#my brain has been turned to white noise static

[hollow-keys]

ID: An edited four panel meme comic showing someone say "Oh Star Trek: Lower Decks, I'm just feeling real low." Their TV replies "canon" while showing Garak and Bashir kissing on screen. The person gets up from the sofa and says "Oh shit, for real?"

Garashir nation???? We're back???

[clockwayswrites]

City Pigeons Bleed Green : Part 23

The cheerful bell rang a familiar chime as Damian opened the door to his favorite animal shelter. The scent of fur, pet food, and antiseptic was as comforting as it was potent. Damian watched Danny closely out of the corner of his eye. The other boy’s nose wrinkled, but he looked around the front room curiously.

“Damian! I wasn’t expecting you today,” Ms. Lacey said as she popped out of the back room, summoned by the chime.

‘Ms. Lacey’ was their compromise. Damian had refused to simply refer to the woman by her first name and in turn, Ms. Lacey refused to give Damian her last name. It had been supremely frustrating. Now it was almost akin to game or inside joke between them. It was nice.

She brushed the riot of curls (blue this month) out of her face and looked at the group that had entered the shelter curiously.

Damian knew they were a bit of a sight. Danny was still swathed in a number of bandages and, now out of the apartment, looked a moment away from running. Because of that, Jason basically loomed over Danny and Damian as if he could keep the world at bay.

(He might just be able to manage to.)

“No. It is not one of my normal service days, however, I am not here to volunteer,” Damian said, his tone almost apologetic. “I have brought Daniel—”

“Danny.”

“—to see if there is a pet that would suit him.”

“Hi, Danny,” Ms. Lacey said and leaned forward onto the counter.

Danny shied back into Jason’s space. He clutched a little tighter at the backpack that his bear was safely stashed in. Cass had thought it might be good for Danny to be able to take the bear discreetly with him as he seemed rather attached to it. Considering the tracker in the bear, everyone quickly helped make that happen.

“Hi Lacey,” Danny replied softly.

Ms. Lacey leaned back, her smiled now twinged with just a little bit of sadness. Damian had seen her look abused animals the same way. “Do you know what type of animal you might be interested in, Danny?”

“I was thinking a cat or dog?” The words were more a question than a statement. “Someone that can sit with me.”

“That’s a good start. That could also be rabbits, but if they’re going to be living at the manor,” Ms. Lacey glanced briefly at Damian for a confirming nod, “then a rabbit might not work the best. A cat has the advantage that it would be indoors and doesn’t need as much effort depending on the animal’s age. But you might want a dog to walk! Why don’t we get you into the kitten room to start, because that’s a great time no matter what.”

When Danny glanced from Ms. Lacey to Damian to Todd, Todd gave a little nod. Danny tightened the hold on his backpack, took a breath, and gave a little nod.

-

“Okay, this is pretty great,” Danny said as he pried a tiny orange and white ball of fluff off his shoulder and set the little guy back down with his siblings.

Immediately the kitten was pounced by the black kitten and had his ears chewed on.

“Kittens might be too much energy for me though,” Danny admitted. He had a feeling he’d never have the type of energy he used to again. He wasn’t sure if that was from his death or… everything else.

“They are a great deal of work,” Damian agreed. His own lap was full of peacefully sleeping kittens.

Danny was a little jealous. He caught the grey kitten who looked more like a a dust bunny as it romped past.

“What if I don’t find a pet today?”

“Then we will go somewhere else. This is not the only shelter in the city,” Damian said.

The straightforward certainty that Damian had about the world was something Danny had come to appreciate over the last several days of knowing Damian. The fear was still there. Danny didn’t know if it would ever go away, but he could ignore it now. Sometimes it was hardly even background noise.

Danny was used to having a brain full of static.

“It will be fine, Brother,” Damian said when Danny didn’t respond.

Brother. Damian insisted on using that instead of his name, but Danny figure that was because Damian didn’t have a last name to call him like all the others. Bruce was simply ‘Father’ too. Maybe it was about Wayne then? But Danny wasn’t Daniel Wayne. He was just Danny… no one.

“Yeah,” Danny made himself respond so that Damian didn’t get worried. For all that Damian tried to be aloof he really was worse than even Dick.

“If a kitten would be too much, what do you think of an adult cat?”

Danny looked down at the little slip of a kitten in his hands. It was so tiny. “I think let’s start with dogs. Something not so small and… breakable.”

Damian nodded and started to divest himself of cats. “I have heard the vets ‘joke’ that kittens will heal from anything. One could toss a kitten and its missing foot in a cage and it would reattach. I suggest we do not try it.”

“No,” Danny said in horror. “We are very much not trying that, what the hell.”

“What is what I said.” Despite having to deal with many more kittens, Damian was up first and offering Danny his hand. “Come, Brother.”

Danny took the hand, stood, and still had one last kitten to pull off of of his jeans where it clung with this sharp, sharp claws.

---

AN: I was able to give this a read through finally, so have the first bit of this chapter! Because who doesn't want Danny and Damian surrounded by adorable kittens?

[randomwriteronline]

@waters-turn also for u

The Porygon made a curious buzzing noise as it looked between the two men, just as interested in them as they were in it.

"That is certainly not a normal sound for a pokémon to make," Ingo noted.

"Oh thank goodness," Laventon sighed in relief, "So you do understand my concern regarding this baffling beast. Rei insists that the inherent existence of something like this is nothing to be worried about, but in the same breath he tells me apparently it is man-made and I just--"

"If it could ease your worries, professor, Bronzors and Bronzongs are derived from human artifacts as well," the warden interrupted his slow descent into slight panic.

His free hand tentatively went to try and pet the top of the polygonal ducky-shaped creature, phasing through it for a moment.

"Oh, yes, I'm aware of that, but this is not possession or incarnation, this is-" and the scientist very carefully set his own cup of tea down on his desk to spread his palms around the beastie like a halo, not touching it at all "-From what I've gathered we are talking about purely artificial life. A living being, made in a laboratory like this! By humans!"

"Terrifying. And yet so intriguing!"

"I'll be stuck at terrifying I'm afraid. Also your hand is going through its skin."

"Ah, yes, I'm aware. It does not sink far though - after only a few centimetres my fingers are already resting on something solid."

The prospect of new information for his studies, even about something so concerningly mysterious, was enough for the professor to put aside his horror for a little while as he grabbed a pencil and a more thorough copy of the pokédex, quickly skimming through it to find the Porygon page so he could scribble down the new data (which thankfully, seeing as it came from a reputable source, he would not have to empirically test by himself).

"So would you say it has a layer of... Fur? Feathers? Something reminiscent of them?" he asked genuinely curious.

Ingo kept absentmindedly scratching the beastie's head: "Not really," he commented, "It doesn't quite feel like something of the sort. It seems more as if the collision had been... Badly placed, I suppose I could put it. As if its body was... Er, as if it were larger that the actual thing, if that makes any sense to you."

Unexpectedly, the professor did nod: "So it does not feel like either, but it enhances its size as if it were... Is it inconsistent, then?"

"Mostly, yes," the warden agreed. Porygon buzzed again, causing a ripple of strange energy to seep painlessly into his skin with a curious familiarity.

"Mostly?"

"It does hold a certain amount of static electricity, but it is not hurtful at all."

"Must be for its Normal typing..."

"Normal?" he noted, surprised. "I believed it to be Electric. It seems to me like something that would have made great sense, somehow."

The other man scribbled more: "Rei noted the same. Or Steel type, he mentioned that as well."

"I quite like Steel types," Ingo mumbled. "They are comfortingly solid. I don't actually believe I've ever had any Electric types before Magnezone unlike my brother - I'm not sure why that was. I'm no stranger to more hazardous pokémon after all."

"You have a brother?"

White eyes blinked. The warden raised his gaze to meet an equally surprised one.

"Hm?" he hummed, not having payed attention.

"A brother!" Laventon repeated with a slight emphasis: "You mentioned one, right now!"

Had he?

The professor nodded, eyes wide, almost excited - it was hard to find someone who did not seem excited at the prospect of Ingo remembering anything, even when it was only something useless and pointless and without context, to the point where sometimes figuring his memories out managed to strike him as more frustrating than the amnesia itself.

He shook his head once or twice, trying to recall what exactly he had said or thought about just a moment earlier that might have unlocked his brain ever so slightly.

"You said something about Electric types," the professor was quick to help: "I believe he has a fondness for them?"

"Ah," the other just replied, "Maybe so, yes."

What a silly endeavour, though - trying to remember someone based on their favorite pokémon type. There were plenty of people had a fondness for a specific one, it really wasn't such an uncommon denominator! Just look at Melli for example, or Gaeric, or Elesa since we were talking about Electric types! What else could that help him remember about a person, anyways? That he liked Bugs too, and would have terrorized Captain Cyllene by accident if he'd ever met her? But again that didn't apply just to him, there was an entire Bug type gym after all, and it was one of the most common types - and he wasn't the kind of person to settle for common, wasn't he now, no, he certainly wasn't, or they wouldn't have spent all that dreadful time in that damp cave desperately digging left and right to find him a Tynamo until their hands were red - and after all that trouble they went through for that flimsy little thing he even got electrocuted because they had no pokéballs and was forced to hold it in his hands! He wouldn't have even felt the static in Porygon's abnormal body if he'd touched it, by now.

Laventon waited a few seconds for the gears to finish turning in the warden's head, patiently, eager to help, to prod at the fog of his memories with more questions or suggestions if needed.

He watched the paler man blink and furrow his brows slightly. Then he stood, without a jolt, without any sudden movement; his hand opened to let the cup it held crack into ceramic shards onto the carpet as he leaned heavily on anything that might have stopped his body from careening after it, and the professor jumped to his feet to rush to get him before his knee slammed down on the floor, and realized in that moment he was shaking worse than a Snorunt in a blizzard.

The epiphany hit with a delay, or maybe it was the man's anatomy that had grasped it in advance.

Something garbled, horrified, mournful, scared beyond belief came out of Ingo's mouth as he clawed at it, and no word he knew could help him explain himself for hours as he cried so hard he could barely breathe.

[sicksadgames]

GHOULBOYS - Where ghosts are real, or not I guess.

GHOULBOYS is a one-shot horror/comedy TTRPG for 3 players. It's about amateur paranormal investigators hunting for ghosts in supposedly haunted locales, interpreting evidence and bullshitting with their friends. I made this one! I love ghost things! Let's talk about them! But first...

Will we finally answer the question... are ghosts real?

Inspired by shows and games like Ghost Files, Buzzfeed Unsolved: Supernatural, Phasmophobia and Most Haunted, you'll play as one of three classes:

The BELIEVER, trying to uncover evidence that the paranormal is real, and detail the nature of the supposed haunting.

The SCEPTIC, who believes that everything has a reasonable explanation, and the idea of ghosts is kinda funny. 

The PRODUCER, who’s recording this whole thing, and looking out for what the other two might miss.

It's a GMless game where you and your two friends fuck around in abandoned buildings with spirit boxes, motion sensors, and turn the gain up on your microphone incredibly loudly to hear what might, maybe have someone saying half a word.

If that sounds cool, it's $5 until the end of the month!

My friends it is time to peer closely at a blurry photo

YES IT'S TIME FOR MORE SELF INDULGENCE BELOW THE CUT.

(Potential) Spoilers for: Ghostwatch and The Blair Witch Project.

Bro bro bro did you see that bro BRO

When I was a teen posessed by the grim specter of an idea known as "Thinking I was a guy", I used to get very stoned and sit in cars with my friends and drive around at night. Being stoned with The Lads was a good way of pretending I wasn't possessed, I guess.

One time we drove to a supposedly haunted stretch of road; the story was that a woman who lived nearby had gone out onto the road late at night and been hit by a car and killed. If you drove along that road at the time of her death, you might see her, wearing the nightgown she died in.

After about an hour of driving up and down the road, we were about to give up. The driver swung into a driveway to turn the car around, and out of the pitch blackness, I saw it. White, twisted, grasping. It was just a flash, but I know what I saw. I screamed, my friends screamed, the tires of the car screamed as they span griplessly on the tarmac for that endless split second before it pulled away.

Yes of course it was a fucking tree. But for at least 5 minutes, we all believed I'd seen her. As plain as day, a dead woman in a nightgown had grasped at me on the other side of the windscreen through the darkness. The real fear lasted seconds. The adrenaline lasted a few minutes. The laughs lasted for a while afterwards.

I don't believe in ghosts. But the idea of them has the power to make us conjure them. We stare at the fuzzy frozen frame of video and think we can see a form, a face. We listen to the overpowering static hum of a shotgun mic pointed into a hallway and swear we hear a voice. We peer into the darkness, and our brains connect the dots we've decided are there. We want to be scared, especially when we can laugh about it afterwards.

It's just the Pipes

If you know the Orson Welles' War of the Worlds radio broadcast, Ghostwatch pulls a similar trick. It's 1992, you've sat down to watch a live TV show doing a "scientific investigation" into a haunted suburban home with Big Name TV News Guy Michael Parkinson, Big Name TV "Robot Wars" Guy Craig Charles, and a bunch of other Big Name TV people I don't really know.

The house is supposedly possessed by a malevolent evil spirit who the homeowners kids call Pipes. They hear banging noises at night, their mom tells them "It's just the pipes." Watch along at home, phone in using the number on your screens with your ghost stories, and you know, just in case you maybe see anything on the footage that we might miss.

It's staged, of course, and staged incredibly. It's very fucking creepy. Kitchy, mundane 90's TV gives way slowly to creeping dread that never seems to stop creeping, eventually arriving at a terminus of full on Blair Witch surrealness. It drew so many complaints from people whose children were turned to traumatised wrecks that it was banned from being broadcast for 10 years.

Probably because the newscaster they saw on TV every day turned, in the course of about half an hour, from this

To this

There's not really many clips on youtube but trust me, it's good. It's slow. Give it a chance, you should watch it.

Josh? Is that you down there?

There's so many jokes about The Blair Witch Project, but that's not because it's bad. I mean, it IS kind of bad, and that's the point. Heather, Josh and Mike are just amateur film makers making a documentary on a shoestring budget, about the mystery of the Blair Witch, the details of which matter little to what happens next. The jokes are attempts by people trying to break the hold the film has on them. But it holds on tight.

It works so well because it's so sparse. The minimal, natural sets, the handheld footage, the we're-not-even-really-acting-I'm-actually-kinda-just-creeped-out performances. The characters talk like convincingly kinda shitty people, deal with getting lost like real people, argue like convincingly scared people. It explains nothing about the greater mystery, cares not for any attempt to make sense of what's going on, all it wants to do is slowly drag you to it's stark, screaming conclusion.

Like many successful horror films, it got a bunch of sequels which I've not seen, and don't care to. It doesn't need them.

Ok but what about real ghosts

There's something about a weird dollar store Trent Reznor and his bros crawling around a tourist spot that makes Ghost Adventures so fun to watch. Trant Reznot is out here shouting at ghosts with his whole chest like "I HEARD YOU DON'T LIKE BIG LIGHTS SHINING IN YOUR FACE HUH", and it's great. When the often questionable "activity" occurs, it's rarely actually spooky in any way, but the deadly serious way with which they describe the mote of light (read: dust particle) moving across the footage that it's endearing.

These shows (Most Haunted, 28 Days Haunted, et al) tend towards having a pseudo "intellectual" angle. Ghost Adventures doesn't care, it's listening to Tool in it's car outside the high school, passing you a joint and saying "Isn't it fucked up that people die, but like, aren't gone, man?" I can't tell if it doesn't take itself too seriously, or if it just doesn't really know how to be serious, but it's good.

Hey there demons, it's me... ya boi

I watched so much god damn Buzzfeed Unsolved through Covid. I watched it until the early hours of the morning, until I'd successfully creeped myself out to the point where I had to run from the living room to the bedroom in the dark to avoid the Texarkana Phantom Killer that my brain had successfully materialised just behind the back of my head.

Somehow Buzzfeed Unsolved Supernatural - it's sister show focused on.. well, supernatural stuff, and it's successor Ghost Files manages to be both scary, whilst also simultaneously very stupid and funny.

Both Shane and Ryan are always ready to be scared, but they're also both ready to laugh. They have a very endearing camaraderie too, like two kids in class trying to get the each other told off by the teacher, and despite the semi serious presentation, unlike Ghost Adventures they're not precious about trying to make sure you're scared. It invites you laugh and be afraid in equal measure, and it feels natural, especially in the early episodes. If Ryan is freaking out about the Waverly Hills Hospital body chute, it's because.. well.. watch the video? I would absolutely not go down there.

This tension between laughing and screaming drives the show. The balance between spooky-funny and spooky-scary is a delicate one. Ryan and Shane are great at knowing when to tip that balance, one way or the other.

It's easily the single biggest influence on Ghoulboys (I mean, of course it is?) because of this. When playing, you're always caught in this in-between moment that the Ghoulboys themselves do so well. Waiting for something to fall over, the spirit box to speak, the SLS scanner to show a fleeting figure. Whether it's scary or silly, your brain is waiting for it, ready to draw the shapes of ghosts we want to see.

Thank you for coming to my Ghost TED Talk

Man ghost stuff is so good, real or fake. I just wanted to make a funny game that occasionally made you raise your eyebrows and look at each other like "Oh, shit..." and had lots of stupid ghost hunting equipment, and I think it worked out. Thanks for reading.

Again, if you want to check out Ghoulboys, it's $5 until the end of the month. Take a look! There's a video of me and some friends playing it!

[thehistoriangirl]

The Tides Have Veiled [Six]

Back with the main plot!

Viktor x Fem!Reader---Gothic AU/ Spooky Sea AU--- 3.5K---SFW

> M A S T E R L I S T < ← Previous // Next →

Synopsis:  Piltover the Old has an old lighthouse that looms over an abandoned port. From the house in the wailing cliff’s edge, the lighthouse owner watches that the beacon is being lighten up each time darkness arrives, so that monsters wouldn't dare to crawl inland, or so legends say. Both building are haunted, maybe even the man himself, by both past and present ghosts. Surprisingly, the keeper’s work is beyond turning on the beacon every night— but the rest is on you to discover.

Chapter Summary: It's time for you to decide how further down are you going to walk this unknown path guiding you toward the cliff...

Tags: Ghosts| Sea Monsters| Sirens & Mermaids| Marriage of Convenience| Slow Burn| Forced Proximity| Mystery | Dark Magic| Alusions to Death/Spooky (?) imaginery|

Taglist: @local-mr-frog @lunar-monster @bittercyder

White noise filled your brain, like the static of the old radio atop the beacon room.  “Excuse me. I don’t think I heard you correctly—” you started, but Viktor only looked more embarrassed as he cleared his throat.

“I’m afraid you did.” Viktor left the spoon on the tiny porcelain plate, the white cup stained with black coffee. The echo of his voice hung heavy on the still air of the house, with your mind scrambling for words, to elicit any sound out your mouth.

Was this a joke? Or did your family come to threaten him? The mere possibility sent a void to devour your stomach. Eyes tried to scan the leftovers of your aunt and uncle's coffees, the crumbs of bread as if that way they would guide you back to the truth.

Though the only thing you found was chaos, tangled fishing nets as thoughts inside your brain.

“Why?” you heard yourself saying. The house magnified the sound of your voice, trying to fill the empty corners of the house. “Did my family come to push you into this? Because if that's the case, then…” Then you were trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea. You couldn’t even finish that sentence.

“I assure you, I'm making this decision out of my free will," Viktor said. “Please listen to my reasons, and then, if you’re not convinced, we will forget about this conversation whatsoever.”

You wouldn't think it would be so easy. Though curiosity gnawed at you, making you lean in closer.

Instead of telling you, Viktor fabricated a newspaper from the cushions behind him. Slightly wrinkled at the corners, it had been rolled up into a stick. You could smell of essence of coffee beans and Viktor’s detergent embedded into it.

The font was strange to read at first, words deemed alien under the nervousness sieging your brain.

It was an open contest for a teaching position at Piltover University due in three weeks. You looked at Viktor with a slight frown, but as you kept reading, with Viktor sipping his coffee—more out of nervousness than for thirst, you quickly understood why he had asked you so.

Among the requirements, you saw enlisted:

     Present research proposal written on typewriter—handwritten papers will not be accepted. Maximum of ten pages per entry. [See appendix 2.2] From 27 years old onwards.      Ph.D. in Marine Biology or similar required.      Preference will be given to researchers B, C, and part-time listed within the institute.      To apply to the research tier A list, the applicants should submit proof of economic and personal stability, i.e., a housing contract within the city or its outskirts, a marriage certificate, and a letter of non-debitance from Piltover’s Bank. [See appendix 3.4]

Marriage certificate? “Why would you need to be married?” you asked.

Viktor sighed as if he had argued the same question over his superiors before. “So we can assure that nothing… eh, improper, occurs between students and the faculty.”

“I don’t think these requirements can change much on that,” you stop from saying.

