#Nonsexual slight nudity

[doodle17]

Maybe if i actually post about (at leas two of) them I'll get asks

[befuddled-calico-whump]

on a tight leash

Wildefire Masterlist

[moesudous]

I love the chubby falin hc

[mousjoy]

"Would you still love me if i was a corpse"

[thiccsys]

me and my bestie made siren guys for a pirate au EEEEKWJAJKAKAK WHAHAJIA guys its geno and error no way!! sibling sirens!!!

[docnukes]

girlrey reference for anyone interested :3

do not tag as kin/id/me etc

[maggotmessiah0]

ignore my horrible freak shading and handwriting IT SAYS THOSE NOT THESE and the lyrics are from rhe song willard by will wood AND ITS A GOOD SONG

For this character im thinking theyre like a normal person they just look a little freaky thats it I dont know if im liking the eyeball hand tho might redesign them. Thinking of naming them something like barbecue ribs

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My website

Chapter 87: July 2017

Martin didn’t need any kind of supernatural ability to know they were traveling up a river, finally, but it was going to take an effort he wasn’t sure he was willing to risk in order to determine which one. He didn’t think he particularly cared. Rivers meant human habitation, usually, so as long as they were in Europe he could probably make his way back to London sooner rather than later.

God, he was ready to be home.

The trip hadn’t been…terrible, all things considered. Truthfully, Martin had slept for most of it. He wouldn’t exactly call his slumber peaceful, but it was at least sleep. The owner and pilot of the boat, who still hadn’t properly introduced himself, actually came down to talk to him every once in a while, usually bringing him some rations and apologizing yet again that Martin couldn’t come out on the deck. Since the entire passage over had been one constant storm, such that Martin’s window either afforded him a view of nothing but sky or nothing but the sea, he wasn’t too terribly keen to go out in it. Seemed calmer now, though, which was a blessing.

The only odd thing…well, odder than the oddness he would have expected from being smuggled in a dinghy across the Atlantic Ocean…was the tapes. He knew he hadn’t brought any extras with him, honestly wasn’t sure what had happened to any of the recordings he had made himself other than the one he’d mailed to the Institute, but when he’d gone to try and put his trousers back on he’d found one in his pocket. Curious, he’d played it and found it to be a statement he hadn’t listened to yet—the recording Jon had made of Daisy when she’d come to drop off the tape of Gertrude and Aunt Mary. Martin wasn’t really sure he wanted to listen to more about the Hunt, but he’d listened anyway, as much for something new to do as to hear the little snippets of Jon’s voice.

The next time he’d slept, there had been a removal van on the side of the road in a rainstorm behind one of the doors in his dreams.

There had been three or four more tapes he didn’t remember, too, enough to stop the shaking and restore at least a little of the energy he’d accidentally expended on the security guard, enough to keep that aspect of him from starving for however long he was gone (Martin hadn’t even tried to ask his host or captor or whatever he was for his statement; he might not know what entity he belonged to, but he could feel the power radiating off him and knew without even testing that if the man wasn’t willing, Martin would be hard pressed to compel it out of him). But without a consistent wake-sleep cycle, without the sun to mark the passage of time by, he wasn’t actually sure how long he’d been gone, and it made him worry. Were the others okay? When was the Unknowing? Soon? Had the Stranger gone for Jon when Martin dropped off the face of the earth? Had Mustermann reformed, survived whatever Julia and Trevor had done, and gone back to report to Orsinov? He doubted that last one—Hunters were among the only things capable of killing a full-blown avatar, they could definitely take out a lower thing like Mustermann, and they hadn’t seemed particularly merciful. Still…he was conscious of the ticking of a clock, ever increasing in volume. However long it had been, they were running out of time.

He sat up and stretched. There still wasn’t room to stand—he’d been mostly crawling about to reach what he needed, on the rare occasions he moved about the cabin—and he’d given up on the trousers as being too much effort if he wasn’t going to see anybody other than the boat pilot, but if they were coming in to land he didn’t want to be walking around London—or wherever he was—in his underpants. And he was getting out of this boat, one way or another.

As he struggled and contorted to get the waistband above his thighs, he felt an odd sensation, as if his sternum had been struck with a tuning fork—like he was suddenly vibrating at exactly the right pitch. A feeling of rightness filled his being.

Despite himself, he grinned. They had to be on the Thames, because they had just crossed the invisible line separating the rest of the world from London.

Martin managed to get into his trousers at last, buttoned them up, and slid his feet into his much-abused trainers. He’d spent some time carefully flaking the dried crust of mingled mud and blood off of them once they’d dried out, and they were…serviceable. He was going to have to replace them, but that could wait. No sense in wearing new shoes to stop a ritual, after all. Maybe Elias would give them a day or two off after they saved the world and they could all go shopping or something.

With a sigh, he sat back, laced his fingers together, and stared at the palms of his hands. Neither one hurt—not right now, at least—or had suffered any loss of flexibility or function. Still, his eyes traced the outline of Jude’s hand wrapping around his palm and fingers on the right hand, the slightly jagged ridge in the center of the left palm, and the worm holes that still laced through both. And then, without conscious thought, his gaze drifted a little further, to the white, almost perfectly straight lines across the underside of both wrists. Those scars hadn’t been that visible for ages, but he’d started to notice that these days, when the other scars started aching, they did too. And it didn’t escape his attention that the worms had seemed to avoid that part of his body.

In a way, it was almost comforting. Not what they represented—only Jude Perry hadn’t actually intended for him to die—but the fact that they were there at all. It meant that the Beholding hadn’t completely taken him over, hadn’t…remade him in its image or whatever. He wasn’t sure that was possible, to erase the Marks left by another Fear, but every scar was another tally against his being of any use in a Beholding ritual. Or at least, he was still assuming that. Orsinov wanted to use his skin for the Unknowing, but it wasn’t him she wanted, just the power.

Right?

Martin worried at his bottom lip, then took a slow, deep breath. Well…if he was wrong, if collecting Marks like Pokémon didn’t actually keep him from being useful in a ritual, then at the very least it wasn’t as bad as if someone else was getting them. He was pretty much a full-blown Avatar at this point; the other Fears were going to be after him anyway, even if he didn’t have beacons branded into his skin. And he was probably too far along that path to transfer his loyalty and be fully claimed by another one. Melanie, Jon, Tim, Sasha—even Basira—any of them was at risk of those Marks doing far worse damage. They were his people, and it was his job as the Archivist to protect them.

He shook his head minutely. Where had that come from? He was an Archivist, if Elias was to be believed…but, no. The Knowledge settled heavily against his shoulders, as if he’d just been embraced proudly by a terrifyingly creepy uncle at a family gathering: Elias Bouchard might have appointed Jon to head the Archives, but as far as the Beholding was concerned, it was Martin Blackwood who was the Archivist.

Well. Shit.

There was a dull thump that reverberated through the entire hull of the boat, then a faint scraping noise. Martin glanced out the window over the bed and saw what looked like rough wood pressed against it, obscuring anything else that might be in view. Not being able to see didn’t matter, because that was a pylon. They had fetched up against a dock. All he had to do was open the hatch and he would be able to get away.

As the thought crossed his mind, the hatch overhead opened, allowing in the familiar smells of London, and the pilot backed his way down the ladder. He seemed both surprised and pleased when he got his head below the level of the deck to see Martin sitting on the edge of the bed, if his smile was any indication—Martin had never yet seen his eyes. “Oh, good, you’re awake and ready! I was just coming to fetch you. Your ride is here.”

“My…?” Martin decided, on the balance, not to argue with the person who’d got him this far. “Right. I’m coming. Uh…thank you for the lift.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure. Elias was right about you.” The man beamed, and from the twitch of his cheek, Martin rather thought he’d been treated to a conspiratorial wink. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again. Enjoy.”

With that cryptic comment, he headed back up the ladder, leaving Martin to crawl over and—for the first time in far too long—stand up straight. Doing so put him head and shoulders out of the hold. There was nothing to see but the side of the boat, but the daylight flooding the deck was a welcome sight. The humidity less so, but there was a wind blowing from the north that ruffled his hair. For just a moment, he stood still, letting the light soak into his bones and warm him.

Then he got on with the business of hauling his arse out of the hold and onto the deck of the boat.

The pilot was whistling cheerfully—way too cheerfully, considering that was definitely “Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep,” which wasn’t generally a peppy song—as he coiled ropes at the stern, but Martin was more focused on the dock. More specifically, he was focused on who was standing on the dock, leaning against a post, partly in shadow, arms folded and glowering.

“Daisy,” he said cautiously.

Daisy grunted. She looked deeply annoyed. Martin didn’t need to even ask the Eye for assistance to guess why, a theory that was confirmed when she muttered, “Bouchard sent me. Wanted to make sure you didn’t get kidnapped again.”

“How kind of him,” Martin said dryly. He went over to the side of the boat and somehow managed to climb out of the boat without falling on his face—or into the Thames, which would have been worse. Still, he had to stand for a moment and get used to being on land again.

Daisy stared, or glared, at him, arms still crossed over her chest. Her gaze dropped to his shirt, and her eyes narrowed at the stain on it. “That blood?”

“Yup.”

“Yours?”

“Yup. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they know it wasn’t you.” Martin tested his legs and found they would at least cooperate for the moment. “Right, let’s go, then. I assume Elias wants me back at the Institute.”

“Institute’s not open yet,” Daisy said, surprising him a bit, but then again it was the height of summer—it had to be at least July by now—so the sun rose a fair bit earlier. “I’m not fucking going back there after hours.”

“Don’t blame you,” Martin admitted. “So, where to?”

Daisy’s phone rang. Martin couldn’t hold back a frustrated groan and was both comforted and slightly alarmed by the fact that Daisy gave an identical one at the exact same time. From the glare she shot him as she answered, she was thinking the same. “Tonner.”

She didn’t exactly soften at the voice on the other end of the line, or even really relax, but the hostility did dial back a notch. “Hey. What’s up?” There was a long pause as she listened to whoever was on the other end before she said, “Yeah, I know it. Who’s asking?…Uh-huh. Yeah, makes sense. Okay, I’m on my way.” Her eyes flicked to Martin’s briefly before she added, “Got something Bouchard sent me to pick up that might help anyway. Ten minutes.” She ended the call and pocketed her phone. “Come on.”

“Cinnamon Rose Books?” Martin guessed. He held up a hand when she glared at him. “I’m not in your head. It’s just an educated guess.”

“You’d better not be,” Daisy growled, but she didn’t reach for her gun or his throat, so that was probably as close to a peace offering as he was likely to get. “Yeah. The rest of them are gathering there for breakfast. Something about plans and that…Unmaking thing.”

“Unknowing,” Martin corrected her. Unease flitted through his stomach. “Yeah, good. Let’s go.”

Daisy’s car was…pretty much what Martin would have expected, a nondescript late model sedan that had seen better days, not battered enough to be called a junker or old enough to be an antique but dingy enough not to stand out. The fact that she indicated for him to get into the front seat rather than the back—or the boot—was another indication of the uneasy truce they currently had going, or so he assumed. He eased into his seat and just had time to put on the seatbelt before Daisy was pulling away and they were off.

Martin gave her a few minutes to be sure she was heading in the right direction before he asked, “How is…everybody?”

“Fine.” Daisy stared straight ahead out the windscreen. After a moment of silence, she added, “Nothing’s been sniffing around. Been tailing Sims to and from his place to be sure.”

“Thank you,” Martin said, both surprised and somewhat touched. When he’d asked her to keep an eye on everyone while he was gone, he definitely hadn’t expected that level of…concern. Unless Elias had told her to do it.

As if she was the one reading his mind, Daisy growled, “I’m not doing it for you. Or Bouchard. If anyone’s going to kill that little bastard, it’s going to be me.”

“You can certainly try.” Martin kept his tone as neutral as possible, but he could feel the protective urge rising in his chest, and something crackled in the air between them. Daisy shot him a death glare, but didn’t respond.

To cut the sudden tension that had sprung up, he added, “And…that other thing I asked you about?” When her scowl deepened, he pulled out the recorder and popped the tape out, then set it on the dashboard, its tape deck conspicuously open. “Not recording, see?”

Daisy grumbled under her breath, but did return her eyes to the road. “Got a couple names for you. Guys who didn’t buy the official line on why Basira and I aren’t around anymore. One of them was on the Brodie case and he’s pretty convinced Bouchard called in the tip, didn’t ask why, but he shouldn’t be hard to convince. If you can find that evidence.”

