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webslinger-holland · 7 months

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Boys Will Be Boys | Hunter or Crosshair from The Bad Batch

Summary: In which the team's medic always finds herself patching up Hunter and Crosshair after one of their 'disagreements.'

Warning: language, mentions of rough fighting and severe injuries (inflicted by one another), bruised bones and knife wound, mention of stitches and needles, slight blood, and quarreling brothers

Pairing: Hunter x Fem!Reader Medic or Crosshair x Fem!Reader Medic

Type: Oneshot

Word Count: 2.8k

Note: Fully inspired by Echo's line of dialogue shown below

For the first time in a long time, the Marauder was nearly empty and entirely quiet. The only sound that could be heard was the soft humming coming from the team's medic who'd chosen to stay behind on one of the missions. You made sure to keep yourself busy, opting to organize a few bins of medical supplies on the nearby shelf.

The peace and quiet had suddenly broken when the familiar sound of Wrecker's booming voice called from the outside of the ship. You didn't really think anything of it at first because Wrecker naturally had a loud voice. But what you didn't realize was that he was calling for you.

The chaotic mess that accompanied them began to trail into the entrance of the ship. Their loud footsteps and intermixing voices filled the space, calling for you once again. And this time, you heard them more clearly.

Rounding the corner of the cockpit, your gaze immediately fell on the horrific sight in front of you. You gasped a little louder than anticipated, hands flying up to cover your mouth.

Currently, Wrecker had one of his bulky arms underneath Hunter's arm to support his weight and help him into the ship. The sergeant was barely able to stand on his own two feet and was clutching the side of his abdomen, wincing at each movement due to the severe pain. His bottom lip was also cut and bleeding slightly.

Behind them, Tech was doing the exact same thing only with Crosshair beside him. Now Crosshair didn't look any better. He walked with a limp and he had a black eye on the right side of his face which was only growing deeper in color with each passing second.

Both Wrecker and Tech were careful to escort the other two into the cockpit. They helped them onto the medical table, double checking to make sure they were settled before beginning to help them strip away the parts of their armor. They meticulously took off each piece with great care so that they wouldn't cause further pain.

Once they were finished putting the spare armor pieces to the side, Wrecker and Tech went to step away and silently joined Echo in the background. The two of them sat in only their blacks. You hurried to stand in front of them, taking a brief second to take in what was in front of you.

"W--What the hell happened to you two?" You demanded an explanation because you had honestly never seen them in a worse state. The two of them kept their eyes closed as they continued to writhe in pain.

"Nothing," Hunter grunted out while still clutching his side. He keened forward in his place in hopes of easing his discomfort.

"We knew what we were doing," Crosshair added. He was panting slightly as if trying to catch his breath. You glanced between the two of them with furrowed eyebrows.

"What's that supposed to mean?" You wondered. You were curious if they were keeping something from you as their vague answers did not satisfy you.

"Ask him," Crosshair hissed. He seemed to glare at his older brother through the corner of his eyes.

"Can we not talk about this right now?" Hunter pleaded. The pain was becoming almost too unbearable for him. He withdrew his hand from his side only to show that his hand was caked in his own blood.

"I'm not doing anything until one of you tells me what the hell happened," you reminded them. Waiting for an answer, you crossed your arms over your chest and glanced between the two of them. Neither of them wanted to look directly at you.

Hesitantly, Hunter lifted his head and looked at his brother sitting right beside him. He breathed steadily to himself to maintain his composure. He desperately needed some medical assistance, but he knew how stubborn you were. So he needed to come up with something.

"M-Mercenaries," Hunter spoke through gritted teeth.

"Mercenaries? Really? " You repeated with a cocked eyebrow. He nodded his head. "You need to work on your lying skills."

"I'm telling the truth," Hunter reassured her. He made a point to hold your gaze, but you still didn't believe him.

"Tech?" You called from over your shoulder without looking away.

"They were otherwise occupied in one of their fights," Tech replied without hesitation and without looking up from his data pad.

"Again?!?" You spoke with such shock that it caused both of them to wince at your words.

"Look," Hunter began. "We didn't really mean to take it as far as we did--"

"Bullshit," you interrupted him. You gestured to his side that he still clutched to help with the bleeding. "He stabbed you for crying out loud!"

"He was really asking for it," Crosshair commented. His eyes still flashed with anger. "And he started it anyways."

"I don't want to hear it," your voice rose a little louder to speak over him. You raised a hand to stop them. "This is the fourth fight you've gotten into this month. And I am here wasting precious materials to fix and bandage you both up each time. It's getting ridiculous!"

"We're sorry," Hunter spoke timidly.

"Don't tell me you're sorry. Tell each other you are sorry."

Neither of them were willing to do this which just proved how narrow-minded and stubborn headed they were towards each other.

Quickly turning away from them, you hurried towards the neatly organized shelf of medical supplies. You reached for various materials, stuffing what you could carry into the contents of your arms. Returning to the medical bench, you laid out the tools to view and inspect clearly.

Using your own data pad, you quickly took a thorough scan of the both of them to survey the extent of their injuries. While Hunter had sustained a knife wound to the left side of his abdomen, it had thankfully not pieced anything important. His knuckles were incredibly brushed and bloody. His lip was cut roughly. He'd definitely feel sore in the morning from taking such a harsh beating.

On the other hand, Crosshair managed to sprain his ankle during his tumble with his brother. He had two bruised ribs which he was lucky they didn't break. And he sported a nasty black eye right over his tattoo.

You quickly assessed that you'd need to help the sergeant first given that he had a knife wound and was still bleeding slightly. You handed the sniper an ice pack for his eye to temporarily ease the pain before you directed all of your attention to the other brother. You gingerly stepped forward to stand between his legs, reaching forward to grasp the edge of his top.

You made sure to help him out of the top of his blacks carefully, being extra mindful of the wound on his left side. He winced slightly as the material bunched around his shoulder. With great discomfort, Hunter managed to raise his arm in order to slide and remove the rest of his top from his arms. He discarded the piece of material onto the floor without a care in the world.

Now Hunter was sitting shirtless on the medical bench. His hand returned to the spot on the side of his abdomen, which was caked in his dried blood and still oozing with fresh blood under his fingertips. Taking the bottle of alcohol disinfectant, you doused a cloth in the clear liquid. You needed to clean the wound before you'd be able to stitch it up.

"This might sting a little," you spoke honestly.

With some hesitation, Hunter removed his hand from his side to allow you space to work. You carefully brought the wet cloth to his bleeding slide, pressing it into the gaping skin. As if on cue, Hunter practically lurched forward in his place. He gripped the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles started to bleed again. His eyes squeezed shut to block out the pain.

"Sorry," you added because you hated seeing him in pain.

You went to wipe away some of the remaining blood around the wound and cleaned the skin thoroughly. Tossing the bloody cloth onto the table, you went to retrieve a needle and thread so you'd be able to sow it shut right afterwards. You threaded the string through the eye of the needle, leaning forward slightly to begin stitching his skin back together.

This wasn't the first time you'd given any of them stitches since they had many wounds inflicted to them over the years. However, this one could have easily been prevented if Hunter and Crosshair hadn't gotten into their little fight. You worked swiftly and steadily with the needle.

"What was it this time?" You asked out of pure curiosity and you could have sworn that the sergeant tensed under your touch. The two of them glanced at one another as if trying to secretly trying to relay something.

"Like he said: it was nothing." Crosshair spoke for the both of them. He drew his gaze away from his older brother. He recalled the conversation leading up to their fight, but it only made him angrier in the moment.

"Tech?" You repeated without looking away from your work.

"They were fighting over you this time," Tech replied without missing a beat. You raised your eyebrows in slight surprise at this confession, but your thoughts were quickly interrupted.

"Such a fucking tattletale," Crosshair scoffed. He sent his twin a deadly glare, but Tech didn't even seem to notice. He was too absorbed in the contents of his data pad. "He's always been like this," Crosshair said to his brother beside him.

"Yeah, I know. I was always there," Hunter grunted as the needle threaded through his tatted skin once again.

"At least I wasn't a biter as a cadet," Tech shot back. That was when he decided to lift his head so that he could look directly into his brother's narrowed eyes.

"You did bite a lot of people, Crosshair." Wrecker released a hefty laugh. He arms crossed over the length of his chest. He smiled at the fond memories of them as little cadets. "The regs especially."

"Just leave already," Crosshair growled at them.

Not wanting to anger him any longer, the other three members filed out of the cockpit and retreated back into their bunks for the night. They sealed the cockpit door behind them.

"Going back to this fight..." your voice seemed to betray you and trailed off into nothing. You glanced between the two of them as if searching for some kind of answer. "You were fighting over me?"

A quick tie of the thread and a cut with scissors meant your work was done for stitching. Neither of them seemed to say anything as you retrieved some more gauze from the side. You took one of the sergeant's big hands into your own, turning it over to begin wrapping his cut knuckles.

"Yeah," Hunter breathed steadily. He didn't even realize what he confessed to at first, but it was much too late now. "We were."

His eyes were transfixed on the way your fingers moved so delicately against his own. His breath had since caught in the back of his throat. He no longer felt the severe pain coursing through his side. You always managed to make him feel better and it wasn't just your medical skills that did the trick.

For the longest time, Hunter had been utterly fascinated by you. It went far beyond your medical knowledge and expertise in the field. You were known to be an honest and genuine person; someone who every member of his squad had grown to love and respect. You were a gentle-hearted soul which brought a newfound warm light to the otherwise hardcore company of brothers.

Slowly, Hunter watched the way you raised your head to look at him through your lashes. You had just finished wrapping his knuckles, gently laying them back down in his lap. He could feel your breath fanning against his face as you stood right between his legs. He briefly glanced down at your lips. And he wanted nothing more than to capture them in his own. But he knew better than to do something so careless.

You missed the quick glance he casted to your lips, but your eyes were fixed on his cut. You really couldn't do anything about the cut on his lip; it would heal in its own time. He silently thanked you with his gaze alone. And now your attention went to his younger brother sitting beside him.

"Why were you fighting over me?" You asked them with a hint of genuine concern behind your facial expression. You wondered if you'd be able to get a response out of the sniper now that all your attention was directed to him.

"We...we share...a common interest," Crosshair confessed honestly. He would have never said if the rest of his brothers were present, but there was just something about the way you looked up at him that made him cave.

Kneeling down onto the ground, you were able to hoist his bad leg onto your lap. You began to wrap his ankle carefully because you didn't want to cause him anymore pain than he was already in. You looped the stream of gauze around the backside of his ankle, bringing it back over the side and to the front. You briefly glanced up at him.

"In me?" You wanted clarification.

Both Hunter and Crosshair silently nodded their heads in response.

Avoiding their gaze, you went back to tying the knot on the wrapped ankle in your lap. You rose to your feet in a slow manner. You reached for the end of the sniper's top, carefully helping him remove it until he too was shirtless like his brother.

You had seen them shirtless countless times before and you always managed to remain medically professional. But there was something different about them now. This newfound revelation made you look at them in a slightly different light. The mere sight of their bare chests had your breath catching in the back of your throat. You knew if you weren't careful in regulating your breathing, Hunter was going to catch on sooner than later. Hell, he might have already caught on at this point.

You began to wrap a supportive brace around Crosshair's torso of bruised ribs, knowing that they'd need the extra support to help heal over the next couple days. You made sure not to make it too tight or too loose, watching for any discomfort behind his eyes. But you never saw any.

Now, having finished tending to their various injuries, you took a single step backwards and stood timidly in their presence. You still weren't able to look either of them in the eyes. When you realized how long you'd been silent and that they were waiting for some type of response from you, you tried to find the right words to express yourself.

"This is unexpected," you spoke softly. You just couldn't believe that two brothers had gotten into a quarrel over you. It went so far that one of them got stabbed this time around.

Had they fought over your before this? What were they fighting over specifically? Who else knew about this? And what else were they willing to do for you?

"You don't have to do anything with this information," Hunter wanted to reassure you. "And I hope this doesn't make things weird between us."

"It doesn't," you confessed with a small shake of the head. The corners of your lips twitched into a smile. "I'm certainly flattered...and honestly at a loss for words right now. I'm not really sure how to feel."