“Exactly.” Viktor gestured, exasperation tinting his voice. “Sadly, there is no use. I can’t change the rules all by myself, even if I wanted to.”

You grimaced. “But I suppose you want the position?”

His eyes brighten, like those of a cat. “Yes. Of course, I do. I've been working under a B-tier pool of researchers for years, even signing a position to be a part-time teacher for some seminars once two months.” Viktor looked away from you, toward the closed entrance door, the crystal from the window barely filtering the white hue of the sunlight pooling inside the oak floorboards that the green carpet didn’t seem to cover perfectly. “Alas, I’m lacking a requirement of the list.”

Your voice got out in a trembling thread. “The wife.”

“You don’t have to accept,” Viktor quickly added, passing a hand through his hair. “Actually, I apologize for having told you. It was truly unprofessional, and for that I’m sorry. It wasn’t my wish to make you uncomfortable.”

As he babbled, you looked at him; the coat open showing a brown vest, and white dress shirt underneath as if he were ready to give a class in an auditorium filled with eager students. So contrasting with yours, wrinkled and second-handed. The dress shirt tucked under your black pants was his, for example.

You would have never thought of Viktor as someone who would struggle to find a wife. He was kind and intelligent enough to have a job at Piltover University as a researcher—if the books and drafts for articles in his office were proof enough to convince you. And then it was his superficial looks alone; face carved in pale marble, all edges and elegance, eyes like honey pools. You remembered them gazing at you just as sweetly, last night.

Last night, inside this house muddy footsteps trailing after you.

Your mind couldn't stop from feeling hurt by his sudden rejection. An ache that reverberated in your chest was all too familiar.

“Haven’t you thought about looking in the city? I’m sure there must be someone well-suited for you there.”

Viktor chuckled, but the sound was hollow, his eyes looking at his lap.

“I suppose it’s easier to propose when the other person knows the darker part of me,” Viktor said with an awkward chuckle, the dim light of the foyer hiding the slight flush dusting his cheeks. “Life in the city is much different than here, which is why I don’t have any reliable options to pursue in New Piltover.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

The owner of a crumbling lighthouse, of a haunted manor. Who in the city would keep up with this ridiculous myth? Especially not if said cursed man was a researcher of science, teaching at the University.

Did he care about those tales after all? Did he believe in them?

“If I say yes,” you ventured. “Just hypothetically. If I say yes, what’s on it for me?”

His eyes glued you with your back straight against the couch. “What do you wish to have, Miss? I’m sure we can arrange a deal advantageous for both.”

The answer slipped from your mind as soon as he finished his sentence.

Freedom. I want to choose.

Would it be alright if you chose to end up married to him if that was the same thing you were running about? Viktor seemed to think about it, too.

“It would only be a legal marriage, no other duties attached,” Viktor told you. "I only need the paper, as I rarely assist with social events anyway." He reclined on his seat, his right arm resting over the couch’s backrest. “What do you wish to do if you weren’t yourself? If you weren’t here?”

You left his words to seep into you, making your heart feel tight, almost claustrophobic inside your ribcage, of your body inside this house. Of your life trapped in this tidepool that was Piltover the Old, expecting to run out of oxygen.

“I want to go to school,” you muttered, the words barely audible over the silliness that bathed you. Years of mockery behind the slouch of your shoulders. Why study? What you have to learn to do is to tie a fish net. And you better hurry. “I want to be like my mother.”

At least, as the fake stories of her had shaped her presence as a trail on a wild forest barely cut through, but with the path cut wide enough for you to slip. Another marine biologist went days adrift on the ocean, trying to ask its secrets.

Viktor hummed. “I can certainly help you study for the admission exam if you wish to enroll in Piltover’s University or any other college in the city. And, of course, I will raise your salary, too.”

It wasn't just about the money. Sure, you needed every penny thrown your way, but there was this… force, that seemed to pull you back to this town, even when your mind tried to flee it on every vigil, of imagining a life outside these waves smashing the crying cliff, out the tiny hut near the coast where a simple fisher boat was tightly knotted onto a makeshift mossy dock.

Your mother had a steady income, and yet she returned, and then she couldn’t get out—even if she had wished to, having regretted her mistake.  

You were afraid of having a tie that would call you back.

Viktor stood out on the couch, his cane moaning when he grasped the handle with his free hand, piling the dirty dishes and cups into a tray.

“I should go back to, eh, to work,” Viktor said, barely meeting your eyes when you raised your head toward him. “I advise you to do the same, Miss.”

You nodded, pretending his words weren’t still swirling in your mind. “Thank you, Viktor,” you said, voice strained. “Thank you for last night.”

He gave you a small smile. “It was nothing—and don’t worry, you don’t owe me anything. Quite the contrary, I’d say.” Viktor stopped his movement of tidying up the table, putting his cane in the crook of his elbow to offer you his hand. “I hope we can still be friends.”

His pale fingers were tinted with black ink when you slipped your hand through them, feeling the rough and cold surface.

“I hope so, too,” you answered, barely any force on the handshake. A hypocrite action, when you knew how it felt to be between his arms with a storm raging on your back.

*~*~*~*

It was a particularly slow night. A grey world painted in lazy brushstrokes between flashes of gold.

You felt the cold embracing your skin, no matter how many blankets you had snuggled around your body. Still feeling the cold rock scrapping your feet, the wind pushing you off the edge. Same imbalance, with your feet, propelled over the table you had moved from the control room to the beacon, wanting to look at the windows, your mind still not forgetting the strange silhouette that had peeked through the waves nights ago.

Viktor’s words had been haunting you all day, from harvesting the first tomatoes from your garden to each meal you cut with your fingers in front of the crackling fire.

He had promised you to find another lighthouse keeper as soon as you wanted to leave—it was in the contract laid in a corner of the table. But then what? Your mind hadn't dared to wander to what was outside the coast. Go to New Piltover? What for? You thought of working in a fish market, boots stained with bloody, rosy water, the stench of your homeland following you at every step.

Viktor had more books than the ones you had seen in your entire life, even if your mother's ones were almost painted in your mind, every word blurry from the dancing flame of the lamp as you read them at night. He could help you study for the exam, but for that, you needed an excuse to spend time with him.

As you looked out the window, two paths opened in your mind. One in which you would remain in here, and then, one day, you would see Viktor walking down the beach with a woman from the city, a flowy dress moved by the breeze. He was gesturing toward the tidepools left after last night's storm. Then, his golden eyes would feel your gaze, waving at you from up the lighthouse beacon.

As the night grew, the sky darker and the cold persistent, he disappeared as the tide rose. No matter how much you wished to, you couldn’t be swept by the sea.

The cliff cried outside your window, the crystal shaking with the tremble of the foghorn. You put your hand against the cold surface, swiping away the mist accumulated from your breath fanning above it.

There, on the beach, you saw it. You saw her.

The pale figure of a woman standing, grey and white like created from the mist outside. Hair was wet and stuck on her scalp; algae grew from her thin skin, barely keeping her bones conjoined. She blinked in and out of focus as the lighthouse turned on its vigil, a dark shadow bleeding from her torn nightclothes toward the tides leaping the coast.

Even if you couldn’t see her eyes from above her overgrown bangs, you felt her gaze pierce through your soul as if a harpoon had gone through bone and flesh.

With your hand still glued to the crystal, the numbness expanding from your cold fingers down your arm and your stomach, the woman raised a hand toward you and waved.

This is how your mother would’ve looked, a thought crawled to your brain. If she had been found.

You barely recollected the scream tearing its way out your mouth, throat sore as it echoed inside the beacon’s room, competing against the wail of the foghorn.

In answer, the woman opened her black mouth, putrid water soaking her dress as she screamed back in a wail that echoed like that of the cliff.

The pocket of your pants felt heavy and hot, your free hand prickling with the edges of the shell as you grabbed it with so much force, that you were surprised when it didn't break.

Looking out the window, the woman was gone.

You looked at the open logbook, the one with yellow pages, and soaked in time. The one forgotten inside this beacon.

She came in with the storm, leaving no rock unturned, no place to hide, all while looking for him. The words smudged, blurred by run-on ink. He seemed to mix with her.

Looking for her. Looking for me, your mind conjured. Looking for me.

You looked out the window, cold fright stopping you from moving the seat further away. But the beach was clear now.

“Mother?” you muttered, your brow against the window, your body growing limp as the sleep lured you into its cold and stiffened arms. But you jumped away, because this feeling seemed familiar, and you knew it shouldn’t have been.

Another cage. That was why. First, it was your family's hut, then, this lighthouse. This whole town. Was it the sea, too? All the ghosts that held prisoners under its waves crying and pleading for help. Angry to get out.

The next morning, you saw from the edge of the lighthouse the little silhouettes of your family going out of the hut and up the cliff. They looked like ants trapped in an unsurmountable bay. Other specimens are trapped in this tidepool.

And they weren’t alone—a well-dressed man, probably in his fifties following them up the steep carved steps until they disappeared from your peripheral vision.

You knew which was their destiny, as there were only two options up here. Hearing the echo of keys opening the metallic gate of the lighthouse, you ran to the control room, the door swinging close slowly, not wanting the wood to give away your presence.

“Miss?” Viktor called, and your movement froze. "Are you asleep?"

You looked at your reflection in a paint-stained mirror. Hair scattered like a bird's nest, black eyebags. Your skin seemed paler, too, as if seeing the ghostly woman had stolen some life essence from you.

You poked your head above the rail. “I’m here!” Recoiling, you added. “Give me a minute.”

A quick groom later, you bounced down the stairs, your boots squeaking against the wooden floorboards you had polished not so long ago.

Viktor was sitting at the table, facing the cold hearth. You could see his hand flying over the papers as he scribbled away, back slightly hunched.

Clearing your throat, you stepped next to him. He jumped slightly, and your hand hovered over his shoulder to soothe him.

“Ah, my apologies,” Viktor said, fidgeting with the handle of his cane. “I just…” He gestured away. “I just don’t want to be distracted today,” he said, his eyes looking toward the exit.

“You saw them, too?”

Viktor nodded, leaving his pen. "They know we're not engaged. So I assume that the new man they’re flanking is your suitor.” He scrunched his nose. “Up close, he looks like an ex-landowner.”

You frowned, taking a seat on the cot. “How do you know that?”

“His suit doesn’t fit him very well, which means he just started wearing these types of clothes,” Viktor explained, brows pinched in focus. “There are a lot of newly rich ex-landowners in New Piltover, they sold off their lands to the big construction companies, and now they’re squandering all their money.”

A chuckle escaped your lips. “Then, you wouldn’t marry him?”

He looked at you with an amused glimmer in his eyes. "Not unless you wish to get indebted in the near future.”

Something deep within you told you that there was no escape from such destiny. But pushing away the thought, you said:

"What are you working on?" you said, hearing your family pounding on the entrance door. This one was locked, and the lesson was perfectly learned.

“Tracing routes from sightings of sperm whales,” Viktor told you. “To see if they fit the ones which have a myriad of stories about krakens.”

You blinked away your sudden confusion. “Pardon?”

“They could be giant squids,” Viktor commented, and you wished to have started that book he lent you instead of watching the damn window.

“I didn’t know you’re also interested in legends.” They weren’t cold, justifiable science, much less a valid source of knowledge.

He smiled at that. "There is an entire department dedicated to studying these tales. They're very enlightening, Miss."

“How so?” You sat, elbows on your thighs, trying to lean as much closer to him as it was possible.

His golden eyes shimmered as he gazed down at you as if he could sense the shell tucked in your pants pocket.

“They tell us what frightens people.” Viktor shrugged. “And most of the time, they have a very valid reason to fear.”

You looked away, your mind marked by muddy footprints, by the white silhouette that could still appear every time you blinked too fast. Goosebumps appeared on your arms.

“Is something the matter?” he asked, observing how you tried to make yourself a ball.

“I… I just…” you whispered, feeling your throat tight, the feeling of containment only augmented with each bang on the door. “I just wish to get out of this place,” you said, feeling like a stupid child. Dreaming too big, settled only for disappointment.

“But I can’t do it alone.” A hiccup ripped out your chest, making you shiver. “I hate that I can’t do it alone.” The sea is going to pull me back.

The chair creaked, Viktor’s hand gently patting your shoulder. “Nobody can do everything alone, Miss,” he whispered. “It’s not weak to ask for help.”

You looked at him, your faces so close you could feel his breath warm against your cheek. “If I marry you, can you help me get out of here?”

His golden eyes widened. “Miss, you don’t have to do this just because of—”

“No, no, it’s not that.” You bit your lips. It was a foolery to tell him about your fear of the sea trapping you here forever, Viktor would think you were out of your mind, he would replace you with another lightkeeper. You would have nowhere to go, not when you didn’t have a concrete way you wished to follow. “I just… there’s no other way.”

I know there isn’t.

“Please, Viktor,” you told him, voice barely above a mutter. “Help me get out of here.”

From up close, you saw his widened eyes darkening, a passing shadow that could have been from the regret of telling you such a proposal, to sadness. Even pity and that thought made you almost take your words back, but the image of the ghostly woman waving you from the window stopped you.

She greeted you as if she knew you would end up in the same place she was. Alone on this beach, trapped in sand and waves even after death.

He inhaled a sharp breath. “I’ll help you,” Viktor said, his hands recoiling from your touch. They were trembling until he grasped the handle of his cane with so much force his knuckles became white. “If that’s your wish, then I promise, I’ll help you get out of here.”

Your hands were fists. “Then I’ll marry you.”

Viktor looked at you with worry. “I told you, you don’t have to—”

“I’ll do it,” you cut him. “It’s only fair. I don’t want to owe you anything. I’ll work for you as your lighthouse keeper, as your fake wife. A fair retribution.”

“At least think it over tonight,” Viktor offered. “Once you’d signed the paper, there is no coming back.”

You remembered the night terrors, shivering.

“There’s nothing to think over,” you said, even if it was a lie. “I know there are more scary things out here than a marriage I’m actively choosing to be a part of.” One that could give you what you wanted, with someone who could help you find a reason, a purpose to stay in the city. To help you meet new horizons besides grey and rainy dusks bathed by the ink-black sea.

Your words made him purse his lips, but he didn’t ask anything—to your relief. You weren’t sure what could get out your mouth if he made you confess. Would he believe you?

“Alright,” Viktor said with a sigh after a little eternity of dreaded wait. “Then, please prepare a suitcase as soon as possible.” The bang of the door has ceased ever since minutes ago, but the same thump, thump, thump, echoed in your heart at a rushed pace. “We’re going to the city the day after tomorrow.”

[doin-just-fine]

What the brain doin?? PT. 5 of a questioning median system's journey

"Stuck in the chair"

Like I've mentioned in the past, I, DoinFine, am always fronting. I've heard and seen many systems describe their head space with a chair for those who are fronting to sit in so we kinda think of it the same way. I'm always sitting in the chair.

I'm pretty sure that the source of my plurality is my inability to process emotions correctly (I'm still working on a post explaining this but it's difficult for me to understand and therefore hard to write about which just confirms my suspicions). Anyway, the other day I was feeling random negative emotions happening in the background. When I say background what that means is this: It feels like it's happening behind me. Like I was experiencing them next to me or outside of me. You know how you can hold emotions in different parts of your body? It's like that but the body part is next to you not attached to you. So I don't literally feel the tension I hold in my shoulders due to stress like it's next to my shoulders instead of in them, its that gut feeling that tells me that the tension in my shoulders is due to stress that I feel next to me. For me when I say background specifically, it feel like that previous statement with an added layer of white noise or static between the emotion and myself.

As of right now I do not have a visual head space beyond the chair. When experiencing this weird emotions I wanted to know what was happening so I was going to try and follow the feelings to a source. but I couldn't. I can't tell you why it felt this way it just made sense when I was feeling it: I felt like I was about to turn around in the chair. and with that realization I began to panic a little. I felt like system thing and people and emotions were happening behind me and all I had to do was turn around to see what was going on but my chair wouldn't move and my "head" wouldn't turn. Like I had been strapped to the chair.

This applies to more than just background feelings. I feel like when others are close to the front I want to look at them, or rather, acknowledge them completely but I can't because they're always just behind the chair.

The only time I felt like was anywhere but in the chair was when the kiddo was co-con. They like booted me from the chair or I was suddenly allowed to leave the chair I'm not sure. But If they ever come back to the front, I'm going to try "taking a look around" when I feel like I've been pushed off the chair.

Until then, does anyone else relate to this? Or has anyone experienced this before? How did or do you navigate it?

[sacredglitch]

time to feed the hyperfixation with some headcanons for the semi robotic person;

- After the roller skating incident, he took it upon himself to actually learn about skating and now uses it predominantly to move about. Bought a pair of those shoes with the kick out wheels and Heelys, of course.

-Since he, canonly, can pick up other universes and planets TV shows; to pass time he'll find something bizarre and tune out the world to watch it.

- Adding to this he makes himself close his eyes when doing so. Not because it makes him see things clearer, but because when he's focused on the show, he does not blink. Which unnerves the other Muppets greatly.

- This mother fucker is the most autistic puppet I've seen and I will die on this hill

- Also v body dysmorphic. He turned himself from a 'person' to a technobot for crying out loud.

- Y'know how people will stick their tongue out on poles during winter? Digit does it but to CRT TVs. Kermit has walked in on him more times than he can count just face smushed to the TV. Apparently he likes the feel and 'taste'.

- Stims with the coil cable on his switchboard if he's idling.

- Finds a lot of comfort being close to someone. But this can turn out to be a little much for some as Digit doesn't comprehend personal space most of the time. Kermit is the only one that's adapted to him, normally getting Digit to move back a little but holds onto his hand or jacket for assurence.

- Sometimes when words fail him, Digit will take out his head port and plug it into the nearest screen, displaying the thought he's trying to convey.

- If this dude was an actual human, he would be 6' something. He radiates tall slender man.

- Also 100% naturally stands with his hand like a t-rex.

- Flinches a lot and tends to make himself look unthreatening (this is somewhat canon, watch him carefully when Kermit loses his shit over the band practicing, or Gonzo yelling)

- Common sayings tend to pass over his head such as bite the bullet or right as rain. He will take them literally.

- Adding on that, he's had 'blue screen' moments where too many conflicting thoughts or tasks cause him to freeze. Such as needing to ensure the selected shows are working without interfering with the broadcast or similar situations. Usually a flick of his switch fixes him though he feels uncomfortable afterwards, almost like dealing with the after effects of a migraine.

- As much as he loves music and techno, he will happily vibe out to white, brown or static noise if things are just a bit much.

- Favourite dance is The Robot (naturally) but really enjoys The Wave too. Tried to get Kermit to do it with him but he just got the frog flailing his arms in response, implying his arms can't do it. Digit just blinked at him then reversed the dance back, unbothered by it.

there's probably more that my brain has yet to plop in but these are my favourite. I've also been thinking of a what if he was in the muppets (2015) and how he'd fit in...

[lizardkingeliot]

Hello friends it's Wednesday and I need serotonin so who wants another lil teaser from chapter 4 of a place for you to love me? I hate that it's been more than 2 months since my last update and I PROMISE I'm still working on this nearly every day it's just... life has been a lot lately. Like... A Lot. Like 2023 is actively trying to kick my ass on a daily basis A Lot. But I am currently working on the final scene in this chapter and I'm hopeful if nothing else I'll have the rough draft completed this month. I truly hope you're all still here for this when I finally get around to posting, and in the meantime pls enjoy this horny lil snippet lol. 💖

—

Like turning the dial on an old tinny radio, Julia’s voice faded into a squeal of white noise and static. Because Eliot was suddenly emerging from the water, and Quentin only had eyes for him. No thoughts, no brain, just—watching, utterly breathless. The sight of him there like a gleaming jewel plucked from the crown of a king.

He was shirtless, wearing little olive green swim shorts that were perfectly cut to flatter every part of his body. Every single part—god. His thighs, his hips, the glorious full bulge of his dick. His hair soft and dripping sea water, his curls all tumbling and wild. His eyes on Quentin, long legs working, propelling him nearer, nearer—

“Hey,” Eliot said, suddenly there. Going down to his knees in the sand in front of Quentin, pressing between the V of his legs.

“Hey—” The sound of Quentin’s voice was swallowed in a kiss at once. Eliot’s hands on his face, in his hair. Jesus fuck. Their bodies melding together until Quentin was falling onto his back in the sand. 

Oh.

[babyspacebatclone]

Ok, here’s what I do.

I’m going to put the description of my visualization meditation under a cut, because I’m fully aware it may disturb people with fairly reasonable triggers.

I don’t know if it will work for anyone who’s not me.

But I’ve been doing this for over two decades to relax my own body, even before my own heading-towards chronic arthritis-induced pain.

There’s a tl;dr at the end, if anyone needs it but still cares.

So, I’m going to give two versions of this, because again I’m sure the one I actually use would squick a lot of people out.

First, get comfortable - whatever that means for you.