“It’s there. We just have to figure out how to get at it.”

“I put a flea in James’ ear about it. Don’t know if anything came of that yet.”

Martin braced himself against the dashboard as Daisy took a corner with, he couldn’t help but feel, unnecessary sharpness. “I guess we’ll find out.”

It didn’t take them long to reach the bookstore, and Daisy parked in the tiny space out front where the alleged car had once sat when it didn’t feel like running, which was most of the time. Martin managed to get out of the car relatively quickly and stretched, feeling his shoulders pop. Then he made his way up the path to the shop’s door as Daisy leaned on the bell.

He assumed it would be Gerry who came down, but when the door opened, it was Melanie who stood scowling at Daisy.

“Basira said you picked up something that might help,” she said, managing to make it sound accusing. “I’m here to make sure it’s actually useful before I let you bring it in.”

“You know, people usually say hello first,” Martin said dryly.

That fast, Melanie’s expression changed from irritation and suspicion to shock as she whipped around to see Martin. She flung the door open wider, launched herself at him, and promptly burst into tears.

“Hey, now, it’s all right, I was only joking.” Martin tried for a joke, but it definitely fell flat.

“I’m sorry,” Melanie wailed, the same way she had twenty years previously on the train back from Oxford. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I didn’t—I was so busy that I didn’t even think to ask if anyone had heard from you and I didn’t realize you were missing and—”

“And what could you have done if you did?” Martin said pointedly. “Melanie. It’s okay. Really—”

“I promised you I’d look after Jon,” Melanie hissed, stopping him in his mental tracks. “And he was suffering for two weeks knowing something had probably happened to you and I wasn’t there to help him and…Jesus, you scared the fuck out of me. I can’t imagine how he felt.”

Martin hugged Melanie tighter. Tears pricked at his own eyes, and he had to force them back. They wouldn’t help now. “It’s not your fault. And…it’s not your fault. I’m here now. I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“Apology accepted.” Melanie stepped back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then gave a mighty sniff and turned. “Come on. I need to go make sure Gerry has cherry preserves now.”

Daisy raised an eyebrow at Martin, but she did follow Melanie into the shop. Martin took the time to lock the door behind them before following.

Melanie took the stairs two at a time, hopped over Umberto—Martin bent briefly to rub his ears—and practically broke down the door to the kitchen. “Jon!” she shouted in a voice too loud for the small space.

They were all there, Martin noted to his relief—Tim presiding over the stove while Gerry lingered nearby, Sasha and Jon studying a sheaf of papers, Basira watching with her elbows resting on the table. All of them jumped when Melanie shouted. Jon leaped to his feet with an expression of mingled fear and alarm, but a split second later, he lit up, his beautiful brown eyes widening.

“Martin,” he choked out, and then he was rushing around the table, and Martin stepped fully into the room and held out his arms to catch him in a tight embrace. He buried his face in the top of Jon’s head, smelling the tea tree shampoo he always used, and felt a sense of overwhelming calm come over him. He was home.

Jon pulled back from the embrace just enough to take Martin’s face in his and bring him down for a kiss, and, okay, now he was home, because he’d been waiting for this moment for—apparently—two long weeks. Three if you counted the week before that. Martin would happily have stayed like that forever, but the need for air did eventually force him to break the kiss. He rested his forehead against Jon’s briefly and soaked up the moment of closeness.

All their problems were going to come flooding back in a moment, but for the moment, there was this.

At last, reluctantly, he pulled back and looked up at the others. Sasha and Tim were both grinning ear to ear, and the relief in Tim’s eyes was palpable. Basira was just watching, a little uncomfortably, like she wasn’t sure what to make of the scene. Melanie was apparently rummaging in the cupboards for the cherry preserves. Gerry, behind Tim, was just…staring at Martin. What little color he had in his face had gone, and he looked both shocked and quietly devastated.

Martin felt an uneasy twinge. “What? What is it?”

Tim’s smile faltered as he turned to look at Gerry, suddenly worried, and Melanie straightened with a scowl and a jar in one hand. Gerry edged past Tim and walked towards Martin as if in a trance. Jon stood aside, leaving room for Gerry to stand directly in front of Martin.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached up and brushed Martin’s temple. In the same tone of voice Martin himself had used almost a year ago, he murmured, “Oh, Martin.”

With a sinking feeling, Martin realized that the spot Gerry had just touched was the spot where his father’s ghost had pressed a solid kiss before telling him he was proud of him. Obviously, there was something there to Gerry’s eyes—a sign of a new Mark.

“You were right,” he said quietly. “About my dad.”

“About—?” Gerry looked momentarily confused, and then, suddenly, his eyes widened. “He was in the Book? How do you know?”

“I met him. Apparently when you burned it, all the souls that were in it…didn’t exactly get set free, but aren’t exactly trapped either. It’s…complicated.”

Sasha gestured to the table. “Well, sit down and un-complicate it, then.” Martin flinched slightly at the echo of the words Julia had used, but either it was internal or Sasha did the polite thing and ignored it. “Or at least tell us what happened to you since…Chicago? Was that where you were the last time you talked to any of us?”

“Pittsburgh,” Jon said. “And I think…maybe there were things you were hiding?”

“A bit,” Martin admitted. “All right, yeah, I think I owe you guys an explanation.”

“You don’t owe us anything, Martin.” Tim pulled down a bowl and took a couple of the ingredients from Melanie. “But we’d like to hear what you learned. Did you get anything useful off this trip?”

“Maybe. You be the judge.”

While Tim and Melanie cooked in the background, Martin told his team what he had learned on the trip, about the feeling of being watched in Chicago, the weakness in Pittsburgh, and the kidnapping in Philadelphia. Daisy’s eyes flickered with interest when he told them about the encounter with Mustermann, and Sasha leaned forward when he told them about the things he’d learned from Julia and Trevor. Tim looked over his shoulder in some concern when Martin said that the tape recorder had shut itself off when he asked it to.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Should you be able to do that?”

“Probably not,” Martin admitted. “And that’s not even the worst of it, honestly. Talking to Mustermann…I-I didn’t get a whole lot out of him, he didn’t tell me where the ritual was going to be or anything, but I got a little bit. And…well, I compelled him. Pretty hard, actually. I asked him when it would be ready, and I had to practically make his head explode to get him to give me even a vague answer. I managed it, but it took a lot out of me. After we were done, I…kind of let slip that I’d spoken to you, Gerry. I mean, since you died. Trevor, um, didn’t take that well.” He held up his left hand, palm out, to show them the scar, eliciting a round of gasps and curses. “Stabbed me through the hand with his hunting knife. They…locked me up in the other room while they decided what to do with me, and that’s when I met the ghosts from the Book. One in particular.”

“Your dad,” Melanie said flatly.

Martin swallowed. “Yeah. He gave me his statement…I’m pretty sure I’ve got it on tape, but I don’t know which one. I was…I was bleeding out pretty heavily, and I’d used a lot of energy on that interrogation, so when he realized he could touch me, we realized I was probably not going to make it to hospital if I didn’t get something, so he told me about…everything. Apparently he used to sail with Salesa. And I’ve got a few more answers about Mum.”

Fortunately, nobody pressed him further; he wasn’t ready to share. Jon took his left hand in both of his and ran his fingers lightly over the scar. “But you made it to the hospital after that, right? They stitched it up? I, I assume the sutures were the kind that dissolve on their own.”

“Uh…no, actually,” Martin admitted. “After I had his statement and I was…feeling stronger, we realized it had closed up on its own. Which, while it was great for the immediate ‘not bleeding to death’ thing, is probably not all that good in the grand scheme of things. But it at least meant I was able to move. Papa rallied the rest of the ghosts to distract Trevor and Julia while I got away. I made a run for it and…well, eventually I ended up by the river, where I met…someone.”

“Someone,” Sasha repeated.

“Look, I didn’t get his name, okay? He said Elias had sent him to help get me home. I’d just realized I’d lost my passport and my wallet, so I wasn’t going to be able to get anywhere otherwise.” Martin took a deep breath. “I knew it was a trap, but…I didn’t really have much of a choice. And at least it got me home. Eventually. And at least I’m pretty sure I didn’t get a new Mark out of that one.” He squeezed Jon’s hand gently. “That’s it, really. What about you lot? What did you find out while I was gone?”

“A good amount,” Sasha said. “We found out—well, Tim and Melanie worked out where the Unknowing is going to be. The House of Wax, in Great Yarmouth. The three of us spent the last couple of weeks staking it out, and Tim and Melanie finally got that final proof a couple days ago, so we’re sure. And Gerry and Jon went to a storage unit Gertrude had rented up in Hainault and found a crate full of plastic explosives.”

“And a statement,” Jon added. “Which I haven’t read. You—you can have it. You should have it. Later. You might need it.”

Martin couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Jon. That’s…awfully sweet of you.”

Tim set a laden platter in the middle of the table. Martin realized that he and Melanie had been making naleśniki while the rest of them had been talking. “There’s one other thing. I think they’re almost ready.”

“What makes you say that?” Martin accepted a plate from Melanie and used a fork to lift the first thin folded pancake off the platter.

“Skin. That’s what they need, right? They wanted yours.”

“Yeah?”

“Well…they took a trip to a couple of cemeteries.”

Martin’s blood ran cold. “Who did they take?”

Tim sighed. “New graves. No flowers. The first had a name, no dates, no inscription. ‘George Icarus.’”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Martin glanced around at the others, who all looked equally bewildered. “Who was the other?”

Tim bit his lip and glanced at Melanie, who scowled. “You found that one out. You tell them.”

“Tim?” Gerry prompted, reaching up to tug Tim down to sit on his lap. It wasn’t even a sexual gesture, just a simple need to be close as Gerry wrapped his arms around Tim’s waist and settled his chin on his shoulder. Martin could empathize with that.

Tim leaned into Gerry for a moment, then looked at Martin and said softly, “Gertrude.”

“What?” Jon, Martin, and Gerry all said in unison.

Sasha blinked hard, several times. “Wasn’t she cremated?”

“Apparently not,” Tim said.

Jon exhaled hard. “So they did get an Archivist’s skin after all.”

Martin realized, with a slightly uncomfortable twinge, that he hadn’t told the others about his realization that he wasn’t just an Archivist, he was the Archivist. And then something else hit him like a lorry and he sat up straighter. “Wait. When was this?”

“Just the other day.”

“Tim, I need you to be specific. Wh—” Martin caught himself, barely. He didn’t want to compel his friends, and he definitely didn’t want to fall into the habit of using the Eye more than he had to. “Please. It’s important. I need you to remember exactly when they got these skins.”

Tim stared at Martin, looking a little worried, but he answered. “Sometime between the cemeteries closing the day before yesterday and it opening yesterday. I found out about it late yesterday evening, after we’d left the Institute.”

“Fuck.” Martin rubbed his forehead. “That doesn’t give us a lot of time.”

“What? What do you mean?” Melanie demanded.

Martin looked seriously around the room at his team. “Mustermann said that once Orsinov had the skin she needed for her costume, she would ‘call in the Chorus and the Corps’, and three days later they would be ready to begin. Assume they waited until the darkest part of the night we got, say around midnight yesterday? It’s been one day. We’ve got two left.” He nodded as he saw realization dawn on everyone’s faces. “I hope you figured out a plan while I was gone, because we officially have to stop the Unknowing. Now.”

[purplebehittindifferent]

TW for everything under the cut. You have been warned

stay safe.

Before anybody asks. I am okay.

[thegnomelord]

sof and cute hcs of eldritch reader trying to learn how to people (and maybe some raunchy ones about learning how human "mating" works) hhhhnnnngggh

Imagine Learning To Be Human

CW: SFW and NSFW First TF141 with SFW, then NSFW headcannons, sexting, masturbation, sex toys, morning after (no sex), sexual nudity, nonsexual nudity, implied poly141. GN reader, 500-900 words for each blurb, so somewhere around 5.5k words. Imma be quiet for the next week or so as I prepare for an exam so I'm feeding ya'll :Dd

Imagine SOAP— It's safe to say you're not the best with expressing what you think, especially not in this hollowed out corpse a tiny fraction of your consciousness inhabits. The more you try, the less human your attempts come out, only remembering that humans don't bend that way or don't do something after you've done it. You find yourself gravitating to Soap because he is the opposite of you, so open and responsive like an open book.

