your shoulder and your neck, in the Moment he finds your Clit that finally wanted to be found.

Your hip bucks up, you just bring out a strangled moan. You trust him so much, want to be able to open yourself completely up to him and let yourself fall, in the conscience of being caught by him again. He feels this intimate emotion in you, this desire to be completely his.

He whispers barely audible words into your ear, tells you what he loves about you and puts after each compliment a kiss under it. His fingers rubs over your pearl, carefully and sensually. Taking his time for you.

Again and again, two of his fingers sinks deep into you, then he stimulates all over again only your clit. A long, lustful game begins.

Your pelvis rises towards him, you reward his actions with soft, breathless moans and the search of your lips for his own. Your thighs fall apart to the side, open your folds open even more up for him and the idea that it sees you so open, bare and so vulnerable turns you incredibly on.

It’s the last time when his fingertips circles around your pearl, until you tremble and cramp with the fulfillment of your Lust. Feelings and emotions rain down on you, which could never have been properly described with words. Only your facial expressions can show approximately what fulfilled pleasure you are feeling right now.

Tenderly Yoongi kisses you and wispers a breathy "I love you" into your ear, before you look into his dark brown eyes and find nothing but love, honor and respect, which applies only to you alone.

#btswritersnet #suganetwork #bts smut #bangtanhq #yoongi smut #thehouseofbangtan #yoongi tantric massages #bts x reader #houseofddaeng #yoongi the soft fluffball #bangtanarmynet #yoongi x reader smut #by tipsydipsydo

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a-lil-perspective · 4 years

Note

Stopping by with another song drabble request: Hunter (surprise surprise) + 3? :D Literally whatever you want for it, you never cease to amaze <3

[:’) Thank you so much.]

Also this is not 100-200 words oops.

Song: All Due Respect by Asking Alexandria

“I can fly, and you’re gonna fall face down while I inspire greatness...”

———

All Due Respect

Hunter never thought he would have anything to his name, certainly not anything tied to that cesspool. Yet there he was, summoned back to collect his team’s experimental material that had long since been outfitted and was simply taking up nonexistent space in one of Kamino’s vast storage compartments.

Not like Wrecker’s training armor would’ve fit any of the Regs, anyway.

Just a quick requisitions. In and out.

It was times like these he felt the invisible leash that tied him to this place pull stronger than ever.

With a sigh and a directive to follow one of the chief Scientists, Hunter had a sneaking suspicion he’d never fully sever himself from it. None of them would.

He traveled along familiar corridors, the elongated hallways heaving up memories; a nauseating swirl of good and bad ones. ‘Good’. Or as good as he made them out to be. He never would’ve survived otherwise.

Trailing behind, Hunter slowed as he passed an examiner’s door, the one used for experimental Clones. He practically lived in that room, for the first few months of his life especially. His blood ran cold as his eyes fell to the ‘Occupied’ sign on the door controls.

Hunter didn’t think the Longnecks even bothered with Experimentals after the Bad Batch left and the war pulled their attention to other matters.

He wasn’t sure what came over him, but he punched in a sequence with a practiced remembrance he didn’t think still resided in his mind—or worked—and stepped inside the now open room with the automatic door shutting promptly behind him. He should’ve cared about his absence being noticed, or similarly, his unauthorized presence being detected. But he didn’t; to either.

Hunter’s stomach churned as he found a lone cadet strapped supine to a table. The boy was alert, his eyes widening a fraction at the unexpected visitor before relaxing once confirming it wasn’t one of them there to assault him with another round of needles. Hunter figured he must’ve looked as strange to the cadet as the cadet did to him.

Hunter held up his hands in a placating manner as he strode over to his side. His build looked slightly smaller than that of the Regs, kind of like Tech. He had discolored patches of skin that, upon closer examination, Hunter remembered to be what was diagnosed as Vitiligo. During Hunter’s time as a cadet, he only remembered reading about one reported case—he and Tech were... very interested in other previously recorded mutations—and this one was rare. Hunter didn’t need any internal scans to determine the raging hormonal imbalance as well; having heightened senses proved on the daily to be both a blessing and a curse. Likewise, the cadet’s overproduction of sebum was most apparent through his slick, patchy hair. Hunter couldnt help but wonder what other apparatuses he possessed other than what revealed through that of his physical appearance.

Hunter smiled down in reassurance he wasn’t feeling. “What’s your name, cadet?”

The cadet eyed him in a mix of curiosity and wary, and then his shoulders slumped what best they could in the restraints. “I don’t have one,” he murmured.

Another Nameless. In Hunter’s experience, those were the ones that never seemed to last very long. Having no name was silent damnation.

“Well,” Hunter cleared his throat, glancing back at the door for good measure before returning with a glimmer in his eye. “I’m pretty good at picking names.” His gaze washed over the boy once more. Profile read-outs on the wall to his right caught his attention for a brief second.

EC-44: Congenital deformities, Abnormal influx of hormonal properties due to artificial specimen integration at premature stage. Dermatological complex and subpar physical stature, but showcases a progressive endurance and faculties with which the extension of has not yet been determined. Further commencing on the etiopatholgical level is required.

“How about Spades?”

Kid had resilience in spades, there was no doubt. Let the Longnecks suck on that.

“Spades...” the cadet tested it. A name that had nothing to do with his outward predicament but instead the parameters of his potential. The corner of his lip turned up in a sheepish smile, and Hunter could’ve gathered him up right then and there, heightened senses be damned.

He refrained from tearing off those abhorrent straps, wanting nothing more than to whisk the kid away, somewhere far away where he could decide his own fate before the Longnecks did it for him.

But he didn’t want him to pay the price for his fervent feelings in that moment.

He’d make it.

They both would.

“Sergeant Hunter.” The voice was clipped and all business-conducting. Hunter straightened just as the boy’s eyes widened to saucers at the issued ranking.

“Just brushing up on all the new advancements,” he mused with his back to her, eyes sweeping across the room. All these shiny objects to better poke and prod with. And somehow those bastards could still sleep at night. “Heard Kamino has upped its technical efficiency since my squad and I were here last.” He finally turned to the Kaminoan, no longer giving a damn about any disdain that shown through. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”

At least, Tech would.

“We are on an institutionalized schedule, so I must strongly encourage you to follow me in order to conduct your requisitions as quickly as possible. We do have a war to supply for,” she answered mechanically.

“Sure.” Hunter took a gamble and turned ‘round to the cadet a final time. “Keep your head up,” he whispered, willing all of his warmth to spill out.“Sergeant Spades sounds good on you.”

Someday you’ll even outrank me.

Hunter left the kid inspirited as he turned and exited the room, forcing away the gnawing dread that corroded his nerves the minute he was out of sight.

“Keep an eye on that one, Chief,” Hunter puffed out his chest slightly, and for the first time, took sweet leverage in his ranking. “That one’s gonna be a Commando.”

#Hunter with other diff cadets omg yes please #he wants to adopt them all #anyway hope you like #everyday I’m tempted more and more to dip into all my Bad Batch cadet stuff #also this song is one of my favs of all time #star wars #star wars ocs #OC_Spades #the bad batch #clone force 99 #sergeant hunter #hunter #my writing #drabble song #cptalpha-17 #asks #it’s a lil thing

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lowkeysaurus · 4 years

Text

Queen of Mean ; Part 2

summary: a recap of y/n’s escapades through the first two movies... before we get into the real story. pairings: harry potter/reader warnings: n/a notes: for the sake of the story, some things are not as they were in canon. an example of this, is that dumbledore appears significantly younger than how he is in the movies. Simply, I write him to be a slightly older version of Jude Law!Dumbledore.

Copyright Disclaimer under section 107 of the Copyright Act of 1976, allowance is made for “fair use” for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, education and research, thereby I do not own the rights to any of the characters shown in the below writing.

- SORTING CEREMONY - You remember it as if it were yesterday. Because you lived so close to the castle, you obviously didn’t have to take the train ride there- although, as it was part of the experience of being a first year, you did have to take the boat ride across the lake. Arthur and Flynn had previously assured you that you would see them on the other side, especially as they taught A History of Magic and Muggle Studies respectively, and those were both classes that were mandatory to take for the first two years. During the boat ride you’d become friends with two other girls, Aquila Crane and Lyra Prewett. Aquila was a very pretty, dark-skinned girl who wore her hair straight- you weren’t sure if it was a weave, extensions or her natural hair, and hadn’t felt like asking in the end, either. Lyra was also ridiculously pretty, with fairer skin, though not pale; and wore her natural hair proudly. They were boisterous girls, but that was fine, it was nice to have girls around for once. It went unspoken, but there seemed some sort of unspoken respect for each other through you all, as you quickly learned that Aquila’s mother was an auror who had been murdered, dare you say it; during the blast that had killed that boy, Peter Pettigrew. Lyra’s father had been Gideon Prewett, and upon learning that you’d wanted to start gushing about that story that Flynn had told you before- about how it took five Death Eaters to kill Gideon and his brother. They had both been great wizards. And then it came time to be sorted rather quickly. As soon as the doors flung open you immediately began searching for your cousins, and quickly found them, along with their grandfather. Flynn and Arthur sat on either side of Uncle Albus, though you’d have to start calling them by their surnames now; Professor Dumbledore, and the Professors Warren. There was a seat beside Arthur empty that you assumed to be the stern Professor McGonagall’s, and that sounded quite fitting, considering she happened to be Deputy Headmistress. You tried very hard to ignore the sorting ceremony, not wanting to spoil your mood when you heard their names, but even you were curious what house the heroic Harry Potter would be placed. It came as no shock that Draco was a Slytherin, your cousin’s entire line had been, but when it took almost two minutes to decide for Harry, your interest was piqued- and then the hat let out a mighty roar of “GRYFFINDOR!” You had immediately decided that you didn’t want to be a Gryffindor. Lyra was a Gryffindor like her father and his brother, and their father, and his father and so on, and she looked mighty proud of herself, was that tears in her eyes?; however Aquila had been sorted into Ravenclaw. Previously, it wouldn’t have struck you that she was pretty, but that was evidently stereotypes seeping in that no pretty girl could be clever, too. It wasn’t until after a Zabini, Blaise (who was a Slytherin), that you were called. The last person, as if that wasn’t daunting at all. The entire hall fell silent upon hearing the shaky “Black, Y/N” that escaped Professor McGonagall’s thin lips. You could feel each student and teacher’s eyes on you, and it was terrifying. You felt as if you were vibrating where you stood, however the encouraging gazes of each of your relatives, Flynn, Uncle Albus, Arthur and even Draco; pushed you onward. You lifted your skirt slightly above your knees as you ascended the stairs, and eventually you turned and sat on the little stool, and the hat was placed on your head. Its voice filled your head and you shook slightly, but otherwise remained silent and still. “Y/N Black, eh? It’s been a long time since I’ve had to sort any of you lot, Miss Black. And here, two possibilities; Gryffindor or Slytherin, you’ve certainly got the bravery for Gryffindor and the cunning for Slytherin, although I’m afraid to say you might be a little lacking on the kindness for Hufflepuff, Miss Black.” it mused, and you might have been offended if only you didn’t think it were true. Ever since seeing Harry Potter at Diagon Alley you’d been raving, to put it frank. Gerard had gotten fed up with it after less than a week. “The only question is, which do you want to be in?” it asked, and suddenly your heart stopped. The hat was very smart with what it said and what it asked, and it had just asked you the hardest question there was for you to answer. It was as if it were asking ‘Do you hate Malfoy or Potter more?’ and that was not a fair question because blast it all, you couldn’t decide which of them was worse. So you said what you thought. “I don’t know.” only, your voice didn’t come out quite as strong as you’d have liked. It suddenly occurred to you that the entire hall was still silent, save perhaps various whispers. You could hear the soles of someone’s shoes as they walked up behind you and laid a hand across your shoulder, rough and calloused with thick, long fingers. Undoubtedly a man. “You may return to your seat, Professor McGonagall. I’ll stay with her.” and oh, Merlin. You didn’t want all of this fuss to be about you, you’d already come to terms with the fact that your very name would garner you more attention than you’d ever be comfortable with, and now Flynn had drawn even more attention, if that were even possible. You could hear McGonagall’s heels tap, tap, tapping as she returned to her seat.

“Pay no attention to them. it’s just us two, right now. if you must think of it as a... level of hatred for the two boys, to decide on your answer, so be it.” the hat spoke again, and you almost thought that everyone in the hall might be able to hear it. Oh, to hell with it. Your father had been in Slytherin, though nothing good ever came of being in that forsaken house, and your uncle had been a Gryffindor, not that you liked to think much of him and his affiliation with the man who killed your father. In the end, you decided on Gryffindor- but only for Lyra, you told yourself that night as you tried to fall asleep. For Lyra, and Flynn, and Arthur. - MIRROR OF ERISED - You followed Harry and Ron there the night before, under your own invisibility cloak. You’d seen the portrait open when they left, and stuck on your cloak to follow the sound of feet noisily slapping against the cold, stone ground. It had led you here, and after they’d left, you’d decided to look in the mirror yourself. You know, out of curiosity, just to see what you saw, since they both saw different things. You saw your parents, too. The sight had caused tears to gather in your eyes and you had nearly sobbed then and there, but you refused. This would be the only memory you ever had of them, although they weren’t truly there, and you couldn’t spoil it by crying. You’d seen you living at the cottage with your cousins and your parents. You saw your father wrap his arms around your waist and your mother lean her head on his shoulder, and your cousins smiling with their hands on your mother and father’s shoulders too. Explainable, really, why you would come back the next day- only this time, you walked in to see your Uncle Albus. With a name like that, you could see why Aquila, who had grown up with her muggle grandparents, had thought he’d look like some old man with a long, white beard and sparkly robes. But no, your Uncle Albus didn’t look that... daft. He was a tall man, with a short, bushy grey beard with a patch of white on his chin, and short grey hair that might have been blonde or brown once. His hairline, admittedly, had seen better days however. He wore golden, circular spectacles on the bridge of his nose, and he had large, kind blue eyes that peered through them with a gentle smile on thin lips. He wasn’t large around the middle, either, even after eating so well at Hogwarts for his extensive teaching career. He wore a blue three-piece today, with oxfords, and his grey-blue coat hung over his arm, the same colour hat in his hands. For his age, he still looked rather young. Aquila had been shocked, and you’d simply chuckled, but thinking back- if you knew your Headmaster was over one hundred, you’d be under the impression he looked like Merlin himself, too. But you didn’t have time to speak, for as you took off your invisibility cloak, Albus began speaking to someone else- and oh, that was Harry Potter. Here again? Two or three nights in a row, you supposed. You stood off to the side and let them talk. it was evident he was more interested in the boy than you anyway, you thought with a frustrated huff. Uncle Albus’ eyes flickered back to you as if he’d heard the thought, but he said nothing, and neither did you. "So," Uncle Albus started, slipping off the desk to sit on the floor with Harry, "you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised." Albus looked particularly deep in thought as he said that, leaning forward so that his back was hunched and his elbows rested on his kneecap, chin in hand. "I didn't know it was called that, Sir." Potter mumbled, and you snorted. His eyes flickered back to you, he looked, with his frazzled hair, as if he’d been struck by lightning in that moment- wide eyes and messy, and all that, and he seemed vaguely irritated at your presence. You smiled. Albus shot you another look, and your smile dropped, but even still you were glad you’d managed to irritate the great Harry Potter, even if it wasn’t as much as his mere presence enraged you half the time. If looks could kill, you supposed the Killing Curse would be shooting from your Uncle Albus’ eyes right about now. He returned to talking to harry, either way. "But I expect you've realized by now what it does?" "It -- well -- it shows me my family--" Your heart stopped. it shouldn’t have been that much of a shock to you as it was, you knew of his parents and how they’d died, it was part of the reason you loathed him so very much, but as your blood turned to ice in your veins it struck you that perhaps you and the boy with the lightning scar were more similar than you’d given your money’s worth for. "And it showed your friend Ron himself as head boy." he knew more than he let on, your Uncle Albus. It was his school, it had been his even when Dippet had been Headmaster- students tended to look to him for advice even when he was just the Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher. "How did you know -- ?" "I don't need a cloak to become invisible," Uncle Albus spoke gently. He stood then, gracefully as he was, and began to move about the room, heel touching the ground first and then rolling onto his toes with each step. "Now, can you think what the Mirror of Erised shows us all?" Harry shook his head dumbly, and you snorted. Both of them, this time, shot you a deadly look. "Let me explain.” Dumbledore began, leaning back on his heels and raising his head so that his face was pointed at the ceiling, as if he were thinking of just how to explain. His arms pulled behind his back and his hands linked, shoulders back as well. It struck you in that moment where each of your cousins and yourself had gotten your posture from. Finally, he moved again, and circled around Harry slowly as he spoke. “The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is. Does that help?" oh. Albus smiled as if he knew that suddenly it had clicked in both of your heads, and it occured to you that in that moment, he wasn’t talking to just Harry potter, but also you. His smile seemed to grow. Harry spoke up, he sounded unsure beyond belief, but he voiced what both of you in that moment had been thinking. "It shows us what we want... whatever we want..." "Yes.” Albus nodded, and then stopped at Harry’s right side, tilted his head slightly to the right, raised his eyes to the ceiling and hummed slightly as he said, “And no.” “It shows us nothing more..” he continued on, finally explaining properly. he’d always had a tenancy to beat around the bush, hadn’t he? Sometimes you wish he wished he wouldn’t speak in riddles, although it quite added to his, eh, grandpa charm. “or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts.” and there it was, that explanation you’d been waiting diligently for, but he continued on, elaborating on points here and there that perhaps neither of you understood. “You two, who have never known your family, see them standing around you. Ronald Weasley, who has always been... overshadowed, by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best of all of them. However!” and he stopped with a jolt, you wondered if he was going to topple forward. “This mirror will give us neither knowledge... nor truth. Men have...” he paused slightly, sighed, and continued. “wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even... possible, for that matter." “The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, and I ask you both not to go looking for it again.” suddenly his voice was stern, and any fragment of a smile he might have worn had left his face, to be overshadowed by a grim look, the corners of his mouth gently downturned. “If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don't you put those cloaks of yours back on, and get off to bed?" Harry stood up, and you, who had already been standing, simply moved to place your cloak over your head when you stopped, the other Gryffindor’s voice pulling your attention. "Sir -- Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you something?" and of course, curiosity would win you over, for you find your head turning to look at the young Headmaster and the Chosen One with barely concealed intrigue. "Obviously, you've just done so," Uncle Albus replied with a strained smile, as if he knew what question was coming and was dreading it. "You may ask me one more thing, however." "What do you see when you look in the mirror?" You sucked in a breath. You knew of the stories, most of the Wizarding World did, and though these days it was rather common knowledge that your Uncle Albus was gay, he still didn’t like to talk much about it- sensetive memories, you supposed, from a time when he’d had to hide his sexuality so heavily that he’d married a woman, Genevieve Prewett, and had children with her. Gerard refused to speak about it almost as much as your Uncle, and you knew that was because his father had been very... conservative, and had been rather ashamed of his father’s sexuality- had gone as far as to wed a Malfoy woman rather early in his life to escape him, actually. You wondered whether Genevieve had known, and if she had, what had she thought. "I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks." You both stared, nearly dumbstruck. He, because it was rather a silly thing to see, and you because you knew much different."One can never have enough socks," said Dumbledore, as if to solidify what he’d said, though his gaze turned to me slowly. He didn’t look quite so happy now as when we’d first entered the room. "Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books."

