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takamiwife · 1 month ago

Note

Got sick and can not stop coughing at all and yhe worst part is my period started the same time rip

Could i request a lil comfort thing for hawks or dabi comforting the reader who is sick and also feels even worse cause she has rlly bad cramps?

AWW I HOPE YOURE FEELING BETTER :(( sorry this is likely out after you’re all better but this still deserves to be written !! if you’ve submitted something to my inbox dw, i have seen it and it’s in my drafts, im just going in order!! 💞 also, there’s some sex and the city spoilers toward the end of it, for season 3, so just watch out for that if you’re watching it/interested in watching it!

well, sick season was back and hit you full force. you woke up, your throat feeling like it had been scratched by a thousand cats and your nose stuffed. you groaned, your voice barely coming out above a whisper. you shuffled out into the kitchen, nearly passing out from reaching up into the cabinet to get some tea.

“baby? are you okay? you’re up early” keigo yawned, following you out into the kitchen

all it took was for you to turn around, looking at keigo; tired, darkened eyes, puffy cheeks, and your body being able to stand.

“jesus, you definitely are not,” he frowned, putting a hand to your forehead. “you don’t feel like you have a fever… here, come on, sit down,” he guides you over to the couch, watching as you slump against the comfortable throw pillows. he hands you the remote and moves back into the kitchen, immediately making you some tea — you never seemed to have an appetite when you were sick, but hopefully you could handle this.

after adorning your tea with honey, he moved back to the couch, placing them in front of you, replacing the throw pillows with his own body as you lay on his lap.

you whimper, holding your stomach; as if everything else wasn’t bad enough, the universe decided to curse you with cramps too.

he stroked your hair, using a few of his feathers to retrieve the pill bottle from the bathroom, not wanting to move from his position. he opened the red-capped bottle, tapping a few pills into his hand. “here, cmon, you can sit up for me right?” he coos, helping you sit up and make sure you toon the pills, hopefully to at least help with the pain. “there we go, that’s my girl” he smiled

“don’t you have work?” you say quietly, moving your head back down to his lap.

“i can be a little late, they can manage without me. don’t worry about it, alright?” he said softly, running his hands along your side.

now, had you woken up with dabi, it would go a little different.

you lay in your shared bed, surrounded by his scent, but your boyfriend was nowhere to be found. he had been out all night doing.. god knows what with the league, and you had woken up with all of the worst symptoms imaginable. you scrolled on your phone, praying he’d be back soon so he could help you.

luckily, something listened, as he cracked the door open, trying his best to be quiet; a surprisingly sweet gesture from him when he was out all night on missions.

“shit, are you okay?” he kneeled in front of you. “you look awful”

“thanks for the reminder,” you say through a stuffed nose. “my throat is on fire, i can barely breathe through my nose, and of course i have to have fucking cramps..”

“well.. hey, at least you aren’t pregnant” he shrugged

you glare at him, a small part of you finding the silver lining a bit amusing

“can you.. help me, please? you know, like a good boyfriend?” you hide your smile

“uhh…” dabi trailed off, playing with a strand of your hair. of course he wanted to help, he just.. didn’t really know how. he didn’t really get sick, and if he did he just popped whatever pill was in his cabinet and said fuck it and continued on. “yea.. what do you want? we’ve probably got a whole stash somewhere - xanax, percocet, oxy, if you want something a little stronger.. uh, a little coke might not hurt, just rub it on your gums”

“are you insane?” you stare at him blankly. “do you just have, like.. tylenol? midol? anything like that? and not.. crushed up and in a line. in pill form”

“yea, yea, let me go check. pussy..” he muttered, shooting you a smirk.

you used your little strength to smack his arm, unable to hide your smile.

after digging around under his sink, he was finally able to find some normal, non-hard drug tylenol.

he returned to you, holding onto your side as you sat up, taking the pills with a swig of water.

“you uh.. really don’t feel good, do you?”

“you couldn’t tell?” you ask through your scratchy voice.

as you lay back down, he looked at you, your eyes closing as you groaned. he tried to remember back when he was a child; there was a short period of time where he got quite sick during the winter, and his mother was nothing short of a saint. cartoons, warm soup, medicinal tea, cool wash clothes on the forehead.. the whole nine yards. it was clear that what you needed right now was him, and he was more than willing to give that to you.

“c’mere..” he shuffled beside you, pulling you onto his chest. “are you.. hungry? do you want anything warm? that’d help your throat, right?”

“not right now.. just wanna sleep right now..” you say into his chest, and he pulls the warm blanket over you, kissing your head as you fall back asleep, finally sound and able.

now, as you fell back asleep on keigo’s lap, he knew he couldn’t ignore his work any longer or they’d have his head on a spike. in an indiana-jones style move, he replaced his lap with a pillow, draping a blanket over your sleeping form. he kneeled in front of you, watching you sleep as he kissed your forehead.

“i’ll be back soon, okay? i’m sorry i have to leave..” he whispered, brushing some hair away from your face.

luckily, with the day being quite boring, within about three hours of working, he was able to convince his side kicks to take over for the day; “you guys can handle this, i have a sick girlfriend i need to take care of. i mean, what horrible things are going to happen, it’s a random tuesday.”

back at home, you stirred back to life, the pain now having subsided a decent amount. you reach for your phone on the coffee table that sat beside your tea, clicking keigo’s contact. he picked up rather quickly, his voice being a comfort on the other line.

“hey my love, finally awake huh?” you could hear his smile through the screen.

“yea, i just woke up”

“ah, well your throat sounds a bit better. how are the cramps?”

“um, a lot better.. sorry to make you late, but i appreciate you staying with me”

keigo chuckled

“they were fine without me, love. actually, i just left them”

“what? but-“

“but nothing. i’m on my way home, want me to get your favorite?”

you sit up, smiling. “…if it isn’t too much trouble”

“i figured you’d say that. i’m already on my way there. i’ll see you soon, okay?”

“okay.. i love you”

“i love you too”

still being held in dabi’s arms, you slept surprisingly soundly despite everything. he slipped out of your grip, making sure you were comfortable before going to the raggedy kitchen downstairs, searching for anything that could make you feel better. but he was doubtful the crumbs in the dirty cupboards would help much. so, with no other choice, he put on his hoodie and a mask, pulling it up over his nose, less likely to be recognized.

so, after walking a few blocks to the nearest convenience store (that also happened to have a deli), he returned home with your favorite soup, a box of tea bags, and an ice cream bar for you to enjoy later if you felt better. after placing the ice cream in the fridge, he made a nice warm cup of tea (thanks to the help of his quirk) and brought that, along with your soup up to the room, setting it on the bedside table.

“hey,” he shook you gently. “i got you something.”

“mmh.. you’re supposed to let sick people sleep.” you whined.