Imagine; observing Soap as he tries to piece together the fragments of a bomb, muttering curses under his breath as if the object had just called football 'soccer'. He's so concentrated he forgets the rest of the world exists, oblivious to you sitting across from him. But that's not a problem as it gives you a chance to watch and try to mimic what his face does; the slight hint of teeth as he nibbles on his lip, the furrow of his brows, the tenseness of his jaw pulling on his throat muscles…

You try to mimic every emotion he goes through as he tries and fails and succeeds and fails again to fit the pieces together like a jigsaw, but the hardest one to do is that smile of his. For some reason you just can't get it right, lips pulling back too far, teeth too much on display and brows too furrowed so you end up looking like an old savage.

Then as if to spite you, Soap looks up at you and immediately snorts. "What're yea doin' there Bonnie?" He coughingly laughs as your facial features return to your statue like state.

"Trying to look like you." You huff; at least you can do that correctly.

"Oh, look strapping don't I?" He snorts, doing what Ghost calls 'fishing for compliments' (though you're unsure how one can fish for abstract ideas).

"No more than the rest." You shrug and see him roll his eyes, though the corners of his lips are still quirked up, a hint of teeth on display and vestiges of dimples framing his mouth. "How do I do that?" You ask and motion to his face.

"Do what? Smile?" You snorts, already beckoning you over like you're a dog. "It's easy."

You lean across the table, tilting your head to indicate confusion but leaving your face a blank canvas. It takes all of your presence of mind not to give an earth shattering purr when his hands cup your jaw, distant stars quivering as his blunt nails scratch at your throat for a blissful second.

"Here," His thumbs settle at both corners of your lips, putting gentle pressure until he pushes the flesh back and up in a way that's natural to the skin suit but not you. "There yea go." He grins and pulls his thumbs away after a few moments, grinning when you hold the expression.

"Now yea're as dashing as me." He chuckles and you two must look like utter buffoons just grinning at one another; you wouldn't have it any other way.

Imagine GAZ — You're not exactly alive, technically you're the antithesis to life and existence, so to you, simple rules like eating or sleeping are no more than chalk guidelines after a rainstorm. Gaz doesn't subscribe to this idea, he's always trying to get you to indulge in these human comforts and you always allow him, even if it does include eating more things in a week than most of your kin have consumed in a millennia, if that.

Imagine; wandering the halls on a lazy Sunday morning, no drills to run or missions to prep for, and being drawn to the communal kitchen by the sound of boiling water and banding pans. You find Gaz cooking breakfast for the boys; he's the only one who can cook (according to him) seeing as Price seasons his food with hope, Ghost burns everything into coal and Soap's not allowed into the kitchen after he'd tried to make tea in the microwave (which Gaz had later asked you to exorcise).

"Mornin'." Kyle yawns and smiles at you, dressed in shorts and one of your 'lost' shirts. You do your best to replicate his expression. "Help me, yeah?" He asks and nods his head at what he's cooking.

Your expression falls back to neutral. "You'll need to show me how." You admit as you get next to him.

"Not a problem," He chuckles as he shifts behind you, pressing his chest flush with your back with his hands hovering over yours. You feel his warmth when he rests his head on your shoulder, his hands firm and steady as he shows you how to chop tomatoes and sausages, how to hold the knife correctly and pulling your fingers back when the blade draws too close to the flesh, talking you through it until you can do it on your own.

After that he leaves you to your task as he almost dances around the kitchen, stirring a pot here then putting the kettle on there and so many more little things while you remain where you are because you, by nature, are slow; to adapt, to age, to change.

But you do it for him.

"Those look great." He grins when you're done and then herds you in front of the cooking pans, and you're a little apprehensive about the bubbling oil when he dumps what you'd cut up into the pan. But his warmth is at your back again, steady hands guiding you on how to cook the food without burning your skin and leaving you to it when you catch on.

Then you feel a tug on your shirt, his presence once again next to you, but this time he's holding a piece of sausage on the end of a fork, a hand beneath it so it doesn't drop, "Hey, taste this for me."

You contemplate arguing you can't actually taste food the same way he does, but he gives you a look that has you letting him feed you. Though it tastes no different from everything else, from his hand it may as well be sweeter than ambrosia.

"Tastes good." The way he brightens up at your words makes the food only taste sweeter.

Imagine GHOST —You and him are similar in some ways, you both prefer to stick to what you know, who you know. It's harder for you to contain what you are inside your flesh body when there is so much life around you that every additional heartbeat pulls at the edge of your cold existence. So you stick to close to the people who's warmth has grown so familiar it's indistinguishable from the burning starts making up your real body.

Imagine; attending a celebration held by both TF141 and Los Vaqueros after a mission gone well, loud music and lewd lyrics blaring in your ears as men drink like teenagers at their first frat party. You're in a more secluded part of the bar next to Ghost, both of you nursing drinks while you watch the rest act like fools.

You're a little confused when you see Gaz and Soap move in a strange way, grinding against one another and pressed so close you'd think they're trying to mate, their hands roaming the other's body so roughly you're surprised no pieces of clothing come flying your way.

"Got a free show for my drink." Ghost chuckles next to you.

"What are they doing?" You finally ask when you can't contain your curiosity.

"Dancing." He answers and swallows the last inch of booze in his cup, setting it down on the bar. "For fun." He adds, already expecting the line of questioning, as if that's supposed to make you understand.

"They just look like they're trying to mate." You point out, receiving a long sigh in return.

"How 'bout I just show you." Before you can say anything he nicks the cup of untouched alcohol in your hand and swallows it all down in one go, putting the empty cup next to his before grabbing you by the arm and pulling you outside through the back entrance. You go along with him, but you're confused when you catch Soap's eyes and he wolf whistles at the two of you.

The world outside is calmer than the busy bar, the air much colder; closer to what you are. You turn to him once he lets you go, tilting your head and furrowing your brow to convey confusion. "So…what do I do?"

"Just follow my lead." A gravely chuckle escapes Simon as he closes the distance between you two, his rough hands settling on your waist as he begins to slowly rock both of your bodies along with the music, though his movements are more contained than what you'd seen, a steady push and pull compelling you to follow him.

"Why is this different than what Soap and Gaz were doing?" You ask, clutching his shoulders in return, your forehead almost resting on his chest as you look at your feet so you don't step on his toes.

You feel his chest vibrate as he chuckles, "They set a low bar." He rumbles and his hand moves to your jaw, tilting your head up so you two lock eyes, the intensity in his brown irises drowning out the sounds of the bar. "Eyes on me."

You nod. Your eyes stay firmly on him as you sway together to a tune he hums, finding a common ground in the way your cold and his heat mixes together. Above you millions of your eyes peer down at him, for as vast as you are, for this moment your attention is on him.

Imagine PRICE — He can tell how tired you are, not physically but mentally; having to communicate and understand people without the use of a mental link, when even the most complex ideas can be conveyed easily, was starting to fray the edges of your control over your human body. He decided to do something about it.

Imagine; Price taking you and the boys fishing to a remote cabin next to a lake. Knowing you don't sleep he pulls you out by the lake at the ass crack of dawn, having you watch as he sits down on the dock, his pants pulled up to his knees so he can dip his feet in the water while he sets up the fishing rods.

"What are we doing?" You ask but follow his example and sit next to him, the cool water of the lake similar enough to the cold abyss your true body resides to calm your nerves, though you're unsure of what to do when he gives you the fishing rod.

"Fishing." He says as he shows you how to cast out the line. "You look like you need it."

You don't argue with him and just try focusing on fishing, letting him teach you how to watch the line to see when something takes the bait and when to reel it in. You’re unsuccessful your first few attempts, and you have half the mind to just jump in and wrangle the fish in the lake with liquid abyss, but he stops you.

"Catching isn't the point." He says as he smokes his cigar while he takes an old boot off your hook. "It's about relaxing, the fish are just a bonus."

You let out a low sound that vibrates the water, but you settle next to him and cast out the line again. You don’t know how long you sit there next to him, your sides touching with the fishing rod sitting loosely in your hands. After some time you manage to yank out your first fish, and you certainly don't gloat when you pull a few more fish out of the lake while he only pulls out seaweed, but the look of pride in his eyes makes it even better.

Any prospects of catching any more fish are dashed when Gaz and Soap wake up and take running jumps into the lake, scaring all the fish with their splashing. "Like school boys." Price remarks as Ghost comes up to you both, offering beers as he sits down on your other side.

"Summer vacation, captain." Ghost says and slips into the water, and you realize this is calming; in the way you haven't felt before, doing something familiar like watching Soap and Gaz trying to dunk each other in the water but feeling like you’re right there with them, laughing alongside them when Ghost scares the shit out of them by lunging out of the water.

“See sweetheart? ‘S not hard.” Price hums, adjusting his hat though his shoulders are already reddened from sunburns. He offers you his cigar and you accept it, breathing in the nicotine and smoke despite not having lungs or a circulatory system to be affected by it, before you give it back. “Taking it easy is good for you.”

You nod your head, content to sit next to him until something tugs on the line of your forgotten fishing rod and you scramble to reel it in. You give a small grunt as whatever is on the hook struggles, "Yank on it." Price tells you and you do, nearly toppling on your back when you finally win the tug of war. You blink as you look at what you've caught.

A Speedo.

"Well would you look at that." Price chuckles.

Judging by the way Johnny's suddenly bare assed and throwing obscenities in Gaelic your way, you assume that it's his.

“Caught a big one there.” Ghost notes, not yet laughing but his shoulders shake with silent laughter as he slaps Soap's cheeks (of his rear).

He yelps, confident enough to be naked in front of all of you, but not shameless enough to where his cheeks (on his face) don't redden from the way Gaz cackles and wheezes with laughter so loudly he nearly drowns. You give Johnny back his trunks before he can drown Gaz but, maybe you should fish any more.

NSFW:

Imagine SOAP— If anyone ever asks Soap why he would ever send a dick pick to an ancient god, he'll blame anything and everything; on being stood up, on loving himself a little less, on mixing up the numbers, in being black out drunk…

Imagine; him being stone cold sober when the thought invades his mind and he spends the next hour trying to take a good picture: in front of the mirror, on the bed, no clothes, some clothes, the list of positions goes on. He doesn't want to come across like he's compensating by just holding his dick in his hand like some cunt; as silly as it is, he wants the picture to actually tempt you, to make you feel something, though the question of if you even can doesn't cross his mind. He ends up with a picture of him on the bed, the tip of his hard cock peeking out from beneath the band of his boxers.

He won’t admit he holds his breath when he sends the suggestive picture to you alongside a ;) , watching the text bubble appear and disappear multiple times before you just leave him on seen. He deflates and has half the mind to delete the picture and chuck his phone to the other end of his bed but he’s stopped when he gets a message from Price.

‘My office. Now.’

Turns out you were with Price when you saw that photo and without a second thought had shown him it and asked what it meant. Granted Price had seen more than just his dick, but he was less than happy about Johnny sending you unsolicited dick pics.

You quiz Soap for nearly an hour, stone faced and unbothered while he gets redder with every question (what can you send, what not to send, how much to send, etc.) and he gets the impression that's how his ma' felt when she gave him and his sisters 'the talk'. “So, yeah.” He clears his throat, whole face feeling hot. “Don’t do it ‘lest yea’r asked or yea like ‘em.”

Thankfully Price finally lets you go when you’re satisfied with his answers and Soap can’t scamper fast enough out of his office with his whole face in flames.

He deletes the photo soon after but you've already burned it into your memory where it will outlast the stars, and the idea to reciprocate festers in your ageless mind like rot until you find yourself in front of your mirror after a shower. You play with the phone for a long time, snapping a few blurry close up shots of your face while you attempt to change it from the front to the back facing camera.

It takes even longer to figure out what to send as Soap wasn't that clear with his answers. Your siblings give you pointers, and first you attempt to take a picture of your most private part — bones snap as your rib cage splits open into a maw, vines full of eyes wrapping around your ribs like ivy as tendrils of darkness unwind just enough for the anti-light of your very essence sucks up all the light in the room — but the mirror cracks and your phone just shuts off with a pitiful whimper.

After fixing the mirror you end up doing what you do best; you mimic one of the statues you'd seen the Greeks make, the towel wrapped just along the V where your thighs connect to your pelvis, exposed from the waist up with your skin still wet. Your body isn't as demure as the muses that sculptor had used, but you hope Soap will appreciate it as you snap a few more photos and send them to Johnny with the same ;) he'd sent you.

