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devdozes · 1 month ago

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Why does the weather keep changing?!

Weather scientist reader x Scientist phainon whos artificially changing the weather :0 what could possibly go wrong PHAINON FANART AT THE END OF THE POST!!

The moment you saw the weather reports go haywire, you knew something was wrong.

For years, you had dedicated your life to understanding the unpredictable nature of the skies—studying storm patterns, atmospheric shifts, and climate changes. Weather was a delicate balance of science and nature, governed by centuries-old principles that even the most advanced meteorologists struggled to predict with absolute certainty. And yet, something—someone—was tipping the scales.

It started subtly. A mild anomaly here, an unexpected shift there. A sudden drop in pressure that meteorological models hadn't accounted for. At first, you chalked it up to a rare, yet natural deviation. Uncommon, but not impossible. But as days passed, the anomalies became more frequent. More erratic. More impossible.

One evening, you sat in your lab, staring at satellite images that simply did not make sense.

According to every forecast model, the eastern seaboard was supposed to experience heavy rainfall over the next 48 hours. But outside your window? Nothing. Clear skies. No clouds forming where they should have been. Not even a hint of humidity in the air. It was as if the storm had just... vanished.

You double-checked the data. Triple-checked. Ran simulations, compared historical trends, even consulted with your colleagues in other departments. Nothing added up. The storm should have happened.

The next day, the opposite occurred. A severe thunderstorm erupted out of nowhere, completely unpredicted by any meteorological model. Lightning struck in regions that had no atmospheric conditions to support it. You stared at your screen, watching real-time data pour in, and felt your stomach sink.

“This isn’t natural,” you muttered, fingers tightening around your stylus as you scrolled through satellite readings. “This isn’t possible.”

You reached out to national weather agencies, but they were just as baffled as you were. Some blamed equipment malfunctions. Others suggested it was a rare atmospheric anomaly. But you knew better. This wasn’t an error.

Someone was artificially changing the weather.

And you were going to find out who.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Your investigation led you to an independent research facility under the name "Elysiae Dynamics." A company that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, its research papers riddled with vague references to “atmospheric influence” and “climate engineering.” No one in the meteorological community had ever heard of them until recently, and yet, they had just filed a patent for atmospheric manipulation technology.

That’s when you met him.

A tall, cheery young man, 6’2 with messy white hair and cerulean blue eyes, wearing a lab coat over a wrinkled button-up shirt and sneakers that looked far too casual for someone playing god with the atmosphere.

“Ah! You must be the weather scientist!” His voice was bright, chipper, like he wasn’t single-handedly disrupting global climate stability. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And you are?”

“Phainon! Head of experimental meteorological engineering here at Elysiae Dynamics.” He beamed, extending a hand. “I’m the guy who made it rain during your picnic last weekend. Sorry about that! Just had to test a hypothesis.”

You didn’t shake his hand. “You—you what?”

“Oh, don’t look so mad! You should be impressed! I successfully altered the weather without any negative ecological consequences!” Phainon leaned against his desk, arms crossed, still grinning like a fool. “Come on, you of all people should appreciate this. Isn't controlling the weather the dream of every meteorologist?”

“It’s not a dream, it’s an ethical nightmare!” You snapped. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? The slightest miscalculation could throw entire ecosystems off balance! Not to mention the political implications—”

Phainon tilted his head. “But I didn’t miscalculate.”

His confidence was infuriating. His logic, irritatingly sound. And worst of all? You couldn’t deny that what he had accomplished was groundbreaking.

“…This is reckless,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “And insanely impressive. But mostly reckless.”

Phainon’s grin widened. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You groaned. “I need access to your research.”

“Oh-ho, so now you’re interested?”

“I was always interested. But now I need to make sure you’re not about to cause the next ice age.”

Phainon chuckled, stepping closer—too close. His presence was overwhelming in the way only someone deeply, unapologetically passionate about their work could be. “Tell you what, partner,” he said, voice teasing, “help me refine it, make it safer. You’re the expert on natural weather—I’m just the guy making it unnatural. Work with me, and we can create something truly extraordinary.”

You wanted to refuse. You really, really did.

But damn it, he had a point.

“…Fine.”

His eyes lit up, like a storm forming in the depths of a clear sky. “Excellent! Now, let’s get to work—I was thinking about making it snow in July next. Just for fun!”

You groaned. This was going to be a long partnership. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ And long it was. Over the next few weeks, you found yourself sucked into the chaotic whirlwind that was Phainon’s scientific madness. He worked at an impossible pace, throwing around ideas that shouldn’t have been possible but somehow were. One minute, he’d be theorizing about localized heatwaves, and the next, he’d be actively making them happen.

“You can’t just create a thunderstorm over the city because you think it would look cool,” you hissed one afternoon, watching in horror as Phainon gleefully adjusted dials on his control panel.

“Oh, but I can,” he countered, eyes gleaming. “It’s all about the precision. Watch—three, two, one…”

A bolt of lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the city below.

“…Boom.”

You stared at him. “You are so going to get arrested.”

“Nah, only if they catch me.”

You groaned, shoving your hands into your lab coat pockets. “Unbelievable. You’re like a child with a god complex.”

Phainon grinned. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Damn it. He had a point. Again.

The worst part? You were starting to enjoy it.

Lately, though, you had been feeling exhausted.

The late nights, the stress, the mental load of balancing scientific integrity with Phainon’s chaos—it was all catching up to you. Your movements were slower, your focus slipping. Even Phainon, for all his oblivious enthusiasm, noticed.

That afternoon, when the sun was unbearably hot and the air in the lab felt thick and suffocating, you slumped over your desk, barely listening as Phainon rambled about his next experiment.

And then, suddenly—

A breeze.

Cool, crisp, and carrying the scent of oncoming rain. You blinked in confusion, looking up just in time to see Phainon, standing by the open window, a knowing smile on his face.

“You looked like you needed a break,” he said simply, leaning against the sill. “So I changed the weather. Just a little.”

Your eyes widened. The screens behind you, once displaying the sweltering forecast, now showed cloud cover rolling in. The suffocating heat? Gone.

“…You did this?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Phainon grinned. “Of course. Can’t have my partner melting away on me, can I?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Damn him.

“C’mon,” he suddenly said, pushing off the window ledge. “Let’s go outside for a bit. We’ve been in this lab for too long, and I changed the weather for you. C’mon.”

Before you could protest, Phainon grabbed your hand and dragged you toward the exit, leaving behind a room full of stunned scientists, their jaws practically on the floor as they watched him whisk you away like a force of nature itself. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The moment you stepped outside, a crisp breeze greeted you, carrying the scent of damp earth and something electrifying—the prelude to a storm. You glanced up at the sky, expecting the soft cloud cover Phainon had crafted just for you, but instead—

A downpour.

Cold, heavy raindrops pelted down from the heavens, drenching the both of you in an instant. It wasn’t just a light drizzle or a gentle summer rain—it was an absolute deluge.

You gasped, half in shock, half in disbelief.

Phainon, still holding your hand, blinked up at the sky in stunned silence.

Then you burst out laughing. Loud, uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh my god—did you leave the machine on auto mode?!” you choked out between fits of laughter. “Phainon, the weather just changed again! WHAT DID YOU DO?”

He stared at you for a second, then back at the rain, and then at you again.

“…I might have forgotten to turn off the randomization function,” he admitted sheepishly.

Your laughter only grew. “Are you kidding me?! We barely made it outside, and now we’re stuck in an artificial monsoon!”

Phainon, despite his momentary fluster, grinned widely. “Well, on the bright side—at least it’s refreshing!” And with that, he spread his arms out dramatically, embracing the torrential downpour like some mad scientist turned weather god.

You shook your head, still breathless with laughter. Your clothes were already soaked through, hair sticking to your forehead, rain streaming down your face—but in that moment, you didn’t care.

Phainon turned to you, eyes gleaming mischievously through the rain. “So, do you wanna run back inside? Or…” He took a step back, still holding onto your wrist, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Oh, you knew that look.

He was about to do something reckless.

“…Phainon,” you warned.

“Catch me if you can!”

And just like that, he took off—sprinting through the rain like a madman.

You groaned. Of course.

But your feet moved before you could even think about it, chasing after him through the drenched pavement, laughter bubbling in your chest. The other scientists, who had peeked outside to witness this chaos, simply stood there, utterly baffled as their two most brilliant colleagues—one being the cause of this entire mess—bolted through the facility grounds, completely soaked.

“Phainon, get back here!” you yelled, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“You’ll have to catch me first!” he called back, voice bright, wild, and full of life. "YOU STUPID LITTLE-"

THE SILLIES ARE BACK AAGIN I LVOE THEM SO MUCHCH AUGH

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rafes-honey · 1 day ago

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𝐋𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

The dock creaked beneath you as you leaned back on your palms, salt in your hair, the smell of sun and sea still clinging to your skin. The sun was setting behind the marsh trees, turning the sky into a watercolor mess of orange and pink. You had sand in your shorts, probably a sunburn on your shoulders, and absolutely no regrets.

JJ plopped down beside you with a dramatic sigh, tossing his damp shirt across the boards. His blond curls were still dripping from the impromptu swim he took after daring John B to a cannonball contest and promptly belly flopping instead.

“Okay, I know you saw that,” he said, pointing a finger at you like he was calling out a witness in court. “That was not a belly flop. That was a calculated dive.”

You snorted. “JJ, your body hit the water so flat I think the fish are still recovering from the sonic boom.”

He looked offended, clutching his chest like you’d just insulted his entire lineage. “Wow. That’s rich, coming from the same girl who nearly decapitated Pope with a frisbee earlier. And what did I say? Did I clown you? No, ma’am. I said, and I quote: ‘That’s my girl, she’s got a canon for an arm and the heart of a warrior.’”

You bit your lip to hold back your laugh, but he caught it and grinned like he’d won a prize.

JJ Maybank was ridiculous. Loud, messy, unpredictable. The kind of guy who jumped before he looked, talked before he thought, and loved like it was the only thing he knew how to do. He was also, somehow, the best boyfriend you’d ever had. And possibly the worst liar especially when it came to playing things cool.

“You know,” he added, settling beside you, “I’ve been thinking.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s dangerous.”

“Right?” He nodded solemnly. “Almost gave myself a nosebleed. But listen hear me out. I’ve come to the conclusion that you are, in fact, the best girlfriend in the entire solar system.”

You gave him a dry look. “Oh really? The whole solar system?”

JJ nodded, dead serious. “Confirmed. I’ve consulted the data. Ran the simulations. Even asked Kiara. She said, and I quote, ‘She’s too good for you.’ So. Science backs me.”

You shook your head, laughing as he slid an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into his side. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know, right?” he said, resting his chin on your head. “But also, like, mad lucky. You could’ve picked anyone. Some dude with a boat and a trust fund and a working ac unit. But instead, you picked the guy who can’t legally rent a car and thinks Hot Cheetos count as a food group.”

You leaned into him, warmth blooming in your chest. “Yeah, well. I like broken things with big hearts.”

“Ouch.” He placed a hand over his chest. “Was that a compliment or a roast?”

“Both.”

He laughed and kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then your cheek each one louder and sloppier than the last until you were squirming and telling him to quit it.

JJ didn’t quit it.

He kissed you again, softer this time, and when he pulled back, the grin was still there but something else flickered behind it. That quiet vulnerability he tried to hide under jokes and bravado.

“I know I joke around a lot,” he said, voice lower now, more real, “but I mean it. You’re… you’re the best thing I’ve got, babe. Like, straight up. You’re it.”

You looked at him, really looked at him sunlight in his hair, freckles across his nose, heart on his sleeve, always and said, simply, “I know.”

JJ smiled, just a little. And that was the thing about him. For all the chaos, all the noise, JJ Maybank loved loud but in the quiet moments, it was the way he looked at you that said everything.

And you’d never want it any other way.

#rafe cameron #jj maybank angst #jj maybank fluff #jj mayback x reader #jj mayback imagine #jj x reader #jj maybank #jj maybank x kook!reader #jj maybank smut #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x pogue!reader #rafe cameron x reader #jj maybank x reader fluff #jj maybank obx

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satanghulu · 5 months ago

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thick as thieves

✦ CAST: beel, asmosdeus, satan (guest appearance: mammon, belphie, solomon) ✦ SUMMARY: The comfort of a home-cooked meal may change one’s mind. Alternatively, Asmo hasn’t been eating his meals and Beel is nothing but determined to get his way. ✦ WARNING: implied solodeus (its pretty full-blown), mentions of starving, lots of comfort here but its mainly comedy (i think im funny), lots of brotherly chaos, asmo gets his own warning: lots of flirting on asmo's part, basically demons shenanigans ✦ WC: 6.1K

| MASTERLIST

1. RESEARCH

Beel stares at the computer, scratching his head in response.