For me, that’s raising the head of my adjustable bed, putting a body pillow under my thighs to keep my legs at a good bend, have pillows on either side of my torso to rest my arms, and my weighted blanket arranged so it doesn’t stress my feet/ankles.

Completely by accident, I am recreating a zero gravity chair. Anyway…

image source

Get comfy. If it helps, get some relaxing music or nature sounds.

Now, imagine you’re a robot.

I’m serious, because the visualization is going to be disassembling yourself piece by piece, servicing each, then putting them away in a box.

I start with my feet.

I take off my toes, one by one. Carefully undoing the wiring and screws holding on the metal, gently testing the joints of each toe.

Oil what’s needed, maybe give a light polish, check that there’s nothing gritty clogging anything.

After each toe has been serviced, it goes into a foam box with holes perfectly sized for each.

Now, I service each foot. Then each ankle.

Long muscles tend to go faster, with more care on imagining opening up and servicing each mechanical joint, because as said above arthritis.

The spine is gently popping out each vertebrae, tailbone up, just free and unconstrained from the neighbors.

And, importantly, after each part is services it goes in its prepared box.

It’s not connected to me anymore.

Each mechanical part is all cared for and resting, away from me, turned off.

For me, this visualization leaves each serviced body part - deliciously numb. A faint, heavy white noise static, completely removed as I continue the body scan through my body.

Except, well, when I’m doing it I don’t bother with the entire “robot” distancing.

I’m imagining using fine metal skewers to literally stretch out the muscles laterally, teasing at the nerves until they go limp, popping the bones cleanly and safely apart.

It’s as bloodless and fantastical as the robot version, completely divorced from any biological reality.

And after servicing each loosened body part still goes into a box, away from the still functioning nervous system, away from the core of me.

If it’s my head or brain that needs loosening up, well, more skewers, literally opening up the unrealistic butter slime brain, letting air circulate.

If that fails, well, it’s time to start chopping up into fine cubes. Puree them down, make dough, knead it up like a pizza crust until everything feels homogeneous and diffused.

I’d do it to parts of my body, too, except none of them ever need the escalation like my brain.

Except the neck, that gets the rack treatment sometimes…

Anyway.

No clue if this could be helpful for anyone else.

But TL;DR:

Starting from your toes, pop off each body part in whatever fantasy works for you - robot, ball jointed doll, anatomically correct rag doll - and visualize “servicing” each part. Oil the joints, tighten the elastic, remove and replace the stuffing.

Once each part has been renewed, put it in a box to rest while you continue through the body scan.

Just focus on each body part in turn, imagining analogues to the complaint of each specific part, being completely mindful and present at however small or large a part of your body as you need to.

Then, move on. Each part has been dealt with, and requires no more focus.

Body awareness is absolute shit for chronic illness. “Become aware of your body. Pay attention to how your body feels” great now I’m noticing the bone aching soreness that is permeating my entire body, thanks for that. My mind was automatically filtering that out for my but I sure am aware of it now!

I need like the opposite. I need “leave your body entirely and forget it exists” meditation.

[pr3ttyl1ps]

two steps forward and one step back

cw: suicide, death, depression | vent

these days i wonder when my lungs will fail me. i wonder when the smoke will overwhelm my body and turn me back into the dust i originated from. i feel like this has always been a feeling i’ve had my whole life.

i think most people would call this depression? i couldn’t say for sure.

but for pretty much my entire life, i’ve been waiting to die. i’ve been watching the clock tick as the days slip away from me. i’ll go through the motions to get me through each day, but no one can really understand how much i struggle to feel like any of what i do is worth anything because the same thought echoes through my brain: “i’m just gonna die anyway.”

i’ve tried to repurpose this statement over the years in order to try and live life to the fullest. life’s too short, so why not make the best of it? but at the end of the day, eventually it all boils down to the same doomsday feeling: life’s too short, so what’s the point in trying?

this line of thought has severely clouded my judgment. the truth is, there’s not much i can really do about it. i’ve just been trying to accommodate these feelings and work around them to make it work best for my life. it will be an eternal struggle, unfortunately, but there are ways i can hold myself off for at least a few more years.

despite dealing with this, i force myself to really take a step back to reflect on how far i’ve come. i planned to die at 18. here i am, about to turn 22, and i’m still kicking it as best i can. i recognize that it’s unfair to myself to downplay my growth as a person. who i was when i had a knife pointed at my chest that night in february of 2021 is not the same person i am today, sitting on the couch in april of 2024. i think this is why writing is so crucial to me, because sitting here rereading the line prior to this, it never hit me how short a timeline 2021-2024 really is. it feels like eons ago when it’s really only just 3 years. time works in such a silly way, and my growth has felt really rapid.

the idea of killing myself has resurfaced these past few months. i can trace it back to september. i held a knife to my chest again. i threw up. i laid in bed, shaking. i don’t remember what happened after that. that month was a blur. and the months after that. i think this month is the clearest my mind has been in a while. at least in the sense that i can actually hear myself thinking.

i don’t think i’ve ever really talked about how my brain functions when i’m at the lowest of the low; what i hear in my head when i feel like i want to end it all.

(it’ll be freeing to talk about it now. i feel safe talking about it here, knowing someone out there feels the same way i do. i’m screaming into a crowd of people that i’m not expecting a response from, i just want for someone to read this and understand themselves better or to just understand me.)

when i hit a point where the end of a knife is pointing back at me, you know what my brain hears? absolutely nothing. it’s white noise at best; a distant buzz; static. but my brain doesn’t only hear static in the moment i feel like completely altering my life. it had already been sounding that way for a while. nothing is coherent. it’s like when a swarm of bees fly past and all you can hear is one big giant sludge of buzzing. or when a car zooms past you and you can’t hear the engine, you just hear “vvvvvroom.” my brain can’t pinpoint one single thought. the noise my thoughts make eventually turn into a loud, incoherent, headache inducing, buzz. and attempting to pinpoint a single feeling from that mess just adds to the stress; trying to find a needle in a haystack. so when anyone asks me to at least try to figure out where the root of the problem is, i shut down. it’s too much work to dig in there.

it’s my own fault that i end up that way and no one else’s. i may not be able to afford therapy, but there are preventative measures i can take to regulate the commotion before it becomes unbearable. with the added stressors and responsibilities as i grow older, i find it’s hard to tend to my brain as often as i need to. there’s not much i can do about that. but i need to stop burdening myself by ignoring the fact that my brain is chemically imbalanced. i don’t like to admit that something’s wrong with me, but i think that’s a step i’ve been missing; accepting that this is the brain i’ve been dealt to live the rest of my life with.

i think for the past few years, i’ve been working on trying to assign the blame as to why my brain is the way it is. most of it goes to my dad. it’s fascinating to think about how impactful childhood events really have on your development. what really makes me mad is i’m left to deal with the consequences of his mistakes, and he doesn’t know it or understand. i’m afraid he never will, but that’s not up me is it haha?

i’ve come to accept that this is just it. there’s really no “fixing” it. just a matter of not letting it consume me; to tend to this harsh reality and not let the cyst get too big before it’s too late.

i thought about killing myself today.

it’s hard to admit out loud. it’s a voice that just won’t go away. maybe it’s not how i genuinely feel, but my brain has it’s own brain i guess? that’s really silly to say haha. but i say that to say it really comes out of nowhere; when i least expect it. i have the thought even when life feels like it’s going good. it blindsides me and that’s when i’m hit with a wave of depression. and it’s not one’s fault at all that i have the thought. it’s my own. the thought went away in about an hour. i just have to let it pass. therapy would be nice so i wouldn’t have to push it down. it would be nice to talk to someone about it. i don’t know. the internet is just beautiful in that way. like i said, i don’t expect anyone to respond or even read this whole thing. i just post it in the hopes it will land on someone’s eyes.

it’s hard to live life when you love it so much, but feel like you don’t deserve any ounce of the good that can come with it. thanks dad, i guess.

but i know life is so much bigger than me, and that i’m grateful to have been born to experience life’s most exciting and mundane beauties. i may feel like a waste, but to cut my life short would be an even bigger waste. i know that.

two steps forward and one step back as they say. i look forward to the next two steps i take.

[the-melancholy-muse]

The Album that drowns out the pitter-patter of rain drops and intrusive thoughts

It's been raining for three days.

The entranceway displays a curation of muddied Crocs.

Today was a tough day...yesterday was a tough day...tomorrow's forecast is as bright as the night. Perhaps even broodier than the stubborn dark clouds outside my window.

Who am I kidding? I usually love this shit. Soft, introspective darkness lulls me to sleep, with whispering breeze and wet white noise as my lullaby.

Then the storm surges.

Thunder rumbles. Lightning flashes. Phone vibrates; texted headlines herald the status of my ill dog at the vet and an update to that invitation I lack the stamina to decline.

The Uber is en route to the apartment via the intestines of a great whale surfing the streets. The Ark cut us off in the turning lane before we were gobbled up.

The Tesla is too quiet. The thunder claps too loudly. The distant lightning bolt seems far less distant than I'd prefer. The headphones slip over my ears. Anxious tears fall away in kinship with the splattered deluge running over the windows.

Moby's on Spotify speed dial, and play he indeed does. Just as he had for more than two decades.

Play is a beloved blanket, and I, a creature of comfort.

Now thirty, my inner child is flashing back to 7, settling into a storm from long ago.

That fateful night, a rugged pick-up pulled us through the darkness. My dad, at the helm of our golden, noble chariot, needs to haul ourselves to safety. He has an uneasy wife at home, regaling the warning of a potential touchdown through the static-ridden speaker of his giant cell. His passenger, a young anxiety-ridden child who fears nothing more than your average thunderstorm. It's not a great drive.

The rain pounds like a hammer. Harsh winds push against the sides of the truck. He musters a calming clarification that no, there are no 'mini cyclones' cycling across the highway. No, you are not more likely to be shocked by lightning in a car because it is made of metal. Before re-confirming, as he had to nearly every time rain dropped, that an incoming tornado sounded like a train, he opted for a different audio source. He let the soothing string samples from 'Play' take over. Parental instinct paid off, and somehow my already-depressed doomsday-set brain was coddled into a musical sense of safety and stability.

The Tesla parks me at the closest door. I'm thirty. I'm worried about my dog, about my friendship attachment styles and priorities for my next therapy session. I bitch about not having a damn umbrella that isn't broken.

I hug my husband close. We retreat to our darkened bedroom. From the confines of my weighted blanket cocoon I close my eyes and press play. The rain bleeds into Moby, who is softly singing into my headphones.

Soft, introspective darkness lulls me to a relaxed state. my lullaby is nothing but wet white noise, a sonic blanket, and my love's snores.

Who am I kidding? I love this shit.

All is safe in our blissful basement abode.

...the best area of refuge to seek out if your local storm cell touches down.

[chounaifu]

@fracturedhues saw something she shouldn't have.

The presence of the coworker wasn’t something to consider concerning as his episode preoccupied most among their ranks, however it was more than obvious she had a further interest with how many times he’d hear her steps outside of his room . Heels clacking in a slow pace that could be sensed as she got closer, but that abruptly stopped and faded away quicker than before . And that happened repeatedly during the night — one sleepless for her for many reasons .

Yes, she’s been worried about the Executive, as she’d be with any other co-worker, but curiosity may have made her find out more about his episodes . . .

Behind the white curtain that divided him from the rest, a soft and calmed voice could call his rank and name, followed by the usual question .

❝ How are you, sir ? ❞

It wasn’t something she’d say out of mere politeness however . Her concern has remained real, for him and the circumstances that surround him .

She felt the need to dig deeper, too .

❝ Apologies for bothering you so late . . . ❞ She continues, keeping said soft tone . ❝ A-any updates from the doctors ? ❞

Of all of the methods used to stabilize Proton's fits, electroshock therapy was his least favorite; the brain zaps that fired off from the base of his skull were uncomfortable, rattling the nerves and causing him to tense up. But it always had a way of-- rebooting his system, so to speak.

Rocket's medical staff had been utilizing various treatments to combat Proton's bewildering condition for just under eight years now. The glitch anomaly was under control for the most part, but, it appeared that the corruption still had an effect on him.

A Chansey had been lurking near his bedside moments before company came to visit him. Proton grumbled with vexation, head sinking back against his pillow, eyes narrowed, cutting a foul look at the ceiling. He wanted to get up and move, to get some stimulation for his hands, but the most he could do at the moment was listen to the humming and beeping of medical equipment.

Proton was prepared to berate someone for visiting at such a late hour-- at least, until, the familiar voice of Executive Melinoe disrupted the white noise.

❝ Oh, it's you, though it was someone trying to hook me up to more bullshit machines, ❞ he mumbled; he wanted a damn cigarette, but smoking was prohibited in the infirmary.

When he turned his head to look in his coworker's direction, still concealed behind the white curtain divider, static electricity dragged off of Proton's head. One hand reached up to grab at the curtain. He yanked it aside; what his fellow executive would be greeted with, were the peering, white pupils of Proton's eyes, the sclera tinged grey.

Error.

❝ I'm juuuuust waiting, thaaaaaat's all we do, wait and wait, and wait some more, then maybe we'll shock my brain again, ❞ Proton hummed, laying back down. The entire space around his hospital bed smelt of burning electrical wires-- it was coming from him.

[stevensaus]

Get Better Sleep With A Sleep Mask And Pink Noise (Free Downloads)

Since I've been working third shift, sleep is kind of important to me. But since I'm usually sleeping during the day, there are all sorts of distractions that can interrupt my rest. There are two big things that really make the difference for me: a good sleep mask and the right kind of static noise. I would have thought the blackout curtains and turning off the light would be enough, and that I wouldn't notice the difference wearing a sleep mask. Oh man, was I ever wrong. Consider me a convert for totally dark rooms -- or wearing a mask like this if I want to really sleep well.

The specific sleep mask I ended up settling with is this "Sleep Mask for Side Sleeper, 100% Blackout 3D Eye Mask for Sleeping, Night Blindfold for Men Women" from Amazon. It's soft, very adjustable, doesn't feel like it's rubbing against my eyes (or eyelashes), and is relatively inexpensive. As I write this, there are three-packs (in some color assortments) for less than $15 on Amazon. The second thing that I've found particularly useful is "pink noise." You've probably heard of "white noise" before; there are several different "color" variants like "brown" and "pink" and "violet" and others. Basically, pink noise has a slightly lower pitch than white noise. I -- and several other people I know -- have our own anecdata that pink noise works better for covering up other noises than white noise, which is why I use it. How you get your masking background noise is up to you. There's a plethora of apps for handhelds and tablets. Windows users can still use Raindrop, commandline enthusiasts can use SBaGEN, and MyNoise.net is a great browser-based resource. What I do not use are the videos on YouTube, for a few simple reasons. - The screen is on -- or I risk the sound shutting off. - The possible risk of having an ad cut in right in the middle of things. - You need a moderately decent internet connection -- I'm looking at you, crappy hotel wi-fi. - Nearly every one of the "ten hours of..." are relatively short loops of only a few minutes... and the join between the loops is just audible enough that my brain notices. Not a great thing when you're trying to sleep. So I created a couple of audio files to reduce or eliminate these problems, and I'm sharing them with you. I first created a base two-hour 16-bit WAV uncompressed WAV file of pink noise using SBaGEN. Unfortunately, due to file size limits and the like, I couldn't generate more than two hours in one go with the program, but that's where SOX and ffmpeg came in handy. With SOX, I repeated that two-hour block (and without any audible "click" or "join"). That got... well, huge (1.2 gigs of data per two-hour block), and then used SOX or ffmpeg to convert those WAV files into MP3, OGG, and M4A (aac codec for you iTunes folks) files that are more usable and relatively portable. I've put the files up on Google Drive as well as the Internet Archive for sharing -- eight and ten hour variants of pink noise in those three formats, plus the uncompressed two-hour original WAV file that I used to generate them. Since I'm the one who created these files using open source tools, I'm putting these files into the public domain for you to use freely. All that I'd ask is that you copy them to your own Google Drive (or local machine, or whatever) rather than trying to stream directly from Google Drive. If you find them useful, feel free to toss me a little bit of change via Ko-Fi, or alternately, contribute to MyNoise.net, which I also strongly recommend you check out for other types of background ambiance. I highly recommend both of these for improving the quality of your sleep, and hope you find them useful as well. Featured Image by Shingo_No from Pixabay Read the full article

[pxrxcxa]

Opposite Ends

Chapter One - Welcome to Hawkins High

C2 | C3 | C4 | C5 | C6 | C7 | C8 | C9 | C10 | C11 | C12 | C13 pt 1 | C13 pt 2 |

Chapter 2 is out now - enjoy Sunflowers, P. x 🌻

Pairing | Eddie x Female reader 18+. Steve x Robin x Female reader platonic friendship

Series summary | Dustins older sister got brought into the group during the events of Starcourt mall, 3 months on she's in her senior year and the kids are starting high school. After everything that went down she feels that she has to keep them safe at all costs, that includes keeping them way from the charismatic 'freak' Eddie Munson that runs a club based on their favourite game. They've both hated each other since her freshman year -with good reason-, but when keeping distance between the kids and Eddie means putting herself in the firing line, boundaries get blurred, intentions get lost & the heart speaks louder than the brain.

The story is told from both Y/N & Eddies point of view.

What to expect | Slow burn enemies to lovers, Angst - with a happy ending, fluff & smut (in the later chapters). 18+ to read this story.

Series Warnings | Mentions of abuse, drug use, 18+ smut content

Chapter word count | 3.2k word count

Chapter warnings | Mention of physical abuse & Drug use

Any & All comments/reblogs are most appreciated - Love, P. x 🌿

Authors Note | I really hoped you enjoyed it & if you read the entire chapter then thank you for reading! I plan on putting a lot of effort into this story so it may be slow going at first before we see some development between Eddie x y/n. Feel free to let me know what you think! Take care sunflower 🌻, P. x

Y/N | October 1985

It had not even surpassed a month since the quote 'Fire of Starcourt Mall devastates Hawkins' had been splayed across static ridden TV sets in almost every household as it broke across our dearest - and allegedly cursed -towns news headlines and quickly spiralled into a national sensation, the deaths of the flayed blamed on it.

I didn't have to imagine what people thought about that "poor dammed Hawkins town' when they saw the news, up until June I was of the same mind as the rest of the towns terrified residents. Housewives had huddle together in the aisles of Hawkins stores; heads close together as the whispers broke out above the white noise. 

“Yes, that’s right, ever since that Byers boy went missing, nothing has been right and all of these tragic deaths. I’m telling you Helen; it almost devilish what’s been happening. Hawkins can’t catch a break, we’re cursed, cursed I tell you.” 

And with those venomous words loudly whispered into the eagerly awaiting ears of the notorious town gossip, it had taken only all of an afternoon for that gossip to turn factual and become the opinion held in the highest regard by most residents. Unlike those oblivious to the actual truth, I liked to think I wouldn’t have been so naive and gullible to believe the theories circulating the grapevine, some even more farfetched and implausible than what actually occurred last summer.  

Well, almost, I amended. Sometimes I wondered if I would have been better off being continually blissfully unaware of what was beneath my feet at this exact moment. But my brother Dustin and his nerdy friends had come to me for help, whirling me into the most thrilling and traumatising week of my life. 

Somehow having read some Russian literature and being able to crack some stupid code that Dustin wouldn’t explain the importance of, corelated to me being stuck in a secret Soviet Russian base elevator underground the famous Starcourt mall. I had sat with my head between my knees for hours, the cold metal of the grates in the floor pushing into my thighs while Dustin explained the past 3 years of our lives from his point of view. 

I couldn’t keep up with his voice. Between some band geek from school that I recognised by face only, rubbing my back and kept asking if I was going to hurl, Lucas Sinclair’s kid sister humorous running commentary interrupting Dustin’s story at points and Steve the freaking hair Harrington pacing with his hands on his hips, inspecting the roof and telling Dustin to hurry up. I cut him off halfway through telling a story of something called a Dart. His goofy grin faded from his face as I stood up quickly, rubbing my hand roughly against my eyes to push away the images his irrational words had painted. 

“Let me see if I’ve got this.” I had started ticking off my fingers. 

“Byers wasn’t lost in the woods but was in fact in some other underground dimension of Hawkins.”

“The upside down.” Dustin interrupted me.

I continued like I hadn’t heard him “There’s some girl with superpowers who always saves you guys, and there’s something called a demodorgan that eats people?” Dustin opened his mouth to correct me, but Steve beat him to it. 

“We don’t have time for this dingus, in case you haven’t noticed we are stuck in a literal Russian based filled with soldiers that are probably going to shoot us the moment they find us.” His voice raised to an unattractive shrill at the end, I examined him closer, dressed in that dorky ice-cream uniform with panic plastered across his face it was hard to imagine that he had once been my biggest crush in middle school. Although I doubted I looked much better. 

“One last thing.” I grumbled as my hands flailed at my sides.

