#brief violence mention

[aventurineswife]

Could I request Jiyan's lover running up to him and snuggling him because they miss his presence?

Home Is in Your Arms

Summary: After days apart, you reunite with Jiyan, as he returns from his mission. Overwhelmed with longing, you rush into his arms, finding solace in his quiet, steadfast presence. Jiyan, always stoic and composed, allows himself to be vulnerable with you, sharing a tender moment that reminds you both of the unbreakable bond you share amidst the chaos of war.

Tags: Jiyan x Reader, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Reunion, Emotional Vulnerability,Soft Moments, Longing.

Warnings: Brief mentions of war and violence (non-descriptive), Light angst due to separation.

(cr: guaisanmu on Twitter/X)

The sun was just beginning to dip behind the mountains, casting Jinzhou in hues of amber and rose. The camp was unusually quiet; most of the Midnight Rangers had returned from their patrols and, by now, had settled into their tents for the evening. Only one figure remained at the edge of the camp, standing against the breeze as though he were part of the landscape itself. Jiyan’s silhouette was framed by the setting sun, his long teal hair catching the dying light as it shifted in the breeze.

You stood back, watching him. It felt as if he’d been gone forever, although it had only been a few days. Each moment without him was like an ache, a silence that stretched too far. Jiyan had warned you before he left that his patrol might take longer, but no amount of preparation had eased the loneliness that crept in each night. Now, with him in sight, that emptiness dissolved, replaced by a warmth you could hardly contain.

Without thinking, you broke into a sprint, your feet barely making a sound as they skimmed over the grass. Jiyan’s back was to you, his gaze fixed somewhere far off, his attention consumed by unspoken thoughts. But the moment you wrapped your arms around him, he knew it was you. A barely perceptible sigh escaped him, his shoulders softening as your arms closed around his waist.

"Back already?" His voice was soft, even as he kept his gaze forward. But his hand found yours, warm and reassuring as he pulled your hands closer against his chest. You felt the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, grounding you.

"I missed you," you whispered, your face pressed against his back. The fabric of his modified hanfu was rough beneath your cheek, but it held the faint scent of cedar and the earthy tones of the forest. "It feels like you've been gone for ages."

He shifted, slowly turning to face you. Those intense eyes of his softened as they met yours, and a hint of a smile—small, but genuine—played at his lips. It was the smile he saved for moments like these, for you alone.

"I’m here now," he said, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. "I didn’t mean to worry you."

You couldn’t help but lean into his touch, craving the warmth of his palm against your cheek. "It’s impossible not to worry about you. Especially when you’re out there, fighting Tacet Discords alone." You paused, looking up into his eyes. "I just… need you to come back to me. Every time."

He let out a soft hum, nodding in that quiet way of his, the way that carried both promise and understanding. "I will." His hand lingered on your face, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. "But remember, there’s something worth returning to."

The vulnerability in his gaze was rare, a crack in the stoic armor he wore around everyone else. And for a brief moment, you saw past the warrior and the general, to the man who sometimes questioned his path, who worried about the battles he couldn’t fight with strength alone.

You slipped your arms around him again, and this time, he didn’t hesitate. He drew you close, wrapping his arms around you with a gentle firmness that left no space between you. It was as though he, too, had missed the comfort of your embrace, had needed this closeness more than he could admit.

For a long time, the two of you stood there in silence. His fingers ran soothingly along your back, grounding you in his warmth, his presence. The world around you faded, the distant threat of Tacet Discords, the quiet of the camp, everything except the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“I’ll come back to you, every time,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "No matter how far I go."

You nodded, not needing any further words. In that embrace, you understood that, for tonight at least, he was home.

[beansandsprouts]

Not as Bullshit as I Thought

Summary: World where your soulmates first name is written on your right arm in their handwriting. Dean however thinks the whole concept is ridiculous. That is until he actually meets his soulmate.

Warnings: cursing (duh), brief mention of violence

Dean hated the concept of having a soulmate. With how much Chuck had fucked up the world he found it ridiculous that he'd somehow be able to decide that two people were perfect for each other. The idea was obscene, so he'd made the effort to always cover that name scrawled on his arm. He never went looking for you.

You felt much the same. A soulmate seemed like a stupid concept. There was no way in hell there was another person out there who was absolutely perfect for you. You didn't bother covering your mark, but you also never made any effort to find this mysterious "Dean."

Dean was hunting a vampire that had been terrorizing a small town. He'd already questioned the victim's partners, friends, and anyone else of interest. And he'd managed to figure out where this vamp could possibly be hiding.

He was coming back to his motel room after a late lunch to change out of his fed suit and into proper hunting clothes, and you were doing the same. You didn't see him but boy did he see you.

It was like you hit him with a truck. He froze in place as he watched you get out of your classic Ford Landau, your suit fit you perfectly. He felt like he'd never seen a woman so beautiful. The curve of your jaw and shape of your lips. It made his heart pound. He watched as you walked to your motel room door, swiftly unlocking it and stepping inside.

The moment you were out of sight he shook himself from his stupor. You were definitely hot, but right now wasn't the time to get distracted. He had a hunt to finish.

He prepped his gear and waited til the sun began to set, when he got back outside your car was gone. He didn't think anything of it, assuming you'd gone out for dinner. Maybe you were a business woman. He grinned at the thought, he liked the idea of someone as gorgeous as you being in power.

He drove to the abandoned cabin a few miles out of town, parking a little ways away so he could take them by surprise. He crept through the woods, machete in hand. But as he got closer to the cabin he heard the sounds of crashing and yelling.

Dean took off running toward the cabin, had the vamp already grabbed another victim? And they weren't dead yet.

He burst through the door in time to see you kick the vamp in the chest, causing it to stumble back. You were baring your teeth and there was a feral look in your eyes as you swiftly brought your machete down to behead the monster.

You looked over at Dean with blood sprayed over your face. You glanced him up and down, a slight smirk on your face.

"Seems like I beat you to it."

Dean stared at you in surprise for a moment, that bloodthirstiness he'd seen in you just two seconds ago had left him feeling things he'd never felt. He cleared his throat.

"Guess so."

You chuckled and wiped the blood on your face.

"I'm y/n. Nice to meet you."

Dean froze the moment you spoke your name. There was absolutely no way it was really you. But at the same time, he'd met others with that same name and never had he felt the way he was now. He stared at you, jaw dropped.

"Uh..hello?" You looked at him slightly amused.

"Dean." His voice was rough and gravelly.

Your eyes widened. The moment you'd seen him you knew there was something off. But you hadn't been expecting this.

"You're fucking with me."

"Afraid not."

The two of you stood there staring for a moment, unsure of how to go about this.

"Let...let me see your mark. Maybe it's a different y/n for you and a different Dean for me." Your voice sounded desperate. You really didn't want to be stuck with a soulmate.

Dean stepped forward and rolled up his sleeve, exposing his soulmate mark. Sure enough it was your name, in your handwriting. He looked at yours too. The both of you sighed.

"Damnit." He grumbled.

"You're telling me."

You both stood there in silence, just staring at the others mark. Neither of you had expected this. Neither of you wanted this. Yet here you were. Seems the universe ensured you'd at least meet each other.

"So...what do we do from here?" You asked and looked up at him.

He really was attractive. A strong jaw, defined lips that looked incredibly kissable, and pretty green eyes. You hadn't met a guy this hot in...well ever really.

"Hell if I know. I didn't mean to ever meet you. Never believed in this whole soulmate bullshit." He grumbled as he made eye contact with you.

"Yeah me neither."

You two stared at each other for a few moments before you sighed.

"I don't expect anything from you but I think at the very least I should treat you to dinner. For hijacking your hunt and all." A small smile tugged at your lips.

He couldn't help but chuckle at that and nodded I'm agreement, "I could get behind a free meal."

The two of you walked to your respective cars to meet at a diner back in town, you'd wiped your face off with a towel and changed into a new shirt before driving off.

When you got to the diner he was leaning against his car, arms crossed, waiting for you. His eyes grazed over your car as you pulled up.

"You've got a sweet ride." He says as you get out.

"You do too. 67?"

"Yes ma'am." He couldn't help but grin.

"Dinner time?" You gestured to the doors of the diner and he nodded, following you inside.

The two of you sat down at a booth, ordering some food before awkwardly sitting there.

"So...Dean Winchester I'm assuming?"

He chuckled, "Yep. And you're also a hunter."

"Sure am."

"How long you been doing the job?" He was genuinely curious.

"Since I was a kid. My parents were hunters."

He nodded, that explained why you took down that vamp on your own so easily.

There was another few moments of uncomfortable small talk until the conversation started flowing. It felt natural. Easy. Right.

Dean had the ability to make you laugh like no one else had. And your giggle and smile made his heart flutter for the first time in his life. He was having a hard time not immediately falling for you. He kept trying to remind himself that the concept of soulmates was absurd, but it was hard to believe that when sitting in that crappy diner with you felt like home. He couldn't remember feeling this comfortable with anyone. He found himself hoping you were also feeling this connection.

Eventually it had gotten late, you had both long finished your food and had been talking until closing. Eventually he walked you to your car.

"You goin back to your motel?"

"Nah, I'm taking off. Got a new case."

He seemed disappointed by your answer, but nodded.

"I could give you my number? Maybe we can meet up again after." You offered a shy smile.

"That'd be great." He had a huge grin as he offered up his phone.

You type your number in and sent yourself a text before handing it back.

"Got it. I'll uh...see you around, soulmate." You grinned back at him.

"Yeah, I'll see you."

The two of you stood staring at each other for a moment, neither wanted to leave. Dean took a hesitant step closer, you were mere inches from each other now. You felt your heart pounding. You'd never felt so at ease around someone.

"Could I...could I um..." Dean's tone was nervous, wanting to ask that question but not really sure if he should.

"Could you what?" You teased and chuckled as Dean's cheeks flushed red.

"Ah damnit nevermind." He grumbled and looked away.

You smiled and reached up to cup his cheek and turn his face to you.

"Yes. You can."

Dean's face lit up and his hands moved to your waist as he leaned in to gently press his lips to yours. He kissed you tenderly, enjoying the feeling of your lips on his. It gave him butterflies. It didn't take long for you to part your lips and he slipped his tongue into your mouth with a groan.

He wrapped an arm around your waist and raised his other hand to run his fingers through your hair, the action had you melting.

The jingle of the diner door opening as the staff left finally made you pull apart. You looked back at each other as a waitress shot you an amused glance and couldn't help but laugh.

"Maybe this soulmate stuff isn't as bullshit as I thought." He chuckled.

"I was gonna say the same."

You stood there in each other's arms for a moment before you leaned up to press a quick kiss to his lips again and stepped back.

"I've gotta get going, but I'll talk to you soon Dean."

"Drive safe sweetheart." He said with a soft smile, hands stuff in his pockets while he watched you get in your car.

"Will do." You blew him a kiss as you backed up and pulled out of the parking lot.

Dean watched you leave with a goofy grin on his face. Maybe this soulmate thing wasn't so bad. After all, he seemed to have gotten a pretty damn good one.

-----------------------------------------

I'm so rusty with writing so I'm sorry if it's not as well done as previous stuff. I'm excited to get back into writing though! I didn't realize how much I'd missed it :]

Shoot me a message if you have any requests!

[3-2-whump]

Mistaken Accusation

<prev next>

Well, let's get into it. Beginning of the end. Special thanks to my beta readers @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz ! Do mind the tags, and enjoy

This chapter does reference The Hit, so please skim that first if you are not already familiar with it

Author's Note: This is where shit gets real (more real, that is), and where the author may make some decisions that might not vibe with the readers. To those readers, all I will say is fanfiction is a thing, canon divergence is a thing, and I will honestly be more intrigued than mad if you end up scrapping this part and writing your own version! (Just lmk, like tag me or dm me so I can see?) But, um, yeah, onto the chapter!

TW/CW: description and mention of STD, prostitution whump, mock execution, gun violence (brief, but there), collared whumpee, bound and blindfolded whumpee, shock, emotional whump, fear of death, pissing oneself out of fear, emotional angst, degrading language, toxic relationship, manipulative whumper, possessive whumper, intimate whumper

As Khaled relieved himself in the office bathrooms near the end of the day, he hissed under his breath at the burning sensation coming out of him. That can’t be good, he thought. What would make it feel like he was passing acid or fire down there? He looked down at his dick, eyes widening a little as he saw how inflamed his urethra looked. Khaled let out a mortified little squeak. What’s wrong with my penis?

Should I tell Master? Telling his master that he suspected he’d caught something would only lead to probing questions about Khaled’s sex life, even though he wasn’t the one who had visited every whorehouse within the tristate area. Probing questions about his sex life would mean admitting that he was sleeping with Julio, and admitting that he was sleeping with Julio would only fuel his master’s possessive side and make things far worse for him. Khaled could imagine no situation in which he would come out unscathed if he told Thomas about it. So, he decided not to tell him.

He didn’t have to endure his secret for long though, because as soon as he came back into his master’s office, he could sense the energy had changed. 

“Is there something wrong, Boss?” Khaled asked nervously.

“I have just received information from our foot soldiers and informants that the motorcycle that my would-be assassin rode when he got away came from Alvarez Auto and Motorcycles, a known front of Juicio Divino,” Thomas gritted out.