For a balanced meal, start with…

The words were bright and flashing on his computer but in all fairness, do demons even need to have a balanced meal, or is that a concept humans had made up? Secondly, was Beel even the best to consult on a healthy meal considering he eats about everything and anything?

He did bring it upon himself when he told Asmo that he would be taking care of his meals going forward. There’s also no way he was backing out now.

He scrunches his nose, sniffing the air. The sickly sweet note of peach permeates the air, and soon enough, he can hear the shuffling sound of footsteps. There was only one culprit in his head and soon enough, he felt two hands sliding across the expanse of his shoulder.

“Little brother, what are you doing?” A sweet voice simpers in his ears and he feels the urge to swipe his hands away, especially when they start wandering. He could feel Asmo’s hot breath near his ear and he shuddered at the sensation of it.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Beel shrugs, pointing at the screen with a disgruntled look. Asmo leans in closer, practically sprawling over his shoulder. A pale hand catches his attention, bony fingers trembling as he places them on the table.

He pauses.

“Did you lose more weight again?” He asks, furrowing his eyebrows. He places his own hands over Asmo’s, dwarfing his in size. It wasn’t a shock that his was bigger but he had never seen the Avatar of Lust’s hands so emaciated.

Asmo titters, a cheery sound that rings in his ears. He lifts a hand, wagging a finger nearer to his face. It was as if he thought it was a joke.

“Hm, it’s a new trend in the human world,” He says in his usual honeyed tone, before straightening up. “Solomon brought me out to watch a movie and everyone was dressing up like them.”

He runs his hand over Beel’s shoulder, squeezing his biceps. The Avatar of Gluttony frowns, flicking them away. Asmo turns and pouts, glossy lips shining under the light as he finally lets his hands drop free to his side.

“I’m heading out to meet Solomon for a date.” He brings out his D.D.D., tapping away on the screen. “Don’t let Lucifer know or he will lose his mind.”

Beel obediently nods, face tightening with worry when he notices how Asmo’s outfit hangs off his frame. The Avatar of Lust had always been concerned about his looks but he had never let his physique get this bad.

“Are you coming back for dinner?”

Asmo just winks at him, lifting a finger to place it over his mouth. The curve of his slips slides into a sneaky smirk.

“Solomon and I might get carried away.” The Avatar of Lust sends another wink his way before spinning in place, blowing a kiss as he headed for the exit.

“Don’t miss this pretty face too much.” He called out, leaving a trail of sweetness behind.

2. COLLECTING DATA

[8:26PM] Beel: Have you eaten?

[8:27PM] Asmo: No, I’m skipping dinner tonight ♡

[8:29PM] Beel: There’s no leftovers from dinner either. Come down to the kitchen, I’ll cook something for you.

[8:30PM] Asmo: Awww. Is my little brother worried for me?

Beel glances at his D.D.D. before turning back to the stove. The pink-haired demon had skipped lunch earlier at RAD, saying that he was still on a diet. He wasn’t too sure if he had eaten anything the previous day too considering he came back past midnight after the outing with the sorcerer.

He throws a quick look at the kitchen, straining his ears for any sound of footsteps coming down the hallway.

[8:40PM] Beel: Are you coming down?

[8:41PM] Asmo: You were serious?

[8:42PM] Beel: Yeah, I know you skipped lunch earlier. You haven’t had anything yet right? Is there anything you want to eat?

[8:45PM] Asmo: I’m still maintaining my weight ♡

[8:46PM] Beel: I’m not taking no for an answer, Asmo.

Beel continues munching on the dessert he found at the back of the fridge, taking a seat at the dining table. Scanning the pantry, he continues to dig into the pudding. He takes a glance at the brand and makes a mental note to frequent the establishment in the future.

“Oh, you’re here.” He says, cheeks full of the pudding. Asmo glances down, peering closely at the label. Beel brought it closer to himself defensively.

“I’m not giving this to you.”

Startled, Asmo’s eyes flew up before he let out a giggle.

“Oh no, it’s not that.” He pauses, walking over to pull out the chair beside Beel. “Isn’t that Mammon’s?”

Beel nodded, pointing at the post-it which had been discarded to the side. A yellow note with the second-born’s name had been scribbled in capitalised letters, taking up the entire space. When Asmo looks closer, a text of words stands out.

“Beel, you better not touch this.” He reads it out loud, flipping the note over for the perpetrator to take a look. “Mammon is going to get angry, you know that right?”

It was a rhetorical question but Beel still nodded, traces of pudding still evident around his mouth. The pink-haired demon points at the residue, wincing as Beel lifts an arm to wipe at it.

“Use a tissue.” He said huffily, digging through his pocket to pull out a packet of tissue. He slides it over, not willing to make contact with his hand. “Are you still a child?”

“What do you want to eat?” Beel staunchly ignores the question, scrapping at the bottom of the packaging. The spoon clatters loudly, and the pink-haired demon’s eyebrows rise higher to the top of his forehead.

He makes a face while shaking his head, leaning back against the chair. “Relax, I told you I wasn’t hungry.”

“Then, I’ll just whip up whatever is in the pantry.” Beel sets down the cup, cleaning his face with the tissue provided. The pink-haired demon rolled his eyes so hard that he was scared that they would get stuck in the back of his socket.

“Just wash your hands first.” Asmo finally sighed, bringing out his D.D.D. and placing both arms on the table to lean against.

Beel takes it as a win.

Triumphantly, he stood up and headed over to the pantry. “Rice?”

Rice was always a good bet, he thinks. Full of fibre and carbohydrates. Exactly what one needed to start the day. He pauses and stares at the clock. It was already nearing midnight.

“That has too many carbs.”

“You haven’t eaten the entire day.”

Asmo looks up from his device, lips jutting out as sunset eyes narrow at him with a hint of discontentment. He ponders for a moment before brightening up and mischief sets in the lines of his expression.

“If you want to.”

Beel stands taller, puffing up his chest like a bird flaunting his catch. He sifts through the top shelves, catching sight of the spices that he was looking for. Thankfully, the last person who had gone grocery shopping had gotten an array of items.

However, it didn’t seem enough to last for the entire week. He shoots a glimpse at the schedule posted on the refrigerator: MAMMON was written in bold, with the set budget beside it.

Ah, the money must have been pocketed by now.

“I’ll make fried rice.” Beel declares, starting on the preparation. He was glad that the second-born had at least gotten some vegetables and a good variety of meats. Grabbing a couple of items, he sets them down before heading over to the sink to wash them.

“I would ask if you need help but a delicate demon like me shouldn’t be doing any manual labour.” Asmo quipped, bringing a hand up to cup his face. He batted his lashes but Beel had his back turned to him.

“Do you want it to be spicy?”

“Hey! It’s not nice to ignore your older brother.”

Beel continues to chop the vegetables, deciding to leave out the chili for the day. Eating spice on an empty stomach wouldn’t be a good idea, considering that Asmo probably hadn’t eaten in a couple of days either.

A pop song plays softly in the background, startling Beel who almost sliced his finger. A clear voice rang through the air, gentle and soft. Once upon a time ago, he had heard the same voice in the Celestial Realm when he was standing guard.

Times have changed, he reminded himself as his grip tightened on the knife. He continues to cut the carrot into bite-sized pieces to make it easier for his older brother to eat.

“This has been trending in the human world.” The silence was broken for a brief second before the pink-haired demon clicked on the next song, humming along to it.

“It’s nice.” Beel comments, moving on to the next step which was to locate the pan. He bustles around the space, slamming the cupboard with a loud bang. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard you singing.”

Asmo snorted, an unusual sound coming from him.

“If you wanted to hear me sing, all you have to do is ask~” He taps on the table, a steady rhythm that Beel unconsciously zeros in on. It was incredible how the Avatar of Lust commanded attention even with such a minuscule action.

“No thanks.”

“You can always stop by my room during my bath.” Beel pours in the ingredients, cranking the heat up high so that he could stir-fry it. “I will give you a show, free of charge only for my little brother~”

“No.”

“What a meanie.”

The conversation stops there as Asmo busies himself with putting on a concert, singing loudly even without Beel’s full attention on him.

The Avatar of Gluttony stares hard at the pile of rice in the pan, breathing through his mouth. He had been determined to stay on track so he had already ransacked the fridge earlier as well as stopped by Hell’s Kitchen to gorge himself on food.

He had also sneaked a couple of bites while cooking – the initial huge pile of ingredients had dwindled into a tiny portion, perfect for Asmo who eats like a bird compared to him.

He brought out a plate and placed a sunny side up on the top. Not bad, he thought. It looks put-together for a haphazard meal he had whipped up on a whim. Maybe, he should try doing this more often.

He takes in a deep breath and immediately feels the beginning pangs of hunger start to beat within him.

“Asmo, it’s done.” He calls out, turning to face the dining hall. The pink-haired demon was seated in the chair with his hands stuck in a machine, that he recognised as an LED light lamp. Beel hadn’t even noticed him painting his nails, too engrossed in trying not to give into his sin.

“You’re doing your nails?” He questioned, making his way over, casting shadows over his figure. “Didn’t you just get a fresh set last week?”

Asmo nodded.

“It doesn’t match my outfit for tomorrow.” He says simply, before going into a rant about colour theory.

Beel just looks at him with a deadpan expression. Honestly, he doesn’t get his older brother at times but to each his own, he supposed.

Asmo tilts his head thoughtfully and smiles.

“You’ll have to feed me.” He teases, darting a pink tongue out to lick his lips. Beel narrows his eyes at the sight, taking a step back.

“You’ll get the pleasure of feeding me, a dream that most demons would never get to experience in their lives.”

Beel ponders, watching as the rim of Asmo’s eyes flashes pink. He scrunches up his nose at the thought, as the scent of peach grows stronger. It was cloying, and bunching up in the middle of his chest.

“How long does it take?” He points at the machine instead, focusing on his fingers instead. It’s a dangerous situation for the Avatar of Gluttony.

No good, he thinks. If he’s still in the vicinity of food in the next five minutes, he may end up eating everything in the kitchen: chair and table included.

“Meanie.” He pouts, wiggling an eyebrow at him. He slumps over the table, pushing the machine further back. “About twenty more, give or take.”

With his foot, he nudges the chair out from its place at the table. It’s a wordless gesture and somehow, Beel feels like he’s been led on a wild goose race.

“Take a seat and feed me.” His lips were curled up into a grin, childish enjoyment written all over his face. Blinking slowly like a cat who had secured his prey, he waits for Beel to do exactly what he instructed.

Seeing no other way out, the hulking demon takes a seat.

Beel sighs. Placing the plate down, he awkwardly rests a hand on the table. Pure hunger was starting to grip him by the throat. Faintly, he notices Asmo tugging him closer by his leg.

He quickly scoops up some rice, aiming to feed Asmo as fast as he can before he ravages the kitchen.

“Ahh.” The pink-haired demon opens his mouth coyly, showing him the insides of his mouth. Beel takes a deep breath, trying to push the beast of hunger down as he controls his breathing.

“Oh no,” Asmo says, flicking his tongue out. Beel tries to focus on the sight, but it feels like a thick blanket has been wrapped around him, dulling his senses. “I just ate a mint.”

Beel startles, blinking at the sight of surprise on the Avatar of Lust’s face. His stomach was starting to clench in on itself, almost bordering on pain. The beast swells and crawls up to his throat and stays there, sending tingles down his spine.

He has to go now.

In a haze, he swings his head wildly looking for an exit. He locks eyes with Asmo, who is watching him amusedly. It’s a smooth calculated smile, that Beel makes a realisation: Asmo had gotten what he wanted from the start.

“You planned this.” Beel growls, numb fingers clenching and flexing around the edge of the spoon. He should have known better.

“Eat up, little brother.” The fallen jewel of the heaven smiles at him, cocking his head prettily while taking cruel delight in his win.

“You must be hungry, right?”

3. EXPERIMENT

“Satan.”

After the first failed attempt, he decided that Asmo was too much of a dangerous party to engage alone. He decides that he would require at least another support to be with him. Mentally, he goes down the list and decides his fourth brother would be the best for this job.

There was no answer as he knocked on the door. Briefly, he contemplated knocking on it again but decided against it. He twisted the doorknob and swung it open, hovering awkwardly by the doorframe. The door had swung open louder than he had expected, slamming into the wall and causing dust to rain down on him.

He sneezes.

The blond-haired demon sits there, legs dangling off the sofa as he pours over a book. The demon in question peers up to look at him, reading glasses tucked firmly on his nose. He slid a finger in the book before tilting his head at Beel. For once, he didn’t seem to be too annoyed to be interrupted in the middle of a reading session.

Beel stares at the pile of books littered around the room.

“Did you go on a shopping spree?”

His brother glances briefly at the wall of books surrounding him, lifting a hand to run across the spine of the nearest book gently.

“Yes.”