“Everyone else, literally everyone else knew about this except for me?” I questioned the room, but my eyes were on my baby brother. Anger was coursing through me, but also shame, it was hard to not believe that what he was saying was true given where I was standing at that very moment, no matter how preposterous all of it sounded, but shame at the fact that he hadn’t included me in this earlier. That Steve the hair Harrington had been a better older sibling than I had, I had been too focused on getting the best grades in school and over analysing every interaction I had with Billy while giggling with my friends, to see what clearly had to be happening in front of my eyes. 

In that moment I had thought our situation couldn’t get worse. But then Steve, myself and Robin the band geek had held onto each other like a lifeline as we were each interrogated by the Russian soldiers, while Dustin and Erica ran for help. And the lasting physical damage from that didn’t even begin to compare to the consequences after the events of the fire, consequences that we were all still dealing with to this day. 

I would have happily taken beatings from trained six foot grown Russian soldiers for the rest of my life if it meant the Mind Flayer never came top side. If it meant that I would catch glimpses of bruised skin out of the corner of my eyes as I passed my reflection in the hallways at school, instead of black worming lines that weren’t really there, crawling over my cheeks and pouring into my head. It had taken weeks for me to convince myself that it was just remnants of PTSD, or whatever the school counsellor had called it, that was causing the fleeting images to stalk me during my waking hours and follow me into my nightmares, seemingly doomed to plague my broken, murky mind forever.

That was the funny thing about shared trauma, the bond it created with those involved. Even though half of the group was split in more ways than one, it was ironic that I’d complained about being left out of the loop for so long, only to be practically joined at the hip with the members of the group that remained behind in Hawkins after the fire. 

Max and I had found comfort in each other’s presence, silently understanding each other’s feelings over Billy. Since her stepfather had left and she had moved to the trailer park with her mom it had become the daily routine to drive her to and from school together every day, her home was out of the high school bus route and even though it wasn’t that far of a walk, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving her to her own devices. 

As I drove to the trailer park Max and her mother resided in, my eyes came to rest on the clothes flapping on the washing line next to her home, as I turned my car off Curly road, down her street. The familiar gravel of the makeshift street crunching away under the tires. She was perched on the weathered steps, wearing Billy’s jacket as always and headphones already covering her ears. No doubt playing that new ‘Hounds of love’ album, I could hear it sometimes when Max was having a particularly bad day and she blasted it as loud as possible it on her Walkman. Probably to drain out whatever thought or memory harassed her, the first time I wanted to chastise her about making her eardrums bleed I caught myself. I did things I wasn’t supposed to, to block out my own demons. Who was I to judge about how Max dealt with hers. 

“Y/N” Dustin pulled me out of my thoughts from the seat next to me as the rolled the car to a stop, Max pulled the back door open and slid into the seat, nodding her head as her morning acknowledgment. “You’ve been in the school for three years longer than me so you should know what clubs there are!” Dustin smacked his walkie and shoved the antenna down in frustration. ”Dammit Mike!” The asphalt flew away beneath the car as I pushed the gas pedal down faster. Itching to get the day over as fast as possible. 

“Do I look like I’m even remotely interested in your nerdy stuff to even pay the slightest bit of attention to what clubs you might like?” Although it might have been a good idea to see what group I could off load my brother and Mike wheeler to, it was the last day of the first week of high school and they were still following me around like lost sheep. My senior year, the one where I needed to concentrate the most and I was stuck running a baby-sitting club. I rocked in my seat as we drove over the speedbump leading into the school’s carpark. 

“What’s hellfire?” My neck snapped to look at Dustin.

“Wh – what?” I sputtered, “How do you know about them?” He pointed to a duo walking in the swarm headed to the school’s entrance. Gareth and Jeff I thought, but it was hard to tell from the distance, my eyesight was worsening, and I made a mental note to find my glasses in my bombshell of a room, sooner rather than later. Dustin must have seen their shirts. 

“So?” He pushed, eyeing me curiously. 

“I don’t know man, they’re a club I guess, they play some game...” I tightened my grasp on the wheel and looked over my shoulder to park. 

“What game?” He drew out his question like he already knew the answer. I groaned internally already sensing where this was heading. Apparently so did Max. 

“Bye.” She murmured as she slinked out of the backseat, sliding her bag up her shoulder and burrowing down into the safety of her oversized jacket. 

"Some fantasy game” I shrugged nonchalantly as his eyes bulged in his skull. Killing the engine and gathering my stuff, I spoke before he could. “You’re staying away from them, Eddie Munson’s a member and he’s a freak.” I explained forcefully, the words burned my tongue on the way out, I was sure the words ‘hypocrite’ were plastered on my forehead. 

“He’s a freak because he plays a game?” He scoffed looking at me disbelievingly, with traces of disdain.

I rushed to explain myself “No I just – he just – look, he’s dangerous and you aren’t to go near him, no discussion.” He just grinned and jumped out. Rolling down the passenger side window I shouted at his retreating back “No discussion!” 

With robotical movements, ingrained from following the same path for almost four years, I made my way to my locker to grab the necessary books for my first class of the day. Ignoring the lingering and longing stares thrown my way, the whispers had dissipated weeks ago. New morsels of gossip were either discovered or created far too often to focus on any specific one to cause any real discomfort. 

After the fire, everything had changed, it wasn’t just the physical impact it had. Anyone could see the holes that the deaths had created in Hawkins, but there was one that affected me more than anyone else's. Suddenly the basketball team wasn’t as loud, the hallways were missing a certain cologne and I still waited five minutes after the last bell rung to hear the smooth purr of an engine that would never roar to life again. 

In the terms of Hawkins Highs newsletter, I may as well be a victim of the fire to. Sweet perfect Y/F/N didn’t care about cheerleading, or basketball, or parties, or boys or friends anymore. I was just an empty shell, an echo of the bright person they grew up with. They said Billy’s death changed me, that I was too heartbroken to continue on without him. They weren’t all wrong, loosing Billy, and – my heart squeezed painfully with the memories of what happened right after that - did change me. I would never admit it to listening ears, lest it get back to Max, but I was well and truly over Billy in a romantic sense. The past 4 months brought my inane problems and mundane life into excruciating clear focus, suddenly what I was going to wear to the after-game party didn’t matter. Graduating as soon as possible so I could escape the town that had its talons in deeper than just my skin - it had my soul in its grasp - was the most important purpose in my life.    

That still didn’t stop my old friends from caressing at the surface, probing to see if I’d would come back to life. A strong hand slammed down on the locker next to me, sending a ringing in my ears and my carefully stacked books to clatter the floor. Sighing, I stilled the rattling open door of my locker.

 “You coming to cheer me on tonight Y/N?” Jason Carver. His overpowering stench of expensive cologne and sweat after basketball practise assaulted my senses, invading my body and mind. I took an involuntary step back and crinkled my nose.

“Just like every other Friday you’ve asked me Jason, no. For the last time no.” His nonchalant laugh insulted the seriousness of my tone, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something lurking there.

“Come on, I know your squad misses you.” His voice was whiny as he reached behind my head to bring the end of my ponytail over my shoulder, the brush of his fingers sent a chill up my spine as he fiddled with the green ribbon tied there. I could feel eyes pouring into my back, but when I spun away from Jason, slamming my locker shut, sending a fresh breeze over the both of us, there was no one I could see watching me. 

“I’m going to be late for Mr Mundy.” I called as an afterthought, barely glancing back at a confused Jason still standing by my locker, not wanting to have him seek me out later. I hadn’t heard the second bell ring while he cornered me, too preoccupied with the sickening feeling that had begun in my stomach when Jason’s blue eyes bored into mine and now settled in the low pits of my frame as I tore through the empty corridors. I paused at the edge of Mr Mundy’s classroom door to fix my hair back into place when I got a glimpse of my reflection in the window. My breath hitched in my throat as a prickly heat spread out across my body. She smiled back at me with lips that were trembling on my own face.

“Y/N” She drawled, “I’m still here, waiting.” Black lines appeared on my neck, crawling up my face. My head swam as I hung my head down, ripping my eyes away from the stranger in the window. No, not a stranger echoed in my mind, the same black lines started to flourish from my fingertips, spreading up my forearms. 

Something hard but fleshy slammed into my back, bringing me out of my nightmare. Tommy H spun around to grin at me holding his hands up in an apologetic way as he walked backwards into the class. My head snapped back up to the window, but it was my own eyes, glassy with fresh tears that stared back at me. I quickly followed suit after Tommy, hoping to slip in undetected. Fortunately, Mr Mundy was preoccupied with reprimanding Carol over some violation or another as I hastily found my seat in the third row. I shoved my bag under the desk and flipped to an empty page in my notebook, a strong breeze blowing through the open windows helped even my breathing as I focused on the coolness of the air. I groaned as I felt the warm body on my left shift in my direction. With everything that had happened that morning I hadn’t let myself think about this class. Mr Mundy had been out sick for the first two days of the week, so it was actually the first class of senior year, and like the past three years of high school in calculus, I was situated in my regular seat with some quiet band geek on my right side and – 

“Miss Y/N,” He cleared his throat leaning forward “You uh –“ 

“Shut it Munson, you’d think since it was you’re third year trying to pass high school you would at least bring a pencil, regardless – not my issue.” I snapped, crossing my legs and angling my body away from Edward Munson, Hawkins Highs very own organically grown Metal head. 

As much I appreciated Mr Mundy’s teaching style, i wasn’t a fan of his inability to deal with change, hence why – after clearly pissing off some high power from above– I ended up sitting next to Eddie on an iron clad seating chart. No amount of begging and bargaining with the Calculus teacher got me anywhere

‘The best and the worst students in the class, you might rub off on him Y/N.’ Mr Mundy then just winked, laughed and snatched his brief case up on his way out before I had a chance to respond. But if he thought for one second that I was going to tutor or be some sort of good role model, then Mr Mundy wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, or I just was as stubborn as I thought I was. Eddie was a lost cause, for the most part of our four years of school, I’d managed to avoid and ignore the metal head. We’d probably said about five sentences to each other and that was only because of partnered projects we were forced to share. Even so, I swore his sole purpose on earth was to piss me off and he seemed determined to live up to the title or die trying. 

The way he’d twist the rings that adorned almost all of his knuckles, so they’d catch the sunlight and blind me, or how he’d bang a couple of pencils on his desk pretending to play a fake drum set while humming a song I didn’t know under his breath. The scratching of his pencil against his desk piercing through my concertation as he doodled away, completing ignoring whatever important material Mr Mundy would be teaching. Most infuriating of all though was the fresh smell of weed that would hit me like a rock as he sauntered past my desk, arriving late to class because he was busy smoking. More infuriating now, as it was what I used to be able to sleep through the night. Since the fire I hadn't one night where I didn't wake screaming or locked in a frozen cage of terror.

The earthy smell, even diluted by Eddie's cologne, sent a stab of wanting through my core, not a feeling I wanted to associate with Eddie. 

A wolf whistle erupted behind me and I slowly turned to see Tommy and some cronies eyeing me up and down like a piece of meat. 

“Nice show Y/N” They chuckled loudly, ensuring everyone could hear them, Mr Mundy started to make his way over to the commotion. I scowled at the group of boys confused, until realisation dawned on my face.

Chapter Two

I hope you enjoyed the first chapter & my very first post! If you would like to be added to my Eddie tag list, let me know! :) Enjoy Sunflowers - P. x

Copyright © 2022 by P.McCann

All rights reserved.

[lady-lunaaa]

Part II: We Carry On (because we have to)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue

Pairing: Porco Galliard x fem!reader

Rating: MATURE, minors dni

Warnings: death stranding au, female reader, post-apocalyptic, description of injury, a little blood, reader trusts no one/porco is an idiot, nightmares, mention of minor character death, grief, slow burn, skinny dipping and eventual violence (but only a smidgen)

WC: 19.2k

Masterlist🕊️

a/n: uhhhh it took a while and you can see why. 19k? I don't know what happened. The plot kinda follows canonverse in game, they're on parallel tracks put it that way, but it's just a little mention - not super important to our endgame here. Also ik the medics in game wear red buuuuut I cannot get the idea out of my head of Porco wearing the green paramedic uniform that we have in the UK so...that's what I chose (also it's the same colour as his canonverse jacket and you can't deny, our boi looks good in green). I have to give a huge thank you to my besties and beta's @dabilove27 and @gixxie, you are both incredible for reading through this monster for me. I adore you and wouldn't be me without you 💙💙 and with that, go forth, and (hopefully) enjoy yourselves.

🎶

“What do we have here?” A mocking voice rings out beside you. The sound is too loud in the now silent forest, nature deathly quiet after the encounter with the BTs, as if the very wind itself is scared to show its face.

You turn your head towards the source of the noise, broken hood crunching underneath you and hindering your movement. Your vision is blurry, only roughly making out the figure standing over you; messy caramel hair, porter suit, wide smile. You groan and raise a shaky hand to your face, fingers grazing over the bloody slash across your temple and your breath hitching at the sharpness that shoots through you at the touch. Your senses dull as pain takes over, your body highlighting all the areas that have been battered, scraped and bruised.

Your saviour holds out a tanned hand and waits for you to grab onto it weakly with your own, “So, whose ass did I just save?” The words reach your ears slowly, as if swimming through treacle to get there, his voice tinny and far off. You search through the fog inside your brain, looking for the answer to his question, as he hauls you to your feet.

You manage to answer at last and speak your name, but the voice doesn’t sound as if it belongs to you. You try to frown as your vision tunnels, black static obscuring your sight as you pitch forwards. The last thing you feel are strong arms holding you upright before consciousness swims away from you into the inky blackness.

You open your eyes to blinding white and immediately throw an arm over your face to shield you from the worst of it, eyelids fluttering rapidly as you adjust to the light and head pounding. You gradually lower your arm as your pupils dilate and scan your surroundings. You are in a pod of sorts, strips of LEDs running around the circumference of the floor and ceiling. Every surface is a stark white, throwing the light around the room.

In front of you, one wall is covered in glass, encasing porter suits of varying colours and designs. The whole display is lit up, and that is where most of the harsh light in the room comes from, spilling across the floor and over your form. To your left is a floor-to-ceiling glass shower stall and to your right a small, rounded table and chairs. You move to sit up and the makeshift bed you are lying on squeaks and crinkles underneath you. It is a hard surface covered in padded plastic, and it does nothing to soothe your aching muscles and tender skin. A thin woollen blanket has been thrown over your legs and your head is resting on a singular soft pillow, probably the most comforting thing in the whole room. But you’ve seen enough to deduce that you are at a Waystation rest stop.

It’s then that you sense the presence beside you, feel the slight temperature change at your side as a body gives off heat, hear the soft breathing of a person asleep. You snap your head to the side and scramble to your knees, the blanket falling around you, as you stare at your bed fellow.

That caramel-blonde head of hair was familiar...this was the man who saved you? Which means he brought you here after you passed out. You shriek in shock and scoot away from him to stand at the edge of the bed; it’s more of a platform, hung from the wall with metal hooks and steel cable. Your noise startles him awake and he sits bolt upright with a gasp, eyes searching for the source. When they land on you, his shoulders relax, and he runs a hand through his bangs; pushing them back away from his forehead. A few strands fall loose around his face again anyway, and he huffs, before offering you a muted smile and a two-fingered salute.

You stare at him for a few moments before you repeat the action, albeit awkwardly and not at all enthusiastically. The silence stretches on a little too long and your eyes dart from him to the bed and back again, he follows your gaze and his eyes widen in understanding.

“Oh, right! You passed out on me back there, so I hauled you and your stuff to the nearest Waystation. Figured you were heading here anyway.” When you only nod in response, he continues, “I delivered your cargo with mine and then brought you here to rest.”

You nod again, too stunned to really come up with words, your head still aching terribly and notice that his hair is damp. It’s the only reason it is staying semi-slicked back to his scalp. You realise he actually has an undercut that you didn’t see before and he looks clean, fresh tank top sculpting his body, and not leaving much to the imagination. His muscled arms are on display and you can see his broad chest and the faint outline of his abs where the fabric is clinging to his skin. He wears a strange cuff-like bracelet on one wrist and for a moment you wonder if they are actually handcuffs, before you dismiss the idea. A quick glance downwards reveals that he’s only wearing a thin pair of sleep shorts.

You glance away just as quickly, face heating up, and fidget on your feet. That’s when it dawns on you that you are no longer wearing your own suit, you are stripped down to your underthings; shirt and panties. Your leggings are gone, your legs bare, and you shiver. Not from the cold, but from the exposure. Your temperature rises to nuclear proportions and you snap your gaze up to his face again.

“Why the fuck am I half naked?” You demand in an accusatory tone, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt at modesty. That finally sparks fear in his eyes, eyes that are a stunning mix of hazel and olive, you note. Your lips downturn at the thought, and that only causes him to look more panicked, his cheeks flushing a dark red.

“Woah, hey! It’s not like that, your suit was ruined, and your leggings were- uhhh,” he looks away from you sheepishly, words tapering off lamely and hanging in the air. He lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck awkwardly, eyes flicking to yours and away again. Your face morphs from anger to horror as the realisation dawns on you -- you pissed yourself.

“Oh my god,” you half-shout, “Oh my god!” You cover your face with your hands, pressing your palms into your eyeballs, as if that will make the situation undo itself. The poor guy is babbling at this point, and you would very much like for the floor to swallow you whole.

“So anyway, yeah- and I couldn’t exactly remove your underwear- so I just left them and placed the blanket over you, that’s it. I swear.”

“Please, stop talking!” You fume, your embarrassment palpable and hanging heavy in the air. You fumble for the blanket on the bed and snatch it up, throwing it around your waist in a fruitless effort to gain back some dignity.

“Hey, listen. You were chased by invisible monsters and almost drowned in their spooky plasma shit, that would have made anyone piss themselves.” He attempts a hand at humour, tone light and his earlier panic pushed aside. You are still thoroughly mortified, but you appreciate his effort to not judge you, or completely rip the shit out of you for it. You don’t think to tell him you can actually see BTs, you barely know the guy, why tell him anything about yourself.

Speaking of, you are at a disadvantage, not even knowing the man’s name. You vaguely remember telling him yours before passing out earlier. A vague flicker of embarrassment licks at your skin before you push it down, and choosing to ignore his statement, you ask boldly, “And you are?”

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed as he responds, “Ah yeah, you passed out before I could introduce myself.” He stands in a fluid motion, rocking onto his tippy-toes, and stretching his arms above his head. You watch a little too closely as the hem of his shirt rises a few inches, giving you a flash of toned stomach. He holds the stretch until an audible crack resounds through the room, and then he relaxes with a sigh.

“The name’s Porco,” he offers with a grunt, and you nod your head again, in acknowledgement.

You both stand there in your underwear for a disgustingly awkward pause, before he comments, “It’s pretty cramped in here...only made for one, and to be honest, you’re stinking up the place. Might wanna take a shower.” He walks around the bed and past you, his arm brushing against your own. You sputter and turn your head to glare at him as he squats and starts rummaging through the cupboards lining the wall behind you.

You decide not to fight the insensitive comment too hard seeing as he did you a solid earlier and you are still standing in your pissy underwear (not to mention he is also correct, you reek). So, you settle for an “Ass,” mumbled to yourself while you march to the shower, holding the blanket around you in a bunched fist. You hear him scoff, but swear there is a chuckle hidden beneath it, at the same time you remember that the shower is completely see-through. There’s a small strip of textured glass running around the middle, but it’s not enough privacy for your liking, and your new acquaintance has seen quite enough of you already.

“I’m gonna get in the shower now,” you call hesitantly to him.

“Cool, thanks for the announcement,” comes the reply, followed shortly by a string of curses as several boxes come tumbling out of the cupboard and spill their contents onto the floor.

“I meant,” you enunciate with a bite to your tone, “I’m getting in the shower so yaknow, don’t turn around.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” his head is now deep inside the cabinet, appearing to look for something, and his muffled tone is laced with irritation.

You bite on your lip to stop from laughing when he bangs his head on the edge of a shelf and sits up rubbing the spot with a scowl. In his arm, sitting in the crook of an elbow, are a couple of cans and some plastic packets, although you can’t make out what exactly.

“You sure? Don’t want to remove the rest of my clothes? Or can I do that myself?” You can't help the snark that creeps into your voice as you stand there, still unsure about the shower situation.

“Why, that an offer?” He turns his gaze to you, with a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, and you pull the blanket from around you to whip it at his head. He ducks deftly and catches it mid-air, still smiling as he adds, “Relax. Just a joke. I’ll sit facing away from you the whole time, promise.”

Your eyes narrow at him slightly as you try to gauge how much you should trust this stranger.

“You’ll be able to see me, so you’ll know if I peek. Which I won’t.” He reassures you and pulls out the chair from under the table with a screech, before plopping down into it, facing away from you. As promised.