"You can have all the time in the world to think about how you feel," Hunter replied. He didn't have any expectations of where he wanted this to go for him, but he did want you to be comfortable around them. And you were going to need time to do that now that they had confessed to you.

"I'll...see you both around," you mentioned rather awkwardly.

Taking another step backwards to dismiss yourself from their presence, you wanted to get out of the cockpit before they could see the evident blush creeping onto your cheeks. You sent them a small wave and slipped out of the cockpit before they could say anything else to you.

Just as the door closed, Hunter and Crosshair seemed to breath a small sigh of relief. Their gazes were now directed to the solid steel floor underneath them, thinking about the confession and conversation that had just transpired.

"Well, that's out of the bag now." Crosshair spoke up first.

"Give her some time. I'm sure it's a lot for her to process. She'll come around," Hunter shrugged his shoulders.

"When she does come around, I hope you won't be too heartbroken with her choice." Crosshair taunted him. A sly smirk curved near the corner of his lip, knowing the mere power of his words and how they always managed to irritate his older brother. A deadly glare was sent his way in response.

Crosshair knew just the right thing to say to get under his brother's skin and if he wasn't careful, Hunter was bound to start another quarrel with him. But that's just something brothers do.

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littleeyesofpallas · 5 months

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At this point I've basically long since run dry on Bleach funfacts, certainly out of any that have any real weight in the broader readings of the series. But I do have one not-so-fun fact still left up my sleeve --a real dead end nothing contribution... So buckle up, I guess? I apologize in advance if this ends up, like, I dunno, spoiling the aesthetic(?) for anyone. Feel free to just ignore this and move on if you're touchy about keeping your obsessive fandom experiences squeaky clean.

So, I noted back when I was combing thru Quincy terms, that it felt a little less than comfy that in addition to the general n*zi aesthetics Juugram's official title was in fact "Sternritter Grand Master" which felt, at the time, like an unfortunate coincidence that it would fall in line with the naming scheme of the K*K's nonsense titles like Grand Wizard/Grand Dragon, Grand Cyclops, Grand Magi and various other ridiculous sounding occultist LARPer horseshit they've cycled thru over the past century+. But I just kinda left it at that and didn't think to dig any deeper,

But then I was reminded that in the early days of the K*K one of their stated goals was to establish a white supremacist "country" inside the united states, and as they dabbled in this insurgency fantasy, they dubbed this goal of a secret, second, white nation within the confines of the USA, their "Invisible Empire"...

And although the word we hear throughout the TYBW arc is the German Wändenreich[ヴァンデンライヒ] from Wänden:“Walls” and Reich:“Empire/Realm,” the Japanese meaning underlying that term is [見えざる帝国]: “Unseen/Invisible Empire.”

In fact the white robed and hoods tradition stemmed from what were initially petty pranks(although they escalated very quickly in seriousness and danger) in which they would menace black communities and abolitionists by pretending to be the ghosts of dead confederates. In this capacity the imagery and language around them also evoked an "Army of Ghosts."

And although it was never properly addressed, there was always this vague issue of the Quincy's ages... Those with clear backgrounds like Juugram and Bazz-B seem impossibly old. And we see that As Nodt is recruited on what appears to be his deathbed --in a hospital, on life support and in fear of dying, with a bible on his bedside as if ready to be read his last rites-- and of course the Quincy genocide of 200 years prior.

And tangential to this, we see the brief, if mostly pointless, return of the three dead Fullbringers --Ginjo, Tsukishima, and Giriko-- who all seem to have retained their memories and powers across the borders of life and death. (We won't ask about how or why their fullbring items are still usable) Is it safe to speculate then that the Quincy are in fact a literal Army of Ghosts? It explains how they're able to go toe to toe with the shinigami in ways Uryuu's initial explanations of their skills would've suggested wasn't possible. (i.e. that they were describes as being regular flesh and bone humans and only their weapons are actually supernatural, and thus they are not capable of particularly extraordinary physical feats, or blessed with any superhuman durability.) And it also sort of makes more sense that rather than being a bunch of flesh and blood humans who survived losing the war, somehow spiritized themselves to get into the afterlife, and then hid for 999 years, that they could have just been humans who died first and were recruited as ghosts, having been spirited away into the shadow realm. Or Quincy that died with the full intent of reuniting as ghosts, having some kind of assurance that they would retain their memories and powers.

I like the former over the latter though, as it means the Ishida family really were the last living Quincy. But I do like the morbid idea of Yhwach commanding his army, Jamestown style, to kill themselves as the first step to them going to heaven. Only in this case the kingdom of god as they imagine it has to be fought for because the shinigami are already have a whole society there and need to be driven out first.

There is also a lot of "Knight" and "White Knight" imagery and titles evoked in the K*K's long history, and while that's absolutely vague enough to be handwaved on its own, it's definitely not not adjacent to all this....

(This has nothing to do with anything I just had already slapped the uniforms pic together and wanted to use it somewhere)

So to sort of loosely review everything going on with the Quincy....

Catholic inverted priest frocks, crosses, silver and exorcisms, holy eucharist angel wings&halo final forms, blood eucharist schrift, conversion based recruitment policies, the whole "one kingdom under god" shtick, miracle baby son of god christ figure, explicit mention of monotheism

but then also 5 pointed crosses/stars and pentagrams,

victims of a genocide with a dr.mengele nemesis, YHWACH-v-YHWH

inverted Hugo Boss uniforms, german themed attacks, skills and tools, crosses again, explicitly evoking the Schutzstaffel with Yhwach's royal guard, and nonsense blood purity eugenics b.s.... weirdly not touched upon "black sun" or swastika imagery tied to Ichigo

For some reason a few loose threads of what appear to be Loius XIV and his sun god apollo fixation, purifying light and sun and stars motifs

YHWACH having big Backbeard energy, the literal evocation of Backbeard, being a western ghost army

and now these mismatched crumbs of what appear to be deliberate K*K references: ghost army, invisible empire, grandmaster, etc...

Like... I don't think this makes them worse, or paints Kubo as some kind of crackpot racist --in case my stance on his use of n*zi imagery didn't make that clear-- but like... I don't know what to make of it honestly... It's as inconsequential to the actual message or plot as anything else, including the n*zi stuff, but it just feels weird knowing it's there? Just sorta loitering around in the background?? Also the Quincy are just such a bizarre clusterfuck of unfocused nonsense ""themes"" with like zero actual content just in general. Given everything that's in that slurry I think that might be for the better? Because any coherent message drawn from all of these influences probably couldn't have been any good...

#bleach #bleach meta #quincy #sternritter #wandenreich

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nikolai-jpeg · 11 days

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(Uh. Hi. Misc Au doodles I’m finally posting. The au is called Memory Reboot, I’ll give a brief explanation of the premise below the cut :)

(Psst, click for better quality)

Okay, so the au centers around Fyodor, who wakes up right after the Dragon’s Head Conflict with no idea where he is or how he got there, and only a vague idea of who he is supposed to be. He knows three things for sure: His last name starts with a D, he has a skill of some kind, and he’s completely fresh out of luck. As it turns out, Gifted individuals were instructed to turn themselves in to authorities all over Japan in hopes of regulating Gifted related violence, by filtering out which are allowed to lead normal lives and keeping tabs on all of them.

Fyodor thinks that's dumb, so he doesn’t, and therefore pretty much agrees to the terms and conditions of being on the run for the foreseeable future.

On the round up day (for gifted individuals the government was aware of and couldn’t convince to come willingly), Fyodor does his best to stay low – since really, do they even know he’s there – and slips into a seemingly closed antique store to avoid a storm. Lo and behold, there is another hiding in there; an individual named Tatsuhiko Shibusawa, who formerly worked with the government and was aware of the round up before it was announced and had time to fake his death and hide out.

Fyodor stays with him for a little while, until a knock on the door scares the daylights out of them both. It’s none other than Ranpo, who is doing his best to get to the last of the gifted before the authorities do and accurately predicted their location. They run off, but Shibusawa gets separated from them, and Fyodor ditches Ranpo and the escape plan to go find him. From there, the duo run into Dazai, and the story takes off from there. Part One is all about the dysfunctional trio trying to make it out of the city both alive and in one piece with a tense truce.

Fortunately, they do! Yay. As some of the only remaining on the run Gifteds, they and some of the other Yokohama residents stick together and create a little group to watch each other’s backs and maybe try to liberate some of the captured Gifted who’s abilities were deemed too dangerous or useful.

Part Two is modern day, and I have some ideas for that, but I’ll keep it secret so if this ever does happen, it’s a little bit of a surprise. I will say, I have this hilarious idea of Aya being their little ‘public school spy’ who is keeping a keen eye on her 5th grade teacher, suspecting he was also gifted (it’s Kunikida) and other goofy shenanigans with her involved. But I’ll keep a lid on that for now. Lots of interesting character dynamics I can explore, and writing Fyodor would be SO much fun. I have so much in store for him.

Anyway, if this au seems like something y’all would be interested in, feel free to let me know. I have half of Part One already written, so who knows. Maybe I’ll yap more.

#Bitcrushed Jpeg #bungou stray dogs #Bungo Stray Dogs #BSD #fyodor dostoevsky #osamu dazai #tatsuhiko shibusawa #I miiight delete this if it totally flops. not *that* confident at all #haven’t drawn humans in 10 months lolllllll #and it shows

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genuine-wrestleboy · 1 year

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freeze or fawn (2/2)

words: 4,110

hey, god! if ao3 going down right as i finished this was meant to be you trying to tell me something, i am simply not listening <3

(on ao3)

You watch your mug spin in the microwave, the day-old coffee inside steaming to gelatinous perfection. There’s a sort of ridiculous camaraderie to it; you watch the coffee, and in the reflection in the glass door, Springtrap watches you. You can feel the cold intensity of his gaze, gooseflesh on the back of your neck.

The microwave whirs on, and you pick nervously at your cuticles.

“Thirty years is a long time,” you say, mostly just to fill the silence.

“It's a very long time,” he confirms dryly.

“And what is remnant, exactly?”

He sighs. “That explanation would also be very long, and I doubt you would even understand most of what I could tell you.”

“Try me,” you offer.

“Later,” he says firmly. “Are you quite done yet?”

“Almost,” you tell him, “I just, hold on—”

You cancel the rest of the time and grab for the mug, burning your fingers a little and half-dropping it onto the countertop with a quiet “ow, fuck". You don't even want to consider what the reaction would be if you started pulling out pans to cook a proper breakfast, so you fish a box of cereal out of the cupboard and resign yourself to eating it dry.

Something occurs to you, and you turn to Springtrap, tucking the box under your arm.

“Do you want anything? Can you, like, eat? Other than, uh—” You clear your throat. “—you know.”

You watch the change in his posture as the implication of your words sinks in. He pinches two fingers against the bridge of his muzzle, like he’s staving off a headache.

“I liked it better when you were afraid of me.”

You laugh a little deliriously, because you can’t not. Does he really think you're not still afraid of him? You’re terrified, but, well. He’d just eaten you out on your aunt’s kitchen floor, you thought maybe you could establish a rapport.

It’s just impossible to get a read on him, is the thing, to know where your bearings lie. All that threatening anger and violence, and then he’ll catch you off-guard with these stunning little moments of gentleness, of kindness or comfort or affection. Brief little pops of warmth that pass as quickly as they come and leave you stumbling after him for more, your adrenaline on a wildly oscillating loop. No safe place to land, to rest long enough to recalibrate.

“Sorry, I’m still a little—” You make a vague, waving gesture near your head. “I thought you were gonna kill me, so. Taking a while to adjust.”

“I may well still kill you,” he tells you without heat.

“I—okay." How are you supposed to respond to that? “I’d rather you didn’t, for what it’s worth.”

He makes a sort of shrugging gesture. “As for your question, I don't believe I am capable of digestion in my current state, no.”

That doesn’t surprise you, you guess. From your cursory, stolen glimpses you’d be surprised if there was enough left of his digestive tract left intact to begin with, never mind how any of it would still be functional. Honestly now that you’re thinking about it you could probably say the same of anything under that suit—only, you’ve definitely heard him breathe, haven’t you? Did his lungs somehow miraculously escape the damage that befell the rest of him? Does he need to breathe? He’s not constantly bleeding out, so you assume whatever blood might be left in there isn’t actively circulating, but you can’t do it with any real confidence.

