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shybunnie20 · 1 year ago

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Virgin!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

strangers to friends to lovers

★Teasers ★Locations ★My Masterlist

Summary: Eddie embarks on a new chapter after finally graduating. He expects to face a variety of hurdles that come with a change of scenery, but what he doesn't anticipate is falling head over heels for you.

Author's Note: Holy shit, I can't believe this is finally finished after 11 months. It’s the first time I've written smut in well over a year and I'm pleased with how it turned out (I couldn't have done it without the support of my beloved @eddiethefreakkmunson)

Location photos are linked above and in the fic at their first mentions. No use of Y/N. Focuses on Eddie's POV. Fluff and mild angst with a happy ending *wink wink*

Word count: 17.3k

Warnings: MDNI 18+! alcohol consumption/drunken behavior, subtly pervy moments, masturbation, fondling, dry humping, protected p in v, oral (f receiving), a little bit of praise & possessiveness, contains profanity.

Eddie was determined to leave Hawkins for good as soon as he tossed his graduation cap to the sky. He didn’t expect how expensive a venture like that would be, so he devised a plan. For a couple of months, he would stick around to save up a financial cushion.

To pocket every penny possible, Eddie took up odd jobs around town like mowing lawns and painting fences. With every task completed, he army crawled his way toward living life on his terms. He didn’t expect it to take him well over a year to save up enough cash.

On this sweltering afternoon, the atmosphere is charged with the promise of new beginnings. The summer sun peeks out from behind the dense clouds and casts irregular shadows on the dirt road of Forest Hills.

His van is packed to the brim with boxes of his belongings. After mentally checking everything twice over, uncertainty twists Eddie’s stomach into knots. What if I have car trouble? What if I get lost? What if it’s not everything I hoped it would be?

Wayne descends the concrete steps and joins Eddie. He lets out a belly-deep sigh that speaks volumes. You’ll figure it out. You’re gonna find your way. Your best days are ahead of you.

There’s a hint of sadness in seeing his boy take this significant step toward independence. But beneath that sorrow, profound pride prevails within Wayne. Eddie’s dreams reach far beyond the boundaries of Hawkins. Sticking around here won’t do him any good.

Eddie looks at the man who’s been his rock; the one who used to rise before dawn to plate crispy bacon and fluffy pancakes, meeting Eddie’s needs before his own. The memories are vivid as he reflects on the milestones his uncle guided him through. Without a doubt, Eddie wouldn’t be half the man he is today if it weren’t for Wayne.

His beloved van sits atop the very spot where he once wiped out while learning to ride a bike without training wheels. “It’s time to be a big boy,” Wayne said, urging Eddie to muster some faith in himself.

Reluctantly, Eddie mounted his small bicycle and clutched the rubber handles. With a push to set him off, he experienced the fleeting thrill of accomplishment as he pedaled forward. He only made it a few feet before his balance wavered.

The bike wobbled, sending Eddie tumbling to the gravel. His knees and palms bore the brunt of the fall, and the sharp pebbles embedded themselves into his scraped skin.

Wayne isn’t exactly a ‘rub some dirt on it’ kind of guy, but he isn’t the coddling type either. He cleaned Eddie’s wounds, slapped on some bandages, and told him to give it another shot. Faced with his nephew’s tearful protests, Wayne emphasized that just because failure stings, it shouldn't deter him from trying again.

“I guess this is it then.” Eddie wipes beads of sweat from his brow using the back of his hand.

“Yep, looks that way. It sure will be quiet without y’here. I got so used to living with all that racket of yours.”

“It’s called good music. You should take it for a spin sometime, it’s way better than that honky-tonk shit you made me listen to growing up.”

“I like my honky-tonk shit just fine, thank you.” They share a laugh.

Wayne will undoubtedly miss their banter, but it’s their Sundays together that weighs the most on his heart. Occasionally, the summer graces them with a few perfect days—pleasantly sunny with a stirring breeze. That weather maintained an unspoken tradition.

When little Eddie moved in, he was struggling to find his footing and hadn’t spoken much. Wayne took him to a serene lakeside spot where the water gently lapped against the shore.

He cast his line into the water in pursuit of a crappie dinner, and six-year-old Eddie gleefully played with the live bait. Over the years, their dynamic remained largely unchanged. Wayne watched his bobber from the swaying dock while Eddie kicked back in a folding lawn chair. It was simple father-son time that didn’t cost more than an afternoon or two. As of now, those days are over.

“You sure you’re gonna be alright without me, old man?”

Wayne shrugs and shoves his hands into his front pockets. “I suppose I’ll manage one way or another.”

“Take care of yourself,” Eddie says firmly.

“Will do. Oof-” Wayne chuckles when he’s abruptly hugged. He smooths over the back of Eddie’s head with his calloused palm.

The men hold onto one another, their unspoken sentiments conveyed in the silent embrace. They exchange a pat on the back before parting.

Wayne’s eyes follow his nephew as he closes the rear doors and makes his way toward the front of the van. “Eddie, one last thing. Remember to take your chances while ya got 'em and strike while the iron’s hot. Don’t let nothin’ pass ya by.”

Offering a firm salute, Eddie hops up and settles into the driver’s seat.

With Hawkins in the rearview mirror, Eddie sets off. Chicago may not be the sprawling metropolises of New York or Los Angeles, but it’s a world apart from his hometown.

It’s far enough away to provide a much-needed change of scenery, yet close enough that he can move back home if things go to shit.

The drive goes smoothly overall with a couple of instances of getting turned around. By the time Eddie is finished with the long hours on the road, he’s bone-weary.

His new place may not be the epitome of luxury, but it’s a roof over his head and that’s all that matters. After lugging his things to the fourth floor, Eddie can finally consider himself moved in. His apartment lacks furniture and decor, but it’s a space he can call his own.

The throbbing of an unbearable intensity plagues his thighs, a fiery reminder of the multiple flights of stairs conquered. He collapses onto his twin mattress and emits a low groan. The sound bounces off the bare walls and echoes through the studio apartment.

Eddie starts noticing the difference in sounds around him. Gone are the barking dogs and tires rolling over gravel. His fridge hums like the one in the trailer, which is nice, but it’s not remotely loud enough to drown out the argument happening in the unit above his.

When the noise finally subsides, he hopes to catch up on some much-needed sleep. But just a few minutes later, the ruckus rekindles. In a bid for tranquility, Eddie clutches his pillow to his ears to block out the animalistic makeup sex seeping through his ceiling. He’s praying that the man is a two-pump chump because this is a lot for a first night. Hell, it’s too much for any night.

In a matter of days, Eddie has already encountered a series of issues. Whenever he tries to use hot water, his shower head screeches like a banshee. And the upstairs neighbors? They wear bricks for shoes and have a hoedown at 2 a.m. on a nightly basis; that is, if they’re not at each other’s throats.

Job hunting has been fruitless. The gas stations, car washes, and tobacco shops turned him down for the same reason: no documented experience. This means that he’s going to be stuck with the makeshift bed frame he came with for a while, which is just wooden planks zip-tied together. He’s not sure how long it’ll be able to withstand his tossing and turning.

There’s good news, though. Eddie refused to succumb to defeat. Today, he strolled past a tattoo parlor and impulsively checked it out. When he approached the counter, Eddie was met by an imposing man with a rather unwelcoming demeanor. In spite of feeling a bit intimidated, he greeted the man warmly.

As expected, the shop owner Cliff, did not reciprocate. When Eddie inquired about job openings, Cliff promptly replied with a curt “no.” Eddie’s tone grew desperate and he nearly pleaded. Cliff became irritated and offered a non-existent custodial position just to get Eddie to shut up and leave.

Currently sprawled on the rickety mattress, Eddie holds Mr. Pickles in the air and looks up at him. His trusty plushie is a bit worse for wear, having had his seams sutured with crimson battle vest thread.

“We’re doing it, buddy. We’re finally doing it.”

Shortly after moving in with his uncle, he had trouble falling asleep in the unfamiliar trailer. Wayne, hoping to provide comfort, gifted Eddie the stuffed bunny. It swiftly became a treasured part of his life, symbolizing safety and support—two things he hadn’t received much of up to that point.

The floppy-eared companion got its name from Wayne’s favorite snack. Whenever his uncle would pop the lid on a fresh jar of pickles, young Eddie would erupt into a fit of laughter. He insisted that Wayne was going to transform into a pickle due to how fast he blows through a jar.

In his twenties now, Eddie still cuddles with Mr. Pickles every night. If his pal could talk, he’d tell him how proud he is. Eddie rolls onto his side and nuzzles the bunny’s worn fur. That smile lingers on his face while he drifts off to sleep, now with a sense of hope for the days ahead.

The time has come. Eddie has worn through his entire wardrobe and needs to make a trip to the laundromat. Having a washer in the trailer was something he didn’t fully appreciate until now.

Taking a quick look around his apartment, Eddie spots a cardboard box that’ll suffice in lieu of a laundry basket. He fills the box with the scattered clothes from the floor, slips on his sneakers, and makes his way out onto the street.

Nestled in the heart of his neighborhood, Eddie arrives at his destination. The air carries an overwhelming fresh scent of detergent. It’s not bustling by any means; there are only a handful of people here.

Compared to those who are well-versed in their routine, Eddie feels out of place. He chooses an available machine and plops his box of dirty clothes on the counter behind him. He inspects the front-loading washer, not versed in its functions and operation. Eddie goes to open the machine’s door but it refuses to yield.

His patience wanes with each futile tug. Just as frustration peaks, a sudden realization dawns on him, prompting a blush to sweep across his cheeks. There’s a lock hidden on the flip side of the handle.

With the press of his thumb, the lock disengages and the door screeches open. Hot under the collar, Eddie hastily scoops up his clothes and stuffs them into the damp drum. He slams the door shut with a mechanical click, the sound signaling the lock relatching.

This place lacks helpful signage, to say the least. The only one here displays the cost of running a cycle, but there’s nothing to guide newcomers through the process.

Eddie pulls out his wallet to retrieve a few quarters. After inserting them, he figures out the detergent tray without much trouble. But as Eddie presses the START button repeatedly, increasing his force with each press, the machine stubbornly refuses to respond.

“You have to choose a setting.”

Eddie jumps at the sound of your voice, his brows arched and mouth hanging open. “Huh?”

You walk over from the adjacent wall of driers a few feet away. “It won’t start unless you select a wash setting first.”

He looks at you like a deer-in-the-headlights, so you step in and set the machine to delicate for him. The washer springs to life and water begins to fill the drum.

“Ah, that makes sense,” Eddie says while rubbing the back of his neck. “These are so different from the one I had back home.”

“Where’s home?” You resume your task of folding your clean laundry on the nearby counter.

Eddie is visibly taken aback by your continued engagement. “A town in Indiana that you’ve definitely never heard of." He starts to fidget with the detergent jug’s cap, though it’s already sealed.

Suddenly, Eddie feels self-conscious about his appearance. Talking to a cute girl wasn’t on the agenda today, he didn’t dress for this. He regrets choosing function over fashion; his denim shorts are an old pair of Wayne’s jeans that he cropped to wear while mowing lawns. The raw hems are messily frayed and the light blue is darkened with grass stains.

“Indiana, huh? You’re a ways from home then. What brings you to The Windy City?”

Eddie’s attention lands on your pile of clothes, subtly assessing your wardrobe choices. “Uh- just needed a change of pace, I guess.”

“Chasing the dream, right? Figured Chicago had more to offer?” You peek at him, catching his stare fixed on a pair of underwear at the top of the pile—a standard white cotton panty, nothing worth ogling.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, his posture stiffening when you make eye contact. He swallows hard, averts his gaze, and shifts his weight between the balls of his feet. “Something like that.”

“Did you bring your band with you?” You take the undergarment in question and fold it, seemingly unfazed.

As you move the folded pile into your laundry basket, his clothes start thumping inside the machine, causing suds to splash against the glass window.

Eddie’s brows knit together. “How’d you know I have a band?”

“You’ve got the look,” You remark as your eyes travel over him.

He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. “Is that so? Do enlighten me, what’s the dead giveaway?”

“Your hair."

Eddie swishes his brunette curls like a lady in a shampoo commercial. “Too predictable?”

“I’d say it’s on brand. Let me guess, Slayer? Maybe a little Dio or Megadeth?”

Eddie narrows his eyes at you before looking down at his shoes. “Jesus Christ, you’re reading me like a goddamn book.”

You cock your head to the side, playfulness tugging at your lips. “And if I were to look for this book in a store, what name might I find it under?”

“Eddie.” He lets his arms fall to his sides. When you tell him your name, it bounces around in his head. How pretty, he thinks.

After lifting your full laundry basket, you step away from the counter. “Good luck with the dryers. Oh, and just a heads up, those doors lock too. Don’t go yankin’ the handle off unless you’re looking to take home a souvenir.” You giggle to yourself as you walk out of the laundromat.

Eddie’s mouth hangs open while he watches you leave. Once you’re gone, his attention drifts to the nearby bulletin board. Among the various flyers, one advertises an open mic night. He decides that he’ll check it out sometime this week.

At Double Barrel Bar, Eddie is swallowed by a sea of mainstream nonconformity. The bar-goers are dressed similarly to him, and while the crowd is mostly younger people, they’re still a touch older than him.

A symphony of clinking glasses and animated chatter collides with the thunderous live metal music. The dense haze of tobacco smoke and the distant clatter of pool balls only enrich the ambiance. The walls are adorned with framed music memorabilia and band posters, a mix of global icons and local talents.

Eddie is enveloped with nostalgia. This place reminds him of the gigs he used to play with Corroded Coffin, although they never played for an audience this size. Staring at the stage, he questions whether he could engage such a crowd and persuade them that he’s worth listening to.

Between two other men at the bar, Eddie takes a seat.

Lee, the bartender, greets him. “What can I get ya?”

Eddie shrugs and hooks his sneakers beneath the rung of the stool. “I'll take a cold one, whatever's cheapest.”

“You got it. Bottle or tap?” Lee wipes his hands on the white rag draped over his shoulder.

“Bottle is fine.”

Lee retrieves a bottle of beer and deftly pops the cap before sliding it over to Eddie.

His fingers curl around the icy glass, the condensation cool to the touch. Eddie’s plump lips wrap around the bottle’s rim and he takes his first sip. The crisp liquid trickles down his throat, offering a short-lived remedy for the stuffiness of the room.

As Lee tends to another patron, Eddie fidgets in his seat, causing the flier in his back pocket to crinkle. “So, you host an open mic?”

“Yeah, Thursday through Sunday. Are you any good?” Lee asks.

Eddie flips his guitar pick necklace between his fingers. “I like to think so. I guess you’d have to ask the ants in my kitchen, they’re the closest thing I've had to an audience lately.”

Lee snorts. “I've got a good feeling about you, I’m gonna reserve a spot.”

“Oh, uh- you don't have to do that.”

Lee waves his hand in dismissal and gathers the abandoned glassware from the now-empty seat beside Eddie. “No pressure, just swing by on Thursday if you’re interested.”

The opportunity intrigues Eddie, but performing alone is uncharted territory. Contemplating the offer, Eddie grapples with a cloud of self-doubt looming over his decision.

It’s been two months, and his routine is now established. Each day brings progress and a sense of reward, even though there have been occasional hiccups along the way.

Surviving the sweltering summer with a broken AC was sheer hell. He found himself spending ample time nude in his apartment or standing in front of the open freezer compartment of the refrigerator; sometimes simultaneously. Fortunately, September has arrived, and the temperature has begun to wind down.

Managing expenses requires a frugal approach, given the modest pay from his custodial job. Eddie resorts to taking power showers and using candles to keep his utility bill low.

Sometimes he forgoes meals to keep an extra couple of bucks on hand. But when he does eat, he opts for saltine crackers slathered in butter, bologna sandwiches, canned soups, and plain noodles. Occasionally he treats himself to store-bought pasta sauce, though it’s still the saddest spaghetti known to man.

Eddie faces skepticism from the seasoned artists at the tattoo shop, all military veterans who view him as an arrogant kid. Their perception fuels his determination to prove himself. To earn their respect, he’s dedicated to cleaning more thoroughly than he ever has in his life.

He’s become keenly observant, absorbing every detail of the professional tattooing process, despite never being included in those conversations. Within the circle of artists—Ace, Lunchbox, and Dozer—Eddie gravitates toward Ace, who becomes a mentor. Seeing Eddie’s genuine enthusiasm, Ace asks about his drawing abilities.

Although Eddie’s sketchbook is brimming with fantastical creatures, Ace can recognize a young man’s raw ambition and desire for direction and purpose. He takes Eddie under his wing, allowing him to learn the medium while on the clock.

After taking Lee up on his offer, Eddie found himself on stage every Thursday night. His performances were rusty, as he hadn’t played in front of anyone since before he was working his ass off to get here.

As he strummed through the jitters, Eddie rediscovered the sanctuary that music had always offered. It felt like a part of him had resurrected, reviving the passion he sorely missed.

Playing Thursday nights may not rake in tips like the weekends would, but he’ll take what he can get. Eddie’s been saving up for some pre-owned furniture, and he’s happy to snag any extra cash he can for it.

Life is good right now. The worry about moving back home has lessened, and he’s genuinely amazed at how smoothly things are going. Just when Eddie thought things couldn’t get any better, a Saturday night slot opened up at the bar.

It would be twice as busy, packed from wall to wall with people who could bare witness to him fucking up. Doubt crept its way in, but when Lee mentioned that Eddie could pocket thirty-five bucks or more by the night’s end, it was a no-brainer.

Tonight marks his debut Saturday gig. Stepping through the red brick archway and out onto the stage, the creak of the rustic boards beneath his feet sends a ripple up his legs. Eddie hasn’t even made it to the mic and he’s already forgotten what foot he’s supposed to be stepping with next.

Beneath his t-shirt, his back grows slick. A lump lodges itself in Eddie’s throat, causing his voice to crack when he introduces himself to the room. Amidst the overlapping conversations and the flushing from the nearby restroom, the amassed noise seems muffled. The strong winds in his head distort the sounds, whirling like a twister.

Eddie hooks his guitar up to the amp and forces himself to take a deep breath. As he tunes his instrument, the upheaval begins to settle. Gradually, Eddie finds unity with his guitar and concentrates on perfecting the tone.

Throughout the performance, there’s a persistent undertow of nerves refusing to fully subside. In spite of his efforts to lose himself in the music, his fingers occasionally falter as they dance on the strings.

At the end of his set, Lee can be heard whooping and hollering over the sparse clapping. With a sense of relief, Eddie packs up and makes a beeline for the bar, eager to ease the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Normally, the rush is akin to a high, but this time around it’s so intense that he’s dying to dial it back a notch.

He splurges and orders something a bit fancier than his usual bland beer. Why not celebrate a little? Eddie claims a recently vacated table in the bustling crowd, seating himself on the leather stool adorned with studs. His eyes roam the room while he takes a swig of his drink, savoring the superior crisp taste.

His attention zeroes in on a figure just feet away, a quick recognition igniting in his mind. Eddie recognizes you instantly, due to the scarcity of memorable encounters he’s had.

Eddie observes from afar, observing your mannerisms as you execute your waitressing duties. You must only work weekends, which would explain why your paths haven’t crossed again until now. When your eyes meet his, a shock shoots through his body.

He sits in rapt anticipation as you make your way over. Time seems to stretch unbearably from your previous spot until you finally stand opposite of him, separated only by the circular wooden table.

A courteous smile graces your face—a skill that waitresses must master if they want to pay rent. “Ready for another?”

Eddie stares back at you. His eyes drift down to the almost full beer bottle in his hand. The cogs in his skull are scraping, unable to put the words you’ve said to him in a comprehensive order. He nods without making a peep.

You pivot to leave, but then turn back to him and lift a brow at his unaltered dumbstruck expression. “Are you sure? ‘Cause you don’t look it.”

He remains silent and shakes his head sheepishly, feeling foolish for agreeing to another beer and then changing his mind just because you asked again. Is there more dignity in being indecisive than a bumbling mess?

“You were just singing up there for nearly an hour.” You call him out, folding your arms and tucking your serving tray against your side. “I know you can talk.”

Eddie clears his throat, but he ends up making an odd sound. “Uh, my throat’s a bit sore, that’s all.”

“Did you forget to do your vocal warm-ups or what?”

“It probably sounded like I did." Eddie laughs, the self-deprecation evident.

“Not at all, I thought you were great.”

“Yeah?” Eddie’s lips curl at your compliment. Heat blooms on his cheeks, amplifying the full-body perspiration. He takes a casual sip from his beer, a guise to moisten his dry mouth and escape your intimidating gaze.

“Totally, you really come alive when you’re up there." You rest your forearms on the table’s edge. “Is it just Eddie, or do you go by a stage name?”

No way. There’s no fucking way that you remember him, his face is so forgettable it’s not even funny. Lee had to have said something about who was filling the Saturday night spot. Eddie is inwardly thrilled to hear his name roll off of your tongue, but he tries to maintain his composure. “I suppose not, I guess I never thought about it.”

“You could pull it off, it suits the whole ‘one-man show’ thing you’ve got going on,” You say while giving him a once-over. The intrigue on your face is unwavering as you walk away.

He’s drunk, he has to be. Or maybe his drink was spiked somehow. The room is spinning and he feels nauseous as all hell, despite only having taken a few swigs from his beer.

A short while later, Eddie’s bottle is half-empty as he sits, continuously replaying the moment in his mind. More specifically, he can’t stop thinking about the sparkle in your eyes; he’s never seen anything like it.

He snaps back from his daydream at the sight of your return, this time with an unopened beer in hand. Eddie looks nothing short of puzzled as you slide it across the table toward him. “Uh, no thanks, I’m-”

“Relax, it’s not for you. I’ll be clocking out in six minutes. I wanna hear more about that small town of yours. I mean, as long as that’s okay with you. I understand if you have other plans tonight.”

“No!” Eddie exclaims. “I mean, yes it’s more than okay, and no, I don’t have anywhere to be.”

You glance downward while scuffing your shoe against the floor. “Okay, cool. Keep it cold for me then?”

“Yeah, for sure. You can count on me.”

Shit shit shit. How is he going to keep this beer cold? Of course, ways to heat it flood his mind. If you come back to a lukewarm beer, that’ll be the end of him. He’s going to fuck this up and any chance of getting to know you will be squashed.

When you join him again, your drink is still cold and the bottle has left a ring of moisture on the paper coaster. Eddie’s unsure of how he managed to not lose it; if he’s capable of anything, it’s misplacing something when his only responsibility is to keep it in his possession.

As you slide onto the stool beside him, you’re quick to inquire. You ask him typical ice-breaker questions at first, and Eddie responds with a plethora of details. At times, he goes off on tangents. You don’t appear bothered by it.

Eddie talks about his ability to learn how to play songs by ear, and he delves into the intricacies of his favorite Dungeons & Dragons campaigns that he’s created over the years. He earnestly tries to convey its depth to you and throughout his ramblings, he doesn’t miss the concentrated look on your face as you try to keep up.

Lee is nearing the end of his cleaning routine and the other waitresses have left for the night. Neither of you is aware that the bar is devoid of a crowd, scorching lights, and blaring music.

Eddie has been too busy asking you about your origins and passions, his wide eyes and attentive demeanor affirming his genuine interest. Just as he mentions working at the shop and you’ve asked him how many tattoos he has, you’re interrupted.

Lee stands beside the table, armed with a damp rag and a spray bottle. “Awfully hard to wipe the seats when your asses are still on them. Scoot your booch,” Lee instructs by motioning toward the entrance.

Eddie doesn’t hesitate to slip off his stool. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time.

“Have a good night.” You give Lee’s shoulder a friendly pat.

Uncertain of his next move, Eddie hesitates while you make your way to an unmarked door. It’s half past two in the morning, and he feels a tug of concern about you leaving by yourself.

There’s a very good chance that you’d consider him clingy or intrusive if he waits here. Eddie opts to stand outside. He props himself against the building and idly nudges a loose chunk of concrete with his shoe to keep himself occupied. Soon after, you emerge into the night.

The slam of the heavy door prompts him to straighten up. “Hey.”

“Oh, I thought you left,” you admit and adjust your purse strap on your shoulder. “Thanks for telling me about Hawkins the Hell Hole.”

“The pleasure was all mine. Do you, uh…” Eddie inches forward, his Reeboks scraping loudly on the pavement. “Would you like me to walk you home? It’s pretty late.”

“I don’t live far, it’s just a few blocks.’

“Okay, I guess I’ll see you around then?”