He wonders where and how Satan would arrange them, considering the room was already chock full of all his books. However, if he needed help, he wouldn’t mind taking the books. From experience, he found that they did make a delightful snack in a pinch.

He shifts his feet before deciding to sit on the bed situated at the far end. Satan watches him, narrowing his eyes in suspicion and a hint of curiosity. The fourth-born and him were never particularly close — always preferring the company of other brothers rather than each other.

Both of them engage in a standoff of stares.

“Is there something you need?” Satan gives up, asking in a dry tone unable to ignore the bubbling curiosity. The Avatar of Gluttony was not one to seek him out for comfort or fun. There must be a third issue behind it. His detective senses were telling him so.

Beel takes it as an invitation to stand up, moving across the room to close the door. Satan watches him, and Beel feels like he’s being stalked with his bright emerald eyes in slits following his every move.

He continues to stay silent, leaning against the door this time.

Satan throws a pillow at him spitefully.

“I’m managing Asmo’s diet.” He dodges it, catching it in his hands. Satan scowls, throwing a second pillow at him, landing smack in the middle of Beel’s chest. “I would like your help in this.”

The fourth-born sucks in a breath, squinting at him as if he thought Beel was lying to him. His calculating gaze darkens and borders on something dangerous — the Avatar of Gluttony feels itchy, his five senses telling him to run. There was a tense atmosphere before the shuffling of pages broke it.

“Alright, you owe me one.”

“That’s it?” Beel didn’t expect much struggle but it was still much easier than he had expected. That’s why he had decided to go to Satan in the first place. He was sure the Avatar of Wrath could handle the fifth-born.

“Should I increase the price of my services?”

“No, never mind.”

Satan taps away at his D.D.D, bringing up several recipes to pick from.

“Although it’s not needed for demons to eat regularly, I think it’s still safe to start with soup or some sort of smoothie.” The Avatar of Wrath comments, rubbing his forehead as if he was already tired.

“Why is he even on a diet?”

“Oh,” Beel says, trying to recall what Asmo had mentioned to him earlier. “Apparently, it’s some trend in the human world.”

Setting his device down, Satan turns to whip at him with an incredulous stare.

“We need to have a talk with Solomon about this.”

He slides the device over the kitchen counter, motioning for him to take a look. The blond-haired demon starts collecting ingredients as Beel takes in the information.

“Soup?”

“It’s good for the soul.” The clanging of the pots catches Beel’s attention and his eyes flit over to see his brother struggling under the weight of the multiple miscellaneous items he was carrying.

“Do you need help?”

“No.” He shot Beel a glare, depositing everything on the kitchen counter. The Avatar of Gluttony watches as the tomato rolls away, landing beside his feet. He bends down to pick it up, placing it back gently.

“Asmo hasn’t eaten in a couple of days so starting with a light meal is the most optimal course of action.”

Beel proceeds to tune out the incoming rant from his brother — It was a norm at this point that whenever Satan gets too worked up and passionate, he would go into Spartan mode.

He obediently starts chopping up ingredients, diligently following the recipe. He checks the clock in the kitchen, seeing that it is well past nine. Gradually, Satan starts panting, finally working out his emotions.

The rhythmic chop-chop sound continues, with his brother joining him by his side. The large pile of ingredients Satan had gathered was gradually decreasing as Beel sneaked a bite each time he cut something.

“Are you here to eat or cook?”

“Both.” Beel looks up from the pot, chewing on the piece of broccoli before dumping the rest of the ingredients in.

The Avatar of Wrath just shakes his head with a sigh, stirring the pot with his spatula in a clockwise motion. It’s a meticulous ritual, the way the fourth-born cooks: expertly chopping the ingredients, checking the recipe, and carrying it out precisely.

“How long more does this take?”

Satan glances at his D.D.D. briefly before closing the lid on the pot, “Probably another half an hour.” He taps on the screen, watching as the screen lights up to show an ongoing timer.

“Where is Asmo?”

Beel shrugs, walking across the kitchen to grab some tableware and cutleries. The blond-haired demon bends down, checking the fire before cranking it down to a low.

“Send him a message.”

[10:32PM] Beel: Asmo, where are you?

He waits for a minute before deciding to start setting the table. A waft of aromatic spices wafts into his nostril, and he sniffs the air. The Avatar of Gluttony’s stomach let out a huge rumble as he clears his throat, trying to cover up the sound.

“I’m not that hungry.”

Satan scoffs on reflex, disregarding the meaningless reassurance.

“Beel.” He warns, holding up the spatula to wave it around. The Avatar of Gluttony swallows his spit, watching the particle of soup fly around.

“Out, out, out.” Pushing the hulking figure of a demon as best as he could into the doorway, he raises a wary eyebrow while holding up the spatula threateningly.

Resentful and hungry, Beel skulks over to sit at the dining table.

Satan opens the fridge door and stares at the contents inside. Eyes skimming from top to bottom, he pulls out a couple of tomatoes. “Eat these. These are going to expire soon.”

Sending him a withering stare, he winds up and throws over the tomatoes. In a split second, the object explodes in mid-air painting both demons in red liquid before they can react.

A silence ensues, and Beel watches in mild horrification as his brother flickers in and out of his demon form, still covered in tomato juices.

His, thankfully clean, D.D.D. lets out a loud vibration — a sultry pop song ringtone that Asmo had set when Beel wasn’t looking.

[10:56PM] Asmo: Why is my cute younger brother asking for me? Did you finally realise how much you missed my face when I’m gone ♡

[10:57PM] Beel: So, where are you?

[10:57PM] Asmo: So rude~ You could have at least said you missed me ♡

“This damned Belphie…” He hears a muttered hiss before a cacophony of sounds follows, which sounds suspiciously like plates breaking.

Beel pointedly keeps his eyes glued to his screen.

[10:58PM] Asmo: I’m out for a party tonight and I’m crashing at a friend’s place after

[10:59PM] Beel: Will you be coming home?

[11:01PM] Asmo: I’ve already let Lucifer know that I’m coming home in the morning.

When he looked up, the blond-haired demon had gotten himself under control and was now using a paper towel to wipe the residue off, and was also closer than he thought. Quickly, he tilts his device down, hiding the screen from him.

“What did he say?” Satan says in faux calmness, still trembling in barely-contained rage.

He calculates his chances in an instant before deciding on the best course of action. An idea flits at the front of his mind and he immediately puts it into action.

“Look, a cat!” He shouts in desperation, fingers folded to the top of his palm trying to mimic a cat’s paw.

The Avatar of Wrath just stares at him, dark viciousness taking over his expression. A sneer crosses his face and he opens his mouth.

“Did you really think I’ll fall for–”

“Meowww.”

Satan blinks once, clearing his vision. He shakes his head, taking a step back in evident appalment as his face purses into an indignant frown.

“Are you fucking meowing at me?”

Beel drops his hands down, sensing a losing fight – He may win his brother in a fight in the physical sense but Satan plays dirty, using every card under his sleeve to win. The Avatar of Gluttony is already inching away, tomato juices squelching under his feet.

“He’s uh, partying tonight.”

The blond-haired demon takes his time to breathe, his chest rising up and down slowly. He drums his fingers on the tabletop, painted nails shimmering in the warm light. It’s a struggle for him, eyes darting back and forth trying to keep himself at bay.

“You didn’t check whether Asmo was home today?”

“...No.” He feels like a child, getting scolded by his homeroom teacher for not finishing his homework. The cold, wet liquid slides down his back and he bites back a shudder. The other demon continues to appraise him for another minute before shaking his head.

“You can thank your twin for leaving the tomato here.” He turns to Beel with an arched eyebrow, assessing the damage done to him. He passes a paper towel over, one that had been compressed into a tiny ball during his tiny meltdown.

“It was for Lucifer.” Beel remarks non-particularly out into the air, wiping the areas on his face that his tongue couldn’t reach. Despite being cursed, the tomato was oddly sweet with a tangy twist to it.

“The soup.” Satan marches over to the pot, turning the stove off before gesturing for Beel to come over.

He hands the ladle to Beel with an expectant look.

“What?”

4. SUCCESS

Beel ended up having a late midnight snack.

After regrouping and devising a new game plan, they stand around in the kitchen starting the preparation for Asmo’s lunch. Beel had treated his brother to a meal at Hell’s Kitchen as an apology for the incident.

“Third’s time the charm.”

Beel nods in response, sifting through the fridge high and low in search of the needed ingredients.

“I’ve ensured that Asmo doesn’t have any plans for the day.” Satan’s voice cuts through the steady chopping noises enclosed in the small space. “I’ve also enlisted Solomon’s help on this.”

He grimaces for a second as if he was recalling something awful.

“He mentioned that he wouldn’t mind helping us out in regards to cooking.” Beel must have made a terrible face in response, as Satan let out a guffaw of laughter at the sight.

“I rejected his offer, of course.”

“Yeah, that’s for the best.” The Avatar of Gluttony winces at the thought of swallowing down the sorcerer’s food, shuddering at the mere mention of it.

“Though, we can depend on him to summon Asmo if he escapes again.”

The sizzling of oil and the aroma of garlic fills the kitchen alongside a comforting silence. They work in tandem, with Satan grabbing the rest of the ingredients. Beel is unsure how much time has passed, not bothering to check with his brother around.

“Why did you get so many fish fillets?” Satan breaks the silence, adding the final touches to the pot. “Let this steam for about ten minutes.”

“Half of them is mine,” Beel responds lightly, pointing to the top portion of the refrigerator. Pausing in his movement, he sends his brother a warning glare. “Don’t touch them.”

Satan rolls his eyes, pointer finger directed at himself with a disbelieving look.

“A couple is fine but there’s at least hundreds stuffed inside there.”

“It was on sale.”

“...Fair enough.”

Bzzt!

With long strides, Beel walked across the space to turn the heat off while his brother picked up his D.D.D.

456 GROUPCHAT

Satan: @Beautiful Cute Pretty Asmo Come down to the dining hall

Asmo: What’s going on? I’m getting excited ♡

Satan: Stop asking and come down now.

Asmo: Alright, geez. What’s gotten your pants into a twist?

Just as Beel was done plating, Asmo popped his head in. Clearly confused, he blinks but sits himself down docilely at Satan’s glare.

“I thought we were over this?” He huffed out, crossing his arms as he leaned in to stare closer at the dish. The Avatar of Lust had hardly eaten this dish before, always preferring a salad over a carb-filled meal.

“You haven’t eaten since two weeks ago,” Beel stated, hovering from a distance, covering his nose as a preventive measure against his sin. “We thought this might be suitable as your first meal in a while.”

Satan taps on his shoulder, bringing his attention to the bowl in front of him. “Don’t force yourself to finish the rice but do your best to finish the fish at least.”

Asmo gulps, suddenly feeling as if he was exposed. He shifts his gaze to the plate instead.

A cacophony of colors with an overflow of greens topped on the fish fills his sight. He’s pretty certain there’s ginger, cabbage, and scallion, and he can sniff a faint scent of cilantro and ginger. Asmo swallows his saliva, feeling a faint sense of embarrassment.

He opens his mouth to spit out another comment but the worry clear in their eyes stops him from doing so, forming a pit at the back of his throat. He feels oddly seen.

Instead, he uses his spoon to cut a small piece of the fish and puts it in his mouth.

It’s tasty.

He puts another scoop in his mouth. It’s light, and he can taste the soya sauce tingling on the side of his tongue. He likes it.

“It’s good.” He remarks, voice wavering as he seemingly blinks back unshed tears. “But it’s a little salty.”

Satan lets out a huff of laughter, pushing his head down with the momentum. Normally, Asmo would have swatted it off, complaining about the way it would mess his hair up but he bites it back.

Beel stations himself solidly in front of the doorway, still pinching his nose.

“We made it together.” He says, voice pitched higher as he tries not to stare at the plate of steamed fish, nor the visible steam wafting off it.

Some fissures of embarrassment run through Asmo briefly before he straightens up, clearing his throat.

This wouldn’t do. He has to thank them properly.

He angles himself, showing off the slender expanse of his neck as he flashes them a sensual smile with half-lidded eyes. All he got were reprehensible expressions, and he dropped the facade immediately.

“Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t thank me, thank him.” The blond-haired demon jabs a finger in Beel’s direction, looking unwholly unimpressed. “He coordinated everything. All I did was to execute his commands.”

Satan pats his back once, before standing up to stretch with a big yawn. “Okay, I’m leaving to finish my book.”

“Don’t skip your meals again.” He threatened with narrowed eyes, leaving only silence and the heavy breathing of Beel in his wake.

“You can sit here.” The Avatar of Lust nibbles on another piece, chewing almost methodically. It turned out that there were a lot of things for him to ponder about.

The hulking demon shakes his head, now fixing his stare at the top of the ceiling.

“I need to stand here in case you play another trick on me.”