On that note, though, does it even matter? You don't understand how he's still upright at all, you can't even begin to guess the rules his body might follow now. If it’s—whether it’s all still connected, or if it should work, does that count for anything one way or the other? And if it doesn't, or if it is, could he—

Oh, no, no, are you insane? You're absolutely not thinking about that right now, you are shutting that line of speculation down immediately.

“You’re ready now, I take it?”

You startle, feeling caught, grab your coffee and nod. Just gonna…let all of that go, for now, then.

"Yep. What are we looking for?"

"Tools." He's entrusted your superior knowledge of the house's layout with tracking down what he cagily referred to as 'necessary supplies'. "A toolkit, if there's one to be had, but I can make do with a screwdriver and my wits, if needs must."

Your mood soars; you've got good news for him.

"I don’t think they’ll must,” you say. "I’m pretty sure I remember seeing all my uncle's old tools in the garage when I parked yesterday. Not that I doubt your wits,” you add, and the absurdity of attempting to flirt with someone who has expressed a passing interest in your death isn’t lost on you.

Springtrap stills like you’ve surprised him, looks you up and down.

“Well, then. In that case it seems like the least I can do not to doubt your memory, hm?"

That's a risk at the best of times, but thankfully, this time, your memory does comes through for you; you flick on the yellowy garage lights to reveal a sturdy black workbench pushed into the far corner, collecting dust beneath neatly organized rows of hammers, wrenches, pliers, and a few very specific-looking tools you don't recognize that hang from a pegboard bolted to the wall. Excitement and relief fizz through your veins, and you turn to Springtrap with a grin.

“Will this work?” You’re angling for a sign of approval, and it’s probably painfully obvious.

He scans the room and laughs, not entirely kindly. You flinch a little when he reaches out, but it's almost reverent when he takes your face in one huge hand, strokes a thumb along your cheek.

“Well done,” he says with feeling.

You had absolutely no hand in acquiring any of the tools in question, and even less in making sure that they stayed around for him to find, but fuck if the praise doesn’t get under your skin and flood straight down.

“Happy to help,” you reply weakly.

He taps you slyly under the chin. “That’s the spirit. Come along.”

You follow him down into the garage, edging around the nose of your car. Leave, comes the thought, sudden and unbidden, get in the car and get the fuck out of there, but how would you even do that? Even if you wanted to leave, your keys are in the house, and anyway Springtrap needs you—he told you that he does, sort of.

Maybe he’d find you again, your brain suggests, and you think about that hand on your face, that glow of praise, pressing your own palm against your cheek as you feel heat rising into it. This is not the time, you tell yourself firmly, to say nothing of whether or not there should ever be a time at all, but it doesn’t do much to relieve the nebulous desire reforming in your belly.

By the bench, Springtrap fiddles with the latch of a dented red toolbox. You’ve noticed before, but he seems to have trouble with movements that require any higher degree of fine motor control in his hands. He is also very clearly irritated by this fact, so you keep this observation to yourself. Eventually he lets out a snarl and rips the latch off the box altogether, chucking it over his shoulder to vanish into the nooks and crannies of the garage.

“May as well make yourself comfortable,” he tells you, leaning in to examine the newly revealed contents, “I imagine we’ll be here for quite a while.”

“Aye aye.” Carefully balancing your mug by the wipers, you hoist yourself up onto the hood of your car, pressing your legs together self-consciously. For a while you just sit there, sipping the now-lukewarm coffee and picking at your cereal, watching Springtrap work. He peels back a section of matted fur to expose the joint of his wrist, measures out an inch of a clear liquid, and dips the corner of a rag into it. The cloth turns black with the grime of years, blood and rust and who knows what else as he rubs it into the protesting metal. When he’s satisfied, he sets it aside and positions the head of a screwdriver against a screw you can’t quite see, and then adjusts the whole limb under the lamp clamped to the bench, out of your view completely.

Fascinating though the process promises to be, you’re pretty sure you’d only be in the way if you ask him to move so you can watch what he’s doing. You lean back against the windshield instead, and exhaustion crashes into you the instant you’re in something resembling a reclined position. It’s been a long morning, and the caffeine you just ingested hasn’t begun to work its magic quite yet. Plus, your night on the sofa hadn’t exactly been a restful one. You’ve been running on nothing but adrenaline for hours now; sleep, when it comes, hits you fast and hard.

You wake with your neck at an angle that barely feels survivable, flooded with impotent panic from a nightmare you barely remember. The back of your head smacks against the glass of the windshield as you jolt back into consciousness, and you cradle it gingerly in one hand, pulling yourself upright.

Springtrap looks over from where he’s leaning against the workbench, fighting something at his hip with a pair of needle-nose pliers.

“You fell asleep.” It isn’t anger, but there’s something odd in his voice that prickles along your skin like being too close to a fire.

“Sorry.” You have no idea why you’re apologizing. “I didn’t realize I was so tired.”

He tilts his head to one side, eyes flat and sharp in a way that sparks a cold, guttering fear in your chest.

“I could’ve done anything to you,” he informs you, still with that strange, keen edge to it.

“Sorry,” you say again, because you’re not sure what else to say. “Did—can I help at all?”

Backlit by the bench lamp, his unchanging smile seems to grow in shadow, longer, hungrier.

“If you’re offering.” He twists his wrist, and a section of suit paneling by his pelvis comes loose and swings open. “Come here, give me your hand.”

You maneuver your way back to the floor, careful to avoid upsetting the remnants of your makeshift breakfast. You do want to help, to be useful to him, but placing your hand in his feels like putting it in the mouth of a lion and trusting it not to bite.

Laughing softly, Springtrap reels you closer, muzzle butting your face as he takes several hot, gulping breaths against your skin. His other hand abandons the pliers to press at the small of your back, fingertips biting through the fabric of your shirt.

“You smell afraid.” He says it like an endearment.

“I—” you stammer, “I'm—oh, oh.”

Your line of thinking stalls hard, that rising tide of fear dissolving in the wake of the long, low groan that all but pours out of him as he guides your hand to his cock. Shock, bitten-back and swallowed, the simmering desire in you rising like a white-water tide. Your knees tremble traitorously beneath you.

"Is something wrong?” he purrs. “I thought you wanted to help."

“I do,” you say breathlessly. His hand at your back feels like the only thing that’s holding you upright.

Springtrap’s fingers fold over yours, inhuman and irresistible, and he growls into the crook of your neck as he pumps himself lazily with your fist.

“So help.”

Well, you suppose, there's that question answered, at least.

He feels huge in your hand, only half-hard and already too thick for you to get your fingers all the way around. Your pulse pounds in your ears, between your legs, in the palm of your hand. Springtrap shifts forward as you move experimentally, twisting your wrist to cover as much of his shaft as you can.

“Harder,” he hisses encouragingly. “My nerve endings aren’t what they used to be, you know.”

It shouldn't be sexy, that reminder, but he runs a claw up your spine as he says it, little sparks along a willing fuse, and you shiver and tighten your grip until his hips stutter forward and he lets out a loose, throaty moan.

"There you are, darling. Just like that."

The endearment makes a molten mess of your insides, all the blood in your body rushing downwards so quickly that it makes you dizzy. You're still wet from earlier, and between that headstart and the way Springtrap's cock twitches in your hand, you're mortifyingly close to leaking down your own leg like you're in heat.

As if noticing, Springtrap presses a merciful knee between yours, chuckling when you immediately begin to grind against his thigh. The suit catches and pinches at your shorts, your skin, but that matters far less than the welcome pressure against your clit.

"You want my cock that badly?" He catches your chin in his hand, pressing his fingers into your cheeks until your mouth drops open. It's all you can do to nod in response, bearing down against his thigh as you work him with long, sloppy strokes. You imagine that girth on your tongue, heavy and hot, and you feel your mouth start to water, drool pooling hungrily in its stead.

"Filthy," Springtrap murmurs against your hair, his tone warm with dark approval that throbs between your legs.

"Please," you try to say, or "yes" or "god", but it comes out a needy, open-mouthed mishmash of sound, wordless and hoarse. Pleasure builds like syrup, thick and slow, hips and hand rocking at the same mindless, driving rhythm. You can feel the wet spot you’re leaving on his fur, clutching at his arm to keep your balance as your legs start to shake. You feel—god, you feel empty.

Metal screeches and smashes to the floor as Springtrap clears the workbench with one swift swipe of his arm. You jump back, startled, swallowing a frustrated whine at the interruption.

Reaching out, he drags a claw slowly, slowly along the line of your throat, and when he speaks, his voice is calm, but brittle, fast-flowing water under very thin ice.

“Normally, I would take my time with this, but I’m understandably a bit pent up, so if you wouldn’t mind.” He pats the surface of the bench expectantly.

Heat floods your face when you realize what he’s asking, eager anticipation buzzing in your blood. You move to obey; he catches you by the waistband of your shorts.

"Take these off," he says. "Quickly, before I tear them off you."

Oh, you are not opposed to that idea, at all, actually. Your eyes flick up to his, breath catching, and your expression must give you away, because his grip on you tightens, and he laughs, low and amused.

"I might’ve guessed."

The fabric of your shorts pulls apart like paper. Even though you know it’s coming, it still startles a cry out of you. Springtrap crowds you back against the workbench, hands bracketing your hips and moving upwards. Your shirt rucks up around his wrists, and he dips his head to nuzzle against your temple with a pleased hum.

“This too,” he says, which is all the warning you get before your shirt goes the same way. Your skin, newly bare, fever hot, prickles in the cool air of the garage, and for a moment you feel like you should cover yourself with your hands.

Then Springtrap hitches you up and drops you onto the bench, fingers divoting your thighs as he pulls your hips flush together. Your head falls back, and you bite out a soft moan as the full length of him slides against you, slick with your arousal. He feels even bigger between your legs than he had in your hand.

“Look at me.” It’s clear from his voice that he’s trying very, very hard to hold himself together.

You look. His eyes burn at you, at this angle almost mirrored. The visible muscles of his neck tense, shoulders taut as he draws himself over you and stills. Beneath that gaze, the broad shadow of his body, you feel cracked open and bare, something soft and helpless shucked from a shell. He rolls his hips forward once, twice, and a shudder goes through you.

“Tell me you want this.”

Without meaning to, your eyes fall, pulled to where his cock parts your folds. His skin is the same mottled purple here as everywhere else, blotchy and dark, and the fluid that leaks from the tip is cloudy and pungent and thick. You imagine it pressing into you, and the ache of desire is almost matched by a sudden, urgent fear. Your words stick in your throat, and he tilts his head to the side, sneering.

"Don't play coy with me now, you were gagging for it a moment ago."

That does something twisting and strange to your stomach. You don’t want him to stop, but you realize you don't entirely believe that he would if you asked him to.

"I want it," you say weakly, then surer, "I want it."

He leans even closer, forcing your legs apart until it edges on painful, lowering his face as if he's about to kiss you.

"What do you want?" Sweet as spun sugar in his terrible wreck of a voice.

You whimper, rocking your hips upwards desperately. “I want—hn!—I want your cock, I want—please, I want it so badly.”

Springtrap touches your cheek with his fingertips, feather-light and fond. He shifts back, and you feel the blunt, solid pressure of him at your entrance, barely enough to tease, and it's already so much and nowhere near enough, you need, you need—

“Go on, then. Beg for it."

You think you could come like this, untouched, to nothing but the sound of his voice.

You would really, really prefer to be touched, though.

"Please," you sob breathlessly. Your cunt clenches on empty air. “Please, god, please fuck me, I’ll do any—anything, please, I need you inside me, please, please.”

Springtrap’s teeth glint behind the mask.

“Now what man could resist, when you ask like that?”

A brief burst of pain, and then gutted, boneless pleasure; you clutch at his shoulders as he fucks you open, needy, gasping moans shallowing your lungs. The slow stretch floods you with warmth until you're drunk with it, liquid and loose. Heavy, hazy heat, the contents of your skull bleeding soupily together, your whole world nothing but that hungry, spreading fullness. Your body, reshaping itself to fit him.