Khaled’s jaw dropped as his mind slowly put together the pieces that he had in his hands all along. Of course, it was Julio, how could I be so blind?! he thought. Just over a year ago, Khaled himself approached the scrapyard assassin asking him to teach him how to kill, and had been crawling back to him in various states of distress ever since. Julio was one of two people on earth who knew how badly Thomas actually treated him, and, combined with his overprotective tendencies, Khaled mentally beat himself up for not suspecting his boyfriend sooner. 

His master’s stormy gray eyes narrowed at Khaled in a piercing glare as he pushed his tablet across the desk. “Incidentally, you have been visiting Alvarez Auto pretty frequently over the past year, haven’t you?”

Khaled’s stomach twisted in dread as he leaned in closer to read it. There, opened on his slave tracking app, was a map with pins of most-frequently visited locations he had been tracked to, and there was a damning bright red pin at the address of Julio’s garage. His mouth went dry as he opened and closed it in shock, trying to collect the right words to say as the opportunity to beg for mercy slipped through his fingers like sand. “I- Master, I- it’s not what you think-”

The older man disdainfully held up a hand, a nonverbal cue that he didn’t want to hear it. Khaled shrank in on himself. “How did you even pay for a hit against me, huh?” the boss asked. “I know you haven’t made that much money since I’ve started paying you! How could you afford to put out a hit?” His voice lowered to a growl. “Did you bend over for that cholo son of a bitch? Did you let him fuck you like I fuck you? Is that why you’ve got an infection –don’t deny it, Khaled, it hurt when I pissed this morning!”

The world seemed to stop as the air quickly left Khaled’s lungs. Wait, what? He was being accused of conspiring against his master, then of being a whore within the same breath? And to make matters worse, he somehow gave his owner an STD before he realized he had one himself? His breaths came out shallow as his body began trembling in fear. What does this mean for me? What’s going to happen to me? He nearly passed out as his imagination went wild with how severe his punishment would be. “Master, please, I had no idea-”

“Shut up!”

Khaled ceased his begging instantly, a nauseous wave of dread coiling in his stomach as he waited for his master to dole out his sentence. “You will never see anybody besides me again,” his master said, glowering at him in contempt as Khaled’s eyes widened in horror. He got up from his chair and circled around Khaled, with a familiar black shock collar and a length of chain in hand. “I’ll give you a chance to say your goodbyes before we leave.”

Khaled regained enough of his senses to shake his head and back away from the man approaching him. “But, Master, I didn’t-”

The world snapped to the right in a stinging blow as Thomas backhanded him. Khaled rubbed his sore cheek and winced in pain. “You’re lucky I don’t outright kill you, though I still might, if you keep whining like that!” he yelled. Khaled turned silent and sullen, still cradling his sore cheek as the collar tightened like a noose around his throat. “Now, come on, let’s make your final goodbyes count.” His master attached the chain leash to a notch in the shock collar and pulled Khaled towards the exit.

-

Khaled was pulled through the whole office and out to the guard shack like that, stopping periodically as his master made him explain what was going on and why he was leaving to everyone they met. Khaled’s voice was shaking like a leaf the first stop they made; by the time they made it to the guard shack, he was unable to utter anything intelligible past his tears. Nico’s jaw dropped as Thomas explained what had happened and why Khaled was never going to see him again.

“But, he didn’t do it, sir!” he objected, pushing himself out of his desk chair and standing up to face him. “He had no part in it! I can prove it, just listen to me!”

As much as Khaled wanted to interrogate that ‘I can prove it’ claim just a little more, Tom ignored him. He pulled the leash taut and yanked Khaled away. Khaled frantically pulled at the collar around his neck, emitting choked gasps as he stumbled along and struggled to keep up.

They ended up back at the car, where Tom unclipped his leash and pushed the button on the key fob to unlock the trunk of the car. Khaled was shoved up roughly against the side of the car as his hands were gathered behind his back and bound tightly by a soft and silky material, most likely a necktie. “Master, please, please, hear me out –I didn’t put a hit on you, I swear!” he once again tried to explain through a mess of snot and tears. “I don’t want to kill you, why would I want to kill you? Please –listen to me! I don’t want to kill you; I swear I didn’t know!” Thomas dragged him to the back of the car, where he stared down at him in cold fury. He took out a dark cloth from his pocket and unfolded it. Khaled preemptively opened his mouth to receive it, but then the man tied the cloth around his eyes to blind him. He quietly shut his mouth as the blindfold was tied tight enough to catch his hair. He heard the trunk of the car quietly whoosh open before he was picked up and shoved inside. The door of the trunk slammed shut, sealing him in an extra layer of darkness.

The ride seemed to stretch on forever as Khaled shivered in the darkness. It was still far too cold to be riding back there without anything to keep him warm. Throughout the darkness he begged, then screamed, then cried, then sniffled, knowing damn well his master couldn’t hear him.

Time seemed to work differently in the dark, cramped confines of a car trunk. Khaled was unsure of how much time had passed since he was shoved in the trunk, but he was more than concerned that they seemed to keep driving far longer than it usually took to get back to the apartments. He’s never going to forgive me, he realized as he rested his head onto the floor of the trunk. He really thinks I planned to kill him, and now he’s going to take me out into the woods and kill me, or do something so horrific it will make me wish I had died. A fresh round of tears soaked into his blindfold as Khaled whimpered pathetically. I don’t want to die, not like this.

Goddamnit, Julio, you tried to be the hero, and now I’m gonna end up dead in a ditch somewhere, Khaled cursed in his head.

The car rolling to a stop and faint click that preceded the trunk unlocking made Khaled’s heartrate speed up. A new wave of anxiety hit him much like the blast of midwinter air when the trunk was opened and he was pulled out. He didn’t feel concrete underneath his shoes, and the fresh icy chill of the air around him told him they weren’t in the parking garage. We really are in the woods somewhere, he thought, his hopes sinking like lead as his master’s hand gripped his elbow and steered him along to an unknown destination. He’s really driven me out to the woods somewhere to kill me. Khaled stumbled as his foot hit an unseen obstruction, but his master dragged him along regardless. This is it. I’m gonna die. His breaths started picking up, heart racing as that last thought worked him up into another nervous state. His owner stopped and threw him forward onto the ground. Khaled landed face first into a cold and wet patch of snow, judging on how it felt when it absorbed his impact. “Get up and kneel.” Khaled’s breaths stopped in his throat. There was no room in his master’s frigid tone for argument. He pushed himself up the best he could with his hands bound behind his back, shivering not just from the cold as he assumed a kneeling position.

A cold, metallic object pressed against the back of the young man’s skull. “If you’ve got anything to say, say it now,” his master’s voice said behind him. A wet and warm spot began to soak his pants in the front. Khaled’s mind went blank. He was so scared he nearly forgot his owner had asked for his last words. He caught his trembling lip between his teeth before shaking his head. Whatever he could say for his last words would go unheeded anyway, lost in the winter’s chill and the indifferent New England woods. He hung his head in resignation, ready for the explosive pain followed by sudden oblivion and nothingness, or whatever it was that lie ahead.

He had at least hoped he would see his father’s face before the end. But the only image his shielded eyes could conjure up before he died was a pair of sharp, steel gray eyes.

Click.

Nothing happened.

The gun lowered, and heavy footsteps crunched in the snow as his would-be executioner walked around to the front of him.

Khaled was still alive. Somehow, he was still alive. There was a light brush of hands reaching behind his head before the blindfold fell away, revealing a familiar face staring down at him with those same steel gray eyes. Khaled’s breath shimmered in the cold moonlit night. He was alive. He wasn’t going to die. He was alive.

All the fear and tension left his body like his vaporous breath in the night as he slumped forward, crying tears of relief into his master’s shoulder as he caught him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” he sobbed between each breath.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s alright, it’s alright,” Thomas soothed as he reached behind Khaled to untie his hands. “I believe you for now, it’s alright.” As soon as his hands were free, Khaled wrapped them around the older man’s neck, hugging him close as he bawled into his shoulder. “I thought about it, but there is no way I can definitively prove it was you.” A muscular pair of arms wrapped around him and held him close, drawing him into the warmth. “And besides, my favorite fuck toy, plotting to kill me?” His master laughed. “No way you’re smart enough for that! I didn’t buy you for your brains, you know!”

“Yes, yes, I’m stupid, I am so fucking stupid, thank you!” Khaled cried. He nuzzled his cold wet face into Tom’s warm neck and peppered the man’s jawline with kisses, murmuring his gratitude between every kiss. He was alive, he didn’t die, and that was the only thing that mattered in that moment.

“Let’s go home,” Thomas said, hoisting Khaled onto his feet. “The takeout I bought is getting cold, and you need a change of pants.”

He led the young man through the woods back to side of the road where he had parked his car. “I was completely serious about you never seeing anybody else again, by the way,” he reminded him as he opened the passenger side door. Khaled slid gratefully inside, happy to be in the heated part of the car. “You are relieved of your duties to the organization from now on,” Tom continued as he joined him on the driver’s side, “You are demoted to domestic service. You will stay at home and keep the penthouse spotless, welcoming me to it every evening with warm food and your warmer body. You will stay in the apartment and not leave for anything unless it is with me or a trusted associate. You will never see anybody again. That’ll keep you from conspiring to kill me, or from spreading your legs for anyone else but me, and only I will decide when it’s time to bring you back out again.” He pushed the button and started up the vehicle, setting the heaters to full blast.

Khaled nodded. What did he care about being stuck at home and never seeing anybody again? He was alive, and right now, as he held his freezing fingers close to the vents, that was all that mattered.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @defire

[nabaath-areng]

Sometimes I think to myself "actually maybe I'm exaggerating the terror I felt from being stalked", but then I remember that the person in question followed me and waited for me outside my school every day, tracked me down on every website I'd spent even the slightest time on, left physical letters in my mailbox, sent creepy as hell novel length messages on a near daily basis on FB. And then when I was living abroad and I answered the phone I told the caller to text me cause I couldn't hear, after which I had to read "I was saying that you would probably be VERY scared if you knew who's calling... hehe" with my own damn fucking eyes...

And then I'm like yknow what nevermind!!!! the fact that I'm still terrified of being perceived and seen in public not just IRL but also FFXIV might be understandable actually!!!

[oldworldwidgets]

while the city sleeps

ive been thinking about delilah a lot lately (shocking, i know) so when my friends were discussing what their ocs’ companion quests would be like, i decided to write one for her!! for story purposes, the player character here is a male sole survivor named nate. this quest must be completed before delilah can be recruited

2.7k-ish words

you can read this as a make-your-own adventure/quest or just as a story :3

To begin this quest, Nate must enter the Third Rail bar in Goodneighbor between 10pm – 4am. Delilah will be behind the bar, tending to the drifters seated there. When Nate initiates dialogue with Delilah, she will ask if he’d like anything to drink. He answers however he chooses, then asks if she’s heard any gossip or has any work for him, since bartenders have a reputation for knowing these things. Lilah does, of course, and will send him to run a few errands for various Goodneighbor residents. Once he has successfully completely a few of these errands and shown that he can be trusted, Lilah will give him a job that is personal to her.

Her husband, a man named Marowski, had been acting strangely. He’d been keeping things from her, going out at night or coming home late, and just generally acting seedy. Then, a few days before, he hadn’t returned home at all. She requests Nate’s help to uncover whatever shady business is taking place in Goodneighbor and find Marowski. If Nate agrees, Delilah will stress that she is very worried about Morowski and just wants him to stay out of trouble. “Please,” she will beg quietly, “bring him home safe.”

Nate must then question the residents of Goodneighbor, noir detective style. If he leads the conversation by asking about Marowski or his whereabouts, the residents will clam up and give no further information. If he leads by asking about shady business in Goodneighbor, the residents will give a response such as, “Ha! Which one?” Nate can continue asking about shady operations in the town until the residents mention “Marowski’s chem operation,” but they will once again clam up if Nate continues to pursue this line of questioning. One resident will direct Nate to Irma at the Memory Den, who will direct him to Daisy at Daisy’s Discounts, who will direct him to Fred Allen at the Hotel Rexford. For a price (and a guarantee that Delilah will not learn who gave Nate this information), Fred will inform him that Marowski was not only involved in Goodneighbor’s largest underground chem operation, he was in charge of it. The kingpin. Hell, he owned half of Goodneighbor, including the Rexford itself. However, Fred will also inform Nate that Marowski has not been seen in a few days and the door to his office is locked from the inside. Fred will point Nate toward the office and, if Nate successfully picks the lock, he will find Marowski’s body on the floor.

When Nate returns to Delilah, he must choose to tell her one of four things. From 1-4, each option is a more difficult speech check:

The truth: he uncovered the chem operation that Marowski was leading. The pressure of the organization became too much, and Nate found him dead in his office.

He uncovered the chem operation, and Marowski was involved. He was a grunt chem peddler, and he is dead. (yellow)

He uncovered the chem operation, but it seemed separate from Marowski’s disappearance. Perhaps he just ran away?

He did not find anything, but he wishes her well in trying to find her husband. Perhaps he just ran away?

Delilah is very perceptive. Unbeknownst to Nate, each option carries negative affinity weight. Even if he passes the speech check(s), he will lose affinity proportionate to each option’s amount of untruth. 1, as it is the truth, will not affect affinity. If he fails the speech check, the lost affinity will double.

If Nate passes the speech check for 3 or 4, Delilah will accept this answer and thank him for trying. She will then become unrecruitable.

If Nate passes the speech check for 2 or tells the truth, she will thank him thoroughly before giving him the next piece of the quest. If he fails any speech check, she will frown and scoff at him, inform him that she does not believe him, then give him the next piece of the quest.