#harry potter x reader #harry potter imagines #harry potter fanfiction #young dumbledore #albus percival wulfric brian dumbledore #gay dumbledore #gellert grindelwald x albus dumbledore #gellert x albus

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strangebrews · 4 years

Text

anon asked: I really like the meaning of caim! Coul you write that for Tommy x Alfie?

caim (scottish, n.) - an invisible circle of protection, drawn around the body with the hand, that reminds you that you are safe and loved, even in the darkest times

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Tommy grows a beard.

It starts off as a challenge, when John calls Arthur a ‘fucking fake’ who can only manage to grow hair above his top lip. “Juss—think about it, Thomas,” he’s tipsy, a bit of his drink sloshing onto his shirt, “have you ever seen the bastard grow it anywhere else? I saw it all inside the Russians’ house—he’s like a fucking mole rat, he is.” It’s insulting, to say the least, and Tommy is the one forced to step in between them. So he proposes this option to settle the matter. The competition will last a month, himself included.

To put it quite simply, Alfie fucking hates it.

It’s nasty. Unnatural. He refuses to touch it altogether. Their kissing is reduced to a few seconds before he grumbles and pulls away to rub ridiculous amounts of oil onto his lips. And it’s fucking bold behavior coming from him, considering the unkept state he exists in—constantly leaving burns on the insides of Tommy’s thighs, across his cheeks, his other cheeks—but torturing Alfie is far more entertaining than engaging in a war of complaints.

So Tommy milks it—runs his hands through the beard constantly, allowing any stray hairs to fall visibly onto the floor. He leaves bits of food in it purposely and pulls hair out of his mouth dramatically, ensuring Alfie is in full view of the action. He succeeds in getting him to gag twice, the rest are frustrated grunts.

The thing with Alfie is that he is old and afflicted until it comes to dodging Tommy’s touches. Agility becomes his main strength then—weaving through chairs and ducking beneath an outstreched neck. The only time he is vulnerable is at night, when sleep overpowers his reflexes. And Tommy—being an enemy to sleep—capitalizes on the opportunity.

Having to wait for the bear to wake is quite boring, Tommy will admit, but the final outcome is rewarding. He curls up against Alfie, his beard pressed into any bit of exposed skin he can find—forehead, bicep, chest—and he rubs until Alfie’s elbow meets his nose or he’s being shoved off the bed entirely. He’s landed on the floor around 4 times now, lip cut or drops of blood trickling from his nose, laughing hysterically in the darkness as Alfie spews profanities.

Alfie takes all of the pillows and blankets in their bed on the 15th night of this nonsense, piles them into a wall down the middle of the mattress. He waits for Tommy to come into the room before drawing a protective ring with a finger around his own body, then points to Tommy menacingly. “That’s your last warning, mate—stay the fuck out.” Tommy shrugs and nods. It’s a fair reaction.

But he tests the boundary regardless and throws a hand over the wall. Waits until Alfie shifts to press his body against the skin.

Good. The love is still there.

Tommy wins the competition.

It turns out John was right—Arthur is only capable of growing hair above his top lip. By the end of the month the mustache sags down the sides of his mouth, but the rest of the face remains hairless.

But John shuts up, because John, as it turns out, is even less successful than Arthur. His final result is patches of fuzz—barely visible because of the blondeness, so it looks like there is nothing at all. It’s embarrassing. Insulting. Shameful. So they refuse to discuss it and Tommy is left without any praise.

He tells Alfie the story and expects no congratulations in return, but Alfie surprises him. Because when he turns to leave for the bathroom, prepared to shave the mess off, Alfie clears his throat. “I suppose,” his eyes dart around the room, knuckles crack. “I suppose you can just leave it for a few more days.”

Of course, Tommy thinks, but only smiles. Of course he wants it to last a few more days. Tommy’s beard is an extension of Alfie’s ego now—a reminder that Alfie only fucks winners.

#alfie x tommy #tommy x alfie #sholomons #tofie #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #mine #anon #this is just silly but i couldnt think of another situation where they'd realistically and dramatically draw this #circle of protection around each other so i made This #also tommy with a beard *shudders* ew #ok im fookn off now

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entomancy · 4 years

Text

(Fic) Daywalkin’ in Vegas

...let’s be honest, this ‘short backstory fics’ thing has done what my writing tends to do, and Escalted. So let’s escalate.

Title: Daywalkin’ in Vegas (Wattpad) Setting: Increasingly not even serial-numbers-off-VTM. VTM infact exists in-world as a gaming system, which really annoys Fancy Vampires. Warnings: Gore; depictions of violence/ death against a child. Words: 6537 Summary: A failed siring gets the attention of two very different parts of Vegas Below; and a young blooded nosferatu puts herself in the centre of a dangerous balance.

Beep.

Twenty-eight forty.

Beep.

Thirty-one seventy.

Beep.

Nox watched the till display tick up, comparing the total to her mental tally. She had enough; she knew she did. It might have been in tattered bills, tarnished coin rolls and bits of change so old they were chipped like gears around the edges, but she was always real careful to plan these trips down to the grubby dime. In and out, as unobtrusive as possible.

Beep.

A final bag passed, the green-yellow numbers flickering one final time. The cashier smiled in customer service plastic as she read out the total, then followed it with a look of awkward concern.

“That’s all for you? We - er – we have some good specials,” she said hesitantly, nodding towards the little stack of brightly-labelled packages beside the register. It was mostly sweets and tampons, and Nox bit back on a grin at the sight. Nice thought, but that hadn’t been her ‘bloody’ problem for a while now.

“That’s it,” she replied, adding: “Thanks, though.” Sure, it was an upsell, but a kind one. The girl even managed to keep back any disgust at the state of some of the cash; it had been cleaned up, but people didn’t tend to drop crisp ones into a cup on the sidewalk.

Nox carried everything out to the repurposed shopping cart that she’d left just inside the little bodega’s doors. The thing was unbalanced and took corners like a drunk, but it was better than playing pack mule herself. The new bags settled down on top of the day’s earlier buys: bulk discount batches of toilet roll, bleach and superglue, along with cheap fabric for bandages. Plus, now, thirty-eight dollars and eighty-six cents’ worth of the cheapest mince and frozen shrimp available within a four-mile radius.

There had been a time when she’d had to worry about dietary fibre. Or vitamins.

The cart’s wheels creaked and rasped on sidewalk dirt as she headed it away, hunching down over the handle as she pushed; partly for more control, mostly to keep her face in shade. Her battered baseball cap and hoodie did a pretty good job – accompanied by garish plastic sunglasses and a stained bike mask – but every little helped. It also added to the overall ‘bag lady out on an afternoon shuffle’ aesthetic she was going for. The trick was to inspire just enough awkward pity to be invisible, but not enough to be a target.

Apparently, her act was off today. She’d just turned a laborious corner, distracted by trying to keep the bags all stacked, when she felt a hand clamp down onto the top of her head and yank hard. She didn’t move, but the hood pulled away and she heard a yelp of disgust even before she swivelled around. Two young men stood behind her, gawking in revulsion at the revealed state of Nox’s scalp, in all its piebald, peeling, erratically-thickened glory. A thin braid slithered down her face, torn too-easily free along with the hood.

She gave the scene one more heartbeat to really settle in, before grinning widely. Faced with a mouthful of teeth like broken ivory, the youths managed to look even more horrified.

“Aye, that’s how I caught it too!” Nox cackled theatrically, before snatching the hat back from now-unresisting fingers and jamming it back into place. “Don’t go scratching yerself anywhere pretty fer a bit, eh?”

The lad – and his already-retreating backup – hesitated, then let out a string of bravado-born obscenities. Freak – gross – blah blah blah I-have-a-tiny-dick blah. He kicked at the cart as he started follow his friend, and Nox let just enough spill out to sate the petty spite.

Once they had gone, she picked up the packets again and began to fix her hood. The exposed skin was stinging and smarting already, a poison-ivy prickle that calamine wouldn’t touch. At least it was late enough in the afternoon that she probably wouldn’t blister from the exposure. More annoying was the missing chunk of hair, and she probed at it gingerly. No deep wound, thankfully; which probably meant that the straggly braid had been almost ready to fall out anyway. She tended to keep about half a head of hair going, on average; so it’d grow back.

The lads were long gone by the time she was ready to set off again. With any luck she’d be nothing more than an awkward moment in a day of shoving their weight around; quickly forgotten. Being gross in the eyes of idiots wasn’t a Breech, after all.

The rest of the trip back was uneventful. Streets gave way to alleys, sidewalks to cracked paving, to rotting asphalt, and even the graffiti began to wane as she got closer to home. The main occupants of this ass-end of nowhere – a ghetto’s dumpster of a place – didn’t exactly make it their business to advertise where they were. Those that needed to know; knew. Those that knew, generally didn’t care – which was honestly a hell of a lot better than the alternative. Nox had heard the stories of what it had been like only twenty years ago. It was strange to feel that there was any sort of luck to her history, but six years wasn’t twenty.

Reaching a gap in an otherwise unremarkable wall, she glanced around quickly, making sure that no one was watching. Then she straightened up, gripped either side of the overloaded cart, and hefted it up through the broken brickwork in one smooth movement. She vaulted in after it, dropping down into cool shade, and let out a sigh of relief as the accepting touch of Karloff’s Invitation washed across her. The sense was like a door opening in welcome; like taking the first familiar turn towards home after a long day’s drive. It also meant no more unwanted attention – without that explicit permission, you’d never be able to recognise the entrance, or even keep your attention on what you were looking for. She was as invisible now to all other turned-aside eyes as everything else within the Invitation’s borders.

A few more rattling corners later, Nox finally turned into the Homestead grounds. The whole area had once been a crammed-in mess of squat apartment blocks, copy-paste civic solutions built without charm to fill the need for cheap rooms. The Homestead was the only one of its kin still standing, now surrounded by an opened-out area of recent amateur demolition and scrap-built fencing. Bright splashes of street art cut across sagging concrete and the blacked-out eyes of the windows, although the tags and themes chosen indicated the difference between these creators and the more standard ones of the world outside. Most of this had been painted at night, for example, with rather more variety on the theme of ‘hands’ grasping the tins.

There was a lot more inside, and below, but she felt a particular warmth at these murals. Out here, on the surface. Bright in sunshine that most of them could never see. The Nosferatu might be Vegas Below’s crusty little secret, but they were damn well there.

Bits of cracked paving clicked and skittered beneath the cart’s wheels as Nox made her way through the fences and to the big, bolted main doors. There was a rough porch built around the frame, mostly to give extra shadows, and she looked up at the tiny glints of watchful glass sunk into the surrounding wall. She waved.

“Dimestore-Blade’s grocery delivery,” she announced, and listened to the familiar rattle of bolts start on the other side of the door. A few moments later it swung open and a hunched figure peered out, wincing back from even the thick porch shade. This was Max; an older woman than Nox in both kinds of age, who managed her marks via a combination of extensive bandaging and even more extensive needlepoint. Watery black eyes looked past her, squinting through a gap in the heavily-embroidered scarf wrapped around her head.

“All okay?”

Nox nodded and lifted the trolley over the threshold.

“Fine.” She didn’t mention the youths. Didn’t seem a lot of point. “Let’s get this lot into the freezer before it can walk on its own, yeah?”

Safely inside the slightly-fetid gloom of the entrance, Nox took the opportunity shed her bag-lady layers. True, she couldn’t actually overheat, even on a Nevada afternoon, but being swathed in that many layers was still claustrophobic. Beneath the mismatched fabric strata was an increasingly-threadbare pair of yoga pants and a dark vest, and Nox gave a small sigh of relief as she folded up the rest of her daylight-drag, shoving it onto a shelf nearby.

“Right,” she muttered, as much to fill the air as anything else, and turned back to the trolley. Max had already transferred much of it into precarious piles in her own arms. Her scarf had slipped down, revealing a hairless head webbed with splitting skin; much of it made whole again with patterned patches of colourful thread. The fabric discoloured over time, of course, but it reduced the leaking.

Balancing their burdens, the pair made their way further into the Homestead. Closest to the entrance was the most decrepit part, occupied mostly by shelves and old furniture crammed full of clothes and patched umbrellas for venturing out, and with years of dumped debris building up in corners. Rooms with windows – even those as thoroughly blacked out or bricked up as these were – mostly housed the rat runs or storage, because no one wanted to spend a lot of time somewhere where crap mortar could result in dayburns. Similarly, the roof and most of the top floor was given over to pigeon roosts and No avoided them whenever possible. She’d never much liked pigeons before this, and she still held that even their vitae tasted of garbage, somehow. Still, they were much dumber than rats, and they did lay eggs, so that helped.

The really lived-in part of the Homestead was underground. Everybody knew Nosferatu lived in the sewers, right? Okay, so Nox would admit she hadn’t much understood the difference between ‘sewer’ and ‘storm drain’ before her life had taken its scabby turn, but she sure did now. Vegas had extensive storm drains – large concrete tunnels that lay under much of the city, designed to quickly shift heavy rain away from the tarmacked surface above – and they were ideal: underground, dark, not monitored.

And not actually full of shit.

The arrangement used to be… messier, Karloff had told her. When they hadn’t been so organised; when they’d lived closer together with others who had slipped through the cracks Above. Some of the Family had started off as those same ‘unfortunates’ after all; those who were aftermath-sired in a broken frenzy, or from the bloody jaunt of some fuckfang cutting through the ranks of those who wouldn’t be missed. Splitting their claimed tunnels off from the main circuit and establishing the Homestead proper had happened later, after the Vegas Accord had given the Nosferatu a Clan-status, and hunting them for sport stopped being an acceptable weekend activity.

Six years sure ain’t twenty.

Max chatted away as they walked; an idle litany of gossip, social media tidbits and reports from watchers all over the city, woven together into what Nox tended to think of as ‘Radio Max’. Spying on people was apparently another nos stereotype; but honestly when you didn’t really sleep, were functionally invisible to large portions of society, and had worked out how to divert half-decent broadband from badly-secured leisure networks overhead, it wasn’t difficult to get ahead on current events.

Plus the rats, of course.

Information was power, and they had precious little of any other. Although Nox sometimes wondered how much of those scant threads of power that Karloff put such value on would diminish if Clanpires in general figured out how to just Google things.

They had reached what she thought of as ‘mainstreet’ of the Homestead tunnels – a long space with concrete pillars linking floor to ceiling every thirty feet or so, quite cheerfully lit by a mishmash web of light fittings rigged up overhead – when yelling broke out further down. Nox and Max shared a look of alarm at the commotion, but it was when her name became suddenly clear in the shouts that Nox’s stomach dropped.

“Get this stuff away, will you?” she muttered, carefully setting her packages down beside Max, and turned to meet the oncoming figures. Even wrapped in a heavy coat and thick gloves, she knew the loping form of Skaad instantly.

With features which sagged so violently that his bruise-yellow skin frequently tore at the edges, and a mouth like a lipless sharps bucket, Skaad was nonetheless gifted with some of the keenest senses in the clan, plus a damn-near eidetic memory. Which meant he spent most of his time skulking in hidden places, listening to things he shouldn’t, and following people who thought they were alone in their secret business. Having him sprinting towards you, so fast his eyelids were visibly flapping, wasn’t a great sign.

Back in the world Above – before her life had gone to hell in a weirdly specific way – Nox had been a paramedic. It was useful in the day-to-day, being the closest thing this bunch of ragged immortals had to a resident doctor, but there was only really one sort of actual emergency left down here.

Skaad skidded to a halt, and grabbed her arm with a worrying urgency.

“Got a phresh one. Get yer kit!”

Fuck. A fresh one meant one thing: someone had found a dumped fledgeling, one who’d been showing signs of the Change going wrong and been tossed aside by their disgusted sire. Intervening quickly could help, particularly getting a pigeon smoothie down them fast, but the panic on Skaad’s drooping face didn’t line up with -

“What’s so – ?” she started, but he shook his head, steering her towards the plastic-covered tunnel they used as a makeshift clinic. He leaned in to shove her again, but lowered his voice and muttered just before he did – and the words sent ice down her spine.