You sigh and start to undress, watching him closely, as you pull your tank top over your head and step out of your panties. You quickly unbind your chest, whipping the fabric round yourself until it falls to the floor, breasts achingly heavy now they are freed from their confines. You always wrap your chest before you set out on a job, keeps your boobs exactly where you need them, out of the way. You stand in front of the curved glass, checking behind you to make sure he’s staying true to his word, and will the mechanism to hurry up. The sensors eventually detect you and the glass parts to the side with a soft whoosh. You hop in immediately and press the button, stepping under the hot spray and sighing as the warmth smoothes out the knots in your muscles – instant relief. You pump soap into your palms from the dispenser on the wall, and begin gingerly massaging your skin, careful not to press too hard over the bruises littering your body.

You wince as you clean out the cuts and scrapes along your arms and neck, the sting setting your teeth on edge. It’s not until you start lathering the soap into your hair, that you notice Porco has moved. You start, and try to squint through the glass and steam to find him – he’s in another storage cupboard. Whatever he finds, he bundles into his arms. You notice with amusement that he walks backwards and moves in a side-to-side shuffle around the room to avoid catching a glimpse of you in the shower. You decide not to stress over what the heck he’s doing, and instead focus on showering as quickly as possible, rinsing out your hair thoroughly.

When you stand in front of the curved glass again, it parts smoothly just as before, steam rushing out of the cubicle and into the cool air of the room. It mists and curls around your body as you step onto the smooth, cold flooring. You take note of the fact that your soiled clothes are missing and nowhere to be seen and that Porco is back in his seat hunched down and still facing away from you. You can tell his arms are crossed over his chest and can only imagine the look of impatience painting his features.

Your own arms are crossed over your chest as you shiver, a trail of water marking your walk from the shower to the bed. There is a small and fluffy white towel with a pair of basic underclothes perched on top, all folded neatly waiting for you. You waste no time in wrapping yourself in the towel the best you can, and rigorously drying your body.

You let out a content sigh once you pull the fresh long-sleeved shirt over your head, yanking the hem down and straightening it out. Porco managed to find another pair of leggings similar to your previous ones and you quickly pull them on over your fresh cotton underwear. The fabric smells new and feels heavenly against your clean skin.

Your feet stick slightly to the floor as you pad over to the table and pull out the chair across from your new companion. His arms are indeed crossed, his dimpled chin resting on his chest, eyes closed. You can tell he isn’t asleep by his breathing, and the way his eyes twitch underneath his lids as he tracks your movement. You pull at the crease of your shirt and smile thinly, “So, this is why you were scurrying around the place backwards.”

He cracks one hazel eye open and flicks it up and down your frame briefly, “You’re welcome.” The response was short and clipped, but held an amused tone, as if laughing at your obvious reluctance to thank him.

You sniff, narrowing your eyes at him, and instead turn your attention to the items scattered across the tabletop; four tall cans of energy drink and an assortment of protein bars and crackers. You can’t help the smile that fights to spread across your face at the exact moment your stomach decides to rumble, “We’ve got a feast.”

You chance a glance at Porco, who has straightened at your tone, and reach across the table eagerly for a protein bar. He hums, “Bit bland but beats munchin’ on Cryptobiotes,'' you grimace at the word, stuffing your mouth with the snack unceremoniously. Cryptobiotes are small life forms found out in the wild that are rife with protein and nutrients; they supposedly replenish red blood cells at a faster rate and are a steady component of your diet when you are above ground and have run out of food rations, but you can’t say much for the taste.

Porco snatches his own bar, flipping the packet up and back into his hand, before grabbing a can of energy drink and popping it open with a thumb. You unwrap the crackers, packet rustling loudly as you rip it almost down the middle and grab a handful. Porco sputters into his first sip of drink and is quick to comment on your messy eating habits. You only give him the finger before shovelling several into your mouth at once, chewing loudly.

Finally, you can eat, and it tastes better than it should. You finish eating in relative silence, Porco only breaking it to throw a jab your way, huffing dramatically as he cleans up the crumbs and wrappers. You grab the last few and follow him to the small pedal bin by the bed which he holds open for you with a foot so you can drop your mess in.

But apparently that isn't the only cleaning up he had in store because you soon find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed while Porco sits on the stool seat in front of you, first aid kit spilling its contents onto the bedspread as he rifles through it with one hand. He washed his hands a moment ago and donned the powder blue gloves he found in the cabinet when he was looking for the first aid kit. He leans slightly towards you as he tries to find what he’s looking for, and you tense at the sudden closeness. You feel his breath puff across your skin as he grumbles and groans to himself, his almost-dry hair starting to fall around his face again, framing those rounded cheekbones and sharp jawline. You flick your eyes down to notice that his button nose has a slight upturn to it, cute.

You quickly shake the thought away and clear your throat before speaking, “You know I really can do this myself, there’s a mirror over there.” You glance at it with longing, hoping the man before you will retreat and leave you to your space.

“Not willing to let the dashingly handsome stranger clean your wounds?” He jests as he upends the first aid bag completely and continues rummaging.

“Yeah, well the last stranger I ran into didn’t treat me so kindly.” You reply dryly, gripping your fingers tightly in your lap. You catch the concerned look he throws your way, but ultimately, he decides to gloss over it.

“Damn, do you ever relax? You act like I took you hostage.”

“Didn’t you?” You counter with a glare.

He ignores you, “I get it, there are some really shitty people out there. But lemme ask you this -- have I treated you unkindly?” He stops his searching to look up at you earnestly, neat eyebrows arching ever so slightly, as his eyes meet yours. This close you can see every swirl of colour in his eyes, the golds and browns flecked with varying shades of green.

You shift under his gaze, eyes flicking away from his own and back again, trying your hardest not to flush under his honest scrutiny. “Well, you could take some lessons in tact,” you mutter pointedly, pulling a snort from him, “but...no.” You finish begrudgingly.

He laughs, “Hey, I don’t sugar-coat it.”

“Now that, we can both agree on.” Your lips twitch upwards and when you look at him this time you force yourself to keep your eyes on his. He looks back at you, smile faltering slightly as he takes you in. His gaze dips lower, lingering on your mouth, and he swallow. You find yourself mirroring the action, throat suddenly dry. You realise that he is a lot closer than you initially thought, and although you hold your breath unconsciously, you aren't quite as tense. A little more confident that he isn't likely to lunge and attack.

He blinks, and suddenly he’s leaning back and away from you, as he begins to appraise the slash on your forehead as if nothing happened.

“Anyway-” you clear your throat, the sound too loud in the quiet room, a thread of tension shimmering in the atmosphere, “-just because you haven’t treated me unkindly yet, doesn’t mean you won’t.”

Porco lines up the items he needs: a bottle of saline solution, gauze swabs and some wound cleansing wipes as you speak. He tears open an individual sachet and pulls out the small, damp cloth before holding it up in front of your face, “You’re right-“ he grins, “-guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

You frown at him. You can’t work him out and that makes you apprehensive, but you have questions and you need them answered.

“I can’t trust you because I don’t know you,” you respond, “why did you save me?” The question comes out in a rush, and you clamp your lips together in embarrassment.

He looks at you, bewildered, “Do you make a habit of leaving fellow humans to get eaten? Remind me not to rely on you if I’m ever in a pickle.” You give him a wicked look, and he rolls his eyes and carries on, “plus I’d die from the resulting Voidout. So yeah, I saved you.” Right. Stupid question.

“That better?” he asks, and you furrow your brows in confusion.

“I need to have a self-serving reason for saving you? That makes you believe me more?” You lock up, his words hitting a little too close to your chest, and you look off to the side, determined not to let him get under your skin. But God, is he really sinking those hooks in.

He scoffs and holds up the gloved hand that is still clutching the wipe, “You gonna let me clean that wound before it festers?” He uses a softer tone this time and you eye him warily before nodding once, back ramrod straight as he leans in to dab at the crusted blood around the knife wound. “You rinsed most of the blood off in the shower, but there’s some stubborn spots here and there, so I’m just gonna clean it up, ok?” You breathe out a quiet “okay” and try not to squirm, letting him clean the area so he can see the extent of the damage. He’s surprisingly gentle with you and you find yourself relaxing a little as he focuses on the task. You stay silent for a while, enjoying the quiet, even if it is a little awkward as you think of the next question you want to ask him.

There’s so much you want to know, curious nature always getting the better of you, but it’s weird to probe into a stranger’s affairs. Instead, you settle on asking what concerns you, the obvious question.

“How did you get rid of the BTs?” Porco takes a beat to finish his task of wiping your forehead before he throws the bloodied wipes into the bin at his feet and finally looks at you.

“A blood grenade, would you believe it? Some hotshot Porter that works for Bridges supposedly has special blood that can kill them, he’s a Repatriate.” You perk up at the name, eyes widening and following Porco’s movements as his deft fingers undo the cap on the bottle of solution. He takes a gauze pad out of the box and places it over the opening of the bottle before upending it. You can’t believe he’s so casual about this. Repatriates are rare, you’ve never met one or known anyone who has (coming back from the dead is hardly an ability many possess), and if his blood can kill BTs? This is huge.

“A Repatriate?” You echo eagerly, sitting up a little straighter and shuffling forward on the mattress. Porco flicks his olive eyes to yours in amusement before humming in confirmation. He holds the soaked gauze out and raises his eyebrows at you, a silent request. You nod quickly before getting back to the topic at hand, “And?”

“And what?” He asks as he delicately begins to dab at the slice above your brows. You roll your eyes at him impatiently; he really enjoys pushing your buttons it seems. You are hardly in the mood for it, but you want to get answers from him so playing nice is your best bet.

“Tell me about the Repatriate,” you comment carefully, masking some of your earlier excitement. He tries to hide a smile but fails and you wince as he prods your sore flesh a little too hard.

“Shit, sorry!” he curses, and discards the pad for a fresh one. He sighs as he busies himself with the saline again, “we weren’t told much really, so I’m assuming that means the higher ups know fuck all about why he’s so special. They rounded up a bunch of us higher-ranking Porters, handed us a couple grenades each and told us to go crazy, see if they worked effectively on BTs.”

You look him in the face as he dabs the last of the liquid onto your sliced skin, the sting bringing tears to your lower lash line and sending a wicked throbbing through your skull. Everything is starting to catch up with you, exhaustion settling in your bones and aches returning to your limbs. You set your teeth as you breathe through the pain and blink away the tears, a few escaping from your lashes and falling down your cheeks. Porco absentmindedly reaches out to wipe them away with a thumb, and after the initial shock, you realise you oddly appreciate the gesture. It doesn't stop you from flinching at the contact. He pats the wounded area dry with a clean pad before pushing away from the bed and standing up.

He crosses the short space to the wall by the shower, and the sink unit automatically pops out to greet him, the mirror lighting up his profile. It’s as he is peeling off the gloves and washing his hands that you realise something.

“So, you didn’t know if those grenades would work?” you ask, voice a little too high-pitched.

He chuckles and shoots you a look across the room, hair falling over his eyes, and you watch incredulously as he runs a hand through it once more, pushing it back and away from his face as he says, “Lucky for us both, they did.”

You contemplate arguing his nonchalant behaviour, but you are too spent, and suspect that your berating wouldn’t change much anyways. They worked, and you both lived to survive another day, so that is that.

“And that’s what you were doing when you found me, hunting BTs?” You gingerly roll your neck from side to side, pushing through the nausea that surfaces from the persistent and near agonising ache in your skull.

“Amongst other things, don’t get up-,” he warns as you move to slide off the bed, “-gotta wrap ya up.”

You freeze mid-action and shuffle backwards again. He appears at your side once more and reaches for a roll of bandages. He quickly presses a pad to your now clean cut and asks you a question in turn.

“So, what’s your story? Pretty nasty injuries you’ve got, wicked bump on the back of your head.” You don’t even bother to avoid the question and redirect the conversation, you just don’t answer, and he frowns.

He unrolls the bandages and mumbles a short, “Can I?”, waiting for your answering nod before he begins to dress your wound, winding the material around your head. He secures it at the back and you feel all at once a little better. The material isn’t too tight but holds firm, it feels like it’s holding you together, keeping your head from fracturing in two.

“The stranger,” he starts, and you must look confused because he continues, “the stranger who didn’t treat you too kindly. Was this courtesy of them?” His words are quiet, unobtrusive, a tone tinged with mild curiosity. You feel at the back of your head with soft fingers, skimming over the lump there and clamping down on a whimper at the pain.

“Yeah.” You don’t elaborate, and he doesn’t ask you to. You are starting to lose focus, thoughts fragmenting and wandering, limbs heavy. He must notice your eyelids drooping because he places a hand on your shoulder, grip warm and firm, “Come on, you need to rest, you’re lucky you don’t have a concussion.”

You yawn wide as you lean your weight onto your arms and lift your feet onto the platform, shuffling back towards the wall. You lay down gently and settle on your side to avoid any sore spots, curling into a foetal position. Porco grabs the blanket that’s off to the side and flicks it out and over you. As you pull the material up to your chin, seeking warmth, Porco settles beside you with his back to the wall. He rests his elbows against his knees, the muscles of his arms rippling as he does so, and his broad shoulders hunch forwards to curl around his frame.

He’s still in sleep shorts and a tank, and vaguely, your syrupy thoughts wonder if he’s cold. He taps a cuff attached to his wrist and a holographic screen is thrown upwards, showing some sort of map. You realise it isn’t a bracelet at all, and remind yourself to ask him about it later. You make a conscious effort to keep your eyes open and mutter out two words around a fresh yawn.

“Huh?” He questions, head turning to look at your face peeking over the top of the blanket.

“Thank you,” you say, louder this time. He cocks his head to the side a little, thick neck on display, his eyebrows raised in alarm.

“For what?” His smile is all too teasing, and you wish you had the energy to roll your eyes at him.

“For everything, just. Thank you.” Your voice sounds thick, exhaustion evident, and your blinks become slower, last longer. He smiles then, a genuine smile that lights up his face, so different from the teasing grin or the near-permanent frown that you have been given up till now. His cheeks bunch adorably, apples even rounder with the movement, and you note that he has dimples. His teeth flash at you, neat and white, plump lips stretched around them. His smile curves up higher on one side, barely, but you catch it. You dislike the thought crossing your mind that he is handsome, it swims around your brain and you think you smile back at him, his easygoing nature a little infectious.

“It’s nothin', now sleep.” You are all too happy to oblige, but not before you pull the blanket over to his side a little and offer up a corner, your way of making nice. You can hardly leave him cold all night after everything he’s done for you. He takes the material offered to him and slides a little closer to your form, laying his legs flat and wrapping the blanket around his waist. You let the rest drop between you and snuggle into your half. Sleep claims you quickly.

The next few days pass in a haze of boredom, each day bleeding into the next as you heal from your encounter with the MULEs. Porco makes you rest more than you would like, and you find yourself leaning into his easy personality and letting your guard slip.

At first, it was merely something to do, to wile away the hours cooped up in this tiny room; but after the first 24 hours, you find yourself looking forward to his witty remarks and teasing nature, finding particular enjoyment in the little crease between his brows when he sports a frown. You especially like being the cause of said frown when you bite back at his blunt delivery or whine extra loud about his choice to keep you inside for longer than necessary – to “make sure you recuperate fully”.

“What would have been the point in saving you, if I let you wander off half delirious and fainting all over the place?”

You object to that phrasing because you only fainted once since the attack and you aren’t as weak and hopeless as he makes out. You have, and probably will, survive worse. He makes it seem like you are a burden, a gigantic pain in his ass, and you almost wish it was true (and not more of his teasing) so that you can just get out of here. But another part of you, a much bigger part than you want to admit- and what mostly makes you stay seeing as you could leave if you really wanted to- needs this house arrest to last just a little longer, despite the obvious cabin fever.

You hate being below ground, it is the main reason you took up the occupation of Porter, so that you could spend your dwindling days out in the fresh air. You feel most centred, most yourself, out in nature and the inherent risks are worth it in your opinion. Worth it to feel the sun on your skin, the wind in your hair, to remind yourself there is a world out there waiting to be explored, ripe for the taking.

Sometimes, it is the only thing that gets you up in the morning and you can’t understand the individuals who are content with being stuck in the underground cities. To you, it is a prison sentence. That being said, you are lonely. The profession you chose and the path you took in this life isolates you from humanity, which in the past was just fine by you, preferred even. But you quickly realised that loneliness consumed one from the inside out and having someone to talk to meant more than you ever thought it would. It keeps one sane.

Especially someone who understands the difficulties of what you do every day. And that is how you also found yourself realising that you enjoy Porco’s company, are grateful for it even. His reminders to eat and exercise keep you grounded and the menial tasks he throws your way (despite your resentment at the order) gives you something to focus your mind on and do, besides sleeping.

What was initially reluctance at his commands turns into a begrudging gratefulness as you sort through the supplies in the room and pick out anything useful for travel. You make two piles, one for yourself and a near identical one for your current roommate. The supplies include food rations, water, clothing, mini first-aid kits and back-up items such as spare lights and rope. You also found some boots in the display cabinet housing the new and shiny Bridge’s suits, one of which you already have your eye on. It is of similar design to your old one but far fancier, state of the art technology and materials used with a myriad of adjustments that will make travel more comfortable than you are used to.

Porco told you, the day after you met him, that he has a contract with Bridges, he works for them not just with them as a freelance Porter. That’s what the clunky cuff on his wrist is, a way to connect each one of the Bridges staff, a communication link as well as a handy tool. He patiently showed you how it functions and let you play around with it and ask questions. You were surprised to find that he could be serious when he wanted to be and was a pretty good teacher. Not that it lasted for very long before he was back to his usual insults and cocky smirk.

You have come up with a nickname of sorts for Porco in the time you’ve spent with him. It was your third day at the Waystation when you had voiced the idea.

“You need a nickname,” you had spoken the thought aloud, and it hung heavy in the quiet of the room, as you sat cross legged on the floor sorting through more clothes.

“No, I don’t,” had come the near instantaneous reply.

“Yes, you do,” you retaliated immediately, indifferent to his rebuttal.

“And why’s that?” you heard a sigh in his voice that he tried to mask under feigned interest, but you picked up on it, nonetheless. You have learnt the tells that indicate his annoyance and what is merely teasing pretty quickly since you have nothing better to do than sit around and analyse the man.

You know that being stuck with you in this room for three days straight has not been easy for him -- you whine and moan and blame the situation on him and you are reluctant to offer any information about yourself while demanding answers from him. In your defence, he has left the four walls of this room, and you have not. You are bound to be a little stir crazy and cranky, entitled to it really.

“So, I don’t laugh every time I use your real name,” you smiled to yourself from your position across the room. He had been leaning against the opposite wall marking a route on his map using the cuff. He spent most days when he wasn’t out on deliveries (only local since he had to “keep an eye on you”) mapping a route to what you assumed was his next destination. Although you weren’t sure what delivery route could require such time and attention.

His seething silence and the muscle you just knew was jumping in his jaw, was evidence enough that he had not been in the mood that day, and so you had relented with a cheery tone.

“I’ll keep you posted.”

He ended that conversation with a grunt.

It isn’t until today that you speak up about it as he saunters over to you.

“Pock!” you exclaim, neatly folding undergarments into a small bag.

“Umm, sorry?” He stops just in front of your seated form at the table, and you look up at his arched brows and cocked head.

“You’re real cute when you’re clueless,” you coo at him, and he meets it with a scowl, but you notice a pink hue to his complexion. “Have you forgotten already? It’s your nickname,” you smile big as you focus on your folding again, expecting him to argue the point. To your surprise he laughs.

“I was expecting a lot worse,” he plops down into the seat across from you, “I can work with Pock.”

“Well good, better start getting used to it,” you finish your folding and lay your head on your arms atop the table. You hear the squeak of steel against plastic as he leans back in his chair.

“You’re doing well,” he comments. You crack open an eye to peek at him over the top of your arm.

“It’s just folding laundry; you could do it too yaknow.” You watch as he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek to stop a grin from splitting across his face.

“Funny. I meant your injuries,” he crosses his arms over his front, forearms flexing in a delicious distraction, drawing your attention from his mouth to his chest, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

His eyes follow your gaze and there is a flicker of amusement and...pride? in them when they return to your face. You groan and close your eyes, burying your face into the crook of your elbow.

“You don’t seem to have any lasting effects from the head injury and your cuts and scrapes are healing nicely.”

“Nice observation skills, detective, I could have told you that” you mumble into your skin, deflecting your earlier embarrassment of being caught staring into humour, your tone dry.

He ignores the remark and continues, “I think tomorrow’s as good a day as any.”

You perk up at that. “For what?” you ask eagerly, lifting your head to meet his hazel eyes.

“To leave, can’t stay here forever, I know it must be tempting for you when you’ve got all this to look at,” he gestures at himself with a smug smile, “but I’ve got places to be.”

He is in casual wear again today; wearing loose fit joggers (that have become his usual since he found them in the clothes bin) slung low on his hips, the waistband snug against his pelvic bones and the light grey fabric hugging the curve of his thigh muscles. Paired with those too-small white tanks he favours little is left to the imagination, although your brain tries anyway, filling your head with unwanted images of him sprawled out beneath you.