“fine, go on and sleep, but your soup is gonna get cold”

you opened your eyes; okay, you were quite hungry now. you reluctantly sat up, placing your back against the wall.

“there she is,” he grinned slyly. “morning sunshine” he said, handing you the cup of soup with the plastic spoon. “and there’s um.. tea, too.”

“wow, you really went all out, huh?” you smile from over the cup.

“of course i did. it’s for you, after all.” he brushed it off.

“well, thank you honey.” you coo, gently scratching his chin. damn, he loved when you did that.

he sat beside you, occasionally accepting bites of your soup.

“if i get sick from this, you’re so dead” he

“you’d love me taking care of you, don’t lie”

“…fair enough”

within about forty five minutes, keigo had returned home, takeout bags in hand as you paused your show. he placed them down on the coffee table in front of you, unpacking them.

“thank you, kei. i mean it, really. you didn’t have to do all this.” you say, smiling at him as he came back with plates for the two of you.

“what do you mean? of course i did. i love you, and you didn’t feel good, so of course i had to help you feel better.” he said, placing the food onto a plate and handing it to you.

“well, still-“

“still nothing,” he cut you off, leaning toward you. “you take care of me all the time. this was nothing compared to all you do for me.”

your heart swelled as you stared at his determined face.

“now, catch me up. what’s going on with the girls?” he gestured to the tv.

“well, carrie just cheated on aidan with mr. big…”

after a few hours of lazing about and watching your favorite show on dabi’s phone, he returned to the room with his hands behind his back.

“i got something else for you, too… figured since you’re feeling better..” he pulled out the wrapped ice cream bar, holding it out to you.

“oh, baby..”

“i know it’s not the best, but it could help your throat feel better and.. i dunno, you like ice cream, so..”

you sit up on your knees on the bed, pulling him into a hug.

and as you enjoy your treat, he sits beside you.

“so, feeling better?”

“much. thank you, doctor.” you tease.

“well.. good. i don’t like seeing you like this.”

you lean your head on his shoulder, holding your ice cream up to him.

as much as he hated seeing you sick, dabi loved taking care of you for the day. of course he wanted you to feel better, but.. he wouldn’t mind another day of holding you in bed.

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swifty-fox · 3 months ago

Note

“things you said when you were scared” 😈

prompts that turned into a 4k fic.

this will be available on ao3 once beta read and while it takes place in Little Beasts universe it is NOT canon to the actual timeline. This is just a fun what-if scenario

TW's: Attempted suicide, drug overdose, vomit (lots of it)

It starts out as a gut feeling. Creeping dread squeezing his intestines, licking up his lungs like thick black tar, winding around his spine, tapping the bone with crooked claws. There's much to feel off about, really. Nothing has felt or been quite right since Huglin had opened the door to find his star disciple on his knees to taking communion from the town burnout.

Dazed hours sat listening to Gales low rumble, Huglin's raised shrill reprimanding shock, the blank look on the priests face as he stepped out of the office, shaking his head at John's questions.

He doesn't remember how he convinced Gale to come back with him, maybe because it took shockingly little effort, the other man walking as if his strings had been snipped right near the base. But they're here, in John's room. Or at least he is. Gale had excused himself to the bathroom. To shower and, John suspects, to have a private breakdown in his own company.

Twenty minutes is little requirement for concern.

He'd leant Gale the same Star Wars shirt he'd worn last time, a pair of sweatpants that had a fighting chance of staying on Gale's slim hips. He was lying on his bed and smoking, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and wondering if this would be the mistake that finally stopped poor Frannie's heart, if this would be enough to erase his previous reputation.

Yeah, there goes John Egan, he threw away his whole career over some oxy would likely now become here comes John Egan, the kid who fucked our priest.

It would be new, if not necessarily better. For once, he won't be the one coming out of it the worst. At the very least, this sort of behavior was expected of him if not necessarily accepted. Gale had fallen further, lost more, faced a heavier reckoning.

Gale had lost his job, his home, his self-respect most certainly.

John smokes, pokes around the corners of himself looking for the itching need to waft up just as it did any time things got hard these days. The need for a fix, for a little kick to his system to get out of his body. A heavy woolen blanket over the jagged edges off his feelings. Something to cushion him as he lay atop the fucking wreckage of his life. Yet again. And it’s there, faint and sly and waiting but mostly he’s tired, mostly he’s worried.

Mostly his gut is clenching with some horrible anticipation like the seconds before a thunderclap.

As a rule, John listens to his gut. He’s got pretty good instincts, they’ve never let him down when he’s chosen to listen. It’s the choosing that’s the hard part.

But rarely, has his gut been wrong.

John stands, gets his feet under him and pushes up. Pauses for a moment to listen for anything from upstairs but it’s late and Frannie has barely said two words to him. In silence he exits into the hallway, taps his knuckles lightly on the closed bathroom door. The wood is bloated and slightly sticky from steam, he can hear the soft rush of the shower on the other side.

“Gale?” he calls.

The priest – formerly now – wasn’t beyond ignoring John, he held no illusions. He was good at even, he held out for long enough that John had to work for it, had to needle and run his mouth and bite back the excited wag of his proverbial tail when Gale slid furious blue eyes over to him. But his stomach was twisting and the wood is slick and oily with something like warning.

“Gale,” he says more firmly, reaches down to twist the unmoving knob. It’s slick too, from the steam escaping under the door, from his own hand gone clammy.

John’s been here before. Once in this house, years ago. Door knob eye level and much bigger between his fingers, wiggling it and calling for his mama to wake up in the tub. He’s telling himself this isn’t then, this is what they might call an emotional flashback, a simple mistake of association in times of stress. Gale didn’t even smoke anymore even though the good lord had no commandments against tobacco. He’s jiggling the knob, calling Gale’s name a third time.

“‘M fuckin’ serious this time Buck you’re worrying me.”

He almost calls Gale Father, bites back the title at the last second.

“Gale,” he barks.

There’s nothing. The mocking fall of water against cheap porcelain. Wood, wet and sticky against his forehead as he presses closer to try to hear anything.

The door frame splits like butter under his shoulder, hot humid air gags him for a second and he flaps a hand out to turn on the overhead fan despite the little difference it would make.

Sink unoccupied, shower empty. Bathroom mirror open and an orange bottle slipping under John’s feet, nearly upending him. A loose-limbed limp body tucked between tub and toilet, head thrown back in a vulnerable white line and beaded with moisture. Perspiration and the spray of the shower both, it darkens Gale’s hair, the fabric of John’s shirt. Keeps the blood flowing from the teeth marks on Gale’s fingers, chunks of vomit caught between their limp splay. Whatever effort had been made to expunge the drugs from Gale’s body had clearly been unsuccessful as more yellow pills stab John’s bare feet.

