#Brief emeto mention

[angelphone1]

Hi-lo! I saw your request for requests so I figured I'd send something :D

Maybe whumper and whumpee are partners and whumpee is dealing with an addiction. They tell whumper that they've stopped but now they're just doing it in secret. When whumper catches whumpee they 'punish' whumpee with their addiction somehow.

Feel free to do whatever you want with this prompt!

hiii thank you so much for requesting! i honestly wasn't sure what to do with this prompt but after some deliberation i think maybe i figured out something good? i hope you enjoy :)

WHUMPEE grimaces as the needle goes in. They should be fine; WHUMPER shouldn't be back for another few days at the very least. Enough time for just one needle. Just one little taste. Just one. They said they're off the stuff now, and that's true. This is WHUMPEE's decision; it's not something they need.

WHUMPEE sighs in relief as, blessedly, it kicks in, nearly knocking WHUMPEE unconscious in the process. Like they're floating. Like they're made of warm, warm light. Like nothing else ever matters. It's just presence. Bliss. Pureness.

The high lasts for a while. It's so nice. It's wonderful. It's transcendent. Here, WHUMPEE doesn't have to worry. About anything. If you ask WHUMPEE, right now, if this was worth it, they would say, "Absolutely fucking yes." Absolutely, it was worth it, going behind WHUMPER's back, getting back in touch with DEALER, giving themselves some time to relax. Nothing to worry about. Everything to feel good about. Just bliss.

And then the crash comes; and WHUMPEE is suddenly nothing more than a filthy wretch in filthy clothes, in an apartment that smells like vinegar and vomit, unbelievably thirsty and needing to piss, and dear God, when did they last eat? When did the sky get so dark? When did ---

The door clicks. A key turns. It pushes open, revealing WHUMPER, sighing heavily at the mess and the smell.

WHUMPER: "Whumpee."

WHUMPEE, stammering: "Wh --- wh --- you weren't --- "

WHUMPER: "I'm not supposed to be here. I am supposed to be on vacation right now, with Friend. Yes."

WHUMPEE panics, barely able to form coherent thoughts from their place on the floor.

WHUMPER, pinching the bridge of their nose: "I lied. Just like you lied about quitting." They sigh. "How long has this been going on, Whumpee?"

WHUMPEE: "It was ---"

WHUMPER: "Don't answer that. I already know. You never really quit... God, you're fucking pathetic. I tied myself to a piece of shit, and this is what I get."

WHUMPEE: "I'm not --- just --- "

WHUMPER, exasperated: "Just what? What possible excuse could you have to explain.. this?"

WHUMPEE: "It was --- I only did it just once, just this one time, just because --- it was my choice, it wasn't --- "

WHUMPER, under their breath: "God, I'm just like my fucking mother."

Now, if you had asked WHUMPEE whether or not the high was worth it, they would have said, "Absolutely fucking no." Because it really wasn't. Absolutely not.

WHUMPER walks forward. WHUMPEE scrambles backward, messy and uncoordinated, feeling as if they can feel themselves spilling all over the carpet. WHUMPER picks up the used needle, a small bit of blood on the tip from where it had pierced a vein, the plunger pushed down all the way, a few traces of residue still inside.

WHUMPER: "Fucking incredible. Just fantastic. This is worth more to you than I am, huh? A little bag of black fucking bullshit over me." They mutter more profanities under their breath, continuing to march towards WHUMPEE, who is staring up at them, wide-eyed. Their headache makes it impossible to think straight. Surely WHUMPER isn't going to hurt them, right? There is a cold, cold anger in WHUMPER's eyes, something that must have been building up for a long time now.

WHUMPER grabs WHUMPEE's arm, and stabs the needle in with no regard for location. WHUMPEE cries out, unable to rip their arm out of WHUMPER's cold, hard grip. WHUMPER rips it out and stabs it back in. And again. And again.

WHUMPER, punctating each word with another stab: "Fucking. Useless. Fucking. Bitch." The words devolve into just angry shouting, as WHUMPEE is crying and sobbing from the searing, searing pain. Eventually, the needle breaks, and then the glass shatters, and WHUMPER doesn't stop, until WHUMPEE's arm is absolutely mangled. WHUMPER tosses the remnants aside, wiping their now-bloody hand on their shirt.

WHUMPEE screams, the inferno in their arm a far cry from the sharp prick of the injection, pushing away at WHUMPER with their good arm, left to curl up mewling on the floor, their voice raw and incoherent, disoriented and heavy-headed, like their whole body is made from lead.

In the far, far distance, a phone ringing.

OPERATOR: "911, what is your emergency?"

WHUMPER, out of breath: "Yeah, so, my partner.. nearly overdosed, and we got in a fight, and they.. tore their whole arm to shreds. They.. need an ambulance. It's really bad. Yeah, our address is ... "

WHUMPEE's vision slowly, slowly fades to black.

[almostfini]

My disability story pt 1/?

Check out the CWs in the tags

I was born with problems. Some of it comes down to genetics. It probably didn't help that my mother's only prenatal care was from an untrained midwife. I had problems with my lungs when I was born but my parents waited 3 days to take me to a doctor.

I always say I was one of those sickly Dickensian children. I caught certain respiratory viruses easily and older than most children. When I was 4 I was hospitalized for dehydration following a stomach bug. I have a clear memory of being rushed into my pediatrician's office while vomiting over my father’s shoulder, seeing my sippy cup fall to the pavement as my grip became too weak. My mother told me years later that they catheterized me in the hospital and I screamed in pain.

A few months later I started having agonizing pains in my legs. I remember repeated visits to the children's hospital for testing. I was so small they had a hard time finding a vein for the dye for my bone scan, leading to multiple sessions of sobbing while a nurse jammed a butterfly needle into my wrist. Then I had to lie still in a machine by myself for an eternity. Or at least long enough to watch most of the Monsters Inc tape we brought each time and played on a tiny box TV in the corner.

In the end they concluded it was just growing pains. I gained a ton of medical trauma and my parents decided this was proof I was just overdramatic. They would bring it up the rest of my life with them as a reason to deny me medical care or as evidence I was too fragile to do something (like attend school). My asthma, which was beginning to show symptoms, wouldn't be diagnosed until I was 13 because my parents believed I was faking for attention.

Sometime that same year when I was 4 (probably after all the tests) I broke my collarbone falling off a bouncy horse onto concrete. My mother didn't believe I was truly injured until the next morning when I refused to lift my arm to get dressed. She only took it seriously after she forced my arm up and I screamed.

[ginger-and-mint]

11 & 12, 16 & 17 for the belly ask game please!

11. Do you have any favorite words or phrases relating to the belly?

The word "stomach" itself kinda wrecks me tbh. ^^ "Swollen" is probably my favorite adjective, and "bulging" and "aching" and probably my favorite verbs hehe. And even though they're pretty basic, the phrases "so full" and "very full" can be really really good.

12. Do you like upset tummies? What kinds of scenarios are your favorites?

I would say upset tummies are an Interest-Adjacent Enjoyable Thing, but not actually kinky in and of themselves to me! Like, if a character has an upset tummy from eating too much, that adds the appeal of a kinky scenario for me. But if a character has an upset tummy for other reasons, the vibe is more hurt/comfort or whumpy. Which I still enjoy! but not in a kinky way, y'feel?

16. Are there any guilty pleasures that you don't tend to share as much?

My guiltiest pleasure is emeto as a result of eating too much. ^^' I tend not to explore it as much 'cause I'm still a bit shy about it, but uh. somebody struggling to keep a very large meal down or just feeling sick from how they've eaten is Big Fire.

17. What's something you wish you saw more of?

Is it cheating if I answer Stuffing Content In General? ^^' I feel like the scene is a lot slower than it used to be.

To answer seriously though -- I wish I could find stories with intentional feeding that isn't tied to a dom/sub dynamic. Dom/sub just isn't my thing, but it's pretty much impossible to find any feeding fics that don't frame the act through that lens or use associated tropes and dialogue. My ideal dynamic is more like a collaboration -- the Eating Character wants to eat, the Feeding Character wants to help them. That's basically why I have the Soothing Room in ginger & mint, I'm realizing!

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane's Pets Chapter 102: Kindness

TWs in the tags

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Puppy leaves reality the second she leaves the house.

Not literally, of course, but she knows this walk well enough that she doesn't have to pay much attention, so after dropping the food and water Bunny gave her for the trip, she mentally retreats into her daydreams.

Puppy is a well-off author who wants to put more good into the world, so she decides to adopt a child, eventually settling on a 12-year-old girl named Ma– Jane.

Jane is a very traumatized child, and she often lashes out violently, both towards herself and others, which is difficult to deal with. Puppy can overpower Jane, obviously, she's just a 12-year-old girl, but she tries to avoid that as much as possible, to avoid traumatizing her further.

Puppy has to lock away everything that could be conceivably used as a weapon, and even then Jane is good enough at lock-picking that she can't ever be left unsupervised. It's a good thing Puppy doesn't need a job.

Jane claims to not feel anything or care about anyone, and sometimes that seems true, but other times it is painfully obvious that pretending to not care about anything is just a coping mechanism.

The first month of her living with Puppy is hell for both of them, but Puppy never even considers giving up on Jane. She doesn't know if she can help Jane with her violent outbursts and manipulative behaviors, but she knows she can be there for her even when no one else will. Every time Puppy thinks she's made a breakthrough, Jane mocks her for thinking that she could ever help Jane and believing her tears are genuine. It's rough. It's really rough. But Puppy doesn't give up on her.

Jane's behaviors get more and more extreme the longer she stays with Puppy, until she realizes nothing she does will make Puppy leave her. Then, she mellows out a little. Not a lot, but she's stopped trying to kill Puppy in her sleep, so she sees that as a success.

Jane's a very smart kid. For a long time, she uses that intelligence exclusively to destroy things and hurt people, but eventually Puppy is able to redirect her to books and puzzles. She reads far beyond her grade level, eventually getting to the point where she reads scientific studies for fun and writes letters to the authors asking questions or complaining about flaws in their methodologies. She takes online courses in all sorts of things. The school she goes to is more tailored to behavioral difficulties than the actual learning that she enjoys, so they eventually end up deciding that she can be homeschooled, so long as Jane stays out of trouble.

Jane starts to ask for things instead of trying to steal them. She starts to draw violent scenes instead of hurting herself or other people. She joins a soccer team, which seems to help her get her energy out in less violent ways, even if there are a few incidents of her playing too roughly.

By the time her 13th birthday rolls around, she's made incredible progress. She doesn't have any friends to invite to a party, but she seems more than fine with that. She begs to be allowed to make her own birthday cake, so Puppy lets her, and she seems to have a lot of fun. She doesn't even use any of the cooking utensils to hurt people or break things!

She asks for a banjo for her birthday and starts teaching herself to play. It's amazing how well she's able to teach herself stuff like that– she really is so intelligent, and Puppy is the one who helped her direct that in a productive way.

Things aren't perfect. She has breakdowns about once a month, screaming and crying and slamming her head against things until she starts bleeding or Puppy restrains her in a hug. She makes extremely violent threats any time things don't go her way and keeps a journal full of the 'weaknesses' of everyone she knows. But she's doing so much better than she was when Puppy first adopted her.

Jane enjoys styling Puppy’s hair, so Puppy lets her. She could say no at any time, it's not a weird power play. Just mother-daughter bonding.

Puppy takes a moment to reorient herself once she gets to the town. There are plenty of people who offered her help should she ever need it, since Master enjoys– enjoyed making people uncomfortable too much to do business with people who were okay with human pets. The harder part will probably be actually finding them, but she thinks if she waits in the alley where they usually did exchanges someone will come by eventually. They're actually probably more likely to be there at night… but she told Bunny and Kitty she'd be back by sundown. She can always go back to let them know she's okay and then head out again, though.

While she waits in the alley, she drifts away again.

Charlie and Liam live a wonderfully happy life. Charlie has a game company where they sell their board and card games for a nice profit, and Liam is… Liam is a lawyer. A prosecutor. He fights to protect people and prevent dangerous people from doing more damage, even if that means people he convicts get the death penalty. He doesn't feel guilty about it, because the people he gets killed deserve it and make the world better by dying.

The two of them are close friends. They love their respective careers and make enough money to live very comfortably. They aren't burdened with love for anyone who's hurt them, or crying over how someone they care about needs to be coerced into doing the bare minimum of taking care of herself. They're okay. They're happy and safe. No one hurts them by incorrectly assuming there's no other way. No one hurts them at all.

They eat their favorite foods every day. They make the world a better place. They get everything they could ever want.

"...Puppy?"

Puppy starts. There's a man she knows at the entry of the alley– Arnold. He's one of the ones who offered to help her. That was faster than she expected… or she's been spending hours looping over scenes of Liam and Charlie happy without noticing time passing. The sun definitely seems to have made it farther across the sky since the last she checked…

She takes a deep breath. This is going to be rough, but she doesn't have another choice. This is how she can get Bunny and Kitty the life they deserve.

She clears her throat and looks Arnold in the eyes. "I need help." One more thing she'll be punished for later.

Arnold's eyes widen. A few other familiar people filter in behind him– of course, there would be no reason for him to come here alone. Not all of them have offered her help, but none of them seem the type to actively prevent her from getting it. Things are going perfectly.

"Ma– Jane is… dead." She's going to get punished she's going to get the others hurt she's going to–  "I'm not–" deep breath "the only one. Now that she's gone… we need money. She left a lot behind. We don't have access to most of her fortune, but… we have the stuff in her house. Furniture. Jewelry. Weapons. Selling to the general public would… raise questions. I need help finding buyers. You would get a cut of the profits."

She feels phantom barbs digging into her skin. It's not real, she knows it's not real, but that doesn't make it any less painful. At least she can make her throat work. She can do it for this but not to apologize or comfort her friends… They'll be so much better off when she's gone.

"We can do that!" Arnold sounds excited. "We can even just buy the stuff off you ourselves and then sell it, you probably don't wanna wait around while we search for buyers. Do you need anything else? I know a guy that can forge paperwork for you, and I know a place that doesn't ask questions if you need medical attention."

"...just the money stuff, for now. Thank you."

Arnold was pretty young when Puppy first met him. She probably pitied him just as much as he pitied her, he seemed pretty in over his head. He always offered her food when he could and tried to make conversation with her. He seemed guilty that he couldn't do more, but Master had  made some examples of people who tried to mess with her already and he was smart enough to keep his head down. Even offering her food was risky, though, and he did it anyway, even though Puppy refused every time. Even as he moved up the ranks, he never lost that gentleness towards her.

"Whatever you want." He seems so genuinely happy to see her free. "So, how do you want this to work? If there's furniture we'll probably have to come by her base and get stuff ourselves– Dave, you still got that moving truck?"

"Sure do," one of the men behind Arnold says.

"Oh– it's in the woods. Her house. Can it get through there?"

"Hmm… well, we'll figure it out. The furniture had to get there in the first place, right? If we have to we can take it apart and carry stuff back through the woods in several trips."

Puppy nods. "When… works for you? I can give you directions, and you can come when you're ready." 

Giving instructions of where she's staying to a bunch of people she knows are criminals isn't the best idea she's ever had… she'll probably have to move Kitty and Bunny out beforehand, just to be safe. Without the risk of them dying, though, what's there even to be afraid of? Nothing they could do could be any worse than Master.

"That sounds perfect. We'll come by tomorrow to get an idea of everything and negotiate payment. Even if we have to take all the furniture apart and carry it to wherever we end up putting the moving van. We might not be able to get everything out in a day, but I’ll make sure you have the money tomorrow. Do you know where you're going to stay, once you have money?"

Puppy nods. No matter how much she trusts Arnold, she's not giving him more information than that. She quickly gives directions to the house. "I should… get going."

"Of course. See you tomorrow. Oh, and let us know tomorrow if there's anything else we can do, too."

Puppy nods. By then she'll have asked Bunny and Kitty, so she'll have an answer. She slips out of the alleyway and heads home.

Taking off the collar. Taking off the muzzle. Not putting the collar back on. Not putting the muzzle back on. Speaking. Not putting the collar back on. Not putting the muzzle back on. Writing. Not putting the collar back on. Not putting the muzzle back on. Drinking water. Not throwing up the water. Not putting the collar back on. Not putting the muzzle back on. Drinking water again. Not throwing up the water. Not putting the collar back on. Not putting the muzzle back on. Not throwing up the water. Writing again. Not putting the collar back on. Not putting the muzzle back on. Not throwing up the water. Speaking without permission again–

The loop is difficult to ignore, no matter what she tries to daydream about.

~~

You've been trying to avoid worrying about Puppy while she's gone. You never really worried when Jane sent her out grocery shopping before, so why would you be worried now?

Well, you know the answer to that. As awful as Jane was, you know she wouldn't have let anyone touch Puppy without her permission. She wasn't in danger of anyone but Jane hurting her while she was out. Now…

But you can't really do anything about that until sunset, when she said you could go looking for her if she wasn't back yet. So you try to avoid the worry.

You pack the clothes you want to keep and some packaged foods into a garbage bag. You don't even really want to keep the clothes, but buying a new set of clothes when it's not necessary would waste money that could be spent keeping a roof over your heads. And you'd much rather leave the house and spend money on a new place than stay and get new clothes.

Once you're done with that, you help Kitty get some stuff packed. They want to avoid moving as much as possible, since it makes some of their withdrawal symptoms worse, so you bring all the clothes from their room out to the living room and ask Kitty which ones they want to keep one by one. It takes a long time, but there's not much else to do.

All of the pockets on their clothes are sewn shut. You’re not sure when that happened.

“Hey, do you want me to see if I can cut these pockets open? I think the only sharp thing we have is a kitchen knife, so there would be a risk of ruining your clothes.”

“Um… you can try…”

You go get a kitchen knife and try to cut the thread holding the pockets closed on a pair of pants. You finally get the knife under one of the stitches— and immediately cut your hand when the knife gets through the stitch.

“Fuck!” You quickly clean the wound and bandage it. Stupid Bunny. You put the pair of pants back in the bag (luckily you didn’t get any blood on it) and explain to Kitty that you’ll have to wait until you have access to scissors or something.