“It’sh a kid.”

Oh no.

Oh fuck.

You didn’t turn kids.

When your working knowledge of vampires had been a general pop-culture miasma and some blurry memories of teenage Buffy marathons, finding yourself on the other side of the supernatural coin came as a shock in various ways. One of which was the weird sensation that you should have studied it all harder, somehow. Nox had certainly felt stupid, in her early days, as a man with a face like a charred wasps’ nest listened to her stutter her way through half-remembered fiction and worse-remembered reality. But she’d apparently got a few things right, and somewhere in that muddle had been the idea that you shouldn’t turn kids.

There were all kinds of theories as to why – from the debauched to the practical – but she found that in many ways it didn’t matter. Whatever fucked-up intention you had, it wouldn’t work. Too young just… didn’t take. And when a siring didn’t work, there was every chance the result would end up on her table.

She scrabbled through the assortment of old drawers and boxes that stored her gear, pulling out anything she thought might work. Bandages, thread, craft superglue, repurposed bottles of hard spirits that would do in a pinch for sterilising. The best-case scenario things. And the rest. Old herb pots of fine powders; thrift-store silver cutlery hammered and polished and changed into a very different set of tools. Sharpie-labelled bottles of liquids that moved weirdly in the light, and a range of refillable lighters that definitely didn’t contain hydrocarbons anymore. All the things she’d picked up in the last six years that fitted in with other sort of medicine.

The plastic curtain behind her was yanked back and a sound she had been trying not to hear finally demanded her attention. It wasn’t even a scream, and Nox hated, hated hated hated that she recognised the cadence there perfectly: raw, animal agony of sound torn from a throat that was violently reforming around it. She turned to see Skaad forcing flailing limbs down, looping thick restraints around rippling flesh, and finally allowed her full attention to turn down to the spasming form.

Gore looked different through vampire eyes. It was hard to describe exactly how – partly because wordsmithery had never been one of her strong points, but more because trying to compare feelings from now and then was always going to have a huge fucking hurdle of shifted species in the way. She’d still probably seen more human blood in nine years on the ambulances than during the half-dozen in and out of Vegas’ shadows, and but everything afterwards had been… different. Displaced. Detached. Just didn’t seem as visceral as it used to do.

But this did.

Acid tightened in Nox’s throat as she stared down at the shuddering mess in front of her. Blanched skin bubbled and writhed, tearing as it pulled away from the muscles beneath; themselves little more than contorting ropes of livid tissue that pulsed under dying heartbeats and spilled black fluid from ever-widening rents. The throat was gone, now a bubbling pit of desperate breaths, sucked past exposed tendons that wriggled like furious worms. Half-clotted ichor was pooling from gashes along the arms, down the stomach and further: the marks of peri-sire wounds, those that had been still fresh as the invading blood forced itself into collapsing veins. The eyes were side-to-side a sickly crimson-yellow, bloating out from a face that was collapsing in on itself, and throughout it all, the kid screamed.

It was revolting. Nox had to bite down on the vicious spikes of fight-flight that were going off in her mind, so violently she could feel her hands trembling from the horror and her disgust at her own reaction. It was an instinct, an unbidden response to a failing siring – she knew that – but understanding it didn’t make it easier. Everyone down here had ‘gone nozz’ during their own Turn. Hell, a few of those brought to her were walking around now, not seeming any weirder than any of them, but she’d still felt that awful surge of fundamental wrongness about them before they stabilised.

Nox gritted – all of – her teeth, and slammed her kit down on the table.

Instincts can fucking blow me.

“Let’s see what we can do.”

It turned out what they could do, wasn’t much. Cleaning, sewing, cutting, sealing – nothing held. Stitches fell from uncertain skin, or tore great new holes as fresh spasms pulled at the edges. Wet rags soon littered the floor, sodden with black and yellow fluids that turned the rough concrete into a slippery, stinking mess. The bleeding wasn’t slowing, even as the body seemed to be crumpling in on itself, gradually liquefying around the bones.

The sound had gone quieter, if not softer, and Nox didn’t have much hope it would stop soon. It might be days yet, before the final sparks of vitae or life or cruel continuation finally went out.

Too young. The kid – the girl, most likely, going by anatomy – had been just… too young.

They had to have known that.

“I’m outa tricks,” she said, although the words felt thick and sharp in her mouth. She wanted to keep going. She wanted to, so fucking much. But somebody had done this. Somebody who knew this would happen.

“I’m gonna make her comfy,” she continued, then hesitated even as she pulled out the frankly-horrific cocktail of morphine and street drugs that might make a dent in a system caught somewhere between undead and alive. Skaad looked at her, and held out a clawed hand.

“Want me…?”

“Nah.” Nox shook her head, and swallowed. “You can get the others outta upstairs, though. I need to – to make a call.”

Skaad stiffened, his jaundiced eyes flicking between her and the table for a moment, before he let out a low hiss and ducked away through the curtain. Nox administered the mix and tried to convince herself it would have any sort of palliative effect. Then she went back to the drawers and rummaged again, right at the back, until her fingers closed on the ridged plastic of an old nokia.

There weren’t many numbers in the phone, but it was the first one she selected, under B.

- SUMFCK SIRED KID. ITS BAD -

She threw the phone back into the drawer and hurried out, past the plastic sheet and into the tunnels, leaving sticky footprints in her wake. Not a great look, but everyone would already know what was happening. Nosferatu gossiped like – well, like a society of insomniac, semi-immortal shut-ins.

Overhead, an erratic cluster of repurposed pipes trailed down through the domed roof, emanating from the rat runs above. Drainpipes, corrugated plastic, bits of plumbing, and all of them shaking slightly with the constant pass of tiny feet within. They opened out onto tiny highways of shelving that lined the walls, all heading in the same direction as she was. Pairs of black-beady eyes glanced at her as they passed, and with so many concentrated here, she could feel the faintest flick of Attention in each one. They were all headed to a squat metal door at the end of an offshoot passageway. The rats passed freely back and forth narrow holes punched in either side of the door; but Nox knocked. She knew she was already expected and entered after a respectful moment.

Karloff’s chamber was bigger than it looked like it would be from the doorway. Nox wasn’t sure what the space had originally been – some kind of maintenance room? – but it was now dark, and warm, and smelled less of rats than might be expected given the constant rodent tide. Shelves lined the walls, full of books and occasional pieces of recycled pet furniture. One floor-ceiling tower was filled entirely with old radios, police scanners, walkie talkies and the like.

The old man himself lay where he usually did, propped up in a nest of pillows and blankets in a box-like bed in the centre of the room. He presented an impossibly gaunt figure: papery-brown skin layered like peeling paint across sharp bones, with eyes so thickly clouded they sat like grey-milk marbles in unclosing sockets. His face looked scorched, blackened at the edges of the old dry wounds that had taken his nose, torn away most of his lips, and presumably shattered the broken fangs that jutted from his mouth. There was – as usual – a huge white rat lazing across his chest, nearly the size of a terrier and wearing a dark silken ribbon, and its sharp crimson eyes fixed on Nox as she entered.

She bowed her head, and tried not to leave bloody footprints on the rug.

“I need a temporary Invitation,” she said. It was blunt, but there was no point in dancing around it. He’d already know anyway. As she spoke, the huge rat sat up. It’s pale paws were clasped in front of it, folded in a strangely human-like gesture, but Karloff himself turned his head only slightly.

“’Belton,” he said softly, in the throat-based hush of his voice, and Nox nodded. Her fingers twitched into fists, and she felt the sticky remnants of gore slide between them.

“I… I’m running out of options, and she – ” the words were sticker than her fingers, getting caught on her lips “ – she’s real bad.”

The rat cocked its head and Karloff drew a slow breath.

“You will not do it?” he asked. Nox’ throat tightened.

“If I gotta. But I want him to see her, cos I – I could do this, but I ain’t got a snowball’s chance of doing anything about it.”

Karloff’s head turned further, and the clouded eyes passed over her with an intensity that Nox could feel, as if they skipped sight entirely and went right into her heart instead. There was another stretched moment of silence, then the pressure dropped and the rat turned away, curling itself neatly under its master’s chin.

“It is done,” Karloff said. The long fingers on one hand twitched slightly, and the faintest hint of a frown dug into his face. “...take care with the old death. You have seen little of him.”

“Yeah, I know. Thank you,” Nox added before she headed out again; first to check that the cocktail of drugs had at least calmed the kid’s screams, then back into the upper house. A few rats followed her as she slid into the squeaking, busy dimness of the runs to use the sink that still stood in one corner, using brownish water to at least scrub some of the stains from her hands. Then she set to wait, pacing with nervous energy.

No one joined her. By now, everybody would know what was happening, and no one wanted to be around when he came calling.

The problem – okay, so one of the problems, in a dreadful, tangled ball of ever-more layered problems – was that it was very, very difficult to kill a fledgeling in any way that could be considered humane. A body already in the process of tearing itself apart was resistant to most damage for the same reasons that you couldn’t punch a fog. Getting any kind of drug to land in an even-partly vampiric system was difficult enough at the best of times, and this…

Well, there was sunlight, but everything about Nox’s very being baulked at the idea of using that method. She knew with personal, hellish intimacy that the agony from that would get through even a Change. Torturing someone to death with one of the few things worse than what they were going through was really not the point.

Plus, there was a tiny, tiny part of her mind that hoped she was wrong. She’d only been dealing with this stuff for a handful of years, and while rumours varied widely about how old Belton actually was, he’d seen a lot of shit. Maybe she’d missed something. Just maybe…

It seemed to take an eternity before the roar of an engine outside broke through Nox’ whirling thoughts. She hurried to the door, took a careful breath, and peered out through the little viewing slot. Not that anyone else would have been able to ride a motorcycle up to the Homestead without the permission of Karloff’s Invitation, but it never hurt to keep caution.

A huge bike was settled just beside the front steps. It was black, but in the way a magpie’s wings were black, with oil-slick iridescence hinting around the edges. The rider – dressed to match, in that seamless continuity of clothing that Nox had started to think of as ‘vampire sunscreen’ – had already dismounted and was stood beside his bike, the raven-sheen of his helmet turned towards the door. There was no visible gaze to meet, but the weight of his attention was like ice down her spine, and she opened the door as deliberately as she could.

“She’s downstairs,” she said, as the figure came up the steps. The sun was already going down, barely spilling dying light over the surrounding wall of buildings, and the porch shadow was very deep there. It only got deeper as the big man stepped into it – and then paused, right on the edge of the frame.

“May I enter?” His voice was never as heavy as she expected, with a melodic edge that absolutely did not match what she knew lay under that helmet. Nox rolled her eyes.

“I texted you, and you’re here, right?”

He was always so… old fashioned about this. It wasn’t like it was a general requirement. Nox stepped back, gesturing inwards.

“Come in already,” she added. The man might have been big – although ‘fucking enormous’ would be a better description, needing to visibly turn and duck to get through the doorframe – but he moved deceptively fast, and was well inside the hallway, starting to remove his helmet before she had had time to shut the door. She turned to look, not even pretending not to stare as he unclipped all the security bits and lifted it smoothly free. The dramatic effect was only slightly spoiled by the oddly-bulging balaclava he had on underneath – but Nox supposed that if her ears could meet at the back, she’d want to keep them restrained inside a helmet too.

Belton looked… well, he looked like Belton. There just plain wasn’t anyone else like that. The best description she had ever been able to come up with was that he looked like someone had tried very hard to make a bat in the character creation screen of a pro-wrestling computer game. It was as if the underlying architecture that should have made a human skull had been stretched and tweaked and twisted into something approaching Chiroptera from the other side.

It probably said something worrying about her own psyche that – somewhere in the mess of emotions that Belton inspired – a part of her really, really wanted to see an xray of his head.

No time for this.

“C’mon,” she nodded him to follow her back down the Homestead’s passageways. The rats watched them from every surface; their skittering highways unusually still as the majority of glinting little eyes were fixed on the visitor. They were the only visible watchers, and Nox tried not to notice how empty every space they passed through was. It added another level of eeriness, with the just-abandoned debris of life seeming like some extremely localised Rapture. Even Nox’ rapid explanation of the situation fell muted around them; for his part, Belton just listened and nodded every now and then. He didn’t look around.

How familiar was he, with this place? He’d come a few times since she’d been here – and of course, that first time meant he’d sure known where it was. Nox’ gaze slid sideways. Belton had removed his gloves by now, and the hands revealed couldn’t even remotely be thought of as human; the fingers were too long, bone and tendons standing stark beneath mottled grey skin; capped by black claws that curled from the nailbeds, polished to an obsidian gleam.

How many times had those hands run across the outer walls of the Homestead; at Karloff’s limits; searching for a way in? How many times had those claws torn into sagging flesh, or crushed furry watchers into broken blindness?

How many times had he come before he had brought her here; a crispy mess of fledgeling coated in sand and gravel and gore, spat out by the desert and into hands that immortals feared…?

The plastic curtain seemed to rise up like an exclamation, a cold shot of right now breaking her thoughts, and Nox came to a sharp halt. There was still sound from inside: a bubbling, slurred collage of moans that had made it past the drugs, and her hand froze halfway to the curtain. The swell of renewed, visceral revulsion felt like she’d choke on her own fucking hypocrisy, and she couldn’t suppress a slight hiss.

“It’s – ” she started, through gritted teeth, but cut out as Belton gently touched her shoulder.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Nox’ fingers twitched, then she turned away, moving until she could lean heavily against the nearest concrete pillar and rested her forehead against the pitted surface. The groan might as well have been coming out of the air. It pressed down around her and her skin crawled.

She hated this, and she hated that she hated it like this. Some depraved motherfucker had dragged a fucking child into very literal hell and she’d tried, she’d tried with every stupid, macguivered bullshit tool she’d put together out of garbage; she’d tried everything and it was never going to have meant a damn thing and all she could focus on, really really focus on right now was how fundamentally disgusting that fucking sound was –

And then it stopped.

Nox physically sagged against the pillar, relief and nausea chasing each other through a stomach that was dropping into her boots. There was only one reason for the sudden silence, and she let her eyes slide closed, muttering the same half-wordless prayer she’d always used when a case went bad, or a patient flatlined in the ambulance. Whatever that meant now, she’d never been sure, but it still sort of fit.

She’d known. She’d known when she picked up that damn phone.

But fuck me if hope isn’t a bitch.

It wasn’t long before there was the faint brush of plastic again and Nox opened her eyes to see Belton smoothing the curtain back behind him, covering the sudden stillness. There was a long moment of silence before he turned to her. His eyes were the most human-looking part of his face, and the grey gaze sought hers.

“I’ll be on my way, then.”

Nox nodded numbly. They went out the way they came; still alone, still watched at every step by a hundred rodent stares. Back up, back to the door and out into the thickening dusk of the evening – and it wasn’t until the porch steps were creaking under his boots that Nox’s nerve rose again.

“Hey – Belton?” she managed, and the big figure paused. He looked back at her and one curled brow raised, moving an ear with it. Nox pulled the Homestead door shut behind her as she sought the right words. “This… ain’t your job, right?”

“I don’t have a real tight specification,” he replied, then shrugged. “But broadly? No. To be honest with you, my boss couldn’t give a rat’s twat what happens with the Nosferatu.”

“So why’d you come?” Those words came fast, but Nox didn’t try to stop them. Belton paused again, then hung his helmet and balaclava over the big bike’s handlebars. He sat down on the steps, hunching a little in that strange shape his back took when he wasn’t standing, and Nox slid down beside him at the unspoken invitation.

Belton shook his head, what might have been a wry smile tugging at the edges of his too-wide lips. Glints of needle teeth flashed in the dusk.

“It’s a question of perspective, see,” he said quietly. “For someone like you? This’ll ruin your whole year. Getting all Lady Macbeth with the inevitable. But for me?” He held up a hand and slowly flexed the clawed fingers. Once; twice; and Nox couldn’t draw her gaze away from the mottled skin as it shifted over his bones. Belton sighed. It was an old sound, so old that any hint of what it might contain had worn away like stone under rain.

“What’s one drop in an ocean? Don’t get me wrong – ” he added, with the edge of smile falling away again “ – I’ll feel bad about it; but I’m not losing myself any sleep.”

She should have been angry. She wanted to be angry, at the casual way this bat-faced bastard just said it; as the so-recent feel of the kid’s crumbling flesh slammed against her thoughts and ghosted under her fingers, and bile she wasn’t even sure she had anymore swirled at the back of her throat. She should be angry.

“...thank you.”

“No need for that,” he replied – but Nox shook her head.

“Nah; there is. Things need saying.” She fidgeted with the hem of her pants for a silent moment, before continuing. “Don’t believe you actually sleep, though.”

This time there was no mistaking that Belton grinned; and the resulting expression was exactly as unpleasant as it sounded.

“No? Not even if I say I’ve got little bats on my pyjamas?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Now that there’s uncalled for.”

Nox grinned, and even as she did she could almost hear Karloff’s voice in her head. Be wary of the old death.

And yet…

There was another long silence, although this one felt less tense.

…fuck it. When am I gonna get this chance again?

“They found her in the desert,” she said carefully, scuffing dust across the steps with one toe as she spoke; an idle motion to distract herself from the nerves inside. Belton nodded.

“Aye. Letting lady sun do the dirty work. It’s an almost foolproof method, really.”

Nox looked down at her own hands; where the patchwork of thickened tissue traced patterns like dry riverbeds over her pallid brown skin. The sun burned bits went blistered red, then dark and crackly, then sickly pale when that peeled; slowly edging back to her default. It sure as hell wasn’t pleasant; but it wasn’t the chemical-melting collapse of flesh that she’d seen on others.