He’s making a high thin noise, air escaping his pinhole tight throat like the slow deflation of a balloon. Falling to his knees hard enough they crack audibly against the tile. There’s vomit in the toilet, half digested food and the silty remnants of more pills, drifting with the vibrations of John’s large body hitting the floor.

“Are you serious?” He asks Gale’s unresponsive form, repeating it over in a thin reedy tone, like a petulant child more than a man witnessing something horrific.

“Are you serious, Gale, are you serious, are you serious, are you serious–”

Gale’s skin is just as damp as the wood door, clammy and sticky and John’s telling himself it’s the shower spray. His lips are blue, the delicate split skin around his cuticles, there’s a strange hitch to his chest every few breaths and John’s tapping his face then shaking it, thumb catching the sharp of his chin to shake.

Drags his knuckles in vicious circles against Gale’s sternum hard enough to bruise them both, breathing as labored as Gale’s own. There’s a ringing in his ears, high pitched and tinny.

“Buck,” he barks.

He has no narcan, why the fuck would he have narcan on him anymore, he’s scrambling through his pockets for his phone but the slim shape of it is nowhere to be found. With his free hand he’s still patting Gale’s face, peeling one eyelid back to only find milky white. For a second there’s a hint of iris, a bloom of red blood where vessels had burst either from the opioids ripping through his body or the force of his vomiting.

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck–”

John knows this drill. He’s done this more times than he’s caring to remember, pulling Gale out onto the bare floor, head lolling and limbs wet and slippery like broken branches. Gets the other man rolled on his side, shaking his shoulder one last time as if leaving the imprint of his knuckles in the center of his chest somehow couldn’t have been enough.

“Just stay right there sweetheart.”

The endearment slips right out, slickened by fear.

He used to run entire baseball fields. Now dizzy spots dance in front of his eyes from the mere effort to make the handful of steps between the bathroom and his room, snatching his phone from the nightstand. Fingertips catching on the cracked glass he trips his way back to the hallway, is at Gale’s side before the first ring.

“Nine-one-one what’s your emergency?”

“My friend’s overdosed,” He gasps, thinks he really should be more calm than this. He should be an old hand at this. He should be calm so he can fucking save Gale’s life but he’s drowning under the crushing panic. Under the sheer fucking guilt.

At what point had Gale looked at John today and decided to take a lesson from the crazy he’d been sticking his dick in.

“Alright sir, are you sure it’s an overdose?”

“Yeah pretty fuckin’ sure.”

There’s traces of vomit crusted at the corner of Gale’s mouth, John swipes it away with a trembling thumb.

“Have you tried-”

“I called his name and I shook him and I rubbed his fucking chest I know the goddamn drill lady, I need you to send an ambulance.”

“I’m going to need you to stay calm, sir.”

Fuck you. “Okay.”

“Do you know what he’s taken?”

Fingers scramble for the bottle, sending more pills scattering across the floor. Gale’s a deadweight against him, temple resting on John’s thigh in a sickening boneless weight. His breathing is still that strange stop-and-start pattern that spoke of a body desperately trying to keep functioning.

John’s still breathing whining and desperate in the back of his throat.

“Dilaudid,” he says, the script oddly blurry for the first few seconds he tries to read, “The-the eight mil ones, I don’t fuckin’ know how many though. He threw up some of them. Jesus fuck, Gale.”

He’s shouting by the last bit and the dispatcher reminds him again to be calm. He isn’t sure what he says in response but when she asks his address he rattles it off quick and precise.

“Is there anything can do?” he asks, voice rattling through his ribcage with the desperate need to fix this. Stupid naive hope that he knows so far better than because he’s got scars in the shape of Curt’s teeth on his own fingers from saving his fucking life.

“Can you tell me your name, sir?”

“Bucky.”

“Okay, Bucky, you’re doing just fine. Help is on their way.”

“I’ve got his head tilted back, his breathing ain’t right.”

“Not your first rodeo, Bucky?”

John swipes at his eyes with his free hand, the skin coming away soaked, “No Ma’am.”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing, they’re almost there.”

Steams still billowing around them from the shower, dampening his clothes. He sets the phone to speaker, places it on the tile beside him and makes one more attempt with his fingers against Gale’s stuttering chest. Bends down over him to press his lips then his forehead to his temple. Gale’s sweat prickles his lips, clammy and sour.

“Come on, Father,” he pleads, “Come on don’t do this to me, Gale. Don’t do this sweetheart.”

Gale’s body moves of its own volition, and for a minute John thinks he’s made some miraculous return to wakefulness but a second noise escapes his throat, thick and gargling and wet. The sour smell of bile rises, slipping liquid past his lips and darkening John’s jeans, puddling across the tile floor. John makes his own noise from deep in his throat, panicked and severe.

“Can you tell me what’s happening, Bucky?”

“He’s vomiting.”

“Okay, that’s alright,” the dispatcher soothes and John bites his tongue hard enough the taste of copper blooms, I fucking know. “Is his airway clear?”

Cursing to himself, John slips his fingers past the slick vomit, scissoring between Gale’s molars in a sickening mimicry of a hundred times before, hooking his mouth open and this time when he bends over to look down into the cavern of his mouth it’s not to spit or kiss or tease.

“Yeah, yeah he’s good.”

“Help should be there, can you hear the sirens Bucky?”

John can, can see red and blue lights tracking across the open door to the hallway. His hands shake as he picks up the phone, taking it off speaker. It reeks of bile just like the rest of the room, wet against his fingertips but his mind is going soft and fuzzy, calm acceptance slipping over like a wool cover.

“I hear them,” he says, “The cops will probably already know, but can you please tell them I’m a felon on parole for drug charges. I don’t have any weapons on me and will cooperate fully.”

He hears the fuzz of the phone connection, the sirens loud and piercing outside, the quiet tapping of a keyboard.

“I’ve let them know.”

John exhales shakily.

“I’m going to hang up now, Bucky.”

“Thank you Ma’am,” he says, the words caught in his throat.

There’s a knock at the door and he sets the black screen of the phone facedown somewhere dry and rolls Gale back into recovery. The ringing is back in his ears when he stands but he sprints with surprising calm to the door. He directs the EMT’s down the hall, fights the urge to follow them because there’s already little room in the bathroom. When he sits at the kitchen table, clothes damp and stained with the contents of Gale’s stomach, it’s at an angle where he can see the responders crowding into the bathroom, running back for a stretcher.

“You got the naloxone on you?”

“Holy fuck that’s Father Cleven.”

John presses his hands to his face.

-*~*-

Johns wrists ache. He’s exhausted and sore and Gales vomit has dried to an uncomfortable crust on his clothes. It was late enough he wouldn’t hear news of bail until morning when the judges’s office opened. Chick had told him as much, shuffling up to the cell window dressed in a pair of loose jeans and a faded football sweatshirt looking exactly like a man who’d been pulled out of bed at two am.