Delilah will beg Nate to find out what happened to Marowski. If she was not told that he is dead, she will ask Nate to find him. If she is told about his death, she will ask Nate to find out who killed him. She will be crying when she asks this, and Nate can accept or decline. If he accepts, Delilah will give him an unmarked, unplayable holotape that she believes may help. She will tell Nate that Marowski kept it in his sock drawer, and she found it when she was looking for clues as to where he might have gone.

Nate must return to the Rexford and examine the body. He will find that Marowski was shot in the head, and that there is a 10mm on the floor of his office near his right hand. If Nate successfully hacks the terminal on Marowski’s desk, he will find terminal entries with logs of his chem operations, lists of his active runners and Triggermen, and a journal. If he reads the journal entry, he will find five entries locked behind a password. The entries can be unlocked by loading the unmarked holotape into the terminal.

The sixth, most recent entry is a suicide note. The pressure of the chem operation, alongside the ring’s copious amounts of debt that will never be repaid by their customers, was too much for Marowski to juggle. Suicide was the only way he could keep Delilah safe. He wanted to keep her away from his debt and out of the dark corners of his chem operation. The note ends with an apology and an expression of love to Delilah. This discovery prompts Nate to return to Delilah (optional) with this answer if he is satisfied with it.

The other entries, however, contain more information for Nate to uncover if he so chooses. The fifth entry is corrupt and will not open. The fourth details how Marowski’s tentative deal with Bobby No-Nose to get them out of debt had gone awry, and he had been fending off her goons for the week-or-so before his death. He stressed that it was of utmost importance that he stay away from the Third Rail to keep them away from Delilah, who did not deserve to be put in danger because of his bad decisions. The third covers Marowski’s excitement about Delilah. He had been in love with her since he set eyes on her in the Third Rail, and now, she’d fallen in love with him, too. They had just moved in together at the Rexford, which was going to make it harder to keep her out of the line of fire, but it was worth it.

The second entry is corrupt and will not open. The first entry logs Marowski’s concern about his dwindling Triggermen numbers. He started noticing that he would send his men out on runs to acquire or deliver chems, but they would not return. His pool of runners was getting shallower and shallower, yet he had not noticed more people fiending for his chems. Everyone in Goodneighbor seemed perfectly drugged up and satisfied, which struck him as strange – who were they getting their fix from if not from his men? This was not good for his numbers.

After reading these entries, Nate will have three quest goals:

(Optional) Return to Delilah

(Optional) Speak to Bobby No-Nose

Find out what happened to Marowski

Return to Delilah

If Nate returns to Delilah and informs her that Marowski did, in fact, kill himself and present her with his suicide note, she will become inconsolable. “I didn’t want to believe you,” she will cry, “but you’re right.” She will tell Nate all of the red flags/shady things Marowski did that now makes her believe that he was involved with the drug ring. She will thank Nate for his help, give him 500 caps, and send him on his way. Delilah will then become unrecruitable. 

Speak to Bobby No-Nose

Nate may continue to investigate based on Marowski’s entry re: fending off Bobby’s goons after a deal gone wrong. When he speaks to her about it, she will tell him about Marowski’s debt he owed to her and his evasiveness in paying it back. They made a deal about it once, but it went awry when one of Bobby’s men got too bold. Marowski continued to refuse to pay until his death. Still, Bobby maintains her and her men’s innocence. Yes, they were heckling him, but for his money; the dead don’t pay debts. If Nate asks Bobby where he can find another lead, she will flippantly tell him that if he wants information on Marowski, he should speak to Marowski’s men instead of hers.

Nate must then interrogate three Triggermen about their boss. The first will say that he knows nothing and inform Nate that he should stop sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. The second will be “shocked” that Marowski is dead and ask Nate what happened, as if he wasn’t there to get information in the first place. The third will accuse Hancock, the mayor of Goodneighbor.

When Nate questions Hancock about Marowski, Hancock gets gruff and defensive. It’s clear that the mayor did not have a high opinion of the man, likely because Marowski’s power over the Goodneighbor residents threatened his own. He will be avoidant about answering Nate’s questions unless Nate mentions that he’s doing a favor for Delilah, in which case Hancock will be forthcoming with any information Nate needs to “help that poor thing.” With a sly smile, Hancock will tell Nate to “check with the Rexford’s front desk when Clair ain’t around,” whatever that means. The information is discoverable with or without this clue.

After speaking with Hancock, Nate will have four quest goals:

(Optional) Return to Delilah [will trigger same interaction as above]

(Optional) Investigate the Hotel Rexford

(Optional) Accuse the suspect

Find out what happened to Marowski

Investigate the Hotel Rexford

Regardless of what time of day Nate returns to the Rexford, Clair will be stationed at the front desk. Nate must ask her about Marowski, and she will not leave the front desk until he does. She is avoidant and tells Nate that she knows little about Marowski at all – only that he owns the hotel and pays her to run its operations. After this conversation, Nate can return to the Rexford between the hours of 10pm – 4am to find the front desk unmanned. He must hack into the terminal at the desk, where he will discover that every entry on Marowski’s terminal was not an entry but rather an email. The contents of Clair’s terminal are identical to those of Marowski’s, aside from logging her own replies. It also successfully saved copies of Marowski’s fifth and second “journal entries” – which had been private communications rather than journal entries all along – that had been corrupted on his own terminal.

In entry #5, Marowski informs Clair that he has found a way to pay off their debts and get them out of the red: logging each time the hotel lodged a patron who was suspected of being a synth, then sending that log to Bunker Hill weekly. To pay off their debts, Marowski was acting as an Institute informant.

In entry #2, Marowski informs Clair that he has solved the mystery of where their Triggermen are disappearing to. The Third Rail seemed to have found itself a new bartender – Delilah, the woman called herself – who was not happy with the way Marowski’s men were treating her. Over a drink at Delilah’s bar, Marowski offered her a deal: if she stopped killing his men, he would cut her in on the deal. She could deal his chems under the table at her bar and keep a portion of the profits if she let up. She countered: she would stop killing her men if, and only if, they stopped treating her like a piece of meat. That was her only requirement. Marowski agreed in earnest, and the pair shook on it. Then, Delilah requested that he make her second in command in his drug trade anyhow. This took Marowski by surprise, but Delilah explained: she knew that Marowski dealt his chems indiscriminately (ie, to children if they simply asked), which is a detail that would derail his entire operation if let slip to Hancock. She knew about his debt, too, and she was convinced she could get him out of it. She would pose no threat to him, either, if he slipped her into the operation under the guise of her being his newest arm candy. She could accompany him everywhere, attached to him at the hip, and no one would be the wiser. For Marowski, this plan was almost all pros and no cons. At the sacrifice of a few caps per sale, he would get out of debt, keep his secret from the mayor, and tote around a beautiful woman like a gold watch. He accepted.    

After reading the emails, Nate will have one quest goal:

Accuse the suspect

Nate can formally accuse any one suspect he speaks to over the course of his investigation.

Accusing Delilah

If Nate chooses to return to the Third Rail, Whitechapel Charlie will be tending the bar no matter the time of day. Nate must ask Charlie where Delilah is, then buy a beer before Charlie will give him the answer. He tells Nate that Delilah is at her and Marowski’s suite at the Rexford, surely mourning. When Nate returns to the Rexford, he must pick the locked front door to enter. The lobby – and the entire hotel – is empty aside from one dainty figure sitting cross-legged on the front desk. “Sure took you long enough, sugar,” she will say sweetly, twirling her hair and trapping him in dialogue.

This will positively affect his affinity with Delilah, similar to “Delilah loved that.”

Accusing Bobby No-Nose, Triggermen, or Clair

The suspect will become hostile. Before Nate can pull his gun, the suspect will pull him back into dialogue and act disproportionately afraid. “No, I’m sorry, I swear it wasn’t me,” etc etc. Nate is not given an opportunity to respond. Instead, he is trapped in dialogue with the person now standing behind him: Delilah. The NPC he was accusing will run through the door behind her while she speaks. “I really thought you'd catch on quicker, big guy,” she will tell Nate.

This will put Nate at Delilah’s lowest recruitable affinity.

Accusing Hancock

The mayor will nearly laugh in Nate’s face, and when Nate pulls his gun, Hancock will just shrug. “Do what you gotta do,” he will say, “but I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy. Ain’t that right, sister?” Nate is not given an opportunity to respond. Instead, he is trapped in dialogue with the person now standing behind him: Delilah. Hancock will waltz out the door behind her while she speaks, ghosting his hand up her arm and shoulder as he squeezes past her. “I really thought you'd catch on quicker, big guy,” she will tell Nate.

This will put Nate at a low affinity with Delilah and lower his affinity with Hancock.

Regardless of who Nate accuses, Delilah will then explain her involvement in Marowski’s drug ring. She was killing any Triggermen who tried to get in her pants; the extra caps and chems was just a bonus at first. Once she got a whiff of power, she couldn’t leave it behind. After she worked her way in with Marowski, she eventually became more in charge than he was. He eventually became little more than just the face of the operation. She was perfectly happy with this setup, considering it kept her powerful yet still in the shadows (and allowed her to skim caps and chems as she pleased). Unfortunately, Marowski got involved in shit that was too shady for her (informing for the Institute) and she had to end that quickly and quietly. She wrote the suicide note and killed Marowski in a way that looked like the gunshot was self-inflicted, then inherited the ring. She is the kingpin. She had been the entire time. This whole mission was nothing but a wild goose chase.

If Nate asks why she would send him following such an entangled web when she was pulling the strings the whole time, she will shrug tell him that she wanted to make sure he knew what he was getting into with her.

Delilah is now recruitable.

[jankwritten]

Jasico Bingo Challenge: Jason Remembers Nico

Sunlight streaks in through the half-open arena roof, bathing their section in warm, mid-afternoon gold. Jason, who has decided to spend their short mid-class break sprawled out in the dirt, basks in the warmth of it. 

He’s hot from training, sure, and maybe everyone else is smarter for seeking shelter in the shade of the spectator stands, but something about the afternoon sun is like wrapping up in a blanket. A cozy, tingly kind of warmth. 

Maybe, in another life, Jason was a child of Apollo. Wouldn’t that be something? Jason Grace: still a child of the sky, but without all the pressure. It sounds pretty nice, he won’t lie. 

As the class murmurs in the background, Jason lets himself relax. Really, truly relax, starting with his shoulders, down his arms, his wrists, his knuckles. He loosens his back on a deep exhale, and down his legs, until he feels as boneless and one-with-the-earth as he possibly can. 

A cool shade passes over him. It settles across his face, as if something has come by and blocked out the sun. 

He peeks. 

“You’ll get a sunburn,” Nico says, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, face in his hands. 

“And you won’t?” Jason closes his eyes again. Honestly, having Nico’s chilly aura nearby is kind of awesome when the sun’s this perfect. Yin and yang, right? Balance. 

Plus, y’know, doesn’t hurt a guy’s pride to have the well documented people-avoider seeking him out. Even if it’s to save him from himself. Score one: Jason. 

“My hair will spare my neck, I’m sure.” 

Jason smiles. “I like your hair long, you know. I wish I could grow my hair out like that.” 

Nico makes a scoffing sound, like he can’t decide if he wants to be amused or offended. Jason peeks again. 

“Perfect Praetor Grace wants to look like an unwashed rat?” 

“That’s not what I said. I said I wanted to grow my hair long, like yours.” 

He watches Nico rolls his eyes and shake his head, but he doesn’t push the point. 

Score two: Jason. 

A breeze rolls in off the strawberry hills, bringing the scent of grass and summer in to mix with the kicked up dirt and metal of the arena. Jason lulls into it. 

Gods, this is peaceful. It probably shouldn’t be, in the middle of teaching a class on self-defense. Jason’s always been a creature of habit, though, and battle was always an ironically safe space for him. Let out his aggression in a semi-healthy way, or something. 

Back at Camp Jupiter, they would have him fight in the coliseum every so often, a demonstration of his power, his capability to lead. They called him ruthless. He only ever lost one fight, which earned the victor a massive wave of support when it came time to elect praetors. 

It’s a strange memory, but one he smiles at nonetheless. Reyna was nothing short of vicious when they went toe-to-toe; she was the only person who ever fought the way Jason felt like he needed to, like it was sink or swim. Victory or death. 

There was one match, after Reyna, after people realized that Jason could be beaten, where he accidentally let too much of that side show. When he threw down his sword and took his opponent to the ground to fight like the wolves did, in the grass with teeth and claws and the rest of the pack swarming around them, snarling their approval. 

One face stood out in that crowd, afterward, of people stepping around him, giving him a wide berth while he scrubbed the blood off his mouth. It was a boy, wearing a too-loose purple shirt and a look on his face like he knew exactly what he’d seen. A boy with hair that turned brown in the light and eyes like nothing Jason had ever seen - not quite haunted, but certainly too old for the face they sat within. When the light hit them, it almost seemed to disappear. 

Jason never spoke to the boy. 

He opens his eyes again. Nico blinks down at him, his head tilted, eyebrows creased and mouth frowning. 

Jason grins back. Nico’s eyebrow twitches. 

“What.” 

“Nothing,” Jason says. A lifetime ago, Jason singled out one boy in a crowd, and despite having forgotten, lost everything, built himself anew—here that boy sits. Shielding him from the sun. Still, somehow, knowing Jason better than he’s ever known himself. “I’m just glad we’re friends.” 

“Ugh, gods,” Nico’s face goes pink, and his hands move, covering over his mouth and nose. “You’re worse than Will.” 