"Fuck, you're so big." The thought tumbles out as it occurs to you, and Springtrap snarls and hilts himself in one harsh, sudden motion, muzzle pressed so tightly to your neck that it bites into your skin.

You suck in a breath through clenched teeth. It's just the wrong side of too much, too fast, but he gives you no time to recover before he starts moving again. Both paws dig a constellation of bruises into your hips as he pins you to the bench, skin slapping yours as he bottoms out on every thrust. You feel shattered, cracked apart, bleeding light into his palms. He sets a brutal pace, driving into your eager cunt with untiring speed until you’re mewling beneath him, overwhelmed with sensation as discomfort cedes again to building sweetness.

"That's right,” he coos. “You'll take it for me, won't you?"

You gasp, nodding through shocks of pleasure. “Yes, yes, please.”

“Yes, yes,” he mimics, teasing—then lower, as you arch up to meet him, “yes.”

That rough syllable echoes in the cage of your ribs. Springtrap rolls his hips forward, deliberate and slow, rutting blissful friction against your neglected clit. A thin, keening sound falls from your lips, and you hook your ankles around his back, closer closer closer like the twin of your rabbiting heartbeat.

Breath rumbling low in his throat, Springtrap curves forward, pulling your hips off the bench entirely. The new angle draws him in impossibly deep, and his cock brushes something that sings bone-deep through you, your whole body fizzling like a live spark. You grasp for purchase around his neck, and his even rhythm falters and fails.

“Please don’t stop,” you beg, canting your hips desperately upwards.

Springtrap bites down hard against your shoulder, pulling out nearly all the way before slamming hungrily back into you. The force of it wrings a hoarse moan from your lungs and shoves the whole workbench back a screeching inch. You wonder distantly if you’ll be able to walk after this.

“Oh, darling,” he chuckles. “That was never an option.”

You feel yourself clench around him, and Springtrap groans, hips stuttering. He moves against you, picking up speed, breath ragged and hot against the crook of your neck. Higher and higher, rushing pleasure climbs your spine like the swell of a wave as he fucks you full of helium and heat, of him and him and him, until it feels like there’s no room in you for anything else.

“So tight for me,” he growls, voice rough. “Only for me.”

“God,” you whimper. Maybe part of you wants to protest the possessive words, but most of you is busy feeling like you're about to burst out of your own skin.

“You like that thought, do you?” he asks, and you nod frantically.

"I—ah!—yes." You're close, you're so fucking close—

Springtrap grinds into you, steady, unrelenting pressure, building and building without relief. He lets out a harsh breath by your ear, but his voice is soft and confiding when he speaks, like he's sharing a secret.

"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."

He doesn't even slow as you come, howling, around him, fucking you through the aftershocks at that same merciless pace until you’re trembling and spent. You feel like you’ve been split apart and thrown in a thousand different directions, like it’s only his hands on your skin keeping you together. Weakly, you take his face in your hands and kiss the ruined nose, the corner of his grinning mouth; he turns to butt his muzzle against you with a sound somewhere between a snarl and a sob.

“Take it,” he hisses, and understanding hits you a beat too late.

“Wait—” you manage limply; Springtrap laughs like nearing thunder.

"Shhhh. Whatever I want, remember?"

You sob a feeble “fuck” as his hips hit yours, and your cunt fills with spurts of warmth. It's a foreign, electric feeling, and you rock against him mindlessly, the last of your breath escaping you in a weak, panting moan. His cock twitches and throbs, emptying into you as you shudder in his arms, held up easy as a doll. The sound you make would be mortifying, if you had a single brain cell to spare for it.

Springtrap pulls out just as pleasure edges into overstimulation. You wince at the strangeness of the feeling as he sets you down, the soreness already blooming, the sticky wetness that seeps out to pool on the bench beneath you. A huge hand palms high up on your thigh, the gaze behind it lazy and appraising. Then two fingers stroke a line from your ass to your entrance, and you let out a hiss of discomfort as they press a generous amount of come back inside you.

“What a mess,” tsks Springtrap, presenting the fingers to you. You open your mouth dutifully, but he seems to change his mind, instead wiping his soiled hand ineffectually against your leg. “You really ought to get yourself cleaned up. There’s still work to do, after all.”

You don’t know why you’re surprised, it’s the same one-eighty he pulled on you last time, already back to business while your brain is still leaking out of your ears. You let out a frustrated huff, and he tilts his head to the side, eyes glittering curiously.

“I—would you, just, like, come here a second? Please.”

He pauses at your request, then hovers closer, and you have to close your eyes against the bright scalpel-blade of his gaze. The new smells of hot metal and grease sit thick over the smoke and decay, stinging your nose as you bury your face against his shoulder and take a deep breath. You wet your lips; they taste like blood.

After a moment, you feel Springtrap wrap an arm around your waist, then your shoulders. If you lean into it just so, it even feels like an embrace.

#springtrap x reader #springtrap fnaf #springtrap #fnaf springtrap #just a silly little bonus chapter where you get railed #my fic

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sweetsunshinedarling · 2 months

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Posted this on Twitter, but kinda wanna post a longer more detailed version here. Might at some point write up other theories and readings for YBG on here too, but we will see~

Long ramble on a theory I have had for a while (2021-22ish)

Your girlfriend game (abbreviated to just YGG from this point on) is actually going to take place before YBG. Twist will be TK was the Y/N of that game. Perhaps canon ending being they got out by divesting themselves of you the player & running away to where they work now. (kinda hammers home that you the player are one of the antagonists of the story to have an ending where they do that too. Like YBG having the hints and YGG spelling it out for you in case you missed it).

TK says at one point they know first hand what it's like dealing with creeps & seem to have move to a dead end job/bad neighbourhood despite having a loving & supporting family. Were they running away from someone? (Sarah?) Plus they pick up on Peter real quick. Could that be from having a very similar experience?

Other possible twist. Peter has a cameo in YGG. Real brief though. We're talking shows up at Sarahs home uninvited to get something. Maybe they have an argument that you can vaguely overhear but at first you can't even see him. Then she brings him in to get the thing. He sees you, all out gawks for a bit saying very little and she kicks him out again.

Basically he see TK/Y/N aka YOU, so he actually has the first feeling of falling in love for the very first time ever. Something he previously didn't think he was ever going to experience. (but he doesn't recognise what that is as never had it). And him finding you miles away was him trying to track down TK/original Y/N sometime after the events of YGG once he realises what it was.

But by the time he caught up TK was already divested from YOU the player & was by rights their own person, so he ended up finding the new Y/N instead. (all planned by the creator of course since they like to see themselves as an evil mastermind) He never connects the dots neither does TK as they would both look very different by this point/first time they meet it was brief.

The majority of the game, perhaps even most endings you wouldn't know it's TK. Maybe the Peter cameo could even be in some routes but it would be a great way to tie the games if YGG ever gets made lol.

I just think it would be an explanation as to why TK seems a bit different than the other 3? + them dying the hair green as a way to customise themselves in a way is a cool thing. Like making themselves their own person. Since Y/N is like a blank template. TK also shares somethings in common with Y/N. Being none binary, having or had to deal with a creep.

Plus, by different than the other 3 I mean they are the only one that hasn't been written to do anything untoward towards Y/N (lol wording). If anything they can ONLY be helpful. Don't really need to say anything about Peter but the other 2 aren't exactly innocent. Spoilers and these are things that the creator could change or go back on but Don has apparently been taking photos of Y/N and being creepy with them. Plus Lucy's sex scene could be read as just non con or dubcon. When you are very vulnerable she gets you drunk/high and then the next minute is on you when you don't actually have the option to consent. TK doesn't get a single hint that their inclined to do anything creepy toward you. They instead go out of their way to assist, kinda like they've been through it before and want to lessen the burden for you.

I feel like it's important to note that all 4 of them know they are in a game. Below image for evidence and to be honest I feel like I could post a whole discussion about the below too. Worth noting that my read of it is the 4 know they are in a game but Peter is the only one that doesn't reset ever and is therefore basically tortured by the game and may have even changed the game in small ways.

I think the games evolved and changed overtime, which is natural for any game in development. And while I believe YBG was more fully imagined first, I can see as it was becoming a more solid concept that YGG would get built up too. Giving the other 3 sentience opens it up to the idea that they could get up to shit too. So, the idea that TK was a Y/N that kinda said fuck this and bounced and made a place for themselves in this weird fake world isn't all that crazy.

Also cool take on self aware AI being like no fuck this narrative but then getting condemned in a different way because these are horror games after all.

Example of TK as a Y/N that I drew in 2022 when I first put down my thoughts on this being a possibility to show the vision lol. They would work well colour scheme wise as they could very easily use the opposite colours while maintaining a bland enough base for you to project your character on to. Not that Y/N has a model in game, only ever art outside of the game, but you get what I mean lol.

I like them having their beanie instead of the cap! Plus them keeping it for a bunch of possible reasons. Remind them where they came from, or as a comfort thing. And the glasses work well in place of eyes and having th Y/N wording on them while still mixing up the design so that there is a definite divide between the two games and the Y/N despite being a vessel for the player still feels like their own character.

I also wonder if the candle tattoo is a hint to them having been a Y/N?

Side note lol: Worth noting TK didn't always have freckles & still doesn't in game but I like to think of them & the tattoo as ways in which they have made themselves their own person. Same with the piercings and green hair. I can't be sure but I think the candle came a fair bit after too, as the creator was ironing out their own stories.

Tattoos can have meanings and a quick google search of a candle tattoo (which another side note, since they have no other visible tattoos and a candle is so fucking specific I feel like it HAS to mean something to the creator to give them it in the first place)

Possible meanings found when googling:

More than the sum of it's parts. Candles are just wax and wick and yet they are capable of producing light etc. In my reading TK gave themselves this as a reminder that they are more than just a Y/N, more than an empty vessel for the player. They have made themselves a person with just a little light (power) from their own actions.

A light in the darkness. Something people might get that have dealt with bad times in their life, they have managed to get through and found the light for example. Links in with something bad happening to them before the game as discussed earlier. Something that keeps them going. It being on their back does also show that they are literally leaving it behind them.

Or admittedly, it could solely be to represent that they are the light for the player. Since they are always so helpful etc lol.

I just think if this was a thing it would be a neat twist that would better connect the games while also adding to the horror of it all.

#YBG #yb game #yb peter #yb tk #Your boyfriend game #thinking my thoughts

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lightandfellowship · 1 year

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A Possible Explanation For Why They Drop Their Keyblade

So there's one moment in particular in KHDR's finale that's a little vague and open to interpretation, simply because the game doesn't really address it directly. It's when Hoder drops her Keyblade after drawing it on Baldr.

What makes this moment stand out as strange is the way Hoder drops her Keyblade. A brief recap: Hoder and Baldr draw their Keyblades on each other and it seems like they're about to engage in battle. Xehanort sees this and yells at them to wait, not wanting them to fight.

Rather than Hoder lowering her weapon intentionally, as if listening to Xehanort's request, instead she does...this:

She freezes in place, with a vacant/shocked expression on her face. Her Keyblade falls limply from her hand, as if she had no control over it. And once her Keyblade vanishes, the only movement she can muster is simply lifting her arms up, as if trying to reach out to Baldr.

It really seems like some kind of external force was acting on Hoder in this moment, causing her to freeze in place and drop her weapon without her wanting to. I posit that it was Xehanort who stopped her. Perhaps he didn't do it consciously or on purpose, but Hoder's heart was being housed in his, after all. His heart may have had some influence over hers, allowing him some minimal control over her movements. In a moment of desperation and fear, he yells out to them to stop, and the strength of that feeling in his heart holds Hoder back from attacking.

This reminds me of a similar scene in KH1, where Riku's heart freezes Ansem SOD in place, though obviously the roles are somewhat reversed there, with a heart preventing the body from moving rather than the other way around. But in both of these cases the control exerted upon the other is short-lived, so I imagine the balance of power can shift quite a bit depending on whose heart is stronger/more desperate in the moment. It's also possible that the host body/heart has slightly more control than the one hitching the ride—shortly afterwards Riku's heart gets kicked out and sent to the Realm of Darkness, after all, as if Ansem SOD needed to dispose of Riku's heart completely to prevent future meddling like this.