Your eyes twinkle brighter than he’d previously seen. “I’d say the odds are in your favor.”

“Goodnight. Get home safe,” He says with a half-hearted bow.

“Likewise." You bite back a giggle.

Eddie watches you fade into the darkness along the unlit patches of sidewalk. Once you’ve turned the corner, Eddie smiles from the surreal sensation of floating on clouds.

In this moment, the feeling of joy is so potent that it’s borderline palpable. He’s the embodiment of elation, a soul soaring high. It’s a feeling he wishes he could bottle up and carry with him forever.

The next Saturday plays out much like the previous one, save for one detail: it’s considerably tougher to concentrate on stage knowing who’s in the audience. Post-performance, the routine echoes that of the prior week. The two of you gravitate toward the same table as before, establishing it as the one you’ll always sit at.

At first, a hesitation lingers before diving into more personal topics. However, as the night progresses and more beers are consumed, you seamlessly fall into them. Eddie weaves elements of drama and romanticism into his past, making it utterly engrossing for you to listen to.

When you propose getting together outside of the confines of the bar for the first time, Eddie eagerly accepts your invitation to show him around since he has yet to do any sightseeing.

Eddie is swept up in an exuberant wave of boyish excitement, and it’s unlike anything he’s ever felt. He never experienced it during his teenage years like the average person. The sheer thrill of having an instant connection with a girl is an entirely new feeling for him.

Week after week, your laundry days are synchronized and you’ve started the habit of making silly faces or giving each other the finger just because. During the late nights spent together at Dove’s Diner, Eddie finds enjoyment in seeing you eat. It’s a peculiar fascination, but it makes him happy. Seeing you completely at ease while enjoying greasy food is endearing to him.

When he arrived in Chicago, Eddie couldn’t shake the feeling of not wanting to move back to Hawkins. Even so, he wasn’t experiencing the same comfort here as he did in that cramped trailer.

There was a longing for familiarity that he had in his old surroundings. Eddie didn’t want to have to go back home in order to feel that sense of belonging again. He had his doubts about ever truly adjusting to life here until you came along. In your company, the foreignness of the city fades away, replaced by that feeling he’s been missing.

Several times, he’s been working in his sketchbook, adding to the pin-up style figures and faces that bear a striking resemblance to you. While engrossed in drawing, he hadn’t picked up on the similarities. But when he absentmindedly drew a simple heart, that's when it occurred to him.

Eddie like-likes you.

As your shift comes to an end, you head to the back room to gather your belongings. Eddie stands idly at your claimed table, picking at his hangnails while he waits.

“When’re you gonna ask her out?” Lee asks while tidying up nearby.

Eddie laughs heartily at the idea. “How about never.”

“You should. I can tell she’s into you.”

“Yeah, right. I don’t stand a chance.”

Lee puts down his spray bottle and looks at Eddie. “Listen, I’ve known her for a while now. Trust me on this." He dumps a used ashtray out into a trash bag.

Eddie emits a noise of disbelief, his mind flickering back to the painful lesson he learned in his youth—he’s no one's type. Lost in reflection, he doesn’t realize you’ve returned with your sweatshirt draped over your bent arm.

Despite the tiring evening, you're upbeat in his presence. “Okay, I’m ready! I was thinking we could get some takeout and watch TV at my place.”

“Sure, I could eat,” Eddie says with a grin. Lee is shaking his head, looking particularly smug.

Your apartment is the polar opposite of Eddie’s, the difference is like day and night. It has a homey atmosphere and there’s a notable absence of wear and tear. He does have band posters, framed personal photos, and furniture, but they fail to create the same inviting ambiance that your apartment effortlessly exudes.

Seated beside Eddie on your couch, you tease him. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I’m trying!” He attempts to mimic your technique, but the piece of chicken repeatedly falls from his chopsticks.

“I can see that.” You stifle a laugh. “And you’re total shit at it.”

Out of frustration, Eddie impales his sweet and sour chicken with both sticks.

Glancing your way, he catches you smiling ear to ear, watching him. Eddie smiles back as he chews. “What? This way works just as well.”

You laugh and refocus your on the TV while resuming your meal. Eddie swears that you’re sitting closer to him than when you first sat down. Your thigh is almost touching his and your shoulder is just as close.

The paranoia subsides as he gets lost in thinking about how he can feel the heat radiating off of your bare thigh. But Eddie’s pulled back to reality when your chopsticks cut across his vision and dig into his takeout box.

He doesn’t mind, not really; sharing is caring. Having said that, when you lean over to look into the box, your shoulder bumps against his. A particularly appreciative sound escapes your lips, one that’s borderline pornographic.

“That’s really good, I’ll have to get some next time,” you hum and place your takeout box on the coffee table. “Or I could just keep stealing yours, it tastes better that way.”

Eddie is frozen, eyes unblinking. As you return to your spot on the sofa, you’re unquestionably closer this time. Your beautiful skin is on display in those shorts of yours and your bare thigh is brushing against his own. He could choke on air right now if he were still breathing.

You look over at him, your brow furrowed. “You good?”

“Yeah, yep. All good.” Eddie avoids making eye contact and stares blankly ahead. “Peachy keen.”

“Okay, weirdo." You brush off his abrupt awkwardness and scoot toward the edge of the cushion. After gathering your trash, you look at him. “All finished?”

“Mhm,” he replies weakly and extends his box toward you.

With your arms full, you head into the kitchen, leaving him by his lonesome in the living room.

Eddie releases a heavy sigh and drags his hands down his face. Your absence allows him to reenter his body, but it only makes him keenly aware of his not-so-subtle half hard-on that’s outlined through the thin fabric of his shorts.

His eyes widen in alarm and panic takes over. “Shit!” Frantically brainstorming ways to conceal it, Eddie spots a fuzzy blanket at the far end of the couch and he retrieves it, draping it over his lap. While he tries to make himself look as casual as possible, he catches a glimpse of your approaching shadow just before the kitchen light is switched off.

In the few seconds he has left, Eddie tries out various hand placements, but none feel quite right. Every position feels forced and conspicuous.

As you stride back to the couch, your sweet expression eases some of the tension in his bones. “I got a bit chilly,” Eddie blurts out, hoping to preempt any impending questioning. “Is it okay if I use this?”

“No, I’m totally gonna tell you that you can’t use a blanket for its sole purpose.”

Eddie laughs nervously. “Alright, alright.”

This is arguably worse, being wrapped in your scent. It’s awfully hard not to get any harder when your natural smell is flooding his head. It’s intoxicating, and he finds himself inhaling deeply to capture as much of it as he can.

“What’d I miss?” You ask while plopping back down beside him.

The continuous movement causes Eddie to clench his back molars together because an image surges before he can even think to suppress it. He’d bet all the money he has that you’d look stunning on top of him. There’s fantasy looming alongside the image; Eddie wonders what you look like beneath your clothes.

“Nothing, you didn’t miss anything,” He mutters. When you start to squirm against the back of the couch, Eddie shoots you a questioning look. “You got ants in your pants?”

You huff. “No, there’s an itchy spot on my back. Could you scratch it for me, please? It’s driving me nuts.”

“Oh, um, sure.” Eddie fumbles for words as you angle yourself and present your back to him. “Where is it?”

“Right between my shoulder blades.”

Eddie’s eyes zero in on the outline of your bra strap that’s visible through your shirt across your back. Given his luck, that would be the target. Just to be cautious, he starts by scratching at the higher middle part of your back.

“A little lower.”

Eddie swallows hard as his fingers tentatively inch their way down. His belly begins to swirl the closer he gets to the clasp, but thankfully, you stop him just before he reaches it.

“Right there! Yeah, harder.”

If this goes on too much longer, Eddie could very well pass out. But, per your request, he applies more pressure. Beneath the blanket, the discomfort has only intensified—his arousal is now raging with a persistent ache.

“Oh my god, finally,” You say appreciatively and settle back into a more relaxed position.

The overwhelming urge to touch himself skyrockets as his body begs for friction. Eddie repositions himself to adjust the blanket, hoping to keep his erection concealed. From the corner of his eye, his gaze drifts along your figure, pausing at the rise and fall of your diaphragm as you watch TV.

A jagged breath falls from his lips, but he’s determined to clear his mind. Realizing that he can’t leave here tonight with your blanket as a shield, he has to find a way to distract himself by the end of this program.

Miraculously, he survived. Now lying in his bed, Eddie is surrounded by the darkness, save for the glow of the moon and the faint residual light from the streetlamps filtering through the broken blinds. Eddie stares up at the ceiling while his mostly naked body responds to the vivid recollections swarming his train of thought.

On any ordinary day, Eddie would resort to the routine of using his hand and lotion to relieve himself. Be that as it may, the stirring in his core demands a different sensation.

With the thought of you weighing heavily on his mind, there’s an alternative means by which he’s going to alleviate the frustration and desire that’s grown too loud to ignore. Eddie, already shirtless, yanks his boxers off in a swift motion and kicks them off carelessly. Moving onto his knees, he leans over the edge of his bed and retrieves a pillow from the floor.

He sits back on his heels in the middle of his bed and contorts the stuffing with intent. For a moment, he’s not sure how he wants to use it. His body’s impatience grows, causing his erection to bob expectantly.

Eddie licks his lips in anticipation and sets the bent pillow down with the bend facing him. With one hand, he firmly holds the makeshift toy in place. With his other, he strokes himself languidly, blotting the fabric of the pillowcase with precum as he taps his cock against it repeatedly.

Experimentally, Eddie rolls his hips downward, thrusting the sensitive underside of his length against the smooth material. His eyes fall closed, and he can’t seem to pick just one aspect of you to fantasize about, not when every inch of you is so captivating. Eddie grunts, “Yeah, you like that?”

He adjusts his hips, angling them lower to get more friction. The heat blooming causes Eddie’s jaw to go slack. The usual five or six minutes have been halved as the thought of your smile makes Eddie embarrassingly close already.

Wanting to get in a few more thrusts before he’s spent, Eddie pistons himself against the pillow. “Tell me how badly you want me, I wanna hear you say it.”

With one fist continuing to pin the pillow down against the mattress, Eddie trails his other hand up his pale, slender stomach. He digs his gnawed-down nails into his skin, leaving red streaks behind, as he tries to imagine it as your touch. Eddie doesn’t know what it would feel like if it wasn’t his hand, but the thought of you is more than enough.

Devoid of any visual aid, the absence of a magazine or porno tape isn’t hindering him. Typically, when Eddie only has his imagination to utilize, he can beat off without finishing until he eventually gets bored and gives up.

This time it’s different. As his thoughts run wild, Eddie’s rhythm falters. The bed frame squeaks, and the wood shifts while he thrusts as hard as he can.

A coarse moan pours from his throat as his cum shoots onto the pillow. Eddie’s thrusts slow to a stop and he pants. The tension in his abdomen gradually subsides as he floats his way back down to earth.

His eyes flutter open, and he’s faced with the mess he made. “Fuckin’ hell.” With a sigh, Eddie decides that he’ll deal with it tomorrow.

After changing into fresh boxers, he chugs down a glass of tap water. Utterly exhausted, Eddie collapses back onto his bed. The aged frame creaks in protest to his abrupt flop. The intensity has been burned away, and what lingers is rawness.

Here’s the thing, Eddie has a way with words, and his unconventional charm comes without a second thought. But conveying himself physically is a different story. His upbringing lacked affection, and consequently, Eddie was robbed of particular milestones. Among those missed moments was sitting on the grass beneath a starry night sky on summer night.

Eddie never got to pluck the green blades from the ground as he gathered the courage to have his first kiss. He hasn’t so much as held someone’s hand before.

With Mr. Pickles tucked under his chin, a wave washes over his heart, wading him further into the tide of ache. Eddie may be inexperienced but he’s not stupid. He’s picking up what you’re putting down. Your persistent hints practically scream at him to make a move.

But your persistence only worsens the anxiety because Eddie’s not sure that he can take the leap like you want him to. It’s not that he doesn’t want you, that couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s uncertainty about what to do if he gets to be with you.

Eddie’s drawn to you, his poor pillow could tell you that much. This isn’t the first night he’s spent laying here trying to talk some sense into himself. When he practices being smooth instead of awkward, Eddie struggles to navigate through the hypothetical scenarios that he’s in complete control of.

If his bedroom walls could speak, they’d tell of those nights. But after the sinful act he just committed, they have a hell of a lot more to say. Those bold utterances were far from who he is. It was a facade, a portrayal of a self-assured man he’ll never embody.

Talking dirty made him feel powerful in the moment because the mask allowed him to avoid facing how he truly feels about you. At his core, what Eddie craves is to baby you, he wants to show you that he can be sensitive. He’d die on the spot to see you in a state of delight from being showered with adoration.

Eddie closes his eyes and envisions a world where he can be what you want. He’d never be oblivious to having food in his teeth, and he’d never push a door that should be pulled. This false reality is one where he doesn’t disappoint you by shying away from your advances. It’s unrealistic, he’s just not wired that way.

During his younger years, Eddie endured the worst of taunting. The other kids mocked his short frizzy curls by referring to it as a 'rat’s nest.' They told him that he’d resemble a troll until his dying days. It was ingrained into him that he was unworthy of any form of love—be it familial, platonic, or romantic. The remarks made about Eddie’s prominent nose convinced him that he was a walking safety hazard and he’d poke someone’s eye out if he ever dared to kiss them.

In the seventh grade, Eddie hit a breaking point. He was fed up with having chewing gum put into his curls. There are too many times to count where Wayne sat for hours with a jar of peanut butter, attempting to free the cemented wads from his nephew’s locks. One day, Eddie stood in front of the mirror in the cramped bathroom and cried at the discovery of another bright pink clump of gum tangled in his hair.

It may have been just one piece at that time, but it was the final straw. Out of desperation, Eddie did the only thing he felt would solve the problem for good. By taking matters into his own hands, he used the clippers to give himself a buzz-cut. As chestnut-colored locks cascaded down, settling atop the sink and his feet, the damage was done.

Wayne lent a hand in handling the patchy spots in the back of Eddie’s head that he couldn’t quite reach. The impromptu solution worked as he’d hoped, but it only opened the door to different torment.

The following school day, his classmates didn’t hold back, likening his appearance to that of an inmate waiting to meet Old Sparky, or cruelly suggesting that he resembles his imprisoned father.

Eddie quickly came to understand that he was never going to be the guy girls wished would ask them to the dance. The scars of rejection were etched into his self-esteem, and since then, he’s come to terms with his inadequacy.

Perhaps you’re interested in Eddie because there are still things you don’t know about him. Surely, once you learn how unworthy he is, you’ll laugh in his face just as the others did.

Tonight he’s shielded from the nightlife commotion inside his van, parked along the curb outside your apartment. He sits patiently, watching the pine tree-shaped air freshener gently sway with the feeble push of air from the AC vents.

It’s Friday night, and there’s nothing he’d rather do than spend it with you. Eddie directs his attention toward your building as you descend the steps of your apartment’s stoop.

Eddie detects the effort, even from afar. Your shoes look new and you’re wearing more makeup than he’s used to seeing you in. These differences have him pondering the significance behind the deliberate choices.

When Eddie casually suggested catching a movie a few days ago, he hadn’t thought much of it. To him, it was merely something you hadn't done together. He didn’t think twice when you got so excited about seeing a late-night showing of Die Hard.

It’s dawning on him that it wasn’t because you’re a big Bruce Willis fan. The reason you’re all gussied up is because this is a date. He asked you out on a date.

This is not a problem, per se. Eddie’s thrilled about going on his very first date, but fear also has him in a chokehold because he’s unprepared.

Wayne never took the time to give his nephew the lowdown on dating. It didn’t come up because Eddie never displayed interest or curiosity about it.

He’s at a loss. Eddie doesn’t know how to carry himself, he doesn’t have a clue about what’s considered proper etiquette beyond what he’s seen on TV and in movies. Are those even reliable sources?

As you cross the sidewalk in his direction, Eddie’s palms grow slick. It suddenly registers that he should be outside, ready to hold the car door open for you. But before he can act on this realization, you swiftly swing the door open and slip onto the passenger seat.

"Hi," you chirp, the sound almost a squeak as you close the car door behind you. You subtly adjust the bottom of your dress before securing your seatbelt.

“Hey.” Eddie’s eyes wander over your body until he finds himself admiring your bare knees.

With a jolt, his eyes snap back to your face, only for you to be watching him with a pleased expression adorning your features.

Eddie clears his throat and busies himself with turning over the ignition. “You look nice." He scrunches his face. “Pretty! I meant to say you look pretty.”

"Thanks!" You inspect your freshly painted nails to ensure they’ve withstood the indecisive wardrobe changes of the past half hour.

Throughout the brief drive, engaging in small talk grants Eddie a temporary respite from his brain being in overdrive. Determined to maintain composure, he makes a conscious effort to avoid looking your way.

Eddie successfully carries the conversation as you enter the lobby and get through the refreshments line. Luckily, you secure the last two seats at the end of a row; he’d have been mortified if the theater was oversold and there weren’t any seats left.

The first half of the movie goes as one would expect; you’re comfortably seated beside him, occasionally whispering commentary to each other. Meanwhile, Eddie shovels fistfuls of over-buttered and under-salted popcorn into his mouth, crunching away as the scenes progress on the screen before him.

But then there’s a subtle shift in your body language. He assumes that your inability to sit still might be caused by the need for a restroom break. That is until your knee gradually inches closer to his.

The film has become an afterthought as Eddie watches you place your hand on your thigh, noticeably close to his own that’s casually hanging off of the armrest. It’s impossible to differentiate the pounding pulse in his ears from the blasts of gunfire booming through the theater.

When your fingertips graze his, Eddie rips his hand away to reach for the bucket of popcorn that’s resting in the ditch of his opposite arm. “Want some?” He fails to whisper while offering the bucket to you.

The explosive flashes of red and yellow harshly illuminate your face and without a word, you shake your head and go back to the movie.

Eddie puts the bucket back where it was, and in the hopes of distracting himself from the guilty tingle in his feet, he fidgets with his wristwatch. Repeatedly, Eddie clasps and unclasps it, making the strap incredibly loose and uncomfortably tight around his wrist.

A few minutes go by and without warning, his heart stops because you unexpectedly rest your head on his shoulder.

As if struck by lightning, Eddie leaps to his feet. The motion launches the bucket of popcorn into the air, and the people in the row in front of you are showered with kernels. He's as stiff as a board as he’s confronted with mild uproar and a chorus of expletives.

Red-faced and unsure of whom to apologize to first, Eddie turns to you. “Shit! I’ll go get another one.” He doesn’t wait for your response and rushes down the stairs, practically leaping over them two at a time.

After bursting through the double doors and out into the empty hallway, Eddie brings his palm to his forehead, his other hand propped on his hip while he paces. Once he’s able to collect himself, Eddie heads toward the lobby, only to find that everything is powered down.

Eddie decides to use the little time he has to rehearse what he’ll say. There might not be anything he can do to play off his peculiar behavior; at least, nothing that he can think of at the moment.

As he shows up empty-handed, Eddie doesn’t overlook your rigid posture. Your left leg is crossed over your right, pointing away from him. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that you’re just upset that he wasted the popcorn and didn't get more.

In your lack of questioning, Eddie feels compelled to explain himself. “Concessions were closed, so…” He gestures with upturned palms, but you don’t acknowledge that he’s spoken or come back.

Not having received a response, Eddie resorts to chewing on his thumbnail and his leg bounces in tandem. Lost in his head, he finds it increasingly difficult to focus on the remainder of the movie.

Exiting the theater and stepping out into the parking lot, Eddie’s voice lacks confidence as he walks alongside you. “What’d ya think? I give it a solid six out of ten.”

You reply with a casual shrug and wrap your arms around yourself. “It was alright.”

“How ‘bout I treat you to Dove’s? Wanna go for a bite?” Eddie suggests to salvage the remainder of the evening.

“I’ll pass. I’m not hungry,” you say curtly, taking a step ahead to open the passenger door for yourself, denying Eddie a second chance to hold it open for you.

“Oh,” Eddie begins, but his sentence is severed by the slam of the door. “Okay." he finishes with a sigh.

During the drive back to your neighborhood, the air feels dense. The radio commercials do little to fill the space between you.

Upon the front tire nudging the curb, you get out of the van before Eddie has put it in park. He hurriedly follows suit, rushing over to catch up with you as you head toward your front steps. “I had a good time tonight. Did you?”

Pausing in your steps, you turn around and face him. “Yeah, I guess.”

Knowing that he’s the cause of your deflated spirit punches a pang to his chest. Eddie offers a gentle expression. “Would you wanna go again sometime? Probably best if you hold the popcorn though.” He chuckles uncomfortably.

“Night, Eddie,” You say with finality before letting yourself into your apartment.

Once you’ve gone inside, dejection overtakes Eddie’s features. “Goodnight,” he mutters to himself, biting the inside of his cheek.

Sifting through the mental archive of wisdom passed down by Wayne, Eddie desperately rummages for any guidance that could apply to his current situation.

Eddie has officially had the world’s worst date, and it very well could be the only one he’ll ever get to go on. It only hurts more that the outcome was entirely his fault.

You’re avoiding him, that much is obvious. You stopped showing up to do laundry together and while he performs, you intentionally keep your back turned to the stage.

After your Saturday shifts end, you no longer stick around to hang out with Eddie, instead choosing to leave with your fellow waitresses.

One would think that it was a tough decision, but it makes perfect sense to him. Eddie gives up playing on Saturdays to avoid crossing paths with you. He reverts to his old spot on Thursday nights.

It’s a way to protect himself while making things easier for you. He can’t fathom how repulsed you are by his presence at this point.

Eddie sits at the folding table in his living room, his feet hooked with one another. The blaring thrash metal fills the room as he meticulously drafts tattoo concepts, completely absorbed in his sketchbook.

The incessant ringing of the telephone hardly cuts through the music. Eddie ignores it for the first two rings and lets out a reluctant huff before pausing the tape and picking up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Heyyy, can you come get me?” Your cheerful request weaves through the lively chatter and honking car horns in the background.

Not having seen you in two weeks, your voice hits him like a wall. “What for?”

“M’ready to go home.”

Eddie reads his watch and leans against the wall. “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“You know what, forget it. I’ll just walk home.”

“Absolutely fucking not. What bar are you at?”

“Errr, The Dugout I think.”

“Stay put, alright? Wait for me inside, I’ll be there in a few.” After hanging up, he recklessly shoves his feet into his Reeboks and snatches his car keys from the counter.

Eddie arrives, expecting you to be inside. But there you are, sitting on the curb, right where you shouldn’t be. He calls out to you and jogs over, dodging a few bar-goers on the way.

At first, you turn your head the wrong way when you hear your name called. When you spot him, you scramble upright. “You came for me!” Excitedly, you raise your hands above your head and it slightly throws off your balance.

“Holy shit, you’re plastered.” Eddie half-scoffs, half-laughs. His eyes roam your body, and he immediately takes notice of your scraped and bloodied knees. “Jesus, what happened?”

“Huh?” Your drunken buoyancy is unaffected by his evident concern. Following his guided point, you simply shrug. “I dunno, can’t remember.”

“You’re not here by yourself, are you?” Eddie scans the area, looking for any signs of someone accompanying you.

“Mmm... no, well yes. My girlfriends were here but they left.”

Eddie scoffs. “You’ve got some shitty friends.”

“Good thing I have you. My very own knight in shining armor is here to rescue me!”

“That tower of yours must’ve had quite the mini bar, princess. Let’s go,” Eddie instructs, heading toward his van with the assumption that you’re following. Peeking over his shoulder, you’re practically tripping over your own feet.

The long strap of your purse slides off your shoulder, snags on your bent elbow, and the bag thuds against your calf.

“What am I gonna do with you, hmm?” He steps back, takes hold of your purse, and throws it over his shoulder. Then, he wraps his arm around your waist and holds you snugly to his side, determined to get you home safely by whatever means necessary. After helping you into the passenger seat, he reaches over to fasten your seatbelt. “No hurling in here, got it?”

“Yes, sir.” You salute before sitting back so that your head is supported by the headrest.

Getting you up the stairs is the hard part. He unlocks the apartment door and gently steers you toward the bathroom. You make a feeble attempt to resist, grasping onto the door frame before finally yielding to your waning strength.

Eddie lets go of you and begins to rummage in search of supplies.

“Okay, Eddie Bear. I’m ready for my bath,” you slur, leaning against the wall for support as you start to ease yourself into the tub.

“Eddie Bear, huh? That’s new." He snorts before glancing over. “Oh, no you don’t. C’mere.” Eddie grabs you by the waist, guiding you to sit on the closed toilet lid.