Once you're done with that, you put the clothes they didn't want to keep back in their room (mostly ripped and bloodstained clothes, like the ones you didn't want to keep, so selling them probably won't be an option). Then you ask Kitty what kinds of the packaged foods in the house they like and toss those in their bag as well.

Puppy still isn't back, and it takes you a minute to remember that you can make yourself and Kitty a meal without her. Jane usually didn't allow Puppy to have help with her 'chores,' so you've gotten in the habit of never fixing anything bigger than a snack for yourself. But Jane's gone now.

Of course, being able to cook without being punished and being able to cook are two different things. It's not like you had a lot of practice while you were homeless. You eventually decide to make some ramen noodles and hope you don't burn the house down.

Besides it taking you a while to figure out how to turn on the stove (haven’t you seen people do this before???), the process goes smoothly, and you end up with two bowls of ramen and some leftovers. You can’t find any containers to put the leftovers in, so you put that in a bowl of its own and put that in the fridge. Hopefully Puppy will eat it…

“Think you can keep down some noodles?” You ask Kitty.

They groan and drag themself to a sitting position with a lot of effort. “I’ll try.”

You hand them their bowl. “Are you… feeling any better?”

“I don’t want to make conversation with you.”

“Oh. Okay.” They’re still mad, then. You eat in awkward silence. They struggle to eat with all their shaking, but you get the feeling they wouldn’t be happy with you offering to help. You both manage to finish your bowls without incident.

Just as you’re finishing washing the dishes (another thing that you have to remind yourself you’re allowed to do now) you hear the door open.

“Puppy?”

You hear a hum of confirmation.

“How’d it go?” You put the dishes away and go to meet her in the living room.

She finds her paper and pencil and starts writing.

“I made ramen. There’s some in the fridge for you.”

She hums in acknowledgment again, then passes you the paper.

It went well. They’ll come here to figure out prices and transporting the stuff tomorrow. They said they’ll get us the money tomorrow even if they still need a few days for transportation, and we’ll be free to go once we have the money.

You pass the paper back. “That’s great! Kitty, Puppy says we’ll have the money and be able to leave tomorrow.”

Puppy writes something else and passes it to you.

I’d appreciate if you two could be out of the house when they come. I trust them, but I’d like to minimize risk.

You pass it back. “What? Wouldn’t having multiple people here minimize risk more?” You don’t want to be waiting and worrying for so long again.

She frowns, but doesn’t answer otherwise.

“Do you think that they’re only trustworthy towards you specifically? Or do you just want to make sure that anything that could go wrong only happens to you?” 

She winces, then sighs and shrugs.

“We’re going to stay. I mean, I’m going to stay. What do you think, Kitty?”

“I’m not moving unless I absolutely have to.”

Puppy writes something else and passes it to you.

Okay, you can stay. I probably wouldn't let one of you do this alone, so that's fair. 

They offered to help us forge documents and get medical care from people who won't ask questions. What do you think about that?

You read it aloud for Kitty and then pass it back. "I… we haven't done anything wrong."

Kitty laughs weakly.

"I mean, we shouldn't need to pretend to be other people. Right? We just need an explanation that leaves out the magic stuff. And maybe some of the stuff we were forced to do, I don't know if we're legally innocent if it was under the threat of violence… I just– after all this, I… want to be the person I used to be. As much as possible. I don't want someone else to pick a name for me again. Maybe that's not how it works, I don't know."

Puppy writes and passes the paper to you. It would make it easier to get an apartment, I think. No one's going to be especially eager to rent a place to people with no jobs or rental history in the past few years. But we would also have to worry about making sure we don't get caught. It just depends on what worry you'd prefer.

You read it aloud to Kitty and pass it back. "I… I've survived being homeless before. I feel like, in the worst case scenario, I'd still know what to do if we couldn't find somewhere permanent to stay. But having forged documents… I don't know."

"I don't want to pretend to be someone I'm not." Kitty adds.

Puppy nods and sets her stuff down.

"So… now we just wait for tomorrow?"

Puppy nods again.

"Me and Kitty packed up the stuff we want to take while you were gone, do you want help packing your stuff? I thought about doing it for you, but I didn't know what you'd want to take."

Puppy shakes her head and goes to the kitchen to grab a garbage bag. You're kinda glad she didn't ask for help, because your head is starting to hurt.

"I think… I'm just going to go to bed, then. Oh, Kitty, should I get you some pillows and blankets to make the couch more comfortable?" You should've done that sooner, why didn't you think to do that sooner? Stupid Bunny.

"...yes."

You get some blankets and pillows from their room (maybe you should've packed blankets and pillows? Most of them are bloodstained, though…) and help them get comfortable on the bed. Then you go to your room and crumple into your bed.

This is the last night you'll spend in this house. The hard part is finally over.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else, or if you want to be added to or removed from the tag list! This was released exactly on time what are you talking about

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @whump-in-the-closet @scp-1296 @thecosmicmap @quins-whump-stuff

@fuckcapitalismasshole

[fuckin-sick-bih]

i don't usually write the style of sick fics of like... stomach aches/emeto area, but like... my brain cannot stop thinking about the fact that Mobius M. Mobius probably only knows how to make horrifying 60's 70's foods that he wants to cook for Loki. and Loki at first is says "absolutely not" only to find Mobius later picking at a piece of it by himself. so Loki sits down and has a slice of... whatever monstrosity it is with him and it's not terrible. but it definitely doesn't like Loki. cue guilt from Mobius about "poisoning" a god and a little panic about not knowing how to take care of him in this sense because he's studied Loki! he knows Loki! but this? this is new! so Loki just requests to be held for a while, touch starved trickster he is.

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

Augusnippets Day 11: Breaking the Conditioning - Keegan

This fic occurs during Keegan, Alix, and Jayden's teen years, when they are in Grade 11; Keegan and Alix are 16, Jayden is 17. Mentions of abuse

------

Keegan finishes throwing up, spitting into the water one last time, and flushes the toilet. He keeps a hand on his stomach, which is sore and cramping from the strain of vomiting for the past few hours.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a a flash of movement... a hand moving towards him, and he can’t stop himself from flinching away. He presses his back into the wall behind him, and turns his head away from the person crouching in front of him.

After a moment, his brain quiets, when the expected pain doesn’t come, and he frowns in confusion. Surely throwing up all night would be enough motivation for Paul to… Oh, right, he’s at Jayden’s.

Crap, he thinks, slowly looking over at Jayden, who meets him with an expression of mixed worry and pain.

“Sorry,” he whispers dejectedly, and Jayden vehemently shakes his head. He hears a wounded sound, from the doorway of the room, and he notices Alix standing there, watching their interaction. Alix sends him a half smile. The haunted look in his eyes reminds Keegan that it’s not the first time this has happened, and that, out of everyone, Alix best understands how he's feeling in that moment.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Key, this just makes me hate Paul all the more.” He practically spits Paul's name out, as though its poisonous.

Keegan giggles, sounding on the verge of tears even through his laughter.

“Come on,” Jayden prompts, gesturing for Keegan to follow him. He knows better than to touch him again, even as he stumbles drunkenly after him.

When Keegan turns towards the living room, he finds the couch piled with so many blankets you can barely see it. He settles on the end of the couch, and snuggles into the blankets, curling into a ball.

When he glances over at his friends, a few minutes later, they’re having a silent conversation, a mix of expressions, and the few ASL signs they know.

Keegan sighs in exasperation, attracting their attention, as he asks “What?”

“Uh, nothing, it’s okay,” deflects Jayden.

“You clearly have something to say,” Keegan argues.

“You’re sick, we’ll talk about it later,” Alix interjects softly.

Keegan glares at them, unimpressed, until even stubborn Jayden rolls his eyes and says, “Fine, jeez.” He hesitates for a moment, before continuing, “It’s just… you know you can trust us, right? We wouldn't hurt you,” he says carefully, with real fear coating his words.

Keegan’s heart sinks, and he sighs, trying to put words to the many things he’s feeling.

“Yes, I know I can trust you, and I do. I just…” he trails off, having caught Jayden’s skeptical look before he could hide it. “I do trust you Jayden, that’s not the problem,” he emphasizes.

“Well then wh-” Jayden starts loudly, but he stops when Alix puts a hand on his arm, and mutters “Let him talk Jay.”

Keegan closes his eyes, remembering the other night, how it felt to walk into his own house. The dread that accompanies his walk home, and the absolute pain that he associates with Paul’s touch. He flinches from the memories alone, the hidden marks on his body stinging with not-so-phantom pain. He opens his eyes, ready to start explaining what he can.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Obsolete

cw: nsfw themes/implications, abuse, manipulation, fear, brief emeto mention, choking. (this chapter can be skipped without losing out on plot, it's a bit heavy)

previous // T$$ Masterlist // next

~ ~ ~

Sahota slouches on the bed, both feet planted firmly on the tile floor as if that’s enough to keep him tethered, keep his thoughts from drifting too far. He holds the gag in both hands, turning it over and over and over, watching the metal sections that make up most of its structure catch the light. 

He doesn't know long Harbor had been there when he arrived, already shaking from the stress on his body, tension to his shoulders and core brought on by the heavy leather cuffs that secured him to the foot of the bed.

He'd tried to pull away when Sahota knelt to remove the gag.

“F-fuck off.”

“This isn't what you want, Harbor.”

“It's what Vic wants.”

He'd cursed and insulted and tried to elicit a reaction that wasn't get out from him, but in the end he'd left.

“You're jealous,” he'd spat as Sahota closed the door behind him. There was something desperate in his tone, like he hoped if he said it with enough fervor he'd believe it, like he wished a rivalry was the only thing to worry about.

Like he was willing to thrust his hand into a fire just to feel the warmth. 

“You're just fucking jealous.”

He isn't. Is he? Jealous is too simple a way of putting it. He wants Vic's gaze to linger on him the way it does Harbor, he wants the idle touches as they pass in the hall, the I'm proud of you's and I know you can do it's.

He needs his attention as much as he loathes it.

Shouldn't he be grateful his master's lust is being directed elsewhere? 

Doesn't it mean he isn't enough anymore? What then? If Vic is finally tired of him, what does that mean? Will he be thrown out, abandoned? Or will he become another loose end that needs to be tied up?

It felt like that during their mock interrogation. It's been months since he's seen Vic that angry, much less at him, he's been far too careful for that. He never should've tried, never should've given the others the hope that they could take an alternate path. He's the reason they're trying to salvage control, he's the reason Vic’s tightening his fist around them.

If he hadn't gone behind his back with the challenge, would they have been allowed to to go after Manak?

Would Manak even be lost in the first place?

Sahota can't fight a grimace. He's learned this lesson a thousand times over already; he should know better. 

You can't say no to Vic.

He knows that, knows the consequences, and yet here he is. He can only hope it won't be Harbor that suffers for it.

The handle turns. Sahota half expects it to be the belligerent trainee, back with more choice words and arguments. When the door reveals Vic, a part of him wants to curl up and hide, reduced once again to a terrified kid who should fucking know better.

He wants to shrink under Vic’s gaze as they meet eyes, silence drawing out between them, but he doesn’t, instead stiffening his spine against the fear that curdles in his stomach, instead daring to open his mouth.

“How long would you have left him here?” A safe enough place to start. Not an accusation, He lets his hands fall into his lap, the gag still held between them. 

Vic leans against the doorframe, arms crossing his chest. “Would've been going on six hours now, if you hadn't cut him loose.”

“Six hours,” Sahota repeats flatly.

“I've kept you for thrice that.”

“He isn't me.”

“And you hate that, don't you?” He pushes himself up from the wall, moving into the room, closing in. “Why? I know you don't care for him.”

Because Vic always knows everything, because Sahota can never hide things from him. He doesn’t care for Harbor. He doesn’t let himself care for anyone these days. Still, under the envy and the fear there’s a stark horror at the thought that someone else will take his place, will suffer as Vic's plaything, will render him pointless.

“Am I not enough for you?” he says.

Vic clicks his tongue, cupping Sahota’s cheek with a warm hand. “Is that what you're afraid of, little spy? Being replaced?”

Yes. No. “Why do you want him?”

“He's a flashy thing. Caught my eye.” Vic chuckles. “So desperate for any human interaction he'd disembowel himself for a pat on the head.”

Is that what it comes down to? Another person for Vic to hurt, another body in his control. He shakes his head. “Vic—”

He's silenced with a kiss. There's something foreign in it. A new excitement, amusement that he cares about this, that he's scared.

“He won't replace you. He'd make a good dog though, don't you think?” He nuzzles into Sahota's neck. “Once you warm up to the idea, maybe I'll even let you play with him.”

Sahota jerks away, a breath lodging in his throat. He couldn't, he couldn’t. The idea of Vic dragging Harbor into this stings enough. The thought of playing along—of holding the younger man down, hurting him, controlling him—is too much to hold. He wants to throw up.

“Is that a no?”

“Whatever you want to do to him, you know I can take,” Sahota says, his voice low and insistent. He’s nearly pleading. He doesn’t know why he’s pleading for this.

It should feel good, shouldn't it? To know he may never again take the brunt of Vic's affections, to be elevated to a place of control.

It doesn't. It burns like bile.

“I know.” Vic’s hand strokes his cheek, thumb coming to rest on his lower lip. “When's the last time you cried for me?” It seems more a musing than a question he wants answered, but even if it were, Sahota doesn’t think he can speak to it.

He can’t remember the last time himself.

No, that's not true. Just days ago, he was crying, but not for Vic. It feels like such a potent secret he’s nearly purged it from his mind, and now he's afraid his master will see it on his face, the weakness he dared to show to these outsiders.

Ander, my name is Ander.

His own words echo back to him in a way that makes him shudder. By some stroke of luck, Vic doesn't notice, his eyes on the gag in Sahota's lap.

His hand falls away from his face, and he fixes him with a searching gaze. “Are you afraid he makes you obsolete?”

Sahota drops his eyes. “I… Yes.” It seems too simple an answer, but it’s the easiest explanation. One that might satisfy Vic.

“And you’d prefer it if I left him alone?” He tips his chin up with a finger. “If it stays just you and me?”

“Yes.” His answer is quieter this time. Vic hmms, and the silence seems to stretch for a long moment, every wordless breath drawing more fear into Sahota, pulling tension into his body. Then, Vic suddenly pushes him back onto the mattress, one hand curling in his hair, the other cupping his chin as he kisses him, hot and fierce. Sahota returns the kiss until he’s breathless.

“Hands behind your back.”

He obeys without much thought. It’s been a while since Vic’s tied him up for this. Months, at least. Silky rope winds around his wrists, and then he’s rolled onto his back, heart hammering with anticipation. There’s fear there too, but he tries to shove it down. Isn’t this what he wants? Isn’t this what he just begged for?

He opens his mouth to say something, but Vic’s hands shoot out, locking around his throat, squeezing, cutting off air. Panic floods through him, but he has Vic's touch memorized. His body knows not to respond, to take it, no matter how much his mind wants to rebel.

“What if I did want to replace you, Ander?”

Sahota’s eyes widen at the words, barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears. His body spasms from the lack of air, heels digging into the mattress, but Vic doesn't let up.

“What if I am tired of you, hm? What can you do about it?”

His wrists burn, the rope digging into them as his arms shake involuntarily, reaching to remove the pressure. No… No, he can’t mean it, Vic can’t mean it, he’s his. He’s been his for twelve years, he can’t just be replaced, he can’t just let the fucking cycle start all over again. Tears sting his eyes but refuse to shed, his mouth opening wide, making soundless pleas.

It can’t end this way, it can’t end this way, Vic, sir, Shepard, please—

“You are everything I made you. Without me, you'd be nothing. If I want someone new, you'd better just be fucking grateful you still have a seat at the table.”

His lungs burn, body shuddering, vision blackening at the corners, closing in—

—And then Vic’s hands relax, slipping away from his throat. The spy gasps for breath, rolling onto his side and curling his knees in, unsure whether he’s shaking from the lack of air or the sheer fear, the knowledge that Vic could’ve done it, would've done it. He would’ve done it and not even batted an eye.

He's not allowed to hold the thought for long before Vic seizes him by the hair, jerking him into a half-sitting position, his face stony and empty when the spy looks up at him through blurring vision.

Something almost like satisfaction crosses his master’s face.

“There's the tears.”

~

@theonewithallthefixations , @violets-whumperflies , @whump-me , @pirefyrelight , @soheavyaburden ,

@snakebites-and-ink , @whumpsday , @kixngiggles , @echo-goes-aaa , @whumpcateyes ,

@clickerflight , @sodacreampuff , @starfields08000 , @neverthelass

[1heartfanfics]

Hi, I write sickfics too. But I'd love a sickfic written for me this time. Lol. Either a really sick Dean needing Sam to care for him, maybe after a really bad hunt. Or super sick TK, needing his dad to call Carlos to take of him. Or maybe a really sick Bucky, with a freaked out Peter swinging around frantic to find Steve to help the man while in the middle of a fire fight. :) Emeto galore would be much appreciated. Pretty please!!!

okay so I decided to write it for tarlos because I just watched the mid season finale, but let me know if you want me to do the supernatural one too.

Also this ended up getting a bit de-railed toward the end and being more about Owen coming to terms with the fact that T.K. has Carlos now and doesn't need him as much as he used to instead of actual caretaking. Whoops 🤷‍♀️

warning: depictions of vomit, brief mention of addiction history

T.K. had woken up with a headache. But that wasn’t uncommon, side effect of being a recovered addict he’d been told. So he didn’t think about it too much.

But it kept getting worse, even though he’d been sure to drink enough water and eat throughout the day. And then he realized when he helped Nancy lift a patient onto a gurney that his whole body ached. 

“You good?” Nancy had asked.

“Fine,” T.K. responded shortly. Nancy gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him, but she let it drop. 

By the end of their next call, he was dizzy and cold. They’d just dropped the patient at the hospital and we’re heading back to the station. 

“Hey. What’s wrong with you?” Nancy asked as she drove, glancing over at T.K., who was practically slumped against the window in the passenger seat. 

T.K. shrugged, “Not feeling super great I guess,” he admitted. 

“You need to tell Captain Vega dude,” she said as she pulled the ambulance into the station bay. 

“Shifts almost over anyway,” T.K. shrugged again, shaking his head. 

But then as soon as they’d parked the klaxon sounded. ‘Aid car BLANK requested’

“Alright then, let’s just head back out,” Tommy called from the back of the ambulance. 