Asmo gapes at him. The spoon in his grasp clatters onto the plate, splashing the sauce on him. He grabs a tissue to wipe up the mess, gears slowly turning in his head.

“Oh, that.” He says, realisation dawning on him. Honestly, he had already forgotten about the whole incident – It just seemed like his daily shenanigans, he didn’t think that Beel would have taken it to heart.

“Well, I just used it to my advantage.”

Beel pointedly carries on staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him an answer. Arms crossed and his feet continues tapping away, he turns his body away from Asmo.

“Hey!”

After getting no response despite his best attempts, he decides to switch his tactic.

Putting on his best smile, and crinkling his eyes in the way he knows his fans always eat up.

“I’m sorry~” He pouts from his position, sweet voice trilling in the air. “Will you accept my apology?”

The Avatar of Gluttony continues to ignore him but finally furrowed his eyebrow at the mention of an apology. This time, he even moves to turn his body in the opposite direction.

“Fine. What do you want?”

He was kind of miffed at the lack of attention but even he knew that he was in the wrong this time. He picks up another piece of fish, shoving it into his mouth.

Not bad, he thinks. He managed to finish most of the fish and about a quarter of the rice. That’s more than what he usually eats.

“No more skipping meals.”

“What?”

“You heard me. No more skipping meals.” The Avatar of Gluttony repeats again, unfolding his arms. They take a moment to look at each other, awkward tension still prominent in the air.

“Fine.”

“You’re not lying to me this time?” Beel grumbles, taking a step closer to inspect the Avatar of Lust’s expression. There’s visible doubt on his face, and Asmo can’t help but feel a little hurt by it.

He gasps, looking scorned by the accusation.

“Excuse me? When have I been anything but just?” He places a hand over his heart, brows pinched in pretend hurt.

“I just want a genuine answer, Asmo.”

“I’m not.” He says hesitantly, swallowing a mouthful of saliva. Talking about his feelings always made him feel small like his heart had been split wide open for everyone to see. Like how he was someone who needed saving.

Beel nodded, warmth etched into the lines of his smile.

“Alright.”

5. AFTERMATH

Asmo wrestles with his boots, slipping out a small curse as he hops on one leg to jam his foot into it.

“Have you eaten yet?”

Satan watches amusedly from his place on the sofa as the whirlwind of peach, black boots, and pink stumbles down the stairs. The Avatar of Lust lets out a yelp, muttering out a thanks, when Satan casts a spell to stop him from falling.

“My dearest younger brother made fried rice for me.” Asmo simpered, giving a coquettish wink as he finally zipped up his boots. The blond-haired demon turns back to his book, flipping through the pages to find his bookmark.

Satan hums in response.

“Say hi to Solomon for me.”

Asmo raises a thumb-up, before swinging his purse excitedly on his shoulder. He gives a little twirl, showing off his fit for the day. “Rate my outfit today.”

“Amazing.” Satan doesn’t glance up, eyes focused on the lines in the book. He rolls his shoulder, trying to loosen a crick in his neck.

“Wow, thanks.” He says condescendingly, walking over to pat his brother’s head – Satan hisses at him but leans into his touch anyway. Asmo almost wants to snort. “Anyways, I won’t be back for dinner.”

“You’re not skipping your meals again, right?”

“I’m not!” Asmo pouts, pulling hard on a strand of blond hair in retaliation. This time, he gets a smack on the wrist along with a louder grunt. “Solomon is buying me dinner.”

“Alright,” Satan says. Yet, Asmo can clearly see him pulling up a chat with the sorcerer to confirm his words.

…He wonders if he should be worried about his brother’s budding friendship with the sorcerer.

“Thank you for the confidence.”

“No problem.”

He hears a snort from the lump on the couch and soon enough, a mess of indigo and white-tipped hair pops out from the blanket.

“Belphie!” He exclaims, jumping to wrap the youngest in a hug as tightly as he can. The Avatar of Sloth lets out a choked noise, tapping on his arm to ask for a release.

“Why are you so strong?” He rasps out, pounding on his chest with a fist. Proceeding to yawn, he drags himself up into a sitting position while leaning against Satan. He rubs at the corner of his eyes sleepily, tugging his blanket further up.

Asmo just shrugs, resisting the urge to let out a squeal at the cute sight.

“Alright, you can go.” Satan pipes up beside him, putting his device down in favour of picking up his book again.

“I’ve confirmed that Solomon is buying you dinner.” He continues, trying to move Belphie into a comfortable position before he falls asleep again. “He’s waiting for you outside.”

Asmo quickly scrambles up, hands flying up to his hair to pat it down. With a frantic voice, he smoothens his outfit down. “How do I look?”

He strikes a pose.

“Good,” Belphie murmurs sleepily, doing another stretch on Satan’s lap who has given up on his book. Asmo pulls out a mirror, doing a final check of himself before rushing out of the door.

“See you later!”

══════════════════

a/n -> this is written for @4laurus for @obeymeholidayexchange! this fic fought back with hands at every STAGE. However, it was great fun to craft this because I think its fun to play around with the brothers' relationship (and im sorry for sneaking satan in...)

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tyriq-edits · 3 days ago

Text

The King’s Garden

“Do you see these lanterns around my garden, dear minstrels? In each one of them lives a fairy. They are the ones who keep this garden alive. But now the lights in the lanterns are fading, and so is this garden. Minstrels, I ask of you, find the cause behind the fairies’ suffering and save my garden.”

“I am deeply sorry, but I must urge you to leave Iacon at once.”

“Why?!” Elita-1 riposted at the court secretary, crossing her arms and tapping her ped in annoyance "You are third person today to tell us to 'turn around and go home'. We didn't spend three solar cycles crossing through the scorching desert heat only to be dismissed right after arriving."

"All we want to do is perform in front of the Primes and the people of Iacon.", Jazz stepped forward, his voice a lot calmer than Elita's "To entertain the masses with our stunts and tricks."

"I know that, but the fact of the matter is I simply cannot allow you to perform.", the white and red seeker repeated.

"Oh come on!" Jazz moaned, his voice's calmness dropping sharply.

"Let me handle this." Megatron whispered to Jazz and Elita, patting both of their shoulders before stepping forward to face the sheepishly apologetic secretary himself.

"My dear fellow bot", Megatron began, leaning down and resting his forearms upon the secretaries desk to talk physically eye to eye with him "I am certain you are a well read bot. A mech of the highest scholarly reputation, even. Surely an educated mech such as yourself could explain to us, a bunch of lowly minstrels and entertainers, for what reasons exactly we need to 'leave Iacon at once'?"

Judging by the self-satisfied and prideful grin spreading across the secretaries face, Megatron's plan of flattery seemed to have worked.

"Well Gentlemechs-" he quickly turned around to Elita and Arcee " And Gentlefemmes, of course. The matter is at hand is rather simple: The Primes have no more money."

"Excuse me?", Megatron nearly fell over, making several towers of stacked up data pads tumble from the desk and crash onto the marble floor.

"The famous 13 Primes. Out of money?", Elita parotted, crouching down to help the secretary pick up his data pads "The 13 Primes, who are known across all of Iacon and beyond for their beautiful palace with golden domes. The 13 Primes who are said to host the most extravagant parties and feasts in all of Cbertron. The 13 Primes who have rivers of highgrade energon flowing through their palace gardens?! Those 13 Primes have run out of money? I always thought they're the richest bots on the entire planet?"

"Funny that you'd mention the palaces and feasts." The secretary remarked, plopping the datapads back on his desk, before sitting back down in his square chair "For it's exactly those why the kingdom's treasury has been nearly depleted. Oh. But the rivers of highgrade are merely a rumour. I can assure you of that."

"So what you're saying is-" Bumblebee hesitated to finish that thought

"We have no means to afford entertainers." The seeker confirmed, folding his servos together neatly "We simply lack the funds for your Trili and Tralala or whatever it is your circus troupe does. The Primes are focusing their spendings on serious matters. Like the ongoing war against the Quintessons, building fortification walls and the likes. Feasts, parties and performances unecessarily swallow up our budget. Which is why the Primes, after consulting their most trusted advisor Sentinel, had decided to put a ban on all forms of festivities. Temporarily of course! Until the treasury has been filled up to a more... stable amount."

"I see." Megatron's shoulders slumped "So there is truly nothing we can do."

"I mean we could put up individual street performances hoping some passerby will toss us a coin or two. But they clearly won't put up a stage for us in the town square, that's for sure." Jazz tried to stay optimistic given the cards they had just been dealt.

"Well!" the secretary chimed in "there is one way. A loophole, if you will."

The group of circus artists looked at the pencil pusher.

"Performers are only allowed to appear upon the grand stage if they have something new to offer. Something Iacon has never seen before."

"Well we can dance!" proclaimed Jazz, already getting ready to show off some of his moves.

"Trust me, we've had dancers more then enough already.", the seeker answered.

"We can also do acrobatics!" Arcee declared confidently.

"We've had acrobats here before too. Try harder." The red secretary leaned back in his office chair.

"Well Elita here knows magic!", Megatron asserted.

"You really think we've never had a stage magician perform for the Primes before?", the seeker let out a huge yawn.

"What about the fastest and strongest bots alive respectively? Bet you haven't had those before!" Bumblebee spoke up, his servo gesturing between himself and Bulkhead.

"The fastest bot alive? We've had that one only last week. And the strongest bot alive? We've seen that one thrice already!" the secretary held up three digits, wiggling them in front of the minstrels to highlight his point.

"It is starting to get clear to me that your little troupe has, evidentally, nothing new or exciting to offer. I did my best but alas! I must ask you once again to leave."

Just as Megatron was about to open his mouth, the sound of a set of approaching pedes rang through the palace's corridor. Everyone within the secretary's office turned their gaze from the pencil pusher's desk towards the door.

The door opened, revealing a short blue and red coloured mech. His frame must have been freshly buffed, Megatron concluded by the way the light of the room reflected upon the shiny metal. The grey mech wondered if he was part of Iacon's upper class or even the Primes' direct entourage, judging by the way the young bot strudded into the room as if he owned the place. At the very least he must have been several ranks above the secretary within the bureaucratic hierachy, to be acting in this manner without any direct, harsh concequences. However the most perculiar aspect of him, as Megatron noted, was the empty slot in his chest. He was cogless. Usually, if something happened to the T-Cog of a bot of higher social standing, he would be given a T-Cog transplant the very same day. So either Megatron was highly overestimating the blue mech's social status, or some much more nefarious circumstances must be keeping him from getting a much needed transplant. The grey minstrel could only guess as to what those circumstances could be.

Following closely behind the cogless bot, by a, was a, compared to the short mech himself and everyone else present, mountain of a bot. Towering over the cogless one, his blue frame shone just as brightly, with his yellow accent colours and huge set of wings almost appearing to be made out of gold. His bright cerulean optics briefly skimmed over the crowd of minstrels and the entire room before landing directly on the secretary.

Said secretary shot up from his chair within seconds, dashing across the pristine floortiles to throw himself before the newcomers' pedes.

"I greet you, your Highness, most exalted pearl of the palace, Optimus Prime!"

Optimus Prime. Megatron had heard rumours of the alleged 14th Prime. He sprang from the core of Primus a few Million years ago, around the same time Megatron and Elita must have come online now that he thought about it. The original 13 Primes had been raising him within the confinement of their palace ever since, educating him and preparing him for the day he shall join his sparkbrothers to rule over Iacon. From what Megatron had heard, Optimus Prime was a mystery even to the citizens of Iacon themselves. According to the rumour mills, the young Prime only appeared in public for the most important of occassions, and even then you could count yourself lucky if you so much as caught a glimpse of him. Other gossip however claims that the 14th Prime was actually the sparkling of two of the Primes. Which ones however none of the rumours could ever truly agree upon.

Yet all the rumours agreed on one aspect. Everyone who claimed to have seen the Prime with their own eyes, described him to be of otherworldly beauty.

Gazing upon the collasal winged mech, Megatron would by no means define him as ugly. But “otherworldly beauty“ seemed like a stretcht to him.

"No need to be so formal, Starscream. I've told you before I dislike being adressed as such. Just Optimus is fine."

Wait what-

"As you wish, your highne- I mean Optimus" the secretary stood back up. No doubt he was clearly adressing the cogless bot "What, if I may ask, brings you here? I thought you'd be busy with one of your tutoring bots by now."

A cogless Prime? But if he is the 14th Prime everyone keeps talking about then who was the winged giant behind him?

"The young Prime suddenly left his room in the middle of his private lessons on states affaire. Completely out of the blue. And he came running straight for your office, Starscream. I cannot say why either though." the tallest spoke up.

"Well you see, Sentinel", Optimus began explaining, a smug grin creeping onto his face "I saw this group of minstrels enter the palace and I knew Starscream would attempt to send them away. And while it is admirable how he tries to upkeep the law and follow the ban my brothers have put in place... I must urge him to make a exception in this case."