“Have you heard anything?” John asks, leaning tiredly against the glass.

“What the hell are we doing here, John? You been fucking your priest?”

“He’s not mine,” John says, closing his eyes, “It wasn’t your business.”

Chicks finger jabs against the glass, voice low and rumbling, “It sure fucking is if your giving him fucking opiates. Did Brady know this?”

John blinks at him, going cold, “I didn’t give him shit Neil. He took Frannie’s stuff I wouldn’t– I’m clean.”

“Does Brady. Know.”

“Yeah – fuck – he fuckin’ knew. He knew I was messing around with him because that’s all that happened. Neil, I have my two-year chip. I was almost done with this whole thing in six more months why would I fuck that up?”

Chick just stares at him, and John stares back, feeling every thread holding him up slowly be snipped one by one. It was one thing to have the police assume the worst, and it wasn’t quite like looked anything but really fucking bad. But Chick had been the one to see every step of the fought for progress John has made. He knew, knew the work John had put in.

“This is why it’s a fucking bad idea to have a sober coach be someone who you’re friends with, I never should have signed off on that, I should have known he wouldn’t be able to be objective–”

“‘M fuckin’ sober!” John shouts, slamming his knuckles against the wall and then closes his eyes with a slow inhale.

“I’m sober,” his voice cracks, “He was staying with me after we got caught and left to take a shower. I got a bad fucking feeling and busted open the door to find him passed out next to the toilet.”

He’s talking slowly as he can, calm as he can manage because he knows rage will get him exactly squat.

“I saw he’d taken a buncha’ pills and I called the EMT’s.”

“The only person who can corroborate it is in the hospital right now unconcious. My hands are tied until he wakes up.”

John squeezes his brows together, twists his mouth against the sharp flicker of fear and then looks back up at Chick, “You believe me though, right?”

Chick kisses his teeth, hands settling on his hips. There’s a purpling bite mark above his sweatshirt collar and John wonders who he’d been pulled out of bed with.

“I’ll see about getting those cuffs off you, John.”

“Fuck the cuffs,” he rasps, “Just promise you’ll tell me how Gale is the moment you hear anything.”

He’s never wanted pity, not once in his life and not even in his worst moments. He bares his teeth at the emotion baldly present in Chick’s eyes.

“Depends how the cards fall, kid.”

-*~*-

Sleep eludes John the entire night, even if he had the desire to attempt the cell too uncomfortable, the lights too bright, the image of Gale fighting for every inhale a constant itch under his skin. He sits and he paces and he runs his fingers through his hair until its stuck up wildly all over his head. Chick had indeed managed to get the cuffs off, and faint red marks are fading to bruises under his hoodie.

The call had come for him somewhere around nine am. Gale had woken up.

Had, in his own dazed way, corroborated John’s account of events.

“There’s still a chance, if the district attorneys want to be an asshole, they’ll try to come after you for having the pills in residence at all,” Chick says as he drives, “It probably wouldn’t stick, your grandma has the prescriptions and we knew they would be there when we signed off on you going home to her. But,” he trails off with a shrug.

John works his jaw, staring out the window and fiddling with his phone. Someone had cleaned it off, the screen iridescent with dried cleaner, and there’s a slew of texts from Brady he can’t begin to be bothered to open. He doesn’t know what to say to Chick, still lost in the sting of his distrust.

“I still gotta test you,” Chick sighs.

“Whatever,” John says dryly.

“It’s coming from above my head, John.”

“I get it.”

-*~*-

He hates hospitals. Hates them with a creeping crawling sensation borne of visits both personal and for others. Weeks languishing in a hospital bed with pins in his knee, relearning how to walk and trust his body to carry his weight, muscles wasted and surgery scars cross-crossing his kneecap in ugly slashes.

Complaints of pain that became more fictitious as time went on, eyeing the doctor's prescription booklet with subtle hunger.

Visiting his mother, rail-thin and wasted away. Swearing to himself he’d never end up in those shoes.

He doesn’t like hospitals. He especially loathes them now, running on twenty-four hours of no sleep and in clothes he’s borrowed from his parole officer because if he spent one more second covered in vomit he might have really lost it. The smell of cleaner and faint piss makes his head hurt as he follows a quiet nurse down the hallway. Her crocs squeak on the linoleum.

“He’s pretty exhausted but he’s awake,” She says, stopping at room 418. The door is closed, curtain drawn and John twists his phone between his hands, staring as if he might see right through the wood.

“Thank you,” He says hoarsely.

She allows him into the room himself, which feels almost a novel level of trust after the fifteen hours and his hands a clammy as he shuts the door behind him, slipping on the cheap brass knob. Gale looks tiny in the hospital bed, like he’s dropped ten pounds overnight, hollow around the eyes and cheeks. There’s black staining at the corners of his lips.

“Gave you the old charcoal diet, huh?” John asks, settling into the chair against the wall and regarding Gale.

The priest looks at him with quiet guilt propped up by bone-deep exhaustion. He looks utterly lost, and John resists the urge to reach out to him. There’s still vomit under his nails. His wrists are still bruised from the cuffs. He almost lost his freedom over someone else's stupid decisions again.

“John–” Gale rasps, his voice a ruin.

“I’m going to talk,” John interrupts, “You’re going to listen.”

Gale’s mouth shuts with a click, his face crumpling into abject misery.

“Do you understand,” he continues slowly, understanding for the first time the depths of his betrayal and anger now that he knows Gale wasn’t about to be relegated to a hole in the ground, “What you risked?”

He jabs a finger in Gale’s direction, a furious mimicry of Chick’s anger the night before.

“Do you understand if you had fucking died I would have been looking at twenty years? If not more because I am on fucking parole and you decided to pull that shit in my home!” His voice is raised enough he knows it’ll draw attention. He pauses and takes another breath, swipes a trembling hand through his curls.

Gale makes another quiet noise.

“You put my life at risk,” John turns the finger back on himself, and his voice cracks as he continues, “I worked so hard Gale. ‘M not perfect but I worked too fucking hard to get where I am and you spit in my face. You used me. You betrayed my fucking trust you stole from my grandmother you tried to kill yourself on my bathroom floor.”

They’re both crying, Gale’s bloodshot eye so red it’s shocking that the tears aren’t tinged the same hue. John’s fighting to keep his breathing under control.

“I’ve seen my mom and my best friend and so many other people like that and I never thought it would be you, Buck.”

“It was stupid,” Gale murmurs, “It was selfish. I wasn’t thinkin’ John I swear I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I tried–”

“I know what you tried,” John snap, “I got powdered pills and puke all over my fucking clothes with what you tried.”