“I’m doing my job well, then.” 

Nico shakes his head, his hair drifting over his shoulders in the process, hanging in the air between them. Jason wants to reach up and touch it, fiddle with the strands like Leo does with Piper’s hair when they’re hanging out in the bunker. 

“I should let you burn,” Nico says. He doesn’t move. 

The victor in the colosseum would have shored up his walls at that. Closed himself off from the boy with underworld eyes. Heard nothing but the implication that Jason needs someone else to keep him safe, to keep him from getting himself hurt. 

Maybe that’s why Nico never spoke to him, back at Camp Jupiter. Maybe that’s why Jason never got up the nerve to approach him. Too scared to let himself trust. 

“I put my life in your hands,” Jason teases, crossing his arms behind his head. 

The sun is warm on his skin. The chuff of Nico’s disbelieving, snorting laugh is warmer. 

[t-s-n]

tw: vent, mental health discussion, bad parents, written in second person for some reason

hi.

let me set the scene for you. you, a 14 year old boy, have always struggled with people. they’re so complex and confusing and you hate most of them. you have two sisters, an older sister, the scapegoat and a younger sister, the naive one. and you. the golden child.

two mentally ill parents in the process of getting a divorce. you find yourself on your mother’s ‘side’. your father…is bad? he wasn’t involved in your life much, or so your mother tells you. you don’t remember your young childhood very well, honestly.

your mother….hm. your mother is a terribly insecure person, and was subject to some form of emotional abuser from your father, as she very frequently reminds you. she relies on you heavily. **heavily**. not just for helping with your siblings, but for…emotional support, often in the form of venting to you about your father. you have a tumultuous relationship, somewhat, at least. often very close, but it can turn harsh very quickly. your mother has few friends, and rarely leaves the house, making you one of her main forms of interaction and connection.

your father. your..father. you don’t know where to start with him, really. not like it’s a dramatic thing, you just….dont have much to say about him. apparently, he is an abusive person and a narcissist (to be clear, i am not a person who thinks ‘narc abuse’ should be a term that’s used). that’s what your mother says. and maybe he is. he probably is. but, as previously mentioned, not much of your childhood can be recalled, so you can’t be sure for yourself. he clearly favors your younger sister, and makes your mother and older sister out to be terrible people. where does that leave you? it’s subject to change. everyone always stays in those positions, but you. you fluctuate in his mind. sometimes he tries to keep you ‘on his side’ and sometimes he sees you as siding with your mother. you haven’t figured out why you were singled out. you may never.

so what is there to do? you are a mentally unhealthy teen who daydreams about violence and spends far too much of his life online and withdrawn. you want to change this, but you can’t. you just have to wait until you can leave your family, or at least distance yourself.

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

Bang Bang Bodhisattva

mystery set in a near-future cyberpunk future

follows a trans hacker who does random gigs to get by, but is on the verge of losing her apartment

and an ex-cop PI who takes her along on jobs sometimes - and when they’re investigating his missing ex-best friend they find him murdered instead

along with her new crush mysteriously disappearing - she’s dragged in the middle of a mystery with few leads

trans polyamorous MC, ace MC

[kaizenkhaos]

Harringrove Lovefest: The Back Up Plan

The 10th of February's prompt I chose is The Back Up Plan ^^ The boys are going to Prom. But their dates are sick, so.....maybe they should just go with each other ^^ Next fics will be the 13th and 14th :D Enjoying seeing peoples' content so far. Hoping to look at more over the next few days ^^

Prom was one of those stupid traditions which schools seemed to have where people had to dress up, dance. Felt like they had to choose a partner. Stressed out. Be the best dressed. Be the best full stop.

Or maybe Billy was just feeling bitter about it because his date was sick.

He'd spent several hours getting things just right. His hair, his suit, his cologne. Something not too strong but with the familiar smell the girls now associated with him. He was in a suit. Shirt button up in a fashion that felt foreign to him. He even had one of those stupid flower things on his lapel. A bright red carnation. Apparently it signified love and stuff. Whatever, he'd just liked the look of it. He'd even got a matching one for his date. Being sick was a valid reason and he knew that but there was something about going to prom alone which felt….not great. They'd expect him to walk in with a date. He'd had so many people ask him and now he was stuck alone. Anyone in their right mind would have gotten a date by now or be going with friends. Something else Billy didn't really feel he had. It wasn't as if he could pick up the phone and call someone. No chance he was calling Hagan; he'd not appreciate a third wheel on his wagon tonight. If he didn't go, people would talk. If he did still go, people would talk, and he wasn't staying here dressed to the nines. That was his decision made for him.

"I'm going to the prom."

No answer, just as expected. These days, that was better than the answer he could get, so he took it and walked out. Ready to bomb away in the Camaro and forget Lacey. Maybe someone would sneak in a 'beverage' and this night would be better than he thought it would be. School was almost out for him. What were they going to do? Expel him? Heading past the Harrington household, Billy was surprised to see Harrington's BMW still parked out on the drive. Slowing down, he took a glance and realised it wasn't just the car that was there; so was Harrington and he was getting out the car with flowers. Running his hand through his hair before heading back to the house. Had he just gone out to get flowers for his date? When he returned alone, Hargrove knew that wasn't the case, so rolled to the side. Cut the engine and got out, leaning against his car as Harrington was about to get in his own.

"Buying flowers for yourself Harrington?"

He could feel the look Steve gave him without being able to properly see. That withering look, the eye roll and here it came; that stance where hands went on hips and he knew he was in for a bitchy response.

"They're for my mom. Why? You wish they were for you?"

Billy laughed, casually reaching in his pocket for his smokes. Seeing right through Steve's lies. For his mom…. Maybe now but he knew originally, that was not the idea.

"You on the bench then?"

He saw the slight shift. The stiffening and knew he'd hit a nerve. Harrington didn't have a date!! Now how's that for a turn up for the books. King Steve didn't have a Queen for his carriage.

The way the guy didn't speak for a moment and leaned on his own car, the door open, like this conversation was soon going to be over. As far as Steve was concerned anyway. Billy was in no hurry to leave.

"She got sick. The flu or somethin'." He shrugged as if it either didn't matter or he was pretending to not be bothered. Could be either, hard to tell. But Billy smirked regardless. He'd not expected Steve to be so open. Perhaps….it would be fun to toy with him but clearly King Bee here wasn't in the mood and Billy for once didn't fancy getting into a fight. Going home with a bruiser would just get him more. "Funny that," Billy started, staring down at his cigarette before looking up at Steve who was clearly listening. Eyes set on the blonde as he leaned forward a little. "That's exactly what my date said too. You think perhaps we've been stood up and they're going together?"

It was a joke but he could see the cogs whirring in Steve's head. A laugh brought it crashing down and with a sneer, Steve got in his car. Wrong move. "Wow, really touchy Harrington." He made no effort to move his car, which was partially blocking the drive and headed up it. Uninvited with the chance of Steve trying to bump him but he didn't care. Steve however seemed to realise this and instead sat in his car, clearly displeased about his unexpected guest and rival turning up at such a time..Or perhaps anytime.

"Well how about this amigo," Billy said, now leaning against the BMW as Steve wound the window down. Still stony faced but at least he'd not put the foot on the gas.

"Looks like both of our dates are either actually sick or have ditched us. Their loss man. But we're both dressed to the nines and ready to go. So how about it?"

"How about what?"

Billy shrugged, as if what he's about to say is nothing.

"We just rock up together. Show Hawkins how it's done."

The truth was Casey, or Laura or whatever her name was hadn't been Billy's first choice to Prom. Reality sucked but in this hick nation of a town, going with a girl was as natural as taking a piss. But going with a guy….not only would it be the talk of the school but the talk of the town, and as soon as that talk got back to his dad… It wasn't worth thinking about. But now said guy was sat smart and still stone faced next to him in the Camaro, it was hard to not think about all the things that came to mind when he was alone and the house was silent. Steve had been the one he'd really wanted to go to the prom with. But he'd pretend that he was just doing the guy a favour. It was just a back up plan; once they got to prom, they'd go their separate ways and that would be that. Billy would offer to take him back or he could get a cab, he didn't care. Really….. He wasn't thinking about post prom….he wasn't thinking about….

"I'm surprised you're not blasting us with that music you listen to…."

The softness of Steve's words managed to cut through the silence and Billy blinked. He was right; he'd not even done his usual routine. Slam on the gas, slam on the tunes.

"Seeing as you ask so nicely…."

The music flicked on, Billy laughed as Steve visibly winced at the volume but he wasn't in the mood for being a total asshole. So he turned it down just a notch. The radio was just finishing one tune and going onto the next. Boston's More than a Feeling. Ironic. He didn't show it though. Maxine must have been messing with the station again. Next time she was in the car, he was going to mess with her.

Metallica started to blare out instead. Four Horsemen, definitely an improvement. No sappy rock in this darn car. Not whilst he has the King Bee looking like he'd eaten wasps next to him.

"How'd you get into this?"

It's a question that Billy wasn't expecting at all. Ever. Steve being interested in his music taste. Was he feeling okay?

"Mom got me a radio when I was little," he started, gripping the wheel a little tighter on mentioning his mom. Not who he wanted to think about, but again, he wasn't going to be an asshole. And Steve actually sounded interested. There wasn't that bitchy tone to his question. "I was just messing around with it and on came Sabbath. Black Sabbath, you know Ozzy Osbourne, Tommy Iommi…. Paranoid. I was hooked man. Never changed the station after that. Now when Metallica started…."

He looked at Steve, expecting to see glazed eyes and was shocked to see the opposite. Engaged, looked like he was actually listening, interested to hear Billy talk. Strange. Get a grip.

"When we get there, don't expect me to stick around. Happy to give you a lift back but…."

"Yeah yeah." There was the bitch again, Steve looking out of the window. Hands gripped loosely on his trousers. Billy couldn't help but gaze at him before he drew his eyes back onto the road and the school which was rapidly approaching them. Steve looked….great. As always. Not a hair out of place, a fancy suit and no doubt his shoes would be like a mirror. Maybe so shiny he'd done his hair in them. He was wearing some kind of cologne; Billy had gotten a sniff earlier and had tried not to fixate on it. It suited him and all Billy could think of was how he could get close enough to smell all the undertones. Maybe him wish that he'd just gone with his own old familiar. He missed smelling like himself.

The party had already started when they finally walked through the doors, a mere nod before Billy's plan played out. Steve disappearing to wherever and Billy scoping the scene. Looking for Hagan and Carol but also any girls which had been on his list of dates to ask and perhaps should have been his choice other than Lacey, Macy…whoever she was. Hagan and Carol were holding part of the drinks table to ransom, some of the younger students side eyeing them as Tommy stood there, leaned on the table with no intention to move. Carol in his arms and trying to steal his drink; she had one of her own but when did that ever stop her? Billy was tempted to join them, but noticed a couple of girls over at a quieter part of the table. Where the finger food and whatever the school had provided was. Food at a prom, well wasn't that something? Guess the school knew some of the students were likely to be drunk or get drunk no matter what they did and at least this way, they could line their stomachs first. The two girls smiled as he approached, him keeping his distance but nodding to them. Clear that he was ready to give them attention if they wanted it but would move away if they didn't. Billy may be many things, but sleazy? Wasn't his style.

"Looking fine there ladies. Real nice."

"Thanks Billy," one of the girls chimed, the other blushing as she glanced at where his buttons would usually be open but currently weren't. Maybe he should change that. The open shirt look after all was his style and if the teachers didn't like it, well, like with the drink thing. What were they really gonna do? "You're looking mighty fine there too," the other girl chipped in, her looks even more obvious than her friend's as she checked him up and down. Clearly looking what she saw as she began to lean forward a little. Crossing his ankles and angling her body in his direction. After a while of mindless chatter, it became clear the girls were happy with a two for one offer and like hell was he going to turn that down. A few dances later and Billy was out for now. Lacey, Macey whoever was no longer on his mind at all as he finally spied the drink table being quiet and not crowded by increasingly rowdy students. Time to go out for a smoke, grab some fresh air and get back to the girls he'd been dancing with. That lovely pair of ladies who were eager for his attention and he was very happy to give them both. But now, a drink or…maybe a break first. A space on the wall near the table had also come up so that was where he headed to instead.

He'd not been leaning very long when he saw someone out of the corner of his eye. Only moving slightly but like they'd been there for a while, and he'd not noticed them arrive at all.

Where did he come from? Leaning against the wall with still not a hair out of place, Steve sipped at whatever was in the cup before holding a second one out to Billy. What was….

"For the ride. And don't worry, I checked it. It's not spiked. It's from the clear bowl. The others though…yeah I'd be careful."

He wasn't gonna ask. He knew that Steve had taken a sip and he wondered what side his lips had touched before pushing the thought aside and downing the drink. Some kind of weird non alcoholic punch. But he had to give it to whoever in the school had made it; it actually didn't taste like shit.

"Been thinking of me Harrington? Ain't that sweet."

The look Steve gave him had 'Bite Me' written all over it. The jock turning away to look over the dance floor again. Oh, how Billy would certainly bite him if he got the chance. Sink his teeth right into his….

"So, not totally sucked for you then or?"

"If you mean, have I made up for my date ditching me? Very much so." Billy grinned, his eyes trailing from Steve's neck to his face as the other teen looked over at him.

"How's your game been?"

Steve shrugged, the now empty cup lingering in his hand as he pushed himself away from the wall. Looking for somewhere to put the cup.