"Pardon?" the secretary rose an eye brige, as if he wanted to make sure he had heard the youngest of the Primes correctly.

"You see this circus troupe had been invited by me personally! They are my most honoured guests."

"They are?" Starscream asked in disbelieve.

"We are?" Bumblebee parotted, his mouth promptly being closed forcefully by Bulkhead putting a servo over it.

"My dear Pri- Optimus!" Starscream corrected his old habit just in time "You know as well as I do, my servos are tied. I can only allow performances that bring something new to the table and these fine folks have-"

"Have something Iacon- no scratch that- something Cybertron has never seen before." Optimus put his servos on his hips in defiance "You see they... eeeeerrr... have this huge- did I say huge I mean GIGANTIC Bot in their troupe. Yes! And err... not only is he tall... and strong. But he... erm... can also... JUGGLE! With... with.. Glass- High Grade glasses! Filled with energon. And all without spilling a single drop of it!" The blue Prime claimed loudly.

"Highness, I had no idea these minstrels were capable of such a feat!" Starscream exclaimed.

"Neither did I." Megatron whispered, leaning over to Elita-1.

"I shall notify your Sparkbrothers instantly. These minsterls are naturally allowed to perform and bring joy to all of Iacon." Starscream declared as he stormed out of the room and down the many corridors of the palace.

As the ringing of Starscream's steps faded away, the blue winged giant leaned down towards the cogless bot.

"Young Prime, with this issue taken care off, I must urge you to return to your studies for now. I shall see to it that the minstrels are escorted to one of our guest rooms." Sentinel put a servo on Optimus back as he ushered him out the door, presumably back to the Prime's private chambers.

Megatron mouthed a silent "Thank you" as he watched the blue Prime leave towards the inner most parts of the palace as well. Suddenly the rumours about the 14th Prime's "otherworldly beauty" started to resonate a lot more with the grey bot.

*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*

PHEW okay this ended up a LOT longer than I expected. This was at first meant to only be a small-ish drabble. Instead I may have written the longest Text Post I have created YET!

But congratulations to everyone who has made it this far and actually read through all of this! Hope you enjoyed the ride.

At this point I am adding my usual "AU Explanation". So you can either stay and read what this whole AU is actually about if you want or you can leave for now and just treat this as a very weird One Shot.

Still here? Okay.

So this AU is inspired by a book from my childhood called "The King's Garden". I explained the general plot before in a different post but I'll give you the short version here once again: The whole story is set in a world inspired by ancient Arabia and the fairytales of 1001 Nights. A Group of Minstrels arrives in the kingdom of Antagonia but are told that to go away because "Parties and feasts are banned". With the help of the kingdom's princess they do manage to perform before the king and he is so impressed that he gives them a special mission: Saving his garden. His garden is filled with Lanterns and in each Lantern lives a fairy. These fairies are the ones keeping the garden alive. But in recent times more and more lanterns have stopped glowing as the fairies within died. And each time a fairy dies, so does a part of the king's garden. So now the group has to solve the mystery around the dying fairies until a certain deadline. They are assisted by the princess during all of this and are hindered by the kingdom's scheming eunuch who tries to usurp the king and take the throne for himself.

I honestly remember the overall plot only rather hazily as I last read the OG book at the age of 11. But i remember the story had a very strong environmentalist message overall.

But yeah ovbiously in this AU, Megatron is the Main Character from the book who, from what I remember, was an acrobat within the circus. The rest of the Minstrel group is made out of Elita, Arcee, Jazz, Bulkhead and Bumblebee. And who else could be the evil usurper Eunuch but Sentinel Prime?

The thirteen Primes, as you may have deduced, are the King of Antagonia in this case and Optimus is the Princess. I do have a general Idea as to how and why Optimus, despite being a Prime, lacks a cog in this AU. However

I have several Transformers AUs and Fanfics I wish to prioritise, like the Fallen Celestrian and The Consort of Peace. So do not expect to get a follow up chapter on this.

Frankly I have no Idea if anyone even wants to see more or this.

So if you wish to hear more about this AU, have questions etc. just ask me. Because once again I doubt I'll ever get around to actually write more on it in this fashion. So yeah if you want to know about this AU just send me and Ask or DM or alternatively, make your own version of this AU.

In fact I truly hope this One Shot of mine gave you a spark of inspiration for your own art and writings.

TLDR: If you have thoughts, questions or ideas for this AU let me know. Or heck you can post your own version if this little post of mine has inspired you in any way - and if you do please tag me in it, I would love to see more Transformers Fairy Tale AUs.

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max-nico · 2 years ago

Text

Sonic has been called an "overprotective big brother" over the years many times. Not his fault that Tails is small, impressionable, and reckless. He's known the kid since he was a toddler, if anyone else had been around that long they would understand too.

Or at least he thought they would, but it seems he was wrong because his own two best friends–Amy and Knuckles–are the ones who call him overprotective the most. This is a huge betrayal on their part, especially when they bring up valid points like Tails' intelligence and skill, because how could he disagree. Sonic has the coolest, most awesome and amazing, little brother ever.

With that being said, Sonic is pretty sure he has the right to interrogate the little fox this time. He's like 90% sure his panic is warranted when he sees his little brother load and cock a very real and deadly gun. Because that kid is 9. He is 9, and he is putting on his watch and his plane gear to leave, and for some reason he needs a weapon wherever he's going. Sonic thinks he has a right to exercise at least a little big brother privilege here, honestly it would be negligent to not at least question him.

"Hey bud. Whatcha up to?"

Tails' ear flicks toward him as he packs a few things into the Tornado. "You remember that hard drive that GUN thought they stole from me, but I actually knew they wanted it so I lowered a few of my defense systems so that they could grab it and leave me alone?"

The answer is no, Sonic has no recollection of that happening at all. Though he supposes it's his own fault for only half listening when Tails was talking. He's really gotta break that habit.

"Sure do." Sonic lies.

"Well, I actually have a little bit of data on there that I forgot to back up to another hard drive since I didn't think I needed it, so I'm going to go get it."

"And you need a weapon for that? Why don't you just ask Shadow?"

Tails finally turns to face Sonic, floating down off the Tornado and in front of Sonic. He stands with his hands on his hips, leaning just a little into his personal space. He takes the chance to absentmindedly scratch behind his little brother's ears, making him push his head into his hand.

"I did, actually. He's the one who told me to bring some weapons, he said he wants to help me improve my stealth techniques."

"Huh, and he didn't even bother to text me about it." Sonic huffs. It comes out playfully, but he won't deny being a little peeved that Shadow didn't message him. Tails is a genius and can make his own decisions, sure, but he's also not even in double digits. Sonic is literally his guardian, he feels like he should've been consulted about this. "I find that quite rude."

Tails smacks Sonic with one of his tails. The fur gets trapped in the small quills on his face, which makes his brother giggle.

"Then how do you find that, hm?"

"I find that the person who did it has another thing coming."

Sonic is so gonna fill his pillows with quills and shaving cream again. The fox constantly complains about not being able to get his quills out of any furniture, but he also got his fur stuck on Sonic's face, he figures this is pretty good retribution.

"Sure I do."

This is what Sonic means. Where did his wholesome brother go? Ignoring the fact that he has been a little menace since they first met, this is obviously team Dark's fault. Their devious ways are corrupting his little brother, who has obviously only learned nice things from him, like dad jokes and spindashing.

Tails has been constantly hanging out with team Dark for a few months now. After spending time with Rouge on Amy's last birthday he seemed to acquire a sort of childish fascination with them. Honestly, Sonic didn't really see it as a bad thing at first. They got Tails to spend more time out of his lab, and they always seemed to take care of him so Sonic had no qualms as long as Tails was having fun.

Then the habits came. Habits that Sonic had managed to completely purge a couple years back. Sure, he's not building bombs willy nilly anymore (as far as he knows anyway), but a few weeks ago Tails showed him the Empire nuclear launch codes just because he could.

Just yesterday they were having a conversation about a grocery store in station square. Amy had apparently told him that the cashier was kind of rude, so he asked if she wanted him to "blow up the entire store". She laughed and said no thanks, but when Sonic just shook his head at him Tails had the audacity to say "he'll make sure there's no one in it", as if that was the problem with what he said.

Sonic will not claim to have clean hands. He will not say he's never killed anybody on purpose or on accident, but is it so much to want to spare his brother from the same fate? Sonic still has nightmares over things like that, and even if his little brother is joking, he just can't find it in himself to laugh.

It's obvious Sonic will have to talk to Shadow and Rouge soon, he would talk to Omega as well but the robot honestly just does whatever he wants. Sonic can respect it. He cannot, however, respect Shadow and Rouge teaching his kid brother bad stuff, like how to get away with murder and other things of the like.

"I'll be back before you know it, Sonic, I swear!"

It's obvious Sonic has just missed most of the one sided conversation Tails was just having with him, he zoned out again. Damn it.

"And I'll have my communicator on me so if anything goes wrong, you'll be the first to know! I'll stay safe, Shadow will be with me."

Tails says that as if it's any comfort to Sonic. He may trust Shadow with his life but he does not trust him with children. He's sure Tails will come out physically unscathed, but mentally? This is going to be a trainwreck.

Sonic sighs. He already knows he won't be able to convince him not to go, at least not in the small timeframe he has, so he just pulls the kid in for a hug instead. "Call me as soon as you're able, okay?"

"I will, promise!"

"And if you're not back and not answering in 24 hours, I'm coming to find you myself."

"Yes, Sonic." Tails says, pulling away.

"And I'll give Shadow a piece of my mind if I have to, you know I will."

"I'm leaving now."

"And so will Knuckles and Amy!"

"Goodbye!"

"Remember what I said about calling!"

"I can't hear you anymore!"

Sonic smiles as Tails starts his plane, the kid will be fine, he knows it. After all, he's sure Shadow and Rouge know the consequences if he's not.

woe, the brothers be upon ye I wrote this in like two sittings and its barely been edited, I'll probably put this on ao3 later after I've looked at it again lol. you're welcome to hit me up in my dms or askbox, but if it's a request I would prefer my ask box lol. Remember you have to be nice to me forever and ever and ever if you decide to talk to me btw

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silenceofthewave · 2 months ago

Note

You receive your very first resume in the morning, almost as soon as the option is open. The position it's applying for is a... Soundwave Specialist?

The "experience" section lists the amount of time Soundwave and Shockwave have been together-- several vorns by now. -has collaborated with Soundwave on projects of varying complexity -has tolerated innumerable pranks from it and its symbiotes -has successfully communicated and navigated through various relationship obstacles with it. Skills: patience | attention to detail | advanced problem solving | symbiote handling | data cable navigation | lifting it with one arm

....It even has a cover letter attached to it! As evidenced by my resume, I have ample experience in management and cohabitation with Soundwave, leading me to believe I hold ample qualification for the title of Soundwave Specialist.

I thank you for your consideration, and hope to speak to you soon.

(@dailydoseoflogic)

Soundwave sat back at its new desk, mere minutes before the firm opened. It let itself take a moment to bask in the morning light, to truly enjoy this new beginning. It ran a servo against the lip of the desk, watching as the clock on its terminal struck 0800.

A feeling of triumph sank into its processors. Soundwave had done it. It had opened its own cybersecurity firm. It had achieved this long standing dream, and it was all thanks to its incredible, insightful, intelligent, gorgeous conjunx.

Truly, Soundwave would not be here without Shockwave and his unshakable guidance.

As the clock ticked to 0801, a ping came from its terminal. A new customer? Already? The triumph gave way to excitement as it opened the message.

Strange... Instead of a customer consultation request, it was a fully completed resumé, cover letter and all. Soundwave knew that its recruiters were working hard, but to have something sent directly to it, this early on opening day? Well, they must have discovered something special...

Without wasting a moment, Soundwave opened the resumé file.

At first, it was confused. This was not what a cybersecurity resumé should look like. The font was all wrong, as was the color and- wait.

It leaned in a little closer to get a better look. Instead of "Cybersecurity Specialist" this resumé read "Soundwave Specialist". Soundwave squinted in suspicion.

It took its time reading over the document, suspicion giving way to satisfaction, then to an overwhelming feeling of love. Shockwave was not usually one for pranks; for him to pull one with this much effort and attention to detail put into it? Soundwave didn't have the words for how it felt.

Loved. Soundwave felt loved.

After taking a moment to gather itself, Soundwave printed off the two documents. It would have to get a frame for them at some point, but for now placing them on the wall with a clip will have to do. Its office was sparse with decoration for the moment, but the new addition already made the space feel like a home away from home.

At 0812, a response email was sent.

"Thank you for sending in your resumé.

Our recruitment team and head architect agree that you fill all of the requirements and criteria for the applied role of Soundwave Specialist. The head of the firm is inviting you to lunch for a more indepth interview about what this role will entail. It hopes to see you soon.