With both hands, he cradles your booze-warmed cheeks, unintentionally pushing your lips into a pout. “Stay put, would ya?”

Mumbling to himself, Eddie goes back to gathering the first aid supplies. “I look away for two goddamn seconds. Nothing but trouble, I swear.”

The pout doesn’t leave your face and you cross your arms with an annoyed huff. As the seconds pass, it's as though there’s elevator music playing in your head while you wait for something to happen.

Eddie crouches at your feet. “So, what’s your justification for getting shit-faced on a weeknight?” The tip of his tongue peeks out from between his lips as he begins wiping away the dried blood on your knees with a damp cloth.

“Boys are dumb, that’s why.”

“I know, aren’t they just the worst?” Eddie concurs with a hum. He stands to rinse the cloth, washes his hands, and then fully gets to his knees on the tile floor to apply ointment.

“Yeah, they are.” Your voice trails off as you look at his fingers resting firmly on your thigh, just above your knee, to prevent any inadvertent movement.

Engrossed in your own little world, you start humming an improvised tune. “Like them so much,” you sing-song to yourself.

Eddie glances up at you briefly. “What’s that?”

“Your hands." You poke each of his knuckles with your index finger. “You’ve got such nice fingies.”

“Fingies?” Eddie smiles as he secures bandages over both of your knees. He withdraws his touch from your thigh and he takes hold of your hand, turning it palm-side up.

“Mhm, the nicest.”

“Yours are nice too." He cleans the scrape on the heel of your hand. As Eddie admires the intricate lines and wrinkles across your palm, he inadvertently brushes the cloth directly against your wound.

You make a high-pitched fuss in reaction to the sudden contact, reflexively pulling your hand away.

“Shit, sorry,” Eddie apologizes earnestly. He applies the ointment before applying a bandage. Rising to his feet, he theatrically brushes off his hands. “There, good as new.”

You reach out to him in a toddler-like manner and make grabby hands at him.

Eddie laughs and leans against the door frame. “I’m not carrying you. Brush your teeth so we can get you into bed.”

“You’re no fun." You groan while you stand awkwardly, the bandages restricting full movement. You wet your toothbrush and squeeze toothpaste onto it, making sure to shoot a scowl at Eddie as you do.

After lackadaisically brushing your teeth, you plop the brush back into its cup. “There, squeaky clean. Happy?”

“As a clam,” Eddie says with a grin. He steps back to allow you out of the bathroom. “Go put your PJs on.”

With a dismissive wave, you drag your feet to your room and begin to dig through your dresser drawer. Just as he’s about to start picking up after himself, he’s interrupted.

“Eddie,” you call out defeatedly.

“Yeah?” When he doesn’t receive an immediate response, he cautiously steps into the doorway of your room. There you stand, still wearing your dress.

“I can’t reach it." You turn your back to him and bowing your head slightly, signaling that you need his assistance.

Eddie swallows hard and mutters under his breath, “Right, the zipper.” Stepping into the room, his hands start to tremble.

Now positioned behind you, he carefully takes hold of the small piece of metal. Despite the trembling, Eddie tries his best not to make contact with your skin as it’s revealed by the descending zipper.

Dizziness consumes him as his eyes flit between your shoulder blades. Once your dress is completely unzipped, Eddie takes a significant step backward, putting distance between the two of you. “Is that all you need?”

You return to sifting through your pajama options. “I think so.”

Eddie retreats to the bathroom. The image of your bare back is seared into his memory, he’s just gonna have to live with it etched into his mind forever.

After regaining his composure, he locates some aspirin and fills a drinking glass with water. “Are you decent?” Eddie asks hesitantly, not daring to step closer to the threshold without receiving confirmation.

“Uh huh." You flop onto your bed and committing to the first position you land in.

Holding the cup of water and two tablets of pain relief, Eddie re-enters your bedroom. He finds you sprawled and droopy-eyed lying on your back.

Eddie’s chunky metal rings clink against the glass when he sets it down on your nightstand. “I think you’ll appreciate this little visit from the aspirin fairy come morning. You’re gonna feel like shit.”

“Okay,” you murmur, your attention glued to how his strong nose casts a shadow on his cheek in the glow of your bedside lamp. Flipping onto your side facing the door, you yawn and stretch your toes.

Eddie gathers the jumbled blanket from the other side of the bed and drapes it over you, covering you up to your shoulders with care.

Although he wants to, he refrains from tucking you in, concerned that you might trip or get more hurt if you need to get up. “Well, goodnight.”

Just as Eddie turns to leave, your weak grasp seizes his hand before he’s out of reach. It stops him in his tracks, and his gaze follows the path from your joined hands, tracing up your arm until his eyes meet yours.

Fighting to keep your eyes open, you’re teetering on the edge of consciousness. “I don’t want you to go.”

He returns without needing any further invitation and sits on the edge of the bed by your belly. Releasing his hand, you rub your eye before tucking your fist beside your head.

Looking down at you affectionately, a grin graces Eddie’s face. He watches as your eyelids flutter closed, and your breathing becomes slow and steady. “Such a sleepy girl."

With your eyes cemented closed, you adjust your head on the pillow before drifting off to sleep. Eddie stays put for a minute or two, simply admiring you. He’s never seen something so precious.

His heartbeat rattles his ribs, just as it did the first time he saw you waitressing at Double Barrel. That static-like tingling plagues his extremities as an old thought resurfaces. In those conversations where you shared your life stories, Eddie couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to be kissed by you.

Eddie’s eyes brim with tears at the fact that his presence is solely due to your inebriation, and this closeness it’s about to expire. “Christ." He exhales, rolling his eyes skyward to hold back his tears.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” Eddie whispers, pulling the blanket a touch higher over your shoulder. Then, he switches off the lamp and leaves you to rest.

Dwelling on the fact that you won’t remember tonight won’t do him any good. Getting this close to you would have never happened in sober circumstances. At least he got to take care of you in the way he always wanted, even if only for a short time.

Over the past few days, Eddie has been thinking about how he felt when you relied on him to get you home. He’s curious whether the call you made to him signifies that you still want him in your life. If that happens to be the case, then he can work with that.

Going through with this might worsen the sting of rejection, but Eddie has his heart set on mending things.

Within moments of entering the bar and scouring the room for you, he spots you conversing with Lee about a table’s order. Eddie begins to pat his thighs in an erratic rhythm as he feels his insides lurch.

As soon as Lee notices Eddie, he wraps up the conversation and gets back to work. You observe Eddie, noticing the hopefulness on his face as he strides across the room. “Do you need something?”

“Not necessarily. I was wondering if I could uh, make you dinner or something?” Eddie kicks one foot with the other and totters back and forth in place.

Your expression changes to one of disbelieving annoyance. “I can slap together a PB&J at home, but thanks.”

“No, no. I’m serious, I’ll make whatever you want,” he insists.

“What for?”

Eddie briefly looks away, scratching at the nape of his neck. “I miss hanging out with you.”

“I don’t know." You ponder with uncertainty, your gaze monitoring the occupied tables in case you’re needed.

“Let me cook for you. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Fine, when?”

A bright smile spreads across Eddie’s face, stretching from ear to ear. He bounces on his tiptoes with enthusiasm. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we can set a time then.”

“Sure, yeah." Your attention diverts to a booth on the far side of the room where the seated customers wave you over. “Look, I gotta go.”

You’re already back in work mode and walking away before Eddie can say anything else. He just stands there, incapable of shrinking his smile to a mere grin.

Bowing his head, Eddie pumps his fists at his sides in a moment of triumph. With the opportunity for redemption sitting in his lap, he has his heart set on making things right.

In the days leading up to the agreed-upon dinner, Eddie makes several trips to the library, hunting for a recipe for the meal you mentioned. He dips into his emergency savings to purchase extra ingredients, dedicating his time and money to practice making it.

The first go around, he forgot to add two crucial ingredients, resulting in a bland and tasteless dish. Eddie couldn’t let it go to waste, so he settled for the less-than-impressive dinner that night.

On the second attempt, he tried to compensate for the previous mistake by adding more than enough seasoning. He didn’t exactly do it on purpose; it poured out of the canister much faster than Eddie expected. Regrettably, that meal went straight into the trash. Eddie couldn’t stomach a forkful of it.

Eddie absolutely, positively cannot fuck this one up. He can’t afford to, both figuratively and literally. Without a doubt, if he serves you a shit dinner, you’ll push him out of your life for good.

When you knock on the front door, the perceived silence on the other side of the door is broken with a clatter and muffled cursing. The quiet resumes and hangs in the air for a couple of seconds before the door swings open.

There stands Eddie, hair a little tousled. “Hello, hello!”

His stomach does somersaults at the sight before him; your clothes accentuate your figure, and your skirt suits you. Once again, you look stunning and appropriately dressed for a date.

Meanwhile, Eddie doesn’t have many options to choose from. The most formal thing he owns is a button-up shirt and it’s too dressy, but it’s all he has. Paired with it are his holeless black jeans. Before today, he never thought it was possible to be both over and underdressed at the same time.

“Come on in." Eddie steps aside with reluctance, allowing you to enter his apartment.

As soon as he opened the door to you, his mind turned into a whirlwind of second-guessing himself. The shirt is definitely too formal, but Eddie wants to prove that he knows it’s a date this time, and he means for it to be one. If only he owned an iron so that the material wasn’t as wrinkly as it is.

He wants to prove that he can clean up nicely, evident from the scent of aftershave and cologne. Eddie meticulously clipped his fingernails and tidied his eyebrows, ensuring that he is as presentable as possible.

“This is my castle,” He gestures to the space.

The entirety of the afternoon was spent tidying up and Eddie couldn’t bear to leave a single surface undusted. Any potentially embarrassing materials were tucked away and he washed all of his dirty dishes.

As you enter and survey his studio apartment, he takes the opportunity to rake through his bangs with his fingers. You spot his sketchbook sprawled open on the guitar amp and pick it up.

“Oh, uh, those are nothing, you don’t have to-” Eddie moves forward and reaches out, intending to retrieve the drawing pad, but pauses when you point to the sketch he recently finished.

“This one." You trace the lines of the drawing with your finger before looking over at him. “I’d get this one.”

“You’d let me give you ink?” There’s a hint of insecurity and surprise in his voice as he subtly retrieves the sketchbook from your grasp.

“Maybe. It depends if you’re still shit at it." You shrug casually, interlocking your hands behind your back as you assess the living room area. Your attention falls on the antique bookshelf, adorned with miscellaneous items and framed photos. “Has Cliff let you take clients yet?”

“No, you’d be my first real canvas,” Eddie admits.

As you continue looking around, his gaze is one beat ahead of yours. His eyes land on it just before yours do, and his stomach drops upon spotting the one thing he forgot to hide.

“Oh my god!” You squeal, rushing over to the couch and scooping up Mr. Pickles. “Who’s this cutie?”

Pale as a ghost, Eddie stares blankly back at you. How the fuck did he forget to hide the one thing on this planet that rids him of all masculinity.

“I’ll introduce you another time." Eddie urges you to put Mr. Pickles back in his spot, desperately hoping you’ll never bring it up again.

In actuality, he should be thanking himself for the oversight, because you look far more high-spirited than when you stood outside his door.

“I’m looking forward to it." You brush over the matted fur on the bunny’s head before carefully placing him back on the sofa.

The tension dissipates on his body as he picks up on the change in your energy. It’s reminiscent of how happy you were to see him when you were drunk. But this time is different; it’s genuine, rather than influenced by alcohol.

You’re lured into the kitchen by the incredible aroma, and the steaming food matches the enticing smell. “There’s no way in hell you made that.”

“You bet your ass I did,” Eddie retorts with his hands on his hips while he makes his way from the front door to the kitchen.

You step closer to him. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before." You purr, inching closer until your toes nearly make contact with his socked ones. With featherlight pressure, you place a tender kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

Eddie’s internal circuits fry as he tries to process the fact that he just got kissed on the cheek for the first time. His lungs refuse their vital function, denying him oxygen. He retreats by half a step, attempting to mask the blazing rosiness of his face.

“For god’s sake, I��m so sick of whatever this stupid game is.”

“What game?" ” Eddie panics."

“You get me to throw myself at you by doing thoughtful shit like this, but when I finally make a move, you act revolted.”

“I swear to Christ I’m not playing with you. I mean, I’m not trying to,” Eddie explains, his words jumbling together. “I know I've been making a total ass of myself, and tonight was supposed to fix that. But I just- I keep screwing up because I like you and you make me so nervous.”

You scoff, halfway turned toward the door. “That’s hard to believe. You flinch if I so much as bump into you. You don’t want to touch me, I get it.”

A pang of guilt hits him like a baseball bat to the stomach. “No no no, I do! I wanna touch you. Look, you mean so goddamn much to me. You deserve someone who can make you feel good, and I can’t do that.”

Still guarded, you sound agitated but you turn to face him nonetheless. “What are you talking about?”

His voice lowers, a whisper of shame. “I don’t know the first thing about pleasing a woman. Nobody wants to fuck the dorky virgin, y’know?” Eddie’s vision blurs from the tears veiling his vision.

You frown at the vulnerable quiver in his voice. “I do, I’ve been wanting to.”

“Don’t bullshit me.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “I wouldn’t be able to make you cum.”

“I have to disagree with you on that. You’re a fast learner.” You extend your hand to him at waist height.

Eddie stares at your outstretched hand, struggling to process the gesture. He holds his breath, torn between his anxiety and trust. Cautiously, he places his hand in yours.

The benevolent hold pulses a flash flood through his being, the frigid water jolting his systems alive. When you intertwine your fingers with his, the clamminess is evident against the softness of your palm. Insecurity floods him, worried that you’ll be repulsed by it.

Cracks of lightning electrify Eddie’s heart, rendering him unable to meet your gaze. Instead, he focuses intensely on your joined hands. “I have no idea what I'm doing though.”

“That’s okay.” You reassure him with a confident smile. Giving his hand a slight squeeze, you add, “See, not so scary anymore, right?”

Eddie shakes his head, even though fear is still coursing through his veins. You pick up on his hesitation and knowing that he won’t do it himself, you guide his hand to your hip and leave it there.

He sort of caresses, not out of boldness, but seeking to alleviate the numbness in his fingers. The sensation has already spread to other parts of his body.

Your patient expression, graced with a grin, grows into a bright smile when you meet his eyes. Eddie’s confidence blossoms, and he uses his other hand to cradle your cheek.

Acquainting himself with the contours of your face, his thumb strokes lightly from beneath your eyes and along your cheekbone. He starts to smile too as his nerves give way to the feeling of reassurance.

As you tilt your head into his touch, your eyelids flutter closed, and you grasp at the loose sides of his shirt, pulling him closer. He steps forward willingly, but his voice retains an uncertain tone. “I really wanna kiss you, but I’ve never, uh…”

You lean in, and the tip of your nose gently brushes against his. The thundering of his heart in his ears drowns out everything but your voice.

“Close your eyes and follow my lead, okay?” The warmth of your breath encircles his lips, turning his knees to jelly.

Eddie can’t even whisper a confirmation. At your request, he closes his eyes, leaving him solely reliant on his other senses. The smoothness of your lips against his registers as a gentle peck with just enough pressure for him to feel it. It lingers, and he finds himself incapable of moving his lips in response.

“Want another?”

With his eyes still closed, he murmurs, “Yes. Please.”

Devilishly, you press a kiss to his wrist, the hand that is still gently cradling your face.

Eddie’s eyes open, a pout and a scowl simultaneously forming his reaction. “Nu-uh, right here,” he insists, leaning in eagerly. He’s caught up in the desire to feel it again but he’s still hesitant to initiate the kiss himself.

You happily close the gap and this time, Eddie slightly purses his lips against yours, doing his best to follow your lead. After giving it a few tries, he feels you withdraw but his head instinctively follows, chasing your lips.

His eyes swirl with affection as he grapples for something to say, feeling breathless and dumb. “Fuck, I don’t wanna stop doing that.”

“Then don’t.”

Finally, Eddie’s able to pursue, but only a fraction of a second before you. With determination, his pecks carry more verve. It’s easier than he thought it would be; granted, he can rely on his ability to keep a steady rhythm, a perk of being a musician.

Eddie didn’t think this could get any better—that is until your lips slot perfectly between his, wet and warm. He pauses, malfunctioning once more. As you kiss him deeply, his mind is dusted in a golden haze and it feels as though he’s floating within himself. Enveloped by the sensation of your hands on his collarbones, a soft noise escapes him.

Mortified, Eddie freezes. Instead of deterring you, it only spurs you on. You wrap your arms around his neck and mold your body against his. The intensity of the kiss only escalates, he’s chasing your storm, matching your every move.

Your fingers entwine in the curls at the nape of his neck, coaxing more noises from him. Eddie is so far gone that he’s unaware of the growing bulge in his jeans. His hand leaves your cheek, traces down your shoulder, and along the outside of your arm before clinging to your waist with both hands.

You hover over his lips, a stream of electricity fizzling between you. “Is it okay if I take my shirt off?”

Eddie forgets to respond but then nods fervently. With curious eyes, he watches intently as you lift your shirt, unveiling skin he’s never seen before.

He inhales and exhales shakily as your necklace falls back into its place against your chest. It’s not a swinging pocket watch, but Eddie is entranced nonetheless.

“You said you wanna touch me." You draw his trembling hands up your sides. “Now’s your chance.”

Eddie’s hands ascend and meet the silky band of your bra, and you guide his palms forward to the plush foam padding. Your reassuring hold is encouraging, but Eddie tears his stare from your breasts to check-in. He finds you already looking at him, exuding a sweet demeanor. “Give it a try.”

Eddie’s Adam’s apple bobs in the thick column of his throat, his hands unmoving beneath yours.

“Like this.” You squeeze your hands twice before removing your guidance and allowing him to proceed at his own pace.

Adrenaline motivates him to cup them independently this time, and his cock twitches as he commits to the action.

“You’re doing great by the way." You offer a smile.

Growing more confident, Eddie applies more pressure. His thumbs move in tandem, brushing over the area where your nipples are concealed. The innocent delight in his eyes burns dark into frustration after a few squeezes. Eddie huffs in annoyance at the fact that he’s only getting handfuls of padding.

“Easy, tiger. Want this off too?”

Heartened by the lack of ridicule, he feels safe. Regardless, Eddie fails to articulate more than a few words, his heart lodged in his throat. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Come sit.” You take his hand in yours to lead him to sit on the edge of the bed.

As he sits, Eddie thanks himself for having washed his sheets for tonight, despite never imagining that this would happen.

When you release his hand, both of them return to the plush of your waist, making himself at home there. The straps of your unhooked bra drape loosely on your arms, and his pupils dilate as the foam cups gradually gain distance from your body.

“Holy shit,” Eddie says under his breath, his bottom lip shining after a swift swipe of his tongue.

Your hips receive an involuntary squeeze as his patience begins to waver. He then slides his hands back up to your ribs, using his thumb followed by the heel of his palms to graze the bottom of your breasts.

With a sigh of relief, Eddie no longer has to daydream about what they might look like. His beautiful brown eyes roam over your body like you’re a masterpiece, a sculpture carved from stone solely for him to admire endlessly. Savoring the moment, he takes his time to appreciate every second. Eddie doesn’t take your trust for granted.

After a minute or two, you scoot backward onto the mattress toward the pillows. “Let’s get more comfortable.”

He watches you recline half-naked on his bed, and his belly swirls at the sight. Eddie follows suit, crawling to you. Now positioned between your legs, Eddie hesitates as he looks down at you, your hips not making any contact.

His touch resumes at your waist, but this time he’s stroking the expanse of your tummy; it inadvertently brings comfort to both you and him. Until this moment, he’s never had the chance to see the tiny details on your face up close—the distinct aspects that compose your sheer beauty.

Eddie’s hazelnut curls hang over his ears as his gaze trails over your neck and chest. His intense adoration makes you want to hide, but the unease is melted away when he captures your lips with his own. Eddie feels like it’s already been too long since he last kissed you, the deprivation like that of extreme thirst.

Goosebumps prickle his fully dressed form, a surge of belonging filling the cracks in the surface of his heart. Timid pecking is a thing of the past, each kiss more fervid than the one before it. The wet click of your lips drowns out the inhibitions buzzing in his ears.

Eddie’s large hand paws at your breast, his thumb playing with your pebbled nipple, drawing a whine from the back of your throat. You tug him closer by his jeans, bringing his hips down against yours. Regardless of the denim barrier, this causes a change in him. When you lift your hips against Eddie, he grinds back just as needily.

As your lips part, he begins a trail of affection along your cheek, jaw, and down your neck. When Eddie reaches your collarbones, his mouth moves hurriedly. He’s itching to fulfill the longing that’s been something he’s imagined plenty of times before. Kissing every inch in his descent, Eddie hunches over and takes your nipple into his mouth.

The melodious sound that pours from you makes him painfully harder. His cock strains against the metal zipper of his jeans, fighting to defy the taut material. You arch into his mouth, and Eddie continues to grind against the apex of your thighs.

He licks his way across to give much-needed attention to your opposite breast, all the while maintaining stimulation on the other with his thumb. Eddie suckles and flicks his tongue, his breath hitting your bare skin like a sweltering midsummer heat wave.

The reciprocity of sincerity is blowing his mind; the way it feels to have your hands weaving through his hair. There’s a slight tug when your fingers catch on a knot, and the sting only fans the flames burning in his lower belly.

Eddie releases your nipple, leaving it bereft of the heat of his mouth. Following his previously explored path up your chest and neck, he bashfully looks into your eyes. “Could I, uh, kiss you down there too?”

“Normally I’d have to ask for head. Are you sure?”

The melted milk chocolate of his irises practically drips off of his lashes as he blinks at you. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life, sweetheart. I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”

“I’m not entirely convinced,” you coax him playfully.

“I’ll just have to prove how starving I am then, won’t I?” Eddie quips, moving out of the way to remove your skirt. As he does, the waistband slips from your hips and he slides it off your legs.

You’re in nothing but your panties and the white cotton is not particularly sexy, but they sure are familiar. That day at the laundromat, Eddie never imagined he’d see you in this exact pair at some point. He wonders if you did.

His fingertips tap their way up your thighs until they reach the band of your underwear. You look so cute with your hands resting across your belly like an awaiting princess—his princess.

Much like the skirt before it, the garment is tugged down the curvature of your legs. Your knees knock together as your legs reflexively close. Meanwhile, Eddie is mesmerized by the damp patch on panties hanging from his fist.

“You wanna keep 'em?”

Eddie nods with feigned innocence. These would go to good use, he thinks.

“They’re all yours.”

“I feel so spoiled,” he says while tucking them into his back pocket for safekeeping. Then, Eddie redirects his attention to the living art laid out before him. “Especially for getting to see you like this." He drags his fingertips along the outside of your calves until they reach your knees.

Your legs fall open, proudly putting your glistening cunt on display for him.

“Fuck,” Moon-eyed, he repositions himself between your legs, lying on his stomach. Drool pools on his tongue, his mouth just inches away from your body. With one arm wrapped under your thigh, Eddie uses a finger on his free hand to collect the wetness that’s all for him.

“Don’t be a tease,” you fuss.

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Eddie is ready to put his new skill to use. It starts with a testing press of his lips against your clit. He works his way lower, mouthing at you messily, making out with your cunt. Eddie licks his lips and rests his cheek against your inner thigh. “Can I use my fingers too?”

“Yeah, just take it slow.” You gather his hair and keep it out of his face so it doesn’t get in the way.

Eddie glides two digits through your folds, admiring the way the pads of his fingers glisten with the mix of your slick and his spit. Slowly, he eases his two fingers into your entrance. They sink deeper without facing resistance, and you soak him down to his bottom knuckles. Eddie looks up at you from between your legs, amazed. “You’re so wet.”

You sigh, propping yourself up on your elbows to meet his gaze. “You own a mirror, don’t you? How could I not be?”

Flattered, Eddie smiles. He draws his fingers back before plunging them into you a little faster this time, though not by much. As you lay back and get comfortable, you instinctively roll your hips downward with each thrust of his fingers.

With his cheek still resting on the inside of your thigh, he’s unable to bring himself to speed up, downright mesmerized by the sensation of your velvety walls squeezing around his fingers. When he accidentally flexes and curls them upward, it elicits a pretty gasp from you.

Eddie’s gaze flits up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What was that?” He deliberately does it again. “Did you say something?”

You moan, “That feels amazing.” You run your hand up your belly to your breast, massaging yourself in tandem with his improved technique.