“So, that make me a fool or an outlier?”

“I said almost.” Belton leaned back a little, looking up into the dark expanse of sky. “Always going to take a risk when you don’t stay to watch. Although I’ll admit it takes some big balls to stick around for that sort of disposal. What with the deeply ingrained phytophobia of your classic vampire, and everything.”

Nox raised her most intact eyebrow.

“This is more about your junk than I want to know.”

Belton laughed. Really laughed; the kind of melodic tone that bordered on a snatch of song and that was so very out of place coming from within that face.

“Oh, I’m not claiming that kind of testicular fortitude. Sunlight scares the piss out of me as much as it ever did. Don’t think it’s the kind of thing you can get over. Built-in, you know?”

“You ride about in the day,” Nox pointed out, and Belton waved a hand back towards his helmet.

“I’ve got some really bespoke protective gear, see. Amazing what’s been done with polymers in the last thirty years.”

Nox blinked.

“…you’ve got bike pleathers?”

“Technically I’ve got an integrated neo-polymer baselayer,” Belton stopped and his nose crinkled – which was quite an extensive expression. “…ah fuck, that sounds like I’ve got plastic pants, doesn’t it? Keep that one to yourself, will you?”

“Sure.” Nox’s shoulders sagged again as reality dropped back suddenly. She decided to just go for blunt. “With… the kid. Someone did that, and before that they – ” her words choked again, at the thought of where some of those peri-sire wounds had been.

“I know.” The amusement had gone from Belton’s voice as he stood up, heading back to his bike rather abruptly. The engine roared into life as he swung himself astride it, folding his ears into their cover, and Nox had to shout to be heard above the rumble.

“Do they… just get away with this?”

“There’s plenty that think they should,” he replied calmly; oddly easy to hear over the din, as he slid the helmet into place. “It was like that for a long time.”

Nox’s lips drew back, almost of their own accord, working to some defiant instinct she only had partial control over.

“And you?”

“Me? I’m a monster on a chain that I put there.” Belton looked up, and just before the visor snapped closed, there was a flicker of crimson in his eyes.

“But I’ll see what I can do.”

#Entofic #Vampire Nonsense #urban fantasy #The Vegas Masqerade #Nosferatu grocery shopping #terrible daywalkers #this WWE-manbat-looking mofo #I'm not warning for 'blood' on a vampire setting #help the plot keeps happening

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scarlet-nin · 5 years

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To Fix What’s Broken Is Not Enough

Summary: The first time Dazai sees Yosano, hears how she speaks, the way she threatens her patients into submitting to her care with the promise of a smile, the steel in his grin melts into quicksilver, a poison so potent flowing through his veins he can taste the bitterness of metal on his lips.

The first time Yosano lays eyes upon Dazai all it takes is a smile.

One smile for the warning bells inside her head to shriek alarm.

The first time Dazai sees Yosano, hears how she speaks, the way she threatens her patients into submitting to her care with the promise of a smile, the steel in his grin melts into quicksilver, a poison so potent flowing through his veins he can taste the bitterness of metal on his lips.

His heart misses a beat. The walls he spent years on building fall together like a house of cards in the summer breeze as deep inside his chest something blooms from beyond the ice, a flower. Fragile like the fluttering wings of a butterfly it festers.

“I can’t wait to treat you.”

She says, eyes glinting in the dim-light of the office with a leer for blood after he’s gotten the courage to move past the roots having taken to his legs to speak with her. A curtain of dark hair falling into her face is a sharp contrast to her paperwhite skin. Eyes fierce as they puncture into his own, scraping past the surface of his face with her scalpel to tear off his mask without mercy. The sight of her pristine coat of righteousness laying on her shoulders, imposing with its demand for respect. A coat to call her own. Just like him. A white to his black.

“Seeing all of these bandages…you’re going to end up sooner in my office rather than later. My new regular. It’ll be like unwarping a present.”

The moment passes. His head clears of the smoke obscuring his vision, the flower wilting inside his heart. Petals dropping into acid.

Her image bleeds into another one, twisting once more before the pieces click into place, creating a picture so vivid inside his mind he makes the mistake to smile in her presence.

Yosano stills, losing her sharp edges, the stubborn crease in her brow smoothing out in a single fluid movement as the shock sweeps her along to crush her against the rocks of the ocean.

She sees his shadow in all his twisted glory draped across his shoulders like the coat he used to wear. The invisible hands pulling up the corners of his mouth as elbows settle on his shoulders, the weight of the devil hard to bear.

Part of him wants to cover his eye, shield himself from having to see her. The urge to disregard Odasaku’s last act of life pushes his thoughts into the right order.

“What a pretty lady! Too bad you’re not my type.”

He whines, clutching at his chest. A doctor is dangerous. Always, regardless of ability. Whether man or woman. The sight of them is enough to stir the horrible apprehension of weariness inside his soul.

She blinks, scoffs and shakes her head. He wonders if she knows. Of the doll. How her existence shaped another.

She’s a replica. An inspiration. A faceless base of bottomless horror.

The memory of her skips around in the ghost of a little girl in a red frilly dress. Draws pictures of nightmares as she bosses around and feeds into the delusional born out of loneliness for companionship of a man loving nothing but a city cursing his name in the shadows of the night.

Would she disappear if he were to touch her?

“No, I guess I wouldn’t be.”

She storms past him, heels resonating like gunshots across the office as she slams her door shut with enough strength to rattle the frame.

Off to a bad start, then.

The first time Yosano lays eyes upon Dazai all it takes is a smile.

One smile for the warning bells inside her head to shriek alarm. Head buzzing as she reels back from this demon in human skin, terror is sinking into every crack of her handcrafted armor, slipping past the stiches she made to keep herself together. He rips them open with the sharp edge of his empty smile, eyes darker than the blackest abyss and leaves her to bleed out.

Veins freezing it’s the first time she doubts the President’s judgment. He let death walk in the door with a smile. Despite all the warning signs. This man will be the death for them, either by extension or his own hands.

After all, it’s in the nature of the student to surpass the teacher.

But she keeps her mouth shut and her eyes open. Kunikida plays with fire, throwing around a ticking time bomb while being none the wiser of the possible consequences. Dazai whines and acts more like a big child than an adult most of the time. Doesn’t spare her more than a glance in parting as they avoid each other. He flirts with the older women walking into their office doors and after months of observation her conviction falters.

The comment about her age might not have been about her age at all.

She doesn’t know how young or old he must have been when Mori sunk his claws into him.

All she knows is he smiles like the devil but acts like a fool.

His plans are a handiwork of her worst nightmare. Functional without major casualties or injuries. Efficient. The extent of his grasp on their reactions despite working in the office for only a few weeks is terrifying. An impressive display of pulling the strings. A master manipulator at his finest.

Another Mori. This time right among their midst.

As long as the blood staining his hands isn’t the Agency’s, she could put her grudge aside.

Perhaps even her fear.

The doll and the doctor. Two parts of a whole man.

As the doll, Dazai is void of feeling. Having no sense of wanting nor of happiness, he plays his act with little regard to the well-being of others. No matter how hard he tries, the lives of faceless people dying doesn’t bother him on a personal level.

Not like it does Yosano. Full of will and a passion to save the lives put in front of her with a world of pain and a simple touch of her hand. She breathes life into them, Dazai takes it away.

“Can you undress them?”

“I’d rather not.” Alone in her office with the smell of her personal perfume of disinfectant he tries his best to be compliant.

She frowns, a hint of annoyance creeping into her face as she turns to face him.

“How am I supposed to fix you? I’m fully capable of doing so without the use of my ability.”

“I can do that myself.”

The chance of her giving in due to knowing who must have taught him what little first-aid he knows is slim. But she nods, snapping her head to the side while gesturing to the door without another demand for him to undress.

“Get out of my office.”

“Yes, Mam.”

He winks, the beat of his pulse drowning out his the one in his heart. He flees, ignoring Kunikida’s yell to rest when he’s staying home tomorrow and to call in sick instead of worrying them.

The stiches he does on his arm are messy, a bit uneven and throb painfully but as long as he doesn’t have to be a prisoner to the infirmary, he’ll patch himself up in his apartment, locked into the tiny space of his bathroom with no doctor looming over him.

“You don’t like doctors at all, do you?”

There’s a faint hysteria of laughter hidden in her voice. She’s sure Dazai catches it anyway, judging from the tightness around his eyes, lips going white with the force it takes to keep his smile in place.

“No, sorry, can’t say that I do.”

The cheer in his words is nothing but a lie. She can see the truth in the faint tremor in his hand, the too short breaths in his pattern. The notion of what it means is reducing her to shaky hands, unfit to treat any person until she’s calmed down. It’s absurd. The thought of Dazai being afraid of her, when she’s been scared of him this entire time, is laughable. Or perhaps wary would be the better word to use in this odd case.

Neither one making a step. Not daring to cross an invisible line drawn into the sand by their own hands. Both too afraid to inflict a different kind of Mori’s wrath on themselves.

Dazai with his effortless manipulation could have torn the office apart if he wanted to. He didn’t for reasons Yosano is starting to grasp. Her danger lies in her authority as the doctor. Her words carry more weight in the Agency than his own. At least in concern to his health and she knows how easy it would be to spin a tale to her liking. Her word was law and if she wanted to make his treatment painful, he could do little to complain or protest.

Studying the bandages concealing the skin from her sight, she’s grateful her ability does not work on him. Like throwing a glass against the wall, he would break in the light of resurrection. While Dazai’s mind is his biggest weapon, the additional strain on top of having to shoulder the weight of his misery would have ruined him.

Ruined him like Mori ruined her.

“Can’t fault you for that. Some doctors are shit at their job.”

She says, the smile on her face honest and soft as she holds out her hand for him. The wound isn’t life-threatening so she isn’t going to hurry him.

“Want me to take a look at that now? If I wrap it up quick, I can give you something for the pain. I’d give it to you before, but you could run off afterwards. So, think about it as a treat.”

Slowly, he puts his arm out. She’s careful with her hands, touches feather light if she hasn’t had to use force. As if he were a child she works with quick hands, aware of how painfully stiff he is.

“I felt like I should have given you a warning. A shovel talk if you will. About messing with the Agency but I doubt I’ll have to do that at all. I’m not too prideful to admit you could run circles around my head.”

Giving him a grin full of teeth, she warps the cut up, keeping the pressure as light as she can before giving him a pill for the pain. He blinks, eyes wide as he looks from his newly warped arm to glance at her face.

“We’re done if that’s all. You’re free to leave or you can lay down here for awhile if you want to rest. Try to raid my medicine cupboard while I’m on lunchbreak and I’ll put you on paperwork duty for at least two months.”

She pats him on the shoulder before turning around with a flap of her skirt to clean her equipment. Dazai waits for a moment before stands and leaves, hesitating at the door like he might have wanted to say something but he remains silent.

Dazai, she learns is not an enemy, but a kindred spirit.

Yosano, Dazai learns, is a doctor who works to heal her patients. Her aim is not to fix them, to glue shards back together so they could break again and be shaped into something functional and exploitable, but to care. Her personal gain is of no importance in her job. Her motivator is compassion. Nothing more, nothing less.

Her touch is too kind for a doctor. Ruthless as she may be with an audience, the pain she inflicts is for the greater good of the person. The occasional revenge put aside.

Healing is more than just skin deep. Yosano lives by those words. So, he lets her patch him up, uses her to slack off during working hours and calls her when he needs someone to get himself out of hospital.

The doctor and the doll are so similar, no wonder they share a soul. Both hating their ability for the effects on others. Two people knowing the meaning of death.

The Angel of Death prevents death. The Demon Prodigy inflicts it.

Therefore, it’s only fitting he’s the one to return to hell. To Mori, who has more use for another doll than for a healer as a doctor.

“Dazai-kun,” The devil coos, eyes filled with blood.

After all, an angel has no business in hell.

“—Welcome back to the Port Mafia.”

But a demon can conquer the throne.

#bungou stray dogs #mori ougai #Dazai Osamu #yosano akiko #bsd fanfic #scarlet-writes #angst

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thisspaceintentionallyleftblank · 6 years

Text

Try, Try Again

This is a Rex lives AU where, at the end of the movie, the flux capacitor is not destroyed, and Rex escapes to the past. This time, he arrives early, disguises himself, and takes Emmet’s place in Apocalypseburg. In this way, he plans to toughen Emmet up while simultaneously keeping a closer eye on Lucy.

I have not ever done fanfiction before... so hopefully this turned out okay!

Chapter 1 (2668 words)

The Rexcelsior appeared in a brilliant flash of light, with bright bolts of raw electric power coursing across its hull before flickering away into nothingness. The ship, despite the dark blue of its exterior, stood in stark contrast against the backdrop of space due to the faint glow of its many humming engines. Inside, pacing back and forth across the main control bridge, an increasingly anxious Rex was attempting to re-evaluate his master plan.

He had come much too close to failure for comfort. If he hadn’t used his Deus Ex Block-ina at the last moment in order to teleport back to the ship, then Lucy could have very well destroyed his flux capacitor and, by extension, everything that he’d worked and suffered for. His scowl deepened at the thought of all that planning, effort, and pain flushed down the drain because simply because he’d failed to properly prepare for every possibility.

The weight of failure sat heavily on his shoulders. It’s not fair, he thought. I was so close. His plan had been so perfect, and he’d carried out the execution flawlessly. Tricking Emmet and destroying the Queen’s space temple had been child’s play. All they had left to do was make a clean getaway, but… everything had just started falling apart.

Rex hadn’t wanted to take Emmet to Dryar. If he had had any other option, he wouldn’t have. But, of course, Emmet hadn’t given him a choice, had he? Emmet was just being stubborn; he just didn’t understand.

Rex couldn’t be blamed for that.

He stopped pacing. The repetitive motion had started making him nauseous at some point. With a weary, tough-guy sigh, he walked over to the main console. The instruments adorning the dash lit the room with a soft, ambient blue glow. On top of them sat the Block-ina, a conveniently pocket-sized tool that apparently taken up the worrisome habit of intermittently spitting out sparks and smoke sometime between now and when Rex had first left it here.

Another sigh escaped Rex at the sight of how badly it had been damaged. He wasn’t especially broken up over the loss of the device, after all it had served its purpose well, and he could just build another one pretty easily.

Of course, he thought bitterly, I wouldn’t have even needed to use it if it hadn’t had been for... her.

He had been surprised when Lucy had shown up in Undar, having never entertaining the thought that she might have followed him. Thinking about it made something in his gut twist uncomfortably. She must have… It was… She had probably come there to stop him personally, right? Finding Emmet was just a nice bonus, was all. That made a lot more sense, in Rex’s opinion. After all, Lucy had always been about the world-saving, rebel hero aesthetic. The knot in his gut unraveled, content with his explanation.

However, if Lucy was willing to go that far in trying to save the world, then Rex couldn’t afford to let her get the drop on him a second time. He would just need to keep a closer eye on her this time.

Rex smiled, an easy cocksure grin. A new plan started formulating in his mind, one in which he could easily arrange to keep watch on Lucy, with her being none the wiser.

“COBRA!” He barked out, turning away from the console. A nearby raptor stopped typing, twisting her long neck to look over in his direction.

“Give me a current time readout on the Giant Screen.” At his command, the raptor nodded and clicked a few buttons on her keyboard. Turning back to the windshield, Rex watched as the display flickered to life, printing out the date in an oversized, white, blocky font.

JUNE 4TH | 06:20 | MONDAY

Rex hummed in approval. “Excellent work, team. Looks like we’ve got a whole week left before Our-mom-agedon starts.” With a smug grin, Rex leaning onto the dashboard, adopting a particularly cavalier pose. “Obviously,” he continued, “that’s waaay more time than I’ll need to work my magic.”

A raptor screeched from somewhere in one of the weapon hangers. “Does that mean we could take a day off?”

Rex laughed.

“No.”

If raptors could sigh in resignation, they would have done so now. As it was, they settled for screeching slightly quieter. Unfazed, Rex continued with some gratuitous exposition.

“Here’s the plan, squad. We should begin to break orbit over Apocalypseburg shortly after o’eight hundred hours. At that time, we’ll activate the super secret cloaking technology that I lifted from Wonder Woman’s invisible jet. Once we’ve landed, I’ll find Emmet and get him onboard.”

One of the raptors screeched up at him questioningly. “How will we find Emmet?”

Another raptor, one standing near the fax machine, screeched back. “I could make wanted posters!”

“No need,” Rex replied dismissively. “It’s a Monday.” Mondays were Lucy’s day to patrol the wasteland, which meant that she and Emmet would have to hang out in the morning, before she left. Usually that meant that he that Emmet would start his day off with a coffee run and then meet up with her afterwards.

“If we play our cards right, which of course we will, then we can intercept him at the base of the Statue of Un-Liberty.” Rex tapped a few of the console’s controls, pulling up a large digital map of Apocalypseburg. A blinking red dot appeared at the spot he’d described.

“Everyone got that?” Rex asked, watching as a sea of raptor heads started bobbing up and down in affirmation. “Awesome. Start bringing us into orbit then. Meanwhile, Ripley, Connor, I want you two to start readying the cloaking device.” The raptors screeched to confirm their orders, and then turned to their respective workstations with a renewed sense of urgency.

Leaving them to their tasks, Rex once more turned his attention to the windshield. The sounds of raptor noises and clicking keyboards seemed to fade into the distance. Somewhere beyond the dark glass, Apocalypseburg was waiting. With a start, Rex realized that, after everything that had happened to him, he’d gotten so distracted with time travel and scheming that he had just, never bothered trying to go home.