Nancy shot T.K. a look. His face was pale, even more than it already had been. T.K.’s stomach, which had become increasingly upset for the past hour or so, suddenly flipped. He knew he was done for. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, then threw the door open and practically fell out, landing on his knees with a retch that brought his lunch up onto the floor of the station. 

“Woah!” Someone said, then T.K. felt a hand on his shoulder and his back. 

“Who else is a certified medic?” Another voice asked, Tommy maybe. Everything sounded far away and T.K.’s head was spinning. 

“Yo Marj! Paul!” The voice behind him yelled. Judd, T.K. could tell now.

There were footsteps approaching and then “Woah what happened to him?”

“One of you take T.K.’s place in the rig with Tommy and Nancy. The other one of y’all go get captain strand,” Judd instructed. 

T.K. could hear people running around, then the siren as the rig pulled back out of the station.

"Come on brother, let's get you up," Judd said, grabbing T.K. under his arms and pulling him to his feet. With Judd's help, he walked unsteadily over to one of the benches the firefighters use to put their boots on. As soon as he was sitting he slumped over, head in his hands as he breathed through another wave of nausea.

"T.K.? What happened?" his Dad was asking, suddenly at T.K.'s side with a hand on his shoulder.

When T.K. didn't answer Owen turned to Judd for answers.

"I just saw him spill out of the rig to hurl on the floor, that's all I know. You'd have to ask the girls but they had to run back out on a call. I sent Marj with 'em since they're down a medic," Judd shrugged.

"Thanks Judd," Owen sighed. "I've got him, you can get back to whatever you were working on."

"You sure? Cause he's looking pretty green cap," Judd pointed out.

"Son? Are you still feeling nauseous?" Owen asked.

T.K. just groaned in response, he didn't think he'd ever felt this sick in his life. It had gotten so bad so quickly. He was going to throw up again.

Thankfully Judd was on it, and a trash can magically appeared between T.K.'s knees just in time for him to heave over it. His body convulsed with another gag which brought up more of his stomach contents into the bin.

"Aw jeez kiddo," Owen muttered, sitting down beside T.K. to wrap an arm around him and rub a hand up and down his arm.

T.K. coughed and spit into the trash can, willing his stomach to stop contracting. There wasn't anything left in it to bring up. He felt so weak, like he could hardly hold himself up.

"Woah alright, I've gotcha," Judd was sitting on his other side, an arm wrapped around his chest to keep him from falling forward. T.K. dropped his head down into his hands again, elbows propped on his knees to keep himself upright.

Once Judd was confident that T.K. was stable enough, he pulled back, looking over at Owen. "We need to get him laying down," he said.

Owen nodded, "I think I'm just going to take him back to the house. You mind taking over for the rest of the day?" he asked.

"Of course cap, whatever you need," Judd agreed.

"T.K.? I'm going to get my stuff and then we'll go home okay?" Owen said, leaning down to try and meet his son's eyes.

T.K.'s eyes were shut, but he shook his head in response.

"No?" Owen asked, confused.

T.K. shook his head again, "Just call Carlos, please," he said quietly.

"Right. Of course," Owen was taken by surprise, although he really shouldn't have been. T.K. had moved in with Carlos months ago, that was his home now. And Carlos was T.K.'s person, the one he wanted to take care of him.

He looked at Judd, who nodded, silently answering Owen's unspoken request to stay with T.K. while he called Carlos.

"Your dad's calling Carlos now, I'm sure he'll be here soon to get you home. Just hang in there," Judd said, rubbing a hand over T.K.'s back.

As promised, after Owen returned from making the phone call, Carlos arrived within 10 minutes.

"Oh sweetheart," Carlos sighed when he spotted his boyfriend, hunched over a trash can.

Judd quickly stood up, allowing Carlos to take his spot. Carlos wrapped his arms around T.K., gently pulling him from the slumped position to rest against his chest. T.K. went willingly, pressing his face into Carlos's shoulder.

"Thank you for calling me," Carlos said, addressing Owen.

Owen nodded, smiling softly as he watched Carlos take care of his son. He hadn't missed the way that T.K. instantly relaxed a little at Carlos's touch.

"Let's get you home baby," Carlos said quietly. T.K. nodded, letting Carlos help him to his feet with a hand on his elbow and his waist.

"Let me know if you guys need anything," Owen told Carlos.

"Thank you," Carlos nodded, "I've got him, Owen," he added, seeing the worry on the captain's face.

Owen nodded, reaching out to softly clap Carlos on the shoulder, "I know you do." Carlos gave him one last nod, then wrapped an arm around T.K.'s waist and slowly guided him out of the station toward his car.

As much as Owen worried about T.K., he was realizing that maybe he didn't need to as much anymore. Because while most of T.K.'s previous boyfriends hadn't treated him very well, he had Carlos now. Carlos, who clearly loved and cared for T.K. so much. Owen was glad they had found each other.

[takami-takami]

Masterlist

(Order: newest top –> oldest bottom)

Writings

🪽 sugar confectionary

You Keep Sawdust for Starlight. || gn!reader. comfort.

Anew. || gn!reader. hurt/comfort. angst. loss of wings and regrowth. nightmares. keigo tends to your wounds. blood description.

Like Idiots. || gn!reader. fluff. pining like idiots. keigo is a pain in the ass. the reader is worse. i had fun with this.

A Dog Unfed. || gn!reader. angst. hurt/comfort. animal abuse analogy. discussion of drugs and cravings. be warned and avoid this if you need. sorry for spoiling the subtext lol, but it needs a tw. though, i encourage you to apply this however you feel it apply. perhaps we all have a dog.

Happy Birthday. || hawks. severe angst. hurt/no comfort. very grotesque trauma reaction. emeto. blood. ptsd. i cannot stress enough to be careful and avoid this if it's triggering.

Roost and Repair. || gn!reader. comfort. anxiety (could be from anything). keigo taking care of you.

Father. || gn!reader. angst. reverse hurt/comfort. past abuse. substance use. trauma.

Pet Shop. || gn!reader. fluff. you and keigo visit a pet shelter to adopt! so cute!

I Think I Love You. || gn!reader. fluff. keigo is in denial. tooth rotting fluff.

Sanctuary. || gn!reader. comfort/fluff. stressed reader. long days and loving arms. keigo is good at massages.

Alley Cat. || gn!reader. hurt/comfort. ptsd. trauma. panic. abuse. breathing exercises. genuinely be careful.

Stray Dogs Will Crawl Home. || gn!reader. angst (with a happy ending). breakups. keigo's trauma because i can't give this man a break and he needs to heal.

Nightmares. || gn!reader. angst. reverse hurt/comfort. ptsd. trauma. self harm. nightmares. touch starved!keigo. be careful and know your limits!

Let Me Take Care of You. || gn!reader. hurt/comfort. brief unhappy childhood/life mention. keigo making you feel safe if you'd just let him :(

🪽 spice cabinet

And If I Want It Soft? || gn!reader. virgin!keigo. if this is the corruption they warned him about, let it be sweet and let it be you.

Like a Candle at Both Ends. || gn!reader, but they use a strap. sub!keigo. double penetration with a twist. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. dacryphilia. cum as lube. slight feminization (of keigo). slight degradation. some brattiness. face-sitting mentioned.

Fixation. || afab!reader. sub!keigo. reader uses a strap. gratuitous oral. hazy under the pulls of subspace, a needy keigo makes a show of drooling on the strap.

How To Fix the Ache. || gn!reader. virgin!keigo. masturbation. slight primal play. a sexually frustrated keigo goes home to jerk off after your dates, and he's real cute about it. he tries so hard to be a good boy.

Sweet, Sweet Indulgence. || gn!reader. sub!keigo. corrupting the sweet boy till he's addicted to edging himself <3. hand jobs. masturbation. edging. desperation. brief mention of oral.

Crybaby. || gn!reader. dom!keigo. orgasm denial. edging. subspace. dacryphilia. dumbification. some degradation. keigo being mean. chewtoy reader.

Pretty Predictable. || f!reader. dom!keigo. dumbification. degradation. keigo loves you so bad.

Best In Show. || masc petnames. dom!keigo. heavy petplay. puppy play. collaring. oral.

Baby, I'm All You Need. || f!reader. a bit toxic!keigo. he's clingy. <3. a smidge of yandere. dirty talk. abandonment issues. rough sex. degradation. mirror sex. reader is way too into it.

Accidents. || gn!reader. daddy kink. predator/prey undertones. keigo being a meanie.

Can't Help Myself. || gn!reader. rut. breeding kink. biting. keigo getting lost in the sauce and trying (failing) to be nice. he can't help himself :(

Mine, Now. || fem petnames. cuckholdry. steal your girl. hawks is a lovesick puppy and not very nice here but i think that makes him cuter.

Pretty Boy, Pretty Hands. || afab!reader. fingering. excessive hand kink. hint of dumbification.

Thoughts

comfort + angst + fluff drabbles

Thirsts

smut + suggestive drabbles

Events

Hawkstober 2023

Masterlist Here!

Hawks Drabble Event

Masterlist Here!

Opinion Corner

These are my Hawks essays!

quips i like (mix of sugar/spice)

Post Here

dark content banishment corner

Dark Content Masterlist

[ready-for-take-off]

Responsible Adult (NCT Jisung)

(Crossposted to AO3 here)

Request: Maybe Jisung sick with stomach pain but he hides it from the members because he thinks that not being the maknae he needs to behave like a responsible adult. But in the end his pain is very intense and he gets sick in his room and on himself, so his hyungs take care of him and pamper him, especially Taeyong and Chenle.

Summary: Jisung wakes up feeling off. When his stomach starts to hurt during a full-group dance practice, he tries his best to hide how he’s feeling from the members, afraid that he’s going to get coddled. He ends up getting sick at home, but Chenle comes to his rescue and even calls Taeyong for backup. The day ends with lots of comfort and an important lesson learned.

A/N: I couldn’t quite bring myself to write the part where he gets sick on himself—emeto is chill to me until it gets to the loss of control part. Nevertheless, hope you enjoy! Jisung and Taeyong are definitely the best sickie and caretaker in NCT respectively imo. SIDE NOTE—check out NCT Dream’s new comeback Dream()Scape, Jisung stands out so much in it!

Jisung was an adult.

No matter how much his members, his fans, heck , even his family liked to treat him like he’d exited the womb two second ago, he was a full-grown adult, dammit. It was harmless fun most of the time, until he realized that he couldn’t mention feeling even the slightest bit unwell out of fear that his members would start coddling him again. Last time he’d been injured, his members treated him like he was made of glass even months after he’d recovered. He shuddered just thinking about it. Never again, especially now that there were even younger members who looked up to him as a seasoned idol and not a cute baby.

But today, he had a small dilemma. He’d woken up the slightest bit groggy—no big deal, he could handle it. Though, come to think of it, he hadn’t felt very hungry at breakfast, but he hadn’t thought anything of that either. It didn’t matter if he would have to go the whole day feeling dizzy and weak—it wasn’t like he had anything important to do, aside from a brief dance run-through. It was hardly a practice, and not to brag, but he’d nailed the choreography ages ago. It was no big deal, right? He’d just act okay for half an hour and then resign to his room for the rest of the day. He was a responsible adult, the least he could do was show up.

Jisung regretted that decision when he entered the practice room and was immediately reminded that oh , this was nineteen other guys in the same practice room. Nineteen extremely loud guys. He could hardly keep his thoughts in order when there were at least five different conversations going on at any given time, punctuated by hysterical laughter and occasional screeches (whatever that was for, he didn’t really want to know), and suddenly he felt like the most mature person in the room.

“Jisungie, you okay?” Chenle asked casually, patting Jisung on the back. He’d somehow snuck up behind Jisung and he hadn’t heard it because of the sheer noise echoing in the room.

Truth was, he didn’t feel particularly great. On top of general malaise, his stomach was beginning to hurt, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint if it was due to hunger, stress, or sickness. The latter of which he pushed to the back of his mind—if he didn’t think he was sick, he couldn’t really be sick, right?

“Uh. I’m fine, I guess?” Jisung replied hesitantly, stiffening a little. He didn’t want anyone to find out he wasn’t feeling well, no, not when everyone was there.

“If you say so,” Chenle shrugged. Jisung was taken aback when the older boy squinted and made the “I’m watching you” motion with his hands as he walked to his position. What could he possibly have meant by that? Honestly, his members showed concern in the weirdest of ways sometimes.

Jisung didn’t utter a single word for the rest of that dance practice, channeling his energy into staying upright and passing off as okay. It was a hard job as the small ache in his stomach slowly turned into a full-blown fire.

When the run-through was finally over, Jisung begged his legs to keep him standing upright as he wanted nothing more than to just collapse on the floor (and writhe around, but maybe that was a bit dramatic). It wasn’t unusual for the members to sit down after an intense dance practice, but he couldn’t afford to do so today, not when it would provoke even more concern. Well, it seemed that he was provoking concern either way.

“You feeling alright, maknae?” Taeyong had approached him almost the exact same way Chenle had earlier, only with a bit more formality, and Jisung almost jumped as the leader’s firm hand landed on his shoulder. It was beginning to grow scary at this point—either his members had incredible intuition or he was terrible at hiding how he felt. Probably a mix of the two.

“…yes?” Jisung responded, voice coming out much smaller than he intended. He cleared his throat and responded properly. “Yes, hyung.”

Taeyong smiled, patting the younger’s shoulder. “Great, but I just wanted to check because you seemed a little down today,” he explained. “How’s life been treating you lately? I know we’ve all been so busy.”

“It’s been fine, I guess,” Jisung mumbled behind his mask. “Thank you, hyung. By the way. For asking,” he added out of respect, stuttering slightly.

“You don’t have to thank me, Jisungie. And that’s great to hear,” Taeyong chuckled. “Just tell me or one of the Dreamies if something is wrong, okay?” He held up his hand for a fistbump of agreement, which Jisung accepted.

“Oh, and if Mark and Haechan bother you too much, let me know,” Taeyong added, winking and poking Jisung’s shoulder playfully.

As Jisung smiled and turned away to grab his bag, he nearly keeled over as his stomach made itself known once again with a harsh cramp. He bent over, disguising it as reaching for his bag, and let his face scrunch up in pain for a second as he breathed through it. This was certainly something not to be ignored.

By the time he reached home, Jisung was hardly functioning. He felt like he could drift off any second but was kept awake by the agonizing twisting of his stomach, and the conflicting signals only served to make him feel sicker.

Deciding to take charge for himself, Jisung gathered what energy he had to grab himself a glass of water which he brought to his room and promptly forgot about as he curled up in bed. Tears threatened to spill out of his eyes as he gritted his teeth and clutched his stomach tightly. It hurt so much, and he just wanted someone to be there, to know that he wasn’t feeling well, and for a second he regretted keeping quiet.

Jisung almost gave in and reached for his phone to text someone to come over, until he reminded himself that the whole reason he was alone was because he wasn’t a baby. Oh well. Most grown adults could handle a little stomach ache on their own anyways.

This was hardly a little stomach ache, though. He could physically feel the pain twisting deep in his core, and it hurt like nothing else he’d ever felt before. Curling up with his knees to his chest seemed to be the only thing that relieved some of the pressure, along with keeping both hands wrapped around his middle. An intense cramp finally sent Jisung over the edge, and he had to reach up and wipe away the tears that had slid across his face.

A ding resounded from Jisung’s phone and he hesitantly picked it up, sniffling. The text gracing the top of the screen was from Chenle, notifying Jisung that he would be coming over in a minute for “no particular reason”. At that moment, it turned out that Chenle’s weird habit of always being strangely available for strange reasons came in luck, and Jisung took a moment to mentally thank the elder for being his savior. Sure, it meant he would get babied, but if it didn’t happen by his own volition then it practically didn’t count.

Jisung almost wanted to relax because the notification settled his mind so much, but there was another problem. His stomach now felt like it was in his throat, and he couldn’t move out of fear it would end badly. But he knew it would also end badly if he didn’t move, now .

He propped himself up as slowly as he could, hand sinking into his bed as his elbow straightened shakily. His other hand, which was starting to shake too, was pressed tightly against his mouth as his mind raced, saying no, it won’t happen when it definitely would.

He gagged slightly into his palm and immediately his eyes widened— this really was happening. His legs, trained by a lifetime of dancing, propelled him across the room so he could fling open the bathroom door just in time to cough and retch up what little he had eaten into the toilet. “ Help,” he choked out between retches, to no one in particular, as he cried from both the pain and the fear that this was really happening to him, that he was losing control of himself just like that.

The timing proved itself even more impeccable as Jisung’s ears were met with the squeal of a door and a certain hyung’s screeching voice, which was the sound of an angel descended from heaven to Jisung right now.

“Jisungie, you seemed really off earlier today and wouldn’t tell me what was wrong so I came ‘cause why not,“ Chenle blabbered as his footsteps approached Jisung’s room, pattering around to search for the maknae. Jisung groaned to signify his location, which Chenle heard and promptly found.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Chenle gasped, kneeling down beside the younger and rubbing circles on his back. “What happened?”

“M’ stomach hurts so much,” Jisung cried, hiccuping and sniffling, which only served to set off his stomach more as more liquid was sent surging up his throat. “H-help me, hyung , m-make it stop!” he sobbed futilely.

“Shhh, you’re okay, I’m here,” Chenle cooed into Jisung’s ear, breath warm against his neck. “Breathe for me, baby.” It was a sweet gesture, but Jisung could hardly focus on the words over the sobs shaking his body and the stabbing pain assaulting his stomach.

Jisung thought he heard the sound of a phone making a call, and he made out snippets of Chenle’s voice over his own crying— “ Jisungie’s sick… come over… okay, see you soon. ”

“Wh-who’s that?” Jisung stuttered between breath hitches.

“Taeyong-hyung is coming to help you, baby,” Chenle reassured. “You aren’t stuck with just me,” he added, chuckling. “I know I’m not much help.”

There was a knock on the door, and Chenle scampered off to answer it. He returned with a very concerned-looking Taeyong in tow.

“Jisungie, baby, how are you feeling?” Taeyong asked sympathetically, kneeling on the floor without hesitation and rubbing the boy’s shoulders gently. “Turns out you really aren’t alright, huh,” he sighed. “I should’ve noticed.”