KS Solutions."

#->| soundwave: asked and answered #->| dailydoseoflogic #v ->| post war

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the-reader-insert-gazette · 5 months ago

Text

Frost Between Us - F!Reader x Gepard Landau

Honkai Star Rail

When Readers travels back to Jarilo-VI to take on a job assisting the Silvermane Guards, she doesn’t expect to work alongside her ex, Captain Gepard Landau. As they navigate a high-stakes investigation, old wounds resurface alongside lingering feelings.

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

[Name] had been to Belobog before, but stepping into the Silvermane Guard’s headquarters carried a weight she hadn’t anticipated. Snow crunched under her boots as she passed through the gates, the frost-laden air sharp and clear. She was here for work, nothing more, and that was how she planned to keep it. It wasn’t like she had any personal connections to the place anymore.

Or at least, that was what she told herself until the doors to the briefing room opened, and there he was.

“Miss [Name].”

Gepard Landau greeted her with a nod, his tone brisk and polite. He stood tall in his immaculate uniform, the picture of discipline and composure. Not a flicker of recognition passed across his face, though she swore his eyes lingered just a second too long.

“Captain Landau,” she replied, matching his tone as she extended a hand. His handshake was firm but impersonal, as if she were any other consultant hired to assist the Silvermane Guards.

For a moment, she almost believed he’d forgotten the year they’d spent together—how they used to argue about her endless curiosity versus his unyielding sense of duty, how they’d stayed up late trading ideas for their futures, how they’d broken apart when those futures had veered too far in opposite directions.

“Thank you for assisting us,” Gepard said, gesturing for her to sit. “Your expertise will be invaluable in tracking down the saboteurs targeting Belobog’s energy infrastructure.”

Professional. Friendly. Detached.

If she hadn’t known better, she might’ve thought he truly didn’t care.

The next few days were a blur of encrypted files, surveillance footage, and technical readouts. Gepard maintained his polite distance, briefing her on security protocols and then disappearing to oversee other operations. It wasn’t until Serval breezed into the workshop where [Name] had set up that a crack of familiarity broke through.

“[Name]!” Serval greeted her with a grin, her leather gloves smudged with oil from her latest project. “I didn’t know you were in Belobog! Let me guess—Silvermane Guards dragged you into some mess they can’t untangle?”

“You’d be correct,” [Name] replied, smiling.

“Typical. They’re lucky you’re here.” Serval plopped into a chair across from her, glancing at the rows of monitors displaying lines of code and camera feeds. “So, how’s it going? Besides the fact that you have to work with him.”

[Name] froze. “What do you mean?”

Serval smirked. “Oh, come on. I’m not blind. Gepard’s been walking around like he’s trying really hard to act normal. That only happens when he’s overthinking something.”

“He’s been perfectly professional,” [Name] said quickly. Too quickly.

“Exactly,” Serval said, her grin widening. “That’s how you know it’s bad.”

[Name] groaned, resting her head in her hands. “This is why I hate small cities. Everyone knows everything.”

“Not everything,” Serval said, her tone softening. “But seriously, if it gets too awkward, you know you can always hide out at my workshop.”

[Name] laughed despite herself. “Thanks, Serval. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Things took a turn the night Sampo Koski showed up.

[Name] was in the middle of analyzing a suspicious data packet when the workshop door swung open, and Sampo strolled in like he owned the place.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite investigator!” he declared, arms spread wide.

[Name] rolled her eyes. “You have about thirty seconds to explain why you’re here before I call security.”

“No need for that,” he said, leaning casually against her desk. “I just heard you were in town and thought I’d pay a visit. Catch up on old times. Maybe see if I can help you crack this little case of yours.”

“Sampo, you’re about as helpful as a snowstorm in a power outage.”

“Harsh,” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “But fair.”

Before she could throw him out, Gepard appeared in the doorway, his expression a mix of exasperation and suspicion.

“Koski,” he said, his voice cool. “What are you doing here?”

“Captain Landau! Always a pleasure.” Sampo straightened, his grin never wavering. “I was just offering my services to your lovely consultant here. You know, as a concerned citizen.”

“You’re not a citizen,” Gepard said flatly.

“And yet, here I am. Strange how that works.”

[Name] bit back a laugh as Gepard’s jaw tightened.

Later, after Sampo had been escorted out, [Name] found herself alone with Gepard for the first time since her arrival. They were reviewing the latest findings in the command center, the tension between them almost tangible.

“I’m sorry about Sampo,” Gepard said, breaking the silence. “He has a way of... inserting himself where he doesn’t belong.”

“It’s fine,” [Name] said. “He’s entertaining, at least.”

Gepard nodded, but his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary.

“Are you settling in all right?” he asked, his tone unusually tentative.

“I’m managing,” she replied, keeping her voice neutral.

“Good.” He hesitated, then added, “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“Thanks, Captain,” she said, her words sharper than she intended.

He flinched almost imperceptibly, and guilt pricked at her.

Before she could say anything else, he stood. “I’ll let you get back to it. Goodnight, Miss [Name].”

“Goodnight, Captain.”

As the investigation progressed, the layers of pretense between them began to fray. Late nights working side by side revealed glimpses of the rapport they’d once shared, moments of unguarded conversation slipping through.

“You’re still terrible at taking breaks,” he said one evening, setting a cup of coffee on her desk.

“And you’re still terrible at letting people work in peace,” she shot back, though she accepted the coffee with a small smile.

By the time they closed in on the saboteurs’ hideout, the distance between them had narrowed to something almost comfortable. When the operation turned dangerous, Gepard’s protectiveness reared its head, but it was tempered by trust.

“I’ve got your back,” he said as they prepared to breach the hideout.

“I know,” she replied, and for the first time, she truly believed it.

-----

When the dust settled and the culprits were apprehended, [Name] found herself standing with Gepard outside the Silvermane Guard’s headquarters. The snow had stopped falling, and the city lights glimmered against the frost, painting the cobblestones in muted gold and silver hues. The city, for all its trials, felt calm tonight, and yet [Name]'s thoughts were anything but.

“Well,” she said, turning to him, her breath visible in the crisp night air. “I guess this is it.”

“Thank you,” he replied, his voice steady but quieter than usual. There was a sincerity in his tone that made her pause, tilting her head slightly as she studied his expression. “For everything. Your skills made this possible, and... it was good to work with you again.”

She nodded, though something about his choice of words sent a pang through her chest. “You’re good at this, you know,” she said softly. “The whole ‘leading and protecting’ thing. Belobog’s lucky to have you.”

His smile was faint but genuine, and his gaze lingered on hers, unreadable. “And Penacony’s lucky to have you.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the frosted air between them. [Name] felt the familiar pull—the gravity he always seemed to carry, as unyielding as it was quiet. She hesitated, shifting slightly as her instincts urged her to leave before the silence stretched too long. Before the ache of what could have been became too much.

But when she turned to step away, he spoke again, his voice stopping her mid-step. “[Name].”

She glanced back, expecting another professional farewell, but what she saw in his eyes wasn’t detachment. It wasn’t distant or polite. His shoulders were squared as always, but his expression—softened by the golden glow of the nearby streetlamp—was bare in a way she hadn’t seen in years.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words slipping into the stillness like a confession. “For how things ended. For how I handled it. I thought I was doing the right thing, but...” He trailed off, exhaling slowly, his breath visible in the icy air. “It wasn’t fair to you.”

[Name] blinked, stunned into silence. She hadn’t expected this—not here, not now. “Gepard, you don’t have to—”

“I do.” His voice was firmer now, though still laced with that steady calmness she’d always associated with him. “You meant so much to me. You still do. And I’ve spent the last few days acting like that history didn’t exist because I thought it was easier. Safer.” He looked down for a moment, his jaw tightening. “But it’s not. Not for me.”

Her heart skipped, the weight of his words settling over her like the snow that had earlier dusted the city. She didn’t know what to say, her mind racing as she searched his face for any sign of hesitation. She didn’t find any.

“I wasn’t angry with you,” she said finally, her voice quieter now. “Not really. I was angry at the circumstances, at how we wanted things that didn’t align.” She met his gaze, her fingers tightening onto her clothes. “But I missed you too. More than I wanted to admit.”

His lips parted slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before it melted into something warmer. He took a cautious step forward, his boots crunching against the snow-dusted ground. “If things had been different... if I hadn’t let duty blind me—”

“You didn’t let duty blind you,” she interrupted gently, offering him a small, wry smile. “You stayed true to who you are. That’s one of the things I...” She hesitated, her cheeks flushing with warmth despite the cold. “That’s one of the things I admired about you. It still is.”

He stopped a pace away from her, his presence a quiet strength. For a moment, neither spoke, the city sounds fading into the background as the space between them seemed to shrink, the cold replaced by something warmer. His hand moved almost instinctively, hovering as if he wasn’t sure it was welcome, before brushing the edge of her sleeve.

“Do you think,” he said softly, his blue eyes locked on hers, “we could try again? Maybe not as the people we were before, but as who we are now?”

[Name]'s breath hitched. The hesitation she’d expected to feel wasn’t there. Instead, there was something else—something that whispered that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. Better. She allowed herself to step closer, until there was little more than the cold air and shared warmth between them.

“I think,” she said finally, her voice steady but her heart racing, “that I’d like that.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips, soft but genuine, and for the first time in what felt like years, there was an openness in his expression that matched her own. His hand, now steadier, found hers, his gloved fingers brushing lightly against her skin. When she didn’t pull away, his touch grew more certain, his palm resting against hers.

“I know it won’t be easy,” he said, his voice quiet but sure. “You have your work, your life. And I have mine here. But if we’re careful, if we don’t rush... maybe we can make it work.”

[Name] nodded, her eyes searching his. “I think we can,” she said, the words steady despite the swirl of emotions tightening in her chest. “I’ve always been good at traveling, Gepard. And Penacony doesn’t tie me down the way Belobog ties you. I could come here more often. Visit when things are quiet.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the corner of his mouth lifting in an almost sheepish smile. “You’d do that?”

“I would,” she said simply, her thumb grazing his knuckles. “I’m not asking you to compromise your duty, Gepard. I know what Belobog means to you. But I’m willing to meet you where you are—when you need me.”

His grip on her hand tightened slightly, and his other hand lifted as if on instinct, brushing against the edge of her coat. “I don’t deserve that,” he murmured, his voice tinged with quiet disbelief. “Not after the way I—”

“You do,” she interrupted, the firmness in her tone cutting through his doubt. “We both made mistakes, but this isn’t about the past anymore. It’s about what we want moving forward.”

He stared at her, the storm of emotions in his gaze softening into something clearer. Something hopeful. “I want to make it work,” he said finally, the conviction in his voice as solid as the shield he carried.

“So do I,” she replied, her lips curving into a small, warm smile.

The lights of the city gleamed against the frost, but for [Name], the warmth in his touch and the quiet resolve in his words were enough to push away the chill of the Belobog night. Whatever came next, they would face it together—even if the miles between them stretched further than before. Because this time, they were willing to meet halfway.

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

I have this week off (save for Tuesday) sooo prepare as I will be accelerating my queue/drafts.

#honkai star rail #gepard #gepard landau #hsr gepard #hsr gepard landau #gepard x reader #reader x gepard #reader x gepard landau #gepard landau x reader #hsr

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specialmedicalcentre · 8 months ago

Text

Mitra's Surprise

"We're almost ready, Mitra," Nurse Lan said, adjusting the nasal cannula under her nose. "Do you have any questions before we start?"

Mitra scrunched her nose a bit, trying to get used to the feeling of the tubes in her nostrils. She realized with some awkwardness that she hadn't asked a single question as the nurse was prepping her.

"Actually…I do. Ah, I don't really know what…well, this is all for." Mitra lifted her arms slightly, tubes and wires moving about. She felt like an experiment.

Nurse Lan smiled, discreetly making sure that Mitra didn't pull on her IVs. "Ok, sure - what do you want to know?"

Mitra took a deep breath and looked down at herself, her eyes scanning intently over her body. Sheepishly, she asked, quietly, "…first, I guess…can you tell me again what we're doing?"

"Sure." As she talked, the nurse busied herself checking a nearby vitals monitor, tapping on the screen to enter data. "Your doctor has prescribed a stress test to examine your heart under exercise. Look, it reads here…" Nurse Lan consulted a chart. "…that you may have a slight arrythmia and possible tachycardia. Right?"

Nodding, Mitra said, "…right, ok. I remember that." The doctor visits, the embarrassing exams, and the worried feeling in her stomach were reminders enough. "But…how am I going to exercise with all these - you know, things on me?"

"Well, that's easy - you won't be exercising on the treadmill today - you're going to sit right there. This is a chemical stress test. We'll make your heart work hard, and we'll measure your cardiac performance with these machines. All you have to do is breathe."