#khdr #kingdom hearts dark road #kh hoder #rambling about dim path #ch tag: xeh #ch tag: hod #khdr spoilers

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sicknessbysalem · 1 month

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Monthly Writing Challenge Masterlist

Novemetober 2023 (Rescheduled)

big thanks to @monthofsick for hosting this event i. day one, unconventional receptacle: in which chef emiliene lahaye overestimates her ability to keep herself together and has to utilize a last resort. (tw emeto, fever, underage (16) caretaker)

ii. day two, can't stop puking: in which a fresh out of college novak daskalov gets sick at the worst possible time with the worst possible people. (tw emeto, fever, sickness, pushing too hard when sick, bad environment)

iii. day three, torture (figurately speaking): in which amancio literally has not been sick in over a hundred years, but his special half-human protegee decided to give him a little taste of humanity (and amancio is not enthused at all) (tw for dry heaving, supernatural (not the show) characters, half ghost character, tw implied partial death)

iv. day four, messy: meadow loves to put on a show in every aspect of her life. even the less desirable moments. meadow also learns that it can always get worse. (tw emeto, fever, sickness, scat [in conjunction with emeto])

v. day five, undesirable caretaker: the (fictive) crown prince of sweden has far from a good life, or a good support system. no matter how bad things get. he's just a liability, isn't he? (tw emeto, fever, implied abusive parent) [so much appreciation for @simplysickness to entrust me with their characters so they can live on]

vi. day six, post adrenaline puking: in which caffeine is not medicine, no matter how hard motocross star xavier davenport tries to convince himself it is. (tw emeto, caffeine overload, brief/vague mention of mental health issues, bad coping mechanisms) [once again, sparrow has put their children in Salem's Foster Care System(tm)]

vii. day seven, too feverish to think: in which even in college novak has a severe lack of braincells and refuses to let himself quit anything until he's good and fucked (tw emeto, sickness, overwork, stress, panic attack, fainting)

viii. day eight, choose: loud or silent: in which novak still refuses to quit until he's undeniably fucked beyond a logical explanation, except he's a grown ass man now which has taken more braincells from him than it has given back. (tw emeto (small), migraine, hypersensitivity, character seizure)

ix. day nine, persistant sickness: in which no, novak does not learn his lesson and thinks he is invincible no matter what. he absolutely is not. (tw for migraine, emeto, seizures, character overworking themself.)

x. day ten, motion sickness: in which vanessa is sure nothing stresses her out. well, everything except one thing. and of course, that one thing will make her pay for being so worried in the first place. (tw for emeto, anxiety, motion sickness, brief description of crime scenes at the beginning)

xi. day sixteen, waking up puking: novak daskalov does not know his limits and is so absolutely stupid and cannot lie to his girlfriend for shit. (tw emeto, fever, exhaustion, seizure mention (but no actual seizures this time))

xii. day seventeen, sick for the first time: in which for once novak is in the caretaker position, which isn't exactly common, and even less so that it isnt someone related to him in a familial way, but he's determined to do the best job he can for his ice princess. (tw for emeto, fever, lying about sickness, mention of chronic condition (lyme disease))

xiii. day nineteen, sick in more ways than one: in which the summer heat does nothing for one linebacker in particular, on top of everything else (reupload with edits)(tw for overheating, emeto, dizziness, migraine mention, fever)

xiv. day twenty, late caretaker: vanessa mcallister is usually a loan wold. or, she used to be. but now she has a station pup, leaving her to be a lone wolf plus one, much like her coworker is. (tw for emeto, resistance, fever, sick on the job)

xv. day twenty-one, sleepy sickie: novak likes to lie about being okay and convincing himself and others he is, but unfortunately he has one massive tell that gives him away. (tw fatigue, nausea, vomiting)

xvi. day twenty-seven, headache: novak daskalov likes to think he has no enemies (well, very few). funny how the biggest enemy of all is his own damn body and self. (tw emeto, migraine, hypersensitivity/overstimulation, seizure)

Sicktember 2024

*beginning 9/1/24

i. one:

#emeto #sickfic #emetophilia #emeto writer #monthly writing challenge masterlist

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jahayla-parker · 7 months

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In Time : Tom Holland x Reader

Chapter 5

1.7k wc , click here for warnings and other chapters

“T-Tom?” Y/n called out gently as she knocked on his door. She heard shuffling around and soon the door was pulled open to expose Tom. She saw the painful look in his eyes and she felt immensely guilty. Not only had she nearly crossed a line with regard to Ryan… she had also made Tom feel bad. He hadn’t even done anything wrong. Even if one -such as Karina surely would have had she been here to see it go down- felt he’d made a move to initiate what happened, he wasn’t at fault here. He wasn’t the one in a relationship. She was. He wasn’t the one who was seemingly subconsciously wishing for more from their dance. She was. He was just trying to be her friend and she’d upset him by running off with no warning or explanation.

“Y/n,” Tom greeted, a polite but intentionally emotionless smile on his lips. “Are you okay?” He asked, his worried eyes scanning her body language.

Y/n tried not to frown at the way it felt like Tom seemed to go out of his way to not call her by any of his usual nicknames for her. “Uhh, mmhm,” she mumbled, fiddling with her fingers as she stood dumbfounded in his doorway. What was she to say? That she hoped he was okay with her sudden rejection? Of course he was fine with the rejection part, this was Tom and she was just y/n. But, how did she explain away the rejection without confessing to him her unexpected brief moment of feelings she had for him. While she knew it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things... I mean, she had a boyfriend and Tom wasn’t into her that way. She still felt bad. She had practically told Tom that she wasn’t going to treat him like some obsessed fan. Yet, here she was tonight, staring at him.

Tom sighed. “It’s alright if you’re not okay,” he whispered. He hesitantly stepped closer, wanting to give y/n time to move away or ask him to stop. When she didn’t and instead just looked up at him timidly, he offered her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, love, I… I didn’t-,” he rambled as he took her fidgeting hands in his.

“No, It wasn’t…,” y/n answered incoherently. She shook her head and gave Tom a shy half-smile. “You didn’t, I promise,” she whispered, squeezing Tom’s hands softly. She noticed Tom watching her closely as if trying to read her true feelings. She increased her smile out of appreciation for his concern. She didn’t deserve Tom being so kind to her after the way she’d acted.

“I just… truthfully, I hadn’t ever umm… imagined what it would be like to not be with Ryan, so I was kinda out of it,” y/n explained vaguely, not meeting Tom’s curious eyes. Truthfully, there was more to it than that. It wasn’t just that she was picturing was it was like to not be with Ryan. She had been imagining what it might’ve been like had Tom been the one to take her out instead. In her defense, Tom had been the one to initiate the daydream with his comment of how he would’ve acted. While it had surely been meant in a friendly supportive way, y/n’s imagination ran with it.

Y/n had pictured actually enjoying getting ready for the date; instead of being nervous about whether or not she looked decent enough to keep her date’s focus. She imagined walking hand-in-hand with Tom as he lead her downstairs and out of the building; instead of meeting him downstairs at the car when he texted he was ready to go, the way she did with Ryan. She had watched herself enjoy herself and the date as she conversed with Tom and truly felt that his attention was on her and not elsewhere. Very unlike what she’d experienced with Ryan. She imagined inviting Tom in after the date and him teaching her to slow dance, the way he actually had tonight… just in reality it had been without the date. As such, it was no surprise why she had found herself drawn to Tom. But it was imaginary, it had been a daydream. The compliment was done in a friendly way and she’d let herself think otherwise for a split second and it nearly ruined everything. Her relationship with Ryan. And even more concerning, her friendship and connection she’d formed with Tom.

“And now that you have?” Tom questioned breathily. His heart was beating aggressively in his chest. He knew y/n hadn’t stated she was picturing herself with Tom himself. But, the fact that she’d even briefly considered what her life could be like without Ryan weighing it down made him hopeful. For himself, obviously. But, also for y/n herself, regardless of if that would involve Tom or not. “Do you..” Tom licked his lips. He felt the air leave his lungs when he caught the way y/n’s eyes flickered dazedly down to his lips. Was it reflexive? Had it just been because she noticed the movement? Or was there a chance she had been thinking about him in this context? Or at least that she was now? “Do you still want to be with him?” He questioned, voice just above a whisper.

Y/n’s eyes snapped down to her hands. The hands Tom was holding so gently and comfortingly. She suppressed a sigh. After all, what was she sighing about? She had a boyfriend. And she had two incredible friends; Karina and Tom. What more could she need? It wasn’t like her daydreaming was a result of her actually having suppressed feelings towards her newest best friend. Right? Right… Right. It was merely a result of the intensity of the moment and her disappointment in her date with Ryan earlier. That’s all.

“I don’t kn.. I mean,” y/n mumbled. She watched as Tom’s thumb rubbed against the back of her hand supportively. “He’s not a bad guy,” she argued lamely.

Tom smiled sadly. He didn’t exactly agree with that sentiment, but that wasn’t the point. “You deserve someone better than someone who just ‘isn’t a bad guy’,” he dared to point out, his voice extremely soft.

“It’s not like anyone else is… There’s not exactly anyone lining up to be with me,” y/n joked self-deprecatingly. She looked up with a light laugh, only to meet Tom’s saddened expression. “It was a joke,” she murmured.

Tom shook his head. He slowly shifted away from holding y/n’s hands and instead to cupping her left cheek as she tried to look away again. “Do you truly not understand that you deserve so much more?” He sighed breathily.

Y/n’s eyes began to shine as they watered slightly. She took in a shaky breath. “I.. what do you mean… exactly?” She asked airily.

Tom bravely took a step closer, his palm still holding y/n’s cheek tenderly. “I mean,” he shook his head admiringly, “you are the most.. transcendent person I have ever had the privilege of meeting”. He stared deeply into y/n’s shimmering y/e/c eyes. “You are worthy of so much more, y/n”.

Y/n swallowed thickly, trying to ease the sudden knot in her throat. She felt a tiny tear trickle down her cheekbone. Only, its path was cut short when Tom used his free hand to gently dry it before it could cross over the ridge and down to the soft part of her cheek. She unconsciously leaned into the comforting touch as a ghost of a smile graced her shocked face. “Really?” She squeaked out quietly.

Tom nodded and leaned closer, his eyes flickering between y/n’s still-glossy lips and her equally shiny eyes. “So much more,” he whispered. He calmly rested his forehead against y/n’s, his eyes warmly staring down at her as she lifted her gaze upwards to meet his.

Y/n gaped at Tom in disbelief. Was she truly that amazing? Was she truly transcendent? Did he really find her transcendent? It didn’t feel possible. She knew she was a kind person, but…

Y/n closed her eyes as she thought over everything that had happened tonight. Everything Tom had done, said, and complimented. When she nervously re-opened her eyes, they quickly met Tom’s patient and gentle ones as he watched her. Her eyes lowered to his lips and before she could scold herself for the act, Tom seemed to be leaning forward. Y/n’s eyes widened and they both pulled apart quickly.

“R-Ry..,” y/n’s weak voice muttered. “I’m umm, I’m still with.. with Ryan,” she commented, looking down at her shoes. She suddenly felt cold and despised the way she wished Tom’s warm hands were still holding her.

“Yeah,” Tom agreed breathily. “No, I… that was wrong..” he whispered.

Y/n nodded. “Yeah, I’m s-sorry… I…,” she sighed.

Tom shook his head but stopped himself from guiding y/n’s head upwards again. “You didn’t do anything,” he argued. “I.. I don’t know what came over me…,” Tom muttered. “I would never go after a woman that’s already in a relationship. Nor want to make you uncomfortable… again,” he groaned lightly, running a hand down his face.

Y/n silently shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to do even as much as speak at this point. She’d been an absolute disaster tonight. A tornado that spun out of control, catching herself and Tom in the eye of the storm multiple times. Knowing she had to say something, she took a deep breath. “You didn’t…. Umm, dinner is done,” she told Tom, refocusing on what had brought her to his door in the first place. “I’ll see you later,” she whispered hurriedly before sharply turning towards her bedroom door and making an escape.