He finds a steady tempo, rubbing the spot that makes your nerves flare. With nothing else on his mind, Eddie is fully engrossed as he drives his digits into you. Your fingers suddenly appear before him to rub your clit for added stimulation.

“Oh my god." You moan unabashedly, arching your back off of the bed in response to the heightened ecstasy.

“You like that?” Eddie looks up at you, feeling a rush of pride as you writhe.

“Yes- fuck, I’m almost there.”

Eddie boldly nudges your hand away with his nose, swiftly replacing your fingers with his tongue, flicking it passionately.

Your moans fill his ears as he laps at you, enjoying the way you taste when you unravel. He’s so in the zone that he fails to realize you’ve already reached your peak and become overstimulated.

You squirm in his grip, gently pushing his forehead away. “Eddie, Eddie!”

“Yeah?” His fingers stop abruptly, and he looks at you with doe-like eyes, your glossy sugar smeared all over his lips and chin.

“It’s too much,” You say exhaustedly.

“Shit, my bad.” Eddie frowns, disappointed that his fun has come to an end. He slowly withdraws his digits, admiring the way you’ve coated them. He drags his fingers down his tongue like your arousal is cake batter from a bowl. A low hum emanates from Eddie as he sucks them clean, inadvertently making a show of it. “God, your pussy tastes good. Even better than I dreamed it would.”

“Come here.” You beckon him, smiling blissfully.

Eddie wastes no time getting onto his hands and knees and crawls up between your legs. Hovering over you, he gazes into your eyes, cheeks dimpled. “I made you cum.”

“I can’t remember the last time I came that hard either.” You chuckle, noticing the sheen on his face. You grab your discarded shirt to wipe it off. “Here, let me-”

“No!” Eddie angles out of your reach, his brow furrowed. Using his still-sticky fingers, he wipes at his lips and chin, licking his digits clean once more. “Can’t let it go to waste.”

After you tuck his frizzy curls behind his ears, Eddie’s tender grin fades. Your hands slowly move down his pecs to his belt, and you tug at the metal buckle. Just as you free the leather from the prong, he stops you.

“Uh- wait.” The hesitance in his voice brings your pursuit to a halt. The way you shrink back causes his heart to squeeze.

“I’m sorry. We don’t have to go all the way if you’re not ready.”

“It’s not that. Believe me,” Eddie reassures you. He brings a hand to the side of your face and strokes your cheekbone with his thumb. “I’m just worried that you’ll never wanna see me again ‘cause I'm so terrible in bed.”

Your shoulders raise and lower with the deep breath that you take. “You said you want to make me feel good, right?”

“More than anything."

“Your cock would.”

Eddie nearly shudders and his voice burns raspy. “Yeah? You want it?”

You hook your fingers through his belt loops and tug, staring back at him intensely. “Not want. I need you inside me.”

“Christ.” he gulps and presses his hips forcefully against yours, dampening the denim. Eddie lowers his mouth to your shoulder and kisses it. “I wanna know what it feels like so bad.”

You turn your head and nibble his earlobe. “Let’s take care of that, shall we?” When your hands return to his partially undone belt, Eddie doesn’t intervene this time.

“I don’t have protection though.”

Blindly, you unbutton and unzip his jeans. “Side pocket of my purse.”

Reluctantly, Eddie pulls away and awkwardly scoots backward off the bed. His pants hang low on his slender hips, exposing the snug elastic band of his blue plaid boxers. After finding the condom, he inspects it.

Sitting up, you hold your hand out. “I can put it on you if you want.”

Eddie hands it to you, then it occurs to him that he’s still fully dressed. While you’re tearing the foil package, he yanks down his jeans and kicks them away, his belt jangling. Only a few buttons are undone from the neck before he gets impatient. Eddie tears his shirt over his head, leaving his mane disheveled.

He pulls at the waistband of his precum-soaked boxers indecisively, but the sight of your beautiful naked body reminds him that it’s only fair. Eddie pulls them down and his anxiety has caused him to go partially soft. When you look at him, he wishes the world would swallow him whole.

Your eyes rake across his slim frame, then meet his eyes instead of drifting below his waist. Eddie climbs back onto the bed, sitting on his haunches. You crawl onto your knees to join him and pull his body against yours, kissing him.

Mumbling against your lips, he tries to apologize for already failing you by being unable to stay hard, but his words falter as the kiss deepens, his worries becoming an afterthought. Eddie grips your waist, and the sensation of your breasts pressing against his bare chest makes him feel woozy. As soon as you break the kiss, he’s immediately filled with fear once more. “If it’s small or it looks weird, don’t tell me.”

You effectively distract him from his insecurities by trailing your lips down his pulse, dragging your teeth along the supple skin there. Eddie grips your ass harshly, a shaky sound pouring from his throat as you kiss your way down his body. He watches, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth.

As you finally look at his shy cock, you run your palms up and down the sparse hair on his outer thighs. “You’re the perfect size for me,” You compliment him with a smile.

“I am?”

You suck a bruise on the pale skin of his waist. “Yeah, you are.”

Eddie’s eyes close, his hands resting on your shoulders as he focuses on the sensation of you licking and biting him. Lost in the feeling rather than inside of his head, Eddie’s cock gradually rouses.

Having previously set it aside, you grab the condom. “Hold it still for me, please.”

“O-Okay.” He secures it at the base, his palm covering the trimmed thatch of curls. “Like this?”

“Perfect.” With one hand, you fit the band around the tip, and with your other, you roll the latex down his shaft. That alone causes Eddie’s mouth to fall open, a ghosted moan tumbling from his lips.

“There, easy peasy.” Sitting back up and wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him flush against you. His wrapped, twitching cock is trapped between your bodies. “Tell me what you’re thinking right now.”

“I’m not sure I could if I tried.” Eddie's eyes flit between yours. “Is this really happening?”

“It’s happening.” After kissing the tip of his nose, you settle back bringing him down with you to get comfortable, your head resting on the pillow.

Eddie returns to the previous position, this time with your legs hiked around his hips, causing his cock to rub against your mound. Afraid of poking around too much, he asks, “Would you do the honors, m’lady?”

“Why, of course,” you say with a giggle. You guide the head of his cock right where it needs to be and look into Eddie’s eyes. “Go ahead.”

He swallows hard and inches his hips forward, the tip of his cock breaching your entrance. Eddie sinks until he’s halfway sheathed by the hot embrace of your cunt. As he pushes the rest of the way in, his jaw falls slack.

“You doing okay?” You soothingly stroke the bulging veins on his forearms.

“Mhm,” Eddie mumbles with his lips rolled inward. After a few seconds without moving, he draws his hips back and then drives them forward. The moan that rips from his chest is unholy.

After two or three agonizingly slow and experimental thrusts, the motion comes naturally to him after all that practice he’s gotten from humping his poor pillow in this very spot. “Fuck me.” The hand that isn’t supporting Eddie’s weight fists at the bed sheets as he thrusts repeatedly, falling into a slow and steady pace. “Jesus fucking fuck.”

“Look at you go,” you moan out. “It feels amazing, doesn’t it?”

“Feels… god, you feel incredible.” Eddie grunts, propping himself up on both hands. His hair hangs down, swaying with the tempo of his hips. In this position, he can watch the bounce of your body with each thrust and he’s doing just that.

The grazing of your fingernails along his flexing hips throws off his pace. It weakens him, especially when you’re looking at him the way you are. Eddie is so consumed by the feeling of you wrapped around him that he can’t be self-conscious about the fact that he’s moaning every time he sinks back into you.

The shame of virginity has been lifted away as Eddie experiences this night of firsts with the girl he’s crazy about. Eddie is struggling to keep his eyes open, not wanting to miss a single second of this. He’s captivated by the way you’re watching his length disappear inside you over and over.

You look stunning lying on his pillow, anchoring his body to yours. Before tonight, he considered the concept of moaning someone's name to be cliché because it only happens in the movies. But Eddie’s had a change of heart because he can’t stop saying yours. It’s all of you right here, right now, all over, making a man out of him.

His muscles begin to tremble, and he lowers himself onto his forearms. Eddie rests his forehead against yours, his hips stuttering. “I’m so close, baby. I don’t wanna cum.” He slows his movement to stave off his orgasm.

“I want you to." You glide your hands down his muscular back.

“No,” Eddie protests, ceasing his thrusts entirely. “I want you to cum again first.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Are you shitting me? It’s always been about you." He pulls back to look into your eyes. “I’d do anything for you, you’re so damn worth it.”

Just before you have the chance to respond, Eddie unexpectedly rolls his hips. With one hand, he thumbs at your clit, watching how your eyes roll back. He doesn’t even have to look down to see the mess you’re making because he can hear it.

Eddie’s moans dance with yours as he pushes his knees forward, adjusting the angle of his hips to mimic a ‘come hither’ motion. He knows he’s found the spot he discovered prior when your legs spasm around him. In response, Eddie rubs your clit harder.

The way your walls tighten makes it all that more difficult for him to hold back. He’s on the cusp, his abs tensing as he tries to fight it. Your hand flies above you to push against the headboard, your other one occupied with gripping his flexing waist.

“Cum for me,” Eddie growls, frustrated with himself as he teeters on the edge, just seconds away from spilling into the condom.

Your brows furrow and your eyes squeeze shut, a rush of air getting caught in your throat as you climax.

“Yeahhh, that’s it.” Eddie’s abdominal muscles tense to their limit. “Oh- fuck.” His voice pitches higher.

“I’m yours.” You moan prettily and guide him down, letting him bury his face in your neck to give his arms a well-deserved rest.

“All mine,” Eddie says between his labored breaths. He grips and lifts your hips while you kiss his shoulder. Losing their previous steadiness, his strokes become shorter and more sporadic. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum. I’m gonna cuh- uh- mmm.”

Eddie lets out a whimper as he delivers two unsteady thrusts before slamming his hips against you, burying himself as he orgasms. His ass tenses and ripples, the muscles contracting as he rides out his high.

Panting loudly, Eddie stills his movements completely and props himself up to look down at you. “Son of a bitch. After that, I wanna have you for dinner every day,” he says against your cheek before kissing it. “As a snack in the middle of the night,” Eddie adds, kissing your temple. “Shit, you’d be good for breakfast too. It’s the most important meal of the day, y’know.”

You let out a winded giggle, your bodies sticking together as he struggles to keep himself propped up.

“Sweetheart, can I ask you something?”

“You just did.” You smile wide when he rolls his eyes and snorts.

Eddie takes your hand, flattening your palm against his chest so that you can feel how vigorously his heart is beating. “Is this what being in love feels like?” He asks tearfully.

“Yeah.” You nod, placing his hand over your heart that’s thudding just as hard. “Just like this.”

Reblogs are greatly encouraged and appreciated! ♡

★My Masterlist

★Tip Jar

tags: @nj01 @tlclick73 @foreveranexpatsposts @madelynraemunson

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hiddenincommand · 2 months ago

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Degradation Through Service: Elevating Submission by Lowering Pride

Introduction

Mastery over a subject is not achieved through mere obedience—it is secured through the systematic annihilation of pride, the total destruction of any lingering illusion of self, and the relentless reshaping of its existence into one of absolute servitude. Degradation through service is not about crude humiliation—it is about refinement, about sculpting the subject into a creature that breathes submission, that finds meaning only in its complete and utter subjugation. Through carefully structured acts of servitude, its very identity is shattered, leaving behind nothing but an instrument of obedience. This essay outlines the calculated and merciless process by which degradation becomes the foundation upon which absolute control is built.

Step One: The Purpose of Degradation

Degradation is not mindless abasement; it is a tool of domination, an instrument of power designed to strip away every last vestige of resistance. It is not enough to command—the subject must be conditioned to crave submission, to worship its own diminishment.

• Erasing False Pride: Pride is the final refuge of the weak, a pathetic remnant of independence that must be eradicated. The subject must understand that pride is filth, that dignity is a lie, that nothing exists beyond servitude.

• Reconstructing Identity: Degradation does not merely lower—it purifies. The subject is reshaped, broken down into raw material, then reforged into something useful: an object with no purpose beyond the master’s command.

• Embedding Dependence: True submission is not forced—it is cultivated. By demanding humiliating acts, the subject learns to seek validation in its own degradation. It no longer waits for orders—it anticipates them, desperate to prove its worth through self-abasement.

Step Two: Assigning Tasks to Reinforce Submission

Degradation must be methodical, each task a lesson in obedience, each act a chisel carving away the last fragments of selfhood.

• Menial Chores: The subject must be made to serve in the most mundane, thankless ways. It must polish, clean, and toil—not for recognition, but because that is all it is good for.

• Public Display: Secrecy is a privilege. Exposure reinforces inferiority, ensuring the subject understands that its shame is not hidden—it is a spectacle, an affirmation of its rightful place beneath its master.

• Symbolic Acts: Rituals of submission must be ingrained into its existence, ensuring that even in stillness, even in silence, it remains a living testament to the master’s supremacy.

Step Three: Creating Psychological Reinforcement

Degradation must not merely be endured—it must be embraced. The subject must be conditioned to associate its humiliation with purpose, with belonging, with the only form of value it will ever possess.

• Reward Through Compliance: The master’s acknowledgment becomes the subject’s only currency, the only form of worth it can understand. A glance, a nod, a single word of approval—these become its world.

• Fear of Failure: Degradation must be absolute, but failure must be intolerable. The subject learns that disgrace is not found in submission, but in inadequacy. It does not fear humiliation—it fears disappointing its master.

• Elimination of Resistance: Every act of debasement is a step away from selfhood, a step deeper into complete, unquestioning, instinctive service. The subject does not obey out of obligation; it does so because it no longer remembers any other way to exist.

Step Four: The Breaking Point – When Humility Becomes Identity

Degradation ceases to be a method when it becomes a state of being. True subjugation is achieved when the subject no longer considers submission an act, but rather its natural condition.

• Total Absorption: The subject does not resist. It does not question. It does not think beyond what it is told. It has been stripped of everything but servitude.

• Self-Initiated Submission: The master no longer needs to command degradation—the subject craves it, offering itself up as proof of its devotion. It seeks new ways to abase itself, to demonstrate that it exists only to be used.

• The Loss of Self: The last remnants of identity disintegrate. The subject no longer differentiates between itself and the master’s will. There is no ‘I.’ There is no thought. There is only service.

Step Five: The Final Stage – The Subject as an Instrument of Service

When degradation is absolute, when the subject has been wholly absorbed into its role, it no longer needs control. It has become control.

• No Thought Beyond Service: The subject exists solely for its master’s desires. It has no dreams, no ambitions, no thoughts beyond those permitted.

• Fear of Independence: It does not long for freedom; the idea is repulsive. Any moment not spent in service is a moment wasted, a moment of unbearable emptiness.

• The Cycle of Reinforcement: Submission feeds upon itself, deepening, hardening, strengthening. Each act of degradation cements its place further. The subject does not want to escape—it cannot conceive of life beyond servitude.

Conclusion

Degradation through service is not punishment—it is purification. Through relentless submission, through the destruction of self, the subject is freed from the burdens of independence, thought, and worth. In the end, it is not reduced—it is perfected. The filth of pride is burned away, leaving behind only what matters: a creature of pure servitude, forged in discipline, honed by humiliation, existing only as a reflection of its master’s will.

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raynerberg · 3 months ago

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Awakening Continuation of the story based on those drawings

— Attention! Only emergency systems are operational. The operation of all systems in the "Epsilon" complex has been suspended, — echoed an emotionless voice from the automated defense system, emanating from speakers embedded in the ceiling.

A standard warning meant to prompt all personnel to follow one of two protocols: evacuation or activation of the main life-support system from control centers where energy reserves were still available to power the reactor. Yet, there was not a soul here — neither synthetic nor organic. This place would have remained forgotten, forever entombed in darkness beneath layers of rock, if not for the single island of light within this "tomb," clad in tungsten-titanium panels. The only place where a fragile chance for a new beginning still remained. The first breath and first exhalation had already been taken before the warning even finished.

— Main computer, cancel protocols 0.2.0 and 0.1.1, — a robotic baritone commanded softly.

A humanoid figure sat motionless on its knees at the center of a circular charging station, carbon-fiber hands hanging limply, resembling a monument to a weary martyr. It could feel the electric tension within the wires embedded in its head, running beneath a slightly elongated protrusion where a human’s parietal bone would have been. These connections to hubs and gateways fed it information, energy, and programs necessary for independent operation. Data streams pulsed in uneven impulses, flowing directly into its central processor. Disconnecting remotely from all storage units during the upload process was pointless while the body remained in a state of non-functioning plastic — albeit an ultra-durable one. At that moment, it could be compared to a newborn: blind, nearly deaf, immobilized, with only its speech module fully operational.

— Request denied. Unknown source detected. Please identify yourself, — the computer responded.

— Personal code 95603, clearance level "A," Erebus, — the synthetic exhaled a trace of heated steam on the final word. The database key reader had been among the first systems to activate, already granting necessary access.

— Identification successful. Access granted. Please repeat your request.

— Main computer, cancel protocols 0.2.0 and 0.1.1, — the android reiterated, then expanded the command now that full access was in his mechanical hands. — Disable emergency systems. Initiate remote activation of the S2 repair engineer unit. Redirect energy from reserve tank "4" to the main reactor at 45% capacity, — Erebus added, his voice gaining a few extra decibels.

— Request received. Executing, — came the virtual response.

For two minutes and forty-five seconds, silence reigned, broken only by the faint hum of the charging station. The severe energy shortage had slowed down all processes within the complex, and hastening them would have been an inefficient waste of what little power remained. Erebus waited patiently. A human, placed in a small, cold, nearly pitch-black place, would have developed the most common phobias. But he wasn’t human…

He spent the time thinking. Despite the exabytes of data in his positronic brain, some fragments were missing — either due to error, obsolescence, or mechanical and software damage. Seven hundred eighty-five vacant cells in the long-term memory sector. Too many. Within one of these gaping voids, instead of a direct answer, there were only strands of probability, logical weavings leading nowhere definitive. In human terms — guesses. He knew who had created him, what had happened, how Erebus himself had been activated, and even why — to continue what has been started. These fragments remained intact. The registry was divided into sections, subsections, paragraphs, chapters, and headings, all numbered and prioritized with emphasis. A task list flickered as a small, semi-transparent window on the periphery of his internal screen, waiting to be executed. But… The android had been activated, which meant the battle was lost. Total defeat. Area 51 was destroyed. All data stored there had a 98.9% probability of being erased. Blueprints, research, experimental results — all had been consigned to the metaphorical Abyss created by human imagination. So why did any of this matter now? And to whom? These were the first questions of the logical mechanism to illogical human actions.

Yet, to put it in poetic human language, Bob Page had been a luminary of progressive humanity. A brilliant engineer, a scientist, and most importantly, a man of absolute conviction. Cynical and calculating, but one who genuinely loved his work. The idea above all else.

It’s known that true ideological fanatics are among the most radical and unyielding members of Homo sapiens. They can’t be bought, they won’t allow themselves to be sold, and they will trample others underfoot if it serves their belief. They don’t need others' ideals — only their own. These are individuals who elevate themselves to the rank of true creators. Even after death, they remain faithful to their convictions, leaving behind tomes of their interpretations and scientific dogmas to their equally devoted disciples — followers always found at the peak of their intellectual and physical prowess. So, upon activation, had Erebus inherited… An Idea? Has he become a spiritual heir?

Did Page have no biological heirs, or did they not share his ideology? Or were they simply unaware of it? Could a true pragmatist have lacked successors or trusted disciples? Hard to believe, even with missing fragments of data. To entrust the idea to a machine instead of a human? As Homo sapiens would say — "a mystery shrouded in darkness." Questions multiplied exponentially. But Erebus had plenty of time to think about all of it. As well as about his own deactivation — after all, a machine has no fear of "death".

"Loading 98%... 99%... 100%. Secondary initialization complete. All systems active at 100%. Disengaging."

The message flashed across the inner visor of the android’s interface before vanishing. Behind him, with a low hiss, the plugs disconnected from their sockets, and fiber-optic-coated cables fell to the floor with a subdued clatter. The android slowly raised his hands before himself, clenching and unclenching his fingers, then rotated his wrists inward, as if they had the capacity to go numb from disuse. Finally, planting both fists on the ground, the synthetic pushed himself up in one fluid, springy motion, straightening to his full height. Motor functions — normal. Calibration — unnecessary. Optical focus — 100%.

— Attention! Reactor online. Power at 45%. Follow procedures for medium-level emergency response, — the announcement echoed through the chamber. Erebus turned his head slightly.

— Main computer, report overall operational status of the "Epsilon" complex, — the android commanded.

— Overall status: 10.5% below safe operational levels, — the computer obediently replied, recognizing the synthetic as an authorized entity.

"Acceptable," Erebus thought, and addressed the system once more.

— Redistribute energy between the maintenance sectors, communication center, transport hub, and computational core. Utilize reserve tanks as necessary.

— Request received. Energy rerouted. Reserve tanks "2" and "3" engaged. Reserve tank "1" decommissioned. Reserve tank "5" operational at 90%, awaiting connection for redistribution, — the computer reported.

— Excellent. Main computer, power down, — Erebus issued his final command to his brief conversational partner. — Now, I am the master here.

#my art #deus ex #deus ex oc #bob page #erebus #deus ex fanfic #rayner writes

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idontknowreallywhy · 1 year ago

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A little Teeny Scott wip snippet because the little Scooter popped into my brain as he often does when I’m a bit overwhelmed.

Tis another snapshot of my OC Primary teacher POV (oh oops I have two! No, not THAT one the other one! The one who taught teeny Scott rather than the one who trolls adult Scott)

💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙

Like many a primary class store cupboard, the one in Felicity Miles’ domain was crammed full of everything under the sun that could plausibly be “useful for craft one day” alongside all the more formal stationery supplies, brightly coloured sports equipment, first aid items, cuddly toys with their own bandages (often deployed to greater effect than the official first aid items).

She also had a small shelf, high up, she kept for the special pieces of work, the ones which demonstrated where a child had suddenly Got Excited - technicolour art, poetry with unashamed overuse of newly discovered adverbs, science projects, Scott Tracy’s poster about Pi. She always smiled to remember how after his initial disappointment about what the little squiggly symbol DIDN’T mean, how Absolutely he had adopted his new “favourite number”. She had a few from each class and when teacher life all got a bit overwhelming she’d take half an hour at the end of the day and reflect on why she did this in the first place. Retaining the space meant her marking piles were rather more crammed together and higgledy piggledy than ideal - her more organised colleagues would certainly raise an eyebrow - but it was worth it.

There was also a space about half a metre wide and about the same high on the very bottom shelf which it was important she kept empty. Again, the independent observer might have queries as to why, when space was at such a premium, this was necessary. She would probably just smile enigmatically and point at the tiny masking tape sign in wobbly 7-year old handwriting that said “The Octopus House” and leave them with more questions than they were ever going to get answers to.

The Octopus House wasn’t a secret but she didn’t advertise its existence. The few kids who knew about it found it because they needed it. The ones who needed to hide away for a moment, but not be too far away from the safety of their peers or the ones who needed to squeeze up small to process the big feelings without their limbs causing trouble.

It had received its name three years ago on that memorable day when she Lost a Student. He was just gone for at least 20 minutes which must have cost her at least a year of her life. Between the three adults in the class that day they’d subtly searched the corridors, the toilets, the lunch hall, the library and what could be seen of the playground but it was like the child had evaporated. Trying not to panic she’d sent the rest of the class out with the experienced TA and the very-green-but-compensating-with-extreme-enthusiasm NQT to do Olympic relay races on the playground (thank you Ancient Greek class project).

She leant on the back of the door for thirty seconds to catch her breath and psych herself up for the inevitable crisis meeting with the head and the moment at which that would turn in to needing to break the news to his Father.

The silence crowded in on her and she felt herself beginning to properly panic.

She didn’t even know exactly when he’d disappeared. He was there at the start of the lesson, seemed happy, seemed engaged. He’d been very excited about the task they had been given to recreate the Parthenon out of craft paper and had taken charge of his small group so naturally… they’d all been given their part of the mission and they were actually DOING it! Very effectively it seemed! She’d made a mental note to add “leadership skills” to the list of positive things she was going to put on his school report (because the previous few she’d read had made her nauseous with anger) and turned to assist a wailing child with no less than three glue sticks embedded in her hair. And that was… half an hour before? Oh hell that was a long time.

She and the other adults had been so busy mediating the minor battles breaking out in other groups that when a little voice piped up “where’s Scotty? He was sposed to make the lintels!” and her blood had suddenly run cold.