"Gimme that."

Before Steve could protest, Billy swiped it, pressing it into his own before tossing them on the ground next to him. They'd get picked up later by someone.

"Come on man. There's no way you've been out on the bench."

"Nope," Steve responded, popping the p in that obnoxious way he did but Billy didn't care. Too busy staring at the pretty boy. He already knew Steve had been busy, but the way he was reacting was like he wasn't interested. Either in the girls or the event itself. Steve had game and yet wasn't using it. Most girls here would more than happily grab any bit of attention from him. Instead he was here. Looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"I need a smoke." Billy glanced over at Steve before shrugging. "They're in my car."

"So….Metallica."

Billy glanced over at him, the smoke from his cigarette curling up into the air as the statement hung between them. The pair were stood by his car, the party a little distance away. Not like either of them cared.

It took Billy a moment to remember the conversation on the ride here. He'd cut off mid sentence but Steve was now determined to get it out of him. Wasn't gonna let the subject drop, and Billy appreciated it. People didn't really take an interest in him. More the aesthetics. More the charm and the car. His music? It came with him but rarely did anyone treat it as a part of him other than himself.

"The Kill 'Em All album man. What an album. That opening, the riffs…." Right away Billy felt himself drifting into his happy place. A content smile as he sucked on his cigarette. Harrington bathing him with that look again. The same one as the time before.

"The Four Horsemen. Motorbreath. Metal Militia. Just the entire album man. If you ever wanna know what I'm talking about, get the album. I know you're more a Toto kinda guy." He snorted, glancing at Steve who is blowing smoke to the side and rolling his eyes.

"But I think even you might be able to appreciate it if you gave it a try."

"Do you have it in the car?"

"It's only the CD I was playing on the way here," he grinned, stomping his cigarette butt into the ground and fishing out his keys. Was he dreaming? Steve actually wanted to listen to it?

Well he wasn't gonna let this opportunity go.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat back in his car and listened to an album like this. And it had been even longer once he'd had someone to do it with. They didn't talk, it felt like they barely even breathed as Metallica reverbed around the car, Billy glancing at Steve now and then. Expecting any moment for the show to drop and for him to tell him to turn it off. But he didn't and even more surprisingly, he was sat there listening. Like, not rolling his eyes or spacing out. But sat there, relaxed. His eyes on the radio then the dash as his fingers tapped away to the beat.

It's everything Billy didn't realise he'd wished for.

It was in-between tracks when Steve finally broke the silence. But it wasn't to ask about the music. It was about something very different.

"Why didn't you ask?"

Wasn't that just the question. One that Billy'd thought about. Had danced on his lips but been drawn back in. Had played on his minds but felt just like a fantasy. And finally it was out there. Billy didn't think he'd feel any different but the relief he felt to hear it? He couldn't describe it. It felt like a massive rock had been lifted off his chest and he was finally free but even that didn't cover it.

"You grew up here right? Do you really need to ask?"

He could see that Steve got it, even before he replied. The way there was a flicker across his face before Steve looked away. He knew Billy couldn't have asked him. And that neither of them….

"It's so stupid. Like why do we have to choose a girl and make both people miserable instead of just…."

"Being able to ask. Yeah I know. Fucking stupid man. Would have been easier in Cali. Maybe…. I dunno."

"And what would we have done in Cali?"

The smirk he knew Steve knew very well appeared on Billy's face and hands on the wheel, he glanced over. Pulling out a white carnation from his door and putting it on the dash in front of Steve.

"Well I could tell you Harrington. But I think it would way more fun if you just found out…"

[aventurineswife]

greetings, scar, jiyan, aalto and calcharo saving a teen!reader from a TD attack/outburst?

“Let the grown ups do the work”

Tags: Aalto x Reader, Jiyan x Reader, Calcharo x Reader, Scar x Reader, Teen!Reader, Platonic, Found Family(?), Protective.

Warnings: Mild violence, Brief moments of peril and fear, Mentions of violence and threats, Inaccurate fighting scene (totally not because I can't describe the original).

The air around you grew heavy as the Tacet Discord slithered closer, its amorphous form pulsating with chaotic energy. Your legs trembled, rooted in place by fear. The discord emitted a guttural screech, extending a tendril toward you.

“Careful now, don’t breathe too deeply.” a soft, amused voice interrupted the chaos.

A faint mist began to rise, shrouding the area in a ghostly fog. From within, a figure stepped forward, his sunglasses glinting in the dim light. Aalto's carefree smile belied the precision in his movements as he raised his hand, the mist around him coiling like a living entity.

“Now, now, let's not be rude to the kid.” Aalto quipped. The mist solidified into jagged spikes, striking the discord's tendrils mid-air. Each movement was fluid, like a performance.

The Tacet Discord roared, lashing out blindly, but the fog thickened, obscuring its vision entirely. Aalto approached you, crouching down with a reassuring smile. "Stay still. The mist doesn’t harm those who don't resist. Trust me, I’ve done this a hundred times.”

With a flick of his wrist, the fog surged forward, enveloping the Tacet Discord. Its screeches softened into silence, and the chaotic form dissolved into nothingness.

Aalto offered his hand, his sunglasses slipping slightly down his nose to reveal his calculating eyes. “You okay, kid? Free of charge this time.”

The Tacet Discord loomed over you, its amorphous shape crackling with unstable energy. You tried to run, but a tendril of chaotic matter wrapped around your ankle, dragging you closer.

A sudden gust of wind whipped through the battlefield, and a commanding voice cut through the roar of the discord. “Hold on.”

Jiyan descended like a whirlwind, hair flowing as his Resonance Mark glowed fiercely. With a sweeping motion of his arm, the air around him condensed, forming the ethereal shape of a teal dragon. The Qingloong roared, its presence pushing the discord back momentarily.

The discord shifted its form, attempting to retaliate, but Jiyan was faster. He struck with precision, wind blades slicing through its chaotic mass. Each movement was calculated, his stance steady and unyielding.

The dragon coiled protectively around you as Jiyan extended a hand, his piercing yellow eyes meeting yours. “Stay close to the Qingloong. I’ll handle the rest.”

With a final strike, the discord disintegrated, leaving the area eerily calm. Jiyan turned to you, a hint of a smile softening his stern expression. “You’re safe now. Let’s get you home.”

You stumbled back, heart pounding as the Tacet Discord’s amorphous form surged toward you. Its chaotic energy radiated menace, and you felt the weight of despair crushing your chest.

“Interesting. So this is what frightens you?” a smooth, almost mocking voice echoed.

Scar emerged from the shadows, his mismatched eyes glinting with curiosity. He tilted his head, a dramatic smile spreading across his scarred face. “Don’t worry. The lamb’s shepherd is here.”

With a theatrical gesture, Scar summoned sharp, crimson energy spikes from the ground. They shot upward, piercing through the discord’s form. The creature howled, shifting its shape to evade the onslaught, but Scar only laughed.

“Ah, but you’re playing my game now.” he said, his voice low and menacing.

The discord lashed out, but Scar sidestepped effortlessly, his movements almost lazy. He raised a hand, and a burst of energy erupted, scattering the discord into fragments.

Kneeling beside you, Scar offered his hand, his smile softening slightly. “You have spirit, little lamb. Stay close to me. No discord will touch you again.”

The Tacet Discord closed in, its formless body pulsating with chaotic energy. You tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed by the creature’s oppressive aura.

A sharp crackle filled the air, and a shadowy figure landed between you and the discord. Calcharo’s gray eyes burned with focus as his Resonance Mark flared to life. “Stay down.” he commanded, his voice cold yet protective.

Electricity surged around him, arcs of bioelectric energy forming phantom-like shapes. With a sweep of his arm, shadowy thorns shot forward, pinning the discord in place. The phantoms howled, tearing into the creature with unrelenting force.

The discord retaliated, sending a chaotic wave toward Calcharo, but he stood firm, absorbing the energy with calculated precision. His coattails fluttered as he unleashed another wave of shadowy thorns, reducing the discord to a harmless mist.

Calcharo turned to you, his expression softening slightly. “You’re safe now,” he said, offering his hand. “Let’s get you out of here.”

[purgatory-is-life]

Mechtober prompt 22/day 22-immortality

i keep putting marius through the horrors and i probably won't stop. i swear i love him he's just so easy to make angst of.

@mechtober-2024

Uncertainty and Immortality - Reality666Rift999 - The Mechanisms (Band) [Archive of Our Own]

tw; temporary character death, character death, mentioned/implied violence, Out angst, some minor suicidal ideation, implied/mentioned gun violence, blood, gore, a bit of eldritch horror, probably more than that, please let me know what i need to add!

----

Marius didn’t necessarily know if he believed in immortality.

Of course, the Mechanisms were probably immortal–they died-revived-died all the time. They killed-revived-killed each other all the time. They had forgotten Brian in a star for a century, and he was mostly fine—after a while. Marius had died so many times, had died to become Marius. How could he not believe in immortality? It’d been thousands of years since he’d gotten his arm. Probably more, probably much longer.

But he didn’t necessarily know if he believed in immortality.

Of course, the Music explained to him in sweet symphonies and gentle decrescendos and brassy tunes, over and over again– he was here forever. Always to be its voice box, always to play along. And if he leaves? He would only join the cacophonous chorus, his violin joining all those before him that had been cursed. But the Music didn’t want him to join just yet, as much as it could want anything, and so he was here forever.

But the Music lies.

It always had, and always would.

Marius thinks that’s where he got it from, where every other sentence a falsehood came so naturally from. Marius is the Music’s most recent Voice, and the Music lies, and so Marius lies. Just like the rest of the Crew, he spoke in songs and lyrics and stories, concocted and written out to be nothing but that– a story. True or false, who’s to say at this point. The Music lies, and so Marius lies.

And Marius was pretty sure the Music lied about the Mechanisms living forever.

Whenever one of the Crew died, there was always a spark of anxiety, a spark of fear as that oh-so familiar Song played quietly in his mind, that feeling of, Oh, they’re not going to wake up this time, are they? But they always do. They always wake up, and the Song fades, and everyone goes about their business, and Marius forgets the feeling until the next time.

It’s always different when he’s the one who dies, even though the Song doesn’t change. It’s more of a feeling of, They won’t have to deal with me anymore. Maybe I can rest. And yet he always wakes up. It’s less of a fear, more of a quiet hope. Sometimes he does remember to be afraid, he remembers to worry–will his friends miss him? His friends still needed him, he still needed his friends–

And then he wakes up, and everything goes back to normal. The keening Song fades once again.

That’s just how they worked, they died-killed-died-revived all the time as if it was second nature. Perhaps it was, at this point. They shot just as quickly as they gave kind smiles. Jonny shot more than he gave any sign of kindness, really.

The killed-died-revived so frequently, that eventually the fear and Song just became background noise. He still tried to avoid it, still pushed it down and ignored it when he could, but it kind of just became a fact of his seemingly never-ending life. Every time he or one of the other Mechanisms died, there’d be a little seed of doubt in his mind about whether or not they’d wake up. They always did. It wore on them, Marius could see it so clearly, in their aimless destruction and heavy shoulders and tired eyes. But Marius was always grateful when they woke up. I’m not ready yet, he’d think, for them to disappear. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready, constantly dreading the day their mechanisms finally gave out and they’d die for real. Always afraid, always hesitant to harm because what if it didn’t heal.

He was still much quicker to harm than any average mortal, he still did his fair share of killing and maiming of the Crew–especially when they stole his kneecaps. A little revenge never hurt anyone for too long. Much better than getting Lost in the Music on purpose and wandering the ship with his mournful violin, as that often only led to his kneecaps being stolen again. And getting Lost was never a pleasant feeling.

He still hovered, though, especially when it was their mechanisms that had taken damage. None of the others liked him poking at their mechanisms, despite the fact that he was probably more qualified to work on them than he was on the fleshy bits. To be fair, they didn’t exactly like Raphaella messing with their mechanisms either– Jonny was the most common culprit, but many times the others liked to avoid maintenance as much as possible. Marius never pushed though, it’s not like he didn’t understand. He only let Raph work on his arm every once in a while, preferring to do maintenance himself. (The Music lies like it is the most natural thing to do, every note misread and every string misplaced, but Marius did not want to risk its warnings of what could happen should Raph or one of the others be faced with Marius’s mechanism maintenance. The Music did not like to be Seen, after all. Only heard.)

But whenever their mechanisms were damaged, he hovered off to the side until it was fixed–manually or by their healing factors. Just so that he could be sure that they were alright, that they’d get up again soon. He tried his best not to be clingy, usually, tried his best to avoid taking up too much space around them or invading their personal space when it wasn’t welcome, but his anxiety was never quelled until he saw that they were okay, and that they were going to be alright.

Marius, admittedly, was not a person who enjoyed uncertainty. He was almost sure the doubt of ‘true’ immortality was what made him scared more than anything, the possibility of losing one of the others suddenly and without reason.

And of course, that is what happened, when Nastya went Out.

He and Nastya weren’t especially close, Nastya spending more of her time hiding away in the depths of the Aurora and doing whatever-it-was she did as an engineer and as Aurora’s girlfriend. She only ever showed up for meal times or for Crew Night and concerts, or during the occasional crew-wide tea party hosted by The Toy Soldier. She tended to disappear whenever they were planetside, her own wanted posters popping up without fanfare or loud explosions like Tim or Jonny or Ashes. And besides, half the time planetside, Nastya rarely left the Aurora.

But that changed one day, out in deep space.