For a moment, he wondered when exactly that had stopped being one of his goals.

At the thought, a cold, hollow feeling seeped into his chest. It was an almost alien sensation, one that he thought he had left behind in the deserts of Undar. Fortunately, Rex was tough now. He knew how to deal with these kinds of feelings, how to patch and fill the places of him that felt empty. His tool of choice, anger, had never failed him yet.

Summoning strength from his internal well of rage, Rex clenched his fists at his sides and forced his mouth into a vicious grin.

I’m going back home, he thought, and those suckers aren’t gonna know what hit ‘em.

*******************

The sun was shining in Apocalypseburg this morning. Sure, it shone every morning, to the point that it had long since baked the ground into desert sands, but that fact didn’t mean that Emmet couldn’t enjoy a little bit of morning sunshine.

As usual, electronic strains of music were playing in his ears as Emmet jauntily made his way towards the giant statue on the edge of town. He was beginning to consider singing along with the peppy song when something else suddenly drew his attention.

It had only lasted for a second, but Emmet would have sworn he’d just seen a shooting star. Instinctively, he squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on his wish.

More wishes, he thought as hard as he could, more wishes, more wishes, mo-

“Hey there, buddy!”

Emmet’s eyes snapped open at the sound of someone’s voice. Sure enough, standing in front of him was a stranger, some guy in blue, with disheveled hair and a cocky grin.

“Whoa,” Emmet whispered to himself. Something about this stranger seemed to exude charisma and toughness. Maybe it had something to do with the way he was trying to inconspicuously flex his biceps. Whatever it was, Emmet was definitely intrigued.

“Hi there!” He shouted, causing the stranger to flinch slightly at his volume. Abashedly, Emmet shrugged off his headphones.

“Sorry about that, friendo,” he chuckled. “Um, but my name’s Emmet! What’s your name? Are you new here? I feel like I’ve never seen you before. Which is weird because I know like, everybody here.” Emmet bobbed up and down in excitement.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down there, compadre!” The stranger laughed as he strolled towards Emmet, stopping at his side and giving him a friendly, albeit rather forceful, slap on the back.

“Oh,” Emmet jolted forwards from the impact, juggling his cups in an attempt to not drop either of them. “Sorry about that.”

“Why don’t you just take a breath, and I’ll introduce myself.” The stranger walked over to a nondescript hunk of debris, kicking a foot up onto it and striking a cool pose - one which would have likely made a dope freeze frame.

“The name’s Rex Dangervest,” he announced loudly. “Ace spaceship pilot, world-class dinosaur trainer, and all-around tough guy extraordinaire.”

He took a dramatic pause, before stepping back down, and continuing. “And, I've been looking for you, Emmet.”

“For me?” Emmet asked incredulously. “But why?” For a moment, his face grew uncharacteristically serious. “Did Jeff send you?”

“No, no, no,” Rex replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m just a big fan of yours.”

“A fan of mine?” Emmet’s jaw dropped. “But why?”

“Well, you’re the Special, right? Emmet Brickowski? The guy that saved the universe from Lord Business five years ago?” Rex stepped in closer, swinging an arm around Emmet’s shoulder.

“I… I guess?” Emmet sputtered. “I wasn’t really the Special though, you know.”

“So what,” Rex shrugged nonchalantly, causing Emmet to glance up in disbelief.

“So- So what? But it- that- I wasn’t really a hero! That’s so what. I know you’re new here, but seriously, just ask anyone and they’ll tell you that I’m not.”

“Really?” Rex asked, a hard edge entering his tone.

“Yeah,” Emmet’s voice grew soft, as he lowered his gaze. “I’m, um, not tough enough, they say.”

Rex hummed thoughtfully, stroking at his chin in a deliberately pensive motion. “Not tough enough, huh?”

“Yeah,” Emmet replied. “I mean, I don’t really get it, if I’m being honest. Personally, I’m not a fan of all the spikes and stuff, but still. It’s what everyone says.”

“What if I could fix that?”

“What do you mean?” Emmet looked back up at Rex, who was grinning widely now. What a friendly guy, Emmet thought.

“What if I could help you become tougher? Become the guy that all your friends want you to be?” Something eager bubbled up in Rex’s voice as he asked.

“I don’t- ”

“Become the guy that Lucy wants you to be?”

In retrospect, this should have been the moment that Emmet realized something was terribly wrong about this interaction. There was no way that this stranger could have known Lucy’s name. However, in the moment, his thoughts were somewhere else. Yesterday, he’d asked Lucy if he might be able to patrol with her, just once. She’d said no, on the grounds that “things can get like, really real out there, Emmet”. He saw the look in her eyes, like she was kind of scared for him, or maybe just disappointed in him. He saw that look a lot recently.

But, if he was tough… like Rex was promising… then maybe things could change.

“Okay,” Emmet said, his newfound conviction clear in his voice

“Hah! You made the right choice, kid.” Rex reached up and ruffled Emmet’s hair with a gloved hand. “Come on then, and I’ll show you to my ship.” Rex started to walk off, with his arm still around Emmet’s shoulder, but Emmet didn’t move to follow.

“Oh, um,” Emmet muttered, as Rex turned to look at him suspiciously. “It’s just… I’ve got to meet up with Lucy first. I always get her a morning coffee before we hang out and talk. But, uh, if I explain that I can’t stay today, she’ll totally understand.”

“Emmet, I want you to take a look at this.” Rex reached into one of his vest pockets, pulling out a small, colorful flyer. Emblazoned across the front was an advertisement for Rex Dangervest’s Toughness Seminar and Obstacle Course.

“Can you tell me what it says in the small print at the bottom?” Rex asked, pushing the paper towards Emmet’s face.

“Um, it says ‘A Once in a Lifetime Opportunity’.”

“That’s right.” Rex’s voice was low and serious. “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Do you know what that means, Emmet?”

“That one of my shooting star wishes came true?”

“No, Emmet. It means that I’m only going to make this offer once.” Rex’s grip tightened on Emmet’s shoulder. “If you don’t come with me now, then you’ll be stuck as a soft, hufflepuff loser forever.”

Dread pooled in Emmet’s gut at the thought. A future of disappointing his friends? When the chance to make them proud was right here?

“I mean, I guess Lucy will understand if I have to miss one hang out sesh...”

Rex’s benevolent smile returned. “Exactly! And think about how happy she’ll be when you show her how tough you’ve gotten.”

“Yeah!” Emmet cheered. “You’re right! And then we can hang out even more because I could do patrols with her and the other guys.”

“Totally,” Rex agreed. And, while maintaining his firm grip on Emmet, the two walked off into the desert.

*******************

It wasn’t very far to the Rexcelsior, but it still took a while. Rex had made it to Emmet so fast earlier because he’d done a super cool flip out of the hanger bay while the ship was still a few hundred feet above ground. Of course, that meant that now Rex wasn’t… super sure where the ship was parked. Fortunately, the Rexcelsior like most top of the line vehicles had come with a keychain dongle that made the ship beep obnoxiously whenever pressed. Rex had pawned the thing off on Emmet, who seemed pretty content with pressing the button over and over. In return, Rex had taken one of the coffee cups and started helping himself to its contents.

Emmet wasn’t really drinking from his cup anymore. Rex had said that drinking black coffee was the first step to becoming tough, but the caustic, bitter taste was making it a pretty tricky first step to master. Little sips made it much more tolerable, but also unfortunately made the drink take even longer. Emmet’s own cup must have been pretty bad too, seeing as how Rex kept making comments about how gross and sugary it was. He had finished it awfully fast, though.

Probably because he’s already so tough, Emmet thought, taking another tiny sip of his still disappointing coffee.

When he next pressed the dongle button, the previously distant beeping was much closer than he’d expected.

“We’re here.” Rex said, as he took the keychain back from Emmet’s hand and stepped past him.

“Really?” Emmet asked, looking around in confusion. “So, is your ship just like… really small?”

Rex snickered. “Not quite.” As if on cue, the ship materialized, looming impressively over the two men.

Emmet gasped, and continued to gasp for such a long time that it almost seemed like an action designed to garner laughter from an adoring studio audience. Rex stood nearby, patiently waiting for him to run out of air.

“This,” Rex gestured dramatically once he had regained Emmet’s attention, “is the Rexcelsior - the absolute toughest ship in the universe.”

A panel hissed open behind him, prompting Emmet to gasp once again. With a huff, Rex took his arm, pulling the two of them together into the maw of the ship. Once through, the door slid shut behind them, and the ship vanished back into transparency.

#the lego movie 2 #lego movie 2 #tlm2 #tlm2 spoilers #rex dangervest #emmet brickowski #hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh i'm very nervous #both about posting this and also just in general honestly #but! I'm! posting! it! anyways!

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headfulloffantasies · 5 years

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Angel With a Shotgun

Chapter 16: Picking Up the Pieces

Ao3

Dean woke up in a hospital chair. Machines beeped and antiseptic stung the back of his throat. His back ached, protesting a long night. He groaned as he stretched. He froze with his hands straining over his head. Something was wrong. The massive weight that dragged at Dean’s shoulders blades day and night was missing. Dean twisted to see behind him. His wings were gone. Dean panicked, tying himself in knots trying to reach his back. His fingers met resistance. He smoothed his hand over invisible feathers. Somehow their weight had lifted, and yet they were still there. His heart hammered. How was that possible?

Someone rustled next to him. Dean jumped.

Bobby lay asleep in the starched white hospital bed.

“Bobby,” Dean croaked. He got up and went to Bobby’s side. The old man didn’t move. His hat was gone. Somehow that was the worst of all of this. His face was pale, the wrinkles lining his face starker without the shadow of his ever-present ball cap.

The door opened and a blond doctor walked in, head buried in a chart. His shoes squeaked on the linoleum as he halted.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know he had any visitors.”

“I’m his son,” Dean explained in a tone that said he was not going to be removed from the room under any circumstances.

The doctor visibly relaxed. “Your father is in good shape, considering. He’s just sleeping off the sedative.”

“What happened to him?”

The doctor frowned. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. As far as I know, he was in the house when it caught fire. A beam fell on him. He has spinal damage.” The doctor sighed, “I’m afraid it’s unlikely he’ll ever walk again.”

“Say that again,” Dean whipped around at Bobby’s raspy voice.

“Bobby, thank God.”

“Say that again,” Bobby repeated, his eyes locked on the doctor. “Tell me to my face that I ain’t gonna walk.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Singer. The damage-,”

“Get out of here with your apologies. Tell me how you’re going to fix it,” Bobby demanded.

“Hey, Bobby, cool it,” Dean touched his shoulder. Bobby shoved his hand away.

“I’m sorry, the damage it too extensive-,” The doctor tried.

“Get out!” Bobby roared. He took a swing, despite being confined to the bed.

The doctor clutched his charts and made a speedy exit.

Bobby fell back against the flat pillow. He stared up at the white tiled ceiling, ignoring Dean’s pitying fidgeting.

“Bobby-,”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Bobby groused. “He’s right, you know. The doctor. I can’t feel my toes. Can’t feel anything below my damn knees.”

Dean swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you start.” Bobby dragged his eyes from the ceiling. “Where’s Sam?”

Dean’s throat closed entirely. He had to run a hand through his hair to keep his composure.

Bobby’s face fell. “No.”

“I went into the house,” Dean choked. “There’s nothing. No body-,” Dean gripped the edge of the hospital bed. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Dean,” Bobby’s hand gripped his shoulder. Dean turned into the touch, wrapping Bobby in a crushing hug. Bobby’s hands stroked up and down Dean’s spine, easing the tension.

“Where’s your wings, boy?” Bobby asked suddenly.

Dean flinched. “You can’t feel them?”

“Should I?” Dean didn’t let go of Bobby and Bobby didn’t stop rubbing circles over Dean’s back.

“I can feel them,” Dean said in a quiet voice. He twitched his primaries just to relish in the slide of feathers over each other.

Bobby and Dean finally broke apart.

“I wish I could do something for you,” Dean said with his eyes downcast. “But Sam was always better at the healing thing.”

“Don’t you worry about something like that. I wasn’t even going to ask that of you.”

***

They checked Bobby out of the hospital the next morning. There was no point in leaving him there to be stuck by needles. The prognosis wasn’t going to change. Bobby was surprisingly adept at wheeling himself around the parking lot when Dean pulled up to the curb in a rented van.

They went home. Singer Salvage was a smoking husk.

“Reminds me of that crater I fished you out of,” Bobby said quietly as they drove up the gravel. Dean paused, one hand on the van door. He looked up at the remains of the house. Sam’s empty room swam in front of his eyes.

“Why did we come back?” Dean asked, more venom than he intended colouring his words. “There’s nothing left, Bobby.”

“This is home,” Bobby said simply.

Bobby was off, wheeling himself around the minute Dean set his chair on the ground. “Gotta see what’s salvageable.”

“Very funny,” Dean groused.

He walked out to the backyard. Most of the grass was still green, only singed in patches. The tree where Sam had healed Jo was still there, towering up over his head. It shouldn’t have been so tall, but young Sam hadn’t been able to control his powers. Instead of letting them surge into Jo, he’d stuck his hands in the earth and let all the energy run into the ground. The tree had fed off Sam’s power for years. Dean touched the bark. At eye level a set of initials were carved messily. SW and DW. Dean traced over the blocky S.

“Please don’t be dead, Sam. Please,” Dean whispered. “I can’t without you.”

Bobby yelled from the front of the house. Dean hiked back to him.

“The Impala is still in one piece,” Bobby reported from the front porch.

“I don’t care about the car,” Dean snapped. “Where is Sam? Where’s his-,” Dean couldn’t finish. If there was no body, could Sam be…? Dean locked the door on that thought. He wouldn’t give himself the hope. Not if it wasn’t true.

Bobby grunted and lifted a hand to point behind Dean. “We got a visitor.”

Dean turned. A figure stood at the edge of the driveway. A long coat billowed around him in the wind.

“Cas!” Dean rushed at him, unsure whether he was going to hug Cas or punch him. He settled for grabbing him by the shoulders while he took in the ragged edges of the angel.

“What happened to you?”

“I was forcibly returned to Heaven.” Cas’ face was haggard, worn with fatigue. Dean could only guess the fight he would have had to go through to get out of the Attic.

“That bright light?” Dean guessed.

“Yes, it was an Enochian sigil for casting out angels,” Cas nodded.

“Why didn’t it affect me?” Dean asked.

“This particular spell was intended to send angels back to where they came from, that is, Heaven. But you have never been to Heaven. And you are not yet a fully mature angel.”

Bobby wheeled himself over, a scowl raging under his beard. “Miracle, now.”

“I can’t,” Cas said gloomily. “I have been even further stripped of power since my visit to Heaven.” He glanced sheepishly at Dean. “And I used considerable effort to place Dean in your hospital room without any… appendages showing.”

“You disguised my wings?” Dean gasped.

Cas nodded. “I am afraid it might have been too sentimental an endeavor. I now don’t have enough power for much of anything. And the demons responsible for burning your home got away.”

“We’ve got bigger problems. Sam-,” Dean swallowed hard around the sudden lump in his throat.

“Sam is not dead,” Cas said in unequivocal terms.

“What?” Dean choked.

“He has been taken. Just like the demon Meg said.”

“She said he was dead,” Dean argued.

Cas cocked his head to the side. “Why would you think that?”

“When Meg said Sam was going to Hell, I assumed it was in the traditional sense.”

Cas shook his head, “No, he is being kept alive in Hell. Body and soul. That makes it much more difficult.”

“I’ve missed your sunny disposition, Cas,” Bobby drawled.

Dean couldn’t find the words. Sam was alive! But in Hell. How were they supposed to get to him now? What tortures was he enduring?

Dean had to restrain himself from grabbing Cas by the tie and shaking him. “How do we get Sam?”

Cas leveled his cool gaze on Dean. “We go to Hell.”

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#angel with a shotgun #SUPERNATURAL AU #angel au #dean winchester #sam winchester #bobby singer #castiel #cas #singer salvage #hell #demons #honestly anyone reading this should go to ao3 #i post way more often there #because its easier

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thegorgeoushair · 8 months

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rajesblogblr · 4 years

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welllpthisishappening · 7 years

Text

It’s a Funny Old Game (2/2)

Killian's not sure why he agreed to this. Well, no, that's not true. He does. Because Henry asked. And, well, maybe they're some kind of family now.

Emma's not sure why she hasn't said anything. Well, no, that's not true. She does. Because she's not supposed to. And, well, things were pretty good already.

Or: A quasi Out of the Frying Pan sequel with soccer.

AN: There’s an actual soccer game in this part of the soccer fic I was never planning on actually writing. Soccer and fluff and feelz. As always, I cannot say enough about @distant-rose & @laurnorder who rationalized all of these feelz and we’re like...uh, yeah, obviously you should write the thing. They’re the best.

Also on Ao3 if you’re looking there.

“This is, easily, the coolest thing we’ve ever done.” “You’re not actually doing anything,” Emma pointed out, glancing at David who, appeared, to be ignoring her completely.

Mary Margaret shook her head, hitching her arm under Leo’s legs and babbling something that might have been words before turning back towards Emma. “Don’t pop this bubble for him,” she said. “He thinks he’s going to get out on the field. He’s going to collect dirt or something.”

“What?” “Yeah, yeah, Mom, we’re going to get dirt,” Henry yelled, bobbing on his toes. He didn’t trip, but he did stumble over the words a bit, voice picking up and excitement obvious in every letter and Emma had been right – he made a jersey.

Or he’d done some jersey-type surgery on one of the several dozen jerseys he owned – getting rid of the name patch on the back and writing out Jones and that, certainly, didn’t do several different things to Emma’s entire body and her ability to not cry in public places.