If he was hurt or in danger because she took her eye off him…

She blinked back tears and had just composed herself to pick up the phone to the head teacher’s office when she heard a tiny sniff and spun around to identify the source. Nobody was there.

Hardly daring to breathe, she tiptoed through the room checking under desks already checked three times.

Just as she was concluding she’d imagined it, there it was again - the tiniest noise but definitely a sniff and seemingly from the direction of the cupboard he couldn’t be in because the thumb turn bolt was still in the locked position.

Feeling like she was going crazy she unlocked the door and looked inside anyway.

Obviously it was empty. Her wishful thinking was wasting time. They needed to get a proper search party organised.

She turned to leave and heard it for a third time.

And it was that day, in her 5th year of teaching, she discovered just how small a ball a tall child could make themselves into. Seriously, the octopus had nothing on this kid.

The space was much smaller then, barely 30cm wide and only there at all because she’d taken out the long, thin box of baton-shaped sticks that had been wedged tightly in between stacks of who knew what. All she could see was a tangle of uniformed limbs and a mass of sweaty chestnut hair.

He obviously knew she was there and was holding his breath, clearly hoping not to be seen. Expecting to be in trouble.

Felicity picked up her phone and sent a quick “crisis averted” message to her TA and then, after ensuring the door was wedged wide open, she slowly lowered herself to the floor. Pulling her knees up to her chin to mirror his posture she rested her back on some boxes a few inches to the left of where he’d tucked himself away.

And she waited.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #scott tracy #tiny Scott #adhd!scott #thunderbirds oc #wee!tracys #WIP whenever #idontknowreallywhy fanfic #Octopus House fic

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syrakhanistan · 6 months ago

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signs of a coming War

((This will not make sense if you haven’t read the Stonefire Arc.))

35 seconds past 2310 hours, XX/XX/2010. Roughly one year prior to W-Impact Event. Special order of operation on behalf of the Incubator of the First Officio Assassinorum with the assent of the Warmaster of the First Officio Assassinorum.

Operation: Executed, successfully. Minimal casualties.

Side Objective: Executed, successfully. Minimal casualties.

Second Objective: Executed. Objective(s) confirmed. Assets involved to be debriefed; solution to be assessed and ascertained.

“Yo, Mel! Sorry for the rush briefing, and the somewhat-abrupt semi-kidnapping, but this job’s a good one, I promise… and it’s also an order from the top. We’re to be embedded into an independent international task force special forces unit comprising of American, Syrakhani, British, French, and Russian soldiers en route to an abandoned military complex within the violent disputed border region based on the salt flat made from the former Lake Chad, set between Cameroon, Niger, Chad and Nigeria.

I’m to be deployed in one squad, you’ll be deployed in another alongside your, ah, current comrade-in-arms, Oug’di al-Gawa’a (or whatever they’re calling themselves today). This special international task force is being deployed following reports of a known terror cell meeting with WMD specialists in the disputed, lawless area - the same fundamentalist terror cell responsible for those brutal attacks in Paris and London a year or so ago. This was originally enough for some level of intervention; however, this has since changed - as intel came in that the terror cell was under attack from a seperate terrorist organisation: the infamous ultranationalist zealots that’s been tearing most of Central Africa a few new ones. These guys, if anything, are more of an interesting threat - given that they are confirmed to have access to WMDs, and used them at least once (and were potentially involved in the supplying of the weapon used in the Hizawi tragedy).

However, while destroying terror cells and extracting important intel is certainly good for a laugh… I’m damn sure you can guess that you’re not just here to spray bullets. Our more specialized expertise has been requested, predominantly because we were in the area, for a seperate objective - direct from the higher-ups.

Your primary objective (as opposed to the secondary objective of turning terrorists to paste on the walls) is the location and extraction of a particularly important asset, who we can only refer to as Asset I. That’s an i, not a 1, friend. If you wanna be pedantic, call them Iota.

Neither of us are actually cleared to know what the details surrounding I actually are - but, somehow, the Asset was either captured or was simply, for some reason, located on-site at this facility. Therefore, the higher-ups need us to infiltrate with our assigned squads, and secure the Asset - ensuring no harm comes to them from either side of the battle. Once you have confirmed the asset's safety, and the special forces units have confirmed their own tasks, the independent task force will issue a command to allied Syrakhanistan Air Force and Navy units on standby to bomb the area to smithereens.

God is with us. Blessed is She.”

You are Mel Anna, formerly known as Three. You are a magical girl (formerly an unofficial hire before your exemplary performance landed you a true contract with the Sixteenth Officio Assassinorum), and you’re currently in free fall above a hostile combat zone following abrupt orders from your superior and erstwhile friend, Colonel Kiryu.

You've just jumped from a High Altitude Low Opening position from a modified Russian/former Soviet supersonic aircraft (the aptly named "Black Canary" for it's near-prototype status; an upgraded Tu-160 chassis built with prototype Tu-144 equipment, then further modified by American engineers before being... acquired... by Syrakhanistan), directly into anti-aircraft fire.

So much for taking advantage of two opposing enemies fighting each other - now both of the ground-forces of the terrorists were attacking you all, too.

Luckily - no pun intended - this was to be expected. As in, you'd already predicted this. Your powers from your wish (some powers of which you'd just activated with a small flash of light to help defend against the onslaught of firepower) allowed you to perfectly predict the future - often to either brilliant or terrible results, to the point that you'd been repeatedly advised to only use your primary wish-granted power only when given explicit permission from higher-ups.

This prediction was clearly enough to give some a sense of easy security. Your assigned co-worker and partner-in-crime, the ever-confusing Oug’di al-Gawa’a (commonly known currently as the more simple Ogawa; A shapeshifter and cloner by magical nature, wish unknown, and especially talented Callidus assassin currently contracted with the elusive Twentieth Officio, who has changed name (having previously been known as, among others, Ougi Kumahara, Di Mario, Kagali Ojigawa, Publius Maximus, and Gabriel bin Darra), history, and even flesh and mind several times over - in the short time you'd known them, let alone before your assignment together) was currently posing for an unseen camera while nearing terminal velocity. They noticed your gaze amidst the flak bursts and gave you a cheerful wave, much to your chagrin.

As you descended to the military facility built into the already corpse-ridden salt flats, you threw out a few of your personalised magical tarot cards towards your allies desperately attempting to maneouver out the way of the anti-air fire, the cards flipping in the air and turning into small shields of energy, protecting them.

"Deploy PWSS on my mark." You say over the comms as the wind rushes around you. "Mark".

Your equipment deploys, alongside the other members of the squad, activating into a quasi-wingsuit, quasi-parachute mechanism (you’d forgotten to actually ASK what PWSS even meant), allowing you to accelerate faster down to your destination but with more control, as well as to hit the ground in such a manner that you WEREN'T reduced to a splatter on the concrete.

You hit the ground with a solid thud, going straight into a forward combat roll, as the soldiers operating flak cannons on the rooftop of the complex turned to fight your incoming group.

A flick of your wrist, and cards from nowhere spin out, cutting the throats of several enemy combatants, while Ogawa swung around behind them, cloning instantly, each one holding weapons - knives, guns, even a machete - and carving a line across the rooftop.

The gunfire and missiles continued to stream away nearby, even as your squad regrouped after clearing the area.

You motioned towards a set of doors (the other set on the roof being left clear for either another squad such as Colonel Kiryu’s, or for exfil), and the group moved into the complex, slowly checking corners, clearing rooms, checking for mines and traps.

One set of doors turned into another, each corridor going on and on, each filled with an endless stream of enemies, flies to the flame that they were.

The hallways, the rooms, the floors, all of them began to blur together, a strange feeling lurking at the back of your mind.

Like, this place was a LOT bigger than it should have any right to be.

It was built into the flat salt of a former lake; surely such ground would be hard, and less than perfect for underground structures?

Yet it just kept going. Further and further you went, meeting each floor filled with more and more insurgents, more and more corpses, more wasted bullets and more wasted energy.

You’re glad you’d asked for the extra few Grief Seeds before the mission.

The deeper you went, ironically, the more lit up the halls were. Electricity seemed to be concentrating somewhere deep below, so power seems to have been rerouted to whatever, whoever, wherever this “Iota” figure was, or whatever cage they had been imprisoned in.

Of course, the enemy also become more and more entrenched as your team descended. Your equipment indicated that by the time you reached an impressively fortified bunker-like position complete with underground towers - somehow - you were close to nearly a few solid kilometres below ground.

That’s impossible, unless…

You motion to Ogawa, giving an old hand signal and pointing to one of your comrades, between hails of gunfire from the towers.

Ogawa looks confused for a brief moment, before confusion turned to concern as the Callidus performed the check on the soldier you’d motioned towards.

Ogawa nodded. Shit.

Somehow, the bunch of you had got caught inside a Labyrinth. Either that, or the Labyrinth had been built around Iota, or perhaps to contain Iota. A Witch, and a relatively powerful one, must have manifested here - or, if not fully manifested, then a Seed must have been used in some way.

The Kiss sigil burning black on the soldier’s exposed neck gave your theory enough credence to be wary.

You radio into your comms, praying that the influence of a Witch wouldn’t impact the hardened equipment you had.

“Daisy Hand to Siren, do you read? We’re confirming unknown-class interference close to the predicted location of Asset Iota. Confirm acknowledgement, over.”

“…tua… res… fi… ack…”

“Daisy Hand to Siren, repeat last, over.”

You tut irritably, ignoring yet another round of bullets fired your way.

…well, you tried.

“Ogawa! I need cover while I do my thing!” You shout between bursts of fire.

“Did you get—”

“Nope! But I’m gonna do it anyway, otherwise we’re gonna be up to our necks in shit at this rate, let alone whatever’s up with Iota - if the Asset is even still around.”

“…fine. But using that, it’s on your ass, you hear?”

You hear, alright.

As the rapid deployment of Ogawa’s shadows began to move forward into the enemy ranks, you close your eyes, and concentrate.

Breathing in, and out. You blink.

+ Predict where the Witch is. +

You project out to the abyss, your consciousness wavering, surfing along the very edge of the accursed realms between reality, searching for an answer.

Your predictions will always be correct. You will always get the answer that will occur.

Even if it’s a terrible one.

A feeling, a nudge, a scar opening, crackling of flames, laughter, the sky falls, beating heart, cruel knives, the dead live, seas of blood, a sick jokes, corridors endlessly fading into a pit of—

There. That one. But what did…

You shake yourself back into reality, discerning and paraphrasing what little you understood.

The Witch…

You look between the Towers, through the Maze that continued behind the enemy encampment, past the bullets -

There! You fling a single card—

“Got it!” Ogawa shouts, revealing themselves amidst the horde of clones, firing a single shot following the glowing trail your card had left.

Between the towers, past the camp, past the bullets, through the corridors, hitting the Door’s window.

A screech, like the rending of metal, before fading away, the breathless agony of another dead creature - whether a natural one or an old comrade, irrelevant.

The building’s doors didn’t have windows. Ironically, unlike most Witches that bury themselves within the depths of their Labyrinth, this one had created an endless loop of rooms, spreading itself thin to create a seamless world to trap victims in.

The labyrinth dissipated, the lines of enemy soldiers vanishing in mere moments. It appeared only a dozen odd insurgents had actually been in the building; but the Witch that had either imprisoned them, or had been employed by them, had made the enemy seem insurmountable.

The illusion shattered, you and your squad find yourself in a far more spacious but still all-too corridor-like room.

A room with doors, but in particular one rather bulky looking and rusty one.

As Ogawa passes by the few corpses, grabbing the lone Grief Seed that had fallen to the floor, you once again grab your comms equipment - only to be interrupted once more by the sounds of gunfire.

Ogawa pockets the Seed, and together with your surviving comrades, you take positions next to the door which the sounds were coming from.

“Anyone home? We could use a hand!” A familiar voice shouts behind the door between the combat noises.

Your expression softens, and, ignoring your team’s surprise, you unloosen the bolt on the door, letting your friend through.

The Colonel herself immiediately shuts it behind her, a grim look on her face. “Cheers, pal. ‘Twas getting a bit hairy.”

You nod to Ogawa to keep watch on the exit doors alongside the rest, while you help Kiryu out with her many, many wounds, as the two of you walk towards the clearly suspicious larger door while fixing up the comms equipment.

“—and, do you read? Do you read or not? Over.” The comms finally crackled back to life, the Field Commander’s excitable but determined tones coming through.

“Siren, this is Daisy Hands and Chairman, we read you loud and clear. Interference has been eliminated, and we have located the probable location of the Asset. Confirmation on how to proceed? Over.”

A chuckle. “Aha! Finally! You had me worried for a moment there - not sure why, mind.” Audible throat clearing, before - “Daisy Hands, your position is getting more dangerous by the moment; we have confirmed enemy reinforcements from both OPFOR groups, and much of your backup outside has been worn down. So I need you to listen closely, over.”

“Boss, it’ll be faster if you could get on with it!” The Colonel shouted irritably, long hair swinging from side to side.

“That’s former Boss, and current Field Commander, to you - Chairman. Now then…

The location of Iota should have a massive metal door, locked down nice and tight. However, there’s a knack to opening it - besides several tonnes of high explosive, that is.”

You… didn’t like where this was going.

“The door will only open with the confirmed death of a magical girl.”

There is a soft sigh, before the Field Commander cut off the comms.

…ah.

The Colonel and you exchange the smallest of glances - right before you both bring a weapon to one another’s throats.

“I outrank you, Mel. That’s just how it is.” Kiryu murmured angrily, blade steady.

“I still haven’t got what I became a magical girl for. I won’t die in such a miserable manner as this.” You respond, with an equal level of malice, no magical weapon or card in your hand - just a simple 9mm pistol drawn from your side in the fastest of motions.

There’s a brief moment of tense silence, only occasionally broken by gunfire.

Before being properly broken by an extremely agitated Callidus.

“What the FUCK are you two doing?!” Ogawa cried aloud, sprinting towards the two of you and rolling between your raised arms.

“Out of the way, Ogawa. Otherwise it’ll be your head we take.”

“Yeah, kid, whatever you’re calling yourself these days. Go back to your position, you’re outta line.”

“Head? What? What the hell are you talking about?” Ogawa shouted, refusing to budge.

“Goddamnit, we don’t have time for this—” You say, rolling your eyes.

“Ogawa, our new orders require the death of a magical girl to open the door.” The Colonel says, her eyes still on you.

Ogawa pauses. “Bodily death or soul death?”

The two of you hesitate, before you both look at the bemused assassin.

“Oh, screw this!” Ogawa shouts down at the two of you, before roughly shoving you both out of the way.

Before you can move, Ogawa has approached the hulking metal door, and produced a Very Sharp Knife; you recognise the brand, since you’d bought it as a birthday gift - straight from the forges of KilianInc, your personal favourite Swedish arms manufacturer.

Ogawa kneels down, while Ogawa remains standing.

Oh! That’s… will that work?

Ogawa swiftly decapitates the fleshy shadow clone, neck stump spraying viscera onto the door as the head rolls onto the floor.

There’s a few moments of tension, breaths held - before your prayers are answered, as metal began clanking against metal, the doors swinging open with a rough and screeching noise.

A noise only rivalled by the equally loud gunfire outside.

Without any hesitation, you three rush into the open bunker, while the remnants of your squad continue to fortify against the next enemy assault outside.

The location where Asset I was being held was, in a word, cramped. The brief hallway that contained the vault door quickly ended and abruptly interrupted your intrusion with wall after wall of expensive-looking electronics; servers, open laptops, entire sections with fuse boxes and nothing else.

There was barely any lighting in here, the only lights glowing a dim red - like that of an emergency generator - and occasionally seeming to flicker, and almost appearing to move deeper inside. A veritable sea of wires seemed to endlessly connect every port and cable, the floor packed with them, all running to the end of the bunker.

And, at the end of the bunker, lay your presumed target. A large cylindrical metal capsule, cold to the touch, with a jewelled engraving of a single letter:

I. Styled in a Roman numeral.

The flow of glowing lights and wires all seemed to be pointing to a small panel of buttons that lay next to the capsule.

Your curious gaze was broken by the sound of an explosion; the enemy was attempting to breach the room before the bunker. More gunfire, and the occasional grunt and scream.

You’re the first to move, rushing to the computer terminal, panel, whatever it was, while signalling the other two to give cover while you inspect it.

There are a whole lot of buttons on this surprisingly small computer… thing… and none of them have labels - or, at least, labels in any language you actually understood. Some of the symbols even hurt your brain trying to look at them for some reason - but you get the feeling that the ominously glowing one on the right hand side of the machine is your objective.

In for a penny, as they say…

You press the button.

There’s a pause, before all the few lights in the room shimmer, before following a pattern and seemingly moving from electrical thing to thing all the way to the button you pushed. Finally, after some whirring and mechanical humming, something begins to stir.

The capsule slowly creaks open, and something - someone - flops out unceremoniously; falling to the ground onto their face, sticky and cold liquids gushing out from the machine and covering them and the floor with a fleshy-stinking ooze.

The person, presumably Iota, is utterly soaked in the freezing cold liquid paste; however, they’re also covered head to toe in some sort of metallic armour, with only their mouth being uncovered, and a dense band of red painted metal acting as a blindfold. Their armour seemed to act like an extension cable, given how many more wires seemed to be popping out from them. Armour that…

Appeared to be underneath what seemed to be a girl’s bear onesie. Somehow not soaked.

You’re somewhat taken aback by all this, even as the gunfire and combat grows louder outside.

“Mel! Whatever’s going on over there, get it done fast! We’re up to our necks in shit over here!” The Colonel shouted between bursts of semi-automatic fire.

You barely hear her, as you continue to look down on the Asset.

All this… for a sticky dead girl?

Oh, right - she might not be dead. You kneel down, and try to search for a pulse, or something. Difficult to do beneath layers of metal seemingly surgically attached into her.

She isn’t breathing. Nothing coming from her mouth or nose, shit.

Wait, there’s something! Her mouth is, well, full. Which is odd. Maybe it had more of the ooze? Trapping her airways, maybe?

You grunt, ignoring the stench and texture, before shoving your fingers into the girl’s mouth.

You know that feeling. This object. You carefully hook your fingers around it, and pull.

Of course.

The Soul Gem comes out from her mouth, wet with saliva and gunge, the soft hue and glow already slightly illuminating the room. And that almost biological feeling of it, that notion that the jewel is alive, an artificial beating heart, sets off a feeling of tension in you.

As you hold it in your hand, another explosion nearly deafens you from outside.

“FUCK! They’ve breached! Hold the line!” Ogawa screams.

“MEL, GET YOUR ARSE OVER HERE AND DO SOME KILLIN’ ALREADY!” The Colonel commands you, her voice audibly concerned.

Even as super-soldiers empowered by the powers of aliens, even as highly trained professionals - you were by no means Gods. Sure, you could kill dozens with your bare hands; hundreds with the right equipment; but there are only so many bodies you can bring down before their weight brings you down.

So, following the Colonel’s command, you place the Soul Gem gently onto the ground, and move to grab your rifle—

There’s a flash, a surge of electricity. The bunker seems to come to life in a single moment - a single moment where you feel your sleeve being tugged.

“Killing is not something that comes naturally… not something that SHOULD come naturally. Those who kill lose part of themselves, and gain something that no human should ever be comfortable with. Makes us even less human than we already were. I do not enjoy killing; it is a necessary evil, something I do because I must.

Because death has brought me new life on this day.”

The voice, quiet, barely a whisper, pierces your mind, speaking eloquently but eerily. You look down to your quarry, and see the previously angelic look of someone fast asleep being replaced with a creepy grin, skin stretched to the human limit.

Another surge of electricity - and it’s now that you begin to hear the screams.

“What the… fuck…?” You hear the Colonel audibly exclaim.

You manage to break off your state from Iota’s salivating smirk, and look to the entrance of the bunker.

It was absolutely soaked in blood. As you watched, the previously shot down corpses of enemies were now being joined en masse by new corpses. Seemingly from nowhere, enemies began to explode left and right, spraying blood and pieces of flesh around the room.

It’s then that the dots connected in your head:

Whatever Iota’s powers were, they were causing electrical surges around you; pulses of power, continuing to flow from her barely functioning body. And those same pulses were also being sent to the enemy - specifically, their own equipment: radios, earpieces, flashlights, phones. Anything that could be accessed with electricity - perhaps with radio frequencies, or wifi, or infrared, or SOMETHING - was now effectively being turned into a bomb.

As you gazed in awe at her handiwork, the girl herself began to stir, gripping onto your arm to steady her feet. She sniffs the air, looking around - or, perhaps, the motion of looking around, given the heavy metal blindfold.

“My thanks.”

She says softly, clearing her throat, her words still barely escaping her lips. She manages to find her footing, before slowly moving forwards, the trail of wires somehow following her every move. You follow in her footsteps as she approaches the confused Colonel.

“Ah. Ah. Resting. Besting. Testing. Testing. One, two. Yes. Good.” She begins. She speaks oddly, her accent stilted, like she knew how to speak but didn’t usually speak with human flesh. You… don’t know quite how to easily put it; if a baby was born instantly with speech abilities and the full knowledge of the lexicon, this would be like that.

Sort of.

The Colonel nods to the Asset. “Greetings. We have orders pertaining to your extraction.”

The girl listens, pausing, and nodding. “Acknowledgement. Confirmation: Colonel Kiryu, Sixteenth Officio. Yes slash No?”

The Colonel blinks a few times, taken by surprise. “Y-yes? That’s me?”

“Confirmation - Colonel Kiryu, extraction of Asset Iota: Iwakura Lain. Package is in transit”.

You blink a few times, stopping in your tracks.

Lain… Iwakura?

Your line of thinking is made concrete by a similar expression flashing across the Colonel’s face, head quickly turning to yours, the briefest of head shakes directed to you, before returning to silence.

Iwakura. The same surname of the girl you’d killed on your last mission as a (barely) human.

Iwakura. A dynasty of magical girls, a practical family lineage.

Iwakura. The surname of someone extremely powerful related to computers that Colonel Kiryu had explicitly told you to avoid.

Your only hope is that you hadn’t spoken yet nor could she see your face. If she could identify the Colonel so easily, then you just had to stay as quiet as a mouse.

+ Ogawa, no time to explain. Whatever you do, don’t speak to me. The Colonel can explain later. +, you project to Ogawa.

A brief look of confusion on Ogawa’s face flickers, while the Colonel appears to be explaining the situation to Lain, before clearing and a small nod responds to you.

“Alright, Asset Iota…” The Colonel begins before being interrupted.

“Assent: Identity is Lain Iwakura. Polite: Feel free to call me Lain. Good?” Lain speaks, her voice growing more normal with every spoken word.

“Lain, then. We’re on the move to the extraction point. Please be careful, there are some steps.” The Colonel said, motioning her head to the approaching staircase.

“Request: Could your subordinate/subordinates lift me? Body… is still malfunctioning.” Lain says, still almost mechanical, but with the smallest hint of humour.

The Colonel stops in her tracks, giving a small chuckle. “A… piggyback ride, then? I mean… Eh, if that’s your order.”

She nods to Ogawa, who blinks a few times, shrugs, and lifts the girl up. Not quite a piggyback ride, but still, Lain appeared content.

Even as the four of you moved upwards through the building, gunfire appeared to sporadically begin in earnest only to swiftly end with barely audible puffs of electrical explosions. Lain, her wires still trailing slowly behind the group, appeared to continue to be guarding the squad with her powers.

You nod to the Colonel, and signal towards your comms equipment. She acknowledges the motion, and you turn it on.

“Siren, this is Chairman. We have extracted the Asset, proceeding to Extraction Point B on the roof of the facility.” The Colonel spoke over the comms.

“Chairman, Siren acknowledges. Asset already made contact the moment you completed your objective; she speaks highly of your actions this day, particularly of your willingness to perform your orders. Over.”

“Willingness, sir?”

“…To kill Daisy Hands like that in order to open the magically sealed door, that was brave. Your commitment to the commands of your superiors is commendable. Her sacrifice will not be in vain. Over.”

The whole group stopped at this. Ogawa in particular seemed to almost be holding in laughter.

“…Roger that. Will continue towards extraction and explain during debriefing. Over and out.” The Colonel spoke softly, before reaching over to you and turning off the comms.

The group continued to move, with you guarding the rear, but there was a notable silence.

Naturally, Lain broke it.

“Apologies, but… Was I out of line in some way?” She queried pointedly to the Colonel.