And she left, disappearing.

Possibly forever.

Something changed among the Mechanisms, there was a loss that felt… Well, it felt final and it was strange.

Marius found himself hovering more, clinging even though he tried not to. Worrying, heart racing, every time someone died. That fear that had become background noise was almost always present and in the forefront.

One day, while staying in the cockpit with Brian, the brass pilot said quietly, “She’s probably cold out there. It was so cold…”

His voice was tinny and distant, and Aurora creaked sadly in response.

“I hope she’s not cold… I hope we find her soon…”

Marius didn’t say anything, remaining silent. Just climbed into Brian’s lap and purred till the both of them fell asleep.

Marius did not like being uncertain.

Perhaps that was why he latched onto Lyf so strongly.

They were temporary, and it was a guarantee that they were temporary. The system was doomed, crushing Songs and endless Noise and it was fragile and temporary, so very temporary. Obviously, going into something and knowing it won’t last for-probably-forever made it easy to not get attached…

One would think.

But Marius fell fast, and when he fell he fell hard. Always had, probably always would. What started as teasing and making fun of the inspector in charge of the three of them eventually turned into something a bit softer, something a bit–perhaps not kinder, but gentler. Something a bit more akin to care, as close to care as one could get with the Mechanisms.

And then the train arrived, and he and Ivy and Raph left, and Lyf was gone.

And it hurt.

It was awful and Marius could barely think past the pain in his heart and the Songs screaming from the remains of Yggdrasil, but it was expected. He could bury his grief and fear with more, different grief.

And then they returned, Lyfrassir managed to escape somehow and they were back. And they somehow managed to return to Marius’s life, even though they hated him. He didn’t mind, hating him was fine. He couldn’t force Lyf to feel anything. He was content to just appreciate that they were there.

Of course, though, they were still temporary. They were still definitely going to die one day, and maybe it was odd that he found a sense of comfort in that. Maybe it was wrong. But it was true, and that was comforting to Marius. Because it was expected that he’d lose them, that they’d disappear. He didn’t have to deal with that aching fear as much, that feeling of They won’t get up, this is it our luck’s run out, because when they died there’d be no reason for them to get up and start walking.

That didn’t stop the pain when they did die, though. That aching, familiar fear creeping in.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this, after all. This wasn’t how they were supposed to die. They weren’t supposed to die by a bullet to the head, a bullet probably meant for Jonny as he was only a few meters behind them and had done significantly more to anger the people on this planet– they were supposed to die old and withered when Marius was ready. When he could actually look death and eternity head on and say ‘I’m not afraid’. They weren’t supposed to die only a few short years after joining them, after starting to travel with them.

And then… Well, perhaps, the most unexpected thing happened.

Lyf’s dark blue blood that was starting to stain Aurora’s silver floor started glimmering and glowing, turning into a prismatic array of rainbow hues.

Lyfrassir’s glassy eyes widened, and their voice was pulled from their throat without them having to speak.

Y’ai ‘ng’ngah Yog Sothoth hee-l’gleb f’ai throdog

Uaah ogthrod ai’f geb’lee-ee’h Yog Sothoth ‘ngah’ng ai’y zhro

The rainbow blood rose off the floor, the staticky colors making it hard to look at without gaining a headache but Marius couldn’t force himself to turn away as the blood stitched, slowly, painfully, stitched the wound in Lyf’s head closed, the reality warping as the wound disappeared, as if it never existed.

The iridescent blood seemed to stain Lyf’s pretty silver hair, colors seeping into their locks from their roots, most prominent and most vibrant where their hair was already stained with blood. But the blood was disappearing into nothingness but heat auras and steam around Lyf’s forehead quickly, a light returning to Lyfrassir’s eyes.

The wound seemed to stop existing as it was restitched by Lyf’s blood.

What was Marius so concerned about again? Why was Lyf on the floor?

Lyfrassir blinked, sitting up. Their white pupils had taken on a slightly iridescent hue, their hair seemed to move on its own, like there was wind on Aurora that there shouldn’t be. Splotches of their braids and their roots were stained with that same slightly iridescent hue. They looked around at the Mechanisms, who were staring at them with various looks of horror or concern.

“Wh… What happened?” Their voice was hoarse, like they hadn’t spoken for a while.

“I-” Brian was the one who spoke up, voice cracking as he did so, “I think you died.”

“I…” Lyfrassir’s eyes widened almost comically. “I died?”

“And then you came back,” Raphaella agreed. There was likely more said, Marius could see Lyfrassir’s mouth move as they talked, could see Jonny waving his arms as his tail swished and flicked angrily while he paced, could see Tim fiddle with xyr gun and Ivy snapping and Raph’s wings fluttering and Lyf grabbing their hair and Brian wringing his hands– there was likely more said.

All Marius could hear was the symphony screaming and shouting over itself, a Song oh-so familiar to Odin’s Void and the Bifrost’s whippoorwill call.

Lyfrassir disappeared into their room for a few months, and no one did anything to try and coerce them out.

Marius could barely be around them, the screaming Void and Whippoorwills and yelling symphony overwhelming him, only serving to get him Lost.

Marius didn’t know if he believed in immortality, the Music lies and Marius was sure one day their mechanisms would give out and wouldn’t heal anymore.

Whenever Lyf exited their room, they were disgruntled and their braids looked rougher than it ever had in all the time Marius knew them. Their hair was still stained with rainbows and their eyes still shined with opalescent colors, but the keening Void and keening Whippoorwills had calmed down, simply matching their usual background noise.

Marius approached them, after that.

“I think I’m glad you’re not Temporary,” he admitted. “But it scares me more than I’m glad.”

Lyfrassir replied with a confused ‘thank you’. They didn’t look at him. “I didn’t want this, when I escaped. I just wanted to live, but not like this.”

“You didn’t deserve to be Taken by something like our Music. But it probably only let you escape on purpose, for this.”

There was a moment of silence. “I think eternity is a long time. I don’t want to live forever.”

“I’m not certain we will. But at least we’re here, for however long ‘forever’ really is.”

After that, things returned to mostly-normal. It was strange, and everything was different, but it was like nothing had changed, in a way.

Marius just had one more person to hover over, whenever they were injured and whenever they got killed. To make sure that they lived, that they came back.

Marius just had one more person to fear losing.

Marius really hated the uncertainty of immortality. Marius really hated how scared it made him.

But it was something he was going to have to live with probably-forever.

Hopefully Nastya was somewhere warm.

[cookie-dough-writes]

Inside my head for any IP out there, there are two versions. One is canon where the fun is had with dissecting and analysing and being grounded to the actual canon and the other is sandbox peaceful mode where anything goes. and thats the dream

[knownangels]

even

wc: 5.3k

Benji has never once thought oh good, it’s over. Never once had the first breath of fresh air after a skirmish — fumes and smoke and the tang of something metallic in the back of his mouth, like he’d dusted them between his molars instead of shot them from the barrel of a gun— and thought: ah, it’s done. 

For some soldiers, the aftermath is the end. When the relief washes in and the adrenaline dies and the help arrives. Benji’s the help. It’s a crooked, evil phenomena: dreading the end of a fight. Crosses his wires all up in a tangle; it makes him twisted and selfish, doesn’t it, that he dreads the pause in gunfire?  

But that doesn’t mean it’s ever silent, after a fight. The explosions and drumbeat of bullets and clinking of mags and spent rounds — it covered the rest of the noise. 

He keeps his cool, of course. Part of the job. But if there was ever a portion that tested and stretched the limits of his composure, it was the after-noises.

He’s never thinking ah good, it’s over. He’s thinking: aw fuck, here we go. 

*

Benji has the misfortune of taking something to the shoulder. Well. Relative misfortune. The other poor bastard taking cover behind an upturned stack of crates with him is a bit worse off. 

“Patch me up.”

Benji winces when he turns his head. It pulls something, tugs some muscle connected to the injury. Blood bubbles up between his fingers, soaks through his glove. 

Not so much as what soaks through the infantryman propped beside him. It’s a pool between them, spread out like some uncrossable, ruby-shined sea. Within it, the reflection of the noontime sun transfixes Benji. That, or he’s getting woozy.

He’s silent a beat too long; the other soldier begins to panic. He twitches all over, like he means to move. To grab Benji’s arm, his vest. Maybe he thinks he does move. Maybe, in his mind’s eye, he’s shaking Benji by the shoulders.

Maybe he really does think Benji can help. Because this is the part of the battle — the after — where Benji’s job starts. Where the little red cross on his uniform becomes a beacon, rather than a scrap of fabric with a few stitches loose. 

(Benji’s only loose stitches, ever. He prides himself on that.) 

But no amount of tight stitching is going to help the other injured man. Benji’s got a through and through, nice and clean. He can tell, the way the wound aches. You get enough of them, wounds that is…well, you start being able to differentiate pain. Being able to tell the difference in missing flesh, the way nerves throb a specific way for a tactical blade’s slash or shrapnel aching deep. The absences feel different. Voids, and all that. 

“Patch me up!” 

Benji glances up from the nasty, serrated combat knife buried handle-deep in his solar plexus.  When the other soldier screams it, his whole torso shudders. That’s how Benji knows what it’s hit — getting winded after a blow to the center of the chest is shit enough. This is a bit worse. It’ll be about now that he realizes he can’t pull another breath: on cue, the soldier’s eyes pop wide. His face starts to lose color. 

Benji winces as he props himself up to a kneeling position. He lets go of his own injury, gritting his teeth until he swears he feels one chip.

“Rough way of it,” Benji croaks. He’s not sure if it’s from overuse or not speaking at all; he never knows what happens, in the midst of the during. He goes someplace else. Checks out of the hotel, so to speak. Benji laughs.

“What do —you— mean—?” The infantryman wheezes. Benji wishes he knew the man’s name. But they’re all cannon fodder. Frontline first in bastards, he and this one. His name isn’t known either, or else the man would have used it. 

“You’re going to die.” Benji says. With his good arm (not as bad arm, he supposes, because he can feel a nasty fucking bruise blossoming in the crook of his elbow) he reaches across to pinch the man’s eyelids wider. His pupils swim, catching Benji only for a moment before they slip away. 

“I’m —no. You…medic.” 

“Got a basic med kit, sure.” Benji’s focus drifts back to the wound in his chest. The man heaves a breath — one of his last few — and shudders. Another spot, one Benji hadn’t noticed until just now and one that rests unfairly close to his heart, spits a stream of crimson. 

“Hurts—!”

Benji tips the man’s chin up. His head hangs back loose on his shoulders. He shivers again. Somehow, hemusters enough strength to give Benji’s wrist a claw-like grip. Benji welcomes it: the sting of nails into skin distracts from the throb in his shoulder. 

“Got painkillers, yeah.” Benji pats his cheek awkwardly. No matter how many times he finds himself in this position, this gunpowder-scented bedside with none of the cool depressed indifference of a hospital room, he knows he’ll never get better at the manner. It’ll eat at him something fierce, sure. He’ll sit up and remember the exact shade of silvery flecks in this man’s eyes. But easing their final closure with kind words or comforting promises or sympathy — 

Nah. He’s shit at it. Always will be. 

“Got painkillers,” Benji repeats, patting the man’s cheek to stir him a bit. “But it’ll have stopped hurting by now, right? By the time I give ‘em to you, it’ll be done. It’s good to go quick, mate. Promise. You wouldn’t believe how long it takes, sometimes. ‘Sides, you got your brain intact, lucky you. All those nice chemicals of your own’ll be giving you the trip of a —”

The man’s panicked expression slips into something peacefully slack. Doped up. Benji huffs out a laugh that, were it his first time in this exact scenario, might strike him as morbid. 

“Lifetime. Aw, ‘pologies. Poor choice on my part.” 

Benji makes quick work of the chain around the man’s neck. The little blue tags they kit each of them out with are cheaply made. Transparent, light-catching material, maybe resin, with silver etched letters and numbers. Benji has seen them shatter when dropped. Benji has treated a man who ran chest-first into a wall on leave, crunched his tags against his chest, and needed them fished out with a pair of tweezers. He hadn’t much appreciated the Operation joke Benji’d made, during.

He leaves one of the rounded rectangles in the man’s fist, which needs to be manually closed — so he can be identified, once clean-up touches down.

The other tag he slips into his pocket. It’s the first of the afternoon, the first of this after (Benji’s beginning), but it won’t be the last. By the end of the next hour or so, a half dozen of them will clink together. He might even forget they’re there; he might only remember to take them to his lieutenant, to be transferred to records then shipping then family, the next morning when he’s tossing his trousers into the hamper to take them to the wash on base so the blood from this man’s gaping chest wound which stains his thigh and seeps warm onto his skin can be wrung out and tint the water pink — 

Benji blinks. With a gentle hand cupping the back of the dying soldier’s head, he guides that fluttering, distanced gaze down to his own. He holds up the single tag on its chain.

“Rough way.” Benji repeats. He is at his usual, habitual loss for what else to say. “We’ll get it to —well, whoever. Family, or —y’know. Whoever.” 

He hopes the man doesn’t slip away to his hapless fumbling. Would be a particularly shit end to his already shit day. 

Once the body has gone fully limp, Benji pushes himself to his knees. He does a careful check of his surroundings. Other bodies lie amongst the rubble, some out in the open, some groaning  —or dying — from their injuries just out of vision. 

Benji slips the tag into his pocket. He bites his glove off, velcro strap ripping loudly but not loud enough to drown the after-noises. The etched letters of this first man are a soothing texture beneath his swiping thumb. But he can’t make out the word they spell. He never learns the man’s name. 