Gale presses a hand to his face, covering one half of it and squeezing the rest of it into a tight expression. The IV in his arm whispers softly against the sheets with the movement.

“Are you in trouble?”

“We’re waiting to find out. Chick thinks I should be okay though, since you didn’t go and die.”

John bounces his foot, glances over at the window and then at the TV that was playing MASH on mute. Gale stares at his hands, picking at the cuticles and radiating regret. His shoulders curve forward, birdlike and protective.

“How are you feeling?” John asks quietly.

Gale huffs a laugh, “Like shit.”

Despite himself, Gale cursing was always gave John a flicker of smug delight. A hint of humanity underneath all the pretense.

“Yeah, I know.”

Gale picks at his fingers, quiet and tired and John cant help himself but wipe at one of the smears of black. He knows it’s in Gale’s teeth, gritty and sour. Coating the back of his throat in a slimy residue. He knows.

“They’re just waiting on a bed to open up in their inpatient unit,” Gale admits softly, brows drawing together with shame.

John nods, stands and drags the chair until it’s in line with the bed, kicks his feet up on the sheets because it makes Gale smile faintly and lays his palm out flat beside Gale’s hip, fingers curled loosely.

“They got volume on this piece of ancient technology?” John asks, “This is a good season. Bet we could get through all of it before they come whisk you away.”

Gale watches him for long minutes, face cycling through a myriad of emotions. Disbelief, annoyance, shock, self-loathing. Quiet, desperately sad affection. His fingers, still too chilled and clammy, slide tentatively between John’s own. Not quite gripping but resting there as if, despite the offer, unsure of their welcome. John does the rest for him, twisting them together and fishing the remote from the nightstand.

#swiftywrites #clegan #little beasts #mota #masters of the air

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estellan0vella · 25 days ago

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Sunshine's Guide To Murder│Lee Minho

Chapter Thirty Five: You’re Too Good SS: 6 (ignore time stamps and dates) Word Count: 5.7K Content Warnings: Car accident, abduction, Hayun being cruel, talks of drugs, rape and guilt, talks of addiction, arguing

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Hayun, Jisung, Jeongin, and Felix sit sprawled across the couches in their living room, energy drinks scattered on the coffee table amidst a mess of open laptops and hastily scribbled notes. The room buzzes with the hum of electronics, the occasional sip from a can, and the tension that’s become an uninvited but persistent guest.

Jeongin leans back, eyes squinting at his screen. “Okay,” he starts, dragging the word out. “So Yeji’s murder? Officially backpedalling. Priority one is figuring out who’s targeting you three.” He gestures vaguely at Hayun, Felix, and Jisung, his energy drink held precariously in his other hand.

Jisung nods, scrolling through a list of names on his own laptop. “Right, so far, here’s the list of potential assholes: San, Seonghwa, Wooyoung, Yeosang, Hongjoong, Yunho, and Jongho. Mingi’s frat brothers from five years ago.”

Felix glances up, his fingers poised over his keyboard. “Uh, guys?” His voice is tight, and everyone looks at him. “Hongjoong? He’s Mingi’s lawyer. That’s motive right there. To shut us all up.”

Hayun taps her pen against the armrest of the couch, her brows knitting together. “Only if he was involved in Mingi’s drugging and raping scheme. We’re assuming they all were. What if they weren’t?”

Jisung snorts, leaning forward in his seat. “Come on, Hayun. They had to have known. That shit was happening in the frat house. You don’t live with a serial rapist and not notice something’s off.”

Hayun gives him a look, but before she can respond, Jeongin speaks up, his eyes glued to his screen. “Seonghwa’s been off the grid for four years. Right around the time Yuna died and Mingi left Seoul National. His family even put out an appeal, but the police found no sign of foul play.”

Felix groans, rubbing his face with one hand. “So, we’re either looking for a recluse or another dead body. Great. Why can’t criminals make our lives easy?”

Jisung points at him with his energy drink. “Exactly! Like, can’t one of these assholes just drop a confession in our laps?”

Hayun sighs, her tone patient despite the rising frustration in the room. “Once again, you’re assuming guilt, Ji. That’s dangerous.”

Jisung shrugs. “I refuse to believe they didn’t know Mingi was a serial rapist. I don’t care how blind you are, that’s too big to miss.”

Hayun sets her notebook aside, her voice calm but firm. “So, maybe they were willfully blind. That doesn’t make them guilty of a crime.”

Jisung gives her a pointed look, his voice dropping. “Hayun, do you remember anything from that night?”

The room falls silent, the weight of the question pressing down like a lead blanket. Hayun takes a deep breath, her eyes distant. “I saw Lia, Mingi, and Yuna. None of the others. The last thing I remember before passing out is Mingi raping me.”

Jisung’s jaw clenches. “That might just mean they didn’t want to go after a fourteen-year-old girl. Doesn’t mean they’re innocent. Just means they’re not pedophiles but they still might be rapists.”

Hayun’s gaze snaps to him, her tone sharper now. “You can’t go in assuming they’re guilty, Jisung. That’s how mistakes happen.”

Jisung throws his hands up, exasperated. “Mistakes? Someone left you a fucking doll and a message in pig’s blood at the university, then sent you oxy, and then bricked our goddamn windows. Excuse me for not wanting to see the best in people right now.”

Hayun exhales, her shoulders slumping slightly as the tension in the room thickens. Felix reaches over and rests a hand on her knee, his touch grounding. “He’s just scared, Yunnie. We all are.”

Jeongin, who’s been quietly watching the back-and-forth, adds softly, “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Hayun nods, her expression softening slightly. “I know. It’s just- We need to be careful. If we start assuming guilt without evidence, we’re no better than them.”

The door to the house swings open, and Chan, Minho, Seungmin, Hyunjin, and Changbin step inside, arms loaded with bags of takeout. The smell of fried chicken and tteokbokki wafts into the living room, but the welcoming aroma does little to cut through the tension hanging heavy in the air.

“What the fuck is going on in here?” Chan mutters, his brows furrowing as he stops short, taking in the scene.

Hayun and Jisung are standing toe-to-toe in the middle of the living room, their voices sharp and loud. Felix is sitting on the edge of the couch, his hands raised as if in surrender, while Jeongin sips calmly on his energy drink, his expression unreadable.

“You’re being an idiot!” Hayun shouts, her voice cracking slightly. She’s trembling, but it’s hard to tell if it’s from anger or hurt.

“And you’re in denial!” Jisung fires back, his face flushed with frustration.

Hayun narrows her eyes, crossing her arms. “Denial?”

“Yeah!” Jisung shouts. “You don’t want to admit to yourself that there might have been other people who fucking knew and didn’t help you!”