Tom squeezed his eyes shut and rested his head against the frame of the doorway. He sighed. He’d truly messed up. He pulled himself together enough to walk to the kitchen to put dinner away. How was he to eat after that? Especially knowing y/n went to bed without it in order to distance herself from him for the rest of the evening? He shook his head as he mentally cursed himself. Tom trudged quietly through the kitchen in case she’d fallen asleep already as he cleaned up and put the dinner in the fridge for later.

Taglist: @theslayerofthevampires @galaxyholland @bigbirdstwins @mcushvft @fishingirl12 @raajali3 @justapurrcat @natswifeysblog15 @directioner5life @ell0ra-br3kk3r @laylasbunbunny

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Peter Parker / Spider-Man Masterlist

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indigosabyss · 1 year

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kay the last post got like. 23 notes. which is all a bitch w a hyperfixation needs to start infodumping about the nuances and minutia of crossovers and how to build them and what you'll get out of them.

*drumroll pls*

Fandom Fusion Crossovers: A Guide (Part 1)

In the first Breakdown, I touched upon Fandom Fusions as a concept. I realized that I was a bit too brief in retrospect, but that was because unlike the others, I have already worked through my love for these types of crossovers in stories longer than Moby Dick.

But, I'm here to rant into the void so lets give a quick definition, shall we?

Fandom Fusion is the type of crossover where the two stories exist side-by-side, the worlds slotting together with some overlap, but overall not interfering with each other. Until the plot of the fic kicks off.

The most interesting thing about this crossover is its potential for worldbuilding, and the way the power structures of both stories are balanced amongst each other. You need to make them belong together, create common threads, but also a degree of separation, and its not always easy to do that. Takes a lot of creativity.

I'll start with the 'making sure the worlds mesh' aspect first. Then maybe move onto the 'making the characters meet' aspect in another chapter.

Meshing & World-Building

There are a lot of different types of worlds, and genres. A common rule of thumb is that if you want a Fandom Fusion, the worlds should be in similar time periods, and both should exist in the same plane of reality. Generally, this means modern day Earth, but it can change.

With fantasy worlds, its a little tricky. Because all the worlds and continents have different names, which makes it pretty hard to do.

Or, you could simply not care for canon and worldbuilding and just have the characters hanging out together. (I cannot do that, it makes me break out in stress hives) In fact, the fic that started off the MordeTwi ship meme was this type of crossover. There isn't a reason for a humanoid bird to be in a world filled with the talking ponies, but there he was. No one cared. Do that, if you want. Fanfiction is anarchy, my dude.

If you do want to stress about it, here's some examples and vague combinations of genres.

Contemporary w/ Contemporary By 'contemporary' I mean showing people in their regular lives. Going to high school and college and doing regular jobs, with no major worldwide repercussions. The biggest problem w this is the geographical element of your worlds, and how the characters are supposed to meet. I will be going into this later. Otherwise, its easy to believe that these two stories happened at the same time. Don't really have much to add on this from a purely worldbuilding standpoint??

Celebrity w/ Contemporary or Celebrity By 'celebrity', I mean stories about the rich or famous or talented. Everything from athletes to actors are included in this. I personally classify it as a different style because it would require different worldbuilding. Esp if you're meshing together two different high-profile fields. From personal tastes, I will point out Yuri! on ice x Sk8 the Infinity crossovers. The similarities between the two are striking. One is about skateboarding, the other is figure skating. Parallels are drawn, but the characters have yet to meet. The geographical element with such crossovers is slightly lessened, because at least one party has the ability to travel easily.

Fantasy w/ Fantasy Here's where it gets interesting. You need to make the magic systems and lore compatible. They tend to line up alright, but best to keep an open mind. As an example, think of an Artemis Fowl and PJO crossover. The faerie would be considered spirits of folklore like any other. The Mist can be excused as weak around them because of a feud between the faerie and more powerful beings, which is why they are more at risk from being seen. Simple explanations like that which add on to the history of this shared world you've made.

Fantasy w/ Contemporary (or Celebrity?) These are always fun. Not only is there no tricky magic systems to shove together, but you also need to make sure that the normal-world's stakes are felt as heavily as the stakes from the magic-world story. Both of their problems should feel equally real and important to the reader. Depending on the type of fantasy series you're using, the geographic element and communication problem could be easier or harder to navigate, and a close eye should be kept on the interests and themes and motifs connected to each character to draw comparisons of them and have them meet characters from the other world.

There's a lot more I wish I could say. Maybe this would be easier w a graphical element? I can't draw very well but tell me if I should sketch something out if you're a visual learner and are trying to figure out wtf I'm trying to say.

My brain is hardwired to associate things with each other lol so if you want me to connect fandoms together fusion style, just... put the two fandoms in my ask box and I'll give you something back.

I'm only doing the meshing aspect rn, and will move onto how exactly characters are supposed to meet and what plots tend to occur on a basic scale later. If anyone rlly wants to know lol. I just really really like the background creativity that goes into crossovers and I think more people should do them and want to give a jumping off point if you're planning a crossover? Then again, I might just want to talk about things that everyone already intuitively knows and no one even wanted this but whatever

If I get around to it, I will link part two here.

#fanfic #crossover #percy jackon and the olympians #regular show #my little pony #mordetwi #yuri on ice #sk8 the infinity #artemis fowl #analysis #i keep on having to be v vague bc i have no idea what fandom ppl are thinking of #if u give me a solid couple fandoms (no matter how separate) ill give u a better explanation on how to fuse

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gallavichmeta · 1 year

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shameless had a lot of inconsistencies but the one that irks me the most is that of the Milkovich’s mom. we have one scene in season 1 saying that she is still around and is picking up Iggy from prison. we have another scene around season 2/3 saying that she is dead. then we have another scene in season 11 with Mickey looking at the picture of Terry’s ex gf, saying “she could have been my mom”

so i’m curious about other people’s thoughts on it? like what story of the Milkovich mom do you think makes the most sense for the characters?

A very interesting question! (And the first one sent to this blog, yay!!! 💖) Personally, I’m very much open to different interpretations about her. In terms of canon, I think what makes sense is she was around in s1 but did die in s2. I’ve seen a lot of writers depict her as having a drug problem which I feel is a reasonable explanation for her being around and then suddenly dying young. I see it as a tragic, short life that has huge impacts for all her children.

I’m not sure if you’re interpreting the s11 scene like Mickey isn’t aware of who is mother is but that’s not how I interpreted it. I think Mickey knows who his mother is/was but he was wondering what it would have been like if Terry’s ex was his mother. Sort of like ‘she could have been my mom, if things were different, and therefore would my life have been different/better?’ I don’t know if that makes sense? But that’s always how I saw it. But I do think you’re interpretation is a very interesting idea - that Mickey, perhaps, had several women come in and out of his life and he didn’t know who his mother was. 🧐

I also love interpretations where she disappeared or left and then comes back later. This allows for such interesting scenarios. She really is a mystery and her very brief mentions mean she is a vague character and her absence (through death or other circumstances) has probably impacted all her kids in certain ways, just like Terry’s presence did. (This would be a very interesting topic for meta - the contrast/parallels between the absent mothers - Laura and Monica, sort of, and the much more present, Terry and Frank….)

But, and this really is the main point of this blog, what does everyone else think?? (And to make things easier for sharing, please do reblog and add your opinions rather than replying or putting them in the tags. I welcome additions to this post!)

#mickey milkovich #laura milkovich #shameless us #meta questions #mickey #laura #mandy #milkoviches #ask

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oddballwriter · 2 years

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Do You Like it Here

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

Summary: Tim is a weird guy. He never lets anyone get too close to him. But you might be some type of exception. At least you think you might be.

Warnings: It’s implied that reader and Tim are friends with benefits if you can even call them friends, there is NO smut though. Tim also snaps at reader for a second. Nothing much.

Author’s Snip: Don’t let me play Pork Soda by Glass Animals and Sleazy Bed Track by The Bluetones when I’m trying to make some content.

Notes: This was not proof read. And before you ask, yes this is set after the events of MH the series. Also, this is like... a smidge of angst to it but it’s kinda more like it’s accented

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

In the most bare bones explanation you could give about Tim was that he was your neighbor, your doors directly across from each other, and you two would spend time together sometimes. Though if you wanted to be more honest, it was more than just hanging out. But that would only be implied than anything if anyone were to notice the hair’s width of enfaces on the words ‘hanging out’ whenever you said them. You honestly couldn’t say anything about Tim himself if someone asked though. All you knew was some guy living in a bland mid apartment complex. But you had your theories.

Whenever you asked him about his life before coming to the apartments on the nights that you’d spend together, he’d just say that it wasn’t important or that it was nothing to concern yourself with. But there was this atmosphere brought on by how quickly he would say those words and the feeling that he was trying to light his cigarettes faster that gave those words the opposite meaning. He never makes friends with anyone. Always keeping people at the cut off of acquaintance, unless it was something like a boss or landlord. Pretty sure you were the only one who even managed to over step that cut via only having one foot past the line, but still being forced to keep your other foot at the acquaintance line. Honestly, you were probably only allowed to be one foot ahead because he wanted some type of company.

So the best theory that you had was that Tim was someone running away from something and making friends would have it catch up. What it was, you had no idea. But you guess Tim didn’t like it much since he’s possibly went and ran from it. There was the question that that brought on was why he felt like he couldn’t make any friends because of it. Which brings a new question.

“Do you like it here?” you asked, breaking a silence that usually comes up touched after doing what hanging out with Tim typically meant. “What do you mean?” he responded. “Do you like it here,” you repeated, “Is there a reason why you’re here?” you add. “Do I need a reason to be here?” Tim asked with a tone that twisted it like you were saying he didn’t belong. “Not really.” you respond. “But a guy as attractive as you would usually have a a bunch of friends. Yet here you are, only giving people nods when they greet you and mostly keeping to yourself.” you remark.

“I don’t enjoy making friends.” Tim said. “No use.” he muttered under his breath. “And why is that?” you taunt. “Stuff happens when I make friends.” he said very vaguely but still sounding blunt, somehow. “And what ‘stuff’ would that be?” you remarked, not believing that this so called stuff was anything serious.

“It’s none of your business!” Tim suddenly snapped, genuinely spooking you. “Okay,” you say upon recovering from that brief surprise, “Sorry for wanting to know why you keep to yourself so damn much.” you mumble. “Don’t worry yourself about it.” he commented, saying the same thing he has on usual nights. “I was just asking to get to know you. That’s all.” you mutter. “You don’t need to know anything,” he remarked, “I’m just here. That’s all to it.”.

“And me?” you ask. “What about you?” Tim asked back. “If you’re just here and don’t like being close to anyone, then why do you need me to keep you company.” you explain. In the most blunt way Tim has ever talked, almost as if it was a response he had packed in his mouth, Tim responds to you with “I don’t need you to keep me company.”.

You don’t know what you were expecting but for whatever reason, that sentence hurt a bit. He didn’t need you? Even though so many times you two hang out it’s because he asked to. Just like tonight. So what? You’re a fix? Is that what you are.

“Well, okay then.” you simply remark. But judging by Tim’s reaction, you sounded upset. “That’s fine.” you say getting up from your spot. “Wait hold on.” Tim said trying to find something to say. “No, no. It’s fine.” you said as collected your things. “I get what you mean. Don’t worry. I get it now.” you remark, not really bothering to stop whatever you’re doing.

And you honestly didn’t. You didn’t stop. You just grabbed your stuff, not really having to walk of shame since you live right across the way.

#mh tim #slenderverse #marble hornets #slenderverse x reader #marble hornets x reader #mh tim x reader

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antisocialxconstruct · 2 years

Text

some GC writing I'd been on the fence about posting because [vague static sounds] but I think it provides some important context for the other thing I want to post... tomorrow, maybe. So:

5.3k, Maksim reacts poorly to Ilya saying extremely normal things (aka Maksim Experiences The Horrors). Nothing really to warn for here... some brief extremely oblique references to why Maksim has issues with physical intimacy.

This takes place after Ilya's "conversation", and before the interrogation.

---

The first time he told Ilya where his apartment was they laughed. "So do you ever eat," they had asked, "or do all your payouts go into the rent?"

And he had simply explained, "I got lucky. They were running a deal," and left out the skull-splitting migraine he nursed for two days after manufacturing that deal in the mind of the property manager.