He doesn’t want to. 

*

 When he discovers, after a thorough assessment of the remnants of the firefight, that he is the last of this particular squadron alive, his hands only set to shaking a little.

Benji has not been in this position before. Their leader for this mission, a stalwart and square-jawed woman by the name of Jamison— or maybe Jemison, or Jamesson — lies in a crumpled heap behind the warm exhaust of a generator. The production facility they had been tasked with protecting had come under predicted attack, but it seems as though despite all her experience she had not been able to predict the nasty, forceful blow to her skull.

Her tags get tucked alongside the others. Benji is all too aware of his own, now. They’re nestled against his chest, digging in beneath the strap of his vest. He’s the only survivor. He needs to get a working comms established; their commander’s radio has been crushed by the same weapon that had made jelly of everything above the shoulders. 

He’s the only survivor. He needs to find a way to share that information. He needs to find someone to share that information with. He needs to get back to base. He needs a shower. He needs sleep. He needs—

To pay attention.

His gut moves him. He has no control of his muscles, so it must be instinct. Instinct: one single breath to his right, behind a corner. Instinct: the swivel of his hip. Instinct, the steadying placement of one boot back, braced to mitigate the momentum that pushes him back as he catches a swinging weapon by its handle. 

It’s instinct that uses both arms to yank his assailant off their feet. But it’s Benji, his shoulder and the pain that comes with this life-saving motion, who screams. 

He stumbles with the shock of it. Like lightning. His palm bruises and cramps. HIs whole arm goes limp as it sizzles white-hot up his forearm, wraps his bicep, and settles like a shard of pure electricity in the oozing hole in his shoulder. 

“Fuck!” Benji gasps as he falls. Embarrassingly, right on his arse. 

“Fuck you!” The weapon-wielder yells back.

It shivers him with déjà vu.

Benji has the sensation of someone looming over him, someone holding him to the ground with a fist in his vest; he has the sensation of instinct and adrenaline seeping from him hand-in-hand. His gut coils weak once more, no longer offering him any help in the face of danger. He’s lost more blood than he realizes. And with that realization comes another:

He’s the last left. There will be no one to deny him painkillers. No one to joke about his assigned method of departure, rough way. No one to tuck his tag in his fist. No one to take it back to base, to identify be identified, to be sent home. 

“Benji.” Benji says. He says it. Not instinct. It’s written on his tag. But he wants them to know.

There’s a long pause where he imagines the graceful arc of the weapon he’d briefly caught. He imagines it cutting through the air. He imagines whatever it is burying itself in his skull. Imagines the mess. 

Benji blinks his eyes open (when had he squeezed them shut?) and stares, for a moment, blankly. 

“Oh shit.”

“Oh.” He breathes. And then, for some reason, he smiles. “Oh shit.” 

*

 “It’s still cute.” 

Benji’s scowl turns into a proper wince; Xavier winds the bandage around his shoulder too tight. He’s not as practiced at this — maybe not at all. And Benji had refused to touch the little bottle of painkillers in his kit. 

It felt wrong. He — it just was wrong.

So he bites his knuckle the whole time Xavier tends to him. While the wound is cleaned, while its packed (squeamishly, which is admittedly charming), while a firm hand pulls the strip of white cotton tight, tight, tight. 

“Sorry?” He’s still delirious. Head swimming from the blood loss, the wind-down of medical trauma. Of endorphins running out. Of—

(the flash of the warehouse, bodies strewn, guns smoking, the after-noises, the man’s rolling eyes)

“Your name.” Xavier insists. "It's still cute."

He looks no worse for wear; almost as if he hasn’t been in the midst of it at all, aside ruffled hair and a sweat-slicked face. There are circles under his eyes, but then again, Benji hasn’t seen a set without them in quite some time. He just hasn’t been close enough to the enemy (which is what Xavier is, his mind insists) to see how they’d been faring.

Not as bad, if Xavier’s chipper, toothy grin and color-flushed face are anything to go by. They’re not, Benji knows. He is by definition an anomaly. Not of this place, this world, and certainly not the standard by which other battle-pallid faces and distanced eyes should be judged against.

I need a fucking nap, Benji thinks, because his thoughts are rapidly unspooling. He keeps his mouth shut to keep them from escaping that way.

But Xavier nudges him. Friendly like, an elbow to his undamaged shoulder. It jostles enough to hurt, but its numb enough now that he can grit his jaw to it.

“Remember? We ran into each other before.” Xavier snorts. “You threw a gun at me. Kind of stupid.”

“Out of ammo.” Benji defends. “What else am I s’posed to do, I see a big bastard like you comin' at me?”

He pretends not to notice how Xavier’s chest puffs at that, even though it wasn’t a compliment.

“Run, maybe. Although that doesn’t always help.” 

“Didn’t.” Benji says. He gestures at the massive gore-slicked hammer propped against a crate adjacent to the position they’ve taken; Xavier had pulled him away from the open-air warehouse floor into a smaller room. Managerial, if he were to guess from the monitors and upended bullet-riddled file cabinets. There are probably useful documents in there he ought to go through and save, bring back for intel. 

But Xavier’s smiling. There’s something off about it, a twist that isn’t charming or jovial that hints at a dark few future hours; Xavier had been the only survivor of his crew, too. 

“Well, us either. A few of those guys were assholes, though, so —“

Benji laughs incredulously at the awful implication of that.”What, so they deserved it?” 

Xavier’s laugh smears right off his face. His eyes do a funny thing: distance and blur.

“Some of them.” He intones quietly, voice dark and monotone. Benji hasn’t known him long enough (doesn’t know him at all!) to determine if that’s uncharacteristic. Given their last encounter, it might be.

And just as quickly it appeared, its gone. Xavier straightens up to his full height, which is fucking up there, and snaps the clasp of Benji’s now-empty med kit shut. He pats it twice, pauses, pats it again. Then tucks it carefully inside Benji’s pack before zipping that shut, too. 

“There we go. You’re all set.” He kneels down again. He’s so tall their faces don’t nearly align, but when he tilts his head its just about there. “Are you going to tell people I kissed it better?”

His breath drifts over Benji’s face. It smells sweet, like fruit flavored candy. It also smells like blood; he has a cut on the inside of his mouth somewhere that still leaks, turns the delicate pink between his white teeth a fresh, deranged red. 

“I’m not going to tell anybody anything.” Benji says. He doesn’t say it because he’s nervous there’s a threat underlying a smile that is, by all visual clues, absolutely threatening. He says it because — 

He says it because he wants Xavier to know he can be trusted. That this isn’t just another good deed, another favor. It isn’t happenstance. A moment of weakness; of mercy. Two’s a pattern. He says it because telling Xavier: if we see each other again — 

No. He can’t say that. 

Something beeps on Xavier’s person. He pats his chest, then his breast pocket. From there, he pulls a tablet. Or what looks like one. Its transparent screen is peculiarly thin. With the blue glow and digital beeps, Benji gets the impression that its technology is incredibly advanced. Futuristic, even. Certainly nothing he’s ever seen. 

And that too is something he should act on: he should pull his side piece from its thigh holster and level it at Xavier’s pale forehead (where a cluster of freckles thins in the center, from brown to nearly his skin tone). He should pull the trigger. He should take the tablet, he should find out if Xavier has tags of his own, he should take the documents, he should turn them all in —

Instead, Benji reaches up and taps his knuckle against the back of the tablet’s screen. 

“Tell your mum ‘hullo’ for me, yeah?” 

Xavier blinks. And then he laughs, wild and delirious — just how Benji feels. 

*

He has no need for them and has never believed in the workings of the universe to as enchanted a level as they require, but the fact that Benji makes it back to base is nothing short of a miracle.

A narrow escape of two enemy patrols. Sliding down a muddy hill (because of course the rain started up) into a drainage ditch. The ambient temperature isn’t too low, but Benji’s injured. And the water is thigh-deep. And the shock of it is enough that he gasps and goes cold all over.

And it should be there they find him, blue in the lips and gray in the face and dead, tag tucked in his own fist and thumb pressed so hard to the name it etches into skin instead of cheap plastic. 

It is there they find him. He just isn’t dead.

His lieutenant claps him hard on the back. It’s his injured side. The gauze has, again miraculously, avoided soaking through with the disgustingly muddy runoff that coats the rest of him. 

Perhaps because it was wound too tight.

“At ease, mate.” Quinn barks. The rest of the pick-up squad gathers around them. Some start to ask questions — who’s with you, where are the rest, where’s the commander, how’d you bloody do it, private? — but the lieutenant creates a barrier between Benji’s listless, tired gaze and the rest of them. 

“Now how have you managed this time, Benj?” 

He doesn’t know Benji’s injured. But the squeeze he puts to that wound on his shoulder feels deliberately harsh. Any other time, the informal touch and it’s proximity to affection might stir something in his gut. But whatever heat that could be there has been eaten up to fuel its instinct, instead. 

Instinct that had saved him. Instinct that had wandered him blindly through the warehouse and right into the path of — 

Benji doesn’t pass out until they have him on the medical transport. But he comes awful close to it then. 

“Miracle, sir.” He chirps. 

*

It turns out he has a bit of internal bleeding near his spleen. And a concussion. Shoulder-shot is baby shit, so some of the others say. Plenty of them are duty served enough to be ninety percent scar tissue. Benji doesn’t want to go that way. He’d like to be mostly intact when he goes. But more and more, he’s realizing that is a privileged afforded to very few in this line of work. 

He spends four days in recovery. A week in post, another on desk duty. He eats up as much of the free time as he can doing things he ought to enjoy. Puzzles. Shooting the shit with some of the other injured, still recovering from missions past. Going over strategy and intelligence with the lieutenant, even though its not information he should be privy to and only knows because its offered under less than professional circumstances. 

Benji thinks of the dead man’s rolling eyes on both of those occasions, when they come up. 

“Sorry.” He pulls away, feigning a wince. The lieutenant’s quarters are darkened with only the orange glow of a distant desk lamp to illuminate them. Benji faces away from it; there isn’t enough light to show the deceit twisting that expression. “Still sore. Thought I could —“

“Tough through it?” Quinn finishes for him, broad chest under his palm rumbling with a laugh that he finds pleasant. It feels good to touch. To be touched; that’s why he’s here. It’s always why he is. Benji gets too much of the after-noise. The clutching of his wrists, of his vest. The begging. Patch me up. Patch me up. 

That’s the real reason he returns to his own quarters, gut icy with something he’s scared to name. 

“No need, mate. Go get your shut eye. Need you functioning anyway.” 

*

Before he slips under his own covers, in his own room, Benji takes his tags off. The chain tinks against the end table’s edge, and the last thought he has before sleep pulls him under is a fearful one: 

Don’t shatter. Don’t shatter. I don’t have tweezers on me. I can’t pull the pieces out. What if it cracks right along my name? Who will know? 

*

He’s cleared for the next mission. And just like the previous, things go south very quickly. 

Patterns, he’s thinking, lip tucked between his teeth as he patches up a particularly nasty gash. It’s not serrated, or else the damage would be worse — this one had been unfortunate enough to take the blade between clavicle and armpit. It will be a slow heal. It will sting like a bitch. Itch like one, too. But the wound’s recipient seems no worse for this shared information, when Benji informs him of it. 

Benji wonders if Xavier is ever worse for the wear. If he’s capable. Even carved up, exhausted. Both of them separated from their respective squads, hunkered up in the same rotted-wood cabin in the middle of nowhere; he should be wary, tired, exhausted, teeth pulled back defensive.

Except when Benji had stumbled into the decrepit old shed, he’d only —

He’d only smiled. 

(“Knew it. We were totally due for another one.”)

That jolliness has faded only slightly the longer Benji spends, carefully disinfecting the edges before pinching the skin together to stitch. He takes his time. He takes time he hasn't got to spare.

“Hurt?” Benji asks, eyebrows pulling in when Xavier shakes his head. “Mate, fuck off. Looks like it does somethin’ fierce. I’ve got pills—?”

Xavier squeezes his eyes shut. The smile slips and then plasters back in place, more plastic-stiff than a moment before. 

“You nursed me back to good health, doc.” Xavier somehow manages to purr, despite his obvious state and rough-edged voice. “I’m okay. I can get back. We’re not even, though. So next time—“

“No.” Benji says. He isn’t sure what he’s denying; that they’ll meet again, that they’ll tend to something open and raw and bleeding on the other, that there will be a next anything. 

There shouldn’t. 

“But we’re two-one. You have to get me back.” Xavier sticks his lower lip out, puppy-eyed and sweet. “Just one more favor?” 

Benji winds the gauze too tight around his midsection and yanks the shirt back down over his torso. He’s very professional about it. His gaze does not wander. He does not linger, does not press firm to heaving ribs and note the jump of Xavier’s body beneath him. Not just the movement of breath, a pained gasp, but — but —

“Fuck you.” Benji says, but it doesn’t have the intended effect.

Xavier just smiles. 

*

“What?” 

Benji isn’t in his bed on base. He sits upright, and the sheets drift off him like water. There and then gone. 

He feels his lungs move, his lips part. 

There’s a laugh on the other side of the room. He’s suddenly feverish. Sweat sticks to him, his chest heaving with desperate breaths. When a hand flattens to the center of it, right above his solar plexus, it slips like he’s slicker with something other than sweat. 

“You woke up, like, all panicked. And went ‘who will know?’. Fucking spooky.” A laugh. “Weird.” 