Soap nearly chokes on his spit when he gets the photo, all the blood in his brain flooding south as his eyes rake over every exposed inch of skin, every curve and every dip in the muscles making him drool and cock harden and he's racing to your room before you even have the time to turn your phone off.

Imagine GAZ — For all of your pitfalls and misunderstandings he likes the little hints of inhumanity in your speech, in your mannerisms, in knowing you could be anywhere and anytime but you choose to be next to him. He couldn't imagine himself being enamored with an ant, yet you hang on his every word like he's revealing secrets you don't know, making him feel special; he feels so bad when his thoughts of you stop being innocent.

Imagine; He tries to keep things respectful, but his imagination runs wild when you do the simplest things. Bend down to tie your shoe? He's checking out your arse from the corner of his eyes. Stand behind him? He's suppressing a shiver just imagining your body draped over his in post-coital bliss. Check his skin for injuries? Gaz has to bite his lip to keep from begging you to touch all of him, to explore his body. Work out? Kyle's lucky if he doesn't start drooling imagining going over and licking the sweat off your skin, of feeling your muscles tense beneath his tongue while you continue to work out with him between your legs.

When he can't think of you without popping a boner he ends up having to compromise before the shame eats him whole. He goes on a random porn site; he usually prefers just using his imagination but when his mind keeps circling back to you he has no other option, and his conscience gnaws on him when he ends up finding a porn star with similar features to yours. It's not wrong if he's wanking off to a different person, right?

Heat's already burning in his stomach when he slouches in his chair, his back to his room and one earbud in his ear. Shame continues to eat at him when he's both delighted and disheartened by the fact the porn star sounds nothing like you, that his bones don't shiver like they do when you talk.

He keeps the volume low and instead focuses on rubbing and squeezing his cock the way the porn star does to a second actor, and he can't help imagining what you'd sound like; high pitched and whiny? Husky and low? Completely silent or animalistic? The idea of pulling sounds of pleasure out of your throat has him leaking. His head lolls back and he moans as he squeezes the base of his cock, his eyes open just enough to blur the fine details on the porn star's face so you two become indistinguishable.

His heart stops when you burst through his door, a random question leaving your lips before your ears pick up the moans and slick sounds coming from his direction. You're next to him in an instant, looming over his chair and caging him in with your eyes stuck to the screen. "What are you watching?"

"Get out!" He yelps and tries to push you away but it's like trying to move a mountain.

"Why does that human look like my vessel?" You persist, "And why are you watching humans mating when you told me it's wrong?" You tilt your head, luckily not seeing his hand on his hard cock, the porn reflecting in the blacks of your eyes.

“It’s on the net it’s different! People upload it for others' pleasure and-” He sputters and cuts himself off when he registers your words, freezing in place and that accidentally gets him to squeeze the head of his cock.

Your pupils widen like a cat’s when you hear the little moan escape his chest, your head automatically dropping down to see where his other hand is. "Oh,” is what comes out of your mouth when you see his hard weeping cock. “Can I?” You ask, making an odd motion with your head.

He thinks you're asking to leave and nods. "Yeah-" Gaz wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, his cheeks burning red like he's a lobster in a pot. “-can you pl-please leave-”

He wheezes when your cold hand suddenly wraps around his cock, your hold firm and just at the edge of pain but still making him throb. A few more eyes spread across your skin to see him while you watch the video still playing on his computer, giving his cock a small pump and shaking the stars with your purr when he moans.

"What are-" He neck nearly snaps to look at you, a shiver raking his body and another moan escaping him as you squeeze the head of his cock, your skin like ice yet it makes him burn with arousal.

"Watch." You order and turn his head with your free hand so his eyes are back on the screen. You don't know why he's watching a fake 'you' mate when he could just ask you, but you know one thing; the person on the screen is competition, and by the way you roughly stroke his cock until he's whining and leaking like a tap, Gaz can tell— you don't like competition.

Imagine PRICE — He never imagined he'd need to have 'the talk' with a god; sure, you may understand how sex works, but you're hopeless in understanding the nuances of it all. If someone doesn't directly say 'let's fuck' you assume any touches from them, even groping, is just them being friendly. It makes his blood boil, seeing you be taken advantage of like that.

Imagine; You're in the bar with the boys and Price is a couple of drinks in when he sees being felt up by a stranger and you're oblivious to his advances. A green eyed monster nips at Price's heels and he doesn't notice when he puts himself next to you, 'accidentally' shoving the other guy back with just his bulk. His presence, his demeanor, and the few harsh words spoken in a clipped tone has the other guy scampering off.

He doesn't remember much after that, only the way you'd looked at him — with the intensity of a ravenous void, like he was a bright star you wanted to devour.

What wakes him isn't his clock, but the rays of sunlight gently streaming through the curtains. He groans as he registers the awful ache behind his eyes before he even has a chance to open them. He feels his bed shift and his eyes snap open automatically, he nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees you laying on your side as you stare at him.

"Jesus!" He jumps up, nearly topples over from the sudden vertigo but your steady hand on his shoulder keeps him upright, making him realize he's nude.

"He's not here." You shrug and as you sit up his sheets pool around your waist, making him realize you're naked from the waist up, though he doesn't want to think if you're naked naked. His fists clench when his eyes roam over your exposed body against his will, settling on the various hickeys decorating your shoulders and neck.

His heart sinks. "What…what happened last night?" He asks and doesn't want to know the answer, his stomach churns with shame.

"Oh, uh, you got drunk, I got you home, you started kissing and biting me." You say, tracing the numerous hickeys and indents of his teeth across your human form like they're medals. "Then you pulled me into your bed and wouldn't let me go. Then you passed out." You say as if nothing's wrong, and even if no sex happened it's little consolidation to the fact he took advantage of you.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” He asks as he takes a shaky breath, shoulders hunched up around his ears and eyes downcast, bile burning in his stomach.

"Why would I?" You tilt your head and shift positions to face him fully, the sheets falling away to reveal you are naked naked. "I may not understand you fully, but I would have stopped you if you did something I didn't want."

Price hates himself for how he can't tear his eyes away from your body. "But you let me." He insists and tries to get you to see reason, to be as angry and disgusted with him as he is with himself.

“Yes.” You are growing annoyed as well, silently cursing the frailty of the human mind; things would be easier to explain if you could just use mental communication… “You are less than insects to my kin.” You sigh and move to straddle him before he can get away, pinning him under you. “You are a sun to me.”

Even calling him a sun doesn’t do him justice; suns die out like firecrackers when your immeasurable body passes over them, when you devour them, him, you want to keep, to protect, to wrap in your cold abyss until he’s warm and safe.

He sucks in a breath, the gears in his head turning as he tries to understand. “What?-”

“Can I touch you?” You ask, your hands respectfully on your thighs as if you’re not pinning him in place with your weight. There’s a dark intelligence in your eyes, the same ravenous void staring at him behind the black of your eyes. You are not a child, you are a god.

"Why?" He sucks in a sharp breath as he breathes in your smell, the scent of dying stars and burn ozone tickling his lungs. "You don't have to." He says weakly, because what would anyone, god or not, want with him?

"You left marks on me, I want to do the same." The way you say it makes him think of godhood; not the bleak madness you are, but the type humanity romanticizes. Your lips part as if you're thinking of marking him, bits of oblivion staring back at him from the darkness of your throat when he looks too closely at your mouth.

He submits so fast. "C'mere then," He pulls you close by your head, kissing you like he's trying to steal your ichor, his body burning hot when your hands grip him tight enough to leave moon shaped bruises in his skin — the first of many you intend to give him, until you've marked him as yours and yours alone.

Imagine GHOST — Ghost prefers to show you rather than spend hours trying to explain things to you, he's more stricter with you when you try to do things you're told not to, both for your and everyone's safety. You never do quite learn.

Imagine; Ghost recently confiscated your phone when you tried to see what humans thought about you, or what they imagined you and your kin to be, on a website called 'Rule34'. Ghost had snatched the phone out of your hands before you could even click the link. After a week he gave you the go ahead to take it back, but got called to run a drill so just said to go find it.

Now, you've been told not to go rooting around other people's belongings, but while searching for your phone you'd fallen back into your old habit and snooped around until you found a small box in the bottom of his dresser. Thinking nothing of it you opened it and found…something. A lot of somethings; handcuffs, rope, weird egg shaped thing, a weird tube with a hole in it that squished like a stress toy but had a cunt molded at one end, but what drew your attention — was the dismembered black cock in the middle of the box.

You and all of your kin scratched your collective heads over the thing you now held in your hand, you'd been under the impression humans didn't carry around body parts anymore so you were stumped why Ghost had a dismembered dick and balls in his dresser. Besides the pitch black color and flat base it looked so realistic and the way it flopped when you turned it in your hand made you feel the same way humans did when seeing you.

So you got up and wen to ask Ghost about it, the thing held out in your hand when you found him with the rest of the boys. "Ghost, why do you a have body part in your closet?"

Your question made them all turn to look at you, Ghost made a strange sound like a strangled dog while Gaz and Soap fell over laughing and Price shielded his eyes with the rim of his hat.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” He snarls and before you know it he’s stomping over to you and dragging you by the front of your clothes, “What I tell you about snooping?”

“I couldn’t find my phone,” You try to argue but don’t struggle and just let him drag you somewhere like you're a kitten until you find yourself in his room with the door firmly locked behind him.

"Right." His tone makes it sound like he doesn't believe you, his rough hand pushes you down on his bed and he yanks the thing from your hold. “You want to know what this is for?” He asks and holds the the cock with the head pointed at you like a knife.

You nod your head and try to rise up but he pushes you back down, you're not even sure where he gets the handcuffs from but there's cold steel around your wrists before you can notice it. It's his order to "Sit and watch." that actually keeps you down, and you see the corners of his eyes shift to denote a smirk. "Do what you're good at."

You don't blink as you watch him disrobe until he's only wearing his mask, and your surprise is obvious when he sticks the thing on the floor and it stays up right. "This," He growls and sinks to his knees on the floor, a towel under him, "Is a fuckin' dildo." He reaches over and takes a small tube, squirting viscous liquid on his fingers. "You don't ever take it out of my room. Got it."

He leaves no room to argue and you rapidly nod your head. You find yourself breathless as you watch him reach behind himself and you don’t even notice how a bit of your oblivion leaks from your pores and spreads across the ground like spiderwebs, eyes blooming in the small pools all around him so you can see the way he roughly pushes a finger into himself, your hands clenching as his rim flutters around his large fingers.

"What is it for?" You find your voice, the sound ringing like the inside of a dead star the longer you watch him roughly stretch himself, pushing two then three fingers into his ass.

"Fun," He chuckles and feels so powerful when your eyes have all but turned black with hunger you've yet to notice. "It's a toy, for adults." He pulls his fingers out and squirts more liquid on the dildo, before sinking down on the toy in one fluid move that leaves him hissing at the stretch, his rim fluttering around the thick base.

Something about the way the toy is of a similar color to your real body has you wriggling beneath your human skin, the air vibrating as you groan and try to reach out to him, wanting to cover him in your body and have all of him feel all of you.

"No." Just one word has you sitting back on the bed like a dog, a pitiful sound rumbling across the void as you can do nothing but watch. "This is what you get for snooping." He's so smug with the way he has such control over you without even touching you, his thick thighs tensing as he slowly bounces on the dildo, "Now watch. Maybe if you're good I'll let you touch me."

You'll do whatever he says so long as you get to feel him.

[tiredofthehumanlife]

Can you wash my back this once

and then we can forget

Barbie dolls: jegulus x gn! Reader

Word: 2.5k

Summary: you go back to your toxic family and James and regulus take care of you after

Warnings: you have my mommy issues now but I tried to keep it vague so everyone can play along, a lil bit of disassociation, Barty's dad is homophobic slight mention of conversion therapy, nonsexual nudity, idk, James stress eats, you call James Jamie love, sad and then sweet

Regulus hated it when you went home. James hated it even more. Every time you had your hand forced into staying in your childhood home for whatever reason you always came back different. You’d come back a lost shell of the person you left as. When James looked into your eyes it was like you were looking through him. You couldn't crack even a tiny smile for days. James felt like he was watching a robot run through your daily chores in replacement of you. He just wanted to hold you so you never had to go there ever again. After the last visit, you came back so estranged from your body, that James really thought it was over. He really thought they'd give up and you'd stand your ground. 