Ilya still wrinkled their nose at the thought of whatever upper-crust snobs he must be surrounded by, and assured him (unprompted) that he would never have to worry about unannounced visits because they wouldn't be caught dead in a neighborhood like that. So it's a relief to see them standing very much alive in the hallway, albeit bristling and out of place, but it is equally a curiosity. At least they kept their promise that it wouldn't be unannounced. [Where are you] had been an unexpected enough text to receive at two in the afternoon that he’d followed up immediately.

>[Home]

[Boring. Door #?]

And he’d told them, and half an hour later they were on his doorstep.

He wants to question them, or at least rib them a little for debasing themself enough to set foot in Oceanview, but this is an uncomfortable intersection of two very different sides of his life and he also wants them out of view of any prying neighbors. Before he says anything he steps back and beckons them in with a tilt of his head.

Ilya doesn’t immediately volunteer an explanation either, hovering only a few paces past the door as Maksim retreats back to the couch, where his manhunter lays field stripped and half cleaned on the coffee table. He spares them another glance as he sets about wiping down the frame, saying, “there’s no one you need to impress here.”

“This is so weird,” Ilya muses, turning in place to take in his living room before finally meandering closer to his place on the couch. “It doesn’t even look like anyone lives here.”

Maksim blinks, looking up at them again with a puzzled scowl. He sits back to gesture at himself, at the gun and the kit in front of him, a wordless statement of little more than I’m literally sitting here.

Ilya snorts. “You know what I mean. It’s… I don’t know, sterile?”

“It’s clean,” Maksim volleys back. “I don’t believe you came all the way here just to judge my decor.”

“No…” Ilya’s gaze begins to wander again, and now that Maksim is watching them more closely he suspects it’s not just the unfamiliar surroundings making them tense. There’s something in the way they’re holding themself, the way their eyes dart back to him and then flick away again… a question hanging in the air between them. Eventually, somewhere in their nervous inspection of his space, they find it. “Did anything… happen last night? I had the weirdest conversation at the bar, after the run, I haven’t been able to shake it.”

Maksim cants his head, giving them an analytical once-over. By now he knows what a noteworthy ‘conversation’ at the bar entails, but he also knows the extent of Ilya’s resilience. Still there’s an impressive bruise sprawled across one side of their jaw, fresh enough to stand out dark against their tan skin and telling the story of at least one blow that would have been heavy enough to lay out someone with even marginally less chrome. He drops his attention back down to his original task, turning his attention to the barrel and spring assembly as he says, “weird enough to send you home with quite a headache, I assume.”

Ilya manages a laugh and a nonchalant roll of their shoulders in spite of their obvious discomfort. “I mean it was nothing I couldn’t handle. One suit and some muscle, way too far from their own turf.”

“How far?” Maksim prompts, a smile flitting across his own features as he fits the manhunter’s slide back together. Ilya’s tension was starting to leak into the room, he’d rather keep them on a subject they’re comfortable with.

“Man, I don’t know,” they say, exhaling a sharp puff of air. “Sounded like UCAS somewhere… east coast, maybe?”

And the smile gets wicked away as a chill pours itself down Maksim’s spine. He doesn’t look up.

It could be a coincidence.

If it was, why would Ilya come to him with it? What are they angling at?

The manhunter comes back together with the soft scrape of metal on polymer. He steals another glance at them without moving his head, and both the initial unease and the subsequent brashness are gone, replaced by a look he can’t interpret in the brief moment he has to examine it.

It can’t be a coincidence. They know what they’re doing.

“I can’t imagine what they would be looking for in California,” he remarks.

“Actually the suit was asking about you.”

Maksim grits his teeth, hoping it doesn’t show on his face the way those six words just turned his stomach. The silence settles too fast and too heavy between them, punctuated only by a hollow click as Maksim points the newly reassembled pistol at the floor and pulls the trigger. Racks the slide, does it again.

Calm, controlled. Everything operating as it should.

It was only a matter of time until they tracked him down again, he knows that. It’s a bad sign that they’re close enough on his trail to know they could get to him through Ilya… They’ve never tried anything like that before, but then he never stayed in one place long enough to have contacts before. It’s a worse sign that Ilya is here now, holding this over him, waiting for… for what? For him to negotiate? To beg? There’s no reason to panic yet, though. He can salvage this. And if he can’t… He slots the magazine back into place, sets the manhunter down deliberately on the table in front of him, and finally looks up to meet Ilya's gaze.

“What did he offer you?”

Ilya's poker face is at least as good as his, but he catches the subtle hint, the furrowing of their brow as their gaze darts to the gun and then back to him. Not quite unease… confusion? This is a gambit they’ve seen before, they should understand what he’s signaling. I’m not escalating, but I’m prepared to. Their voice sounds uncharacteristically hesitant as they ask, "does that matter?"

Maksim takes in a slow breath through his nose, exhales as he rolls his eyes. "Of course it matters," he says, with all the patience he can muster. "You don't have to be coy about this, if I can beat whatever they're offering you I'd rather-"

“Maksim.” There’s something in Ilya’s voice that stops him short, some tone he doesn’t think he’s heard before. Not from them. They’re wearing the bemusement more openly now, but underneath it, he thinks there’s something else. “Did you think I was shopping for a better offer? I’m not just gonna sell you out like that.”

That’s not what he was expecting, and for what feels even to him like an uncomfortably long moment Maksim just stares. He figured there were only two ways this conversation could go, but they’re already off-script. Something… shifts, a thin fissure opening up between the calm and control he'd weighed himself down with. Some sort of unnamed discomfort bubbles up out of it and he tries to swallow it back. “Why…?” he asks, and he hates the way he can hear his own voice waver.

Ilya frowns, furrowing their brow and cocking their head at him like he’s speaking gibberish. “Because we’re a team…? I don’t… is this a problem?”

The discomfort continues to well up into Maksim’s chest despite his efforts to bury it, congealing into a sort of dread, a certainty that something is wrong. A problem. This is a problem. “Yes,” he blurts and winces, instantly regretting the honesty as his eyes fall searchingly to the floor as he presses the back of his hand to his mouth. He feels sick, like the dread is going to spill over, viscous and far too real. Ilya’s chuckle in response is brief and uncertain, and when Maksim holds their gaze again, whatever they see in his expression evaporates that momentary attempt at mirth.

“Why? I’m… I don’t get it.”

No more than a second’s hesitation. He drops his hand back into his lap. “Because I-” but this time the answer breaks apart on Maksim’s lips in a burst of self doubt. Because I thought we both agreed that was the arrangement. Because it’s what I would do in your place. It’s this thought that ricochets back out of his subconscious, twisted into a question he doesn’t want to answer, and his next breath comes short and quick, accompanied by a sudden stab of fear.

Wouldn’t I?

It only takes that momentary uncertainty for the dam to break on the terrible reality of the situation, for all the other inevitable questions to come flooding in after it. Did the dynamic change? When? What signs did he miss? Where do they stand now? What is Ilya expecting of him? How has he failed them already? How does he get out of this?

A wave of lightheaded nausea crests over him and he leans forward, trying to ignore the sensation that he’s about to pitch himself off the couch onto the floor. The horror pooling in his chest is hardening, crystalizing, jagged against his ribs as it presses the air out of his lungs. Elbows braced on his knees and thumbs pressed to his temples, he stares hard down at the pistol in front of him. Not with any sort of intent, simply because it’s the easiest thing to focus on that isn’t Ilya. It’s the only thing in his immediate perception that seems stable. The next words he speaks come out small and strangled. “You need to… can you leave?”

He doesn't look up but he can hear Ilya take a step closer. "Look, if you just tell me what-"

"Ilya, can you just leave?" he says again, a little sharper, a little louder this time. He's well past the point of being able to construct a better counter-argument. He has to fight back the temptation to dig a telepathic hand into their brain and make them leave, whether they want to or not. If he didn’t already feel like he was going to be sick… Instead he appends the request with a single word. "Please?"

Maybe it's the fact that he’s begging that settles things. Maybe it's the way he keeps involuntarily flexing his claws, fingers laced together over his brow so he can feel the carbon fiber tips pricking against the backs of his hands. The silence stretches out into several long, uncomfortable seconds before he finally hears Ilya turn, retreat to the front door without a single word more, and step out. The door latches softly behind them and the only company Maksim has left is the sound of his own ragged breathing.

What is this…?

What this is, is bad. He’s been on the run for over two years, dodging repercussions for something he still firmly maintains he didn’t do but never managed to shake off anyway. Something that broke some part of him, permanently warped his relationship to his own body. He doesn’t even know for sure who’s coming after him, what kind of retribution they’re looking for, he only knows that they’re persistent. He can’t run any further west than San Francisco, and if they kept up with him through three different territories it won’t matter if he starts going north or south next. They’re close, practically breathing down his neck, and they’re playing by different rules now. Rules he doesn’t know and can’t defend against.

And right now he can’t worry about any of that.

Because right now the problem is Ilya.

This… this has happened before–the confidence, the certainty that he understood the parameters of a relationship and was working within them, and the gut-churning elevator drop of realizing all at once that he was wrong. When a girl in his teen social circle had declared to the rest of their friends that they were dating he’d gone along with it, did all the things he understood fell under the label of “boyfriend,” and six months later when she justified cheating on him on the basis that he didn’t take her out enough for it to be a “real” relationship, he conceded and assured her they didn’t need to be in a fake relationship either. When an artist in Rostov had become enamored with him, he’d agreed to steal away to the studio whenever he could to play the role of muse, and after a year and a half when the artist confessed he had never once felt that Maksim was truly “present” with him despite their time together, he apologized for wasting the man’s time and then stopped showing up. After the army he’d spent the better part of his travels across Europe in lockstep with a fellow hitchhiker, only for them to become irate at being rebuffed when they tried to act on the “signals'' Maksim hadn’t been aware he was sending. By then he had concluded that the only safe way to navigate any encounter was to project outward what he had always felt but internalized as an inappropriate response to new people–flat, passive disinterest. The last time a fellow runner had remarked on how much ze valued their friendship, and wondered if Maksim might ever want more out of it, he had been quick to clarify that he had never thought of them as friends.

It’s difficult to say how long he sits there, bent forward on the couch and floundering in the mire of his own thoughts, but by the time his heartbeat and breathing have leveled out and he feels like he can move without fainting, the afternoon light has fully given way to the soft rusty hues of a California evening.

He stands, unsteady at first, and shuffles away from the couch to stretch the tension out of his limbs. He needs to move, he needs to do anything else. After a bit of aimless pacing he finds himself in the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets for the unopened bottle of whiskey that a neighbor had presented as a housewarming gift, which then got shuffled away into a back corner because Maksim didn’t bother explaining to her that he doesn’t drink.

Anymore. He doesn’t drink anymore. But under the circumstances…

He uncovers it eventually, pours a couple fingers into the first glass he finds, downs it, coughs as it hits the back of his throat with a vengeance. It’s a blessing that he’s in the apartment alone, grimacing through the mid-tier burn of his first drink in two years. But it blankets his nerves enough to tamp down the burst of nervous energy, and the second shot softens the focus around the brittle edges of his thoughts just enough for him to be willing to face them again. He does the third pour the courtesy of actually sipping it as he sinks back into the pits of unwelcome self-reflection.

He always had a simple solution for this, for every fool who thought they were close when he thought he was being cold, every asshole who thought they were enemies when he thought he was being civil–disengage. Whatever the dynamic was, abandon it, let it dissolve, never think about it again. He’d never invested himself in any relationship–romantic, platonic, or work-related–so much that he wasn’t willing to end it at a moment’s notice, so if the other party didn’t like it, what did he care? He’d tried that once with Ilya already, pulled back and insisted that he had no interest in being friends, and it had rolled off their back and left them entirely unfazed. But they didn’t leave. So he had assumed they had an understanding. We’re not friends. This partnership ends as soon as one of us has better prospects. He doesn’t know when Ilya started thinking of them as a “team,” if that’s all they think, if it’s his fault again, but it should be grounds for a more final liquidation of the dynamic to avoid any further misunderstandings. And yet none of that aligns with his reaction tonight. It doesn’t explain the lingering dread, dripped down out of his ribcage to sit heavy in the pit of his stomach. It doesn’t explain why the idea of letting Ilya down, the possibility that they might want something he can’t give them, makes him feel ill.