Benji opens his eyes, then. Except — he’d noted the clock on the wall, the second pair of shoes kicked off by the door to his room, so his eyes had already been open…hadn’t they? 

There are no windows in his room on base, just four bland gray walls. But he feels a breeze — a stirring of fabric, like curtains in the summer—-

Benji sits up again. His head swims and everything goes funny, colorful.

“What?” 

He glances to the side. He’s not in his room. He’s not in his bed, on base. He leans over the side of the mattress. The sheets slip from him like water, and pool on the ground. 

Benji realizes he rests on a shitty, thin futon. Right on the ground. It’s been nudged into the corner of the room — the room being a spare. Mostly empty, devoid fo decoration in a house that shares both those qualities. He hasn’t had the time to do much with it, other than agonize over the debt he now runs with his sister. 

Debts, the thought drifts airily around him like a physical thing. Two-one. Patterns.

His head swims when he turns it the opposite direction, towards the window on the north side of the room. He’s not on base — there are no rooms. He’s in the house, and he’s with— 

Xavier stands against the sunlight that pours in. He fades at the edges, wispy and gold, shimmering like a cartoon oasis. When he finally stands in front of Benji (head tilted and towering, like that high-noon triage in the warehouse weeks ago), he plots out the light. And as he drops to his knees, scooting so that Benji has no choice but to lie back against the mattress, the room is less bright than it was a moment before. 

“You talk in your sleep.” Xavier says. He reaches towards the back of his neck, triceps flexing in a distracting enough manner that it draws Benji’s focus there. He pulls a black, sweat-slick shirt off himself slowly; Benji is incapable of doing anything but watch as each pale inch of skin is revealed. 

“Do I?” He asks, throat dry. 

“Yeah. Wasn’t expecting it.” Xavier smiles and leans over him, braced on stiff arms. He winces; the pull of his brow is cute. “It’s cute.” 

Benji laughs. His hand is suddenly full of warm, smooth skin. Xavier doesn’t look pained this time, as he slides that hand up and down prominent ribs. The gnarly blade has barely left its mark; where it had torn him open, there’s barely a scar. 

“We shouldn’t. We probably shouldn’t.” Benji says. It stirs a strange feeling in him, something close to familiarity. 

“Not your type?” Xavier laughs. It’s that mad and unhinged thing. It doesn’t quite fit the moment. “Bullshit.” 

Benji hasn’t the brain power to react to the ego-driven quip with anything but a gasp. Xavier flattens over top of him, a graceful roll of their bodies together. The sheets are back on him; Xavier pulls them off, the last barrier. He’s warm against Benji, pressed chest-to-chest. Smiling that quirked, strange smile. Not soft at all. Benji wonders if it ever softens — and then he wonders nothing at all. 

They’re kissing — in the middle of it, suddenly. There’s no build up, but it feels languid as though they’ve been doing it for some time. Xavier’s broad hand, fist clenched like it had been around the handle of that hammer, rests on his chest. The other has wedged between their bodies, is nudging the sheets off, is pushing Benji’s sleep pants down his thighs, is — 

Xavier stops kissing him, pulls back just enough to pant against his face. He smells sweet, like he’d just had his body weight in candy floss before they’d gotten to this point. Up until this point, he’s been kissing close-mouthed and shy. But when their cocks touch, squeezed sweetly in together Benji’s hand now, not his, the force of those kisses becomes something else entirely.

The more their hips rock together, skin dragging deliciously, the firmer Xavier’s mouth. He skates kisses across Benji’s jaw, leads teeth down his neck, and then stops to press his forehead to Benji’s chest. To watch. 

“Guess I am, huh?” Xavier pants. His voice is soft and humored. Benji laughs about that, shaking his head — that’s something about the other man he’d noticed right away. The sweet, boyish hint of ego laced in every word. 

It’s sticky and hot, sweat on his temples and dripping onto Benji’s chest, his cheek. He licks his lips and tastes salt. Tastes metal. When Xavier throws his head back and moans softly, his teeth are bloody.

The beginning of the orgasm tightens his stomach then, a warmth spreading in a swirl beneath his belly button. His thighs flex, calves squeezing enough that a cramp zips up his leg.

“Two-two.” Xavier sighs, face buried in his neck. His hand has wedged between them again, is pulling Benji just the way he likes, with the grip and rhythm he prefers when he’s close, he’s close—

Being pulled from the dream is a fist to the gut.

*

Benji jerks awake with a noise that startles him even more.

His shoulder is still tenderly healing, and now it’s properly sore: that arm is lifted at an uncomfortable angle, maybe has been for awhile. His fingers are tight in his hair, fisted in a clench so severe the joints ache. Benji has little to no warning as both consciousness and orgasm split him in separate, abruptly dizzying directions. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, a soft whine slipping alongside the shocked expletive. It’s a longer one than he’s used to; it leaves his hips twitching and abdomen heaving for a good while after the last bit of release cools on his stomach. 

He lays there, breathing hard, staring up at the perforated ceiling of his room on base. 

Benji turns his head to the side. His tags rest in a tangled heap; he’ll have to pick the knot apart at first-call breakfast. In the dark, he can’t make out the letters of his name. He knows they’re there, etched into the rectangle. 

He doesn’t drift off again for another hour. He’s too awake, once he’s pulled himself into the bathroom to wash off the mess, once he’s pulled the scratchy sheet off, once he lays there, shivering and staring up at the ceiling. 

The lack of tiredness starts to frustrate him. Benji reaches up and squeezes his shoulder. To the healing divot of new, pink skin Benji presses his thumb, harder, harderharderharder. Until it hurts, until it’s electrifying, until he has to scowl and shut his eyes and think of something else to distract. Some way for his mind to wander around the pain, some distraction—

Benji relents his grip. He turns onto his uninjured side. He dreams of curling into a ball on his thin futon in an otherwise empty room.

*

He gets exactly four hours and eleven minutes of sleep. His eyes are red-rimmed and underscored with purple shadows the next morning, when he sits across from his lieutenant, when he is briefed on another mission

I need to pack extra in the kit this go around, Benji thinks, blinking sleepily. Just in case. Really. Just in case.

The lieutenant, perhaps mistaking his tired stare for something of secretive interest, smiles back at him. A second later, a slip of paper is passed beneath into his stiff fingers. Benji unfolds it across his lap to read:

functioning?

When his eyes lift, the lieutenant’s sear into him. Benji lifts a flat palm and wiggles it. 

So-so. 

[jankwritten]

jasico bingo challenge: crossover

Nico tries extra hard to keep his ears still as the humans descend to the surface. 

His suspicion is reasonable, even if Leader keeps snapping at him to reel his emotions in. Nico might be young, but he isn’t naive. He’s heard whispers throughout the universe of what humans do to each other, do to their planet, for the sake of greed and power. 

In his not so humble opinion, humans and Galra are not different in the slightest. If humanity had even a sliver of the technology that exists this far out in the cosmos, Nico’s positive they’d have two empires to overthrow. 

Tucked near the back of the group (likely to hide his obvious opposition to this alliance), Nico can only kind of hear what the human donning black armor says to Leader on his approach. His handshake looks solid enough. 

“That’s the one who was captured,” Hazel whispers to him, always flanking his side. Her fingers curl around his forearm, digging in. “He’s dangerous. Titan Slayer.” 

Nico can’t stop his ears from swiveling flat. He wishes he had the facade of his mask to hide behind, so he could bare his teeth in displeasure. 

He knows of the Titan Slayer. One of the only survivors of Kronos’s coliseum. A being so wholly destructive, so eager for blood, he was rumored to feast on the remains of those he slayed. 

“I thought he’d be taller,” Nico mutters back. 

Hazel snorts, just loud enough that Leader’s right-hand woman turns on her heel and stakes them with an evil eye. 

The Paladins, so called defenders of the universe, are the sort of lively that Nico associates with space madness. A chaos created by a mind untethered. The one dressed in red sticks by the Titan Slayer and speaks to him so fast, Nico’s translators can hardly keep up. The one in green and the one in yellow monitor the edges of the room, observing from a distance, occasionally peeling apart some piece of technology that they then stitch back together before someone of importance catches them. The blue one is the friendliest to the Blades, though it doesn’t earn her much, in Nico’s books. She speaks as if they’re all equals here. It puts his teeth on edge. 

“Quit your brooding,” Melinoe says. She tugs once on Nico’s hood, then wraps her arm around him when he’s off balance, holding him hostage to her side. “You don’t have to like them, but you have to respect them.” 

“Do I?” Nico mutters, bitter. What have these Paladins done to earn his respect, aside from endangering some of their most vital members, threatening their whole network of undercover agents within the Empire? 

“If you ever want to be off base again you do,” Melinoe says. She flashes her teeth at him and nips not-so-playfully at his ear. “Your choice, kitling.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“I call you whatever I like.” 

Nico’s ears flatten down as he slumps, folding his arms across his chest, glaring daggers in the opposite direction. 

Melinoe’s laugh is more of a bark, hard and ringing. 

As the base lights begin to dim in preparation for the sleep-sequence, Nico escapes the still ongoing welcome celebration for the more secluded decks. He’s sure his disappearance will be noted, but Leader can’t hold it against him if his excuse is habit and schedule. Nico has hardly slept well a day in his life, but he always goes to bed on time. 

This cycle, he taps into one of the common areas and slouches onto the plush cushioning arranged by whomever used the room last. He doesn’t want to go to his own room yet, worn out as he is. He needs to keep an eye out. It seems everyone else is swept up in the revelry of their guests, but Nico isn’t fooled. 

In the common area, he’ll be able to hear unfamiliar, human footfalls coming or going. He can remain on his guard in an open area. His room would just feel claustrophobic. 

Arranging himself so the entrance remain within sight, Nico finally allows himself to relax just the slightest bit into the comfortable cradle of cushion. 

He snaps awake to the sound of the doors wooshing shut. 

The Titan Slayer blinks at him. “Oh,” he says, in that strange, human tone. “Sorry. I- didn’t know, uhm, someone was here.” 

Nico bristles, unable to keep himself from going on the offensive. His shoulder hike, and he bares his teeth. 

“I’ll just go,” The Titan Slayer says. He puts his hands up. “My bad.” 

“You are sneaking,” Nico hisses, rising to his feet. He’s still in his armor. If he needs to, he can yank his hood on and strike fast, strike hard. Strike first. 

“I was just trying to find some water.” The Titan Slayer keeps his hands up, perhaps a defense? “I’ll go back to my quarters.” 

“I will follow,” Nico says. The Titan Slayer’s eyes widen slightly, as if shocked. Nico wants so badly to bare his teeth. “To make sure you find your way.” 

The human lowers his hands, finally. He tips his head forward in a nod not dissimilar to those given in respect to commanders, generals. “I’d appreciate that,” The Titan Slayer says. 

Though he takes the long way, there are no deviations from the path the paladin leads back to the guest quarters - a sliver of space set up with cots, furnished just enough to feel better than nothing. 

Nico watches from the doorway as the Titan Slayer pads near-silently to the empty cot across the room, between two of the others. The yellow and blue, Nico thinks. They look smaller without armor. 

The Titan Slayer looks up at him. If he’s surprised to see Nico still there, he does not say. Instead, in the otherwise silent space, he murmurs, “I look forward to working with you. I don’t believe I caught your name?” 

The translator catches for a moment over the word name, though the translation suits Nico fine. A name is not a title. There is not much to giving it. 

“Nico,” he says, gruff and short. 

The Titan Slayer smiles, that strange, bare human expression. “I’m Jason,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you, Nico.” 

Nico narrows his eyes suspiciously, parsing apart the tone, the word choice. To meet under these circumstances is not nice. What games do the humans play with their words? To lie so blatantly? 

“We will see,” Nico says. He steps backward through the still-open doorway, refusing to look away from the Titan Slayer. Jason. Danger. 

The door hisses shut. 

[friendofthecrows]

You thought I forgor, didn't you?

Ha! Detective character sheet be upon ye!

[click for higher resolution]

I wrote a lot (sorry) so it's not a terribly traditional character sheet. I just started thinking about this detective and then Didn't Stop. Meaning when it came time to display the information I was like "Ah. how am I going to fit this."

More details and fun stuff under the cut!

I did a -2 to 2 scale for the traits with zero as "neutral" or "average" bc I thought the comparative %s of the polls looked worse and were harder to grok at a glance.

I tried to include the comments from the notes as part of his description and backstory <3 (mostly in the flop era lol).

I hoped a lot of people would click vanilla extract as a show results button, so that I could take it differently and make Shivmei vanilla scented! And you did :) He loves vanilla flavored and scented things, which is why he smells like that. It is both a blessing and a curse.

Fun fact: what took me the longest in all of this...designing sleuths scarf. Scarf was tied with sharp features for the second most trait, so when I imagined this detective, I imagined the scarf, and the scarf that popped into my head was so pretty I desperately wanted it. Cue hours of research and designing my own fabric print patterns (though it's canonically embroidery that's too hard for me lol). I saved a file with just the flat print w/o the fabric warp or cut-offs in the scarf if anyone wants it. It's a cross between a damask, ikat, and ogee, with some Moroccan influence.

Ah and there I go writing a lot again...

Also, I did one of those bag contents sheets for fun :3

(I named the sidekick Leon via the Behind the Name random name generator, and when I instantly got the name of my favorite knight of the round table, I knew I was going with that one.)

Look up "design a detective" on my blog for the polls that caused this!

Now all that's left is to write a story about our collectively designed detective :D