Being cooped up is turning you into a pervert; it is an effort to look away when he showers, to look anywhere but the glistening drops of water that roll off his abs whenever he steps out of the cubicle, fluffy towel wrapped loosely about his waist and accentuating that delicious V that disappears beneath the material. You swear he does it on purpose, just to see the struggle as you attempt to keep your eyes locked on his and do your best to keep a clear head, spitting out some half-hearted lie about how he doesn’t look as good as he thinks he does.

“Oh, so you have been looking, then?” He always catches you out, always. It’s what fuels your snarky attitude and ill attempts at insults, purely because you know that he is having more of an effect on you than you want. You figure it’s probably the Stockholm Syndrome talking (a fact you teasingly remind him of every time he suggests that you are warming up to him), although that body doesn’t hurt either, and chalk it up to basic human desire at being stuck in such close quarters.

You break out of your reverie when he waves a hand in front of your face, “Hellooooo! It’s only been three days; you can’t have lost your mind already.”

“Tomorrow?” you repeat slowly, dawning excitement bubbling in your chest. Outside. You will be outside in less than 24 hours.

“Yeah, you almost done with those bags?” he nods to the small packs you’ve been preparing.

“Just gotta pack away the rest of the spare clothes,” you answer.

“Good,” he comments, “So we should talk about what’s next,” his tone is firm and his stance immediately changes. His arms tighten across his chest as his spine straightens, casual demeanour immediately morphing into that serious ‘this means business’ face, that you have to admit he wears well.

“Who’s this we you keep throwing around?” You challenge.

“Alright, I won’t beat around the bush- “

“Do you ever?” You mutter, interrupting him mid-sentence. He gives you a look and you back down with your hands raised in mock defeat, “-given your circumstances, I think you should come with me. We can travel together.”

You stare at him for a few seconds to ascertain whether he is joking or not, but his face is more serious than it has ever been, and you think back to an earlier conversation you had a day or so ago.

He had been cleaning your wounds and checking the lump on the back of your head when you had finally spoken up about what had happened on that fateful day on the mountain with the ambusher…with Zeke.

His face had transformed at that name drop, from deep concern to something resembling fear, it was the first time you had seen it on him and it sparked something animal in you, a fight or flight instinct that made your skin crawl and heart rate quicken.

He had shakily dropped the roll of gauze in his hand and sat back with a deep exhale. It felt like the silence between you had stretched on for an eternity, the atmosphere roiling with tension, before he had spoken two words. Two words you hadn’t wanted to hear.

“We’re fucked.”

Needless to say, it did little to ease your nerves. After a drink and some mild coaxing on your part, Pock had revealed what he knew about the man and his motley crew. It turns out that Zeke is a psychopath, not really a surprise, but something you had hoped was a stretch on your part after your short encounter.

He told you that he knew of the Yeager’s, many people around these parts did, apparently they were not only thugs but kidnappers, taking women they came across that caught Zeke’s fancy.

“He’s bad news, and I mean the worst kind, he’s obsessive and has made it his hobby to collect people…women,” you shuddered at the revelation and thanked the universe that you had gotten away that day, but Porco made it clear that you weren’t out of hot water just yet.

“Don’t look so relieved,” he spoke sharply enough that your heart had dropped, “he will stop at nothing to get what he wants…I’ve seen it first-hand,“ he lapsed into a grim silence after that. Your stomach rolled, chest heaving at the thought of what befell those women, of who Porco had lost to that disgusting monster.

“What happened to her?” you uttered the question quietly, not wanting to pry or upset him, but needing to know the answer.

“Nothing good,” he grunted, and the air left your lungs in a painful whoosh, as if he punched it right out of you. When he spoke again, you startled so badly that you knocked the first aid kit off the bed, contents spilling across the floor.

“My brother went after her, but-“ the sentence had been cut short by a pained crack in his throat, eyes swimming with a haunted look.

You grabbed his hand that day, and he had grabbed yours back. You hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even looked at each other, only gripped the others hand like a lifeline; his warm palm pressed against your own, rough fingertips squeezing yours, his touch indented into your flesh long after he let go. A memory that lingered on your skin.

It was the first time you touched him since you took his hand the day he found you, the first time you had willingly gotten closer to him without hesitation. You hadn’t been able to help it when you saw the look in his eyes; the grief, the loss...the despair. You knew it all too well, it was mirrored in your own gaze, something impossible to hide from those who felt it too, despite how desperately one tried. Neither of you had brought up the topic again, until now.

And as you look into those eyes of green and gold now, turbulent with unspoken emotion, you think that you maybe understand his motivation for the question he asked. And you realise that you were strangers, but not anymore, he knows you even if only a little. And what if, maybe he too, is fed up with being alone. Maybe he has grown to appreciate your company as much as you have his.

But it isn’t just that, things have changed after your conversation about Zeke. Pock had known someone who had been in your position, who he couldn’t help, who wasn’t saved before it was too late. And maybe him finding you in the wilderness was an odd twist of fate, a chance for him to right the wrongs of his past, to deal with it head on and heal from it.

And who are you to stand in the way of fate, to reject help when it is so willingly offered in a time of crisis, in a time of loneliness? But all of that reaching is a smokescreen for your true desires on the matter, for the thought you had as soon as the words fell from his lips -- you want to go with him.

But that’s not what you say.

“Wait, what? You want to travel together? Travel where? Everywhere is a wasteland plagued by dead souls, not exactly prime sightseeing locations.” You frown at him, your voice laced with sarcasm. Is he pulling your leg? What does he even mean? You come from different compounds, have established lives completely separate from one another, and porters aren't known for travelling in groups. It's a lonesome job that rarely requires more than one pair of hands.

“Listen, I’ve got a plan. Sort of,” his face scrunches in contemplation, “I’m leaving here, leaving this island. I’m heading to Lake Knot and from there I’ll catch a boat to greener pastures, and then I’m gone.” Greener pastures, you process the two words in disgust, not quite believing or understanding what he’s saying. This is an insane journey he's proposing, and certainly not one you spring on a person you've known for all of four days.

“Are you crazy? There are no greener pastures,” your voice rises in pitch as you lean forward in your seat and stare at him incredulously across the table, “and you want me to leave my home, the only place I’ve ever known, and go on some wild goose chase with a stranger across the sea…for a pipe dream?”

Porco frowns at you, any playfulness still in his posture gone now. “We’re hardly strangers,” he says as he shoots you a grim look, “and why not? What’s tying you to this place? Do you even have anyone to stick around for?” He means well, you know he doesn’t mean to hurt you with those words, but he does anyway.

You don’t have anyone to stick around for, but he doesn’t know that, and it isn’t the point. You know he understands that emptiness all too well, the loneliness, that he is only offering you a way out.

But you can’t stop the anger that bubbles up inside you at his insensitive words and blunt delivery, at the spike of pain and flash of memories that threaten to overtake you. You never had been good at controlling your anger, “You don’t fucking know anything about me, so don’t you dare pretend that you do,” you seethe, spitting out the words like venom.

“Yeah?” His eyes flash, and now you know he’s pissed, “Well, whose fault is that?” He jerks his head at you, and you bristle, but he continues before you can interrupt, “It’s dangerous out there, you know that as well as I do. If we stick together, we can have each other’s backs, sounds a hell of a lot better to me than going it alone.” He drops his forearms onto the table with a thump and goes to push away from the table, effectively ending your little spat, but you are determined to have the last word.

“So, that’s what this is about,” You comment, and it stops him in his tracks, his eyes darting to your face, “You think I need protecting? I’m not her, Pock, and you aren’t your brother. This isn't something you need to do, for me or yourself. I’ve survived just fine on my own my whole life and you know what? I’ll continue to survive on my own. I don’t need you to swoop in and save the damsel in distress!” Your words are a shout now, emotion bleeding from each ragged breath you take, heart slamming against your chest. You hate confrontation, it makes you sick. Yet here you are starting it, acidic words rising in your throat like bile and spilling from your mouth, a mouth twisted with cruelty.

You hate the bitter words in your mouth, the metallic tang they leave on your taste buds. You went too far, and you can’t take those words back, can’t take back the look on Porco’s face, back stiff and teeth clenching together so hard you half-expect them to crack. Those eyes that have only ever been kind aren’t shining anymore, the sparkle gone from them, only white-hot rage remains. He stands up abruptly, knocking his chair over, the clatter resounding through the room and making you jump.

“S’not what it looked like when I found you screaming and pissing yourself a few days ago.” His voice is low, so unlike your loud and explosive anger. It’s a quiet rage that simmers beneath the surface; his body taut, every muscle straining against his skin, as if he is using all his strength to rein it in.

“If I remember correctly, I saved you. Why are you so fucking determined to push people away, so scared of connecting with someone? You ever think that you’re on your own because you made it that way?” His words are justified, you deserve them, hell they’re the truth. But they sting anyway, pricking at your eyes, and you stare resolutely ahead to keep the tears at bay. You are shaking, with frustration or guilt, you don’t know. Maybe both.

You look down at the table and mumble, “And this is why I work alone.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, all traces of anger swept away with the slump of your shoulders, your admittance of defeat.

You hear Porco shift on his feet, a step toward you, and then he halts. You can almost see the words in the forefront of his mind, tripping over his tongue trying to rearrange themselves, to come out right. But they never come, as if he realises there is no right thing to say.

You hear the scrape of his chair as he rights it and his footsteps as he turns to walk away, but he stops one last time, and speaks so quietly you almost don't catch it all. "You're wrong. Maybe I don't need to do this for you, but I do need to for myself."

You suck in a stuttered breath, air catching in your throat, and chest aching. Fuck, why did you have to open your big mouth and ruin everything. He throws one last line over his shoulder before he leaves the room, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” Dismissive. Final.

You sigh, a shaky exhale of built-up emotion, and the first few tears of many finally fall and spatter against the plastic beneath you. You look up, to make sure you see him leave, a small punishment for yourself. You hate staring at his back as he walks away from you, knowing that you crossed a line and hurt him, in doing so.

You know he will leave you alone as best he can for the rest of the day so that you can stew in your own juices, maybe see some reason. You also know that come tomorrow, should you reject him again, he will let you leave. Even if the guilt of doing so tears him up inside. You hate that the look of absolute devastation that flashed across his face when you mentioned his brother, still lingers in your mind when you shut your eyes. But most of all, you hate you, and your inability to be honest with yourself and with him.

He still isn’t back after an hour; you’ve spent the time alternating between sitting at the table chewing on your nails and pacing back and forth in front of the glass display wall. You are tired from all the crying you let out as soon as he left the compound, and your toe hurts where you kicked it against the chair in another fit of rage shortly after that. You crawl onto the bed and curl up on your side, burying your face in Pock's pillow and inhaling the scent of soap and him. You've exhausted thoughts of what happened and how you could have handled it differently, spent far too long picking apart each word between you and him, obsessing over every little detail and what he could be up to right now. You squeeze your tired and puffy eyes shut, letting the negative thoughts spiral out into the darkness behind your closed lids, becoming less coherent and fuzzy at the edges. Your breathing deepens as your consciousness slowly slips away from you, the last thing your mind summons up is a face twisted with hurt, and a pair of sad, hazel eyes.

Your dreams are disjointed flashes of memories, some far too old for you to possibly remember, perhaps just nightmares conjured up to haunt you. Others depict apocalyptic events spelling the downfall of humanity, nothing concrete, just blood and death and ash. You see the faces of people, some you know and others you don't, but each one slowly fades out into a haze of red – their lives wiped off the board one by one.

Leaving only a few remaining…and this is the only time you've seen something that wasn't in the past, that hasn't already happened, a chilling omen that cuts you bone deep. It's Pock; he's standing in front of you bruised and battered, tears shining in his eyes. He's attempting to mouth something to you, something you can't make out. Your hands stretch out into empty space, reaching for him…but they never connect.

You scream and cry out, but there's no sound here, everything is fuzzy and quickly fading into red. Not again. It's your fault, all your fault. Another life on your shoulders, more blood on your hands. You can't leave him alone to die, you won't, but no matter how much you struggle the image disintegrates into the background. The last thing you see is a wave of heat and light rushing towards him before the image shatters.

There's someone else here.

And suddenly you are struggling against a firm grip, harsh fingers digging into your flesh cruelly, and when you manage to turn… you are met with a blank face with soulless pits for eyes. The only discernible feature is a pair of silver-rimmed glasses perched atop a long nose. Checkmate.

Porco paces back and forth outside the Waypoint obsessively, pulling at his hair and debating whether he should go back in there and apologise, talk it out with you. But he decides you both need some time to cool off and so he takes a short trip into the valley beyond the forest you currently reside in. He searches around the rocks, checking every nook and cranny, before he finds some lost cargo in a shallow river. Fortunately, it is labelled for delivery to the Waypoint you are currently stationed at. So he straps the cargo to his gear, going through the motions methodically and with a practiced ease, before he lugs it all back to base for delivery. 

The exercise took his mind off your fight, kept the bitter words and guilt at bay long enough for his head to clear. When he returns to your shared capsule, you are asleep, curled up in the middle of the bed with your face in his pillow. It sends a pang through his chest seeing the closest object to you with his smell and imprint on wrapped in your arms. He likes the idea that even in his absence he somehow brought you comfort.

He watches the rise and fall of your form for several minutes before shucking off his suit and then sliding onto the cot next to you, sacrificing his section of the blanket so he can wrap it around you carefully. You lay atop most of it but there is enough to keep you covered. He doesn't mind, he's hot after his trek back anyway. 

He didn't realise he'd fallen asleep until your screams woke him with a start. Porco isn't usually too alarmed with your night terrors, it's something everyone with DOOMs has to suffer through and also something he's become accustomed to while sharing a bed with you, but tonight is different… 

Your screams are piercing, your sobs shredding through his sleep-riddled brain as you chant his name over and over, practically begging. A sick feeling worms its way into his gut as panic takes hold, you are twisting yourself up in the sheets and thrashing around wildly, arms striking him in the process. 

He grabs your hands as they swing for him, restricting your movement so that you don't hurt yourself, and then calls your name over your yelling. A few more yells and a hand at your face and you jerk awake, eyes flying open in panic. You strain against his hold, leaning away from him and panting with fright, clearly terrified by whatever you saw. It takes you a few seconds to realise that he is the one beside you, that you are now awake, and not trapped in an endless nightmare.

Your thrashing has slowed, wide eyes crinkling as you take in his appearance, your fingers clutching at his biceps frantically. 

"I- I thought…I saw-" You take a shuddering breath, and then the dam breaks, tears flowing down your cheeks as you gasp out your sobs. Porco pulls you into his chest without a thought, your sweat-damp hair sticking to his bare skin. He startles when you wrap your arms around his neck without hesitation, tucking your face into his neck to muffle your cries. Now, that's unexpected. Usually you apologise for waking him, grab a drink, and then roll over again. Maybe it's because this one was particularly nasty, maybe it's because of your fight earlier...

He holds you gently, hand rubbing up and down your back as he recites calmly and firmly into your ear, "You're okay, hey, you're safe. Just need you to breathe for me, okay?" 

You nod your head, sniffling into his skin as you take deep stuttering breaths in, and then out. He focuses on that since it seems to be working and breathes with you, coaching you through it until your tears have stopped and you are breathing evenly. You stay wrapped in eachothers arms in the quiet, only the eerie glow of the display wall lighting the room. He's afraid that if he moves you'll pull away and shut down, so he keeps still, and continues brushing his fingertips over the bare skin of your shoulders. 

You've taken to wearing just a bandage around your chest at night, you run hot and can't sleep in the heat. Great solution for you, a huge pain in the ass for him. He tries his best to be a decent human being around you but fuck, do you make it difficult, swanning around in minimal clothing with that little smirk playing on your lips as you insult him. And the way you look at him sometimes…if he didn't know better, he'd say that you felt the same urges he does. 

You stay quiet while his mind wanders, clearly contemplating how to break the silence, what to tell him and what not to tell him. He lets you think it out until eventually you clear your throat awkwardly. 

"My answer is yes." Your voice is hoarse and dry from all the screaming, and sounds oddly loud in the silence. 

"What's that now?" He tucks his chin to look down at you with surprise and a little amusement. You always keep him on his toes, that's for sure. 

You look up at him with an exasperated sigh, puffy, red eyes narrowed at him. 

"You heard me. I said yes, I'll come with you." You look away quickly after speaking, probably realising how close you are to one another, it hasn't escaped his attention either. But now is definitely not the time to address it. 

"One little nightmare changed your mind? Realised you can't live without me?" You sit up at his words, slowly extricating from his embrace, and wiping an arm over your dewy forehead. 

Your answering wince makes him feel guilty for teasing, you seemed pretty distraught only moments ago. But then you cock an eyebrow at him wryly and he knows you appreciate the olive branch of normalcy he extended. 

"Never," you chirp airily, "but, and I say this begrudgingly, you are right. I could do with someone watching my back." He smiles lazily at you, it's a rare day you compliment him, let alone admit he's right about anything. 

"Don't go getting a big head," you warn him, stretching your arms above your head with a face-splitting yawn, "ahhhhh…besides, I'd feel guilty if you died out there with no one to protect you."

He snorts and gives you a look, one that suggests the idea of you protecting him is absurd considering how you met, but you both know he doesn't mean it. Not really. You've survived this far on your own out there, and if your lean build and the swell of muscles beneath your soft skin are anything to go by, you can take care of yourself. 

You scowl at him, and shove him away from you roughly, face glowing with delight when he nearly falls off the bed with the action. 

"Are you ever gonna let that go?" You demand, folding your hands in front of your bandaged chest with that unrelenting, headstrong attitude of yours. Porco finds it amusing that you can now tell exactly what he's thinking depending on his behaviour, the forced proximity has wrought a sense of familiarity in you both. 

"Probably not." His cocky response does nothing to assuage your fire, and he holds up his hands to ward off any further attacks, watching you amusedly as you give him a withering look. 

"Don't make me change my mind already."

"I'll be quiet as a mouse." He acts out the motion of zipping his lips shut and you roll your eyes before sliding off the bed and checking the digital clock on the table you use for dining. Perhaps dining is too generous a word for the meals you eat. 

"No point in going back to bed, we'll have to be leaving in a few hours anyways," you force the words out around another yawn, the dark circles under your eyes more prominent than usual, and head for the shower. 

He can't blame you for your urgency, you are probably itching to set foot outside. He wouldn't have survived these past few days without his little trips above ground each day. He gives you credit for not losing your marbles entirely. 

"With how long you take in the shower? Reckon I can get a couple winks in."

He laughs, as you raise a hand above your head and give him the finger, not even bothering to turn around to pin him with a glare. He collapses onto the bed with a huff as you begin to undress, the steel cables creaking with the weight, and closes his eyes. Any excuse to prove himself correct and hear you say those three, magic words again.

☾☆ ☽ ☆ ��

You had set off early to mid-morning after you had showered and suited up, the day grey with cloud cover. You would have thought it the height of summer and not post-apocalypse with the way you frolicked and beamed in the brisk air. You were just happy to be alive, for once.

That was over a week ago now, and the mild weather has long since passed. The sun beating down on your backs is harsh and unforgiving, your damn bodysuits keeping in the heat and acting as your own portable sauna. You are exhausted, Porco has been riding you hard to keep up the pace all week, improving your chances of out-running Zeke and his goons. You understand the urgency, but boy is this a bitch.

The day you left the wind farm Waypoint, Pock spent the first few hours explaining his grand plan and everything he knew thus far, answering your many questions and concerns as you picked your way through the dense woodland. The short of it was that this special grade Porter, known only as Sam, was travelling the wasteland to connect Knot Cities to something called the Chiral Network. You honestly stopped listening during that part, you knew enough about chiralium and how it shaped this new world, but a lot of the heavier stuff went over your head.

The UCA government hoped that this would bring about order and communication between Knot Cities and act as a catalyst to revive civilisation. Porco wanted to be a part of that change, said he was sick of sitting on his ass between delivering packages, and he hoped that getting on a boat and leaving would put enough distance between you and Zeke Yeager.

So here you are, heading to Lake Knot to travel across the water to "greener pastures". You suppose you shouldn't complain, besides the gruelling physical aspect, it's been quite pleasant travelling with Pock. He always has a teasing remark or some stupid joke to throw your way whenever you think you are too exhausted to continue, a little distraction to keep your mind off the aches and pains. He always has a helping hand at the ready when you slip or struggle, and without his drive and determination you're not sure you would have made it this far, in all honesty.

You've noticed that your smiles and laughter come easier now, you no longer try to hide them or shy away from his familiarity and kindness. You've also noticed the changes in physical intimacy since the night you woke up crying for him…He's always finding some way to touch you, always keeping you close. It was subtle at first, a hand hovering at your back while you trekked up a cliff face, the light brush of his fingers as he passed you a spare snack from his rucksack.