Jisung tried to respond, but his body didn’t seem capable of forming words at the moment and he only gave a pitiful moan before he was sent back into a fit of sickness.

“Whoa, Jisungie. You’re really sick,” Taeyong grimaced, rubbing the poor maknae’s back as he threw up again. He did so until Jisung’s stomach finally stopped rebelling and he let his head drop, panting.

“Is it just an upset tummy, baby?” Taeyong asked gently, patting the younger’s tight stomach and eliciting a brief wince from Jisung, who nodded shyly in response. He was getting babied again, but he couldn’t deny that it felt good to have someone care from him. Especially if it was the most reliable person he knew.

“My guess is that your body is just trying to get rid of something icky you ate earlier,” Taeyong sighed, standing up with a grunt. “Alright, Jisungie. You feeling ready to get up?”

Jisung hesitantly took the elder’s hand and pulled himself up in a way that took the least effort from his abdominal muscles. He curled up in his bed, whimpering in pain, as Taeyong slipped into the kitchen in search of anything useful.

“Wellll…” Chenle piped up, dragging out the syllable. “I knew I’d be useless at actually taking care of you, so it’s great that Taeyong-hyung could come by,” he laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “But I can keep you company,” he added, more softly. “How are you feeling?”

“Tummy hurts,” Jisung murmured quietly, fully aware of how pitiful he looked, curled up in bed with tears streaking his face. “I hate being sick so much.”

“You should’ve said something before it got this bad,” Chenle sighed, plopping down on the bed and stroking Jisung’s stomach gently.

“But you guys would have fussed over me,” Jisung countered defensively. “ Ah - what are you doing-“

Chenle released his fingers from the playful pinch he had on Jisung’s abdomen, snickering shamelessly. “Jisungie, you’re a lot worse at acting fine than you think you are. We would have fussed over you anyways.”

“Fair,” Jisung sighed. “But it just feels weird for me to ask for help now. I mean, I’m supposed to be a responsible adult and I’m technically not even the maknae anymore.”

“Jisungie, asking for help is a part of life. Why do you think I called Taeyong-hyung just now? Because I knew I couldn’t take care of a sick person myself— heck, I don’t even know what he’s looking for in the kitchen. It’s okay to admit that you can’t do something yourself. It doesn’t make you any less of an adult.”

Jisung’s eyes stung at the sound of his hyung’s wise words. “R-really?” he sniffled.

“Yes, baby,” Chenle cooed. “And for the record, you’ll always be the maknae to us. Now come here, you,” he added playfully as he cozied up next to the younger. Jisung couldn’t hold back the soft smile that crept up his face as Chenle ruffled his hair incessantly. Maybe being babied wasn’t so bad after all.

The whole time, Taeyong just stood watching in the doorway, using the hand that wasn’t holding various medications and home remedies to wipe his teary eyes. His kids really had grown up so well.

[thedramasummer]

Tagged by the lovely @msmarvelouswinchester for WIP Wednesday! This one is from my fic of Witness Protection AU. Basic summary is Alex ends up in WitSec after being a whistleblower after finding out creepy behavior from a senator by using is charm and dealing with all that follows after

Tagging the wonderful @anincompletelist @firenati0n @emmalostinwonderland @cactusdragon517 @jackzimmermemes @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @cheesecurdsgravyandfries

Putting the snippet under the cut because it contains some gross behavior from said senator that involves inappropriate flirting if that is not your jam. Also brief mention of emeto

Senator Pollack has said some things to Alex that make him take a step back. It started off weird, but benign. You look young for your age, sport or if you’re not careful, I’ll steal you away from Luna. Alex should probably tell someone, but he isn’t going to snitch if it isn’t relevant.

So he decides he’ll figure out if it is something that’s a significant concern. He plays the game, leans into the shoulder rubs, laughs at creepy jokes that make him vomit in the toilet in his dorm when he’s alone.

Unfortunately it isn’t enough. He’ll have to raise the stakes. He won’t go too far, but he needs to prove this bastard is doing something.

Pollack brings him to the bar. He might be 21 in a few months, but he’s still technically underage. But Pollack talks his way into making sure the bouncer avoids looking too closely.

He offers to buy Alex a beer. Strike two. Alex politely declines, blinking his eyelashes. “I don’t drink on school nights, Senator.”

Pollack puts a hand on his knee, moving up his thigh. “You’re a good boy, Alex. You’ll make a fine senator one day.”

“Thank you, sir. That means a lot coming from you.” He prays the mic under his collar is picking this drivel up.

“You know, I’ve been able to help ambitious young people like you out. I like teaching them how to walk the walk and talk the talk. I like seeing them grow.”

Alex blinks owlishly. “And what would I have to do to learn from you? I’m learning so much from Senator Luna already.”

Pollack laughs. “That upstart? He’s young, Alex. You need someone with experience. You need someone who really understands how the political circles work. What people really want.” His hand creeps up again, and Alex twitches. This is bad. So fucking bad.

“Thank you for the offer, Senator. I really appreciate your insight, but I’m fine with my current position. And thank you for offering me a drink, but I should really go.” He’s trying to play it cool, but his brain is on overdrive.

“You should stay, sweetheart.”

[inhurtandincomfort]

Melancholia

Happy birthday Eldwin! I am minutes away from midnight so I'm hoping to write this before his birthday ends lol. A little character study, nothing much. I really want to explore more, and go more in depth in his dissociation, his triggers, how often and how he learns to deal with it, but save that for another day.

CW: Depression, dissociation, depersonalisation, referenced drug use, referenced alcohol use, referenced self harm,some brief derogatory attitudes/language toward the mentally ill (reflections of the setting, not the author) anxiety, self-destructive behaviour, referenced disordered eating, with a very brief emeto mention.... Happy birthday :)

There are days when all Eldwin feels is rage.

Those are his best days. Angry at himself, angry at the world, at it's injustice. An all consuming monster burning through him, destroying everything in its path. It runs hot, almost painful, and he needs to get it out, needs a release before it turns around to destroy him.

So he lets it burn. He finds his kindling in the blood splattered across his face, the crunch of bones beneath his fist. Discovers tinder in agonised screams accompanied by the smell of seared flesh, in glassy eyes of a soul that could take no more. He craves it, yearns for it, and if he gets as good as he gives, well, what's the harm in that? He's still in control. As adrenaline courses through his veins, pain shoved to the background so he can focus on surviving - it's the only time he feels alive. Sometimes it's work, and then Clyde doesn't mind when he comes back bloody, bruised, with a satisfied look on his face as he gets to report a job well done. Other times… Other times it's just fun. Pleasure. An escape from voices whispering things he pretends are lies. It's fuel for the monster, encouraging it to run it's course, burning everything, destroying everyone. It will never go out, so all he can do is feed it and hope it turns it's attention away from him.

Then there are days when the fire runs low, little more than a flickering candle. The fire is satisfied, for now, and is content to sit back giving way only to emptiness. Without fire, he is hollow. His body is a husk, a cold place for loneliness to rest her ever-weary head. Her sadness is his own, seeping into his soul like a child burdened by the all the wrong choices, desperate for comfort no matter whose form it takes. These days are the most frequent, when every limb is weighed down by grief, where it's exhausting just to drag himself from bed and his stomach his twisted in knots, his heart racing for no reason at all as the prospect of leaving his room makes his hands shake, nails digging into his palm just to stop the constant trembling. On these days the very thought of food makes him nauseous, so he doesn't eat. He doesn't cry, not anymore. Such open displays of emotion were beaten from him long ago. Crying was weakness, but he doesn't think not crying made him strong. It just made him empty.

To fill the growing void inside him, he throws himself into work, one job after another after another so he never has time to himself. If there's no work to be had, he throws himself into a bar, pouring spirituous drinks down his throat until he can't even think, until he can't feel the pangs of hunger as his body begs for food it will only throw back up. Sometimes he'll take pills, a momentary bliss bottled into little capsules he keeps in his pocket. Occasionally he'll smoke, less for the high and more for the sharp awakening of a smouldering end searing into his flesh.

He does his job, cleans up to look presentable. He can function perfectly fine. It's not a problem. It's fine. He's fine.

And then there are days when he feels nothing at all.

It scared him, at first. He feels like he's slowly losing his grasp on reality, life and dreams blurring together until he can no longer tell what is real and what is fake. It feels like floating, his mind drifting between realms to survive as the vessel is destroyed, fighting and breaking til it can endure no more.

The captain abandoned his ship, leaving it to drown into the icy depths alone.

"Hey. Hey, you with me?" Clyde snaps his fingers in front of his face as the world slowly comes into focus. Eldwin blinks, everything slowly coming into focus. Clyde's lip curls, looking down at with a look he's seen many times before, in ragged clothes, covered in filth begging for spare coins. "Saints, it's so freaky when you do that. There's something seriously wrong with you."

Perhaps there was. It started out only a few minutes at a time, that day with Clyde can't have more than ten, but as time drew by he found himself drifting further away, his memory filled with entire weeks worth of blank spaces. Time ceased to exist, every day blurring together into one until he couldn't distinguish what happened last month to what happened yesterday. Sometimes he wasn't even sure if something had happened at all. Slowly, but surely he was gradually becoming nothing more than a hollow shell. How long, he wondered idly, as he stared up at the ceiling. How long would it be until he stopped coming back?

He wondered if he should talk to Jowan, but quickly dismissed the idea. The doctor would be less inclined to help him and more thrilled to study a lunatic. Clyde doesn't care, either; as long as Eldwin does what he's supposed to, nothing else matters.

So he just learned to live with it on his own. He grew used to being punished because he didn't do as he was ordered, or he didn't speak when he was supposed to. He took to covering all the mirrors in his room. He hated looking in them. He didn't recognise the person looking back. It was as if his consciousness had been implanted into a mechanical body - it's all he has, but it is not his. He's an outsider experiencing the body from afar, disconnected. Emotionless. Inhuman.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed please consider relogging, it really helps the reach and let's others enjoy it too!

[aeryssickfics]

@monthofsick

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Characters: Sick Xiao, Caretaker Lumine

Warnings: Emeto/vomiting! Mild delirium and nightmare mentions. Brief combat and medical care mentions!

Summary:

Novemetober Rescheduled Day 7 Prompt: Too Feverish to Think Lumine so rarely calls Xiao's name that this is certainly the first time she has done so amid fear and panic. Xiao comes, but Lumine must contend with the fact that he isn't well. As such things often do, it gets worse before it gets better.

[justplainwhump]

Change of Hands

Thank you all for enjoying my last piece [Pet Safety]. This one is a lot slower, but for all those of you wondering about the Chewtoy's fate. Mostly for @whumppsychology who nudged me into this direction. Might a bridge, towards expanding more on their story.

[masterlist]

Adrian makes a deal.

Content/ warnings: BBU, WRU as a workplace :), BBU romantic, dubcon mentioned (offered, but not acted upon), explicit language, brief suicidal ideation (to escape), brief emeto mention.

Adrian had brought the Chewtoy to the WRU clinic in the business district downtown, hidden away in a room with restricted access; just him, Izzy and one of the nurses, who they knew wouldn't ask any questions.

They'd do their best to stabilise her, while Adrian went on working on the upper floors of the same building as he would on any other day.

He did check in on her every lunch break. The first few days, she was sleeping constantly, or barely awake, her eye glazed over, just staring into the void, sometimes whining softly. She looked small in the bed, vulnerable, in a flowered hospital gown, black plastic collar loosely around her neck. Adrian didn't say anything to her, just checked that she was there, her bandages changed, her medication taken care of.

On the fifth day, she looked at him. Even with half her gaze hidden under the eyepatch, Adrian flinched under the intensity of it. Her eye was of a light gray, like metal, maybe. Stainless steel. Indestructible. He hoped she was.

"Who are you?", she asked.

Adrian raised his eyebrows. Pets weren't supposed to ask questions, he thought. Pets were to address strangers as Sir or Madam. Pets were meant to cast down their gaze, and maybe- maybe- look up submissively through their lashes.

400168 just stared.

"I'm Adrian Delgado," he replied. "WRU pet safety inspector."

She slowly placed a hand on her collar, a soft and sensual motion. This, he recognised, standard romantic protocol. Pets weren't meant to touch their collars, though. "This isn't a shock collar," she stated plainly. "Why not?"

"Because you're here to heal."

"So that you can fuck me later?"

"I..." Adrian took in a sharp breath and shook his head. "No. No, I'm not here to fuck you. I'm here to help you."

"Help me get a better pet?" She smiled wistfully and tilted her head. "Usually that includes fucking, Adrian." The way she said his name sent a thrill down his spine. Soft, a little teasing, a little promising. She was strange, in her behaviour. Didn't mean she couldn't cause just the reactions the company wanted her to.

"No. You... you've been through a lot."

She frowned. "You don't want me, because of the scar. Like... like Jack."

Jack? He hadn't seemed like that type.

"Jack Donnell isn't your owner any longer."

She seemed to ponder on that for a moment. "Good," she said then. "I didn't like him."

"Neither did I," Adrian said.

She grinned a little at that.

"Who owns me now, then? You..." She frowned. "I remember you. You... Did you steal me?"

"I got you back for WRU. Your - Jack... He would have killed you."

"I know." She swallowed, cleared her throat, before she turned away. "I was waiting for it."

Adrian shivered. "You... you wanted to die?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "But I didn't want to live any longer." She looked back at him and he flinched under the despair in her gaze. "Please. Adrian Delgado. I... I don't want to go back."

He nodded, swallowed against the lump in his throat. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, I know. I... I'll do what I can. I'll... Let me make a call."

He all but fled the room.

*

"Give me a sec", Izzy said on the phone, their private lines, untraceable SIM cars. He heard her step out of a room and walk down a corridor. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, dampened in a small room. "Listen, Adrian. Something happened. I can't do that for you any longer. It's not like they're onto us, I hope, I really hope, but there... There was a change in protocol. That second signature I'd need to confirm her death... I have no influence on who gives it any longer. Can't be you any more. And I don't know who it'll be. I... I'm with you in this, I really am, this is the good fight, but there have been irregularities in my cases before and I can't... I can't help you any more. It's stealing. Stealing from the company."

Adrian cast a quick gaze back at the Chewtoy's door. This couldn't be. He'd made a promise. "She can't go back," he said into the phone. "Neither to her owner, nor to the company. She won't make it. Please, Iz."

"I can't help you, Adrian. I have to report her healthy. I..." Izzy sighed. "I know this isn't much solace but... Remember, you're not responsible for her bad decisions, right? She signed up for this."

It took a lot, to hold his breath, keep his teeth clenched, push back the 'Fuck You' that was raging in his chest. Sometimes he thought he'd have made a good Guard Dog himself. There was so much fury simmering inside him, all the time, ready to be tapped into nudged toward a target. All they'd need to do was to make him drop the facade.

He wondered if it would feel good, actually. To attack, instead of holding back.

If that was what the Guard Dogs felt, that he inspected on the daily.

He shook off the thought.

"Okay, Iz," he said instead, his words clipped short. "Yeah. See you later. Bye."

He hung up before she could say another thing.

*

His boss called him into her office less than an hour later.

168 had been asleep when he glanced into her room after the call with Izzy. He hadn't woken her up. He couldn't get her out without help. WRU's buildings were designed to be safe. Once in, it was all but impossible to get out. He hated himself, knowing he'd been the one to take the pet here. He'd relied on their system to work.

He shouldn't have. He should've just driven her to a pet lib safehouse, filed her as a runaway, trusting nobody would look for a scarred, half dead Chewtoy. But then again, they wouldn't have taken her in either. Pet lib were careful, they had to be.

No. Keeping his promise was on him, on Adrian alone. And right now, his boss was about to test him.

"Izzy from the clinic has updated me on the Romantic you've brought in. 400168. She seems to be back on her feet." Kelly waved a manila folder at him. "Why isn't she in a crate back into the arms of the company?"

Adrian fought the urge to close his eyes for a second. He had prepared for that question, at least. He managed to call up an easy smile and give a half shrug. "There've been some inconsistencies in her owner's story. I wanted to talk to her about them, before finishing the report."

"Yeah, about that." She smirked. "We're not going to do this. Jack is a good client. He pulled back that complaint he filed against you, but that's still shed some bad light on us. I've already filed the results. He passed the inspection."

"Why-"

"Because I'm your boss, Adrian. You're a good PSI, one of our best, and I highly appreciate your work. But as a WRU manager, I need to think a step further. And that is, balance the interest of clients and company." Her perfectly manicured fingers drummed on the cover of the the folder. Bright red nail polish. Kelly didn't even try not to be threatening. "That Romantic you brought in, I appreciate the notion. The concept of a Chewtoy is unacceptable. But you should've looked at her file before jumping to action. She's a mess. Runaway Romantic, refurbished, but it didn't go well. Memory problems, periods of being nonverbal, sometimes even catatonic. Seems they wiped out some of that nicely programmed conditioning, too. Company shipped her out anyway, because she was a gift, and Jack Donnell noted, quote, I don't mind a little fight, end quote." Kelly sighed as she slid the folder to him over her desk. "Most customers do mind, actually. And now, with that scar in her face, half blind? She's a liability for the company. If we're lucky, very lucky, she'll at least bring in the treatment costs the clinic charged. But that doesn't cover any of the necessary reprogramming."

Another deep sigh, this one even more dramatic than the last one. "I'll have to consider that lack of business acumen in your upcoming evaluation."

"I understand," Adrian said.

Fuck them, he thought. Fuck the company and their disregard of the least shred of humanity. Fuck the company who'd have just let that woman die, to spare them the hassle.

Still, a dangerously stupid idea started to shape in his mind. He swallowed. "Um, maybe I... Maybe I could offer a solution."

"How?"

The words were out before he could think them through. "I buy her. I've collected enough bonus over the years for a product discount, right? That should be what, 50k by now? Covers her clinic bill, doesn't it?"

"She'll still need another refurb."

"What if I take her without it?"

Kelly chuckled. "Oh Adrian, I had clearly underestimated you. You'll spend your 50k bonus on a disfigured, broken Romantic with runaway tendencies, just to protect your career opportunities?"

That was the only thing that made sense to her. Adrian felt sick to the bone as he forced himself to grin at her. "Depends. Would it work?"