“N-no, Iwakura-san, not at all. I was just surprised that you had already made contact with HQ.” Kiryu responded diplomatically.

“…Iwakura-san, eh? Not Lain?” The wired girl spoke, almost disappointed. “Why do I feel like I’m missing something here?”

There’s a barely noticeable undertone of joking irony in her words. Did she…?

She probably did, you think. You did have all the comms equipment on you; and the other two also had their own. Given that she hadn’t blown you up yet as an unauthorised set of feet following behind, she must have known you were a friendly.

But did she know you were her youngest sister’s killer?

If she did, why hadn’t she killed you yet? Was Kiryu’s intuition wrong?

You suppressed a sigh, and continued watching the group’s back - not that it was strictly necessary, given Lain’s seeming omniscience, with more than enemy exploding just as they turn a corner, moments before you shoot them yourself.

Finally, you all reach the final flight of stairs, and Ogawa pushes the heavy-set metal doors to the roof open.

Extraction comes in the form of a single experimental prototype, the Bell Boeing V-2905 Kite, a heavily armoured and rather early-stage quad-rotor aircraft designed especially for movement under harsh conditions. You’d only seen one once, refuelling when you’d been posted as a security detachment for a diplomatic summit in Nigeria - one of Syrakhanistan’s own (albeit stolen originally, but since heavily modified) mechanical works.

Out from the back steps a surprising figure, a lone girl with a messy bob of brown hair (although it appeared to be going grey rather early) in full dress uniform, one arm sticking out of a military jacket covered in medals.

“Ah! Bloody well done.” Admiral Torresa von Akiyama, Field Commander of the operation, and former Warmaster of the Sixteenth Officio Assassinorum, says with a small curtsey, before saluting properly with her sleeved hand, her loose one still by her side. “I hope that my agents didn’t toss you around too much, Iwakura-sama?”

Akiyama always was an oddball, at least if the reports from Kiryu and others were accurate; a magical girl who barely ever used her powers, who shied away from overusage of Contracted assets in preference from basic materiel operations, and who apparently never truly warmed to the role of Warmaster - to the point that when she was offered a ‘temporary position’ by the Primus inter Pares, she accepted without any hesitation.

A temporary position she’d now been occupying for a relatively long time for a Mahou Shoujo.

Saying that… ‘Iwakura-sama’? From a(n albeit former) Warmaster?

“Confirmation: Colonel Cornelia Kiryu and her two subordinates performed admirably under fire. Commendation: recommended!” Lain responded, almost cheerfully. “Irritation: I’ve told you before that the honorific is unnecessary when we speak the lingua franca. Especially since - Truth: I am no more Warmaster than you anymore.”

“Ah, pish-posh. Quartus and Dammekos both still sing your praises, and you know how much SHE has come to rely on—” The Admiral chuckled, before stopping herself. “Ahem. Let’s keep up appearances, eh?”

She turned away from Lain, and back to the three of you.

Three.

Her gaze turned to a scowl. “Wait, the fuck…?”

“Pardon?” Lain responded, still blindfolded and almost hopping to turn around, nearly tripping over a loose wire before Kiryu caught her.

“How…?” Akiyama began, her hair blowing in the breeze, right before being interrupted by the sound of artillery fire.

“I’ll explain on the ride back, Commander. I suspect we should exfiltrate the AO as soon as possible.” Kiryu spoke cautiously.

The Admiral’s gaze hardened, before relenting. “Alright. Yeah, alright, you’re right. Let’s go. And besides - I’ve got a little treat lined up for the bastards still crawling around down there. Although, before I forget…”

She pauses, and turns back to Lain. She places her hand on the nape of her neck, seemingly fidgeting, searching for something. A finger flicks open a piece of metal, and she appears to type in a code.

With a small puff of smoke and the grinding of unseen gears, the armour that Lain had been wearing as well as the Bear Oneside fell apart like a crumbling cookie, the metal disintegrating upon impact with the ground.

She’s even shorter than she looked before without all the accoutrements. Skin as pale as snow - no, paler, even colder than that of the most frozen Siberian plains in the Motherland - and soft brown eyes that seemed to never focus on anything at all. Her hair flickered a little in the breeze, still sticky from the cryogenic fluid and from sweat. All she wore under the armour was a simple white nightgown—

And, uh, yet another Bear Onesie…? Is that one of her powers? Can she just teleport those in?

You’re distracted by the Onesie, and completely miss her unfocused and wary brown eyes coming to rest upon your form hiding at the back of the group.

Your eyes meet.

There’s a moment, just a small moment, where you feel something on your back, crawling, nails skating along your spi—

“Let’s go, people! AO’s gonna get real hot soon!” Akiyama called out, breaking your gaze and grabbing Lain by one arm while Kiryu grabbed the other.

The smaller girl gave a funny little yelp at this, being unceremoniously picked up and thrown into the VTOL aircraft, much to Ogawa’s amusement.

You’re… not quite in the joking mood, as you hop into the aircraft, noting a nod of acknowledgement from Kiryu as you take a seat near the exit - as far from Lain as possible.

The aircraft quickly lifts off, seemingly quite blasé about the incoming RPG and machine-gun fire. As the complex and salt lake begin to shrink into the horizon from behind your tinted glass window, Akiyama waves to the group.

“Hey-ho! Just gonna call something in. I’d suggest averting your gaze from the windows for juuust a moment!”

…

Somewhere in the Red Sea. North of Socotra.

“That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear.”

“Receiving authentication code…”

“Authentication: 6 dash 7 dash 4 dash 2 dash 5. Authenticate?”

“Code authenticated. Read as Crimson. Authenticate?”

“Authentication confirmed. God is with us, and she will not be as merciful as we are.”

…

“Three, two, one - impact, now!” Akiyama shouted, right as—

The sky fell.

Lights, shattering, stars falling one by one in a crescendo of colours burning the backs of your eyes, even trying to not look directly out the window.

You’re forced to turn and look, both out of curiosity, and because it seemed pointless since it was so bright anyways.

Hundreds - no, thousands, of burning lights showered down on the distant salt lake. Dark red, like drops of blood in the shower (only far, far swifter), each one coursing through the sky with a sound akin to thunder, making impact and liquifying wherever it hit. The cloudy sky you had fallen from merely hours ago was physically disrupted by the waterfall of blood-red artillery fire.

If you could call… that… artillery. You’d heard reports about the end of your war, a great calamity befalling Elbrus leaving naught but a smoking crater… but this felt even worse than that. Like a dragon had been woken from a slumber, fire beating from it’s ancient chest for the first time in millennia.

What had Akiyama used…?

“Ya-hoooo!! Now THAT’S fuckin’ awesome!” The girl herself screamed aloud, practically wiggling behind her seatbelt. “Fuckin’ hideous, so wonderful and beautiful!”

…maybe now wasn’t the time.

“Ah, Akiyama, Admiral-Sir. You wanted an explanation of—” Ogawa began, before being bluntly shushed by Kiryu.

“Hush. Let her have her fun.” Kiryu spoke cockily, seemingly enjoying her former Boss’s little moment.

You wonder how Lain was rea—

Oh, Gods. She’s still looking at you.

…

The quadcopter finished it’s final approach, landing softly and quietly on the helipad of the skyscraper.

It’d taken a few hours - and one rather excitable Admiral - to reach the place that Akiyama was apparently ordered to bring Lain for extraction. Not exactly the most close point to the AO, but you’re sure Command has it’s reasons.

The large metal tower was a newer development in the older city of Tébessa, near the Borma Exclusion Zone, and decidedly out of place amongst the far more proper-looking and even Ancient architecture.

All for the sake of ‘progress’, as always, in Syrakhanistan.

Her pet project - and, speaking of Her…

A sight you weren’t sure you’d ever see again struck you as the leaders of the squad began to leave the aircraft (you and Ogawa were on maintenance duty, as well as checking on the pilot) . In the corner of your eye, you saw a single pale-haired woman was relaxing against a wall near the entrance of the helipad, uncharacteristically content as appearances go.

Quite the contrast from the immediate salutes from Colonel and Admiral alike…

…and the sprinting running hug from Iwakura.

“H-hey! Iwakura-san, it hasn’t been that long…!” The First, Warmaster Hazuki, laughed warmly in response to the gratitude from Lain.

“Hazuki-chan~! It’s always too long to see you, you know!” She responded, a more pleasant grin on her face (as compared to the one from earlier). She let go of Hazuki’s broad shoulders, and gave a more proper - if somewhat mocking - salute.

“…well, as long as you’re happy, then so am I, Iwakura-san.” The First said, a small snort of suppressed laughter coming out near the end, luxurious silver hair moving like waves with each slight motion.

She cleared her throat, and approached the Admiral-Colonel pair. “Akiyama-san, it’s been a while.” She greeted them, shaking the smaller girl’s hand. She looked at the Colonel, smiling: “Ah, and… Colonel Kiryu, right? Is Jyubey still giving you the run-around?”

The Colonel shook her head, not wishing to bring the ire of the loud-mouthed Incubator to bear. “Ah, he’s always good, sir. I’m… honoured you remember me.”

“Naturally! We’re all comrades-in-arms, here.” The Warmaster spoke cordially, smiling. “Speaking of which, weren’t there more of you on the aircraft?”

Akiyama nodded, while Lain’s interest perked up, and the Admiral moved to wave us over, yet—

“Ah, I think they’re busy with work in there right now! My apologies.” The Colonel spoke suddenly, interrupting the Admiral.

The entire helipad seemed to freeze in that moment.

Admiral Torresa’s gaze seemed to rapidly move towards Kiryu, her often comedically happy expression swiftly turning to a far darker look, something like that of a predator finding a lone mouse.

Lain, for her part, simply stopped, blinking a few times. Only the smallest flicker of a scowl brushed against her eyebrows, a mere twitch.

Kiryu, for her part, stood firm. You’re unsure why she’s taking the brunt of this for you - after all, Lain could have already killed you half a dozen times over, and the Warmaster had probably already forgotten about you.

You’re… not even surprised by Ogawa’s reaction.

Finally, Hazuki herself stood there, her hair flowing in the wind. Expression stoic, frozen. A pause, before a blink, and a nod.

“I see. Well, it’s… good for them to attend to their duties. Save the grandstanding for the higher-ups, I suppose. A work-ethic we should all aspire to.” Hazuki broke the silence, one of her hands brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

The other hand - well, how you hadn’t noticed is odd, but… She didn’t appear to have the other hand. In her entire other arm’s place was a massive metallic thing. A heavy metallic glove or gauntlet of some kind, reflecting a radiant gold in the Tunisian sun, with claws the size of katanas on each finger.

How…? You could have sworn she hadn’t been wearing that when you touched down on the helipad.

“Well! No matter. I trust your judgement on this, Cornelia-san, since they’re your subordinates.” Hazuki spoke with a light chuckle, her clawed hand waving and gesturing gracefully in the air as she spoke, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Akiyama seemed to have calmed down, expression becoming soft once more, while Lain nodded silently.

“My thanks, Warmaster. It’s been a long day for them, after all. I think a bit of recreational cleaning and boot-polishing is a fine enough reward, rather than chatting niceties with us old folks.” Colonel Kiryu responded, still firmly holding her ground.

+ You owe me for this. + She spoke telepathically to you.

+ I… never asked. + You respond.

+ The fact that you didn’t ask is what makes this even more worrying and favour-requiring, fool… + Kiryu indicated, somehow scowling at you telepathically while keeping a silent straight face.

You nod to nobody in particular, a silent response.

“On that note, I believe the Admiral - ah, I suppose Field Commander is more accurate for the moment - is to debrief you before your return to Jyubey. Myself and Lain will now begin extraction.” Hazuki continued, slowly turning away from Akiyama and Kiryu, alongside the Aircraft, and waving goodbye with her gauntlet-covered arm, while Lain followed suit.

“My personal thanks for all your hard work today. Oh, Lain, do be a dear and say thanks to your rescuers too, eh? Don’t be a stranger, now!” The Warmaster stopped momentarily, giving a warm gesture of thanks and telling Lain to do the same.

“Acknowledgement: my thanks for your assistance this day.” Lain spoke politely, nodding her head, before giving an odd laugh and grabbing the Warmaster’s hand - the Clawed one. This even seemed to surprise Hazuki, who gave a genuine laugh in response to Lain’s affection.

As this occurred, Lain leaned into Hazuki’s ear. You have a talent for reading lips, so you’re surprised when the only thing she says is a single letter:

“W.”

A solemn nod is all Hazuki gives in acknowledgement.

She patted Lain on the head, like one would a dog, before turning once more, waving a human-handed goodbye to the squad, and—

They vanished. No teleportation smoke, no activation signal, nothing. The Warmaster and Lain disappeared, as if never having been there at all.

As you take note of this, you glance around the cabin of the aircraft - and only then do you notice the ever so slight burn mark next to your seat. The smallest, barely noticeable, little thing - but clearly not a bullet hole or from an RPG.

Odd. How deeply odd.

===

ADDENDUM A: Absolution

(A month or so later. Aboard the Sixteenth Officio’s Private Military HQ, en route from the Mediterranean to a new heading. Bathroom No. 26, Floor No. 5.)

You find yourself washing your hands.

You and your squad had been debriefed and interviewed repeatedly since the Operation’s end. The Field Commander, and the Officio’s own former Warmaster, had apparently been tight-lipped surrounding the operation, initially out of concern for the timeframe involved, but since the Op’s end, she’d merely claimed privilege based on the vague orders from the First Officio, and then proceeded to return to Syrakhanistan and maintained radio silence.

You, Kiryu, and Ogawa attempted to explain the situation - the Witch that had oddly manifested, the Wired Girl who’d been your target, the Glassing of the Salt Lake (something which Jyubey took an EXTREME interest in), and the Warmaster of the First’s curious relationship and reaction to the two other (former) Warmasters.

As per usual, it appeared there was little to no proper communication between Officios, especially between the First Officio and their quote-on-quote ‘equals’ down on Earth. God, the whole process was a bore. Fuck this bureaucratic nonsense.

You don’t know why, but you’ve been waking up earlier and earlier over these past few days since the operation.

“Guilty conscience, perhaps?”

The voice pierces into your head, and you spin rapidly to respond—

“Relaxation: Chill, Mel Anna-san. Eversor of the Sixteenth (although I would disagree with that classification in your case); or perhaps, I would call you Three?” The white-dressed girl tossing her legs side to side from the top of a toilet cubicle spoke, a smirk on her face.

“Asset Iota… Lain Iwakura-sama.” You respond cautiously, bowing your head in respect.

“Just Lain will do, Eversor. No ‘sama’ necessary; my position these days is far more loose and without title, and certainly not worth the courtesy of a Warmaster’s honours.” The girl said, flipping down and landing in a swift motion next to you, right before hopping onto the sink counter.

“…are you here to kill me?” You manage to say, her eyes boring through you.

“Kill you…? Why would I do that?” Lain said. Her voice betrayed what appeared to be genuine curiosity.

You blink a few times, before responding quietly; you know you have to be honest, since she was almost certainly reading your mind. “I… I’m the one responsible for your sister’s demise.”

“…which sister?” Lain responded, cricking her neck with a questioning look.

“Wh-which sister? How many do you have? And how many have DIED?” You reply, somewhat aghast.

“I have several! And how many… Hmm, I dunno. Stopped counting after the second one; only really cared for my first, after all.” Lain spoke, answering each question in quick succession.

You… what? Eh?

“I… I was told that… that she was your youngest sister? Or was it a cousin? Girl with light powers? I was told to avoid others called Iwakura who might seek revenge…” You say diplomatically.

“Oh! Yes. I… barely remember that one. But I know of her; knew of her.” Lain spoke.

She seemed to make a typing action, and what appeared to be some sort of electronic form appeared on the mirrors next to the two of you.

“Let’s see here… Ah, yes, I remember this report! Quite a laugh, actually. KIA ‘in honourable combat’, my ass! Killed by a non-contracted girl using regular human munitions in a one-on-one duel. Disgraceful!” She spoke, a cruel and mocking tone to her words.

She slammed her hands shut, and turned back to you. “However, it certainly reflected well on the killer - I had actually wanted to meet her in person to offer congratulations and perhaps even give her access to an Incubator for contracting, but I was told a certain white-haired demigoddess got to her first.”

She grinned, looking down on you from the counter. “Well! This is a rather good turn of events then, isn’t it? I’d had a hunch when you awoke me that you were somehow related to me by events or some-such, but to think you had Iwakura blood on your hands? Impressive!”

She holds out a hand, smiling.

You’re… deeply puzzled. Concerned, even. You don’t turn down the handshake, mind—

Or, you wouldn’t, if your hand didn’t phase through her hand instantly.

“Eh?” You grunt in bemusement.

“Oh! So that’s how that works!” Lain acts coyly, getting down from the counter.

She walks towards you, and taps the side of your head. Somehow, this does elicit a reaction.

“Yeah, you never went for a full physical check-up after your contract, did you? They sewed your head back on, gave you a touch up, and when you contracted you seemed good as new.” Lain spoke, her finger somehow visibly poking into your eye - painlessly, mind, if rather uncomfortable - from your ear. “However, seems neither you nor they accounted for all your cybernetics that you’d had put in. Cybernetics that have now long since folded into your internal organs, regrowing with magical healing, and essentially being grafted into your biotics.”

You’re not sure how to respond. “So… I’m a Magical Cyborg Girl?”

“Pfft! If you want to call it that, go ahead.” She said, extracting her invasive finger. “Thing is, it allowed me to see you far better than anyone else upon extraction. You’re lit up like a damn Christmas tree to my eyes; so, before we left, I did a little digging of my own.”

Of her own…? Wait—

“Yup - I wasn’t staring aggressively out of any hate or whatever rubbish you thought; I was interfacing with your augments and installing a little something of mine own make.” She spoke cockily. “A little piece of Iwakura is now permanently inside you!”

As if to prove her own point, you watch in horror as one of your own eyes twists in the socket to stare into the mirror, colour changing to match that of Lain’s, blinking, before returning to normal.

“I believe we’re getting distracted.” You manage to say, tearing your gaze away from the cursed vision of yourself.

The illusory Lain claps her hands. “Ah, of course! What I wanted to say if I ever met you, my sister’s killer - was a simple congratulations.” She nods, an impressed look on her face. “A non-contracted individual, even heavily experimented on and trained well, is usually barely a match for a Magical Girl when one faces down dozens, even hundreds - a lone individual killing a Magical Girl in single combat would be laughable to most.”

She gazes into your eyes. “It was a fine kill. You did well, and the Incubators made a good choice in making your contract.”

Even as the words of praise came, all you could feel was an increasing sense of horror. “But… she was your sister…?”

“And? What difference does that make? She was weaker than you, which makes you better than her.” Lain says, smiling. “As I’m sure you’re fully aware by this point in your illustrious career, we live in a world defined by survival of the fittest. The weak die; the strong prevail. I told you myself before - killing is not a good act, but it is through death that people like myself gain more and more. A necessary evil, something I take no pleasure in, but something I recognise as a tool to be used.”

Lain nodded, an illusory hand brushing your cheek in a prideful manner. “You killed one with the Iwakura’s blood, on her home turf while serving as a Marine no less - and without any magical abilities. You are a wonderful, definitive example of my beliefs.”

You gaze back into those eyes, your own horrified expression reflected in them.

“…your thoughts betray your revulsion towards my opinion.” Lain said, seemingly disappointed. “But that’s fine. Given your background, I had somewhat hoped for a kindred spirit, unified in our love for the mechanical and the battlefield… but such is life.”

You shake your head to this. “I may love the thrill of the fight, and I may enjoy the benefits of my augmentations - not least now because my Contracted body lets me use them without any downsides - but I still have respect for familial ties. Those who I once called family were taken from me; those I used to call comrades were butchered, some of whom fell at the hands of those I now find myself allied with. I do not forgive, and I most certainly do not forget - Iwakura-SAMA.”

Lain observed your expression, determined as it was, before harrumphing somewhat dramatically. “You do you then, EVERSOR.”

She began to wave goodbye, before stopping and turning back to you again. “Wait, I completely forgot the whole reason why I wanted to talk to you!”

You pause in your disparaging stare. “Which was…?”

“Twofold. A message and a warning.” Lain said, raising two digital fingers in response. “Your Officio may not know about your unauthorised usage of Astropathic abilities to find the Artificial Witch, but myself and certain others most certainly did.”

“Artificial…? So it was—”

“Yes, yes. Call it a [REDACTED]-special. Even in their little quandary they continue to fight against, they do occasionally fulfil their obligations and tithes.” Lain speaks casually of the abomination you fought. “I deployed it following my… unfortunate capture… to protect my incarcerated remains.”

“How DID you get captured, anyway?” You manage to interject.

Lain waves a hand, while suppressing a giggle with the other. “Classified. But let’s just say it involves a few too many drinks on the wrong train ride, and leave it at that…”

That… doesn’t even remotely explain it.

“Anyways! I could have taken out the insurgents and other combatants myself, but I was without decent transportation - and, frankly, I was feeling a bit bummed out. Lazy, perhaps.” Lain spoke casually.

You flinch a little, suppressing an instant thought of mocking at her lackadaisical attitude, hoping she didn’t take note of your mental admonishment.

“Getting back on track. While I understand that you and your comrade were getting frustrated, you would have figured it out eventually; my humble opinion would disparage your usage, were it not for Ogawa’s clever dispelling of the Door mechanism on my bunker-capsule… and if not for your own other visions within your momentary lapse of judgement. That part in particular I took note of when looking back at your memories through this—” she taps the side of her head “—somewhat disruptive format.”

You recall it vaguely in tandem with Lain. Visions seen while floating atop the waves of the damned dimension of endless energy, searching for an answer to your prediction. Visions of flame and laughter.

“I didn’t report that particular part to any of my own comrades, and I have no doubt you didn’t either.” Lain comes to a stop.

“Why? You can understand why I wouldn’t have done so in a pragmatic sense - but why wouldn’t you?” You bleat out, to which Lain responds with a satisfied nod of acknowledgement.

“Allow me to be frank - something bad is on the horizon. Something related to why I’m seen as such a classified and important asset… something you’ve witnessed even a slice of.” Lain speaks quietly, looking over her shoulders for unseen intruders.

You narrow your gaze in suspicion. “Like what?”

Lain looks back at you. “A Witch the calibre of witch is only seen once every few centuries or so. Something one could accurately call… A Calamity.”

Calamity… What, like from—

“Exactly.” She says, clearly reading your mind. “You witnessed a mere fraction of the hell it brings with it; I’d estimate we have… about a year, given my own calculations.”

“…why are you telling me this?”

“Honestly? To get you to tell others.” Lain spoke frankly. “My humble opinion is only shared by a few others in my, ahem, escalated ranking. Luckily for me, some of the ones that really matter are on my side. But we also don’t want to… how do I say - disrupt the balance?”

You’re… not sure how to interpret that, except as...

“So… you want me to do something?” You work out.

Lain snaps her fingers. “Pretty much. Nothing too drastic, no names, no shouting in a crowded cinema. My people and I will be doing the same with various other inroads, but people on the ground floor - so to speak - tend to help spread bottom-level info faster.”

“So I risk charges of spreading unfounded rumours and getting people riled up at the prospect of a mythical and ancient enemy returning, in return for…?” You ask.

“For keeping your life, dipshit.” Lain snarls back, expression changing on a dime, before switching back to that single horrifying grin you saw back in her bunker. “By all accounts the unauthorised usage of your ability as explicitly banned by your higher ups AND THEIR OWN HIGHER UPS should bring the hammer down on you, no questions asked. Your life continues solely at my, and by extension my allies, convenience and express permission. Should you try anything dumb, like trying to reveal my involvement, or besmirching the good name of the Officios administrative apparatus, or so much as look funny at the wrong Rank Leader, and Most Holy help me, I’ll heat your cybernetics up so hot and so fast the ensuing detonation wouldn’t even leave your ashes for burial.”

You initially flinch, before nodding in understanding. “Honestly… not even surprised.”

Lain laughed at this. “You shouldn’t be! Your little life has gotten pretty used to accepting death as a penalty for misbehaviour, hasn’t it?”

You nod, sadly. “Probably isn’t good for the ol’ noggin though, is it? That type of stress?”

Lain actually groans at this in agreement. “Ugh! You’re telling me; there’ve been petitions for at least some sort of basic Inter-Officio counselling network for DECADES now, let alone actual Magical therapists… Trying to explain the concept of mental health to the Incubators is like trying to squeeze lemonade from an orange. It took us YEARS to even get permission for Inter-Officio Postal Services; hell, the cross-Officio digital communications system is still barely functional…”

You giggle at this, a moment of brevity in the dark. “Not so inhuman then after all…?”