David probably would have laughed at her.

Well, no, he was too busy plotting how to sneak onto the field at Yankee Stadium and, apparently, steal dirt.

Will would have laughed at her.

Will helped Henry and Roland make a sign at the bar the night before.

“I don’t understand this dirt thing at all,” Belle muttered, doing her best to avoid Roland’s feet when she fell in step next to Will. He was hanging over Will’s shoulder, face flushed from the blood that had rushed to the top of his head and Regina didn’t even look surprised by any of this.

Emma wasn’t really either – a year after Killian had moved downtown and they’d all kind of mixed and mingled and it was some kind of family in a big, emotional way that was underlined and bolded and, maybe, had fireworks going off behind it.

At least that’s how Emma kept thinking about it. And nearly proclaiming in the middle of the kitchen at the Jolly with flour smeared across her jeans.

God, what an idiot. That wasn’t...not yet, at least. Not technically.

So Killian helped Henry with his homework and made dinner when he wasn’t running service at the Jolly and they liked to spend Sundays on the couch with video game controllers in hand and he’d almost gotten good at killing zombies.

They were comfortable and domestic and Emma was so goddamn lucky it, sometimes, made her head spin if she thought about it for too long.

She usually didn’t have time to think about it for too long – far too busy with a filming schedule that always seemed to require another appearance in studio and another cookbook and she really needed to start thinking about more recipes, but she’d been focused on a few other things for the last two weeks.

Ariel would call it distracted, you’re distracted and had, several times, but Emma didn’t have time for that either and she’d nearly forgotten the orange slices before.

“Uncle David wants to steal dirt from Yankee Stadium,” Henry explained, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because Derek Jeter touched it.” “That doesn’t even make any sense,” Emma muttered. Henry actually turned to gape at her, eyes wide with disbelief and sports-based offense and she couldn’t actually wave her hands, laden down with orange slices and stress-fueled bake goods because she hadn’t thought of a single recipe yet.

“Yes it does,” David argued. “This is the house that Jeter built, after all.” “Oh my God.” Mary Margaret mumbled something else against Leo’s head that sounded suspiciously like your father is insane and David rolled his eyes. “I thought this was the house that Ruth built,” Robin said reasonably and they had to be close to their seats.

Ruby and Regina had joined forces a few days before – each personally offended that the massive and extended family of Killian Jones wasn’t immediately offered half a dozen rows of seats for a charity soccer game and the combined weight of their fury probably caused several Yankee Stadium ticket agents to cry.

“No, didn’t you hear?” Will asked, making a face when Roland moved on his shoulder. “This is the house that Jones built. We’ve been guaranteed, at least, forty-seven goals.” “See, you’re acting like this doesn’t matter to you,” Emma said. “But you were the one trying to ask Killian about strategy three nights ago.” “How do you know that?” “I have ears? And eyes?” Will made a face, pressing his head against Roland’s shoulder when the kid started laughing and Regina tried to tug his own makeshift Jones jersey down when it rode up his back. “How’d the last run through go yesterday afternoon? Cap didn’t want to talk about it when he got in for service.” “And you don’t think that was some kind of sign?”

Will opened his mouth to say something else, but Robin mumbled shut up, Scarlet and that was the end of that conversation.

Emma did her best to smile – certain it was going to be fine and good and it was a charity game for God’s sake. No one expected them actually play well.

But Killian was Killian and, by extension, Emma was Emma and Henry had brought, like, a dozen friends because there was so much goddamn room in their several designated aisles and it felt like some kind of terrifying ocean of teenage-expectations.

“He just wants to impress you and Henry,” Robin muttered, knocking his shoulder familiarly against Emma’s once they made their way into the seats and they were only a few feet behind the benches. “Mostly Henry, I think.”

There was a waiter. They had their own in-aisle waiter. Ruby had definitely made someone cry.

“Yeah, I know,” Emma said. “He could do that by waking up in the morning, though.” “That was actually pretty romantic.” “It felt weird when I was saying it.” Robin laughed softly, tapping his fingers on the armrest next to him and the Stadium looked completely different. Not that Emma had ever actually been to a baseball game, but she imagined there wasn’t usually a whole other field on top of the field when the Yankees played.

“Does it look especially soccer?” she asked and she saw Robin smile out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m not sure if I know what that question means, but the proper term is football pitch and, yes, it does look like a proper match.” “That was almost oppressively British.”

“Old habits. You know, Ruby and Gina forced him to film a promo thing yesterday. It was part for the network and part the team and it’s up on both sites. That might have been why he was attacking the vegetables during service last night.”

“Oh,” Emma mumbled, a wholly underwhelming response and maybe her eyes and ears weren’t working nearly as well as she thought they had been.

“Ruby didn’t show you?” Emma shook her head, something churning in the pit of her stomach that felt like a mix of nerves and anxiety and the hope that Killian didn’t actually break any bones because they’d already done the whole soccer injury thing with Henry six months ago and she wasn’t sure if she could go through that again.

“Should she have?” Emma asked and Robin made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

Henry and Roland were already cheering – at the grounds crew – and that sign wasn’t going to make it to kickoff, already slightly wrinkled by wind and they probably should have made two so there was no issue over sharing.

“Depends on your response, I guess,” Robin replied, leaning to his side to tug his phone out of his pocket. “For the record, A sent the link to me last night with just, like, twenty-seven exclamation points and the promise that it would mean something to you.” Emma narrowed her eyes. “And she didn’t think it would make sense to just, you know, send it to me?” “You know, A. She lives for this back-room drama and I’m fairly positive she was terrified of what Killian would do if he found out she was the reason you got your hands on that video.” “And you’re cool with that kind of lingering threat?” “Eh,” Robin shrugged. “My kid is obsessed with him. He was the best man at my wedding. I’m fairly confident he won’t actually try to push me in front of the downtown-6 later.” “We drove up here. Your wife has questionably strong connections with town-car companies.”

Robin beamed. “Exactly. Here,” he added, pushing the phone into Emma’s palm and the video had already started playing.

Emma tugged her hair over her shoulder, trying to shake away that one strand that seemed determined to stay in her eyes and he must have just finished practicing because his hair wasn’t quite set and there was a sheen to his face that might have actually been the most attractive thing she’d ever seen in her entire life.

God.

She could feel Robin’s stare on the side of her head – watching and waiting for some kind of visible reaction and the whole lot of them had probably seen this stupid video. Mary Margaret kept shifting in her seat.

She’d totally seen that stupid video.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s going to be a lot of fun,” Killian said, answering a question from an off-camera reporter. “Who do I think is going to be the best on the field? Well, if you want to get technical, the correct term is pitch.” He flashed a smile at the camera, eyebrows doing something that should be illegal in every country in the entire world. “But, uh, honestly,” he continued, tugging on that piece of hair that curled just behind his ear. “Me? Is that the wrong answer?” The invisible reporter laughed – or that might have just been Emma and she barely even noticed when the waiter started passing out drinks and food and there was alcohol in her other hand before she realized someone had actually ordered anything.

It was probably Ruby.

She had a tendency to just...take over.

“Em,” she shouted, pushing up slightly in her chair. “Em! What if you did a section on better stadium food? Like, you know, hot dogs and hamburgers and, oh man, steal Killian’s hamburger recipe. We’ll sell a million copies.” “I don’t think she’s listening to you,” David muttered, taking an exaggerated bite of what actually appeared to be a corndog.

Emma glanced up, grimacing at the food in her brother’s hand. “Are you guys talking?” she asked. “And what the hell is that?” “Delicious.” “I don’t think that’s a type of food, technically,” Mary Margaret pointed out. She twisted in her chair, careful to keep Leo Henry as still as possible and fished through the bag at her feet, tugging out a plastic container of what Emma immediately knew was squash.

And Cheerios.

“M’s, are you mixing vegetables and cereal?” Emma asked, gaze flitting between Robin’s phone and her sister-in-law and having an actual, coherent conversation was proving rather difficult when Killian kept smiling at the camera.

“He’s got very specific tastes,” she explained. “He likes gourd-type vegetables and...one specific type of vaguely disgusting cereal.” “It really is horrible if they’re not doused in sugar isn't they?” Mary Margaret shrugged. “At least it’s not all squash all the time. It was Killian’s idea, actually.” “Wait, what?” “Yeah, when was that David? A week ago?” David mumbled, a mouth full of corndog and a drink in his hand and Emma tried not to actually do damage to her eyes when she rolled them. “Anyway,” Mary Margaret said. “Whenever we were at the Jolly last. He said something about grains and it might actually go pretty well with the squash and, you know, I tried it the other day and it’s not really that bad.” Emma blinked, the noise from the video dulling in her ears and it kind of felt like she’d sunk through the very padded, very fancy chairs they’d been allotted. “You ate your own kid’s food?”

“Is that weird? What if it tasted awful?” “He’s a baby. I don’t think he’ll remember.” Mary Margaret didn’t say anything and Leo Henry made a decidedly one-year-old noise, grabbing a handful of Cheerios and stuffing them in his face with the same grace and tact his father had in the next seat over.

Emma shook her head, but that was mostly so she knew it was still connected to her body and she hadn’t just floated into the atmosphere, buoyed by feelings and emotions and she really couldn’t cope with the convergence of all of this at once.

Yeah, well, like I said, it’s a good cause and I’ve got a kid...I mean, I’ve got...it’s a good cause.

Robin chuckled when Emma’s eyes widened, threatening to fall out of her face and possibly onto the field and that would probably scar Henry for life or something.

“Wait,” she stammered, not sure who she was talking to, but Ruby was still half-standing in her chair and she had that look on her face. “Did he…” “Yup,” Will shouted a few seats away, popping his mouth on the word and Emma could barely hear it over the sound of her pulse beating in her ears.

“See,” Robin mumbled. “This is why he didn’t want really want you to see the video. Scroll back for two seconds and you can actually see the tips of his ears go red.” Emma let out a shaky laugh, body falling forward with the force of her exhale or sigh or, maybe, just a complete swoon , but she did as instructed and Robin wasn’t lying. The words were out of Killian’s mouth and she could tell the exact moment he realized what he’d said.

He looked like he froze for half a second, blinking just a bit quicker and his tongue pressed against the corner of his mouth. The off-camera reporter asked another question and Killian nearly jumped to attention, spine straightening and shoulders shifting and Emma wondered if it’d be really weird if she just leapt onto the field – the pitch, whatever – and started making out with her boyfriend.

“Yeah, yeah,” Killian continued on the video. “You know, it’s easy to kind of get sidetracked with stuff we think is important, but this kind of throws everything all back into pretty stark focus. These kids are going through stuff we could never really understand and if I can run around for a couple hours, at Yankee Stadium no less, than, yeah sign me up. Plus, I’ve been promised orange slices later.” Emma was fairly certain she was still cognizant and conscious, but Robin and Ruby seemed to be having some kind of silent conversation over her head and Mary Margaret was mumbling something against Leo Henry’s head that sounded suspiciously like Aunt Emma is making weird faces, that’s right.

Henry and Roland were still yelling.

It made more sense now – the players were coming out for warmups.

Oh, well, shit.

He hadn’t actually put his uniform on at home – There are rules, Swan, you have to get dressed in the locker room or it’s bad luck – and, in some theoretic vision, Emma knew he’d have to wear a uniform and even what the uniform looked like , but even her most detailed expectations failed to match up with what had actually just arrived along the first base line of Yankee Stadium.

“You alright there, Em?” Ruby asked and even Mary Margaret laughed.

Emma shook her head – not sure if she was answering or just trying to ignore her very loud, vaguely hysterical friends – but she barely had time to even consider a sarcastic response before Killian was jogging their direction and damn , that was cheating.

“Hey,” he said, coming up just short of the wall and his smile probably could have powered the entire borough when he saw Roland and Henry in front of him.

Roland tried to climb over the concrete and the rolled up tarp towards Killian, but Henry grabbed him around the waist immediately – and then nearly let him fall when he noticed the number on Killian’s back.

“You ok, kid?” Emma asked, but Henry didn’t answer her. He stared at Killian, matching flushes on each of their faces, and Emma was never going to hear anything except her over-excited heartbeat.

“Good number,” Henry muttered and Killian managed to smile even wider.

“Yeah, I figured it’d be good luck or something. I mean Rol expects me to score, what was it, mate? Forty-seven goals?” “Forty-eight,” Roland shouted.

Killian hummed in agreement, eyes flashing towards Emma. She was breathing through her mouth. And she didn’t remember when she stood up. “Hi, Swan,” he grinned, all easy confidence and certainty and blue eyes that seemed to actually match the blue in his goddamn uniform.

This was some kind of joke.

It had to be.

She was absolutely dreaming all of this.

“Hi,” Emma said, but it came out a bit breathless and Ruby was going to injure her spleen with the force of her cackle. “Oh my God, Ruby, shut up.” “No, no, I get it,” Ruby laughed.

Emma couldn’t actually press her hands to her cheeks – certain they’d probably be scalding with the force of her embarrassment – holding, as she was, four Tupperware containers of baked goods and goddamn orange slices.

Killian waved his hand towards Ruby and she didn’t actually stop laughing, but she sat back down and started making faces at Leo Henry. “You look a little distracted, love,” Killian muttered, moving in front of her and resting his arms on the wall.

“Shouldn’t you be warming up?” Emma asked. “Stretching or...kicking something?” “Are you interested in watching me stretch?” “Oh my God, you’re worse than Ruby is.” “I’m going to try not to take offense to that, Swan. And, strictly speaking, yeah, I probably should be, but I don’t think I can actually get penalized for anything.” “Yellow card.” “That was good.” “I do occasionally listen.” Killian eyes brightened or just got bluer or maybe Emma had really lost her mind. She should eat some orange slices. Up her metabolism. Or something. That didn’t even make any sense.

“True,” Killian said, resting his chin on his palm. “And sometimes you are noticeably distracted, Swan.” “And sometimes you stumble over interviews in promo videos.” She was an idiot.

Robin might have actually sighed next to her and Will mumbled something under his breath that sounded like jeez, Emma, now he’s going to be thinking that all game and Killian might have actually scraped his elbow trying to move his hands off the concrete.

“Huh,” he muttered, running his hand through his hair and rocking back on his heels. “Locksley or Scarlet?” “I’m pleading the fifth. That’s how that works, right, David?”

“Absolutely,” David promised, clearly not listening to a single word Emma had asked, far too busy detailing the dirt plan with Henry again.

Emma sighed. “They want to steal dirt,” she explained and one side of Killian’s mouth twitched. “Something about Derek Jeter and not Derek Jeter and who’s that guy Henry’s obsessed with?” “Aaron Judge,” Henry and Killian answered immediately.

“Right, right,” Emma muttered, taking a deep breath and piling her small Tupperware collection in front of her. She leaned forward, tugging on the front of Killian’s jersey – he was wearing a jersey, God – and she was fairly positive his whole body seemed to sag forward, fingers wrapped around her wrist.

This was the last place they should be having this conversation.

Or the last place they should be having this conversation if Emma could actually formulate a coherent sentence, but that jersey was distracting and he was distracting and she couldn’t help but wonder why nothing had happened in the last two weeks.

She was kind of frustrated it hadn't happened in the last two weeks.

Although, she should probably buy Ariel some kind of gift. For not telling or talking and everyone knew everything about everyone in that restaurant and it was some kind of miracle that someone hadn’t just told Emma what the plan was.

She’d just...stumbled into it? Well, no, that wasn’t really true either. She’d gotten back from filming two weeks ago and Henry had clearly already been home – backpack dropped just inside the door and one shoe left in the middle of the hallway and she’d just meant to move the goddamn fucking sneaker.

She hadn’t really meant to ruin everything.

Or potentially ruin everything if they ever acknowledged what everything was.

Her head hurt.

And Emma hadn’t even opened the box.

She’d been too busy trying not to pass out in her kid’s room when she was fairly certain said kid was three blocks uptown at her boyfriend’s restaurant.

But now boyfriend seemed a bit juvenile and they’d been living together for a year and Killian had said I’ve got a kid on an actual, official interview.

That went on the network site. And probably got e-mail blasted to the kinds of people who got e-mail blasts from the network.

God, why hadn’t he actually asked yet?

“Swan,” Killian said, squeezing his fingers and she nearly dislocated her entire vertebrae snapping her head back up. “You went all glossy there, love. Are you ok? Do you need an orange slice?” “Maybe,” Emma admitted. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until it suddenly felt like her lungs were going to explode. “You’re totally right, this is totally distracting.” Killian twisted his eyebrows – any sense of pre-game, pre-match , nerves almost visibly falling away as soon as Emma mumbled out the words and the compliment and Henry was staring at them like he was expecting something to happen.

She was an idiot.

The box was sitting behind his soccer cleats. It might still be there.

Henry totally knew.

“They weren’t actually supposed to show you,” Killian mumbled, leaning forward again and for half a second Emma thought he was going to kiss her. But there were cameras everywhere and a small army of soccer-playing teenagers and he really should go stretch.

Will would never let him hear the end of it if he strained something.

“Yeah, I believe that was mentioned,” Emma said. She grimaced slightly when her elbow bumped against the wall, but she moved her fingers anyway, tracing over the back of Killian’s neck and down his arm and he actually looked like he shivered. “It was a good video, though. Even with the stammering.” “That so?” “Why would I lie about that?” “I honestly have no idea. I hadn’t really gotten that far in the stages of worrying.”