Unfortunately, James can't be right about everything. They somehow manipulated you into spending an entire week in your childhood home. Even with James and Regulus trying their hardest to convince you to stay, you still packed your bag. And so with your bag packed under your arm, a promise that it’d be okay this time falling from your lips, and a smile etching itself across your face you left your home. 

The knowledge of your whereabouts set James and Regulus on edge. It was like waiting for a car crash you already knew was going to happen. Regulus couldn’t sit down, pacing for hours at a time. James felt like he couldn’t breathe. He picked up baking again in an attempt to relieve stress. It did not. It just made their kitchen more cluttered and caused him to start stress eating as well. James was itching to get you back home so he could hold you to his chest and rock you back and forth. Regulus started reorganizing things that didn’t need to be. He reorganized the silverware drawer three times. He reorganized the closet five times and reorganized his desk eight times. 

They were both ashamed to say that they felt relief when your slumped form showed up on the front doorstep. You didn’t knock. James was looking out the window because he heard a car pull up, your taxi. He watched you walk to the front door and stare at it. You didn’t move for the doorbell or raise your fist you just stared. Regulus was sure he had never moved as fast as he did to get out of his chair and to the front door. He swung it open, ignoring the wave of anxiety he got when he remembered it could scuff the wall. You didn’t meet Regulus’ eyes, your eyes staring ahead. You dropped your bag onto the ground, not bothering to lean. You collapsed into Regulus’ arms, tucking yours under his armpits and clutching onto the back of his black button-up. Regulus’ hands moved to hold you back just as tight. One settled behind your head and the other pressed against your back. 

It is unfortunate that they can say with their full chest it felt nice to have you home, in even such a state. At least they could wrap your wounded heart and brain, it's hard to do that when you’re towns away. James felt his heart burn when he heard you crying into Regulus’ shirt. Regulus let you have a moment, James awkwardly standing behind you both. You eventually pulled back, sniffing and still not meeting their eyes. Regulus ushered you inside, shooing you to the living room. James’ hand shot out the door, snatching your bag off the step and heading back inside. Regulus kept one hand on your back to comfort you as you stared at the living room floor. 

Eventually, James got tired of silence. 

“Would you like a bath?” James whispered. he knew to stay quiet. ‘Quiet and soft like a bunny’ Regulus told him while James was scarfing a muffin down his throat. You sniffed and nodded your head just slightly. Regulus hummed. 

“Let’s go take a bath,” Regulus muttered to you. He rubbed your back as you both shuffled over into the bathroom. Regulus started running the water, making sure it was the perfect temperature. Usually when you took baths while waiting for the tub to fill you’d read or play music. Regulus didn’t know why he expected it but he thought when he turned round you’d be giving the pages of your book a soft smile. But when he turned his head you were sitting slumped on the toilet seat. You stared down at the floor with a look Regulus recognized all too well. He’d seen it before in his own mirror after a long night of his mother’s torment. He’d seen it on Sirius the night his mother thought Sirius cut Regulus’ hair. Regulus felt his heart sink when he could imagine you sitting in his bathroom back in Black manor and you didn’t look out of place at all. 

“Would you like me to leave?” Regulus asked, watching you to see if you’d move from your spot at all. You shook your head. Regulus hummed and held his hands out for you. He helped you stand up, in the middle of the bathroom still staring at the floor. 

“So you want me to help you get into the bath?” You nodded, your hands flopping down to your sides. Regulus very slowly and gently pulled your clothes off, letting them pile in the corner. Then he held onto your hand as you stepped over the edge of the bath and sunk into the water. 

It wasn’t the first time and it probably won't be the last time that Regulus washed someone because they couldn’t themselves. He did when Barty got a letter from his father, threatening to send him off the fix his queerness. He did when Dorcas failed her History of Magic class, making her parents furious. He did when James got sick and could barely lift his finger without whining. He did when Evan realized he was in love with Barty and thought he could never love him back. 

Regulus didn’t mind it. He didn’t mind it at all. He was able to take care of his loved ones in ways he never experienced. There was a voice in the back of his mind telling him if he needed it, you and James would wash his body for him. When their mind wasn’t there for them Regulus stepped in. He washed you to the best of his abilities, which was quite well in his opinion. You hadn’t made eye contact with anyone yet. You hadn’t said a word. You just stared. 

It felt like the part of you that made you laugh and smile had drawn itself into your heart, hiding behind your ribs. Your body felt empty and your head felt heavy and light at the same time. Your mind felt like it was seven paces behind, catching the world in broken pieces. You dipped your fingers into the warm soapy water, watching the bubbles slip onto your knuckles. 

“Regulus?” Your voice came out hoarse. Regulus didn’t even fully recognize that you spoke, still focused on washing your back. His mind was two steps behind but when he did finally realize you spoke he was startled. He hummed in response, trying not to disrupt your peace. 

“Do you miss your mother?” Your voice seemed to clear a little but you still sounded sick. Regulus stayed silent for a moment, his hand on your back pausing. How could he miss his mother? She practically treated him like a punching bag. Though he was pretty sure he knew the feeling you were thinking of. 

“No, but I miss who she could’ve been,” Regulus whispered, lightly sratching your back like he knew you enjoyed it. You straightened your back, sitting up a little from the curled in position you were before. Regulus felt the corner of his mouth twitch, glad he still knew you liked back scratches. He pulled his other hand over the edge of the bathtub to join the one on your back. You hummed. 

“Do you think your mother loved you in the beginning or did she just always hate you?” You asked, dipping your hand under the water to splash it against the wall. Regulus felt a little strangely talking about such a sour topic while giving you back scratches. He shrugged even though you wouldn’t see him. 

“I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that she could never love someone. She’s a narcissist the only person they can love is themself.” Regulus said, dragging his nails up to the back of your neck. You hummed dangerously close to a moan and tilted your head forward, giving Regulus more space to scratch. He scratched at the bottom of your hairline, smiling again when you turned your head back and forth so he could get behind your ears too. He eventually dropped his hands back to between your shoulder blades. You sat up again, staring at the wall. 

“Why would any narcissist have kids if they can’t love anyone?” You asked. Regulus was starting to wonder why you were asking him of all people all of these questions. He shrugged, reaching back for the body wash and pulling your arm away from yourself. 

“I suppose because they want someone to fix them and someone to break,” Regulus said, rubbing the soap into your arm until it foamed. You hummed. 

“But then why did it have to be me? What did I do wrong?” You whispered your voice cracking halfway through. Regulus dropped his hands into the bath, rinsing the soap off. He quickly pulled on your chin so you’d face him. 

“No. Baby, it wasn’t you. It will never be you. It has nothing to do with you. You are not the problem, they are. Sometimes bad things happen to good people and it’s just how the straws were pulled. You didn’t do something in another life. You didn’t do something in this life and you won’t do something in a future life. It’s completely their fault.” Regulus said, holding onto your cheeks while he spoke to you so you couldn’t look away. He saw the tears sitting on the edge of your waterline. You sniffed, leaning your head into his hand more. 

“But why me? Why couldn’t I get a pretty house with a loving family? Why did I have to pull this straw? And why do I still keep falling into her stupid traps? Why can’t I just be okay? Know my mother is bad and stop making excuses for her?” You whispered, swallowing back tears. Regulus shook his head. 

“I don’t know. I do know it’s not your fault you keep making excuses for her. She’s trained you to do that since you were a child. The worst thing about bad people is that they’re still people so it’s easy to find excuses for them.” Regulus said, dipping his wet hand slip to your shoulder. You moved quickly, startling Regulus. Your soapy arms wrapping around his shoulders and tipping your chin over his shoulder. You don’t know how long Regulus held you in that hug but eventually, you pulled away, taking your spot back in the bath water. When Regulus was rinsing off all your body wash, James ducked his head in the door. You didn’t raise your head from where you were staring at the bubbles. 

“Dinner is ten minutes from being done. I made you your favorate, my love.” James said, his tone still soft but he was confident to raise his voice above a whisper now. You raised your head, making eye contact with James. Your lips tipped in the smallest, almost invisible way. 

“Thank you.” You whispered, your words dripping with sour happiness. James felt his heart soar. Your usual personality showing a slimmer of itself had him beaming from ear to ear and he wanted to scream into his pillow out of joy. James nodded, backpedaling out the door and closing it. You stared back at the water, dropping your smile. Regulus soon helped you out of the tub and wrapped you in a fluffy towel you knew was his. It had his itnitals on it. You hated that he was wrapping you in it. He never let anyone but himself use it. You knew he was doing it out of kindness but you didn’t want to be babied just because you were a little sad. 

“Regulus, this is your towel.” You whispered. Regulus hummed, drying off your leg before standing and moving to your arm. 

“I don’t want you to use your towel on me.” You said glancing at Regulus’ face. He raised an eyebrow, still drying off your arm. 

“Cooties?” You grumbled at his attempt at a joke. 

“You don’t let anyone use your towel, you’re babying me.” Regulus shook his head at you. 

“No just the only clean towel in the house right now. I’ll do laundry towmarrow and you’ll never have to touch my towel again.” Regulus said, moving to your other arm. You huffed. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Regulus stopped his movements and kissed your cheek. 

“I know. I was just teasing. I’m sorry I annoyed you.” You shook your head and looked down at the floor. Soon enough, Regulus was bringing a set of pajamas into the bathroom and helping you into them. James moved dinner to the living room. On the TV was your favorite comfort show. Your favorite blanket was thrown over the back of the couch. Your favorite meal was on a plate with your favorite fork sticking up out of the food. James pretended like he didn’t do it on purpose, looking around the room and pretending he was nonchalant. You sat in your favorite spot, pulling your favorite blanket over your lap. Regulus sat next to you, leaving space in between in case you get overwhelmed. James sat on the floor in front of the coffee table. He stayed quiet, which was unusual for him but you appreciated it. He was a lover of making comments during shows and movies, you liked it at the best of times. At the worst of times, you just wanted silence, even if the person talking was one of your favorite people on the planet. It didn’t stop him from scoffing or snorting at times. Your meal was so good, that you nudged James with your foot. He looked up from his plate on the coffee table, raising a brow at you. 

“Thank you, Jamie Love.” You whispered. James smiled brightly, swallowing his bite quickly. He dropped his fork and reached back for your leg. He rubbed your calf, lightly kissing your knee over your pajama pants. He pressed his cheek against your knee, smiling up at you. James pulled back from you, resumeing his eating. He did make a few comments about your show, calling the characters stupid or questioning plot points that were heinously wrong. Eventually, he cracked a joke that made you snort. James turned back, giving you the softest eyes. He was so glad you laughed even if it was tiny. He shared a look with Regulus, who was just as excited as James was. You were coming back. Quicker than last time, too.  

[whumpinthepot]

Hamster Interactive Story

Chapter 15. Photoshoot

Prev - Masterlist

Content: giant/tiny, nonsexual nudity, dressing/posing/handling like a doll, ptsd, fear, swearing, being kept against their will, pet trope, cages, dehumanization, power dynamics, baby talk, ableism, selective mutism, slight bullying, being filmed (lmk if i missed any)

Pov: Hamster

Poll Winner: Pirate and Mermaid

ART, WRITING, AND POLL UNDER THE CUT!!

—-

Today is the day Ashley wanted Soap to model with you. She didn’t mention what the theme would be yet, and when she puts you on the counter where the props are set up you can only gaze in wonder at the chest full of gold coins, silks, and jewels. It's as big as your cage, and you have to crane your neck to try to see the top of it.

There are wooden paneled walls put up around the set, presumably so Soap has nowhere to try to make a run for it. You look around while Ashley goes to retrieve Soap Scrub. The  costumes are there in two piles and you pick up a random scarf to look at while you wait. 

Ashley comes back and places Soap’s shaking frame in front of you. When he doesn’t move she nudges him in the back with her finger, causing a yelp from him.

She’s scaring him.

You have to protect him from her! she’s made her point already. You frown at her and put your arms around Soap protectively, looking up at her with disapproval. 

He’s warm, and still trembling. You tighten your grip and it's clear on Ashley’s face that she gets the message. Ashley bites her lip and looks away from you. That’s right, she would never upset you. You can stop her from scaring your friend. 