Hayun’s voice drops to a dangerous quiet, her words slow and deliberate. “And you,” she spits, “are just feeling guilty because you know your dad abducted me and your fucking sister is the reason I was raped.”

The room goes so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Felix’s eyes widen, and he looks between the two of them as though weighing whether to step in.

Jisung’s face twists, his voice rising in a raw, unfiltered snarl. “So now I’m fucking responsible for my family? Is that it? Maybe, just maybe, you shouldn’t have agreed to go to that fucking party! Then you wouldn’t be a fucking addict who can’t resist a couple of pills!”

The slap echoes through the room before anyone can react. Hayun’s hand trembles as it falls back to her side. Jisung stumbles back a step, clutching his cheek. His eyes blaze as he glares at her, the air between them crackling with tension.

“I do feel guilty for the pain my family caused you,” Jisung says, his voice cold and clipped. “But you- you’re the one who turned to drugs instead of getting help. You did that, Hayun. No one else.”

Hayun’s lip trembles, but her tone remains sharp. “And it took you five fucking years to notice! Some best friend you are.”

Jisung throws his arms out, his voice rising. “You hid it, Hayun! I’m not a goddamn drug detector! You never told me shit! You went to him!” He spins, jabbing a finger at Minho, who looks startled but doesn’t say a word. “You ran to the first guy you could find and spread your legs for him!”

The group collectively flinches at the words. Chan mutters, “Oh, fuck no,” under his breath, but no one moves to intervene as the argument spirals further.

Hayun’s cheeks burn red, and her voice shakes with a mix of rage and hurt. “You have no idea what I’ve been through. Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted to end up like this? You weren’t there for me, Ji. You left me to fucking drown.”

“You didn’t ask for help!” Jisung shouts. “You didn’t give me a chance to be there for you! You ran off and kept every fucking thing bottled up. What the hell was I supposed to do?”

“Not blame me for my own trauma!” Hayun shouts back, her voice cracking. “You think I wanted to be a fourteen-year-old rape victim? You think I wanted to be addicted to something that made it easier to forget?”

Felix tries again to interject, holding up his hands. “Guys, come on, this isn’t helping-”

“Fuck off, Felix!” they both yell at the same time, their voices almost drowning each other out.

Felix’s mouth snaps shut, and he stands, looking like a kicked puppy. “Right. Cool. I’ll just- Yeah, okay.” He shuffles out of the room, rubbing the back of his neck. Changbin follows after him, muttering something about not wanting to be collateral damage.

“You act like you’re the only one who’s suffered,” Jisung spits, his voice raw with emotion. “Like you’re the only one who’s ever been through shit. Newsflash, Hayun, everyone’s fucked up!”

Hayun’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, but she doesn’t back down. “Yeah? Well, not everyone has their best friend throw their trauma in their face. Not everyone has to listen to the person who’s supposed to care about them tell them it’s their own fault.”

Jisung’s jaw tightens, his voice dropping to a low growl. “And not everyone runs away from the people who care about them the second things get hard. You chose to leave. You chose to shut me out.”

“Because you wouldn’t have understood!” Hayun shouts, her voice breaking. “You don’t understand anything, Ji. You never have.”

“Then make me understand!” Jisung yells back, his voice cracking. “You never fucking tried, Hayun. You just gave up. You gave up on me, on yourself, on everything.”

Hayun takes a shaky breath, her fists clenched at her sides. “I didn’t give up. I survived. And I don’t owe you or anyone else an explanation for how I did it.”

The tension in the room is suffocating, and everyone else sits frozen, takeout containers untouched. Jisung glares at Hayun, his chest heaving with anger as he shouts, “Hayun, the perpetual victim, can do no wrong. You frame someone for murder, and we all go along with it because, oh, poor Hayun can’t handle her own shit!”

Hayun’s eyes blaze, and she jabs a finger in his direction. “Jisung, the fucking idiot who only cares when it suits him! Too busy questioning whether Hyunjin wants to be his boyfriend to give a shit about anyone else! You don’t get to stand there and judge me!”

“I always fucking cared!” Jisung shouts, stepping closer to her, his voice cracking. “But you confided in your boy toy and not me! Five years, Hayun. Five years I knew something was wrong. I asked you over and over, and you never fucking told me!”

“What would you have done, huh?” Hayun shoots back, her voice shaking but fierce. “Fought Mingi? Turned your sister in? You would’ve done what exactly, Jisung? Tell me!”

“Yes!” Jisung yells, his tone cutting through the room like a blade.

Hayun lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Bullshit. You would’ve folded the second it got hard, just like you always do.”

“Folded?!” Jisung looks at her like she’s grown another head. “You’re fucking delusional. All I’ve ever done is try to help you, and all you’ve ever done is push me away. I’m sick of it!”

“Help me?” Hayun scoffs, her eyes brimming with angry tears. “All you ever did was feel sorry for me, Jisung. And I didn’t need your fucking pity. I needed someone who actually understood!”

Jisung throws his hands in the air, his frustration boiling over. “And you think he does?” He points aggressively at Minho, who stays rooted in place, watching the exchange with a clenched jaw. “He swoops in, and suddenly he’s your knight in shining armour? Give me a fucking break, Hayun. You’re just using him to feel less broken.”

Hayun’s voice rises, trembling with fury. “You have no fucking idea what I’ve been through, Jisung. None. And you don’t get to stand there and call me broken when you’ve been too busy hiding from your own shit to even look me in the eye.”

Jisung’s face twists in anger, his words sharp and venomous. “All you’ll ever be is an addict, Hayun. That’s it. That’s all you’re ever gonna be.”

The crack of Hayun’s fist against Jisung’s nose echoes through the room like a gunshot. He stumbles back, clutching his face, blood already starting to trickle between his fingers.

“Fuck!” Jisung yells, his voice muffled as he glares at her through the pain.

Hayun shakes her hand out, her chest heaving as she stares him down, tears streaming down her face. “You don’t get to call me that. You don’t ever get to fucking call me that.”

Minho moves toward her, reaching for her arm. “Hayun, don’t-”

She jerks her arm away, her voice sharp and trembling. “I don’t need a saviour, Minho. I don’t need you or anyone, so back the fuck off.”

“Hayun,” Minho says softly, his hand lingering in the air. “Don’t do this.”

She shakes her head, her voice quieter but no less firm. “I’m done, Minho. I’m done with all of you.”

Turning on her heel, she storms toward the stairs. Jisung, still holding his bloody nose, shouts after her, “Run away! That’s what you’re fucking good at!”

Hayun freezes for half a second before snapping over her shoulder, her voice raw and furious. “Fuck you!” She doesn’t stop as she ascends the stairs, the sound of her footsteps pounding against the wood.

The room falls silent except for Jisung’s heavy breathing. Felix edges back into the living room, his face pale as he takes in the aftermath. “Uh, what the fuck just happened?”