“What exactly are the stages of worrying?” Killian clicked his tongue, teeth tugging on his lower lip when Emma’s nails scratched through the bottom of his hair. A camera shutter went off somewhere. “Realization,” he started. “A quick and sudden determination to fix it as quickly as possible. Avoiding the issue completely. Threatening your friends with metaphorical pink slips if they even so much as breathed a word of said worry to you and, uh, stress baking.” “That’s it?” Emma asked. “And you were all the way to just before stress baking?” “I had practice. And a dinner service. I didn’t really have time to get to stress baking.” “Naturally.” Killian laughed under his breath, leaning his head back against Emma’s fingers and someone called for him from the field. Pitch. “I think they actually expect me to play soccer,” he muttered, ignoring Roland’s not-so-quiet screech when he used the wrong word. “Football, football, football,” Killian corrected quickly. “Deep breaths, mate.”

“You’ve got to go score, Uncle Killian,” Roland yelled and it sounded like more of a demand than whoever was actually coaching that team.

“He should probably be in charge,” Emma muttered, working another smile out of Killian and that felt like scoring eighty-seven goals and forty-six penalty kicks and scoring in soccer was, apparently, very limited.

Football.

God.

“Between him and Henry I have been taught every way Wayne Rooney and David Villa has ever scored, so it’s almost like I’ve been double-coached,” he said. “I’m fairly positive my MVP trophy has already been personalized.”

“Awfully confident all of a sudden.” “Yeah, well, you brought orange slices.” “And baked,” Emma added. “Don’t forget the baking.” “Does it count if I cleaned up the frosting disaster at the end?” Emma shook her head deftly and both Ruby and Mary Margaret were going to choke or pass out and David should probably hold Leo Henry if that happened.

“No,” she said, something in the pit of her stomach fluttering like she was fifteen and flirting with the captain of the football team. Actual football. Not whatever it was they were doing. “And it wasn’t really a disaster,” Emma continued. “More like a debacle. At worst. It just, you know, kind of flew everywhere when the bowl fell. The cleanup doesn’t award you any points or goals or whatever.” “Rough crowd.” “Compliment the baked goods later and then we’ll talk.” Someone yelled Jones from the other side of the field and Emma was fairly positive she’d heard that voice on her TV screen and there were more photographers there than she expected. They should probably stop flirting on the sidelines.

She couldn't seem to stop flirting on the sidelines.

“It seems I have a game to play,” Killian muttered, rolling his eyes as soon as the exasperated sound came a few seats away. “Match. I know. I know it’s a match.”

“Go play, Lieutenant,” Emma said, but her hand had found its way to the front of his jersey again and he couldn’t actually walk away when she was holding onto him like there was a magnet there.

His eyes flashed at the rank and Emma tried to smile like she was a teenager and there there weren’t actual teenagers a few feet away or a photographer trying to get them all to pose.

“For The Daily News, ” he explained and Emma’s head snapped towards Ruby out of instinct.

“Put it in the cookbook with your stadium series section,” she shrugged.

Killian furrowed his eyebrows. “Wait, what?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Emma said quickly, but Killian didn’t look impressed. “Also, Ruby, you’re an awful producer.” Ruby sounded like she growled and the photographer looked a bit intimidated, shifting back and forth on his feet until Regina seized control of the situation and told anyone who wasn’t part of the group that they had to get out of frame since they didn't’ have parental permission to put their picture in New York City tabloids.

“Thanks,” the photographer said a few moments later, still glancing warily at Ruby who looked like she was considering all the ways to get copies of his photo without actually paying him.

Killian turned back towards Emma – and she was going to say something, really, she was. It was going to be motivational or inspirational or something straight out of an 80s movie, but she didn’t get a chance.

He kissed her.

In front of the cameras and the teenagers and what felt like the entire goddamn world.

Emma leaned forward, arms moving around his neck and the wall pushed painfully into her stomach, but she barely even noticed when Killian did that thing where he seemed to try and breathe her in.

Or maybe just pushed his hand into her hair.

“Distracting,” Emma mumbled, resting her forehead against his and she couldn’t actually see his mouth, but she knew he was smiling.

“For luck,” Killian said.

He didn’t need it.

And Emma wasn’t really surprised – he’d never really needed it, no matter what he thought, and he looked so goddamn good in that stupid uniform, she’d probably steal it. Or something. She had no idea if he had to give it back.

He scored.

Twenty-two minutes left on the clock – or, as both Henry and Roland and a small fleet of teenagers were quick to point out the 68th minute – the ball landing on his feet and in the back of the net in a blink. Emma wasn’t sure what kind of noise she actually made, a scream or shout or whatever kind of noise a person would make when they found a ring box behind her kid’s soccer cleats two weeks ago and then watched a video with her boyfriend mumbling over future-type qualifiers.

And then, she was fairly certain, she nearly passed out.

She almost didn’t hear it. She was too busy screaming and jumping and she should have been better prepared for Killian in a soccer uniform.

But she wasn’t and Emma certainly wasn’t prepared for the kid on Henry’s other side – a defender on the travel team he’d played for that summer named Ben or Bill or something.

“Henry, Henry! Did your dad just score?” “Yeah, he did,” Henry shouted back, jumping in tandem with Roland and the sign was a bent-up mess by the 68th minute of play. “Did you see that shot? He totally wrecked that defender!”

Emma stumbled slightly, an impressive feat considering she hadn’t actually taken a step, and she nearly took out the orange slices before Robin dropped a knowing hand on her shoulder to steady her.

“Deep breaths,” he muttered. “Just focus on that piece of gum stuck to the wall.” “That’s disgusting,” Emma grumbled.

Robin laughed softly, but he didn’t move his hand and Emma knew Will was staring at her too. “You should probably tell him,” Robin added. “You know at some point. Not now, obviously.” “I think he’s a little busy now.” “That’s what I’m saying, but, you know, eventually. And then live happily ever after or something.” Emma nodded slowly, lips moving in response, but she wasn’t sure she actually said anything.

They won the game.

It’s a match, Mom, we’ve been over this.

They won the game.

Ruby stared at a security guard until he opened up a gate to the field and Regina glared at every groundskeeper who even dared to look their direction, marching them towards the media scrum just outside the box.

That was good, Mom! You’re totally a respectable fan now.

Emma let that slide, trying to shift the Tupperware containers on her hip and Killian was already surrounded by reporters and more photographers, answering questions with his hand stuffed in his hair and his left arm twisted behind his back.

“You good?” Mary Margaret asked, appearing at Emma’s side and holding her hands out expectantly. Emma blinked in confusion, lips parting slightly and Mary Margaret didn’t miss a beat, just grabbed two of the containers without a word. “That’s not an answer,” she pointed out.

“I’m not sure I understand the question,” Emma admitted.

“That kid. And the yelling. And the video.” Emma considered her answer for a moment, but it was almost blatantly obvious and maybe she should just ask him.

No, that’s not how this worked.

She was fairly positive that’s not how it worked. She’d never...done any of this before.

“Yeah,” Emma said, snapping the word out when she realized she hadn’t actually answered Mary Margaret. “I am. Is that weird?” “Emma, you just asked me if it was weird that you were happy.” “That’s probably weird, right?” “Absolutely.”

“I really should have been better prepared for how good he looks in that uniform too,” Emma said and Mary Margaret’s laugh probably alerted several birds and fairies of an impending happily ever after.

Mary Margaret nodded in agreement. “It’s not a bad look.” Emma smiled, shaking her hair over her shoulders and the rest of the team had, finally, noticed the baked goods and orange slices, descending on her and Mary Margaret quickly, a mess of hands and elbows, all determined to get sustenance after the match.

Emma did her best to hold onto the containers in her hands, could hear Killian trying to work his way out of the interview, but there were more questions and the entire stadium seemed to freeze when someone asked him about how your wife made food for the team.

“That’s just bad prep,” Mary Margaret mumbled and the metaphorical birds paused mid-flight.

David looked like he was trying to figure out a way to actually arrest the journalist, but Emma shook her head again, twisting back towards a suddenly paler-than-normal Killian.

She shrugged.

And that wasn’t really the most romantic response, but no one had really asked the question.

There weren’t any questions in the Jolly later that night either – the not-so-secret celebratory dinner Ariel had planned with food that would have been better if Killian was cooking it, a fact he was quick to point out as soon as the new sous chef was back in the kitchen.

They ate it anyway and Killian helped Will mix drinks, grinning at Emma every time his eyes met hers. It was almost enough to distract all over again.

The alcohol helped.

They took more pictures – Killian’s participation trophy featuring prominently in all of them and Ruby tried to bring up the cookbook no less than eight different times.

Emma drank some more and Killian snuck into his own kitchen to make her onion rings, wrapping one arm around her waist to drop the plate in front of her at the bar and leave kisses on her neck.

Roland fell asleep draped over Killian eventually, body twisted in some sort of improbable way and he whined when Robin tried to pry his hands away from the shirt he had gripped in his fists. Mary Margaret took a picture of that as well. There weren’t any questions on the three-block walk downtown, Henry weaving just a bit until Emma wrapped her arm around his shoulder and he didn’t even argue when she pulled him against her side.

He was half asleep by the time they got into the apartment, toeing out of his sneakers and leaving them directly in front of the door. Killian tossed his keys on the table, rolling his shoulders slightly and Emma didn’t even try to get her jacket on the actual hook.

It was domestic. It was nice. She was happy. The metaphorical birds were chirping at nearly eleven o’clock at night.

“Hey, teeth,” Emma said, miming a toothbrush with her finger when Henry started to clomp down the hallway.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. “Night, Mom. Night, Dad. That was a crazy good goal before.” Emma’s... something cracked when she snapped back towards Killian, his eyes dangerously wide and jaw nearly on the floor and she wasn’t sure he was breathing. The bathroom door slammed shut and Killian jumped, blinking quickly like he was trying to get everything into focus.

Emma moved slowly, reaching a hand out cautiously.

He didn’t flinch when her hand landed on his arm.

“Did he…” Killian started, shaking his head in response to a question he hadn’t actually finished. “He’s tired. Something about the sun and draining energy and he’s just talking in tongues.” Her heart expanded and then exploded and the birds were singing some kind of love song medley in the middle of the apartment. “I’m fairly positive he was still speaking English,” Emma said and Killian let out a shaky laugh. “And that’s not the first time that’s happened today, so I don’t think you get to blame the sun.” “What?” “Some kid. I have no idea what his name is. Red hair, freckles all over his cheeks. Plays defense?”

“Brandon.” “Wait, really?” Killian nodded. “I am one-hundred percent positive that kid’s name is Brandon. He’s got a peanut allergy. Don’t ask me what his last name is though, I have no idea.”

“I mean, I thought his name was Ben, so you’re definitely winning on that front.”

“Was his name an important part of the story?” Killian asked, some of the surprise leaving his voice and he didn’t look quite as tense, one hand falling to Emma’s waist.

“Nah, that was just part of the set-up,” Emma muttered. “You scored and he told Henry his dad scored and there was no argument, just another string of adjectives to describe your goal. So, again, not the first time that’s happened today. Or the first time people have made sweeping assumptions about your family qualifiers.” “I thought your brother was going to kill that journalist.” Emma winced and this conversation was not going the way she expected it. That was kind of a trend...for her life.

Huh.

“Would it really be so bad?” she asked, practically shouting the question in the otherwise empty living room. She could hear the sink still running in the bathroom.

Killian furrowed his eyebrows, his hand stilling on her side and her shirt had rumpled slightly under his fingers. “Your brother killing a journalist at Yankee Stadium?” he asked. “It’d probably make it difficult for him to get dirt.” “I think Scarlet stole some for him.” “That doesn’t surprise me at all.” “That’s not really what I was talking about.” “You don’t say.”

Emma rolled her eyes and maybe she was the one who’d been drained by the sun because she actually stuck her tongue out, pushing slightly on Killian’s chest to try and get him towards the couch. He took the hint quickly, backing up and dropping into the corner, tugging her down with him until she was flush against his side with her legs perpendicular over his.

“What’s this really about, Swan?” he asked, brushing his fingers through the ends of her hair. “And when were you going to tell me about the cookbook?” “Probably when you weren’t freaking out about a charity soccer game.” Killian opened his mouth, but she snapped her jaw in frustration and the smirk that settled on his face was absolutely cheating. “I know it’s a match. I understand the terminology.” “You’re bouncing all around this conversation, love.” “That’s because you’re not telling me about interview revelations.” Killian sighed, resting his head on her shoulder and his arm tightened around her waist. “I didn’t...we’ve only kind of talked about it,” he mumbled. “Even if I’ve been thinking it for awhile.”

“How long is awhile? Exactly?” “Weeks. Months. Since the very beginning.” She needed to stop holding her breath without realizing it. She was probably doing permanent damage to her lungs. Or her brain. Her brain needed oxygen, right?

That made sense.

“I didn’t even help with Henry’s jersey,” Emma said. “He did that himself and asked Ruby to make sure there were tickets for his friends and he drew all the letters on the sign so Rol could color them in. This is...he’s thinking it too. Obviously.” “Obviously,” Killian echoed, a note of disbelief in his voice that didn’t belong there.

Emma took a deep breath, trying to draw on some kind of conversational and emotional courage she’d only recently discovered she had. “Would it help,” she started, choosing her words carefully, “if I mentioned that I’d also been thinking about it? In the affirmative?” Killian pulled his head up slowly, staring at her like he couldn't quite believe she was there or talking and Emma tried not to bite her lip too tightly. “The affirmative?” “You need to stop just repeating what I’m saying.” “That’s because I’m very confused.”

“I’m just saying...that if there were questions or, you know, whatever. My answer would be...yes.” “Yes,” Killian said, dragging the word out until it sounded long enough to be a keynote speech at the United Nations. “And I’m asking what, exactly?”

“Are we having the same conversation right now? I’m not sure that we are.” Killian shrugged, one of his shoulders brushing up against Emma’s in the process and he really did look confused. And just a bit nervous. “You would make a terrible pirate, you know,” Emma continued. “Hiding treasure in blatantly obvious places.”

Killian blanched, lips pressed together tightly and Emma was momentarily distracted by how ridiculously blue his eyes were before he was kissing her or she was kissing him and it didn’t really matter because they appeared to, finally, be on the same conversational page.

Emma didn’t remember swinging her leg over his hip, just that he groaned when she moved against him and they should probably stop doing this with a fourteen-year-old kid who regarded them both as parental authorities down the hallway. “Ah, gross,” Henry sighed, leaning against the wall with his arms cross and his feet crossed at the ankle and he’d learned both of those things from Killian. “You figure it out yet, Mom?” Emma nodded, her back not appreciating the twist she’d put it in when she tried to glance over her shoulder. “It’s your fault, you know. If you hadn’t left your sneakers everywhere, I never would have found it.” Henry scrunched his nose – and he’d gotten that from her. “Oh. Sorry.” Killian sighed, but he didn’t actually seem frustrated, he looked like he was bordering close to ecstatic and Emma understood the feeling. “You could still help, you know,” he said, nodding back towards the hallway and he didn’t have to say another word before Henry was sprinting towards his room and the box that was, apparently, still sitting behind his soccer cleats.

“He helped me pick it out,” Killian muttered and Emma’s stomach leapt into her throat and her heart did something absolutely impossible and she’d probably never stop smiling.

“He’d make a better pirate than you,” she said.

“I hope so.”

“Here, here, here, here,” Henry cried, sliding into the couch when his socks didn’t provide the necessary traction to stop immediately. “What happens now? Shouldn’t there be candles or something? There are always candles in the movies.”

“I don’t think we even own candles,” Emma said and Henry deflated immediately.

“For real?” “We’ve got to have candles somewhere, right?” Killian asked. Emma shook her head. “You should have candles, love. If we’re going to do this, we should do it the right way.” Emma was still smiling. And still sitting on top of Killian. “I really don’t need candles.”

“This wasn’t exactly the plan. At least let me get up, Swan. We’ve got to follow one of the rules.”

She made a face that absolutely did not belong in that current situation and Henry was jumping up and down again, the box still clutched tightly in his hands. Killian took a deep breath when Emma moved, running his fingers through his hair and resting his left hand on Henry’s shoulder.

“Thanks, kid,” he muttered, turning back towards Emma and she couldn’t breathe.

She didn’t really mind.

Killian grinned at her – any trace of smirk or joke forgotten as soon as his thumb flipped open the top of the box and Emma sat up straighter, pressing her heels into the ground like that would prove this was actually happening.

He got down on one knee.

“I’ve been hiding this behind soccer cleats for the last three weeks, so you’re already painfully aware that I didn’t really have much of a plan,” Killian started. “But this is...you are all I want, Swan. All of this. Us and this apartment and this life and charity soccer games and cookbooks and ridiculous filming schedules. I want that. Indefinitely and forever and side by side. No matter what.” He glanced over his shoulder at Henry, beaming and still jumping and Emma didn’t remember when she started to cry. “So, Emma Swan,” Killian said. “Will you marry me?”

She must have nodded and something in her brain told her to move, leaping off the couch and nearly knocking Killian off balance, but his arms caught her and Henry groaned when they started kissing again.

“Mom, Mom! You’ve got to put the ring on,” he shouted, phone out and shutter clicking and Emma did as instructed.

Killian kissed her again and then kissed her knuckles and her cheeks and her eyelids and if they never moved off the living room floor, Emma wouldn’t have minded.

They made hot chocolate and Henry fell asleep on the couch, his head on the arm and legs splayed out over both Emma and Killian. She was close to falling asleep herself, lulled into rest by Killian’s fingers tracing across her arm and the dim light reflecting off her ring.

“You never actually answered the question,” Killian said suddenly, mumbling the words into Emma’s hair. “If you want to get technical.”

“What?” “I asked you to marry me and you never actually answered. Just attack kissed me on the floor.” “Was that not an answer?” Emma asked, not quite able to hold back her laughter. “No.” “Ah, well, I thought that would be kind of obvious when I said yes before you even asked.” “You’re evading on purpose, Swan.” “I absolutely am,” she agreed, burrowing her face against him.