Soap doesn’t hug you back, nor does his shaking settle. You can feel him looking around for a place to run or hide. Of course Ashley blocked off all exits so you’re not worried about that. 

Slowly you let go of him, glance at Ashley who has backed off, and take his hand to guide him to his costume. He numbly and stiffly follows you. 

Now that you’re standing next to him you can see that he’s about a head taller than you. It makes your heart flutter for some reason. Not like the humans who tower in comparison, just a bit taller but still your size. You smile at him to reassure that you’ve got him. He’s safe with you. 

His nerve returns when you hand him his clothes, and his face twists up as if holding back a rude remark. His sour eyes say it all, and he doesn’t take them from you.

You push the fabrics into his arms, and when he pushes you back without a word Ashley clears her throat from above you both. 

Soap nearly jumps out of his skin, snatching the costume out of your hands at lightning speed. Suddenly it's like he’s racing a clock, keeping an eye on Ashley’s hands and face while he tries to figure out how this costume works. 

You’re ready to help him if he needs it, and wait patiently for him to get dressed, in what looks like a pirate costume. He struggles with some of the extra fabrics, unsure where they fit but so far he has baggy brown pants with rips above his ankles with a long shaggy grey jacket with no sleeves. 

When Ashley instructs him on what to do with the extra cloth he jumps and looks just about to cry. You want to go comfort him more, but Ashley scoops you in that second to help you get into your own costume. 

“You’re going to be the cutest tiny mermaid!” She kisses your face, and presents you with a shimmering orange and green mermaid tail that slips on over your legs. “You won’t be able to walk with this, so mummy has to help you with it, ‘kay?” 

You don’t answer because there's no need. She’s already helping you into it, along with tape to cover your bare chest. She shifts your hair over the tape to make it look like it's naturally covering any private areas, and mists your hair with water. 

She squeals at how cute you are and sets you down on top of the pile of treasure. Some of it tumbles down to the floor with a sharp clatter, and you don’t move in fear of falling. Ashley takes your glasses off, and the house is back to the familiar blurriness it always has been. You can still see where Soap Scrub is though, and you squint at him. 

Ashley is pointing and telling him to fix his costume, and before long he’s being guided towards the treasure chest to stand close to you. You can’t tell if he’s shaking but you can only assume he’s still on edge about the whole thing. Even if he got plenty of warning throughout the week. 

When Ashley shines lights on you two, you really become blinded, so you let her physically pose you how she wants for each photo. She doesn’t touch Soap at all which is a relief because you know that's what he’s really scared of. 

At one point Ashley tells Soap to climb up the coins towards you, and when he says he doesn’t want to she reaches for him as if to grab him. He scrambles away from her, and angrily shouts at her. “Alright! Alright. I’ll do it, don’t fucking touch me.” 

You’re flabbergasted and your jaw drops but he’s crawling towards you. He’s slowly getting clearer, and he looks so, so handsome. You lean towards him with a big smile, one that he doesn’t return, and then the coins slip from under his hand. 

The first coin causes the second to slip, then the one above that, and now you’re slipping off of the top of the pile with them. Everything falls with you, and kindly enough, Soap is the one that catches you when you fall towards him. 

Your breath hitches initially but once you’re able to suck air in you cry in fear. Even though it was a very slow, very anticlimactic, very short fall, it still made your heart skip a beat and your limbs freeze up. Your arm throbs with phantom pain from when it was broken, and you cling onto Soap for dear life, crying from shock. 

“Whoa, ugh. It's okay, Hamster. Stop crying,” Soap says, and pushes you off of him gently to sit up. He definitely looks uncomfortable but he lets you keep holding his hands. Until Ashley’s giant hand gets close, then he makes a break for it, and jumps a foot away from you. 

Ashley picks you up, and presses you close to her chest. “I’m so sorry honey bunny, was that scary? I would never let you get hurt again. You’re safe, it's okay. I got some good shots. How about we stop for today. How does that sound?” She completely ignores Soap Scrub and wipes your tears away with her soft finger. 

She puts you back into shorts and a tank top, but she keeps holding you against her chest while she cleans up. Her heart hammers against your cheek, and you close your eyes, relaxing until she puts you back into your cage for the night. By then you’re calm again, and thrilled to go talk to Soap Scrub once Ashley goes to bed. You want to know what he thought about the whole photoshoot. He probably hated it, but you’d like to hear his thoughts anyway. 

Ashley is watching the news, and you dully listen to it while laying on your back. Something about pet liberation, but you don’t care enough to understand it, it's boring. 

Ashley shows you some of the pictures before she goes to bed and you’re happy to see how beautifully they turned out. Soap’s grumpy demeanor actually played into the role quite well, and you do look beautiful with the shimmering tail. You’re excited to hear about the comments you get when Ashley posts them. 

Once Ashley’s in bed you happily climb out of your cage, keeping well away from the counter ledge, and rush to where Soap lives. 

He’s expecting you, and already leaning against the bars to greet you. “Don’t you ever get sick of her talking to you like you’re a baby?” 

You shake your head with a smile, and give him a chocolate chip. He deserves a reward for participating today. 

“Thanks,” he says flatly. “Do you know what conditioning is? If you looked it up in a dictionary your face would be there.” 

You don’t really, but you do know he’s being rude so you roll your eyes. You don’t care about his questions. You want to know what he thought of the whole thing. 

You point at him. 

“Right, because I can totally understand what you’re asking right now,” he retorts. He bites his lip while looking down and gets more serious. “Were you listening to the news earlier? I wonder if it's real… You know, people breaking into places to ‘rescue’ pets. Maybe they’d help me, or maybe they’d just make things worse. Who knows…” 

You’re shocked at his dialogue and shake your head in horror. You do NOT want that to happen. 

“Hamster, if you let me out you could come with me you know. You don’t have to stay here with her… I know you love her, but it's messed up. People don’t belong in cages. I don’t belong in a cage. I don’t want to be someone's doll. I don’t want her touching me all the time. I don’t want her making money off me, and dressing me, and taking away my freedom. Fuck, she doesn’t even like me.” He laughs out of reflex, and says, “With you it’s different. She’s nice to you, but she’s using you.” 

You feel bad. He still hasn’t adjusted it seems, and besides, he had a point. Ashley isn’t as nice to him for some reason, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to lose your only friend. You can’t let him go, at least, not yet, not while you’re confused and conflicted. Besides, Ashley is nice to you, and Soap is usually a jerk, so really why would you want to go with him? 

You shake your head sadly and look away from him. You need time to think about all of this. Maybe someday you would like to explore the world, but not today. Not when Ashley still needs you. You couldn’t imagine breaking Ashley’s heart like that. Not in a million years. Still, the thought of people coming in to ‘rescue’ you has you a bit shaken. Especially if they wanted to hurt Ashley in the process. You will have to actually start paying attention to the news before making any sort of decision. 

“Alright then.” Soap sounds done with trying to convince you. One last thing he mumbles before you leave for bed is, “You looked good in your costume today by the way…” 

You absolutely beam at the compliment and wave goodbye at him for the night. You think about everything while you swing in your hammock. If Soap was around for so long before Ashley found him, you wonder if more tinies will ever show up. The thought both excites you and scares you. 

—

Tag list: @frogkingdom @verkja @whumpsday @octopus-reactivated @marvel-gt @rsitb-second-account @fallen-grace-smd @winged-wolf-s-collection-of-arts @kyp-the-spacekiwi @ilasknives @hollowgast1 @redd956 @zobodahobo @alittlewhump @blackrosesandwhump p @angst-after-dark @sandygarnelle @coppercoyoti i @kim-poce @mayisreallygay @smoll-stace @demondamage @vickytokio @whump-in-the-closet @shadowsnowdapple @whumpy-wyrms @re-whump @cypresscove @whumpninja @highlighterwhump @taters169

Clumping the tags together, Lmk if theres an issue with tagging! Also thank you @alittlewhump for helping me out with this chapter:))

[decayingflynn]

ART GRIND IS BACK ON WE'RE SO BACK. WE ARE SOOOOOO BACK. OK

inspo taken from this ↑↑ by @loudeaglecollective

uujhm slight (nonsexual) nudity?;??? (nothing is really on display it's really just cogsworth's back and lumieres chest tbh) (under the cut just in case)

guh

ok bye

[benjingler]

I MAKE ART

Benjingle Jangles is my fake full name if it's ever funny to use one. Just Ben is okay too. He/him and masculine terms exclusively, unless you're jokingly calling me something like idfk uhh "girllll" "pretty princess" "queen" etcetera.

My strawpage (and a Twitter thread where I respond)

I think Thistle is developmentally... 15. At the most, and Chilchuck would be 33

I care more about characters than I do about ships, but I'll ship whatever is funniest for the bit or what gets engagemennttttt 💵💵💵

I also don't usually tag spoilers or triggers in posts that won't go into any main tags... So.... It's usually very slight sex jokes, nonsexual nudity, or slight gore. Sorry!

If you want dunmeshi content that you don't have to pay for you DEFINITELY SHOULDNT ASK ME. I REPEAT DO NOT ASK ME. I DEFINITELY DO NOT HAVE MOST OF THE MANGA, ADVBIBLE, AND DAYDREAM HOUR AS A PDF. NOR DO I HAVE THE EPISODES AVAILABLE AS SEPARATE MP4 FILES. Do NOT ask me

Fan of Dungeon Meshi and all things Tatsuki Fujimoto 🗣️🗣️

I literally am only serious about shipping laicille and not shipping farcille. Anything else I'm open about 😻 guys hear me out on aroace Falin (that being said, some good fanart can definitely change me)

If you see me post anything about Thistle and Delgal that could be interpreted as romantic or sexual or whatever, it probably isn't. Unhealthy codependent attachment. Not romance. That's pseudo-incest and pedophilic depending on what stages of their lives it takes place.

Petty DNI list:

If you call Thistle "Sissel"

I stole these

[lolita-ily]

silly girl doing it again

*AGGRESSIVE DRUMROLLS*

I officially present(this time, on the right page) my LOTF OC!!!

YES. ON THE RIGHT PAGE AND NOT ANNOYING THE CONMUNITY(im so sorry guys I swear)

TW!!: slight nonsexual nudity. Creeps stay away. If you’re not comfortable with that, scroll and have a nice day/night^^

FOR THE OTHER, BEWARE MY INDIGENOUS GIRLY!!!

Here goes my savageeee🎀

so, I’ll post her lore later but for now im leaving y’all with her design and a few facts

SO im here begging for opinions and how to improve and all so yeahhhhh-

have a nice day, love y’all!!

thanks to @mikeru6

original post here: https://www.tumblr.com/communities/lord-of-the-flies/post/772040371853279232/drums-tolls

[fakegingerrights]

Walk by Faith (1)

[Crosshair x Medic!reader. TW for nonsexual nudity and showering, medical procedures, blindness, seizures, angst, mentions of self harm and suicide.]

Next Chapt Masterlist

“They call themselves: The Bad Batch.”

Crosshair panted, too bright, always too bright. Too cold hands of a kaminoan, their distinct medical smell and rubbery skin grabbing at his face to pry his eyelids open.

Crosshair screamed.

“A group of clones with ‘desirable mutations.’”

He wasn’t alone, of course. Hunter hated the lights too, his heightened senses making laboratory settings living hell for him. Tech’s constant testing for recall speed and IQ and the sheer amount of information crammed into his head often left him mumbling for hours, unable to think enough to remember his own name. Wrecker spent his nights in agony, growing pain was bad for all of them but his was worse, often spending nights in a drugged sleep to keep him from screaming as his limbs stretched and muscles tightened.

Now he sat in darkness. Alone. Not surrounded by the familiar groans and sighs of his brothers, alone in their own misery but at least present.

“Clone force 99 has been listed as traitors to the empire. Shoot to kill.”

Crosshair never missed. Never. But standing across from his brothers on that platform, watching as Hunter dragged Omega onto the Marauder, and he couldn’t do it.

It’s what got him to where he was now.

“CT-9904?” The new medic wasn’t a clone. The voice was feminine, but the thick bandages over his eyes prevented him from seeing your face. “I’m your assigned optician. I’m here to check how your eyes are accepting the new artificial lenses?”

There’s the sound of footsteps approaching. Crosshair didn’t have ears as good as Hunter, but he had spend enough time blind folded to have a good grasp on using his ears to the fullest.