You can't remember when the touches became more frequent, when you started to respond to them in kind. But now rest stops consist of the two of you slumped against one another under the shade of a pine, your head lolling on his shoulder as you nap idly. And your evenings now look like a scene out of a domestic romcom, your legs sprawled over his lap while you read whatever book/magazine they have in the rest pod, and he fusses around with his Bridges cuff plotting your next course.

It's alarming how quickly this development has arisen, and yet, you can't bring yourself to mind it. It feels good to have someone, to not be alone anymore. You hope it brings the same sense of comfort to him as well.

Currently, you are sprawled out over the rock-strewn grass, bodysuit open at the chest, as you lean back against the pack strapped to your shoulders, achieving a semi-upright position with your legs thrown out in front of you. As soon as you had happened upon the small clearing in the forest, and Porco had suggested taking a lunch break here, you clumsily stumbled over to the body of water further ahead and collapsed to the ground without a word.

The sun is high in the sky and you have been hiking all morning without a break. You are covered in a light sheen of sweat underneath your suit, but you are too exhausted to pull your arms out of the material and tie it at your waist, instead choosing to be content with it just unzipped at the front. The rush of fresh air against your damp skin is heavenly and you dangle your head backwards, no longer able to keep the weight of it upright, and watch the wispy clouds shift and move across the blue canvas above you. The waterfall that feeds into the lake next to you provides a calming static, white noise to your drowsy mind.

You think you might doze off, until Porco drops down across from you, his pack hitting the earth with a crunch. You startle a little at the sound, closer than you expected, and groan at the ache in your back and legs. You hear the crinkle of a packet and roll your head up a little to peer over a shoulder. Porco is already munching on a protein bar and wiggles the item at you teasingly when he catches you staring.

You groan once more and drop your head backwards again, not caring about the uncomfortable stretch in your neck at the sudden strain. Your stomach decides to rumble, as if hinting at you to move your ass and feed it.

“If you don’t move, you can’t eat.”

You ignore the amused tone in his voice and huff, closing your eyes in defeat, tiredness taking over your senses. You don’t know how long you remain like that, probably crushing half the contents in your bag, as you drift in and out of consciousness. It’s not until something is thrown at you, hitting your chest and dropping into your lap, that you sit up with the intention to eat. Porco has finished his lunch and is stripping his own bodysuit off his shoulders, letting it dangle at his waist. He begins to stretch as you focus on shrugging off your pack and opening up the protein bar, eager to fill your empty stomach.

You’re about halfway through the bar when you notice that Pock is pulling his suit down further, peeling it over his toned legs and yanking his feet out of his boots before stepping out of it. You swallow your mouthful before clearing your throat and speaking up.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Gonna take a dip,” he responds as his shirt is removed next. You fix your gaze elsewhere, eyes betraying you with a flick to the side, to catch a peek of those abs you’ve grown so fond of.

“I’m sorry, what?” You are dumbfounded. Surely, he’s kidding around? You’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by human-eating monsters and rain that can age anything it touches. It’s hardly safe to let your guard down here. Is he insane? Not to mention that water is going to be freezing. But his shorts are next to go.

“Oh, come on-“ he laughs at your incredulous look, “-we deserve a proper break, besides I need to wash off all this sweat.” You stutter over a response to his absurdity, and without warning, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pulls them down over his ass cheeks.

“Jesus christ!” You yell, wildly scrambling to cover your eyes and dropping the last piece of your lunch in the process. You catch a grin from him before he’s gone, leaping into the water and disappearing under the surface with a splash. You lower your hands and think about the flash you got, the supple curve of his ass. Great, now that image will be seared into your mind whenever you look at him, that bastard knows what he is doing all too well.

You can't help but laugh when he pops back up, breaching the surface, a wide grin on his face and wet hair sticking to his forehead. He uses a hand to smooth back his hair, an action so familiar to you by now after all these weeks together, and watch as a droplet of water rolls from his elbow down the curve of his bicep.

“You’re mental,” you call to him, and he shrugs in response, treading water slowly.

“Isn’t it cold?” you ask, cocking a brow.

“Refreshing!” He calls back, and uses a hand to splash water at you from afar, as if to prove his statement.

You shriek and cower back, “You ass! Don’t get my clothes wet!” You seethe at him as you shake the droplets from your suit and brush the front of your shirt. You have spare clothes to change into but nowhere to put damp clothing if they get wet.

“Wouldn’t get wet if you weren’t wearing any,” comes his sly response, he has moved to the edge of the bank, peering over the earth as he sinks a little deeper into the water.

You narrow your eyes at him, “You want me to get in there? Naked?” You punctuate your words with a stab of your finger, first at yourself, and then in his general direction.

He shrugs again and gives a short answer, “Up to you,” before he twists his body up and around and pushes away from the edge, cutting through the water as he swims away from you. Up to you.

You hate him. You do. You’re not sure if he’s expecting you to fall prey to his teasing or if he’s teasing because he thinks you won’t actually do it. Either way, you figure, you have to do this. Just to see the look on his face. So before you can overthink it, you remove your heavy boots and thick socks and stand up, hastily stepping out of your suit as you step closer to the water's edge.

You remove your leggings slowly as you watch Pock, he’s swimming laps, powerful arms driving him through the lake. Water ripples out from his frame as you watch the muscles of his shoulders and back flex with every stroke. It’s a mesmerising sight, oddly relaxing, and you almost don’t want to look away. But you do anyway, to pull your shirt over your head, and discard it behind you. Now you are standing in just your panties and chest wrap, the cool air licking at your skin and sending goosebumps scattering over your flesh.

You dip a toe into the water and suck in a large breath, oh it’s cold alright. But it’s nice against your feverish and sweaty skin. You take another deep breath for courage and unwrap your chest with practiced fingers before sliding your panties over your thighs and letting them drop to the ground.

Porco has finished his lap now, and before he gets an eyeful of your exposed body hovering awkwardly by the bank, you jump towards the blue-black surface with a small scream.

Porco watches out of the corner of his eye (unbeknownst to you), as you dip a toe into the lake, obviously debating whether to get in or not. In all honesty, he didn't expect you to take his bait and actually do it, it was more of a desperate hope. One that is quickly blooming into anticipation as he watches you quickly unwind the bandages around your chest with expert fingers.

When you let the billowing fabric drop to the earth, he thinks that maybe he should look away, but fuck do your tits look good; heavy now they are supporting their own weight and nipples pebbling in the cool air. He watches in a kind of trance, still side-eyeing you surreptitiously, as you slowly pull your panties down your thighs and let the material join the bandages on the floor, stepping out of them daintily.

The brief thought that you might be executing this little show on purpose, for him, flashes through his mind before he dismisses it entirely. The way your head turns to him with squinted eyes indicates that you were not aware of his lustful gaze. He quickly wipes his face with a hand to act as if he hadn’t just been staring shamelessly.

When he is sure that you aren’t looking his way anymore, his eyes flick back to you, seeking out your familiar silhouette framed in the golden glow of the sun. He sees the hesitation, as you stand at the bank shivering, and staring into the waters below you. He sees the deep breath of air that you fill your lungs with before you launch yourself away from the edge.

Time seems to stand still as he watches you reach the peak of your jump, suspended in mid air, mouth open in shock (perhaps at the disbelief that you actually took this leap of faith). Your skin seems to glitter in the light, catching the sun's rays, and your hair is wild around your head. He smiles when you plunge into the lake with a yell and an uncoordinated flail of limbs. He definitely looked cooler when he jumped.

You come up sputtering and choking, no doubt having taken a lungful of lake water with the way your mouth had been hanging open like a fish. He slowly paddles over to you, trying not to laugh aloud at the curses spilling from your lips as you wipe water from your eyes, blinking rapidly. As he approaches you he stops to tread water, his movements light and slow; at odds with your fast, aggressive flailing as you continue to scrape at your face with a hand while trying to remain afloat.

Eventually, you calm down and acknowledge his presence, pinning him with an impressive glare that would have sent him scattering if he were not used to your temperament already.

“Wipe that stupid grin off your face,” you warn him, with an edge to your voice.

“What grin?” he counters, smiling impishly at you, doing his best to keep his eyes on your face.

“That one,” you splash a hand at his face, spraying him with water, and he manages to close his eyes at the last second.

“Feel better?” he asks, opening one eye to peek at you, ready for another attack.

“A little,” you respond with a pout, teeth chattering as you bob in the water, looking pathetic and ready to start complaining.

“Nuh uh, you’re not being miserable right now.”

“But-“

“Nope. We are relaxing, no pouting, no whining. You deserve a little fun, I think.”

You frown at him, but he sees a slight smile tug at the corners of your lips, and he continues.

“And I deserve a lot for putting up with your-“ you cut him off with another wave of brackish water to his face. He sputters in your direction, spitting the water that you got in his mouth at your face, before taking off towards the other end of the lake when he sees the look on your face. You howl in anger at his retreating back and throw a particularly filthy curse his way that has him chuckling.

“Catch me, if you can!” he yells over a shoulder, and you do your darnedest.

You both swim laps for a few minutes, exhaustion dampened by a second wind, a combination of the biting cold of the water and the thrill of your little lake sojourn. The murky water provides a shoddy semblance of modesty, both of you fully aware of each other's nakedness below the surface.

Porco has seen you undressed before, many times in fact, but always in your underwear or wrapped up in a towel. It is an awkward acceptance that you are both forced to wear given the situation.

But this is different, he has seen you fully now…everything bare to him. You took off your clothing, not because you had to, but because you chose to. Chose to be naked and vulnerable, to let slip the careful guard you had spent all this time frantically holding up – to let him in, if only an inch. You are trusting him at this moment.

He knows that the dynamic between you is changing, morphing into...something different. And it changed irrevocably the moment he stripped naked and goaded you like a child, and you joined him, taking that leap of faith into the unknown.

And he feels it now, that shift, as he looks at you; leaning against an outcrop of rock next to him, chest heaving from the race you just barely lost, the swell of your breasts breaching the water. Your shoulders are relaxed, slumped against the rock, and keeping you upright. There is a ledge of rock sitting below the surface that juts out from the formation, and you are both using it as a makeshift footrest, heels dug into the hard surface.

Damp wisps of baby hair are curling around your forehead, water or sweat or maybe both, dripping from your hairline and sliding down your temples. Stray drops drip from your lashes and hit your full cheeks when you blink. They look like tears when they fall and Porco finds himself reaching towards you on instinct. He uses the pad of his thumb to wipe at the soft skin under your eye, brushing the droplets away.

Your head turns toward him, eyes blinking up at him in alarm as his thumb traces the path of water down your cheek, stopping at the plump of your bottom lip. His touch ghosts over the flesh there. He notices your wide eyes glance down to his mouth unconsciously, before they flick back up to his eyes quickly. The moment stills for a heartbeat, the world falling away, as his touch lingers and your gazes meet.

It isn’t until he pulls away and clears his throat that sound returns, the waterfall behind you crashing into the lake and creating a buzz in his ears. The treeline surrounding the clearing you sit in the middle of provides a soft susurration of the wind through the leaves. Birds chirp and chatter as they pass through the clearing, flying low, their beaks kissing the ground as they pluck bugs from the earth. It feels almost normal, in this little pocket of tranquillity, where flora and fauna thrive. There is no rain nor dark cloud in sight, no monstrosities sucking the warmth and life from the air, no current reminder that this life is an apocalyptic wasteland; a waiting room for the stranded souls of the dead.

Porco leans back against the rock, mirroring you, and lets out a content sigh. His eyes fluttering shut as he pretends to act casually, but his heart is racing, and he’s sure you can see the blood that has rushed to his cheeks. Even with his eyes closed, he can see your pretty face. Your eyes boring into his own, searching for the hidden meaning in the gentle touches he bestows upon you, almost as if he can’t help himself. And he can’t.

He’s tried, God knows he has. He knows you find it hard to trust, he supposes everyone nowadays are the same. He knows you aren’t fully comfortable with unannounced touching, even with the simplest and most innocent of acts. That much is apparent from the way you jump at a hand on your arm, or flinch at his fingers examining the many injuries you seem to attract. It's what has driven him to do better, to prove to you that you can trust him.

And every time you accept his teasing and poking, or actively seek out his hand in the dark, clutching onto it to drive the nightmares away; it’s all the sweeter to him because he has earned it. And he finds himself wanting to earn more, to be privy to every part of yourself, to have you offer yourself up in the palm of a hand.

He groans inwardly. He is acting a fool, there are more important things at stake, but this world is cruel and unforgiving. Real connections are rare, friendship and intimacy few and far between. Even if you feel nothing for him, beyond this sense of circumstantial camaraderie, even if everything stays the same as it is now – he wants to hold onto this connection. A bond like this he hasn’t felt since Marcel-

His brother. He’s been trying to keep his face, the memories, out of his mind since your conversation about the Yeager’s all those days ago. He almost opened up, almost spilled his guts to a near complete stranger in a moment of weakness. It seems you have that effect on him, and he tells himself it is only fair since he seeks the same from you. He knows he can’t avoid the topic forever, can’t run from his past, from the reality that Marcel is gone. But fuck it, does he try most days.

You must sense the internal struggle raging inside him, for you speak up, breaking the tense silence between you. You ask in a hushed and tired voice, “Do you think there’s a future for us?”

His eyes dart to your face and notice the nervous squirming of your body, arms crossing over your ample chest in sudden bashfulness, as you realise the implication of your words.

He chuckles lightly and looks out toward the treeline, scanning your surroundings, ever the lookout. If you are caught unawares out here, then you’ll wind up dead. He thinks over your question seriously, “Us, as in humanity?”

He senses you nod beside him and continues, “Sure there is...humanity always prevails, holds on tight to life, kicking and screaming,” he smiles wanly, not at all amused by his own words. He feels you shiver beside him, the tinkle of water reaching his ears as you disturb the stillness around you. It’s not from the cold, you both adjusted to the water’s temperature long ago.

“Sorry. Yeah, I think there’s a future for us,” he smiles genuinely this time, at your chosen phrasing. “If I didn’t, then we wouldn’t be here right now.”

There’s a pause as you mull over his words, and then you ask quietly, “Do you think we will see that future? Something better than this?” So quietly, that he almost doesn’t hear over the rush of the waterfall, and this time he knows the ‘we’ is intended. You mean him and you, as individuals.

“Probably not,” he answers earnestly, in a tone a little too cheery for the grim reality of the situation. He side-eyes you, head still lazing back against the rock behind him, and catches your look of incredulity and slight distaste.

“Hey, I told ya, I don’t sugar-coat it,” you snort loudly at that, “but we can help carve out that future for the generations to come.” You turn your body slightly to face him at those words, features softening, some indiscernible emotion flickering in your eyes.

You stare at each other for a few seconds. When you look at him it’s as if you’re seeing him differently, looking through him, to what’s underneath. It sends a thrill shooting up his spine, a weight settling over his chest. You look at him as if you want to say something in particular, but you must decide against it because instead you mumble, “Yeah, yeah we can.”

The conversation lulls again, the both of you thinking over your discussion and the days to come, side by side in a comfortable quiet. Eventually, he decides to break the silence this time with his own question.

“So, in an ideal world, no Death Stranding,” you hum in acknowledgement and shift in the water to face him properly, “what would you wanna be? Besides a glorified delivery person,” he smiles at you knowingly.

Your brow wrinkles at his question and Porco thinks it adorable, “What would I wanna be?” you echo lamely.

He nods encouragingly. “Hmm, I guess I’ve never really thought about it.”

He laughs in disbelief, “No way, really?” He scans your face, looking for something, any indication as to what is causing the strange look of despair on your face. What are you thinking?

“Well yeah,” you respond a little awkwardly, “I mean, I didn’t really see the point, it’s never going to happen.” You poke your finger into a hole in the rock that’s been worn smooth as you talk.

“And I guess,” you hesitate, your words caught on your tongue, mind whirring away behind your eyes, as if finding the best way to phrase your thoughts, “I haven’t really felt all that inspired by life, considering we’re surrounded by death. It’s a little depressing, if you hadn’t noticed,” you tack on the last remark with a wry smile tossed his way, finger still working it’s way in the hole, a nervous habit he realises. You always find something to do with your hands when you’re uncomfortable, worrying at your clothes or twisting your fingers together.

His heart aches, because he knows that look on your face, he’s been there. Still is there sometimes. It was especially bad after he lost Marcel. He wants to hold you, comfort you somehow, but he instead chooses his next words carefully, as you had yours.

“Yeah, I get that,” he nods at you and you look up from the rock finally, assessing his features, perhaps to ascertain whether he really meant what he said. “It can be hard to see a point in living when life is...well, like this,” he gestures at your surroundings as a whole.

“But, we carry on,” he says lightly, studying your expression; the sad curve of your lips and the line of your nose, the set of your brows and the melancholy shining in those beautiful eyes.

“But why?” you whisper, searching his face, as if he holds all the answers to your uncertainty and pain.

“Because we have to,” he shrugs nonchalantly, despite the weight of his words, and the severity in his tone.

And then you surprise him, you always seem to, because you smile at him. It’s a small, wretched smile, and he thinks such a tiny action has never held so much understanding, so much emotion. Before he can think of a way to change that hopeless look painted across your delicate features, you speak again.

“I need some time to think about it, you go.” The worry and emotion has bled from your features, your careful facade back in place and tone casual again, but your voice laced with a tiredness that reaches bone deep. It’s that weariness that cemented his decision to rest here for longer than usual, it’s all you can afford if you want to stay ahead of anyone potentially trailing you. By tonight you will be inside in a real bed, sharing each other’s body heat, and the world won't seem so large and daunting.

“Okay, okay,” he starts, “I would study medicine, properly. I was always interested in it as a kid because of my brother but…wasn’t meant to be, I guess,” his voice falters slightly under your scrutinising gaze, suddenly very aware of the innermost parts of him laid bare for you to see. Your ability to make him nervous is really outstanding and becoming quite troublesome for him to hide.

He carries on in a rush, “I wouldn’t be a doctor, like Marcel was, but maybe a paramedic or even ju-“ you interrupt his anxiety babble with thoughts of your own, and he finds himself grateful for it.

“Hey, I didn’t say anything, that’s a noble dream,” You hum low in your throat, “I wasn’t expecting that answer from you, yaknow?” You ask of him with a crooked smile.

There is not a huge need for emergency response units in the underground Knot Cities, and above ground is too dangerous to risk sending out experienced medics, so he can understand your point. They exist, sure, and it's far more rewarding than delivering cargo but….that dream of his died along with Marcel.

The initial explosions marking the era of the dead wiped out a vast majority of the human population, and there aren’t enough qualified hands as it is, most medical professionals cover multiple areas of expertise these days to make up for their decrease in numbers. Something that Pock is sure he couldn’t do; he could resuscitate a patient, sure, stabilise them and assess the damage…but a surgeon he is not.

Of course, his brother could and did, always willing to go that extra mile for his people. The most Marcel had done on a day-to-day basis was wipe the scraped knees of snotty toddlers, sometimes set a broken bone of one of the older kids, and generally keep everyone’s health monitored; prescribing routine medication to the elderly and those with health conditions. He would let Porco help him during those easier days, showing him basic first aid and enlisting his help with keeping track of all the medication they had in storage.

It varied depending on the needs of the people, sometimes Marcel was called away further than usual, to fill in where a particular skill set he boasted was needed. When he was called in for surgery, those were the real tough moments, certain equipment and medicines were in short supply underground; and given the risks of a patient dying on the table, it was an immense pressure to bear.

A pressure that Pock knew well, the weight of it had been evident in the set of Marcel’s shoulders, in the flash of his eyes after a particularly difficult day. It was yet another reason he trained hard and got in shape to be eligible for a Porter position; so he could bring back those all-important items that could potentially not only save one life, but hundreds.

“That’s me, ever a mystery; tall, dark and handsome,” he jests lightly, trying not to let those bitter memories bleed into the lines of his features. He relishes in the way your eyes light up with mirth.

“Oh sure, you’re a real enigma,” you roll your eyes at him playfully, “but you’re 5”10, at best, and also blonde.” He pretends to be hurt at your words, recoiling back as if stung. You laugh, a melodious sound that carries over the water and echoes back at him in the small clearing.

You then pin him with a curious look, “But it suits you, the more I think about it,” you trail your hand over the uneven rock between you as you think, absent-minded fingertips skimming over the dips and bumps, and stopping just before you meet the curve of his upper arm. The proximity makes his skin prickle, and a shudder works its way up his spine involuntarily.

“You’re good in high stress situations, nothing seems to phase you,” his mind flashes to the first moment he saw you; struggling in a pit of black tar and screaming like a warrior on the battlefield as you fought tooth and nail against the ghostly hands imprisoning you. If only you knew how rattled he had really been, how close he was to turning tail and running, you wouldn’t give him any credit now.

But still you go on, “You’re firm, but kind, intelligent and resourceful.”