Changbin steps in behind him, his gaze darting between Jisung, the blood dripping from his nose, and Minho, whose hands are clenched into tight fists. “Anyone want to fill us in?”

“Don’t,” Minho says, his voice low and dangerous as he shoots a glare at Jisung. “Don’t say another fucking word.”

Jisung sneers, his lip curling despite the blood smeared across his face. “What are you gonna do, Minho? Hit me? Go ahead. Join the club.”

Chan steps forward, placing a hand on Minho’s chest to hold him back. “Let’s all take a fucking breath before this gets even worse.”

Jeongin finally sets down his energy drink, his voice calm but firm. “You’re both fucking idiots. Congrats.”

Jisung glares at him but doesn’t respond, instead retreating to the kitchen to grab a towel for his nose. Minho shakes his head, his shoulders tense as he exhales sharply and sits on the edge of the couch, his face buried in his hands.

Felix breaks the silence, his voice soft but steady. “We need to fix this.”

Minho doesn’t look up, his voice muffled but clear. “We can’t fix shit until they stop trying to destroy each other.”

Minho steps into Hayun’s room quietly, his knuckles white as he pushes the door open. The room is dim, only the faint glow of the streetlight outside casting a soft, eerie light through the window. Hayun stands by her dresser, her back to him, her shoulders stiff. She doesn’t turn when he steps inside.

“Hayun,” Minho begins softly, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him.

She spins around suddenly, her eyes blazing. “What the fuck do you want, Minho?”

He falters at her tone, but only for a moment. “I want to talk. You can’t keep shutting everyone out-”

“Shutting everyone out?” Hayun cuts him off, a sharp laugh escaping her lips. She reaches for the silver ring on her finger, twisting it off with deliberate movements. “You think you’re the exception? That I’ll just let you play the hero?”

She steps closer, holding the ring out to him. “Here,” she says coldly. “Take this. I don’t need it, just like I don’t need you.”

Minho stares at the ring for a long moment, his jaw tightening before he takes it. He clutches it in his hand, his knuckles turning white around the small piece of silver.

“You don’t mean this,” he says, his voice low and even. “Whatever you’re going through, you’re lashing out. But you don’t mean it.”

Hayun lets out another humourless laugh, crossing her arms. “You think I don’t? Oh, Minho, you’re so fucking clueless. The only reason we’re in this relationship is because I pitied you. Poor Minho, the boy who lost his sister. How could I say no when you looked so damn pathetic?”

Minho flinches, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “You don’t mean that,” he says firmly, his voice cracking slightly. “You’re not this person, Hayun. This isn’t you.”

Her eyes narrow, and she steps closer, her voice dropping into something almost venomous. “This is me, Minho. This is me without oxy. Cruel, vindictive, and honest.” She smirks, her expression icy. “And you? You’re just a guy who gets off on saving broken girls. Is that your thing? Is that what you need to feel like a man? Because you couldn’t save Chaeryeong?”

The air between them turns electric with tension. Minho’s expression wavers, and for the first time, a flicker of pain crosses his face.

Hayun presses on, her tone sharper now. “That’s it, isn’t it? You couldn’t save your sister, so you latched onto me. The broken girl. The addict. A fucking project to make yourself feel better. But here’s the truth, Minho, you couldn’t save her. You failed Chaeryeong. Just like you fail at everything.”

The words hang in the air like a slap, and Minho blinks, his breath hitching. He takes a step back, his hand still clutching the ring so tightly his nails dig into his palm.

For a long moment, he’s silent, his face unreadable. Then he takes a deep breath and looks at her, his voice steady but heavy with emotion. “I don’t believe a single word you’re saying, Hayun. I don’t. Because this isn’t you.”

Hayun glares at him, her arms still crossed as she waits for him to continue.

“But,” Minho says, his voice breaking slightly, “if this is what you want, if pushing me away is what you think you need, I’ll go. But I’ll be waiting for you to come back to yourself. Because the real Hayun, the Hayun I know, would never say this shit.”

Hayun’s jaw tightens, but her eyes betray her for a split second. Just enough for him to see the flicker of doubt, the crack in her armour. She turns away sharply, her back to him once more.

“Get out,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Minho stands there for a moment longer, staring at her, willing her to turn back to him. But she doesn’t. With a sharp inhale, he steps back, his movements slow and deliberate.

“You know where to find me when you’re ready,” he says quietly before turning and walking out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Minho steps heavily into the living room, his face pale and his hand clenched tightly around the ring Hayun had just returned to him. The energy in the room shifts instantly as everyone turns to look at him, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity. He doesn’t immediately meet their eyes, his jaw working as though he’s chewing on words he doesn’t want to say.

“She ended it,” he finally manages, his voice flat. He tosses the ring onto the coffee table, where it lands with a faint clink against the glass. “It’s over.”

Felix, sitting closest to the table, frowns deeply and exchanges a glance with Jisung. Jeongin stops mid-sip of his energy drink, lowering the can as he studies Minho’s face.

“Shit,” Jisung mutters, his voice quieter than usual. “That bad?”

Minho doesn’t answer. He sinks onto the couch, his head dropping into his hands as he exhales sharply.

Felix clears his throat, leaning forward to open Hayun’s laptop. “Uh, Minho, you’re gonna want to see this.”

Minho looks up, his eyes dark. “What now?”

Felix turns the laptop around to show the screen. On it is a travel website, and prominently displayed is a booking page for flights from Seoul to Jeju Island. “She’s leaving,” Felix says, his voice tinged with unease. “And she’s not going alone. She’s looking at two tickets.”

The room falls into an uneasy silence. Minho’s gaze sharpens as he stares at the screen, his mind racing. “Two tickets?” His tone turns steely. “Who’s the other one for?”

Felix shrugs helplessly. “The page was open when I was looking for her notes. But someone’s going with her.”

Minho’s eyes scan the room, his jaw tightening. “Who?” His voice is louder now, carrying an edge of desperation. “Does anyone know who she’s going with?”

Chan shakes his head, his expression serious. “If anyone does, they’re not saying.”

Hyunjin crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “It could be anyone. But she didn’t tell me anything.”

“Same,” Jisung says, running a hand through his hair. “You think she’d let me know if she was planning to skip town after slapping the shit out of me? Fuck no.”

Felix glances nervously at Jeongin, who holds up his hands defensively. “Don’t look at me. I don’t know shit. She hasn’t said a word about leaving.”

Minho’s gaze flicks to Seungmin, who is sitting quietly in the corner, scrolling idly through his phone as if he isn’t part of the conversation. “What about you?” Minho asks, his tone sharp. “You’ve been weirdly quiet.”