She made it sound too easy, Mitra thought. "Okay…well, the…the blood pressure thing." Mitra slightly lifted her right arm for emphasis, finding that the tubes and hoses sort of prevented it. "Why do I have to wear two? And they're…kind of tight."

Nurse Lan leaned over, and placing a hand on Mitra's BP cuff, smiled. "Oh, that's just how we have to do it, Mitra. And you're wearing two cuffs so we can track your pressure closely. They're going to inflate one at a time, and we'll compare them as your heart works hard. You might be uncomfortable at first, but the inflation pressure will even out. Look, I'll start the measurement now. Ready?"

Lan pressed a square on the monitor screen, and the cuff on Mitra's right arm began to tighten, inflating with a buzzing sound. She could hear the velcro straining and popping against the pressure. Instinctively, she held her arm up as it was squeezed.

"Just leave it at your side, honey." Lan gently guided Mitra's arm back into her lap. Mitra was only wearing her panties under her exam gown, and her hand was hot through the fabric; she could feel it on her belly. Absent-mindedly, she checked to see if her breasts were visible through the thin fabric. The cuff squeezed her arm savagely.

"Oww." Mitra said, involuntarily.

"The first time is the hardest." Lan said. Suddently, the cuff stopped inflating. Step by step, it began to release her. The machine clicked each time. After a few clicks, a loud boop sounded, and the cuff went whoosh. "One-twenty five over ninety. Maybe you're a little anxious." Lan wrote something on Mitra's chart.

Mitra flexed her arm to relax it. "When…when does the other one do that?" She motioned to her left arm.

Lan looked at the monitor, squinting. "Every…three minutes, honey."

Mitra looked down at herself again. There were pads stuck to her chest and her shoulders, wires everywhere…and under her gown, too. She could feel them pulling on her breasts. "So…what are these for?" She motioned downward with her chin.

"Those," Lan said, writing some other things on the chart, "are to measure your heartbeat. They're for an EKG. Ever have that done?"

Mitra shook her head. "No, no I haven't."

Lan nodded. "Well, each time your heart beats, we can see the electrical activity here." She motioned to the screen. With a final tap, Lan brought up Mitra's EKG, and a shrill beeping began, accompanied by a bouncing green line on the screen. Three lines, in fact. "These are your EKG traces. We can see all kinds of things…arrythmia, heartrate, cardiac muscle activity…"

The beeping was irregular: sometimes fast, sometimes slow. A green number glowed beside the traces, hovering around 77..78..76.

Lan followed Mitra's eyes. "That's your heartrate, honey. We're going to get that good and fast during the stress test." Lan checked her watch. "We're all set, Mitra. Do you have any more questions?"

Mitra stared at the screen, watching and feeling her heart beat. Her left BP cuff began an inflation cycle, jarring her out of her reverie. Three minutes gone, she thought. She watched the magenta BP numbers counting up on the screen. "No more questions, I guess…wait."

Lan was busy preparing something, her back to Mitra. "What's that, honey?" She responded without turning.

"…um. How is my heart going to work hard without exercise, again?" Mitra asked.

"Oh, we'll handle that." Lan said. She turned to Mitra, holding a large syringe full of a milky yellow fluid. "Remember, this is a chemical stress test."

Mitra's eyes went wide. Her BP cuff squeezed her tightly; she could hear her heart rate begin to speed up already.

Lan continued. "This medication will stimulate your heart; I'm going to inject it into your IV now. Ok, Mitra, here we go."

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SMC's home is on DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/specialmedicalcentre

Connect to SMC on Twitter/X: https://twitter.com/special_medical

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#blood pressure #cardiophilia #hospital #ekg #female patient #stress test #injection #nurse #medicalfetish #medfetish #medfet #nasal cannula #specialmedicalcentre #thebestcareanywhere #tbca

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avinashkumar1202 · 1 year ago

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youtube

From tech to creative, we'll delve into effective strategies for attracting top talent and building a versatile, high-performing team. Discover the CEO's perspective on navigating the challenges of cross-domain recruitment and unlocking the full potential of your workforce. Let's redefine the hiring landscape together!

#Master Data Management Solution #Digital Transformation solutions #Lean Data Governance #What is Lean Data Governance #lean data management in the cloud #Lean Management Solutions #lean data consulting #data quality best practices #Youtube

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redistrictgirl · 8 months ago

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As of September 15th, 2024, Kamala Harris is slightly favored (66% chance) in the race for the presidency.

Repeat after me: Nothing Ever Happens.

In spite of a highly-watched and newsworthy debate that the Vice President is widely agreed to have won, there has barely been any budge in our topline and two of the three swing states with major probability shifts have actually moved towards Trump! There are two asterisks here in the lack of change, both of which are fairly minor in my opinion for the reasons below.

First, state-level polling has been scarce since the debate. What we have seen, ho-hum polls in the Rust Belt, don't inspire that much confidence that anything has changed. Second, our "bin" for this week does include some pre-debate polling! They don't affect the averages that much, though, only taking away three-tenths of a percentage point from Ms. Harris and one-tenth of a percentage point from Mr. Trump. That's meaningful in aggregate, but not seismic.

With that out of the way, let's take a look at the closest states:

Arizona (55% chance of being won by Trump) - Ms. Harris still has not led in a poll in this state for nearly three weeks. The asterisk here is that Mr. Trump still cannot break 50%, and there's a chance that his vote share is also declining (though we don't have enough polling to say for sure.) For now, this uncertainty as well as passable fundamentals for Democrats are enough to keep the state a tossup.

North Carolina (56% chance of being won by Trump) - This is one of the few instances where the fundamentals look rosier for Republicans than state-level polling. Shockingly, the Vice President is the first candidate to have hit 50% in about two weeks in this state, doing so in a Quinnipiac poll near the start of the week. There are plenty of fine polls for the former president, however, and I'd still expect some reversion to the mean in general, so he remains the favorite.

Georgia (66% chance of being won by Trump) - This week's Peach State polls have been very kind to Mr. Trump as he hovers around 49% decided, where Ms. Harris' share is more volatile. There haven't been many other interesting developments in the state.

Pennsylvania (69% chance of being won by Harris) - The perennial swing state continuing to hold strong for Democrats is a promising sign for them as the field of play slowly narrows. We don't have much data to work with, but the 49-46 Harris result from Morning Consult pre-debate is intriguing.

Nevada (70% chance of being won by Harris) - This state has seen positive developments for the former President alongside the rest of the Sun Belt this week, with polling from both Morning Consult and Redfield & Wilton (post-debate!) showing a neck-and-neck race. That said, there aren't too many undecided voters for either candidate to pick up in the state, so Harris will still be fairly comfortable here as long as she maintains an overall lead.

So do I think we're destined to spend the next few months in Lean D purgatory? Hardly. For one, as undecided voters make up their mind, we can expect more confidence in the model. Our sample size will also increase, which will make it easier for the model to pick up on smaller movement without outliers throwing things out of whack. That said, this is very much a close race, and even as Harris nears "Vegas favorite" territory of winning, upsets happen all the time!

#us politics #uspol #election 2024 #us elections #election forecast #election model #kamala harris #donald trump

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mrporg · 11 months ago

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I was re(re-re-re...)-reading Artificial Condition, in particular the section after Tapan gets shot in Tlacey's shuttle.

Credit: The Murderbot Diaries Animatic by @souldagger

The way ART steps in to clean up the mess really reminds me of a DM (Dungeon Master) who has to take over with a NPC (Non-Player Character) to fix a disastrous situation caused by the players. Yes, I am speaking from experience here ^^'

In this scene, Murderbot really f*cked up by miscalculating and endangering Tapan. As a result, she's dying and ART is the only one in any position to help unf*ck the situation. We get a glimpse of how overpowered ART really is, as it fools the station's Port Authority, pretends to be Seth, forges the identity of Tlacey's crew, remote operates the shuttle, wipes its bot pilot's memory and forges all sort of records. All the while preparing its medical facilities and safely retrieving Murderbot and Tapan.

By the time we were on approach to the transit ring, ART had cleared us with the ring’s Port Authority. Shuttles weren’t supposed to be able to dock with transports without advance notice, but ART took care of approach permission, and forged its captain’s feed signature to pay the fine for not giving prior notice of the scheduled trip. They didn’t suspect anything; nobody knew transports could have bots sophisticated enough to fake being human in the feed. I sure hadn’t known it. [...] ART had sent drones to scrub and sterilize away my fluids and Tapan’s blood from the shuttle’s interior. ART had already wiped the bot pilot’s memory and deleted any security data. It was also chatting casually with transit ring launch authority with a forged feed signature from one of the dead humans. (Artificial Condition, Martha Wells)

If this were a tabletop RPG session, Tapan would only get to live because she's important to the plot and the DM needs her for the rest of the story (plot armor). Except, this is a book, not a game session and Tapan is only important to Murderbot who is beating itself up for f*cking up so badly and getting her (nearly) killed.

"I had put my need to get to RaviHyral above the safety of my clients. I was just as shit at being a security consultant as any human." (Artificial Condition, Martha Wells)

And that's what I find beautiful about this scene. ART is not stepping in because the plot needs Tapan or because it personally cares about her, but because it cares about Murderbot and therefore cares about the things and people that Murderbot cares about.

Martha Wells could have gone the usual way of fridging a character for the sake of providing the protagonist with some trauma to deal with and make them interesting. Instead, she cleverly twisted the trope in such a way that it provides excellent characterization for ART and more insight into ART and Murderbot's relationship. Or should I say "mutual administrative assistance"? 😅

By the way, this is as desperate and helpless Murderbot gets in the novels:

I turned away from it and leaned over Tapan. I said, stupidly, “It’s me.” Her eyes were shut and she was breathing through gritted teeth. I clamped my hand over the wound to stop the bleeding and said, ART, help. (Artificial Condition, Martha Wells)

My poor heart </3

#murderbot #martha wells #artificial condition #tapan #tlacey #ART #asshole research transport #musings #tw blood

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antisocialxconstruct · 9 months ago

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Okay "I'll wait until saturday" was a lie. "I'll post it tuesday"....... also a lie. But here we are, at probably the worst possible time and day for visibility :)

word count: 3,400 (total 9,000)

[ch1]

Ghost City

Chapter 2

Maksim winced as the clock in the corner of his laptop’s screen ticked over another minute. It had done that quite a few times now while he sat and watched, and he had not yet been stricken with any miraculous clarity or inspiration on what to do next.

He had gotten as far as hitchhiking to Denver. Two weeks of meandering travel and fifteen hundred kilometers seemed like a good buffer between him and his tail, and he needed to be here anyway, but he had another few weeks to kill while he waited for an appointment. It had occurred to him that he might have better luck being “on the run” if he knew exactly who he was running from and why, and he had very confidently settled down at the dining table in his musty hostel and opened his laptop and then remembered that he did not know how to do this kind of research. He didn’t handle contracts and he didn’t handle data, those had been the jobs of Avaricia and Strikeout respectively. Contacting the former was out of the question, and the latter…

As if to encourage him, the computer screen finally flicked to power-saving black, and he dragged his gaze away from it to stare instead at the phone abandoned with the other contents of his pockets on the opposite end of the table. He did not doubt for a second that Strikeout would help him. He leaned over, grabbed the phone and dragged it closer, lined it up neatly alongside the laptop and thumbed on the screen, opened up the contact list. And stared at it a little longer.

Strikeout would help him. Ze would be happy to, eager even. Which was precisely the problem.

Maksim groaned and slouched in his seat. He rubbed his eyes and then stared vacantly up at the ceiling as he tried to fight off the dread slowly tightening its grip around his ribs. He didn’t want zir help. He didn’t need it, he just needed to… ask questions. The right questions, to the right people. At length he hauled himself upright again. He woke the laptop to pull up a browser window, and the open-endedness of the unremarkable search engine landing page that greeted him was almost enough to stall him out once again. With a sharp intake of breath he muttered “соберись,” typed nyc cat warehouse murder, and hit ENTER.

–###–

Silence had settled thick over the modest office where Ilya now sat, staring across the desk at the person who was meant to find them work. They had the impression that this was an intentional little power play, a lull in conversation left to stretch until they started to squirm. But Violet underestimated how comfortably Ilya could settle into an uncomfortable silence. They slouched deeper into their chair and stretched their legs out in front of them, ankles crossed casually, and let idle curiosity carry their gaze throughout the office–from the window off to the left with the shades half-drawn, to the long fluorescent strip-lights lining the ceiling overhead, over the assortment of books and notes on the desk, the files in chunky binders on the shelves over Violet’s shoulder… lots of physical media, which was interesting. It could have easily passed for the office of a tax consultant, maybe a travel agent if there were more posters of exotic islands tossed in. Nothing about any of it broadcast a business in corporate espionage.