Porco is taken aback at your praise, it’s probably the only time you’ve voiced a positive thing about him with such sincere intention. He would never say it aloud, but he is touched at your sincere appraisal of him. Marcel sparked his interest in the medical field, and he often has this feeling of yearning that pursuing the same career path and walking in the same steps he did, would make him feel closer to the man again. Give him back a little piece of his brother’s soul, some physical connection to Marcel, something more than just the memories they shared.

But he had always hated being stuck underground. Day in and day out, and that only worsened after Marcel died, he couldn't stand to be cooped up around the people who knew, couldn’t stand their pitying stares and faux concern. It didn’t take long for them to move on and forget Marcel anyway, leaving his family lost and broken, never quite whole from that day forth.

He figured finding himself and his own sense of purpose out in the world, above ground, might bring him some sense of acceptance about what happened. And at the time, anything that reminded him of Marcel, was too painful to pursue. If he is being completely honest, at first, he hoped he might not survive long in the BT-ridden landscape; hoped he would at least be free of his grief. But after stepping out into the world, he realised there is no longer any peace for those who passed on, not in the Death Stranding.

Besides, Marcel would have been disappointed to see Porco like that, so hopeless and defeated. So, he carried on and fought hard to work his way up the Porter ranks, in the hopes he could one day make some sort of difference for humanity; no matter how small. And as he returns to the moment, shrinking away from those painful memories once more, he doesn’t regret his choices, because it brought him to you; perhaps the only person who has ever tried to understand him and see past the brash exterior.

“Plus, there’s the uniform,” you look up at him with a new shine in your eyes, drawing his attention away from his thoughts, and back to your beauty.

He laughs at that, your ability to lighten the mood always surprising him, “Oh yeah? You like thinking about me in uniform?” He attempts to nudge you with an arm, and you push away from the rock to evade the elbow in the ribs, water now up to your chin as you tread water.

“Anything but that bulky monstrosity,” you jerk your head towards the grass where your suits lay abandoned. “But a medic? Yeah, I think you’d look good in green.” Your voice is low, and he thinks he imagines the breathless quality to it, as you move through the water a little. He straightens involuntarily, pulse quickening at the shift in the atmosphere.

“You never answered the question,” he practically whispers, as you drift closer still. He feels himself leaning towards you instinctively, drawn to you as if by a magnetic pull he can no longer resist, rushing through his veins. The comfortable atmosphere that has grown between you from days and nights in each other’s presence has slowly morphed into something deeper, and he feels it now more than ever; thick and heavy, almost stifling in its tangibility.

You hover in front of him, so close and yet still so far, your legs kicking his as you remain afloat. Your gaze flicks up from his mouth to his eyes as you finally answer, “I’d want to be happy.”

The words fall from your lips in a murmur, eyes hazy as you look up at him through lowered lashes, and then your mouth is on his.

Through this whole exchange you find yourself unable to think about anything other than the small space between you and Pock, the translucent blue barely concealing the outline of his waist from you. That glimpse of his naked flesh beneath the surface, so close to your own, has your thoughts spiralling. And none of them are safe for work.

You can hardly keep up with the nuanced conversation between the two of you, let alone keep your eyes to yourself, his damp skin shimmers so enticingly in the weak sunlight that filters into the little pocket of space you both occupy. You catch yourself glancing at the lean muscle of his arms and chest more than once. And now with him so close you see the flush of his cheeks, the light dusting of pink across his nose, those plump lips practically begging to be kissed. You aren’t sure when you instinctively began drawing closer to him, cannot pinpoint the moment you decided the hell with it.

But now you’re so close that when he whispers to you, you see the bob of his Adams apple, thick neck flexing and hazel eyes scanning your face before they settle on your mouth. You kick out in the water to push yourself up, and your legs collide with his, at the same moment you finally mumble a response to his question.

Within seconds your legs are tangled up in his own, your upper body breaching the surface and your hands pressing against the hard plains of his chest as your lips meet his, flesh against flesh.

Despite the urgency in both your movements; the push of your feet against jagged stone to reach his face, his rough hands that grip your elbows in a steadying embrace as he meets you halfway, the kiss is a gentle caress. It is hesitant at first, lips slotting awkwardly and noses bumping together, but slowly your mouths melt into one another; your skin moulding to fit his like liquid shifting to fit its container. It feels right, as natural as existing, and that scares the small part of your brain that is still coherent.

Neither of you dare move from your embrace, neither of you dare breathe even, for fear of breaking this sudden fragile intimacy between you. You lose yourself in the sensation of him, his heated skin and searing touch, the surprising softness of him despite all the muscle and hands hardened by work. The smell of damp and dirt and iron and sweat tugs at your consciousness, reminding you of where exactly you are.

It’s only when his tongue swipes against your bottom lip in a whisper, do your lips part in obedience, your mind hardly aware of your actions, letting your body talk for once instead of your mouth. As your tongues meet in a slow waltz, you taste the faint artificial sweetness of berries on his breath.

Your hands ever so slowly creep up and over his chest until you are resting your elbows on his broad shoulders, arms automatically winding around his neck. Your bare front is pressed to his own, and you find no time to care about the innate intimacy, no time to find your own insecurity. His own hands drift over you, slipping from your arms down to the curve of your back, fingertips pressing into your skin.

You play with the shaggy hair of his undercut with wet fingertips, it has grown out quickly, and you make a mental note to sit him down later and cut it. Your nails scratch against his scalp with urgent care; a silent plea for more, a desperate attempt to stay grounded in reality, a small release of the pent-up desire in your veins, thick and molten. You battle with the urge to devour him whole, and the voice inside your mind that tells you to quit while you’re ahead, to focus on the mission. On survival.

But the small gasp that catches in his throat at your hardened nipples against his chest, at your fingernails scratching at his skin and the low moan that follows, tears through your composure and last shred of rational thought. You press into him firmly, willing your body to eradicate any and all space between your two bodies, your hips canting forward into his own. It’s then that you feel his hardened length against you, the curve of him pressing into your flesh just above your belly button, and the growing pit in your core drops; the feverish want that licked at the edges of your sanity shooting straight between your legs and eliciting a breathless sound from the back of your throat.

Pock’s arms tighten around you before he slides his hands to your hips and pushes gently. Your lips leave his reluctantly with an embarrassingly loud noise, and you both breathe heavily into the new space separating you. Pock leans his forehead against your own on an exhale and you rub your nose against his own before you fully realise the affectionate nature to the gesture.

You shut your eyes for a few seconds and focus on your breathing, suddenly aware of your proximity now the bubble of desire has popped. Suddenly feeling very exposed and self conscious, but too reluctant to move. Fuck. What have you done? What a way to keep it professional, this just made things a lot more complicated.

Your spiralling thoughts are interrupted by Porco, his voice gruffer than before, the low timbre sending a shiver through you, “Well...”

“Don’t.” You warn, but there is no real conviction behind the word.

“I thought you didn’t like me,”

“I don’t,” you reply, scrunching your eyes tighter, trying to will the image of that damned smirk of his out of your mind.

“Thought you found me annoying,” he pushes.

“I do,” you are being a brat intentionally, both answers are a lie (well maybe just the first one), and he knows it as well as you do. You sigh, as if you are troubled by the current events, and pull your head away from his own. But your arms stay wound around his neck, tethering you to him in a way that feels all too comfortable.

“Huh, that was some kiss for someone who claims to dislike me,” he smiles at you wide, full lips curving so prettily over white teeth, a dimple set into one cheek. Your heart speeds up as you do your best to give him a cool look.

“I thought it might shut you up for awhile, but I was wrong, my bad,” you tug at the short hair by his nape with a flippant smile.

“That so?” His grin widens and he licks at his bottom lip, eyes darting back down to your mouth. “Guess you’ll have to try again,” he attempts to sound innocent despite his ‘cat that got the cream’ expression. You set him up for that one.

“But later,” he adds, his smile dropping and those soft features hardening. The familiar frown he so loves to sport works it’s way onto his face as he scans your surroundings; you think that he probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing it, or how cute he looks, but that’s neither here nor there.

You stiffen at his serious tone and watch him carefully, “Something wrong?” You flick your eyes to the left and then the right, scanning for danger.

“No, but we’re vulnerable out here,” he shifts in the water, tucking you to his side slightly.

“I don’t wanna say we’ve wasted time,” he gives you a side glance with a sparkle of mischief in his eye, “as productive as we’ve been, we have to move on.”

You sigh and nod, you really had let time get away from you, not a smart choice. Now, you will be making up for lost time and you are sure Porco will not go easy on you. You both swim to the opposite side of the lake where the water is shallowest and drag yourselves onto the bank, you a little less gracefully than Pock, but thankfully he says nothing on the matter.

Despite your earlier intimacy, you are both careful to look away as you trudge back to your suits and packs, giving the other as much privacy as you can afford given the situation. Pock allows you first dibs of the small towel you are now glad you packed (just in case) and you quickly pat your skin dry before handing it to him wordlessly.

You dress swiftly and don your suits again; you barely have your pack over your shoulders before Pock is making a beeline for the trees, his hand brushing your elbow as he guides you along.

The grind begins again, and you do your best to keep up with Porco’s hurried strides. Try as you might, the memory of your skinny dip in the lake doesn’t leave your thoughts, and you let them wander aimlessly as you trek along; the feel of his lips a phantom against your own.

It takes about an hour for you to leave the lake and surrounding forest behind, clearing the mountains completely and dipping into the valley below. The change of scenery is welcome, but there is too much open space, and Pock insists you stick to the edge of the valley. Keeping the sloping mountains to one side means one less direction for enemies to approach from, and the lumps of jagged rock keep you semi-hidden as you continue your trek.

You are lagging behind, your energy and patience running thin, but you're so close…a few more miles and you'll hit your last Waypoint before you reach Lake Knot. Every time Porco looks back to hurry you along, you grumble at him under your breath. A heavy-footed step sends a small pebble skittering from under your boot, and you stumble, dangerously close to eating shit. You curse foully into the humid air.

You're not sure how much more of this you can take…you've just got to think of other things, like a cool shower and clean clothes, that's exactly what the doctor ordered. You hear the quiet thrum of white noise, but in your exhausted, daydreaming state you fail to acknowledge it. And when you finally realise the noise isn't a figment of your imagination, when you hear the scattering of pebbles and the splash of the stream, it's already too late.

The bike comes zooming past before you have the chance to cry out, your voice lost in sudden shock. But you recognise the rider's shaggy hair immediately, and you see exactly what (or who), he is racing for. Your vocal chords finally catch up to your brain as you scream out a warning.

Your heart sinks in your chest as you watch the scene unfold in slow motion, watch as Porco turns at your panicked voice, only for his eyes to widen as he spots Zeke hurtling for him. It all plays out within seconds, despite your slowed perception, and when you hear the sickening crack of the stick against the back of Porco's kneecaps the world resumes in real time. You break out into a sprint, the surge of adrenaline aiding you and pushing you past the hurdle of fatigue.

Porco drops to his knees with a pained roar, falling forwards onto his hands, his body spasming as the electric current frazzles his nerves. Zeke is laughing, loud and confident, and full of glee. He throws the bike into a u-turn, curving back on himself in an arc of dust and debris, before heading straight for you. You flinch, but pick up the speed anyway, racing towards Pock with a determination that surprises even yourself.

Your lungs are fit to burst and your heart is hammering so wildly it's a wonder it doesn't beat right out of your chest. But Zeke has other ideas, and he cuts you off before you can reach Porco, bike skidding in the dirt mere inches from you. You halt so abruptly that the force sends you sprawling to the ground, skinning your palms in the process. Thank biology for miss adrenaline, otherwise that would fucking hurt right about now.

You pant against the earth, eyes watering at the harsh sting, choking on the dust trying to clog your lungs. You push yourself onto all fours with trembling arms, blood smearing the grass and dirt beneath you, but you don't care. You only have eyes for the piece of shit before you, blocking your view completely from Porco, as he regards you with mild interest. Like you're an insect he's noticed on the ground while out on a leisurely stroll, not a human being he's hunted for his own sport.

He pushes his glasses up his nose before he speaks, "Hey, sweetheart."

You spit into the dirt at his feet with enough force that you hope he gets the message, fuck you asshole, as several more electric bikes halt around you – caging you in.

Zeke's face transforms into a sadistic grin as he leers down at you, and somehow, you know the word that is going to leave his mouth before it does, "Checkmate."

page divider by @/firefly-graphics

Thank you for reading! 💙

[tteokdoroki]

awake with you | s.todoroki

♡ pairing: shoto todoroki x fem!reader.

♡ word count: 1.7K

♡ rating: everyone.

♡ genre: ua student!au, angst, comfort, fluff.

♡ summary: during the night, bad things happen but your boyfriend is always there to keep them away. by your side always, shoto todorki makes it his mission to fight your demons and make sure you know that you’re loved.

♡ warning(s): please read ! character death, mentions of car accidents, nightmares, guilt, lack of sleep, but a lot of fluff and the best boyfriend in the whole world :(

♡ author’s note(s): guys! it’s shoto’s birthday, so here i am postiing this shoto request from anon a while back, i hope you all enoy and have celebrating the beautiful boy’s bday <3

♡ masterlist | requests

it was hard for you to sleep.

harder, when shoto wasn’t around.

sometimes it was your thoughts that kept you up; late at night— dark thoughts that swirled around in your head and slowly poisoned your brain with heavy black venom. it was hard to sleep when your mind was heavy with fear, but ever since dating shoto todoroki; those nights became easier and sleep wasn’t so hard to come by.

you weren’t so sure what it was about your boyfriend that made it easier for you to get some shut eye; it’s not like he really knew either. todoroki just didn’t like seeing you in pain, the way your face twisted with discomfort or the way sleepy tears would wet your cheeks under the moonlight— but you had somewhat of an idea, that his fresh peppermint smell and warm arms are what often helped you.

shoto would so lovingly sneak into your room, no matter the time, dusk or dawn— he would hold you tight under the sheets until you drifted off to dream land. even if it meant being teased by the others for stumbling out of your room in the morning, his pretty hair a wild mess creating the image that’d you’d both been up to no good, he’d face it all for you, over and over again.

but tonight, your loving, caring and doting boyfriend was nowhere to be seen— everyone’s second internships had begun and todoroki had chosen to work with his father along with izuku and katsuki, so it was no doubt that they wouldn’t be home until late. what with endeavour being the number one and all.

your friends knew about your struggles to sleep, of course, todoroki bluntly mentioning how you ‘like to sleep together’ to soothe your nightmares ( iida had lectured you about it after, saying it was inappropriate while deku and ochako turned as red as your boyfriend’s hair ) so offered to stay up with you— but you needed rest, today’s training sessions  having taken a toll on your body, and wave them off with a smile laced with tiredness.

you could call him, he wouldn’t mind and you know it— but he’s with his father and that takes enough out of him as it is.

you decide, instead, to trudge to the dual quirked boy’s bedroom, instantly calmed by his sweet peppermint scent embedded into every inch of his dorm. you swipe one of his clean sweaters straight from the closet before hitting the lights and snuggling into his bed.

tonight would be fine, todoroki would come home, wrap you in his arms and with the aid of his scent surrounding you— you would sleep safe and soundly.

is what you hoped as you drifted off to the land of dreams.

when you were younger, you watched your older brother, haru, get hit by a car.

the scene haunts you to this very day, crawling up on you while you rest at night— choking you out in your dreams. you see it now, feet glued to the ground as you’re forced to watch the younger version of you, mess with your older brother using your new found quirk. your parents had called it scenery, back then your powerful quirk had been their pride and joy, giving you the ability to create a mirage in a certain targets mind— make them see things that weren’t really there.

back then it was fun to play tricks on your sibling— you made haru see all of his worst nightmares, everything but the road.

everything but the oncoming car.

everything but his untimely death.

you want to scream at little you— tell her to stop and that it’s not funny anymore as she forces your brother back into the road— he’s giggling, he doesn’t know it yet and neither do you. but the words you want to say die down deep in your throat, suffocating you from the inside although they burn at your lungs to burst through.

why cant you speak? why cant you stop her?

adrenaline trickles into your blood stream as you will yourself to run out into the street and protect haru from the oncoming traffic just as he slips off of the sidewalk. your senses are blown out of the water, static noise filling your ears and intertwining with childish screams and the sound of a not so distant honking horn.

you claw harshly at your throat. speak. save him. for god’s sake; do something.

“you’ll kill him! stop! you’re going to kill him!”

the flickering of artificial, yellow light behind your closed eyes has you jolting awake, sweat forming at your brow and hands clenched tightly around your boyfriend’s plain bedsheets. your gaze darts across the room while your heart thumps loudly in your ribcage from the fear that struck you in your dream and finally, your stare settles on a shirtless, bewildered shoto todoroki. his face is a little scratched up no doubt from being on his father’s patrol and he looks exhausted but that doesn’t stop the concern he has for you taking over his expression. “yn—?”

“s-sho,” you hate how your voice caves so easily, the single syllable of your nickname for him falling wetly from chapped lips. todoroki is by your side in an instant, not caring that he’s only half dressed and half awake. he’ll deal with that later.

with tender hands shoto cups the back of your head, letting you sink into the warmth of his flesh. you reach out for your boyfriend and he’s there, taking your free hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze to help ground you. “love, what happened? why didn’t you call? you know i don’t mind—” his timbre voice fills your ears like warm honey, calming your rapid breathing but all you can do is shake your head.

“nightmare ‘n you were working,” you pant, cutting him off while the death grip on your lover’s hand begins increasing. you feel so far from the ground, the scene of haru’s death dancing across your mind. “i killed him, again—“

shoto watches your body twitch with fear and your usually glimmering eyes gloss over in away that makes him feel sick. you’re not here with him yet, still tangled up in the black string of your bad dreams. the world around the dual eyed boy begins to change and it seems you’ve activated your quirk by accident— showing him scenes of the day your brother died.

you screw your eyes shut as flashes of his body tangle with reality to the point where you don’t know what’s real and what’s not. you’re losing control of yourself so easily, fresh sets of tears stinging their way down your streaked cheeks. trapped. you feel trapped like a bird in a cage even while you’re awake and the sounds of cars and screaming burn at your ears once more.

make it stop, please.

“yn... come back to me love, i’m right here,” todoroki’s calm voice cuts through the suffocating song of death, dragging you back to reality while the effects of your quirk drift away. his fingers, although contrasting temperatures, now cup your cheeks to tilt your face towards him so that your eyes lock with his under the crescent moon. “you didn’t kill him. that wasn’t you. it wasn’t your fault.”

you blink away more tears like a helpless child, chest heaving but todoroki doesn’t give up. “but—“

“no.” your boyfriend says softly, yet sternly, leaning down to place an eskimo kiss to your nose. your eyes flutter shut at his simple gesture, although it raises saftey and warmth across your body— black radiates behind your closed eyelids, no longer plagued broken bones and blood. it’s easy to keep breathing from there, focusing on that as todoroki pulls you into his lap and the sheets fall away from your body.

“no,” you repeat back to him while shoto’s arms settle on your waist and his familiar scent of fresh peppermint fills your senses. “not my fault.”

it wasn’t your fault, that day the car had come speeding down a usually safe road in a residential area. the accident was a hit and run, but being a child made you feel every ounce of the blame. shaking the thought away you curl into your lover’s chest, listening for sounds of his heartbeat while he toys with a lose string on his sweater— the one you wear.

“that’s right, good girl...not your fault, here with me yet, love?”

when you glance up, todoroki is looking right back down at you— brows creased with worry but there’s love in his stare, overwhelming amounts that make you hum into his bare chest, grounded by the feeling of his skin against yours. “present and accounted for,” his chest rumbles with relieved laughter, soothing you even more. “thank you, sho. i’m sorry for making you do this so late at night.”

this time, shoto shakes his head— sending locks of red and white flying. “don’t thank me and don’t apologise,” his words are feather light in the dark while he manoeuvres you both onto his back to settle into bed. you’re about to mention that he’s still half in his suit, but your boyfriend doesn’t seem to care, already closing his eyes. “i’m yours, your boyfriend and i’m going to support you no matter what. i’ve got you, okay? you’re always here for me so i’ll do my best to do the same for you. what kind of man would i be if i wasn’t?”

“a very unmanly man,” you tease with a kitten like yawn, already feeling the confines of a more comfortable sleep, taking over.

todoroki rolls his eyes but pulls you closer to him anyways. “you’ve been spending too much time with kirishima.”

“at least i don’t spend everyday working with bakugou, now that’s true nightmare.” you counter, narrowly missing a pinch to the side from your boyfriend.

the pair of you sleep soundly that night, wrapped in each other’s arms. you feel safe, knowing that nothing could ever harm you, as long as you were with him. shoto todoroki would give anything for to you to have a goodnight’s rest. no matter what. even if it meant staying awake with you and being late to patrol with endeavour the next day.

not like he cared, he hated his dad anyway.