Kelly pursed her lips, and he could almost see the calculations running through her head. "Hm. It would," she said finally. "And you know what, I think we could throw in some refreshers on her discipline still. No Drip, that stuff is insanely pricey. But some bedroom specifications that cater to your liking will sure be on the table."

Adrian grinned over the disgust knotting in his stomach. "Perfect. Let me take her home first, see how she behaves. And then I'll come back to that."

Kelly tilted her head, fingernails hitting into the keys. "I'll prepare the transaction. Appreciate the move, Delgado, really. Maybe you actually do have a future in this company."

"I certainly hope so." Adrian smiled, and kept the smile up until they'd shaken hands and he'd left her office, strolled down the corridor, taken a sharp right turn, locked a bathroom stall behind him.

Then he threw up.

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

Augusnippets Day 5: Feverish Caretaking - Leo

This one doesn't have much illness, but it gives some insight into Leo's life. I know I haven't formally introduced them, mainly because they don't live in the same town as my other OCs, so they're not a huge part of my world yet.

The basics of Leo: Depending on the day, their pronouns are either he/him, or they/them (in this fic, they're using they/them pronouns). They're family is French, so at home they speak French, and they all have French names (their birth name is Léon, but they prefer to be called Leo). Aurélie is their 14 year old sister. They have a chronic illness, which means they are often (almost always) sick to some extent, and it often impacts their mobility.

Ages of the siblings (oldest to youngest): Luc, Nicolas, Leo, Aurélie, Gabriel

------

Leo pulls themself out of their desk chair, bracing for a moment as a headrush sweeps through them, a key feature of the fever they know is present in their body.

They make their way through their house, settling on the couch so they have a good view of the driveway, waiting for their maman’s return.

They frown in worry, as they replay the conversation they just had with their maman, where they learned that Aurélie is sick. Their maman is dropping her off, after picking her up from school.

“Léon, are you sure that you’re okay to look after your sister? You weren’t feeling well this morning.”

Leo sighed gently, before replying, “I’m feeling better Maman, and I can look after her. Have a little faith in me.” They tack on the snarky comment at the end, knowing their maman has good reason to worry about them, but annoyed by her triple checking nonetheless.

Just then, a familiar car pulls up to the house, and Leo waits by the door as their maman leads their younger sister into the house.

Aurélie looks miserable, walking at half her normal pace, slowly coming into the house. She latches onto their maman’s hand, looking like a girl going to school for the first time rather than one spending the afternoon with her sibling. The sight makes Leo’s heart clench, knowing that she’s worried about spending time with them.

Their maman stands in the doorway watching in concern.

“Are you sure yo-” she starts, before Leo interrupts.

“Maman, I know you’re worried, but you told me you have things you need to do.” She frowns at the interruption, but when she gives a slight nod in agreement Leo continues, “If anyone knows how to look after someone, it would be me, don’t you think? I’ll call you if we need you.”

This might be the chance they need to start reconnecting with Aurélie, even if neither of them are feeling or best, or particularly looking forward to the conversation. But fevers have a way of making Leo open up, when other methods would fail, and they feel oddly hopeful today.

And with that, they essentially push their maman out the door, turning their full attention to their sister, who has moved to the couch and curled up, hugging her stomach.

“Aw, Aurélie, I’m sorry you don't feel good,” says Leo, starting to crouch down to her level. When their knees twinge with pain, however, they stand up, sitting next to her instead. They push their momentary discomfort to the side in order to care for her.

“How are you feeling?” they ask tentatively.

“Fucking awful,” she answers, glaring at him.

“Don’t let maman hear you saying that,” they tease with a tentative smile, grinning in full when she smiles back in response. (even if that smile is accompanied by a roll of her eyes, it’s still a win)

They’re quiet for a few moments, as Leo contemplates what to say. If this was Gabe, they would know how to help. Instead, it’s Aurélie, and they haven’t had a proper relationship in years.

Before they can figure out what to say, Aurélie quietly says “I threw up at school. All over the hallway. Everyone saw.” From her voice, they can tell she’s seconds away from crying.

Despite his earlier misgivings, he scooches towards her and wraps her up in a hug.

“Aw, Ray, that’s awful, I’m so sorry that happened,” they murmur in her ear.

She starts full-on sobbing, clutching them in a tight hug, and burying her face in their chest. As her sobs eventually slow down and she starts sniffling, she whispers to him, “You haven’t called me ‘Ray’ in years.”

Leo feels their heart drop, as they realize the truth behind her words and what they say about their relationship.

“I know, ‘Rélie,” they respond, burying their face in her brown hair, hugging her closer still.

“You didn’t need me,” she whispers, sounding so broken, as tears leak from her eyes again.

Leo feels some tears slip down their face too, as they try to formulate their thoughts.

“I don’t think that’s true, Ray. I… I was a mess, I didn’t know what I needed. But I never meant to push you away.”

“But you had Nicolas, and Gabriel! I wasn’t ever part of the conversation.”

“It was a hard situation for everyone. No, listen, ‘Rélie,” they say when she tries to interrupt, “I couldn’t do anything, I didn’t know how to help myself let alone spend energy on others. Nico was the only person who made me feel normal. And Gabe was the only person who made me feel alive. My relationships with them got stronger, and I saw less and less of you, and maman and papa got really over-protective of me, and by the time I started Rainbow Youth it was so busy and I was still figuring everything out and by then it felt too late to try and get to know you again.”

She still has tears sparkling in her big blue eyes, and they know they’ve been crying too, but she looks a little less anguished with the explanation.

“Guess it’s my turn then,” she starts, with only a trace of bitterness in her tone, “I know we were closer when I was little, but when you started disappearing, I… I didn’t know what to think or how to feel. You weren’t talking, I didn’t seem to exist to you. I thought you didn’t care, which I guess was self-centered of me, but I didn’t know what else to think. Gabe and Nico could help you, and I didn’t know how I could, so I guess I felt guilty? And Maman cried all the time, did you know that? I’d never seen her cry before, and… and I was scared. And then there was all that shit-”

“Language,” they chastise gently.

“-with Luc, who was being a complete-” she cuts herself off, cheeks flushing red.

Leo chuckles at her, knowing what she was about to say, “A complete jackass?” they finish her thought.

She grins at him, and nods, then says, with a teasing smirk on her face, “Don’t let maman hear you saying that.”

“But yeah, he was awful, and we used to be pretty close. And I felt so lost, being around you made it worse. Which wasn’t fair to you, obviously, but that’s how I justified it. But I think I really miss you.”

“I miss you too. I feel like I missed so much of you growing up, I don’t even know who you are anymore. But I’m gonna try to do better, I want to know you, Ray.”

“Me too, Leo.” Their eyes fill with tears again, as she uses their proper name.

Maybe it’s a good thing, in a weird convoluted way, that they were both sick on this day, allowing them to reconnect after so many years. No longer distant relatives, but becoming siblings once more.

[maccreadysbaby]

you like destiny 2? You????? Like destiny???

IF YOU LIKE IT SO MUCH PUT BENTLEY AND ASTEN IN IT 🔫🔫🔫

Oh MAN this is the whackiest crossover I've ever done and I'm STOKED about it... also there's a little synopsis of destiny under the cut for my bentley followers that have no clue what I'm on about. bentley and asten would not even be remotely similar in this au, therefore there's actually TWO little stories in this post, one for each of them... yeah I went a little overboard but ITS FINE IM HAVING FUN *unintelligible weeping*

Project: Killcode Drabbles

tw: destiny typical violence, gore, emeto, cursing (only in asten's)

wanna read the extended fic? here’s the table of contents!

⚠️ THIS IS NOT PART OF BENTLEY’S MAIN STORYLINE, THIS BENTLEY & ASTEN INSERTED INTO AN AU (ALTERNATE UNIVERSE.)

Hi! here’s the briefest of overviews for my Bentley peeps that have no clue what Destiny is:

(I’m sorry destiny is so detailed you can’t actually be brief about it, these are the things I think are fundamental for understanding these pieces)

Destiny is a first person shooter/space travel rpg set in a time when the world has collapsed and the remaining facets of humanity live largely in a city called The Last City on Earth. In order to protect humanity from (a lot of) invading alien forces, the Traveler (a giant floating ball that helped humanity stay alive during the bad times) released hundreds of thousands of small robots called Ghosts into the solar system — these Ghosts were to find one specific person among the dead, resurrect them as a Guardian, and give them the Traveler’s magic (called Light) so they could protect humanity. (Basically, the Traveler makes the Ghost, and the Ghost raises their specific Guardian from the dead and gives them epic superpowers in the forms of Fire powers (Solar Light), Electricity powers (Arc Light), and The Void powers (Void Light)). Ghosts can resurrect their Guardians every time they die, rendering them immortal, but the downside is that these individuals don’t remember any of their lives before they were raised as a Guardian and have to start completely anew. The only way a Guardian can die for good is if their Ghost dies as well.

There are three Classes of Guardians: Warlocks, Hunters, and Titans. Guardians don't get to choose which they are, and the nature of their powers are determined by which one they turn out to be.

In this work, Bentley is a Guardian (A warlock, specifically, while the other character featured in this is a Hunter named Crow). Bentley does not have guardian superpowers (yet)

Anyways, I'm rambling, but I hope I helped you understand this just a wee little bit! I don't even understand destiny fully tbh don't feel bad. Maybe it was enough to help you enjoy the story... lmaoooo I tried. 

Also here are some pictures of some of the things mentioned to help you imagine them...

<< aka me trying really hard to help you imagine this so you have a good time

Crow ↗︎ (aka the love of my life, also the only reason Asten and Bentley meet each other in this AU.)

A Ghost ↗︎ (little floating robot; bentley’s is named sevyn, crow’s is glint, asten doesn’t have one)

Fallen ↗︎ (aka the only alien race you see in these stories)

BENTLEY ↴

THE COSMODROME, OLD EARTH, SOL SYSTEM -- 7:48PM —

“FOR THE RECORD, I THOUGHT THIS WAS A HORRENDOUS IDEA,” 

Bentley sighed heavily, glaring over at the small robot that was hovering a few inches from his face. It was purple, fashioned from small floating segments with one glowing blue eye -- which was glaring right back at him with just about the most irritated look the little machine could muster.

“Because I didn't hear you the first five times, Sevyn,” Bentley mumbled. He was stationed with his back pressed flat against the surface of a large boulder, wedged on top of a layer of moss and mud, the stone wall of a cliffside ahead of him sandwiching him into the tight, damp space. 

He’d never seen Old Earth before, besides looking off the balconies of the Tower he'd spent his entire Risen life in — which, in hindsight, was not great preparation for teleporting himself directly there on a whim. Everything looked the same, but bigger, and more expansive up close. The whole place was also crawling with various species of alien... which was a bit of a jarring experience considering he’d never actually seen one before. (He definitely hadn’t expected to teleport to Old Earth just to appear face-to-face with a four-armed freak of nature Sevyn insisted was a Fallen; hence why Bentley was now hiding between a rock and a hard spot.)

“You do realize you’re not allowed out of the Tower, right? That the Commander is gonna have your head?” Bentley's Ghost questioned anxiously, his segments spinning freely around his eye in a twitchy kind of way that let him know he was pretty irritated. “You do realize that you don’t know how to harness the Light for battle, right? That you have no guns? That no one knows where you are to come save your excruciatingly impulsive person?”

Bentley, again, rolled his eyes, pressing the soles of his tall brown boots harder into the stone wall ahead, to better hide himself from the Fallen he could hear clicking and hissing in the distance.

“If I die, you revive me. I’ve got my savior right here,” Bentley muttered, reaching up and tapping on Sevyn's eye, looking to his left. The sun was setting over the sector of Old Earth he was in -- called the Cosmodrome, if he remembered correctly. Being stuck there at night would not be a fun experience in the slightest.

Sevyn sighed heavily, shaking his head — well, technically, shaking his whole small robot self. In a disapproving, head shaking way. “If the Commander says you can’t leave the Tower, then you probably shouldn’t leave the tower. Following Crow, of all people! He’s so reckless; you know how many times Glint had to revive him in his pursuit of that Fallen Captain on his Hunt last week? Twenty-five! In one day!”

Bentley rubbed his hands together — it was getting cold now that the sun was setting, and his fingerless gloves weren’t exactly designed to help with warmth as much as they were to look cool. “He’s on a patrol. Patrols aren’t dangerous. I just need to find him.”

“Patrols aren’t…?“ Seven made an exasperated sound, his segments twitching wildly. “I know you think it’s unfair that you have to stay in the tower, but you were resurrected at thirteen! The Commander isn’t gonna send a thirteen year old Guardian into battle! There are good reasons you don’t know how to wield the Light!”

“So what, he expects me to stay in the Tower for my entire immortal life just so he doesn’t look bad? I’m never gonna get any older,” Bentley huffed, zipping up his brown bomber jacket. “Crow said he was going to The Forgotten Shore, didn't he?”

Sevyn bobbed up and down anxiously, his blue eye flicking around the area in a practiced, mechanical way. “And there’s about three hundred Fallen signals between you and there. How do you expect to get there?”

The teenager shrugged, eyes tracing the stone cliffside covered in vine. “Sneak?”

“Sneak around the aliens that can turn invisible and have the hearing of a wolf. Why didn’t I think of that?” Sevyn deadpanned. “I’m just going to teleport you back home so you can go sit in the corner and think about what you did.”

“What? No!” Bentley argued, reaching out to grab at the floating robot, who dodged his hand readily. “Stop it! I can do it! And if I can’t you can revive me!”

“Or we can go home and I can talk to the Commander about field work,” 

Bentley made a humph noise. “He would never let me do field work. He thinks I’m five.”

“Technically speaking, you’re a few centuries younger than most Guardians,”

“Sevyn!”

“Just saying!”

Bentley sighed softly, daring to peek out of his hiding spot just enough to catch a glimpse of his surroundings. He’d managed to find himself in a small canyon of sorts, with a shallow creek running through it, illuminated gold by the sunlight that was bound to fade soon. Rocks and boulders jutted out of the sparsely grassed terrain, gracing him with just a little bit of cover to utilize against the Fallen he could see skittering around the rocky landscape.

The sight of them made him grimace. He’d never really seen an alien before — not up close, and definitely not alone. Their quartet of blue eyes were glowing in the dimming sunlight, lanky, strange bodies adorned with metal-bent armor and shreds of fabric organized into some semblance of clothing. They moved, some like people, some like apes, some like spiders. They weren't much larger than him, but they carried guns, and knives, and grenades, all situated on themselves and clasped tightly in the extra hands that sprouted from the sides of their bodies. Aliens with two arms were creepy enough; Bentley wasn’t sure why Fallen needed four.

He glanced around until his eyes lingered on another boulder, maybe four or five yards from his current one, close to the cliffside and large enough to render him hidden.

Sevyn made a mechanical beep. “Don’t even think about it.”

Bentley moved his legs, forcing himself to crouch in the small space. “Thinking about it.”

Sevyn, with an exasperated sigh, de-materialized himself, dispersing into atoms that fizzled into the air and disappeared, waiting to re-materialize again when his Guardian called for him.

Or, the more likely situation, when Bentley got himself killed and needed to be resurrected.

(Oh, well. Real Guardians were well versed with death. Some of them died like thirty times a day! Bentley had never died before — well, he had, obviously, but he didn’t remember that one. Since he was technically a Guardian, dying now that he had a Ghost didn’t matter all that much. It was what Guardians did! He’d just come back, like everyone always did. No big deal. It wasn’t like it would be scary, or terrifying, or horrific, or anything, if he just came back to life afterwards...)

With a small noise of effort, he propelled himself forward so quickly his boots left skid marks in the mud. He kept low, ran lightly, slipping from one place of cover to the next without making much of a peep at all.

Ducking into the shadows and pressing his back hard against the new rock he was hidden behind, he exhaled heavily. Beyond that boulder, there weren’t many more large enough to hide him — smaller stones and a few sparse trees, too young and thin to conceal him from view. The walls of the canyon curved up and above him, but they offered no protection, besides maybe darkening the cover of night that was approaching. Maybe if he waited until it was pitch black, he could slip past unseen. The Forgotten Shore was only on the other end of the canyon; surely he could make it.

If Crow was even still there come nightfall.

Bentley flinched when something clattered against the cliffside to his left with a shrill clang. Glancing over, he caught sight of something small, flashing. Suddenly, Sevyn's disembodied voice emanated from his immaterial state:

"Grenade!"

Fortunately for Bentley's appendages and organs, it was only a flashbang -- which still had to have been the absolute worst experience of his whole risen life. Before he could as much as flinch away, the thing had erupted with a BOOM! that left his ears ringing a pitch that threatened to split his skull, a blinding flash of light sending a ripple of searing pain through his eyeballs and into his brain. Everything went white.

The world seemed to move in slow motion as the piercing pitch screamed in his head, completely enabling him from thinking about anything else. He seemed to bring his hands up to his face at a snail's pace, scrubbing at his eyes as he was rendered temporarily, completely, terrifyingly blind.

"Eyes up, Guardian!" Sevyn called.

Bentley willed his eyes open just enough to be greeted by a bright white fog and the faint, dancing colors of stone and sunlight filtering through the blindness, if only a little. The faint colors of stone, sunlight, and some dark blob that was moving right toward him.

He wasn't sure what kind of sound he made, but he was sure it was embarrassing as he all but threw himself out from behind the boulder, still vigorously rubbing at his eyes with one hand, scrambling away from what he assumed was an alien with the rest of his strength. A loud crack! echoed from beside him, and he flinched, though he couldn't see what it was.

He continued to scramble until the effects of the grenade faded enough for him to decipher that yes; the thing chasing him was a four-armed alien with glowing blue eyes and...

Four knives?!

He rolled to the side just quick enough to miss the Fallen when it jumped, all four knives sinking into the dirt where he had been with four bone-chilling shinks!

Bentley must've kicked up dust with the speed he forced himself off of the ground, eyes flicking around wildly -- in addition to the one with the knives, there had to be at least ten more Fallen closing in on him. There were two wielding a quartet of knives just like the first -- and two with nothing, but they seemed hungry for blood all the same, like they were ready to physically bludgeon him to death. The rest of them seemed to have homemade guns of various shapes and sizes -- guns Bentley wasn't very keen on examining any closer than he already was.