“I’m going to touch your face now, please try to hold still.” You warned him. Crosshair went stone still, barely even breathing as soft hands brushed his face, deftly undoing the bandages that covered his eyes. He blinked, trying to clear his vision as his heart leapt into his throat.

“You’re doing this in the dark?” He asked, his voice hoarse, even though he already knew the answer.

“No. Until we’re sure your eyes have adjusted to the lenses, you’re on neural blockers to prevent you from consciously using your eyes. it wouldn't be anything more than a blurry mess anyways until they've settled. It should only be a day or two” You explained, a hand coming up to cup his cheek, thumb resting on the bottom of his tattoo, a slight warmth signifying a handheld light flitting across your face. “That’s quite the spot for a tattoo. The work on the eyelid is done well.” You remarked. Crosshair gritted his teeth. As glad as he was to not have a kaminoan working on him, natborns always talked too much.

“Tech did it.” He ground out. You hummed, pulling back sore eyelids to look under them.

“Tech?”

“CT-9902.” He spat the number out.

“Ah, I saw his file briefly. They contacted me to work on his goggles. Now hold still.” You commanded firmly, and Crosshair again went still as something itchy brushed across the surface of his actual eye, then the other one. “You have a name?”

“Crosshair.” Cross gritted out again. The new medic was getting on his nerves, but a small part of him was grateful. Since his squad decided to betray their empire, he hadn’t spoken this much to anyone in weeks.

“Oh! Like your tattoo?” There’s the sound of a tube opening.

“Yes, like the tattoo.”

“That’s really neat. I have a similar one, kinda. A replica of the scope’s readout from my father’s hunting rifle between my shoulder blades. He taught me to shoot with that blaster. Right, I’m going to apply some bacta to your inner eyelids, and then we’ll have to wait until it’s settled before I can apply eyedrops to counteract the dryness it will cause.” You chattered on, Crosshair barely listening. He stared at nothing, not even blinking until you told him he could. The bacta burned something awful, and tears ran tracks down his cheeks as he fought not to rub his eyes.

“Yeah, sorry about the sting, you know, we aught to really come up with something better than bacta, we kinda just use it as a cure all but-“

“Do you ever stop talking?” Crosshair’s annoyance got the best of him and he snapped, glaring in your direction through sightless eyes.

“Eh, I’ve been told I’m quite the chatter box.” You retort. “Right, gonna touch your face again.”

He grimaced as you leaned back into his personal space, so close he could smell your faint perfume as you tipped his head back and administered numbing eyedrops to ease the burning once the bacta had set long enough.

“How long until my sight returns?” He asked, turning his face upwards and blinking to help the eyedrops settle in.

“About a week, give or take a day.” You answered. “The Kaminoans, idiots, wouldn’t let me perform the surgery, and have declared I’m to be your nurse until your eyes have healed. Do I look- wait, no.” Crosshair glared in your direction. “Do I sound like a nurse to you? I’m an optometrist specializing in artificial lenses and improvements! Not that yours could be improved much. Your natural eyes are phenomenal. I’ve never seen more beautifully shaped retinas, and your pupil dexterity is amazing!”

“Yes yes, I get it. I’ve got good eyes.” Crosshair rolled his empty eyes. “Not what girls usually compliment me on, but I’ll take it.” He wasn’t sure why he kept indulging you in conversation. He’d rather be left alone to his own dark world.

“There aren’t many girls who know what to look for in a decent set if eyes.” You shot back, picking up the fresh set of bandages. Crosshair flinched when your knuckle brushed his temple.

“Sorry, I forgot to warn you. Just reapplying the bandages, then we can get you out of this wing and to your temporary outpatient accommodations.” He sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly with relief at getting out of the lab before he caught the rest of what you said.

“I’m not going to my barrack?” He asked. Crosshair didn’t need eyes to know you were wincing.

“Yeah… about that. The long necked idiots decided you needed around the clock monitoring before your sight returned. And decided, since they’re my lenses in your eyes, you should be put with me. In my quarters.”

Crosshair scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

“Unfortunately, Commander, you don’t get a choice. Do you have anything you need out of this room?” You say briskly, looking around.

“I’m not staying in-“

“Nothing you need then?”

“…” Even through the bandages, you can feel his glare as he chews his lip. “Do you have a toothpick?”

“In my quarters. Right, let’s get you up.” Hands grab his shoulder and help him out of the post-op gurney and to his feet. He sways slightly as he tries to find his balance without his eyes. “Whoah there, I gotcha.” The hands on his shoulders tightened. “Wow, you’re tall. Ok, do you want to take my shoulder or have me take your arm?”

Crosshair hated this. He wanted to scream and tear the cloth away from his eyes and rub them until they stopped itching and he could see and-

And it wouldn’t do anything but give him an infection. The voice in his head sounded painstakingly like Tech, who was always trying to help.

“Shoulder.” He gritted out after a moment. Soft hands that had just thoroughly tortured him with their medicine now took his hand and placed it on your shoulder. He fell into step beside you, letting you guide him into the hall and through the corridor.

“Your room is on the left past the kitchenette, I moved as much of the furniture as I could out of your way. Our rooms are connected by a shared refresher, too.” You chattered on as he followed you through the halls.

The darkness without his vision never failed to unsettle him. Kamino is always so bright, so blindingly white... even without vision the shadows felt out of place.

"Here we are." Your voice startled him out of his thoughts. "I'll drop you at your room and let you get settled from there. You won't be drilling while you recover but your armor and rifle is on the bed."

You set his hand against the doorframe into his room. "If there's an emergency shout and I'll be there."

Yeah, right.

The room was small, Crosshair was thankful for that. Less space for him to memorize. He sat down on the bed, taking a deep breath and fighting the urge to scratch at his eyes. He focused instead on mapping out the unfamiliar bunk. It was about the size of the one in his barrack, maybe a hair bigger. the most curious thing though was the dense, soft quilt that draped over it. It certainly wasn't anything from Kamino. On a hunch, he let a hand drift up to run a finger along the edge of the pillow.

Cotton. And thick. Not the thin cushion the kaminoans insisted on. It smelled off too, like fresh air and sunshine rather than bleach.

Had you... made up the bed for him?

Crosshair shook off the thought and all it entailed. There was a bedside desk of sorts, a datapad resting on it. Not that he would be able to do anything with it...

At the foot of the bed was his sniper rifle and armor, which he quickly checked over. Everything seemed to be in order.

Satisfied he could at least confidently navigate his temporary sleeping space, he kicked the quilt to the foot of the bed and curled up on the mattress, giving a quiet sigh of appreciation as he let himself sleep for the moment.

---

He awoke to a soft knock at the door, then the sound of it sliding open. Crosshair suppressed a twitch and focused on maintaining his breathing, staying as still as possible.

"Cross- oh." Your voice went from a casual tone to barely above a whisper. He feigned sleep and focused on listening to your footsteps as you padded across the room, pausing by the table.

There was the clatter of something... cutlery? And the faint smell of hot rations from the mess. Kriff, he must've slept longer than he meant if you were bringing in food already. He fought the urge to tense as he felt your presence close to him, then down by his feet where he had kicked the quilt. The sensation of the weight being pulled from the edge of the cott and the rustle of heavy fabric, he barely stifled a flinch as the blanket touched down over his shoulders first before coming to rest over the rest of him.

Then your footsteps retreated back towards the door, and he let himself relax a little more.

"I know you're awake, Crosshair. Food's on the desk if you're hungry. Double portion, to help you make up the weight you've lost the last few weeks." Your tone was still soft, and slightly... amused? Were you laughing at him? "The overhead lights are off but the desklamp is on. I'm out here if you need anything."

The door slid shut again. The quilt was heavy, but deceptively cool against his exposed skin, the white shirt and loose pants of the medical ward suddenly left him feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Crosshair huffed a long sigh, sitting up and folding his knees up against his chest. He started with his ankles, slowly and methodically going through and cracking every joint all the way up to his neck then down his arms, stretching as he goes and enjoying the sensation of his muscles relaxing. He trailed one of his hands up against the smooth surface of the desk until he bumped the tray, then feeling around the edges for the warmth of where the rations would be.

Satisfied with the layout of his trey he moved to eat over the desk. As he did so, he also found a glass of water and a hefty box of toothpicks.

He picked at the food, getting barely halfway through before he pushed it away, downing the water and settling back on his bed to chew on a toothpick in sullen silence. His eyes ached. It wasn't a new sensation, but it was much more annoying. Especially that he was now left alone in the dark instead of having his squad around him to distract him.

Crosshair shook his head. That line of thought never ended well recently. He opted instead to grab his tray and glass and slip into the shared living space, setting them carefully in the sink and rinsing them over. There's the chatter of noise... a holo drama of some kind? And your voice from behind him and to his left, against the far wall.

"You know, you can change out of those awful medical uniforms if you want to." You called. Crosshair grunted.

"Don't have anything else. It's this or my blacks." He shot back, wincing at how gravely his voice sounded.

"Really? Nothing else?"

He rolled his eyes behind closed lids on impulse, then winced at the stinging feeling of the motion. "That's what I said, isn't it?"

"Sorry. That just seems a little spartan, though. Even for- well."

"A clone?" He drawled the word out. "We're property. Property can't own property, so we have enough to keep us from running around naked."

"Now that would be a sight. Kaminoans would be under a lot of heat for it though, since then there'd be no doubt about your humanity." There's a clatter of you setting something down, a datapad, probably. "Actually, scrap that. They'd just use it as more marketing. Do you want me to make a few calls, get you something else to wear?"

"That is... unnecessary. These are fine." Other clothes would be nice, Crosshair mused. He hated how much he sounded like Tech in that moment, but really, these would do just fine. He was a weapon for the Repub- Empire. He got what was given to him and didn't ask for more.

His momentary confusion sent a jolt of pain through the side of his head, he pressed a palm to it with a wince. Everything seemed to fizzle around him before snapping back to it's usual feeling. Dimly, he heard your voice talking to him.

"-Hair? Crosshair, are you alright?" Fingertips grazed his cheek just below the bandages. His hand snapped up to close around your wrist in a bone crushing grip. Kriff, when had you gotten close enough to touch him? "Ow, owowowow, ok, Buddy, you gotta let me go here. Take a breath." Your other hand came up to pry at his fingers. He took a shuddering breath and slowly released his death grip, his hand slipping away to hang limp at his side.

You mumble a few nasty curses that made his eyebrows raise slightly below the bandages, pulling away to presumably rub at your sore wrist.

"Warn me before you go grabbin me." He ground out in lieu of an apology, moving to push past you. You stopped him with your good hand on his chest.

"I did. You didn't hear me. Come sit down, I need to check your vitals." Your tone was stern, and he sighed knowing he wasn't gonna be able to get out of this one. He ground down on his toothpick as you took his elbow and lead him over to what felt like a low sofa, pushing him down onto it. If he had his eyes uncovered, he'd be glaring daggers.

"I thought you weren't a nurse." He bit the words out. You give him a snort in return.

"I'm not. But I am your around the clock care for now. Wanna tell me what that was? Gonna check your blood pressure, can I have your non-dominant arm?"

Crosshair held out his right arm, and you tapped his hand twice to warn him before moving to slip the cuff around his arm, taking care to maintain some form of contact so you didn't startle him again. "Just a lapse in attention." He lied through his teeth.

"Crosshair." Your tone was tired, borderline scolding him.

"It's a recurring headache. I've had it since the Reformation." he ground out. "It's on the side of my head, up high. Bleeds down into a migraine above my right eye."

"I'm gonna do a bloodcheck. Can I have your little finger? Little poke." He held out his hand as you slipped the blood pressure cuff off. He hissed as the needle lanced into his skin and out, taking a fair amount of blood [and actual flesh] with it. "Right, while that processes, we're gonna go to the refresher and get you cleaned up."

"My inability to see doesn't mean I can't bathe myself just fine." Crosshair hissed.

"You can do your body on your own just fine, but I need to get your eyes for you. We don't want to risk infection and you got some blood and crusties that would probably feel much better gone." You tap his elbow and pull him to his feet. "And while you're bathing, no shower. Bath only, keep the water away from your face and eyes, no soap-"

"I know post op care, Doc. Not my first time under the long neck's knife." Cross ground out.