“An answer, Emma.” She’d probably tease him about the slightly desperate edge to his voice at some point, but they had the rest of their lives for that.

They had the rest of their lives for that.

“Yes,” Emma breathed and the word seem to settle in the very middle of her or maybe on her left ring finger.

She was never going to stop smiling.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah. Just like this.” They fell asleep on the couch and made pancakes the next morning with peanut butter chips and cinnamon in their coffee and Mary Margaret screamed when Emma called her.

#cs ff #captain swan ff #ouat ff #this is just like....fluff #like a cloud #cloud fic #WITH AN ACTUAL SOCCER GAME #finallyyyyy

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manmodeactivate · 7 years

Text

My coming out letter (FTM)

This is long af but people wanted to see it so here it is :)

This letter may be a surprise to you but there is no better way for me to explain these things. Over the years I’ve been through some tough patches as you may know but without knowing why. You may have been told of some eating troubles a few years ago and even now (not so much of a problem now though). Even told about self-harm and thoughts of suicide (years ago). You even may have tried to guess the main cause for the struggles as I didn’t have the voice or knowledge to tell you myself. Sexuality is my guess as to what you think it has been… But I had worked that out when I was in year 7 or 8 so that wasn’t the source of my struggles (by the way dad I do like girls mostly at least). Yes I do still like girls but there’s so much more to it that I couldn’t figure out till now. The topic of gender.

I was a tomboy when I was little as you know but I started to realise something was off when puberty hit. I have been thinking about my gender for years now but kept pushing it away because I felt crazy or that I didn’t deserve to live because I was a freak. I felt as though there was a checklist of sorts to be transgender. I was scared as almost everything did stereotypically fit. But that doesn’t mean that I am or not based on a few stereotypes, this was something I had to work out myself without the influence from a third party. No one could tell me if this was who I am or not, only I could and I now know that this is who I am. It was hard for me to come to terms with and took me years. I didn’t want to be seen as a freak like you probably see them but that’s because I didn’t understand. I researched constantly and it helped me understand myself. I’m not trans because of the media or because its ‘trendy’, it’s very serious and I wouldn’t be telling you if I wasn’t absolutely sure. It may seem to you that it is becoming trendy but people are just feeling more comfortable about being themselves in this generation as people are more accepting now than 20 years ago. I am more than willing to go through social harassment, and other negative things to be happy. I really need to do this and know I will need to go through transition. If you really want to be certain we could see a doctor or gender therapist. I wouldn’t wish this life upon anybody as it will be difficult but I need to be happy. The reason I want to pursue this is for my happiness and not just feel like shit for the rest of my life.

I became envious of the boys when they started to grow taller, their voices deepened and when they started to grow facial hair. In turn I began to hate my own body and where the fat distributed itself to. In year 9 I started not to eat so the fat would leave my hips, thighs and chest and it worked a little bit but it was toxic. I had always wanted short hair but mum hated that I wore boy’s clothes already so I didn’t want to make that worse. I’ve stopped shaving because it helps me to feel more masculine and comfortable with myself. I dreaded when I had to get a bra, the material mark of being female. Making my chest more prominent and visible. Disgusting for me. I feel extremely disconnected from that part of my body in particular. My chest is also easily perceivable by other people and hard to ignore from my point of view making it one of the more difficult things to deal with. Now I wear a binder that I have kept hidden, and wash it by hand in secret when I can. Binding is when the chest is flattened by the use of a binder. I have never and will never use bandages to bind as they can cause serious injuries. The binder I use I bought through a friend and have been using for a few months. It’s from a company that makes binders specifically for transgender people called GC2B and I have been trying to wear them only for as long as advised. It just looks like a sports bra with extra fabric on the bottom, like a tank top. Wearing a binder really helps me to feel more comfortable with the top half of my body. When I shower I have to move the mirror and close my eyes 90% of the time as I don’t want to see my body. And now my name. Over time my dislike of it has grown. Not that it isn’t a good name in general but it’s too feminine for me to a point where I can’t say it myself. Hence why I don’t answer the phone because I don’t want to have to say my name. I hate to go out places and buy things in fear I’ll be seen as female so I avoid any social interactions that aren’t necessary. I’ve also avoided a job for this reason I don’t want more people calling me things that hurt me and with a job it would come from two places, the public and co-workers. School alone is enough as by the end of the week I’m overwhelmed and it just slowly builds up over time. It’s also why I shut myself away because I need to recover from this invisible verbal stabbing I get every day.

But what does being transgender mean? By definition it means a person not identifying with their birth-given sex. For me specifically I am a female to male transgender person (ftm/ transman). This means I was “born in the wrong body” as they say. There are 7 billion people on this planet so its impossible for everyone to fall into the two stereotypical binary genders. Gender isn’t as simple and limited as what we are told as kids. It is very complex and it is found that for example a transman has the same brain patterns as a biological male. Interesting right? This is a very real thing. Gender and sex are two different things, sex being biological and gender being what’s in your head. These two are often lumped together when they are two completely different things. One does not necessarily dictate the other just like in my case. I couldn’t imagine my future for the longest time because being a woman or butch lesbian it just made no sense to me. Even to be labelled as a lesbian made me feel strange so I just labelled myself as gay. It was still extremely foreign. But then it just clicked when I imagined myself as a male.

For me to be comfortable with myself in the future I would need to medically transition. Some different parts of medical transition include hormones, top surgery (mastectomy) and bottom surgery. There is no ‘the surgery’ that’s required and medical transition is a choice not a necessity. For me I would need top surgery and hormones to be comfortable with myself which would take a lot of time and cost a lot of money. For hormones at the moment the most common method is an injection around every week or two for the rest of my life. As you know I hate needles but I would love to be stabbed in my arse for the rest of my life if it means that I can become the person I want to be. Top surgery costs A LOT of money ($10 000 give or take a few thousand, increasing over time) but I really need to do it at some point as I can’t bind forever. Other parts of transition are social and physical. Changing appearances like clothing which I have pretty much already done and getting others to use different pronouns and names. For a name I was thinking Nathan would be easiest as you could just start calling me just Nat and gradually warm up to a new name. if you have any other suggestions just let me know and we can talk about other options. I just thought it would be easier and I don’t mind the name. It will take time to use the correct name, whatever it ends up being and the correct pronouns. We can also discuss how we will tell other people too. I know the future will be a big concern but I have tried to think it through extensively. All these changes would greatly improve my mental health and self-esteem allowing me to be the best version of myself.

I can assure you I am not confused and I am still the same person with the same personality. You did nothing ‘wrong’ to cause this and it is not your fault. It is most certainly not a phase and I have not been brainwashed. When I wasn’t even born you wouldn’t have minded if I was born a boy or a girl so it shouldn’t matter now. Just because I’m trans it doesn’t limit me from falling in love or having a family, it’s just more difficult. There are other people that know from teachers to friends and all are accepting, some even had a hunch before I told them. Think of this letter as me finally opening up to you and trusting you fully and the start of a journey you both can accompany me on. Try and be understanding and willing to learn. I know this is very difficult for you and I’m just as scared as you. This is very much unknown territory for you but we can work through this together. It will be a gradual change but I hope you will put the effort in to try and understand, help and support me. Don’t think of this as you losing a daughter but gaining a son. I chose to tell you this in a letter to allow you to process and think about this before you ask questions. This I believe gives me the opportunity to explain myself fully and gives you the time you need to soak in the information given. Don’t immediately contact me after you have read this, (a short text is okay if you need but please don’t call me) discuss it amongst yourselves and then we can set a time where you can ask questions or discuss this further. If you think negatively about me being transgender just let me know in a short text and you can tell me to leave for a few days if you are angry. Please don’t attack me in anyway as this has been hard for me to tell you and this subject makes me feel vulnerable, at least for the moment. I will still live my life the way I want to, with or without you but I’d very much rather have you both at my side. I have also made a playlist of videos about other people’s transitions, common misconceptions of transitioning and hormones and other useful pieces information to further familiarise yourselves with what I’m going through and hope to go through. All you’ve wanted is my happiness. This is what I need. Help me find my happiness.

#pre t #ftm #trans #coming out #coming out letter #letter #ftm transgender #ftm transman #transgender #transman #transboy #transboi #transguy

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dynamax-corviknight · 7 years

Text

i do not love men; i love what devours them

chapter one is here!! its also on ao3 here

Graves lives alone in a house that is way too large for him. He likes it that way. The strange loneliness of the house on the hill, overlooking the non-descript seaside town he calls his home, is perfect for him after the hustle and bustle of the city. This way, he can spread himself out, let himself go, and live his life unrestrained by the expectations that had been placed on him in New York. He had been a high-ranking police officer before he had taken early retirement, citing stress and (for once), old age. He had found that more often than not, instead of feeling invigorated after cracking a particularly complicated case, he just felt exhausted and particularly old. He couldn't keep up with the chatter in the break-room as easily, and a lot of the things the junior officers did confused him.

Seraphina, bless her soul, had allowed his retirement to go through without any bumps. She could see how the fast-paced lifestyle of New York had worn on her friend and was now beginning to upset him, even if he didn't notice himself until it was too late. He had fallen into a depressive slump, often not remembering or having the energy to shave or shower for days on end. Only when he had felt truly pathetic had he managed to drag himself away from his bed or work and attempt to fix himself up. Seraphina had noticed something was wrong almost instantly, and after observing him for a short while, she confronted him, and breached the idea of early retirement.

He had fought her on it for a long time, but even he could admit, life as an officer no longer held the lustre it did when he was young and fresh out of training. Every day he could feel his bones weighing heavy on him, and it felt a struggle to merely change out of his clothes to sleep. He had thought that, with how much he had filled his life to the brim with work that he would not take to retirement well at all and that he would be back in his office surrounded by paperwork at the end of the month.

Except… it had actually gone well. At first, he felt disturbed at how little he found himself doing at his apartment, and it was then that he realised that he had truly abandoned his hobbies in lieu of using his apartment as an extension for his office. He loosened the leash that he had wrapped tight around himself; he let his beard and hair grow out (his face was marvellously warm of a winter now), and he allowed himself to wear less formal clothing. He swapped his constant 3-piece suits and uniform for oversized sweaters, jeans, and sweatpants.

Still, he hadn’t found himself a fixed hobby. Sure, he had things he enjoyed in passing, like cooking for himself when he needed it, but nothing he truly looked forward to doing. That was until, he received news from the funeral directors that his grandfather (may he rot in hell) had passed away, and as he was the last Graves, had left his property in Bumfuck Nowhere to him. He had checked the portfolio; it was a large, colonial style wooden mansion situated by the cost with its own damn lighthouse.

It was perfect. He had told Seraphina as much and had upped sticks almost immediately.

The house was just so isolated enough that should he want to withdraw completely, he could do so with ease. And yet, it was within walking distance of the nearest town, if it could be called that. It was a complete contrast to New York. The place had approximately 2 shops, a small church and graveyard, a veterinary surgery, and a local market open on Saturdays.

The people had been wary of him to begin with, but they had warmed up quickly. At first, he had been an outlier; a rich man from the big city moving into the large Graves House on the hill which had lay in a state of disrepair for years.

That was something he hadn’t foreseen when he had carried out his move. The place was in shambles; infrastructure falling apart, damp eating away at the walls, and mysterious holes in the ceilings that he was sure he didn’t want to know about. He had ended up staying in the small bed and breakfast the other side of the village for nearly a year while restoration work took place the make the house habitable once more. In that time, he had become much more familiar to the people of the town, he had listened to their stories and had told ones of his own, yet one in particular had caught his attention.

According to Mrs. Goldstein, (the elder; her daughters, Porpentina and Queenie, worked in the markets in the main square), the town was haunted by a creature that lived in the woods towards the north. Apparently, it visited the town in the dead of night to raid the homes of those it thought unworthy of their circumstances in life. Of course, due to this, no one would admit whether their home had been visited, but many reported supposed sightings of the creature. It stood 7 feet tall, with a hunched back and elongated arms tipped with large claws. There were other vague details, but nothing that interested Percival. Except, that is, for one. Out of all of the sightings he had heard of, most of them occurred in the patch of forest nearest to the run-down church.

He had promised Seraphina that he would leave his work behind, but this was too interesting not to chase further. For all the locals knew, it could be some poor, starving animal searching for scraps around the church, with superstitious citizens extrapolating what they had seen into something supernatural. But either way, he wanted to see this through ‘til its end; he couldn’t leave a town of (mostly) innocent people terrified to leave their homes at night.

With that promise in mind, he had left the admittedly amazing care of Mrs. Goldstein for the old house, which was looking marginally better now that all the major damage had been taken care of. However, it still felt… impersonal. It felt as though there was a deep emptiness clinging to the old panelled walls and the moth-eaten curtains. The wind rattled the old window frames, the paint on the outside of the house was peeling with age, and every night the house would groan as the wood and pipes settled. It had taken some getting used to, and he promised himself that as soon as he awoke tomorrow, he would leave town to get some supplies to fix it up as much as he could.

The morning was a long time coming. Percival woke up to pitch darkness, the display of his phone reading out 3:13AM. At first, he wasn’t sure why he had woken up so early; he was a strict man and kept to such a schedule that his body clock woke him up at 5:30AM sharp, no earlier. Then he heard it. A twig snapped, followed by leaves crunching underfoot; something or someone was outside his window. Heavy breathing, laboured and wet. His heart clenched, surging up into his throat. Was he being robbed? He knew how to defend himself, yet the implications of not being safe here set his pulse racing. A shadow crossed his curtains, temporarily blocking the moon’s glow. Then a familiar sound soothed his fears, the tired grumbling of the caretaker he had hired when he arrived. Frank was all together a cantankerous old man, unpleasant to be around, but he got the job done. Nothing to be worried about.

Dread suffused his body, an invisible weight settled on his chest, and his breathing shallowed. No. He was seeing things, surely. There was nothing following Frank, and it certainly wasn’t an inhuman beast. It had a long snout and a lolling tongue, the sound of heavy pants filling the air. Please no. Its jaws snapped open, and a loud howl sounded in the night before a heart wrenching scream, followed by a sick gurgling sound, as if something was choking, and then a decisive crunch. He knew that sound, and he felt bile rising in his throat. He didn’t dare move, the sound of… of something walking over the dry earth outside had set his heart to a rabbit’s pace, his breathing coming fast and shallow. The bathroom was further down the hallway, and he did not want to alert whatever was out there to any activity.

Percival Graves was a rational man, he didn’t let his emotions rule his responses. And yet, in the face of this… thing outside his window, his instincts were shot. He knew Frank was dead, the man barely had time to yell before his life was stolen away from him. He could hear squelching now, the smacking of jaws as they shut around meaty sinew. He could just see it, blood squirting out of the jaws of the beast as Frank’s body was consumed piece by piece outside, sharp teeth tearing into soft fat and limp muscle, the tearing of flesh from bone and wet gurgles as blood vessels burst under the sickening assault, the sound of the beast eating its fill echoing in his ears. He leant over the bed and vomited, drool and bile dripping from his mouth, and the sounds stopped. He could faintly hear chuffing at the window, the beast likely picking up on the acrid scent of bile and his earlier dinner. He could hear it tapping against his window and he froze, his throat tightening around an imaginary lump. The shadow had returned, this time curious and inquisitive. Claws struck against the glass before scratching the surface, the beast tilting its head like a dog looking at its owner.

Ignoring the stench from the floor beside him, Percival kept his eyes wide open and his attention rapt, gaze turned towards whatever was currently eating his caretaker, ready to bolt at any given second, should the beast decide to be more than merely curious. The shadow dipped back out of sight and the squelching returned, and Percival grimaced, his stomach turning in protest. He desperately hoped, as bad as it sounded, that Frank had been enough to slake that thing’s hunger, he very much wished to survive this encounter.

Eventually, the sickening sound of the thing feasting outside fell silent, instead, he could hear scratching at the stone patio, before the beast padded away elusively. Opening eyes he didn’t know he had closed, Percival dared to let himself heave out a breath, and with no further sounds forthcoming, gingerly set his foot down on the old wooden floor. Emboldened by his apparent safety, Percival hesitantly left his bedroom to go to the kitchen to get some cleaning supplies. Still, he did not feel entirely secure, and kept his back to the walls out of sheer paranoia. What if it was still out there? What if it managed to somehow get into his house?

With those thoughts swirling through his head, he broke uncharacteristically into a run, pausing only to grab the supplies, and rushed back to his room, cleaning his earlier discharge before burrowing under the covers of his bed. Despite the horrific images that kept popping back up into the forefront of his mind, sheer exhaustion of being woken in the middle of the night and the crash from the adrenaline draining out of his body, his eyes slipped shut and he fell into an uneasy sleep.

As the sun shone through his curtains, Percival awoke, only for the tang of vomit and bleach to reach his nose and have the memories of earlier rush back to him. Flinging himself out of bed, he rushed down the hallway to the bathroom and promptly threw up into the toilet, the dregs of his previous meals rushing out. He groaned and lay his head on the rim of the toilet. What the ever-loving fuck happened earlier? He dreaded the thought of going outside only to see the mangled remains of Frank in his back garden, his guts strewn in the flowerbeds, bloody paw-prints trailing off into the woods.

No. He shook his head in attempt to clear away those thoughts, flushed the toilet, and stripped down to get into the shower. As he scrubbed his face and chest, he decided that going out to get the paint and other tools to fix up the house could wait for a while. Drying himself off, Percival dressed himself in a large hoodie and a pair of sweats, before shutting himself in the study across the hall to take his mind off the events that has transpired earlier.

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