The alien with the knives lurched again, and one of the weaponless ones dove straight for his legs, both of which he managed to dodge by tumbling ungracefully backwards -- hitting the ground and forcing himself up again, fast. A blue laser flickered in his still foggy eyes, and he jerked to the left, a long trail of blue electricity shooting past his head with an audible zing! from one of their rifles.

"Oh my God!" He managed to squeak as he ran full-speed, hurrying back to the first boulder and jumping behind it with a thump. Strings of lightning and other identifiable projectiles from their guns barraged the ground next to his cover so vigorously the electricity made his hair stand up.

"Sevyn, what do I do?!" He practically begged, the dull sounds of ammunition and electricity against stone and dirt finally warding off the ever-present ringing from his ears. His chest was heaving, heart pounding in his chest -- how did Guardians do battle every day?

"Run!" Was his Ghost's panicked reply.

So Bentley did, and just in time, too -- all three of the fallen with the knives, and one with nothing, came crawling and leaping over the boulder just as he moved away from it, banging their blades and fists against solid stone.

Bentley's boots pounded on the mud as he fled as quickly as his body could manage, blitzing past his second cover-boulder and continuing full-speed deeper into the canyon, toward where Crow said he'd be. It couldn't be that far. It couldn't.

The cracks and zips and bams of projectiles shooting past him were nearly deafening, a few of them close enough to take the hair off his head. One lucky wire of electricity hit it's mark, leaving a graze of searing agony streaking across his left shoulder and tearing the fabric of his jacket away.

Bentley's response was a shrill: "Ah!" That bounced along the walls of the canyon, and bringing his hand up to touch the would only made it explode into an even worse pain. He bit his lip, hard, and forced himself on as fast as his legs could pump, farther from the way he'd come, deeper into uncharted territory.

It took about thirty seconds of running for his surroundings to quiet, for him to slow to more of a jog. His wound was already throbbing uncomfortably, and the leather of his jacket was singed and curled up there -- the whole thing was unbearably nasty and the longer he looked at it, the more he thought he might pass out. He searched for cover but there wasn't any; only a few young trees, the creek, and rocks too small to hide him. Surely the Fallen were chasing him -- he needed some kind of plan.

He didn't get any longer to think about it -- something he hadn't seen nor heard grabbed his ankles mid-jog and sent him hurling face-first into the mud. His head hit with a slam that threatened to leave him disoriented, but he couldn't afford to be disoriented right then. Instead, he flipped himself over on the ground, and a Fallen appeared out of thin air, shrieking indecipherably in his face.

(He'd forgotten Sevyn said they could turn invisible.)

"Ah!" He cried out in terror, writhing under the alien that was looming over top of him, straddling his lower-body with all six of its appendages. In a panic, he wrenched his left foot out of one of its hands and used every available ounce of strength to kick it directly in the head with the heel of his boot. It shrieked again, releasing his other ankle. Bentley scrambled back and off the ground, taking off again with nothing but sheer panic coursing through his veins.

His first instinct was to scream: "Crow!" As if the far-off Guardian would be able to hear him all the way from the beach. Yelling was a horrible idea, yes, but he didn't seem to comprehend that at the time.

Nevertheless, he continued to pitifully shout: "Crow!" as he weaved through the darkening canyon, searching for cover but getting repetitively let down. Tears were burning behind his eyes now, though not just from the pain of the gunshot. He could hear footsteps behind him, some skittering, some booming, and others thumping quickly just like his. He didn't dare turn around -- he might've died from horror.

"Sevyn -- Crow!" Was all he could manage at the speed he was moving, with the amount of terror that was coursing through his body. There was a mechanical beep that came from nowhere that let him know Sevyn was trying to contact Crow's Ghost, Glint. A moment later, the sound of a failed communication line returned.

Bentley sprinted, biting his tongue so hard the metallic taste of blood blossomed on in his mouth. The scuffling, screeching sounds of the Fallen continued behind him, the zing! of a rifle shooting past his head every so often. The canyon he was following veered hard to the right, so he did, too, hoping the new direction would provide him with cover.

He skidded to an ungraceful stop as soon as he took the turn, dread washing over him like a shockwave.

Right around the corner were three more Fallen. Not the ones that were chasing him, but bigger ones, with better armor, nicer clothes. They had the same lanky build, the quartet of arms, but they had to be at least two, maybe three Bentley's tall, carrying guns that were probably the size of his entire body.

Bentley stopped, heart ripping a hole in his ribcage, breathing so quickly he was starting to feel lightheaded. All three of the giant Fallen looked at him curiously, one of them stowing its gun on its back and pulling out two blades instead -- large ones, and curved, like katanas.

Bentley glanced back the direction he'd come, the smaller Fallen stumbling over themselves and falling over each other in pursuit of him. He couldn't get past them, there were too many -- but he couldn't get past the big ones, either... and the canyon left him nowhere else to run.

(He was going to die.)

In his moment of hesitation, one of the big aliens lunged forward and grabbed him by the ankle, picking him up and making him dangle completely upside down.

"No! Crow!" Bentley screamed, thrashing and writhing in its grip. He wasn't sure why, but the alien tilted its head at him like a confused dog before rearing back and throwing him -- yes, throwing him, probably ten yards before he hit the stone wall of the canyon with a slam! and crumpled to the dirt.

A terrible pain radiated through his body, the entire right side of his person stinging like fire from the impact.

“Sevyn…” Bentley mumbled, but he didn’t have any time to move — he was suddenly grabbed and flipped over violently, landing on his back with a harsh thump. One of the big Fallen was there — the one who’d pulled out the knives. The other two big ones were looming behind it like guards, and the little Fallen that had been chasing Bentley were skittering around and making noises, but they didn’t come near, like they were afraid of the larger ones.

Bentley attempted to scramble backwards on all fours, but the alien, with a few inhuman clicks and a tilt of its head, jumped on top of him and crouched there. Two of its hands found his shoulders, a third finding his forehead, all but drilling him into the dirt with such force that his right shoulder popped and cracked with a searing pain that made him cry out.

The Fallen’s glowing, beaty eyes seemed to bore into his skull as it held a knife in its free hand — the long, sort of katana looking weapon with machine parts at the hilt and coil wrapped around the blade. There were tiny bolts of electricity sparking and arcing around it.

(He was going to die.)

Bentley couldn’t see very good, and he quickly realized it was because he was starting to cry. “Crow!”

“Sh, sh, sh,” The Alien tutted, and Bentley writhed and thrashed under its weight when he realized they could talk. The thrashing didn’t do much good — the alien had to be nearly five times as heavy as him.

“Crow!” He tried, desperately — he could feel tears streaking down the sides of his face now, still obscuring his vision and blurring the image of the alien whose head was only about a foot from his. The Fallen pushed him harder into the ground, making his other shoulder crack and pop with a jolt of terrible pain.

His response, this time, was sobs.

“Now, now, little Light,” The Fallen started, its voice strange, like gurgling and clicking overlaid on top of a human voice. It was low, and gravely, too, like an old man who smoked too much. “It will hurt only for a moment, yes? I will aim directly for your heart, yes?”

Bentley writhed again when it reached down and simply tapped the blade of the knife on the left side of his jacket, right where his heart would be.

“Yes, I have had much practice,”

Bentley sobbed, trying to move, to escape, but failing miserably. “Sevyn…”

He didn’t want to die. He knew he could come right back to life, but he didn’t want that alien to sink its electric knife into his heart — he could only imagine what it felt like. An agony that wouldn’t even come close to any sensation he’d ever felt before.

How did other Guardian’s die every day?

With one last round of animalistic clicks, the Fallen lifted the knife far above Bentley’s chest, tilting its head again when the teenager tried one last time (and failed one last time) to wriggle out of its grip. He wasn’t strong enough — all the strength in his entire tiny body wasn’t strong enough.

“Please,” Bentley choked.

SHNNK.

It took Bentley about a whole five seconds to realize that there was not a knife in his chest.

Instead, there was a flash of something white.

Crow was suddenly on the large Fallen’s shoulders, his combat knife buried deep into the alien’s skull. Bentley had never been happier to see his blue skin and bright, cheesy armor. He didn't think he'd ever been happier to see a human shaped creature in his life.

The alien’s grip on Bentley’s body loosened, and Crow leaped off of it, kicking it to the side so its massive weight didn’t crash down on top of either of them. He landed a perfectly executed flip, his Hunter cape settling over his head and face so he had to shove it off.

“Bentley,” He scolded, though Bentley didn’t really hear it. He was too focused on staring at the body of the Fallen that was now laying beside him, twitching menacingly but showing no further signs of life.

That thing had almost… almost…

All of the other Fallen, small and large alike, leaped into action, charging at the battle’s newest arrival with shrieks of rage for their dead friend. The zips and bams of their guns returned, and Bentley stayed low to the ground, the body of the dead Fallen large enough for him to use as measly cover.

Bentley watched in a silent sort of shock as a full-blown battle played out before his eyes. Crow dodged the Fallen’s projectiles with some kind of backwards summersault the child couldn’t even seem to comprehend, whipping Hawkmoon — the largest revolver Bentley had ever seen — out of a holster on his hip. He spun it around his fingers before he began repeatedly flicking the hammer, sending out eight back-to-back bam, bam, bams, each one resulting in a Fallen crumpling into an unmoving heap on the ground.

One of the large ones, now armed with a giant, electricity-sparking sword, swung for Crow’s head, which he ducked and slid away from just in time to not get decapitated. He dropped the cylinder from Hawkmoon and replaced it just as fast, turning and unleashing a lightning-fast stream of eight bullets into the monster’s chest. It roared, staggered, and hit the ground.

Its roar echoed and bounced through the canyon with a chillingly repetitive melody. Bentley watched in silence as Crow extended his hand, a ball of fire forming and spluttering in the air above his palm until he threw it right at the smaller Fallen that were attacking as a group — it exploded into a huge wall of flame that charred and burned the aliens into lifeless crisps on impact.

“Eyes up!”

Bentley looked up, coming face-to-face with Sevyn, who was hovering right in front of him. The little Ghost’s segments spun and twitched worriedly, his robotic eye flicking about Bentley’s form with a little bit of pity in its mechanical iris. “I’ve got you, Guardian.”

Sevyn then moved toward Bentley’s left shoulder, a small spray of light shining from his eye onto the teenager’s wounds that almost felt like a layer of cold mist. Bentley couldn’t help but sigh in relief as the pain was warded away, the Ghost’s Light slowly rebuilding and reattaching the very atoms of his flesh — closing up the gunshot wound and shifting his shoulders back into place in mere moments. The scratches and bruises he could already feel forming across his body from hitting the cliffside dulled in discomfort in seconds, until they disappeared entirely from existence.

In only a moment, Bentley was whole again.

Sevyn moved forward, tapping himself gently against Bentley’s forehead in an affectionate gesture, before fizzling into atoms again.

When Bentley looked up, all of the Fallen were dead, and Crow was standing in the midst of the corpses, revolver in one hand, his Ghost, Glint, hovering just above the other. The little crimson robot moved about the older Guardian, shining his healing light on his injuries and mending them in a blink. He disappeared into a fizzle of atoms right after.

Bentley exhaled shakily, bringing a dirty hand up to wipe and his still watering eyes. He scooted slowly away from the body of the Fallen he had been using for cover, cringing at the still sparking knife that was laying in the dirt not a foot from his boot -- the knife it was going to sink into his chest. Into his heart. He brought one hand up to his jacket and tugged at it, eyes unmoving.

It was only then that he noticed how badly his hands were still shaking — how hard his heart was pumping, how shallowly and quickly and shakily he was still breathing. He couldn’t really get much air into him at all. And he couldn't seem to stop crying.

Crow’s boots came to a stop in front of him. “What are you doing outside of the Tower?” He all but demanded.

Bentley opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, eyes locked solely on the alien corpse. After a few moments of that, Crow moved forward and hauled him off the ground, gently, setting him on his wobbly feet and checking him over for injuries. The older Guardian was speaking, but Bentley couldn’t really hear it, his eyes still lingering on the knife. The crack, crack, crack of the electric blade made him want to throw it off a cliff. He sniffed and hiccuped as softly as he could, bringing a hand up in an attempt to quiet it.

“Hey, focus on me, Little Light,”

Bentley blinked when Crow manually turned his head so their gazes met. He was taller than the teenager by maybe a foot, maybe more, his dazzling skin a pale blue that looked foreign next to Bentley’s pasty beige. He pushed some of his black and white hair back from his eyes, the glowing, orange orbs locking onto Bentley’s and staying there. He wasn’t sure how old Crow was — he looked to be in his early twenties, but for all the teenager knew, he could’ve been hundreds of years old. But however old he was, he was familiar -- and that was comforting enough.

Bentley broke their eye contact to look straight down at his own boots, rubbing at his eyes, pushing his red hair out of his face.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered.

With a sigh, Crow put his hand on the back of Bentley's head and tugged him into his chest. “You’re okay, kid.”

Bentley squeezed his eyes shut and kept his hands over his face, the sudden hug only seeming to make the crying worse. “That was so scary.”

“I know,”

There was a little whoosh that let Bentley know Sevyn had materialized by his side, and a second whoosh, which must’ve been Crow’s Ghost appearing, too.

"Let's get you out of here, yeah?" Sevyn's voice came, close to his head.

Before Bentley could respond, a low rumble shook the ground beneath their boots, the loud, menacing whir of an approaching ship piercing the air. Bentley pulled away from Crow to glance up to the sky — in not a millisecond, a large ship was hanging there, casting a huge, dark shadow over them. It looked almost primordial, cobbled together skillfully with metals and machines.

Bentley was no expert on alien things, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t a Guardian’s ship.

“Sevyn, get Bentley out of here. Now,” Crow demanded, pulling the shiny silver revolver from his hip and replacing the cylinder in one swift motion. Glint, his little crimson Ghost, spun and then disappeared in a fizzle of atoms.

Sevyn hovered up next to Bentley’s head, his purple segments spinning, emanating a few small beeping sounds. “I… I can’t. Something in that Fallen ship is jamming my signal! I’ve never felt anything like it before — like a solid wall between us and the Vanguard!”

“Splicers?” Crow whispered. Bentley didn’t know what those were, and he decided he probably didn’t want to. Crow glanced back at him, reaching back and squeezing his shoulder. “Hide. And Sevyn; stay out of sight.”

Sevyn fizzled away, and Bentley quickly returned to the only cover in the area — behind the body of the big, dead Fallen.

Not a second after he was hidden, the bottom of the ship sprung open, and several mechanical arms came out of it. They each held an alien, and dropped them from the ship onto the ground before retracting and fetching another.

Bentley immediately noticed three things about this particular group of Fallen:

1) They were all the big kind, some even bigger than the dead one he was hiding behind. And their armor was nicer, cleaner, better. They dawned capes and hoods that looked like they could’ve been made by people instead of the rough looking outfits the little ones had been wearing. 

2) They all seemed to have some type of machinery on them, wether that be strange, glowing goggles over their blue eyes, backpacks that looked more like a giant radio with antennas, or literal limbs replaced by robotic parts. He wasn’t sure why, but they were more off-putting than the normal Fallen.

And 3) Their weapons looked better, more powerful, though there were more knives and swords and less guns — only three with guns, really; and they all seemed really angry.

There were probably two dozen of them, and only one Crow. The ship whirred and shot off, disappearing into the sky beyond, leaving its warriors behind.

Even starkly outnumbered by aliens twice and three times his size, Crow didn’t hesitate to leap into action. One of the Fallen shot at him with a big, strange rifle — a glowing orange projectile that whirred and made weird noises. Crow dodged it by sliding directly at the alien's feet, coming back up and swiping at the hammer of Hawkmoon, sending three methodical shots into the Fallen — chest, throat, head. It hit the ground.

Bentley stayed crouched behind the corpse as low as he could, and Sevyn’s disembodied voice came from nowhere: “As soon as I get a stable connection, I’m sending you anywhere but here!”

“We’re just going to leave him?” Bentley whispered, watching Crow dodge another electric knife-sword-thing and slide between a huge Fallen’s legs, popping up behind him and jerking on its cape with his full weight. It’s back arched, sending its head down to Crow’s level, and he sent two bullets into it. Its body made a thump.

“He’d appreciate the sentiment, Guardian, but given the fact that you have zero training or abilities to fight with, staying is… well, kind of stupid,”

Bentley said nothing, but watched Crow do another chest-neck-head trio of shots, dropping his cylinder and replacing it with another while dodging a blade with some kind of flip-spin-thing. Three huge Fallen down, twenty-ish to go.

“I’m reading the Tower! It’s faint, but it’s there! Probably only a few more minutes before I can get you there!” Sevyn announced.

Crow released more rounds and dropped two more Fallen, dodging strange orange projectiles and blades like he was nothing more than a shadow. The aliens, big and strong as they were, seemed to be no match for an agile Hunter like him. 

(Bentley wished the Commander would let him learn how to fight like that.)

As if on queue with Bentley’s thoughts, Crow got struck in the shoulder by one of the strange orange projectiles with a ding! sound against his armor. There was no blood, and he didn't seem to be in pain. There was a tiny metal machine stuck to him instead, and orange electricity suddenly exploded out of it with a loud, crackling vengeance.

Bentley heard him cry out, collapsing and convulsing when the electricity pulsed through his body. The nearest Fallen grabbed him by the cloak and lifted him as though he were weightless, slinging him into a nearby cliff with a crack.

Bentley flinched, but before he could even move, Sevyn announced: “Don’t you dare get yourself seen! I mean it, Guardian!”

Crow’s Ghost began to materialize next to him, but he must’ve told him not to, because he waved his hand and the robot never fully appeared. The group of up-teen massive, scary Fallen were crowding where he laid, and like he was being tortured, Bentley had a line of sight directly between the aliens. Directly to Crow.

(He’d never seen another Guardian — or anyone — die before. Did he even want to watch?)

Sevyn answered that for him. “Don’t look, Guardian.”

Bentley couldn't look away.

Instead, he watched Crow flick his hand, summoning three sparks of fire that turned into flaming knives that he launched into the two nearest Fallen. One of the aliens caught two of the fiery blades in the face, stumbling back with a terrible screech. The other blade lodged in another Fallen’s throat; it went limp on impact.

The other seventeen closed in on Crow like a swarm of vultures.