"-And I'll leave you to do that while I track down some proper clothes for you." You finished, taking him through his room into the refresher. "Edge of the tub is behind you. Gonna have you sit on the floor in front of it and lean over it, ok? I'm gonna have my hands all over your face and head, so I'd appreciate it if you don't grab me again." He felt with his foot until his heel found the tub and lowered himself to the floor with a sigh. The tub was partially sunken into the ground, so the lip was fairly close to the floor. It was a little awkward at first as he slowly slid down until he was resting mostly laying on the ground with his head on the edge of the tub.

"Mk, right next to you, Crosshair." You said, tapping his shoulder lightly. "Let's get another look under these wraps, ok? I'll be gentle." As if you'd risk being anything else. Wouldn't want to damage the Empire's perfect weapon. He focused on breathing as you slowly unwound the strips from his face, blinking away the gritty feeling of his eyelids finally being able to move freely. He squinted through puffy eyelids into the darkness on instinct, trying to search for even a whisper of change or movement. "Ah, careful now. Nothing to see, remember? Do you want your eyedrops now or later?"

"Later." He grunted, to a small chuckle from you. He glared in your direction, but you paid him no mind.

"Lift your head for me?"

He did so, and he heard the slide of coarse fabric against ceramic as you slid a folded up towel under his neck and shoulders so they weren't digging into the smooth surface of the tub. He always hated this part.

The sound of the spigot being opened made him flinch, and he could feel flecks of water hitting the back of his head as the sound of a bottle being filled hit his ears. He gritted his teeth, waiting.

"Ok, bear with me now, gonna be up in your face for a bit." You warned, turning the faucet off again. Crosshair grunted an acknowledgement, bracing himself. Your off hand, the one he'd grabbed, he noted, slid under the base of his skull to better support his head as a damp microfiber cloth was dabbed at the disgusting mess of bacta, mucus, blood, and who knows what else that had gathered in the innermost corner and under his eyes, slowly breaking apart the mess with as little pressure as possible.

Crosshair swallowed, his pulse ticking up slightly before he remembered to go back to focusing on his breathing as you worked your way outwards, into the edges of his eyes. Memories flitted to the surface of his mind, of his eyes being rinsed out with something like a power washer as a cadet whenever he got another eye infection and the itchy, blurry vision he always had after another round of testing, debating on whether or not he was good enough or if he needed more improvement. Blinding white alternating with terrifying darkness, he hated not being able to see.

"Crosshair?" Your voice was soft, right next to his ear. It pulled him out of the painful memories as he realized you were no longer working on his eyes. "Is everything alright?"

"Situation Normal." His voice was raspier than he would have liked, sound just a bit too choked to be 'fine.'

"Alright. The worst of it's over, ok? Everything is looking good." There was the click of a soap bottle, and he tensed up again as the faucet was turned back on. His breathing, which he had done well at keeping metronome-steady up until this moment, caught slightly as something cold touched his scalp and the hand behind his head carefully pulled away.

"What're you doing?" He growled.

"Washing your hair. You'll feel better once it's done, trust me." Your voice had lost it's worried note, amusement creeping in as you begin to work the shampoo into his close cropped hair, gently scrubbing away at layers of built up sweat and dander at the edges of his hairline. "There you go, relax. I'm not going to hurt you, Commander."

Crosshair did his best, closing his eyes. It might've been your imagination, but he seemed to be leaning into your touch ever so slightly.

You switched to a small tipped squirt bottle you had filled earlier and began gently rinsing away the suds, a hand coming up to make sure none got close to his eyes. He shifted against the towel under him, listening to the still running faucet as you washed the last of the soap away, close cut nails still scratching at his scalp.

Just for a moment, he let himself drift. Just for a moment, the hands in his hair were stronger. Rougher, calluses from a knife dragging against his curls, murmuring in Mando’a in his ear-

Then you pulled away, and the illusion broke.

“I’m going to go grab you some clothes, okay? The tub is full and the water is warm. Oh, hold on.” You pull away and pause as he makes the tiniest sound in the back of his throat, then covers it with a dry cough. It almost feels like you imagined it, and not sure what to do, you ignore it.

Crosshair waits with bated breath, but slowly relaxes as you don’t seem to notice his slip up. Stupid of him, getting lost in the past.

“Ok, I’ve got an elastic cover here, just gonna slip it over your eyes so you don’t get water in them. You can take it off when you get out, but I’d like you to at least sleep with it on so you don’t rub in your sleep.” He immediately stiffens, waiting for the awful scratchy material to be pulled over his head-

Only for gentle hands to pull something soft and silky down over his eyes, barely a weight. He lets out the breath he’d been holding as you fuss with it for a second, making sure it won’t slip off.

“Ok. All good, Commander?”

“All good, Doc.” His answer is immediate. Your hand comes to rest on his shoulder and he suppresses a flinch.

“Ok, you can come out whenever you’re done. I’ll bring you some proper clothes.” And then he was alone in the dark once more.

Slowly, methodically, he shrugged out of the thin white shirt and loose pants before stepping down into the tub, hissing slightly at the hot water. The burn felt good though, as he eased himself down to sit in a ball in the corner of the tub.

It was a much longer bath than Crosshair had ever had, letting the hot water be a distraction from his own mind as he methodically soaped up and rinsed enough that the water must be cloudy. He couldn’t shake the feeling of dirt, of the sensation of it caked into his skin and under his nails and-

That’s enough of a bath today. He opened the drain and listened to the water swirling down, a rap at the door catching his attention.

“What do you want?” The words are harsher than he means, but he can’t bring himself to feel too bad about them.

“Clothes, not that maker-forsaken medical uniform. I’m not looking, just gonna set them on the counter.”

The door slid open and you shuffled in, your footsteps slow and hesitant as you blindly reached for the counter, setting the stack down before retreated.

Ha, modesty around a clone.

Crosshair grabs the towel that was folded behind him earlier and dried off, gingerly patting around his hair before searching out whatever you had brought. His fingers came in contact with soft polymer and heavy cotton as he found the teeshirt and sweats you had left for him, sliding into them with a shiver.

These weren’t clone clothes. These were the expensive sleepwear they reserved for natborns. They smelled of expensive detergent rather than the bleach based mess that was used for clones, turning what little clothes they had scratchy and awful to touch.

He padded out through his room and into the main living area, taking off the soft eyewrap while he did so and made his way to the sofa. His foot found it before he did and he swore, much to amusement of you already on the sofa.

“Do you want a hand?” You asked, a smile in your tone. Crosshair sat down with a glare and a rude gesture in your direction.

“Eyedrops?” He asked.

“Oh! Yeah, we should do that now. Stay there.” He felt the sofa shift as you stood up, collecting what sounded like a bag from the other side of the room and returning to your seat.

“Got them. Ok, hold still, try not to flinch.” You instructed, tapping his shoulder twice to prepare him as you tilted his head up. He went stone still, breathing slowing to barely a gasp as a thumb swept sore eyelids up, he fought the urge to blink as two drops splashed into each eye.

“Ok, ok easy.” The hand released his chin and your presence retreated. “Take a breath, Crosshair. You’re trembling.”

Crosshair took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and keeping his head leaned back against the back of the couch as he closed his eyes.

“M’fine.” He grunted. “Hate these.”

You snorted softly, patting his knee sympathetically. Even through the heavy material of his sweats, he felt the odd shape of a bandaged hand. He frowned slightly, that hadn’t been there before.

“Yeah, they’re not pleasant.” You agree, settling back. “You’re not supposed to use a datapad but do you want to listen to a book or something?”

Crosshair just grunted. “What’ja do to your hand?” He asked.

“My…. Oh. You did that, actually. When you grabbed me earlier. It’s just a bruise, nothing too bad.” You shrug off the concern as Crosshair shifts to get more comfortable.

“You should have warned me-“

“I did, Commander. You were too out of it to notice. Speaking of which, your blood results came back. When did you get electrocuted?”

The question took Crosshair by surprise.

“I haven’t been.” He forgot to sound angry at the question. You gave a small ‘huh.’

“You have a lot of ionized carbon in your bloodstream, from either a massive jolt or long term low level shocks.” You reported.

“I’m a mutant. Gonna have weird blood.” He mumbled back.

“Not like this.” You huffed. “It doesn’t match previous levels of your blood samples.”

Crosshair blinked the eyedrops away again, feeling the grittiness diminish for a moment.

“They took me. After we came back from our last mission with a jedi. They kept me from my brothers. I don’t remember what happened much after that.” The words felt… strange, to admit them aloud. A bolt of pain shot through his head, making him gasp slightly as a hand shot up to the side of his head. It was a lot worse than it had been in a while.

Flashes and echos of memory assaulted him, Hunter’s cold glare, Tech’s sneering face, Wrecker’s rage and Echo’s snide pity as they abandoned him on that platform. The roar of the jets as they betrayed the Empire, betrayed him.

Hunter opening his mouth to shout-

“Crosshair? Commander Crosshair.” His eldest brother’s voice came out panicked and feminine, not a clone’s voice. Crosshair was yanked out of memory, the haze of pain lifting slightly. Soft hands, gentle hands, scraping over his hair, massaging the cramping muscles in his hands as tremors wracked his whole body.

He was vaguely aware he was laying against someone, his head under a chin and legs bracketing his thighs to keep him from thrashing as he struggled to remember how to breathe.

“Crosshair, can you hear me?” The voice came from behind him, rumbling through him like a jolt of clear water. He managed a rough nod. “Good. I want you to try and match my breathing. In for 8, hold for 5, out for 8.”

You slowed your breathing down, counting softly. It took him a few seconds but he managed, pants turning into shaky but even breaths.

“‘Appened?” Crosshair slurred, not even trying to fight even as he realized it it wasn’t a brother under him but a doctor.

“You had another episode. This one was a lot worse. You were screaming and thrashing and-“ You had to take a breath, calm yourself before you startled him worse. “Can you describe to me how you’re feeling?”

Crosshair groaned softly, your hands returned to his close cropped silver curls and resumed combing through them.

“Head hurts… confused…” He closed his sightless eyes, relaxing into your touch.

“Yeah? Can you tell me where you are?”

Crosshair was silent for a long time. “Temp medical housing.” His voice was stronger.

“Good. Anything weird you’re seeing?”

“Doc, I’m blind for another day or so. Lemme up.” His attitude was the next to return, pulling your arms off of him and sitting up, palming his head and going to rub his eyes before stopping himself. The couch shifted under him as you moved.

“Careful. Careful. I’m going to go grab you a painkiller and something to drink.”

He grunted an acknowledgement, listening to you clatter around the kitchenette while he massages at his temples in an effort to release the tension prickling at his scalp.

“Hey.” He jumped as your voice came from a lot closer than he was expecting, and winced slightly at your instant step back incase you needed to avoid a blow. “Hey. Still with me?” Your voice was softer the next time. Crosshair nodded. “Alright. I’ve got a painkiller, but it’s gonna make you sleepy, ok? And water. You’re dehydrated.”

A cup was pressed into his hands and he took a drink before tilting his head to the side and exposing his neck.

“Good, you already know the drill. Ok, I’m right next to you, little pinch.”

It was not a little pinch, it never was. It hurt. But it was quickly replaced by the feeling of lead in his veins as a weight settled over him. He took another drink of the water before setting it down, not having the energy to fight it.

Crosshair tried to get to his feet, but his balance was a skewed mess. A hand slid under his shoulders to steady him as the world rocked wildly.

“You wanna sleep out here or in your room, decide fast.” Your voice was a gentle murmur in his ear.

“Second.” He gritted out, accepting your help with annoyed resignation as you half carried him to his room and set him down on his bunk.

“Get some rest, Commander. You’ve done so well today.” Your voice echoes like it’s from a long ways off. He falls back against the pillow, and the quilt is settled over him. He’s asleep before he can even curl up properly

---

“One day, Cross, we’re gonna be proper Commandos. No more labs for us.” Hunter’s voice is right by his head, whisper soft.

“Me too?” Wrecker, six years old and already almost as tall as the trainers. “And Tech?” Tech had been the one for testing that day, he was snoring away tucked against Wrecker’s side.

“All of us.” Hunter promised. “We’re gonna be free of testing and together fighting tinnies and living free.”

Crosshair just rolled over. Wishful thinking, at best.

[A/N: Whew! This is kinda awkward to break into chapters, but I'm trying. I've decided to release it chapter by chapter and then publish the master when I'm done so everyone is happy, got it? Taglist:

@rinwritesfics @endo-bunny @renon4224 @tecker ]