With a light click of their tongue, as if finally coming to an internal conclusion, Violet said, “I admit it is an impressive display,” bringing Ilya’s attention back over to settle on em. Eir own gaze was still focused on the screen atop the desk that separated the two of them, where ey had ostensibly just been going over reports, or notes, or the earlier versions of the worm Ilya had provided to prove it was their work. “Stock fell almost twenty percent overnight, internal reports suggest at least three years of research lost, there will undoubtedly be layoffs to offset the loss in revenue… I still think it’s a shame none of that data was extracted…”

“Well if you wanted it that badly you could have done the hack yourself,” Ilya fired back.

Violet finally sat back, pressing a button that lowered the screen into a slot in the desk so ey could meet Ilya’s eye. “That attitude won’t serve you well when you’re doing this for other people,” ey said, with an impassivity that made it feel less like a warning or admonishment, and more like a simple observation. “As I was saying, it’s a shame none of that data was extracted, but this is all I need to see to be confident I can place you. Although…” here ey paused, tilting eir head slightly to give Ilya a brief, assessing once-over. “I did put out some initial feelers, to see if anyone was already looking for a tech specialist… you haven’t exactly been making friends in San Mena, have you?”

That was a remarkably charitable way to characterize the way Ilya socialized. They tried for a disarming smile and felt like they landed much closer to a grimace. “Do I need friends?”

“It helps,” Violet replied. Ilya managed to bite back their impulse to challenge that assertion, but they were still fishing for a decent, less revealing response than not in my experience when Violet curtly appended “give me another week” and called up the screen again, leaving them with the distinct impression that the conversation was over. They hesitated for a beat, pulled their legs back in and sat forward, preparing to excuse themself, then stopped.

“You know if you really want NervAMP company secrets,” they said, “why don’t you just wait to find out who gets laid off and talk to them? At least some of them are going to be bitter.”

Violet tipped eir head again to see Ilya around the side of eir screen, and in the thoughtful look ey gave them Ilya was sure they could see the calculations being run behind eir eyes. The slightest hint of what Ilya chose to interpret as an approving smile lifted the corners of their lips, but all ey said was, “I’ll be in touch soon, Naspok.”

–###–

The waiting room of a back alley surgeon was rarely what one might call luxurious. Or even particularly hospitable. By now Maksim had sat in enough of them to know this was one of the better ones–it was well lit, clean, and at least a few square feet bigger than a walk-in closet. In total it was a far cry from the dingy vermin-infested storage unit he’d stumbled into the last time he’d needed maintenance, after a blow to the head had left him with the vision in his eye implant tearing and an ice pick migraine a cocktail of alcohol and narcotics hadn’t been able to curb. In retrospect it was a wonder he hadn’t walked out of there even worse, or that he walked out of there at all.

It was really just the waiting that was getting to him. This situation was far less dire, but to Maksim’s sensibilities at least, no less urgent. This was the last modification he had planned, and it had been the hardest to lock down but it was the one that would finally tie everything else together. Bioware was finicky, expensive, and hard to source without being traced and probably shot dead by some repo man because most of it still wasn’t consumer tech. Maksim had needed to find someone who could not only get their hands on it, but could be trusted to install it without shorting out some other essential part of his suite. Or his brain. Clark had come as highly recommended as he could have hoped for–sharpest eyes and steadiest hands anywhere outside the west coast, and discreet on top of it. With a price tag to match, unfortunately, but he had stopped allowing himself to think about debts pretty early on.

So he waited.

When his left leg began to bounce restlessly he willed it back into stillness, dropped his head back against the wall and tried to channel the impatient energy instead into his hands laying palm-up on his thighs. Controlled, intentional fidgeting. The short blades were sheathed cat claw-like in the artificial third digits of each finger, protracted by the minute flexing of thin tendons that had been painstakingly restrung and retrained to the purpose. It was second nature by now, a full decade on from when they had first been installed, but it still served as a good grounding exercise to focus in on the process. Slowly, deliberately, he touched the point of each blade to the soft pads of his thumbs, the only digits left unaltered (no telling when he might need a fingerprint), until another twinge of pain shot up through his left arm and he flinched, nicked the tip of his thumb and grit his teeth to swallow back a curse. It was an unnecessary confirmation of his reason for being there–an imperfection in the careful web of cybernetic control he had spent the last two months weaving over his own reflexes. It needed to be absolute. The pain, he could tolerate. The reaction, the body moving without his will or input, was a reminder he could not allow.

He fixed his eyes on the stippled off-white ceiling overhead and traced the irregular edges of water stains, knowing that if he closed his eyes now there would be memories waiting for him in the dark, blood and terror-wide eyes and the wet heat of fresh viscera, the fear, the sensation of being caged.

It was easier to think about what came after. This process had begun a week later, with a fiber optic muscle replacement knitted into his left arm, intended to correct the nerve damage Strikeout had done with a 9mm round lodged in his shoulder. The discovery that the mesh had granted him a steadier pistol aim than he’d ever had before “the incident” had eased some of the lingering trauma he carried out of it. But not enough. So he’d had the claws refitted for even finer motor control, the eye replaced with a newer model designed for minute motion tracking. A lighter muscle augment had gone into his right arm to synchronize his articulation, adrenal amps installed to increase his situational awareness and response times. The flexwires had gone into his arms on top of the muscle weaves, winding around just below the skin like careful geometric scarification and smoothing his hastened movements into precise, razor-sharp reflexes. The most invasive augmentation so far had been the spinal implant that nestled along the ridge of his back like some segmented mechanical insect, chaining the muscle augments, the adrenal amps, and the eye implant to a neural chip that could accelerate his processing of visual and auditory input, as well as dampen the full effects of the suite in everyday situations, when he didn’t need to be constantly barraged with sensory data.

There was a secondary effect, something he had been warned of back when he was first signing himself away to the Russian army in exchange for a purged arrest record and a functional left eye. The human brain was incredibly delicate, and his uniquely so. In a vanishingly small number of cases, the variant mutation manifested not only in physical quirks, but in certain advanced mental abilities. In his case, it had granted him the capacity to not only pick up the conscious thoughts and feelings of those around him, but to broadcast his own back out to a limited degree, like a short-range radio that only worked on human brain waves. Despite such genes being disseminated into the human population several generations ago, they were still not well understood, and Maksim’s superiors feared that placing too much additional processing burden on his brain via cybernetics might dampen his telepathic ability–the only thing they actually wanted. He hadn’t noticed any material difference after that first operation or in the decade that followed.

Now, he had the very real sense of a door almost fully closed, of the signals tapering off unless he really strained, and it was an indescribable relief. Whatever had happened in New York, it would not, could not, happen again.

Unfortunately that “processing burden” was affecting him in other, more immediate ways as well. He could feel his body protesting under the strain of the augments, without enough time to fully adjust to each introduction of heightened senses and tightened reflexes. And after living with an ability that had manifested when he was six years old, at 32 he could not seem to break himself of the habit of mental tampering no matter how many migraines he had to nurse in exchange. But a bit of research had presented him with a solution: an inhibitor could omit the pain response from the equation, allow him to bear the pain without distraction while his body did the work of adjusting quietly, in the background.

Then maybe he would finally feel like he was in control again.

A soft buzzing against his ribs startled him out of his musings. He lifted his head away from the wall and reached into the inner pocket of his coat to pull out his cellphone, then fumbled with the screen for a moment as he tried to check the caller ID, and only realized that he had instead blindly answered the call when he heard Strikeout’s voice filter through the tinny speaker. “Avos! Hey, I- shit I really didn’t think you were going to pick up.”

Maksim scoffed and let his head knock back against the wall. “I didn’t mean to,” he stated, and Strikeout chuckled as if it had been a joke. “This isn’t a good time,” he pressed on. “I’m waiting to meet with someone.”

“Ah…” Strikeout hesitated for a moment, the silence punctuated by some kind of indeterminate rustling on zir end. “With a loan shark?”

Maksim grit his teeth at the boldness of the assumption, even if it was frankly even odds at this point. This had been an expensive process, and his savings had only gotten him about halfway through it before he had started having to beg and borrow for the rest. “A surgeon,” he said pointedly, just because in that moment he wanted Strikeout to be wrong.

“Where are you now?”

“I’m not telling you that,” Maksim volleyed back, rolling his eyes up toward the ceiling. “But it’s far enough, you can tell Reece I understood her message clearly.”

“That’s not why I’m asking, I-” Maksim’s focus immediately disengaged from the call when a door opened at the far end of the room. The person in the doorway had a tall and willowy stature with angular features, but Maksim couldn’t immediately tell if those were variant features. They beckoned him in with a smile, and he returned it as he stood and quickly pulled on a more sociable persona.

“Hey listen, I’m glad you called but I’ll have to connect with you later,” he said brightly into the phone, then ended the call and tucked it back into his coat without waiting for Strikeout’s reaction.

“I hope you’re not nervous,” Clark said softly as he followed them into the next room.

“Not at all,” he insisted, his tone bright and conversational–a carefully modulated performance, and this was one he had had years to perfect. Another necessary form of control. “I’ve only heard good things.”

All told it was an unremarkable procedure, at least from Maksim’s perspective. Clark supervised him for a day and a half, then asked if there was anyone available to help him with basic tasks for a week or so while he recovered. He assured them that there was, and then went back to the hostel alone.

He could take care of himself. He’d been taking care of himself for a long time, and by now he’d recovered from enough surgeries to know he could do that by himself too. Still, this had been a particularly strange and disorienting one. Everything still hurt–there was a tension all through his upper body, like a chord strung from his temples down through his neck and into his shoulders had been pulled impossibly, dangerously taut. Sunlight burned the back of his eyes. So did screens. The light brace on his neck, to stop him moving enough to pop any stitches, left him feeling not unlike a dog in a cone. And yet, all of it receded to the back of his mind the instant he shifted his focus to anything else. It was easy to ignore, leaving him free to go about his day as he normally would, only to be hit by a fresh wave of soreness and exhaustion every time he settled down enough to let his mind empty. This, he assumed, was why Clark had strongly advised him not to do much for at least two weeks, not to be too active, or in any unpredictable situations, not until his mind and body had time to calibrate the new signals being sent back and forth.

He had been filling most of his time with cooking, carefully avoiding the hostel’s handful of other tenants, and trawling forums he had only barely remembered how to access thanks to Strikeout’s instructions almost a year ago. “Unindexed,” whatever that meant. He had surreptitiously put out inquiries about the warehouse run, hoping to tease out someone who seemed like they might know more than just sensationalized rumors or the same talking points that had already been in the news. It hadn’t amounted to much except the name Alabast–a low level crime syndicate in the New England area, and apparently the people who had hired his team for the job.

His phone screen lit up beside him, the vibration loud and obnoxious against the table’s surface, and he grit his teeth. He had also been ignoring a lot of calls from Strikeout. That particular pastime was rapidly becoming unsustainable, especially when ze had gradually increased zir attempted contacts from one every day or two to one every few hours. In a burst of frustration Maksim finally grabbed the phone and answered it, barking out an unfriendly “what?”

“Thank fucking god,” Strikeout breathed. “Avos are you in Denver?”

Maksim flinched. How did ze know that? “I told you, I’m not-”

Strikeout swore under zir breath. “Have you been posting about the run on Arsenal?”

The abrupt subject change left Maksim scrambling to catch up for a moment. “I thought… if I could find out-”

“From your personal computer?”

He opened his mouth. Didn’t actually say anything. The laptop sat open in front of him and he shot it a sidelong glance, feeling suddenly threatened by its presence. He had the distinct impression that if he told Strikeout the truth, it would also be the wrong answer. All he managed to offer was “это…“

Another frazzled, desperate string of curses from Strikeout, then, “you need to get out of there.”

“Out of… this building?” Maksim asked cautiously. Optimistically.

“Out of the state,” Strikeout insisted.

The deep, steadying breath Maksim tried to take caught in his lungs, as the tingling numbness of panic began to creep up through his extremities. “Why…?”

“Because if I know exactly where you are who else do you think has that information?”

“Oh.”

Who indeed. Why did they even want him? Would Alabast hunt him this far just for a botched robbery? It wasn’t like he owed them money, no one had gotten paid. Maybe it really was a friend of one of the others, not content with simply running him out of town. Strikeout was still talking on the other end but he was barely listening. “… just give me a little time I can set up a secure line for us, if I find out anything I can-” he ended the call.

Okay. No. It was fine. He didn’t have a lot to pack. He’d spent a lot of money on the inhibitor and this hostel but he could afford a bus ticket to… somewhere. Further west than Colorado. He still had options, and he was probably in good enough condition to travel. As soon as he felt like he could breathe again.

#ghost city #maksim girard #ilya kasharin #original fiction #rom fiction #chapter 3 is gonna be more Ilya-centered... they deserve the spotlight for a while gfdsgs

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