Bentley saw him lift his hand up toward the sky like some sort of last stand — reaching for the final beams of fading sunlight. The Traveler was up there, too, the huge, white orb hovering over the planet like a second moon. Bentley wondered if it ever responded to Guardians… after all, it was what gave them their power, their Ghosts.

Bentley’s eyes drifted back down to Crow, whose hand was still outstretched — and the fleeting beams of sun came down to meet him.

With a loud whoosh and a flash of light, Crow’s entire body was engulfed in Solar Light, setting him on fire from the crown of his head to the soles of his boots without as much as singing his armor. In his outstretched hand formed a pistol made of pure flame — a rapid fire revolver like the one he carried. 

Bentley flinched when the ablaze Hunter fired a fan of six shots into the crowd of Fallen with loud, almost deafening bangs, much much louder than Hawkmoon. The bullets, blazing with a fiery rage, incinerated the massive Fallen on impact and then continued to the ones behind, blowing fiery holes larger than a shotgun slug through their bodies and disintegrating them into piles of ash. A wave of heat washed over Bentley all the way from where he was, staring in shock and awe. Not an alien was left standing.

He’d never actually seen a Guardian do that before — channel all of their Light into a mega-magic-assault capable of destroying entire hordes of massive aliens. Vanguard slang called them supers, the most violent offense a Guardian could have in their arsenal — a final call to the Traveler’s magic for help, a last stand, an unleashing of all the power left within. The one Crow had just performed, Bentley had learned over the years, was referred to as The Golden Gun.

Crow then slumped back against the cliffside, the flames that had swallowed him fading, still convulsing and jerking thanks to the orange electricity coming from whatever little machine was stuck to him. Glint materialized next to him, frantically fluttering about, and Bentley shifted.

“Don’t! I’m still picking up Fallen signals inside the-“

Bentley ignored Sevyn’s orders and sprung to his feet, jogging across the now-empty canyon and little creek to Crow’s side.

“Crow!” He exclaimed, dropping to a crouch next to him. He eyed the little metal thing on Crow’s shoulder that was creating the electricity, and then he reached for it.

“Bentley, no!” Sevyn exclaimed, and Bentley cried out and flinched away when the strange electricity jumped to his hand, not only electrocuting him, but leaving his skin and muscles burning and tingling like he was holding his hand inside a extremely hot fire. 

Sevyn materialized next to him in a blink, shining his healing light on it, immediately cooling it and staving the pain. “Need I teach you not to touch strange alien electronics?”

Bentley glanced from Sevyn back to Crow, who was jerking and writhing on the dirt under the influence of the electricity. His features were contorted into an expression of agony, and Glint was floating about, lost, watching as though Crow's pain hurt him, too.

Bentley eyed the little metal machine on his shoulder again.

"Bentley..." Sevyn started, glancing between him and Crow. "If you're thinking-"

Before Sevyn could continue his likely long-winded protest of his Guardian's impulsiveness, Bentley moved as fast as he could, biting his tongue and shooting his hand forward, ripping the small machine from Crow's shoulder in a blink.

It felt like he got struck by lightning, and he couldn't help but shout in pain when the electricity seared and stabbed its way up his whole arm. He threw the little machine to the side as his muscles tensed and tightened under his skin in response to the electric pulse.

"Sevyn!" He managed, shaking out his arm like it would help; tears immediately springing in his eyes at the strange numb-veins-filled-with-lava feeling it left him with.

"Geez, stop taking after the reckless ones!" Sevyn all but scolded, moving toward Bentley's arm and shining his healing light there, too. In his peripheral, Bentley could see Glint doing the same, moving methodically about Crow's body, starting at the worst of it and moving on from there.

"Will he be okay?" Bentley asked softly as Sevyn finished healing his arm for the second time, the small robot hovering close by his head. Crow seemed practically unconscious -- though Bentley didn't blame him. He probably would've blacked out on the spot, had his entire body been electrocuted like that.

"Of course he will. It'll just take me a bit to patch him up. What were you doing out here, anyways?" Glint questioned, still floating about Crow's battered body. Bentley shrugged.

"Just wanted to... do something. Other than sitting in the Tower all day,"

Glint hummed in response. "Ye old person-isolated-against-their-will-breaks-out-and-nearly-dies act. I could have assumed. No hate, of course -- I'm not one to talk. Crow and I spent a long time living under someone else's will, too."

Bentley's eyes trailed down to the ground he was sitting on, and Sevyn bumped himself against his shoulder supportively. "Chin up, Guardian."

Suddenly, the ground shook again, and Bentley, along with the two Ghosts, glanced around the canyon.

A second ship just like the first swooped down toward them, and a horrendous amount of dread blossomed in Bentley's stomach at the sight of the bottom opening up, mechanical arms extending outward.

He inhaled shakily, shifting on the ground. "Glint?"

Crow's Ghost was now working frantically, beeping in a weird pattern that indicated anxiety. "I'm working as fast as I can!"

The robotic arms reached into the ship and came back out with more Fallen -- the same, massive ones whose bodies were littering the floor of the canyon. It dropped two with a thud, and two more after. They were all carrying the terrible electric blades -- all but one, who had a gun that resembled a sniper rifle whose barrel was glowing orange.

There was a whoosh of Sevyn disappearing. "Hide, Glint!" He said from nowhere.

Crow's Ghost kept working despite Sevyn's words, bathing his Guardian in Light. "I'm almost done!"

"If you get sniped, you could cost Crow his life!"

Bentley barely heard the two robots bickering -- instead, he watched in silence as the huge Fallen zeroed in on him and Crow, clicking back and forth like they were communicating. The ship sped off into the distance and left the four aliens there, alone, with Bentley and two panicking robots; and the only one there that could defend them was hardly conscious.

Bentley blinked, and stared at the aliens, the strange realization that he was actually about to die washing over him and leaving him feeling oddly cold. (Didn't getting revived after make it okay...? Why didn't it feel okay?)

The Fallen with the rifle lifted it and pulled the trigger, a beam of orange electricity arcing through the air right toward them -- though it didn't hit Bentley; It was aimed at Glint, who narrowly dodged it by ducking to the side. The beam cracked loudly against the cliffside behind them.

Bentley reached out and grabbed Crow's Ghost by his eye, getting him out of sight the one way he knew how -- by holding him behind his back.

"Whoa, kid!"

"Bentley!"

Bentley looked forward, and all four of the massive Fallen were staring at him.

(He was about to die.)

But the Fallen didn't rush to take him down, no -- the one with the gun even stowed it, pulling out blades instead. They moved forward at a slow, menacing crawl, clicking back and forth, eyes trained on Bentley like they were mocking him. He stepped backwards until the heel of his boot nudged Crow's leg.

"Tiny Guardian," One in the front said -- it's voice sounded vaguely female, raspy and layered. It swiped its blades across one another with a shnnnnk. "Thought Lightbearers were bigger, yes?"

Bentley said nothing as the four of them moved closer like animals stalking their prey, eyes bouncing between the four of them. Their glowing, empty eyes, creepy, lanky statures. Part of him wanted to run and never stop, but the thought of leaving Crow there vulnerable and in the open made him feel vaguely sick. The fact that he could be brought back to life wasn't good enough to make Bentley's feet move. Glint wiggled around in his hand, fighting against his grip, but he didn't dare let him go.

"The Great Machine makes bad choice, yes," One of the others replied, a lower baritone. Did they mean the Traveler? "Yes; tiny Lightbearer smells of fear. Fear of death. Tiny Lightbearer has not met her yet."

Her? Her as in death?

Bentley cleared his throat, and the four of them glanced back at him with their glowing eyes, curiously. "I'm... right here, you know. Gossiping is bad."

Sevyn made a strangled noise in his immaterial state, likely revolting against Bentley's audacity.

The one closest to him -- that sounded vaguely like a girl -- made a few clicks, coming closer. "Tiny Lightbearer speaks, yes. Has attitude. Reminds Avix of her own son."

Bentley flinched with a gasp when she sprung towards him on all-sixes, crawling across the ground and rising back up mere feet from him. He scrambled backwards until he thudded into the cliffside next to Crow's unconscious form, keeping Glint hidden behind his back.

The alien stood, and stared, tilting her head back and forth with a few clicks. Bentley could practically feel his heart trying to escape his chest.

"Tiny Lightbearer is... harmless, yes." She said, turning to the other three and clicking. Then she looked back at Bentley, holding out one of her three-fingered hands. "Give Avix Little Machine -- then run, yes?"

Bentley tightened his hold around Glint, exhaling shakily, staring at her hand. "Uh... n-no."

He gasped when the giant Fallen -- Avix -- moved forward, forcing him backwards until he was pinned between the cliffside and her, Glint pinned tightly behind him. She reached forward at the speed of a cobra's strike and grabbed his face with her giant, gross hand, squeezing lightly. Bentley let out a sound akin to a squeak, his other hand coming up in an attempt to bat her's away, a burn already threatening to surface behind his eyes.

"G... get off," He said, but it wasn't threatening in the slightest.

Avix kept getting closer, crouching down until her face was mere inches from his own, her glowing eyes staring right into his. The crackling of her electrified blade came from one of her other hands, and his eyes flicked to it momentarily.

"Look at me!" She shrieked deafeningly in his face, and Bentley couldn't help but jump out of his skin, forcing himself to lock gazes with her again. The burn behind his eyes got worse, and his vision started going watery -- he didn't want to die.

"Tiny Lightbearer cries, yes. Has not met death. Smells of much fear, yes, much fear," She stammered, shaking his face when he glanced at the blade again, forcing his eyes back on her. "Give Avix little machine -- Tiny Lightbearer will not meet her. Avix says so. Avix is leader, yes. Others will not kill what Avix does not kill."

Bentley glanced back at the other three Fallen, who were staying in the distance, weapons drawn, lurking here and there in the now almost pitch-black canyon.

The odd feeling of Glint de-materializing between his fingertips made something in Bentley relax.

Carefully, he lifted both of his hands to the giant alien, palms out and open, revealing that there was no robot there.

Avix jerked Bentley away from the wall to check behind him, and when there was nothing there, she made a loud, unidentifiable screech and shoved him into the stone with a thud so hard it seemed to rattle his bones and leave his head foggy. With a few clicks and hisses, she stalked her way back to the other three and turned on her heel.

“Tiny Lightbearer dies,” She growled, and the one behind her pulled out its rifle again. “His body comes with Avix, yes. I have plans for when Tiny Lightbearer rises. He will not disrespect Avix again, yes, yes.”

They were going to kill him? And then take him with them?

Bentley glanced at Crow, who was still unresponsive.

“Sevyn?”

“It’s now or never, Guardian! Channel the Traveler’s Light! Call on it! I’ll help you the best I can!” Sevyn exclaimed from nowhere.

“I can’t use the Light!” Bentley replied, and a wire of orange shot from the rifle, zinging right past his head, only narrowly missing thanks to a well-timed duck.

“Now would be a great time to learn!” Sevyn shouted. “Just imagine yourself destroying all these Fallen using the Light!”

With no other options, Bentley ducked behind one of the massive Fallen bodies and closed his eyes, hoping and praying the Traveler would help him.

“Feel the Light inside of you, Guardian. It is in you, whether you believe it is or not. You can do this,” Sevyn mumbled. Another zing! went past Bentley, and he flinched. “Focus — Concentrate. I have my eye on the Fallen.”

Bentley tried. How was he supposed to feel the Light now when he’d never felt it before? He’d heard stories — that most Guardians found their Light in times of dire trouble, and he was pretty sure getting kidnapped by aliens counted. 

“Tiny Lightbearer!” Avix’s enraged voice came, growing closer to him. “Hiding is futile when Avix knows where you are, yes!”

Bentley focused really hard on his own body, imagining the Light like Sevyn had said. How did other Guardians do this so easily, so fluidly?

“Tiny Lightbearer will make Avix good pet, yes! Fun to watch squirm!” She shouted, her voice drawing nearer and nearer.

Bentley suddenly felt… strange. Not in a bad way, though — strange like something simultaneously cold and boiling was pooling in his fingertips. Like something was moving through his veins, like gasoline -- cool, but also ready to explode. He peeled his eyes open to glance at his hands, and-

They were surging with bright, glowing Arc Light, white-blue bolts of electricity sparking from his fingertips and crackling across his skin, though it didn’t hurt. It felt like his whole being was buzzing, vibrating in anticipation. He felt… empowered.

“Now, Guardian!”

At Sevyn’s mark, Bentley stood up and turned, extending his electrified palms outward. An unknown, never-before-felt power surged inside of him. Electricity seemed to burst out of his entire body, crackling, striking, bolts of lightning crawling across his skin and cracking atop his clothes. It illuminated the entire canyon in the nighttime with a blinding, luminescent glow.

He felt his feet leave the ground. Avix and her three minions were not too far from where he was, now, blades and rifle drawn to attack.

Bentley cried out when power exploded from him, a solid beam of screaming electricity shooting from the palm of his right hand. It slammed directly into Avix’s chest, knocking her backwards maybe six or seven yards, boring a charred hole through her chest and disintegrating her entire body not a second after. Bentley made a sound of surprise as the smell of charred flesh and static electricity filled the air.

“Keep going, Guardian! You’re doing it!” Sevyn encouraged, sounding probably the giddiest he ever had. At his excitement, Bentley turned his sights to the other three Fallen, and the beam of electricity followed where he led. He raked it across the final trio of aliens and it blitzed right through them, severing their bodies in half before incinerating them completely.

As soon as the four Fallen were dead, Bentley’s power, as well as all his remaining strength, fled, and he fell a few feet before crashing hands-and-knees in the dirt. His whole body was still buzzing, his arms and legs tingling with the remnants of leftover power. Everything around him seemed to be swimming a little, sounds muffled and vision swirling around his head. He felt like he could go to bed and sleep for a year.

There were two little whooshes next to his face.

“You did it! You casted a super! Bentley, you’re a Warlock!” Sevyn all but screamed, hovering up close to his face, tapping himself gently on his forehead over and over. “You’re a Warlock! A Warlock!”

There was a small sound of Glint finishing his healing process, and Bentley heard Crow groan, sitting up a few yards to his right. 

“Ugh. That was unpleasant,”

“While you were down, Bentley casted a super! Chaos Reach!” Sevyn screamed at him. “He’s a Warlock, Crow, a Warlock!”

With a grunt of effort, Bentley pushed his vibrating body off of the ground and onto his feet, teetering a bit on reaching his full height. Black dots danced around in his vision, but didn’t fully take over -- like they were taunting him. He couldn’t even seem to process the words Sevyn was screaming right in his face.

In the blink of an eye, Crow had come up next to him, both Ghosts hovering by his side. 

“Yeah, he sure looks like he casted his first super,” Crow said with a snicker, and Bentley felt his gloved hand land on his left shoulder. He looked up at the older Guardian, but he couldn’t really focus on his pale blue face. 

“Yep, there you go,”

Bentley didn't even realize he’d fallen over until he was hoisted limply up into Crow’s arms, settled against the soft front of his cloak. 

“Mm… Sorry,” He hummed.

“Nah, you’re doing great to stay conscious at all. I passed flat out as soon as I came out of my first super. In the middle of a horde of Taken, no less,”

Bentley didn’t know anything about Taken besides the fact that they were aliens, but he also didn’t have the willpower to ask.

“I’ve gotcha, kid. Glint, Sevyn, to the Tower please,” Crow ordered.

“On it!”

Bentley’s world proceeded to fade to black, but his hearing remained just long enough for him to hear Crow inhale and exhale deeply.

“I'm so dead for this.”

Asten’s story is below ↴

IN GAME CHAOS REACH:

IN GAME GOLDEN GUN:

ASTEN ↴

THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE LAST CITY, OLD EARTH, SOL SYSTEM -- 6:16PM

--

YOU SEE, ASTEN WAS A TOUGH KID. Tougher than most. Growing up homeless on the outskirts of the Last City presented him with no shortage of things he had to endure in order to merely survive — muggings, beatings, high-stakes chases, a life of thievery, actually getting stabbed, twice, flashy guns waved in his face, really bad habits, and lots of time spent cursing his existence into the wind. He’d survived more things than he’d like to admit in all his sixteen years. Forcing himself to fight with a knife in his shoulder and still coming out on top, having a Guardian called on him and watching it's Ghost scramble to resurrect them nearly six times before they ever got close enough to put a hand on him. In his mind, he was invincible — or at least he could be, when he needed to.

That invincibility seemed to have fled on this particular day, because he’d woken up having apparently caught the Black Plague. It was hard to move, to think, to breathe, to see, to hear — he felt trashier than a full dumpster from the Fallen District, and given he’d managed a stab wound and cauterization with half as much suffering, he knew he’d be down for the count, and soon.

So, he soldiered through it in his incredibly Asten way, willing himself to fix it before it killed him. He forced his way to the nearest pharmacy, walked in circles around it for about an hour, almost passed out twice, before he was able to form some semblance of a plan within his muddied brain.

And of course, it had backfired. Now, he was in a fenced-off back-alley of The Last City that he often used as a hideout, with a small pack full of stolen medicine, an entire platoon of security searching for him, and about as much will to move as a blade of grass. (Running at full-speed for a solid ten minutes away from the pharmacy hadn’t been the most brilliant idea for a kid sporting a fever so high he could practically hear his brain frying.)

Any other night after stealing something big like a bag full of expensive medicine, he’d be watching his surroundings extra carefully — moving to different hideouts methodically until the initial search was over and security gave him room to breathe… but tonight he wasn’t. Tonight, he was barely hidden from view by various dumpsters and trash cans, curled up, shivering on the cool concrete. It was mostly quiet there, and he could hear the wind whistling through the city. The only things that accompanied him in the dark, gross alley was the trash, a chain-link fence, and the walls. That was all.

While the air was pleasantly cool for the other inhabitants of the city, for him, it was an icy cold that made his skin tingle. He was shivering despite his blackish-blue hair and first layer of clothes being drenched with sweat. The strong smells coming from several different establishments and sewers were only working to make his head hurt worse and his stomach turn unsettlingly. Which, for him, was strange. Usually, the very prospect of food would have him climbing through vents or breaking open windows if it meant he wouldn’t have to go hungry for another day, but right now, he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything other than disgust at the very thought.