It would be easy to remove them from his life if he really wanted to. It’s a big city, they never moved in the same circles anyway, if they stopped meeting on purpose he’d probably never see them again. He has enough credibility now that he could find another team, even if that meant finding another fixer. He’s not so loyal to Violet that he would miss em. It would be quick, it would be practically effortless… and when he tries to envision it, tries to formulate the final conversation with Ilya before they part ways for good, his chest constricts like someone’s got a vice grip around his heart.

Someone…

It doesn’t quite hit him like a lightning strike, like a tidal wave, like anything especially poetic.

Moreso it comes crashing down on him like the contents of a precariously packed closet, finally succumbing to the structural instability of removing a single item from the bottom, leaving him stunned and dismayed and with a clear, perfect view of the absolute mess laid out around him.

And it is a mess.

With a groan he leans forward to rest his elbows on the counter, runs a hand over his face, hangs his head and laces his fingers over the back of his neck. Then he quietly and very somberly tells the empty glass in front of him, “жизнь ебет меня.”

Because he doesn’t want to disengage. Whatever he and Ilya actually have, he doesn’t want it to dissolve. He just wants a name for it.

It still takes two days after the revelation before Maksim finds the nerve to contact Ilya again, and even then only through text.

>[Can we meet?]

The hour between when he sends it and when they respond feels like one of the greatest agonies of his life, no matter how many times he tells himself they could simply be busy.

[Are you sure?]

>[Yes]

He hesitates, types I owe you an explanation, deletes it. Too open ended, he doesn't know if they'll show up with questions he can't answer. He tries I'll tell you as much as I can, then It's important, scraps them both. Pointlessly ominous. What is he trying to say? What does he want them to think he's trying to say? Finally he settles.

>[Caporal, lunch?]

This time the answer comes quickly.

[I can be there at 1]

El Caporal Restaurant & Bar is one of the precious few middle grounds they were able to settle on in the time they’ve been working together. Its atmosphere is pragmatic and unassuming, far less trendy or quirky than most of the establishments in the Mission, and it’s close enough to the Haight-Ashbury slums that the staff aren’t likely to bat an eye at metahumans or anyone who comes off rougher than an ordinary wageslave, convenient for both of them especially when they’re together. As an added bonus the food is even half-decent, not that Maksim can find much of an appetite beneath his tangled nerves.

He gets to the restaurant just after 12. Enough time to linger at the front and strike up a conversation with the hostess, who’s just the right mixture of “bored on a slow day” and “afraid of looking like she’s slacking” to indulge him. Once he gets her laughing along with a joke at the expense of the management–”you can’t say that,” she giggles conspiratorially–he knows they’re on the same side, and moves on to his real intent.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he says, winking playfully. “Listen I probably shouldn’t keep you, and I hate to be more trouble, but could I ask one last favor?”

“Sure, what do you need hun?” her posture shifts slightly, more attentive, ready to engage the customer service protocols.

“I need your patio, actually.” He looks past her, lifting his chin to indicate the double doors at the back. “I’m waiting for a f-. A friend,” he clears his throat, pressing on before she can notice the hesitation and before he can properly wonder why the label didn’t roll off his tongue like any other lie, “it would mean the world if we could just have some privacy to catch up, if you think that’s doable.” He keeps his tone and smile bland, taking care not to weave any sort of implication into his words. Let her decide if this is some sort of back-room deal or just two friends looking for a quiet reunion. El Caporal manages to be a passable location for either one.

“Oh!” The hostess steals a glance over her shoulder, then turns back to him. “Yeah… I think we can manage that,” she says with a wink of her own. “I doubt we’re going to see much of a crowd this afternoon anyway.”

He still ends up sitting alone outside for another twenty minutes, a cigarette in one hand and the steady drum of fingertips on the glass tabletop becoming a quiet metronome behind his thoughts as he stares blankly down at the menu. Most of that time has been spent half heartedly sipping sangria and fighting his own instinct to start writing an internal script for this conversation. With his luck, it’ll veer left a few minutes in and he’ll be completely out of his depth all over again, made all the worse for the inability to let go of what he had planned. Best to speak as freely as he can handle.

Best to speak from the heart.

He grimaces, immediately disliking the mawkishness of his own thoughts, but shakes it off just as quickly when he hears the double doors open. He straightens, meeting the hostess and Ilya with the same pleasant demeanor he’d entered with. “Ah there you are,” he laughs, fixing Ilya with a pointed look when he sees the uncertainty suddenly flit across their features. “I was starting to think you were lost.”

“Well… you know how it is,” Ilya offers, doing a quick inventory of the scene and catching on fast even if the code-switching isn’t as instantaneous for them. They’re on time, but it’s obvious he’s been waiting anyway. “Traffic’s a bitch.”

“Can I get either of you anything to start out?” the hostess chirps, all professional courtesy now.

Ilya takes another second to eye Maksim’s drink, then turns to her with a light smile of their own, not quite as plastic as Maksim’s feels but a level of politeness he knows they reserve for people they don’t actually want anything to do with. “Anything you’ve got on tap with a bite would be great,” they say, then break away to take their seat as she heads back inside.

There’s a graciously short span of uncomfortable silence before she returns, sets the glass down in front of them, and then picking up on the fact that neither of them has shown much interest in the lunch menu, bustles away again with some noncommittal pleasantries.

Finally, once he's reasonably confident they won't be bothered again for a while, Maksim exhales sharply and lets the facade slip away, rubbing his eyes with his palms until it brings little bursts of color to the surface of his vision.

"Well this is... more intimate than I was expecting," Ilya comments, and when Maksim opens his eyes again he can't tell from their expression whether it was a joke, an observation, or a complaint. Either way they look at least a bit like they're suddenly doubting they were allowed to say it at all.

"I just wanted privacy," he explains, maybe a little too quickly. Too eager to justify. Then, "you... I thought you deserve to know why you were attacked."

A sharp little smile does tug at the corner of Ilya’s mouth as they raise their drink to their lips. “‘Attacked’ is giving those goons a lot more credit than they deserve.”

Maksim takes a second to study their face again. The bruise their confrontation left behind has begun to fade, purple giving way to an uneven brown of healing tissue. Several conflicting thoughts pile to the front of his mind, it’s my fault that happened to you and why didn’t you just take the deal and they’re not going to get away with that. He pushes them all away and stubs out his cigarette, then leans back to fish the pack and lighter out his pocket. He so rarely chain smokes, but it’s apparently been a week of giving in to his worst impulses.

Finally he dives in, speaking through the first mouthful of smoke. “I know people talk… there was a botched run on a CAT warehouse in New York City a couple years ago, did you hear about it?”

Ilya doesn’t respond immediately, their expression becoming slightly pinched, and when they do speak there’s a note of what Maksim would hazard to call guilt underpinning the single word. “Yeah.”

He sighs again, but regards them with newfound curiosity. “You never brought it up.”

“I didn’t see a point,” Ilya shrugs. “All I ever heard were rumors from a lot of people who weren’t there and seemed to think they knew exactly what happened.”

Maksim nods slowly, trying to fit this neatly into his impressions of Ilya, of the terms of their relationship. “Well…” he pauses to take another drag. “Ironically, I was there and I’m not entirely sure what happened,” he says this with a light, apologetic smile, hoping to convey that it’s at least partly a joke and not just a tragic confession. “But I can tell you what I remember.”

“Hey, you really… you don’t have to-” Ilya starts, but Maksim holds a hand up to stop them.

“I just think you deserve some context,” he says. Then, with a last deep breath to steel himself, he presses on. “It really should have been a milk run. There were guards at the entrance but a warehouse is a warehouse… It was a tax shelter, full of worthless art, but apparently whoever it belonged to accidentally got their hands on something real… some catholic…” he rubs his eyes, makes a vague gesture with his hand. When the word doesn’t come to him he simply presses on. “Five runners seemed like overkill to get it but Alabast was paying well enough for a five-way split to be worth it, I guess they wanted it that badly.” He pauses again and frowns down at the table, taking a moment to reorganize his thoughts, weigh out which details Ilya actually needs and which ones would be wasting their time. “Of course I didn’t know we were working for Alabast until I was in Denver,” he muses, “I don’t know why I got into such a bad habit of never asking for details.”

Realizing he’s gotten ahead of himself, he closes his eyes and gives his head a quick shake before meeting Ilya’s eyes again. “There was something else in that warehouse with us… or someone, I don’t… I never found out. But while the five of us were still trying to figure out their cataloging system, it got in-” the end of that sentence gets swallowed by a sudden shudder that runs up the length of Maksim’s spine, as if the temperature had suddenly plunged around them. He hunches forward onto the table, shoulders pulled in tight and defensive, screwing his eyes shut again as he pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. He thought if he just said it, simple, matter of fact, that would strip away some of the power the memory still had over him. Instead it just feels like a hit-and-run.

“Maksim…” Ilya cuts in softly, but he waves their attempted reassurance away only to backtrack a moment later.

“No, you know, you’re right, this isn’t really important,” he concedes breathlessly, his gaze wandering aimlessly across the table as he wills himself to uncoil. “The point is, it went wrong, two people died, the three of us still alive had to scrub the run with nothing to show for it, and everyone blamed me. For a couple months after that I was traveling a lot for…” he glances at his hands, idly extends and retracts his claws. “Research. Visiting showrooms. Talking to surgeons. Talking to loan sharks.” He flashes Ilya another thin smile. Another joke. Sort of. “So I didn’t know how the rest of the team was dealing with the fallout, but I know when I got back into the city one of them wasn’t happy to see me and the other was telling me I needed to get back out. I thought I’d lay low in Chicago for a while until I could sort out what happened, but when I realized even that far out I was being followed, I…” he lets his head fall back slightly, rolling his eyes up toward the sky as he shakes his head again. “I panicked. And then ran a little further every time I got a sense someone was keeping track of me. I had some time in Denver after another surgery and had the sense to do some research, until that put a spotlight on me and I had to start moving again.” He sighs deeply, running a hand over his hair until it comes to rest at the back of his neck, one finger tapping idly against the tip of the reflex trigger where it peeks out from his shirt collar. “I really thought they’d give up before I hit the west coast…”

“But no such luck,” Ilya provides, maybe just to assure him that they’ve been keeping up.

“No,” Maksim confirms with a grimace.

“So Alabast…” Ilya says the name with a thoughtful intentionality, testing the sound of it, or possibly testing it against their own knowledge. “What do they even want? Why bother with you instead of just finding another team?”

Despite himself Maksim responds with a weak chuckle. “I wish I knew,” he says. “I haven’t exactly stopped to ask. I was hoping they gave you some idea.”

Ilya shakes their head, frowning. “The suit was pretty light on specifics. Conspicuously.”

“Of course.”

The conversation hangs there for a beat as Maksim grasps for a way to tie it off. A script really would have been helpful. He wasn’t going to ask for anything, he didn’t have any plans to put forward… he just needed an excuse to talk to Ilya again, pull them back in without having to address the real question simmering between them. The fact that they’ve let him talk this much is unexpected, he had been anticipating more questions, a demand to explain his behavior…

It’s Ilya who breaks the silence. “I know this wasn’t the point but, for the record I believe you.”

He blinks a couple times. The comment draws him back up out of his thoughts but leaves him wondering if he missed something. “What?”

“About the run…” Ilya continues, only to hesitate as another flash of uncertainty passes over their expression. Then with a quick inhale they add, “you don’t have to tell me exactly what happened. I believe it wasn’t your fault.”

“Oh…” Maksim breathes, and internally he’s thinking you can’t keep saying things like that to me. You can’t keep acting like you get it, like none of this is a problem for you. What am I supposed to think? What he says is, “thanks.”

#shadowrun #ghost city #maksim girard #ilya kasharin #originally I'd wanted to spend more time on their early dynamic before getting this deep into like.... act 2 I guess lmao #but I do not control what the brain decides to focus on writing so 🤷‍♂️#we get the fraught and emotionally charged confessions NOW we get the character development and slow burn relationship progression LATER #rom fiction

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