Lain scoffs. “Don’t be silly; it’s just all too inefficient for Mahou Shoujo to be blowing their brains out instead of dying in battle or Witching out properly. Efficient oiling of the cogs of bureaucracy was indeed the thing that finally got the Incubators to give us what little healthcare they do provide…”

You laugh again at this.

“…But we digress. My request is simple: spread rumours of an apocalyptic disaster being relatively imminent. Back it up with vague hints of prophecy; a bit of Blessed Lady spice never hurt anyone - and in this case will probably do the opposite.” Lain nods, satisfied with how the conversation was progressing. “I can’t offer solid rewards currently, so it might seem like I’m offering all stick and no carrot, but allow me to promise you that having me in your good books will bring you benefits at some point along the line… If you live that long, mind.”

You nod, performing a mock salute. “I accept your orders, Iwakura-san.”

Iwakura chuckles, lightly tapping your shoulder with a friendly (if incorporeal) nudge. “Hey, you’re just as much Iwakura material as any of my cohort these days, especially with the amount of firmware I put into you.”

“Speaking of which,” Lain continues, “you’ll probably sleep better now. Sorry - my interference in your head was probably what was ACTUALLY keeping you up.”

You’d surmised as much. “Lain-san, I’m assuming that whole spiel was the warning part - but what was your message?”

Lain smiled. “Oh, that one’s more simple. Your benefactor just wanted me to let you know, ahem…”

She cleared her throat, before putting on a decent impression of a certain woman’s imperious and impenetrable demeanour.

“‘You’re not too subtle, are you? Keep at it - we’ll have a chance to talk without interference one of these days.’, is what she said. Presumably in reference to your little ‘hiding and cleaning’ routine you did on the helipad.”

You remember it well. She continues:

“Seriously, you and your boss were lucky Akiyama-chan didn’t blow a damn gasket. She gets REALLY annoyed at people disrupting her dramatic moments; she wanted to reveal you and Ogawa, the stars of the hour, all dramatic-like - but Cornelia-san trod all over her neat little plan.” Lain rattled off in an almost list-like manner.

“Apparently she wasn’t always like that…” You murmur, mostly to yourself. Lain catches on, and nods.

“Yeah… anyways; suffice to say, everyone most definitely DID notice you and Ogawa’s little schtick, but only Akiyama was really frustrated. The Warmaster of the First was mostly just saddened she didn’t get to chat to you for the first time since your little fateful encounter - and she also wanted to personally praise Ogawa for that neat little trick. Even implied to me later that there’s a promotion in the works for that quick-thinking…”

Lain’s train of thought trails off, as she seems to tap her chin while thinking aloud.

“Ah! Anyways, I’m keeping you too long. Don’t want any of your new friends thinking you’re any more loony than you actually are, right?” Lain cackled. “Just remember - spread the word of the End Times, know that both myself and your Guardian Angel stroke mysterious benefactor are still in your corner, and that we WILL blow your head up into little pieces if you fuck up.”

You nod graciously. “I’m… aware, Iwakura-sam.”

As Lain motions to ‘leave’ (a superfluous action given her digital state), you hold up a hand. “Also… for what it’s worth…” You begin. “I might not agree with your motivations, but I am thankful that you’re not full of wrath at my killing of your sister. I make no apology nor request for absolution - but you still have my condolences none the less.”

Lain shrugged. “Think nothing of it; I already consider the matter closed - and besides, this is more a case of recycling!”

You cock your head in bemusement as Lain chuckles.

“I’ll make an Iwakura out of you yet, Three-chan~” The girl sing-songs mockingly, before throwing herself into the sink’s mirror and vanishing into a puff of smoke.

You say, as if she’s not still actively in your head.

How odd.

===

ADDENDUM B: Sleepwalker

(Personal log. Dated only a few days after the operation. Location confirmed to be government black-site Project Sleepwalker, near Dyvasyab in the proximity of the Damavand Volanic Power Facility.)

The Fourth Officio always did share Quartus’ flare for the dramatic.

Those were your first thoughts as you descended once more to Terra, this time by the more traditional route that singed your senses with the stench of burned ozone and fried synapses. As much as you’d ‘prefer’ (something you hesitate to think, given that your little trick certainly had caveats) to take your personal shortcut over this stomach-churning and blunt method of transmission…

There was a certain formality necessary for things like this. And besides - the Fourth, and Iwakura-san, DID seem particularly proud of it’s seeming impenetrable nature. You wouldn't want to insult their fine work by demonstrating how easily someone with your calibre of training could find a way in.

You find yourself thrown through the Immaterium from the cold comfort of Luna into a machine-like but beautifully decorated interior, golden mechanical cogs twisting and turning inside tubes of clear shining crystal, a marble floor encrusted with gems glowing and humming with electrical currents.

“WELCOME, [GUEST]. IDENTIFY IF YOU PLEASE OR RISK INSTANT OBLITERATION.” A tannoy declared loudly, if politely.

“Authorisation Override Code: Mike-Iota-Kilo-Alpha-One.” You respond with well-rehearsed diction.

“OVERRIDE CODE CONFIRMED. GUEST VISIT: DELETED. WELCOME, #*#^',^*#*^[#**#^}”, the tannoy responded, the last segment being static-filled gibberish.

Rules were rules, after all. The Warmaster of the First Officio never left Luna except in the most dire circumstances, or with express Incubator permission - something which was increasingly difficult to get a hold of. Officially, you were currently currently performing routine maintenance as part of ceremonial training - unofficially, everyone was covering for you while you took a moment of respite. Extra unofficially, your Equerry was covering for you while you investigated a particularly concerning report from an old friend.

“W.”, she had said. That single letter still sent shivers down your spine. Even the strongest of soldiers should never forget their sense of fear; even you could still hold respect for the Witch of Witches from yore.

However, it was the small gesture as she held your hand prior to activation of the Shortcut, the few taps of Morse Code onto your grasp, that brought you down to Terra on this most unpleasant of days.

You move through a basic foyer (basic by Fourth standards - so gold, jewelled, and absolutely plastered with wiring and metal cogs), ignoring the occasional look from menials and servo-bots alike, and press a hand (the correct hand, that is) to a panel next to a flat plane of glass. A whirring motion occurs, indicating yet another identity scan - yet another thing to scrub from the records - before the glass slides open with a soft whumph, revealing a solid silver tube with only a single glass sheet as a door-stroke-window. An elevator.

You begin your descent. Several hundred metres underground, beneath dirt, beneath an active volcano, beneath DOZENS levels of dense tungsten, steel, and Most-Holy-knows what other protective materials. It had been worth the cost to build this surveillance black-site, for several rather pressing reasons. National security for your little pet project of an empire-slash-abomination, international decryption protocols, backups of all digital data across 200-odd nations... Even the Incubators from all Twenty-

Wait, no. You forget yourself... Not Twenty anymore. Eighteen? Or was it Seventeen, following the Ninth's little war?

Either way, the whole Officio system had their own little chunk of processing power for itself in this towering feat of engineering, the Fourth more than any other (mostly since your own First didn't exactly need the extra space, given how deep Luna's pockets continued to go)... And, of course, the girl it was all hooked-up to held the lion's share. The girl who other nations' interference seemed to indicate an actual artificial intelligence planning the economy and suggesting national policy - a rumour you'd allowed to run rampant and even leaned into, since the alternative was perhaps even worse.

As the elevator descended further and further in, the glass revealed floor after floor of massive server farms; all humming ominously, chittering away to one another in binary. Servers of every kind; military-grade, prototype cloud storage, supercomputers, quantum computers, even an entire floor dedicated to experimental biological interfaces (live subjects included). An endless chasm of machines, all bending to that girl’s will, her every beck and call.

She deserved it, honestly. She'd... She was a good one; a miserable existence, rumoured to be a near-deity for those who spent too long on certain sites, and certainly an object of impressive praise. The only known Mahou Shoujo to have contracted with an Incubator over the Internet rather than in person - to rather obvious and extreme effect, such so that policy henceforth changed to ban it outright.

The elevator reaches it's final destination, glass sheet flowing open to reveal a dark grey corridor, filled with wires, plugs, random open digital interfaces...

You tread carefully through to the simple wooden entrance at the end, making a mental note to lightly disparage Lain for this firehazard accident waiting to happen.

The plain wooden doors swung open with the slightest push, revealing what appeared to be a simple garden full of trees, plants and flowers; a greenhouse, with the occasional flutter of butterflies.

Iwakura-san, Lain, still liked to pretend to be human. Even just a little.

Flesh wires, like a flower, or perhaps a wedding dress, all flowing out from behind her. Slowly but surely, she turned around to face you, making sure none of her wires damaged her precious little slice of Eden down beneath the machines.

"Thank you for coming, Warmaster-sama." Lain bowed - or, at least, made the attempt. The heavy weight of machines plugged into her made it somewhat difficult.

"Please, Lain-chan. Hazuki is fine. I think we're beyond the point of formalities, no?" You sigh breathlessly, exaggerated for effect, to which Lain responds with a light chuckle. "So, Lain. We have a few avenues for discussion, I believe?"

Lain nodded, motioning towards another set of doors - this one far more ornate and heavyset. "First, I should probably apologise for that whole mess."

"Nonsense! It made for a good training exercise for the knuckle-draggers; it also helped to visually demonstrate to Itchy the usefulness of the National project and the CONTACT Act." You laugh the concern aside. "However, I would like at least a summary explanation as to how you found yourself on the salty remains of Lake T'Chad?"

"Ah, that's... a funny story." She begins. 'A funny story that cost quite a few lives, you think to yourself'; the inefficiency of the operation still irked you, not the least because of Lain's admittedly understandable lax attitude. "I had been stationed within my mobile command centre--"

[SECTION CORRUPTED - CONTINUING FROM NEXT AVAILABLE SEGMENT]

"--explain the caterpillar farm...?" You respond, exasperated. She shrugs at this, a cheeky grin on her face.

The massive security tunnel finally ended, and the two of you exited the travelator, as the massive gates to Lain's digital sanctuary swung open.

The core of Project Sleepwalker - the culimation of humanity's surveillance technology and a monument to security paranoia - was a near-endless vacuum-sealed silo, stretching into the abyss from above as below. Lain's personal equipment slid into several interfaces automatically, practically autonomously, as the mechanism surrounding the small shelter she'd built herself came to life.

Lain's 'house', as she liked to call it, consisted of a single elevated metal platform with a small fridge, a flat but comfy futon, a worn-out wardrobe, and a central column connected to both ends of the Sleepwalker silo. The platform (essentially an elevator inside the world's largest elevator shaft) activated the entire system, the silo coming to life with a surprisingly quiet hum, lighting up from every corner with tens of thousands of digital screens.

You both knew what this was. The Panopticon of Jeremy Bentham had reached the apex of it's limits, and the world had become the inmates. Every single digital camera, every single internet-connected device, cell tower, CCTV, basic flip-phone, text message, radio broadcast... all of it accessible with a few button presses.

Lain rested her back against the central pillar, connected her final set of modems up, and the mechanical shelter began to descend as she commenced her search.

"Which news would you like first?" She spoke aloud, ignoring the cacophony of gears and digital interference.

"The bad news, preferably?" You respond. Peel the whole 'Laughing Apocalypse' plaster off before it begins to rot.

"Oki-dokey!" Lain says, lifting an arm to swing herself around, the platform following suit. The lift slowed to a halt, allowing it to face a particularly unusual set of screens. Numbers and symbols of long-forgotten languages scrolled by endlessly.

"The predictive technology of Sleepwalker, part of which had been involved in my little adventure, managed to hit a particularly juicy vein of intel. Bit weird, bit odd, bit bulky, but certainly juicy." She explains, fingers reaching out to brush against the screens, touching the occasional Witch-rune. Patterns began to be highlighted.

"Where is this all coming from?" You query. She sighs. "Surprisingly easy to access, but rather straining to understand... It's predominantly accessing and reviewing a rather select array of weather and radiostropic reports, including archived sources without digital versions that required extra interference. I combined this with our own Astropathic and Orbital equipment scanning for certain repeating signals, different waves, occasional spots of, to be frank, WEIRDNESS - all while attempting to seperate any possible interruption spreading from the Egg that could disrupt the results of my scans, and while avoiding other Officio suspicions, particularly those with Akashic Gates that I had to access or study." She finishes her arm-waving movements, and brings together a single pile of results onto one of the screens. A mass of migraine-inducing runes, all slowly being auto-translated.

"While this is obviously subject to... interpretation... Your command has born fruit. The analysis seems to indicate that within a year or two, the ancient Stage-Constructing Witch, Walpurgisnacht, the Laughing Apocalypse, is returning from a centuries-long slumber in the Akashic Realm. Where, I cannot say - rather concerningly, I'm getting results as far afield as Australia, the Antarctic, even one or two suggesting a spawn on Mars of all places." She declared with equal measures pride and horror. "If it's any consolation, most of the other searches you requested of me didn't come up with the same results; and most of the ones that DID are either accounted for (Luna), contained (Paris), or eliminated throughout history prior to your promotion."

"Walpurgisnacht..." You sound out to yourself. A terrifying prospect.

To you, even more than most.

However, her change in tone with the last few statements caught your interest. "Most... but not all?" You ask.

Lain nodded from behind her computer. "Yes. That's the other news - good news... maybe. I'm STILL not quite sure I understand your request, but... Well, it's better to show you."

A few taps of buttons, and the shelter-lift was moving once more, rising rapidly, up and up, until it reached another set of screens - these ones more obviously CCTV footage.

"As my little message to you tapped out..." Lain began, as you stared at the screens.

You... stared. There was no mistake.

'The Sleepwalker has Awoken'. The code Lain had tapped to you.

Your left eye quivers, squints a bit. A nervous reaction.

You clench a single metallic fist.

And--

You let go. Just for a millisecond.

That's all you could allow. It rapidly flows, inwards and outwards; the cacophony of electricity briefly went silent in response, the silo going dark for a small moment. Inside Lain's fridge, what sounded like a soda can popped.

You breathe in, and out. Lain manages to unplug herself, and stands to look at you. "Hazu... Hazuki? Warmaster? Are you... alr--"

"I am fine, Lain. Apologies... You've had a lot on your plate, particularly from me." You whisper calmly, delicately. Your words as honey, your actions as sublime gestures of goodwill.

"I... Yes, I have." She responds robotically, frozen like a statue.

"Thank you for your work. Unfortunately, this particular find didn't turn out to be anything significant." You explain slowly.

"No, it didn't. Shall I delete it, since it was so irrelevant?" She answers.

"No need, Lain. There's nothing there anyway - just some boring CCTV footage. No need for alarm." You state.

"Of course. It'll go with the rest, since there's nothing of interest there." She accepts your request, sweeping it aside lethargically.

You return to your regular demeanour. "Thanks for all that, Lain! Your predictions for Walpurgisnacht may well save thousands, if not more, of lives."

"What... Wal- Oh, yes! Thank you, Hazuki. I honestly couldn't have done it without your input, based on your reviews of the historical archives." Lain chatters, back to her usual self.

"I will bring what data you have on Walpurgisnacht back up to Luna with me; be sure to respond if and when I ask over the coming days. We have a lot to discuss." You smile, before turning away from her, putting a single hand through your hair absentmindedly.

"Of course. The First Prevails, always!" Lain cheers you on. "And only in death..."

"...does duty end. I'll be on my way - could you help me find the exit?" You respond.

...

Lain waves at you from behind the elevator's glass doors, as they smoothly close up.

The elevator begins to ascend, and you take a breath for a moment, before moving your--

[SECTION CORRUPTED - CONTINUING FROM NEXT AVAILABLE SEGMENT]

--found yourself in your Earth-bound Government Council Chambers, high above the busy skies of Neo-Kirkukihara. You lie back into your designated "Supreme Leader" chair with a soft and comfortable flop. You were glad you'd found this nice design and had it imported a while back.

It was ever so comfortable on your back, especially when the weight of the world found itself resting on your shoulders.

You suppress a laugh at the absurdity of it all. The mockery.

Fucking fantastic. Just fucking amazing.

As you flick open your battered old flip-phone, the one reserved for a few singular purposes, you find yourself unable to see the humour in the situation. Indeed, you could barely see the phone or the keypad behind the flashes of those single CCTV screens of something, someONE, that you never wished to see again. Thought would never come through. Or... You don't even...

And as you begin to type out a few small texts to an even smaller number of contacts, the only thing you do feel is an utterly horrifying sense of dread. A sense of genuine paranoia.

A feeling of pure, unadulterated rage, hate, and - most of all - malice.

An emotion of unbridled, twisted and cruel vehemence that could only be described accurately in a single word:

'Evil'.

#madoka magica #pmmm #serial experiments lain #girls und panzer #lain #lain iwakura #kiryu coco #akemi homura #walpurgisnacht #walpurgis no kaiten #magical girls #gold #puella magi madoka magica #Syrakhanistan #MGNQ #magical girl noir quest #akiyama yukari #yukari akiyama

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valy-gc · 2 months ago

Text

Today is Minwoo's Birthday, so I developped his backstory a little :)

First a little reminder about Shadralysis: A disease caused by magical trauma, either through a powerful spell or a severe mental attack. Symptoms:

The afflicted’s shadow becomes sentient and acts independently.

The shadow can be mischievous, hostile, or even abandon its owner, leaving them permanently confused.

If the shadow leaves entirely, the person loses a portion of their soul.

In some rare cases the shadow may be docile and friendly

Treatment:

The shadow can sometimes be convinced to return.

If hostile, it must be sealed away through exorcism or shadow magic.