The stars shone brightly above the Last City. He would usually be staring at them, watching them move with a nonchalant air about him, going from here to there and sending guards to the wrong places over and over again. But tonight, he didn’t really have the willpower to open his eyes. Right now, he didn’t even have the willpower to take any of the stolen medicine.

He winced as his head throbbed with a newer, sharper pain than it had all day, probably in response to pushing his body way farther than it should’ve been pushed. He coiled up tighter. He was really glad no one really traveled those alleys, because he must’ve looked more pitiful than a crippled puppy. His arms and legs were aching in a way that made him want to weep, feeling like they were tied to cinder blocks he had to drag around with him. His head felt like it was full of cotton, hazy and blurry and a feeling a little bit like it might explode, like it had too much of something in it. Every organ in his body was revolting its very existence, and he swore he’d rather have a knife in him again than feel like that.

He’d made doubly sure his trusty sniper-rifle was within grasp — an old thing, dropped by a guy in a fight long ago — which, naturally, had led to him clutching onto the faithful firearm like other kids would a stuffed animal. It was smushed against his torso, safety on, because he had his arms wrapped securely around himself as to not upset his body anymore. It wasn’t the best weapon for close quarters fighting like running from security in the city, but it was all he had. He was pretty good at hip firing the thing anyways — not that he was looking to blow anyone’s head off anytime soon.

Even when he was wholly convinced he was dying, vague thoughts still pestered his mind — like the fact that most security knew about this particular hideout, and that most security definitely knew what he looked like, blue hair and all. He would’ve ditched his clothes and hid his hair after a normal heist. Instead, he pressed his burning forehead into the cool concrete beneath him and grimaced.

He drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. Sleep seemed like it would be a sweet release from the terrible state his body was in, but he couldn’t actually seem to fall asleep. Not while he had to keep one eye open for security. When they got here, he’d run, he kept telling himself. Just five more minutes. When he heard them, he’d go.

Those five more minutes turned into an indecipherable amount of time loathing his existence on the ground before a pair of voices flitted down the alley and made his head hurt worse.

“Are you sure this is where they said he went? There’s nothing out here!” Said a small voice — quiet, and somewhat… robotic? “They said he’d been stealing for years, surely he'd have a better place to hide!”

“I’m pretty sure hiding somewhere unsuspecting is the point, Glint. Run a thermal scan,”

Asten immediately forced his heavy eyes open as a realization dawned on him — that the first voice had been too robotic to be a human’s, overlaid with something mechanical. The second, too calm, too unbothered to be a guard on the City outskirts where sketchy people lurked and bad things crept in the shadows.

This wasn’t a pair of security guards — this was a Ghost and a Guardian. 

They’d sicced a Lightbearer on him, again.

He felt his heart rate pick up as he pushed himself upright, the entire world spinning there for a few seconds before he was able to right himself. He fumbled for his bag and his rifle, forcing himself onto his feet only to careen into the alley wall thanks to the black dots dancing in his vision that had invited their friend violent vertigo to the party.

Last time they’d sent a Guardian out to pursue him, the Titan had been so brutal with his magical-superpowers and epic-hand-to-hand-skills that he didn’t let Asten breathe until he couldn’t move. Until he was beaten and battered and had lost enough blood that the huge Titan was able to drag him through the city streets by the collar of his jacket without a single sound falling from Asten’s lips except soft, nearly unidentifiable sobs. He’d been thirteen then. He wondered if all Guardians had a knack for torturing children who were just trying to live.

Something cold and mean blossomed in his chest when he realized that, in this state, he wouldn’t be able to survive a beating like that again.

Instead of deciding on something rational, like turning himself in, or simply begging for mercy and letting them know he was the sickest he’d ever been in his life, his first instinct was to grab a magazine from his belt and jam it into the bottom of his sniper rifle.

This Guardian was not going to touch him.

“I’m picking up a heat signature in the next alley,” Came the Ghost’s voice.

Once the vertigo had mostly subsided, Asten forced himself to move even though it made him feel like passing out and throwing up and maybe even dying on the spot. The chain-link fence on the opposite end of the alley would do little to keep the Guardian out, but maybe it’d give him just a little head-start. At this point, he’d take what he could get. He pushed himself out the back end of the alley, between the old buildings and the the city walls, and went to the left. Forced himself to move quickly and quietly even though it felt like torture, watching buildings pass as he went.

Once he reached a reasonable distance away, he turned back and shouldered his sniper rifle, sliding the lever with a click-click so it loaded a round. Bringing the sights up to his face, he let the reticle rest just on the mouth of the alley he’d left.

He wouldn’t feel bad for killing him. He wouldn’t. He’d just come right back to life… like Guardians always did. Better that Ghost have to work than Asten be reduced to a pretty little stain on the concrete. A pretty little stain on the concrete that didn’t have a Ghost to bring it back to life.

Not two seconds later, a Guardian broke the threshold of the alley — a Hunter, it looked like, for a long cape flowed behind his back. He looked strange, dawning white armor that sort of looked like scales, or feathers, maybe, with pale blue Awoken skin and no helmet. He had a large, shiny revolver in his hand that reflected light right in Asten’s eyes.

No helmet — a rookie mistake.

In one fluid, mechanical movement, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, Asten held his breath and took the shot.

BOOM!

Even though he was crouched, the recoil nearly knocked him over in his weak state, the boom leaving a piercing ring in his ears that threatened to crack his skull. The Guardian’s head exploded in a mist of red.

At the sight, Asten’s entire body twisted — his mind, his conscience, his morality, his guts — and his response in his sickly state was to gag. The ringing was still present in his ears, and he let the sniper rifle fall to brace one hand on the ground, staying crouched in the back-alley. Black dots came into his vision and danced around some more.

He let out a string of curses he barely heard, forcing his eyes back up to the body of the Hunter. His Ghost was hovering over him, glowing, its segments split wide open and spinning around a ball of bright Light.

Asten knew Ghost mannerisms well enough to know the Hunter was about to be resurrected. And he couldn’t be here when he was.

With that realization, he grabbed his rifle and forced himself onto his feet, again, still not hearing or seeing very well, his entire body screaming at him to stop. But he didn’t; instead, he forced himself forward and past a few more alleyways, only taking a right turn into one that he knew contained a fire escape. He fell into a wheezy, barky coughing fit that left him breathless and hardly able to stay upright; The only thing keeping him off the concrete at this point was pure adrenaline.

He reached for the medicine bag to make sure it was still on his shoulder, a terrible ache settling in his chest after the bout of coughing — a kind of soreness in his lungs that made even breathing painful. He wiped at his involuntarily watering eyes and pushed himself up the stairs of the fire escape, settling on the first platform and jerking on the lever of his sniper again, loading another round. The movement sent more pain streaking through his chest, and he coughed and coughed until he was seeing stars, felt unbearably hot, and thought his lungs might splat on the fire escape.

Luckily, they didn’t. Unluckily, the violent coughing made his lava-filled stomach churn, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before it demanded to have his undivided attention.

Despite the fact that his whole body felt like it might cave in on him, he crouched and lifted the rifle to his shoulder again, settling his eye on the scope. His arms proved too weak and shaky to hold it still, so he rested the barrel on the railing and aimed at the mouth of the alley. 

“-this way!” The Ghost’s voice echoed in his head. 

As soon as the white-clad Guardian rounded the corner, Asten wasted no time, a second shot from the sniper rifle ringing out and leaving an explosion of blood and another limp Guardian in it's wake. His Ghost appeared hovering over him — a little crimson robot with a worried air about him.

The recoil from the shot jolted Asten’s entire body. He saw stars again, heard nothing but ringing — a dagger of pain shot all the way through his torso, his shoulder, lungs, stomach, so sudden and sharp that it made him cry out. He reached for his thin jacket in an attempt to stave the pain — a terrible mistake, for his sniper rifle tipped over the railing and, even though he reached for it, his reflexes were botched. It dropped to the ground below with the telltale clatter of concrete on metal.

He looked up at the Ghost, the stars slowly fading from his vision; the little robot was staring at him. 

He stared back.

And it dawned on him — now it was a race.

The Ghost immediately turned back to its Guardian and opened up frantically, expelling a bright light. Asten, with all his senses shot, conscious from nothing more than mere spite, forced himself to stumble back down the metal stairs. He had to focus all of his remaining energy into his legs just to keep from face-planting. And then-

And then another round of ultra-violent coughing sprung forth from inside of him, completely halting him in his tracks. His chest rattled and constricted with a vengeance, putting him in so much pain he actually considered crying. He had to completely stop moving just to keep from hitting the ground, and the coughing continued and continued and continued until everything he’d eaten in the not-so-distant past was displayed on the ground for the Ghost and Guardian to see. He had to move for a wall to stay upright, bracing himself against it and taking a moment to breathe — a painful action that sounded more like horrific wheezing.

Thankfully, his outburst seemed to have distracted the Ghost, who was back in one piece and blinking at him in surprise. For a moment, he thought the little thing might even try and speak to him — instead, it turned and opened up again, to raise its Guardian.

Asten glanced at the sniper rifle laying about a dozen feet from him. Moving for it, reloading, aiming, all while hardly able to make his body obey in the first place would take too long — the Guardian would be awake by then.

So he lunged for the Ghost instead.

The little robot shouted: “Ah!” When he grabbed it by its eye, and in a blind moment of adrenaline, he fumbled around on the concrete until he found the Guardian’s dropped revolver, pressing the cold barrel against the Ghost’s center.

“Oh, not again!” The little thing pleaded, writhing in his hand. “Let me go! I’ll contact the Vanguard!” It threatened.

“And I’ll blow you to bits and leave your Guardian to rot,” Asten hissed. He sent a glance to the Hunter, though he didn’t look for very long since a portion of his head was missing thanks to a bullet he'd let fly. 

“Raise him,” He ordered at the Ghost.

“No!”

“Raise him!” He repeated, louder, though his voice was hoarse now, and his mouth tasted vile. Not that he had been very threatening in the first place. He pulled back the hammer of the revolver with a shrill click that echoed in the quiet alley.

“Okay, okay, okay!” The Ghost murmured, sighing heavily. It opened up, eye still held tightly in Asten’s hand, shining a bright light on its Guardian. For a split second, Asten’s hand that was engulfed in the light cooled off and he felt… okay.

And as soon as the Ghost closed and his Guardian sat up with a groan, Asten felt like a heaping pile of death again.

It took a few seconds for the Hunter to comprehend what was going on, his orange glowing eyes flicking around and then coming to rest on his Ghost.

“Crow…” The little robot begged, wiggling in Asten’s grip. Crow must’ve been the Guardian’s name, he guessed. 

The Hunter — Crow — popped off of the ground, reaching for his holster that had no gun. His glowing orange eyes flicked to said holster, to the revolver in Asten’s hand; to the sniper rifle on the ground behind him. 

“Hands up. You move, he dies,” Asten ordered. Crow obliged, lifting his gloved hands — though Asten knew he could blow him sky high with superpowers if he really wanted to. He just kinda hoped he… didn’t really want to. Or that he was threatening enough to dissuade him… maybe.

Crow and Asten stared at each other for a solid ten seconds, the former sending a glance to his Ghost. He shifted uncomfortably, like seeing the little robot — what had he called him earlier, Glint? —  in such a dire situation physically pained him. Asten knew the relationships between Guardians and Ghosts were insanely intimate, like having a part of their soul manifested in physical form to aid them.

That’s why he kept the barrel of the gun pressed firmly against Glint’s eye when he growled: “Leave me the hell alone.”

“Look, I… I know you're scared. And I wouldn’t have chased you like that if I knew you were just a kid-” Crow moved, maybe to step forward, maybe to reach for Asten, he wasn’t sure -- but he squeezed the Ghost’s eye hard enough to make the robot squeak out a pained sound. The noise all but glued Crow’s feet to the concrete below them, and he stretched his hands out, a desperate look on his face. “Please, let him go. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Bullshit,” Asten murmured. “I’ve been burned enough to know that's a half-assed lie. At least be more original.”

He tried to make it sound venomous, but given that the force he had to put into the words sent him into another moment of rough-sounding coughing, it probably came across more like an angry toddler. 

“All I was told was that I was chasing perp with over a hundred robberies and years of stealing under his belt. I didn’t realize you were…” Crow trailed off, really taking in Asten’s appearance for the first time. He was pretty sure he looked like death incarnate, given he felt like it. His hand that was holding the revolver was shaking from the effort, but he didn’t dare let it move from the Ghost’s eye. “Well, I’m guessing you didn’t raid that pharmacy just for fun.”

“Just get the hell out of here, superhero. Once you’re out of sight, and once you promise not to follow me or come after me again, I’ll let your little pet go,” Coming up with and forcing out words was starting to become way more of a task than it should’ve been, and Asten’s head started getting foggy, everything feeling a little bit… off. More off.

Crow watched him intently with his glowing eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t leave you out here.”

“Like hell you’re taking me anywhere,” Asten hissed, the sudden, loud words sending a burst of pain through his head that made him wince, though he thought he hid it pretty well under a scowl. “You’re-”

A few quiet noises emanated from the robot, and Asten glanced over with an appalled expression when it shined a bright light up and down his face, like it was scanning him.

“What the f-”

“Internal temperature is one-hundred-four-point-five degrees,” Glint announced, as though he didn’t still have a gun pressed to his eye. “He’s very… well… he’s very unwell, Crow. He threw up on the ground right before you woke. Hardly-”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Asten forced out, gritting his teeth at the pain it sent rippling from his head, down his neck and into his chest. He coughed a few times, muffling them by keeping his mouth closed. His voice was completely and utterly gone when he rasped out: “I just want you to… leave.”

“Sent out to take medicine from a sick kid. Why do I get stuck with all these jobs?” Crow muttered, mostly to Glint, but also to himself. “Look, what’s your name?”

Asten scowled. “Not-stupid-enough-to-answer-that-McGee.”

Crow breathed in and out, visibly irritated, though he pushed it back and kept his composure, trying a different approach instead. “I know you feel like shit -- flu’s been going around the City like no one’s ever seen. Lots of people have been hospitalized. The Vanguard even has Guardians helping out in some of the medical establishments around.”

Asten didn’t reply -- because, what was he really supposed to say to that, anyways? Plus, he was starting to feel nauseous again, so he didn’t really want to open his mouth.

“I spent a long time doing… bad things just to keep myself alive. Worse than stealing someone's food or robbing a place,” Crow started, holding a hand out to him. “I know how hard it is to trust people, to trust Guardians… I spent the first while of my Risen life getting murdered by them over and over again. Like they were playing a game with me.”

Asten vaguely wondered why the other Guardians would murder one of their own, but he didn’t give it much thought. He couldn’t; not really. Not when he was focused solely on not hurling. “Go away. Please. I’ll let him go, just… leave.”

“I want to help you,” Crow tried, stepping closer, daring to edge his hand nearer. Part of Asten yearned for the idea of help. Of letting someone else make sure he didn’t die for once.

The rest of him was revolted at the proximity he was allowing the Guardian to gain on him.

“No,” He breathed, voice still squeaky and wheezy. “I don’t want your pity help. The last Guardian that talked to me like this dragged me through the city half-dead. Like I was some kind of trophy.”

“And I’m so sorry one of them treated you like that,” Crow apologized, and Asten searched his face for a lie; all he saw was dangerous, dangerous sincerity. Sincerity that made the teenager want to cave. “Please let me help you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You won’t get in trouble. I promise.”

When had someone last spoken to him like that? He wasn’t sure anyone ever had. And every single expression, movement, mannerism led him to believe Crow was being wholly genuine. 

And it made him want to cave so damn bad. A Guardian, of all people.

“Asten,” He croaked.

Crow cocked a brow, his glowing eyes searching his face. “What?”

“My name,” He replied. Part of his conscience was kicking him over and over for giving him his real name -- the rest was whispering for him to give in.

“Asten,” Crow tried the name out, deciding it sounded about right. “How old are you?”

Well, since he was on a roll… “Sixteen.”

He heard Crow curse under his breath. 

“Listen... I’m sorry if I scared you, I really am. You’re an incredible shot,” He started, eyes scanning him repetitively, forcing this little, quick smile on his face. “Please, let me help you. You… don’t look so good.”

“One-hundred-four-point-seven,” Glint chimed in.

Asten just stood for a moment, staring at the Guardian ahead of him. His words bounced around and around in his head. Promises for help, that he wouldn’t get hurt, that he wouldn’t die from the plague. That he wouldn’t be in trouble and thrown into confinement again. It all sounded too good to be true, and most of him knew that. But there was a little voice in his head that was rejoicing because someone actually… cared. In all sixteen years, someone actually…

Oh, shit. All those fancy promises about help and rainbows and butterflies was starting to-

“No,” Asten tried once more, his already gone voice breaking slightly in the middle of the word. He wasn’t sure why, but his eyes began to water. He chose to believe it was the fever and delirium and the fact that he felt like death making it happen, but part of him knew that wasn’t really the case. “Just… stop. Go away.”

(He didn't say stop because he really wanted him to stop, though — he said stop because he was caving and he knew it.)

Pity rippled across Crow's features -- sadness. "If you really want me to, I will. But I don't think that's the case."

Asten said nothing, but bit the inside of his cheek hard, forcing the wetness in his eyes to subside. Of course, it didn't really work.

"Why are you crying?" Glint questioned innocently. His little robot voice was doing that same thing Crow's had -- going soft, quiet, gentle.

"I'm not crying, you little shithead," Asten snapped, blinking rapidly in an attempt to ward the tears off again.

Crow opened his mouth to speak, but with a sudden and violent intensity, Asten’s entire body seemed to go on strike; He threw up all over his own feet, his hands slipping from both the Ghost and the gun to slink around himself instead. The revolver clattered on the concrete and Glint whirred up to his Guardian’s side, turning to look back at him.

His leverage was gone.

That was about when he realized darkness was not only dancing in his vision, but threatening to take in entirely, his whole body going into a strange, numb feeling that Glint seemed to catch onto before it fully took over.

“Catch him, Crow!” The Ghost shouted, before Asten was even falling. 

But then he was — his legs gave out beneath him not a second later. Only, for the first time in his life, he didn’t hit the concrete — instead, Crow scooped him up like a small child, and he let him.

“Glint, take us to the Tower,” Crow ordered.

Oh, Asten was so going to die.

—

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