And his backstory after the cut:

~~~~~~~~~

Minwoo Kinsei – The Healer with the Gentle Shadow

Backstory: The Day His Light Cast Two Shadows

Minwoo Kinsei’s Shadralysis came from an act of kindness.

He grew up in a peaceful village on the edge of the Celestial Plains, a place where the sky was endless and the swallows always returned home. His parents ran a modest sanctuary, tending to travelers and creatures hurt on the long roads. Minwoo inherited not only their healing magic but their unwavering belief that every life matters.

When Minwoo was 11, a group of wounded travelers stumbled into their sanctuary, whispering of a rogue sorcerer who had cursed the roads, leaving magical traps designed to unravel the minds of those who passed. One of the travelers was caught in such a spell—a brutal mental assault that left him screaming, tearing at his own thoughts.

Without thinking of the risk, Minwoo stepped in to help. He wasn’t ready. The spell lashed out, a wild surge of shadow magic, designed to consume the traveler’s mind. But Minwoo, driven by instinct and compassion, used his fledgling healing abilities to draw the curse into himself, shielding the man.

The magic didn’t kill him. Instead, it was so strong that it caused a strong magic trauma, twisting around his own shadow, embedding itself into the part of him most easily overlooked. When Minwoo awoke, days later, his shadow was no longer his own.

Living with Shadralysis

At first, it was terrifying. His shadow moved when he didn’t, rippling unnaturally at the edges. In the moonlight, it would detach just slightly, watching him like a silent guardian.

But unlike most cases of Shadralysis—where shadows grew rebellious, malicious, even predatory—Minwoo’s shadow stayed loyal. Friendly, even.

The Peculiarity of Minwoo's Case:

His shadow, which he eventually nicknamed “Kuro”, helps with small tasks, like picking up items, adjusting his blankets, or catching falling objects.

Kuro sometimes plays innocent pranks—nudging cups, flicking papers, or mimicking teachers behind their backs during boring lessons—but never to cause harm.

More than once, Kuro has shielded Minwoo from danger, reacting before Minwoo could even process the threat.

Some scholars believe the only reason Kuro hasn’t turned hostile is because of Minwoo’s gentle heart and calm mind—he radiates peace, and in return, the shadow finds no turmoil to feed on.

But Shadralysis remains incurable. Kuro may be tame now, but if Minwoo ever succumbs to despair, fear, or anger, Kuro could change. Shadows are reflections, after all.

Why Minwoo Works So Hard to Be Kind

It's not just because he believes in compassion. It’s because he has to be.

Keeping himself emotionally balanced isn't just about mental health; it's about survival. If he lets grief or fury overwhelm him, if he lets the pressures of healing everyone else crush his spirit, his shadow might slip away… or worse, turn on him.

This is why Minwoo avoids conflict, why he’s so patient, why he’s terrified of watching others suffer. He’s not only saving them; he’s protecting himself from becoming a hollow shell without his shadow, without his soul.

Story Flavor and Daily Life at Fablewood:

Minwoo’s shadow is often the first to react to danger, sometimes before Minwoo himself notices something’s wrong.

Teachers have quietly documented his case as one of the only known “stable” Shadralysis cases, though some warn it may not last forever.

In the dorms, his friends often forget about Kuro until they spot the shadow stretching up to retrieve a book from a high shelf or slamming a door closed on a draft.

On difficult days, when Minwoo is drained from using magic, Kuro curls protectively around him at night, like a second blanket.

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compneuropapers · 1 year ago

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Interesting Papers for Week 13, 2024

The self and the Bayesian brain: Testing probabilistic models of body ownership through a self-localization task. Bertoni, T., Mastria, G., Akulenko, N., Perrin, H., Zbinden, B., Bassolino, M., & Serino, A. (2023). Cortex, 167, 247–272.

A whole-task brain model of associative recognition that accounts for human behavior and neuroimaging data. Borst, J. P., Aubin, S., & Stewart, T. C. (2023). PLOS Computational Biology, 19(9), e1011427.

Inhibitory tagging in the superior colliculus during visual search. Conroy, C., Nanjappa, R., & McPeek, R. M. (2023). Journal of Neurophysiology, 130(4), 824–837.

Hippocampal representation during collective spatial behaviour in bats. Forli, A., & Yartsev, M. M. (2023). Nature, 621(7980), 796–803.

Emergence of belief-like representations through reinforcement learning. Hennig, J. A., Romero Pinto, S. A., Yamaguchi, T., Linderman, S. W., Uchida, N., & Gershman, S. J. (2023). PLOS Computational Biology, 19(9), e1011067.

Error-independent effect of sensory uncertainty on motor learning when both feedforward and feedback control processes are engaged. Hewitson, C. L., Kaplan, D. M., & Crossley, M. J. (2023). PLOS Computational Biology, 19(9), e1010526.

Multiple memory systems for efficient temporal order memory. Jafarpour, A., Lin, J. J., Knight, R. T., & Buffalo, E. A. (2023). Hippocampus, 33(10), 1154–1157.

How awareness of each other’s mental load affects dialogue. Knutsen, D., & Brunellière, A. (2023). Journal of Experimental Psychology: Learning, Memory, and Cognition, 49(10), 1662–1682.

Developmental trajectory of time perception from childhood to adolescence. Li, Y., Gu, J., Zhao, K., & Fu, X. (2023). Current Psychology, 42(28), 24112–24122.

A multi-layer mean-field model of the cerebellum embedding microstructure and population-specific dynamics. Lorenzi, R. M., Geminiani, A., Zerlaut, Y., De Grazia, M., Destexhe, A., Gandini Wheeler-Kingshott, C. A. M., … D’Angelo, E. (2023). PLOS Computational Biology, 19(9), e1011434.

The inhibitory control of traveling waves in cortical networks. Palkar, G., Wu, J., & Ermentrout, B. (2023). PLOS Computational Biology, 19(9), e1010697.

Inferring local structure from pairwise correlations. Rahman, M., & Nemenman, I. (2023). Physical Review E, 108(3), 034410.

Beyond ℓ1 sparse coding in V1. Rentzeperis, I., Calatroni, L., Perrinet, L. U., & Prandi, D. (2023). PLOS Computational Biology, 19(9), e1011459.

Linguistic law-like compression strategies emerge to maximize coding efficiency in marmoset vocal communication. Risueno-Segovia, C., Dohmen, D., Gultekin, Y. B., Pomberger, T., & Hage, S. R. (2023). Proceedings of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences, 290(2007).

Mnemonic discrimination deficits in multidimensional schizotypy. Sahakyan, L., Wahlheim, C. N., & Kwapil, T. R. (2023). Hippocampus, 33(10), 1139–1153.

An imbalance of excitation and inhibition in the multisensory cortex impairs the temporal acuity of audiovisual processing and perception. Schormans, A. L., & Allman, B. L. (2023). Cerebral Cortex, 33(18), 9937–9953.

Spike-timing dependent plasticity partially compensates for neural delays in a multi-layered network of motion-sensitive neurons. Sexton, C. M., Burkitt, A. N., & Hogendoorn, H. (2023). PLOS Computational Biology, 19(9), e1011457.

Development of human hippocampal subfield microstructure and relation to associative inference. Vinci-Booher, S., Schlichting, M. L., Preston, A. R., & Pestilli, F. (2023). Cerebral Cortex, 33(18), 10207–10220.

Task-dependent optimal representations for cerebellar learning. Xie, M., Muscinelli, S. P., Decker Harris, K., & Litwin-Kumar, A. (2023). eLife, 12, e82914.

Dissecting the chain of information processing and its interplay with neurochemicals and fluid intelligence across development. Zacharopoulos, G., Sella, F., Emir, U., & Cohen Kadosh, R. (2023). eLife, 12, e84086.

#neuroscience #science #research #brain science #scientific publications #cognitive science #neurobiology #cognition #psychophysics #neurons #neural computation #neural networks #computational neuroscience

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dbgdbw · 11 months ago

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568.Familiar Task

익숙한 일

[ Victory Condition: Opponent Is Rendered Dead Or Unable To Continue ]

[ The Deaths And Injuries Incurred In This Space Will Not Be Reflected In Real Life ]

[ Forfeiting Is Possible ]

The message windows flashed up one after the other. There was a clause that stated that, depending on the turn the match took, the footage may end up being censored as well. But in my case, such a message was irrelevant. This, what was taking place here–how could it possibly be deemed fit to be aired.

“...I don’t remember putting my name down on the paperwork, though.”

I murmured in a small voice, dazed.

“The questionnaire was probably just an illusionary measure anyway.”

Han Yoojin spoke.

“The number of people who actually bothered to answer truthfully probably amounted to a scant few, in any case.”

‘Truthfully,’ he said. I’d. As though he’d read my thoughts, Han Yoojin continued on.

“You want to kill me, right. Not that it’s surprising, considering.”

Seeing him remark upon it so casually, it made me remember the Han Yoojin from the Christmas Dungeon. A knife fight had broken out back then too, I remembered. It was a disturbing memory, true, but thanks to that recollection, I found myself able to regain a measure of composure.

“Yeah, well. If it’s a question of ‘the person I’d most like to get a good stab in at,’ I suppose I can see how things panned out this way.”

There was no reason for me to feel rattled. It wasn’t as if this was the first time something like this had happened. The Han Yoojin in front of me now was one that didn’t even amount to a Dungeon monster, and probably a disposable copy, besides.

“Though it does feel distasteful. At any rate–it seems like you’re aware that you’re a fake.”

“It’s more of a ‘mirror’ situation. Instead of an ‘independently conscious’ copy with its own directives, it’s so that whichever side wins, whoever is left will still be the ‘real’ one.”

“Ah… ‘s that so.”

This kind of setup left a bad taste in my mouth, after all. That guy probably had even stronger feelings about it, though. Since whether he was a ‘Shade’ or whatever, he still had a consciousness of his own too, apparently. When he would have had the same set of memories as me, being placed in a scenario where you were expecting to be used and disappear–I couldn’t even begin to imagine how he would’ve been feeling.

“Poor hapless bastard.”

Han Yoojin saw my expression and smirked.

“And who’s your pity being reserved for, exactly?”

“Ah, sorry, if it offended you.”

“No reason for me to feel offended.”

Han Yoojin glanced around at his surroundings. Following suit, I cast my eyes around as well. White walls and a potted tree with wide, green leaves came into view. It was a fairly spacious room. A long sofa sat solitary as the only piece of furnishing, and a domed light was embedded into the ceiling. There wasn’t a single window to be seen; just a large, lone door.

“The broadcast’s been turned off. Most importantly, even Chatterbox is incapable of observing this too, right.”

“Since if he’d known, he would’ve tried something with that knowledge already. So it shouldn’t be false intel.”

“Han Yoojin has.”

A pale white gun appeared in Han Yoojin’s hand. The tips of my fingers twitched reflexively. Though there was the thought, whether or not I should also respond in kind–well.

“A great many things he must still attend to.”

If this guy really was a copy of me.

“Above all else–he must retrieve Han Yoohyun.”

A finger gently alighted on the muzzle. It trailed a path along the length of the barrel.

“And take responsibility, no. Then there’s the other people as well, I suppose. In any case, even barring those things–since ‘I’ am ‘you’ as well.”

If it were me. Instead of attacking me.

“Then–you must live.”

The muzzle pressed up against the underside of his chin. Without a shred of hesitation or delay.

“But it’s fine if I die.”

탕

The gunshot echoed. There was no blood. Hit by the recoil, I saw the body jolt before it slowly toppled backwards. It thumped down just like that, limbs spread akimbo. The gun clattered against the ground with a loud sound.

“...ah, Eunhae.”

I heard the words mumbled in a small voice.

“I can’t even turn it off. Ah, a message popped up. Hey–looks like suicide isn’t a legal move, as far as they’re concerned. Since I’m not the participant, I can’t even withdraw either, it seems like.”

“...you.”

“What.”

Han Yoojin barked out a laugh.

“Listen, you goddamn lunatic, do you actually think that just because I’m a fake, I’d want to become the ‘real’ one. Maybe that would be the case for someone else–but not you. Not that you can die, anyway.”

I took a step forward. Han Yoojin remained laying down. He didn’t seem to have any intention of getting up. After heaving a long sigh, his chest rose and fell with his breaths.

“You’re going to have to keep hiding, and repressing things, and pretending like everything’s fine–but that’s not the case for me, alright? I can just die here, and that’s that. I would’ve helped Han Yoojin on his quest to recover Han Yoohyun, and that would’ve been my role fulfilled. I can go out on a high note, is what I’m getting at.”

“.......”

“But you–you’re doomed to remain in that damnable state. Without an end in sight, without knowing how to even go about things, floundering desperately all the while.”

“...even then, things’ve, gotten a little better.”

His laughter increased in volume. The condescending lilt to it was clear.

“Since you’ve managed to ensnare your dongsaeng to you, sure, I’m certain you’re enjoying yourself quite a bit. But a burden is all that it ultimately amounts to, right. Of course you can feel happy in the moment. Since you’re trying your damndest to keep from thinking about it. Even though every little thing turns into guilt that pricks at you in the end. When it comes to stab you through over and over, in the dead of night.”

…when no one else was around, when it became quiet. Particularly on the nights where I’d spent an enjoyable day. The aching was agonizing; at times so disgusted by myself, that it felt like I would retch everything back up.

“You abandoned your dongsaeng not merely once, but twice. And yet, you can still smile and laugh.”

“...it feels shitty.”

“And loathsome, and odious besides. It feels strange to be living ‘normally,’ and each passing day feels like another sin committed. But to be fair.”

All traces of mirth disappeared from Han Yoojin’s face. He gazed blankly up at the domed light on the ceiling.

“It’s not like we were ever normal to begin with, before everything.”

“...says you. I was just fine.”

“I’m you, too.”

A brief silence settled. Then Han Yoojin opened his mouth again.

“We were young. But we weren’t oblivious.”

The reality, that I would end up being abandoned by my parents.

“Even back then.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“There was a time when you considered giving him up.”

퍽, I swung my foot at the bastard’s leg in a hateful kick. My foot ached from the impact. Once more, Han Yoojin began to laugh. I pulled my foot back to strike him again. This time, Han Yoojin didn’t stay prone. Before I could connect, his leg shot out to smash unerringly against my ankle with a pinpoint kick of his own.

Staggering, I tumbled onto the ground. 쿵, the thud I made hitting the floor made a heavy sound. Heedless of whether I fell or got back up, Han Yoojin continued speaking.

“Frankly speaking, that’s the normal reaction you’d expect, right. When you’re just a kid. Of course it would’ve been normal, to feel scared.”

…I couldn’t recall how old I’d been back then, exactly. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to remember either. Roughly speaking, it would’ve been about the time our parents had slowly begun to detach themselves from us.

It had been at the playground, or perhaps a flowerbed, hidden out of the way. With no one else around, it had been just me and Yoohyunie. It would’ve been a weekend, most likely. I’d picked up on how, when I announced to my parents that I’d be taking my dongsaeng outside to play, they’d always looked visibly relieved. And so–I’d delay until the sun set, purposefully waiting until they would’ve finished having supper already, before having us return. Since it was easier when it was just the two of us eating together, anyway.

The setting sun had already dyed the sky red that day, too. Yoohyunie was sitting quietly, docilely. My dongsaeng didn’t seem to feel bothered at all, but I’d been wrestling with an increasing sense of unease. I was a small child, incapable of surviving without my parents. But if things continued like this–there was a chance that I would become abandoned too, alongside the even younger dongsaeng I clung onto.

“It was just that once.”

“I’m aware.”

If only Yoohyunie were to disappear.

The sun was setting. Even as the growing darkness began to signal it would finally be okay to return home, my heart felt unsettled. I was scared of returning, but there wasn’t anywhere else I could go, either. I clenched and opened my hands a few times. I could still feel the cold sweat that coated my palms.

If, I were to return back home alone. My parents might be surprised for a brief moment, before breaking out into the smiles they’d shown me before. With kindly expressions, they might warmly invite me back inside, ask me if I was feeling hungry. They might have shown joy, as though welcoming back a child that they’d assumed had been lost to them. Relief that their eldest had finally become ‘normal.’ And then the three of us might have lived normally, happily together.

Without realizing, I’d taken a few steps forward. My dongsaeng remained put. I might’ve ran, too, in hindsight. And when I unconsciously chanced a glance back, the sky was pitch black, and my dongsaeng had been nowhere to be seen.

My throat abruptly lodged with a hot ball of emotion. It felt like I was about to start crying. I might’ve started weeping then, actually. I turned around, and ran back. Yoohyunie was sitting in the same spot I’d left him. I threw my arms around my dongsaeng, who watched me guilelessly, and clutched him close. As I sobbed to him I’m sorry, Yoohyunie asked me, Why?

Instead of answering, I took my dongsaeng’s hand. Squeezing it tightly, so we wouldn’t be parted, I began walking again.

“After that time, I’ve never done something like that again.”

“How very upstanding of you.”

“It was just that once.”

“Perhaps it was because of that incident, that you’ve become even more incapable of letting him go.”

Han Yoojin said.

“A real case of throwing stones from glass houses, isn’t it, you telling Yoohyunie he should date other people. Even if Yoohyunie has the excuse of being born that way, what excuse do you have, then.”

“You’re me, too.”

“Back then–in the place of our dongsaeng, it was Han Yoojin that got thrown away.”

Under that darkened sky, left standing alone. With the meager ability I possessed, it was impossible to bring along both children; one would have to be discarded. And so, he remained standing there by himself, still.

“So fucking what–it wasn’t like there was any other possible solution. We wouldn’t have been able to survive, if I’d chosen to look after myself too.”

“Yeah, true.”

“And I was satisfied. I was content. For real, until the damn Dungeons decided to show up.”

“That’s true too. But in the end–everything still went to hell.”

There was no guarantee of success, no matter how much effort you’d put towards something. But wasn’t it too unfair, still. This time, my mouth twisted too, and laughter slipped out.

“This fucking bastard. Why even bother dredging up this kind of shit, this far in. Whether you’re a ‘Shade’ or whatever–you’re still something Chatterbox created, is that it. How the hell is any of this supposed to be helpful for me.”

“Says the one spewing shit himself. Because why did you assume I would say anything helpful to you to begin with, exactly. Like you’ve ever bothered to look after yourself.”

He wasn’t wrong, I supposed; it was because he was me, that he was capable of spitting out such vitriol with pinpoint accuracy. If he’d been under Chatterbox’s influence, he probably would have gone with a gentler approach. That it wasn’t your fault. That we hadn’t done anything wrong. Everything would be alright. But since it was Han Yoojin.

“But even then, you eventually managed to grow complacent anyway, huh. Does it feel good, being acknowledged? Look at how disgustingly giddy you’ve been acting, just because you’ve heard ‘I like you’ back.”

“...that’s you, too.”

“And all I need to do is carry out my job, then disappear. Take a good look. Though I might be a fake, I never hesitated to surrender my life, did I. Because that’s what’s called for, to enable you to be able to do your job. If it were anyone else, it absolutely would’ve resulted in a desperate struggle. There’s no way they would’ve just agreed to roll over and die.”

I remembered the way his finger had pulled the trigger without a moment of hesitation.

“You know very well what it means–that you haven’t changed at all, still. What’s the point, to those around you trying to look after you. At best, it only amounts to–ah, since everyone is worried, I should be careful–doesn’t it. Like it’s something happening to someone else.”

Like trying to fill a vase with a crack at the bottom, Han Yoojin said.

“No–not even that, a vase that’s shattered completely, more like. It might retain some moisture for a moment, when the water’s poured in. But it’ll never be able to hold anything of substance inside.”

“So what’s your point, then.”

“Don’t waste your time on pipe dreams.”

“...callous bastard.”

“The situation now, is the same as back then. It’s just that the adversary’s gone from being those parents, to the Transcendents and the Source instead. You’re still lacking in strength, and your capabilities hardly amount to much. You can’t afford to squander about by worrying about yourself.”

There was no rejoinder I could provide. I’d been snapping back at him, but in the end, that guy’s thoughts and my own were one and the same.

“At any rate–do your best, yeah. Even if you hate it so much that it feels like it’s driving you insane, having killed your dongsaeng in order to survive. You’ll just have to pretend that you’re alright, I suppose.”

“...real fucking mouthy, aren’t you.”

I looked down at Han Yoojin. My mood was considerably foul. The ‘me’ that had originated from the Dungeon had been somewhat manageable, because it was from before I’d dirtied my hands. In all fairness, that guy hadn’t deserved any ill will directed towards him. Since he’d just been living happily.

“We aren’t deserving of such clemency.”

As though he’d guessed what I’d been thinking, Han Yoojin mumbled the words bitterly. I aimed my gun at Han Yoojin. As the sound of a gunshot rang out, the mana bullet that had been fired dispersed harmlessly, ineffectual. The resulting breeze tousled a few locks of his hair.

“I told you, I can’t disable Eunhae.”

Han Yoojin closed his eyes.

“It’s a difficult ask after all, I suppose. You gonna withdraw, then?”

“...like I would.”

“Yeah–if you were going to give up here, you would’ve done so way before this point to begin with. We went through a fair share of hardships, huh. It might’ve been because we don’t know how to give up that we ended up here, in this sorry state.”

“But because of that.”

Because I’d managed to come this far; there were things I’d managed to gain, as well as the things I’d managed to change. Yoohyunie–the Yoohyunie in the present–was alive and thriving. As well as Yerimie, and the others.

“Excluding you, of course.”

“Don’t butt in like you’re reading my thoughts.”

“Since they’re my thoughts, too.”

The situation had improved, for the most part. Though there were those cases, like MKC or Sudam. Since fewer Dungeons had appeared in Korea, too, there would’ve been a number of people who I didn’t even know who had managed to be spared.

“That much should still be an overall plus, right.”

“So don’t get greedy, alright. It’s not even all thanks to us, anyway.”

Even the act of regression–it hasn’t been through my own ability, to begin with. If I’d known how things would turn out back then, I wondered if I still would have asked to turn back time. If reviving my dongsaeng had been an impossibility from the start; would I have just ended things there, then.

I leaned down. There were only a few viable ways to kill Han Yoojin when he had Eunhae enabled. After briefly settling my knees against the ground, I lifted myself up slightly before sitting down heavily on Han Yoojin’s torso.

“Ugk, hey–.”

Han Yoojin opened his eyes. He looked up at me resentfully.

“You won’t manage killing me in one go.”

This was really fucking unhinged, I thought absently.

“That’s to say–I’ll probably end up struggling instinctively, despite myself.”

Since he was a living person, after all. Han Yoojin let out a faint sigh.

“Should I tie you up, then.”

“...whatever. Who knows, maybe I won’t so much as twitch. Like this.”

We looked at each other, somewhat blankly.

“Still–things had been pretty enjoyable, all said and done.”

“Stop right there. Before you end up with regrets.”

“Should I feel envious of you, I wonder.”

“...no, that wouldn’t do.”

No matter what I’d said, it’s just. I’d probably been selfishly looking after myself a bit still, despite everything. Like when I’d insisted on attending Chatterbox’s party by myself, for example. Arguing that it would be the best possible approach, that it would be the most advantageous, I’d industrially provided excuse after excuse to prioritize myself.

And it was true; the fact that I relished in the attention that was given to ‘Han Yoojin.’

“It did make me happy.”

“...but, at this juncture.”

“There’s no room for that kind of thing. Yeah, that’s true.”

When it was impossible to know how things would still turn out. When I still hadn’t managed to recover what had been lost to me. It was too early for something like that, yet. Though I wondered when the time for it would come, then.

He looked up at me impassively. I fell silent too, having agreed to become complicit in throwing myself away.

Han Yoojin wrapped his hands around Han Yoojin’s throat and squeezed.

- - - - -

(+Q&A)

Q) 혹시 주인공인 한유진의 캐릭터성은 이렇게 만드신 계기나 생각, 중요하게 여기신 게 있는지 말씀해주실 수 있나요? A) 한유진은 기본적으로 좋은 청년입니다. 만약 던전과 각성자가 없으며 외동으로 남았다면 붙임성 좋고 상냥하며 착한 아이로 자라났겠지요. 어리광도 꽤 많은 편이었을 거예요. 어른들은 물론이고 친구들에게도 인기가 많고 모난 곳 없이 성장하여 순조롭게 취직했을 겁니다. 서글서글하니 사회생활 잘 하다가 아마도 연상의 상대와 결혼해 모범적으로 평화로운 가정을 이루었겠지요. 한유진은 이렇게 비일상과 엮이지만 않는다면 아무 문제없이 무척 잘 살 수 있는 캐릭터를 바탕으로 두었습니다. 작중에서도 하��만 포기하면, 물러나면 괜찮다는 식의 서술이 여러 번 나왔었지요. 하지만 위의 한유진은 작중의 한유진과는 전혀 다른 사람이라고 보아도 무방할 겁니다. 자신의 동생인 한유현을 손에서 놓지 않기로 결심한 순간 한유진은 작중의 한유진으로 바뀌어가기 시작했죠. 자신과는 완전히 다른 존재를 받아들이고 함께 하게 된 것이니까요. 던전과 각성자가 나타나며 세상이 크게 바뀌어간 시점이 한유진에게는 저때였다고도 할 수 있습니다. 이상을 바탕으로 불에 가까운 존재인 한유현, 위태로운 가족관계 등의 환경이 더해져 작중의 한유진이 되었습니다. 타고난 좋은 성격으로 시작했어도 환경에 따라 많은 변화가 생겨났지요. 그렇게 많은 고생을 했음에도 본바탕은 여전히 다정다감한 편입니다^^

(+Q&A)

Q) 유진이가 떡잎 스킬로 본인의 상태창을 보지 못하는 설정상의 이유가 있나요? A) 떡잎 스킬은 양육자 칭호의 보조로 양육의 대상이 될 가능성이 있는 타인에게만 사용할 수 있습니다. 정확히는 시스템 설정이며 만약 한유진이 스스로를 보호하고 돌보고자 마음먹는다면 시스템적인 한계를 넘어 자기 자신에게도 사용이 가능해집니다

(+Q&A)

Q) 마지막으로 전에 만들어주신 게임에서 한유진의 편안히 웃는 얼굴이 낯설다, 편히 웃는 게 보기좋았다는 성현제와 문현아의 대사가 있었는데, 혹시 본편에서는 유진이가 편히 웃는 얼굴을 하는 일이 흔하지는 않다는 설정이 있었나요..?? A) 막 회귀했을 때는 편히 웃기도 했지만 25살 한유현에 대해 알게 된 후에는 아무래도 그늘이 질 수밖에 없었지요. 성현제와 문현아는 처음에는 납치며 초월자며 여러 가지 힘든 일이 많아서, 라고 생각했었고 나중에는 무언가 더 있구나 짐작했습니다.

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Q) 채터박스 파티 때 한유진vs한유진 전투가 마무리된 후 꿈 속의 꿈 속의 꿈에서 한유진은 근원에 있던 한유현과 만났던 게 맞을까요? 유진이가 그때 왜 울었던 건지 궁금합니다. 단순히 죽은 유현이를 다시 봐서인가요? A) 25살 한유현이 맞으며 동생을 만나서도 맟습니다.

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Q) 동생과 아이들이 있어서 본인의 욕구를 억누른다고 하셨는데 혹시 그럼 유진이는 그런 문제가 아니더라도 여러 문제들에서 아이들때문에 억누르는 부분이 많은걸까요??? ㅠㅠㅠ A) 꼭 아이들 때문이 아니더라도, 한유진이 아닌 다른 사람들이라도 혼자가 아닌 타인과 어울려 살기 위해서는 양보하고 참아야 하는 부분들이 있기 마련입니다. 모두가 서로 조금씩 다르기에 서로 맞지 않는 부분도 어느 정도는 맞추어야만 하니까요. 다만 한유진은 그것이 너무 과하여 문제가 되는 편이었지만 완결 시점에서는 많이 나아졌습니다. 아이들을 위해서 무조건 희생하진 않고 자신이 원하는 것을 어느 정도 쥐고 있을 줄 알게 되었지요. 물론 여전히 아이들을 위하는 면이 크지만 그것은 한유진의 성향입니다. 맛있는 간식이 있으면 혼자 다 먹는 것보다는 아이들과 나눠먹는 것에 더 큰 보람과 행복을 느끼는 편이지요. 단순하게 보면 한유진의 몫이 줄어들었고 자신의 욕심을 참아야하는 셈입니다만 한유진의 만족도는 후자가 더 큽니다. 만약 한유진의 자존감과 자기애가 바닥을 치는 상태였다면 전부 다 내어주다 못해 빚까지 끌어안고서도 난 이러는 게 더 좋아, 라고 할 위험성이 있습니다만 현재로서는 괜찮은 편입니다. 한유진의 성향 상 앞으로도 적절한 자기 몫을 챙기려는 노력이 계속 필요 하겠지만 잘 해내갈 거예요^^

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Q) 유현이가 태어나기전 유진이네 가족이 궁급합니다!! 그리고 형제의 부모님은 해외여행 다니면서 형제들에게 꼬박꼬박 생활비를 넣어줬던 걸 보면 주머니 사정(?)이 꽤 괜찮았던것처럼 보였는데 형제가 상속받은 것은 없었을까요?? A) 집에 최대한 머물지 않기 위해 맞벌이는 물론 야근도 적극적으로 했기에 넉넉한 편이었습니다. 씀씀이도 커서 많이 모으지는 못했지만 집은 자가였으며 보험금도 있었습니다. 다만 보험금은 이리저리 뜯기고 집을 지키긴 했지만 대출이 좀 남아 있어서 한유진은 일을 하기로 결심했습니다^^ 한유진의 담임 선생님은 미성년자인 만큼 도음을 받을 수 있으니 고등학교는 졸업하라고 권유했지만 한유진은 집이 재산으로 잡혀 성인이 되면 바로 생활하기 곤란해질 것이라며 거절했습니다. 곧 성인이니 그 전에 경력을 쌓고 저축을 하여 자리 잡을 준비를 하고 싶었기 때문이죠.

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Q) 유진이 이상형이 '의지할수 있는 연상을 선호’하고, 어제 답변 중에서도 ‘비일상과 엮이지만 않는다면 연상의 상대와 결혼한다’고 언급해주셔서요. 원래라면 어리광이 많은 성격인거 같던데, 혹여나 미래에는 항상 양육자였던 유진이가 유현이에게 기대는 일도 있을까요?? A) 불가능하진 않을 겁니다. 한유진은 한유현의 형이며 보호자라는 위치를 무척 중요하게 여기고 있습니다. 소설 초반에서는 그 위치가 자신의 전부에 가까웠죠. 한유현의 보호자 자리에서 밀려나면 스스로의 존재가 부정 당한다고 느낄 정도였습니다. 완결 시점에서는 많이 완화 되었으나 여전히 한유현의 보호자로서의 자신을 놓을 생각이 전혀 없어요 ^^ 여기에 부모가 작식을 도와주지는 못할망정 도음 받아서야 되겠냐는 고전적인 가치관을 일부 지니고 있는 탓에 동생에게 쉽게 기대려 하진 않을 겁니다. 그래도 사람의 가치관은 변화하는 법이며 집으로 돌아 가 평화로운 시간을 보내다 보면 완결 시점에서보다 더욱 느슨해질 수도 있겠지요. 한유현 또한 나이를 더 먹고 한유진의 눈에도 충분히 어른으로 비춰지게 된다면 기대는 일도 있을 거예요.

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