Seungmin looks up, raising an eyebrow. “And what exactly would I know? Hayun doesn’t confide in me. If she did, I wouldn’t be here sitting on this shitty armchair.”

The room remains tense as Minho studies him, searching for any sign of guilt. Seungmin’s face remains unreadable, his expression a picture of disinterest.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Felix says, breaking the silence. “Why Jeju? Why now?”

Chan rubs his temples, sighing. “Maybe she’s trying to get space. After everything that happened-” He gestures vaguely to the window and the tension still lingering in the air. “It’s been a lot.”

“Space doesn’t explain two tickets,” Minho snaps. He stands abruptly, pacing the room. “Someone’s going with her, and we need to figure out who. Because if it’s someone we don’t trust-”

His voice trails off, but the implication is clear. Jisung grimaces, shooting a glance at Jeongin and Felix. “None of us are going with her, obviously.”

“Not me either,” Hyunjin adds quickly, holding up his hands.

Minho narrows his eyes at the group. “So no one here knows anything?”

A tense silence falls over the room again. Seungmin takes a deliberate sip from his water bottle before looking at Minho. “It could be no one. People look at flights all the time without booking them. Maybe she’s just weighing her options.”

“That’s bullshit,” Minho snaps, his frustration boiling over. “Hayun doesn’t just look at things for no reason. She’s planning something. She’s running.”

“Can you blame her?” Felix says softly, earning a sharp look from Minho.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Minho demands.

Felix sighs, leaning back against the chair. “She’s scared. Maybe leaving feels like the only way she can breathe.”

Minho doesn’t respond, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “We can’t let her go without knowing where or who she’s with,” he finally says, his voice low. “Not after everything that’s happened.”

Chan steps forward, resting a hand on Minho’s shoulder. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together. But pushing everyone here isn’t gonna get us answers.”

Minho exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Fine. But if I find out someone’s lying about knowing who’s going with her-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the unspoken threat lingers heavily in the air. Seungmin meets his gaze, unflinching, before returning to his phone as if nothing had happened.

The room remains tense, the weight of unanswered questions hanging over them like a storm cloud.

Seungmin slips upstairs, his steps quiet despite the muffled chaos of arguing voices from the living room below. He reaches Hayun’s door and knocks softly, hesitating for a beat before opening it. Inside, Hayun is crouched by her bed, folding clothes into a small suitcase. She doesn’t look up as he steps inside, shutting the door behind him.

“So, you’re really doing this?” Seungmin says, his tone even.

Hayun glances at him, her lips pressing into a thin line. “It’s what they told me on the phone,” she replies, her voice quiet but firm. “I leave, and they’re safe. That’s the deal.”

Seungmin nods slowly, leaning against the doorframe. “And you think this is the best way to handle it?”

“No,” Hayun admits, pausing as she tucks a sweater into the bag. “But it’s the only way to keep them out of it.”

For a moment, Seungmin just watches her, his arms crossed. Then, with a small sigh, he steps forward and starts grabbing clothes from her closet. “Well, I’ve always wanted to go to Jeju, so thanks for making that happen.”

Hayun blinks at him, momentarily startled, before a small smile tugs at her lips. “You’re welcome. Are you sure you want to come, though? It’s not exactly a vacation.”

“Someone has to keep an eye on you,” Seungmin says casually, tossing a pair of jeans onto the bed. “But honestly, they only think you’re leaving. They don’t need to know the real reason.”

“I know,” Hayun says softly, zipping up the suitcase.

“Our tickets are booked for tonight,” Seungmin reminds her, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’ve got, what? A few hours before this all kicks off?”

Hayun exhales sharply, her hands pausing on the handle of her suitcase. “I know. I just- I wish I didn’t have to break their hearts.”

“You did,” Seungmin says bluntly, his gaze steady. “Jisung and Minho especially. They’re wrecked. You knew they would be, though, didn’t you?”

Hayun swallows hard, guilt flickering across her face. “I did. But they’re also the two who would have convinced me to stay. I can’t stay, Seungmin. The person on the phone was clear. I leave, and everyone’s safe.”

Seungmin leans back on his hands, studying her for a moment. “You’re sure you can trust them? The person on the phone, I mean.”

“No,” Hayun says honestly, meeting his gaze. “But if there’s even a chance they’ll leave everyone alone, I have to try.”

There’s a beat of silence before Seungmin smirks faintly, shaking his head. “You know, when we worked together at that cafe before you became this big podcaster, I never thought I’d end up fleeing Seoul with you. Funny how life works out.”

Hayun’s smile is small but genuine as she picks up her toiletry bag and stuffs it into the suitcase. “I guess I should say thank you for sticking with me. Even now.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Seungmin mutters, standing and grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair. He drapes it over the bed before looking at her again, his expression softening. “We’re not out of here yet.”

“I know,” Hayun murmurs, zipping up the suitcase and sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. She fiddles with the hem of her hoodie, her voice quieter now. “But it means a lot. Really.”

Seungmin doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes flicking toward the closed door. “You ready for this? To actually go through with it?”

“No,” Hayun admits with a shaky laugh. “But it’s not about what I’m ready for. It’s about what’s necessary.”

Seungmin nods, and for the first time, his hand reaches out to pat her shoulder. “Then let’s get it done.”

Hayun descends the stairs with purpose, her two suitcases bumping slightly against the wooden steps. The sound echoes through the tense silence of the living room, where everyone immediately turns to face her. Her face is calm, but there’s a steely determination in her eyes. Behind her, Seungmin appears, his expression carefully crafted into one of frustration mixed with urgency.

“Hayun,” Seungmin calls after her, his tone sharp but rehearsed. “You can’t just walk out like this. Come on, at least talk to them before you go.”

She doesn’t stop, her grip tightening on the handles of her suitcases. “I’ve already said everything I needed to say. There’s nothing left to talk about.”

Jisung steps forward, his face a mix of anger and desperation. “You’re seriously leaving? Just like that? You’re a fucking coward, Hayun.”

Hayun pauses at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes flicking to Jisung. “If that’s what you need to believe, fine. But I’m not staying.”

Minho, seated on the arm of the couch with his elbows resting on his knees, straightens up, the ring still clutched tightly in his hand. “So that’s it? You’re running away?”

Seungmin steps between them, holding his hands up. “She’s not running. She’s doing what she thinks is best, even if it’s a shitty decision. I’ve been trying to convince her to stay, but she’s made up her mind.”

Felix crosses his arms, his voice trembling with frustration. “Hayun, you can’t just leave us in the middle of all this. We’re a team.”

“I’m not abandoning the team,” Hayun says evenly, her voice soft but resolute. “I’m doing this for all of you.”

“For us?” Minho snaps, his voice laced with bitterness. “Bullshit. You’re doing this for yourself.”

Seungmin turns, feigning irritation. “Can’t you all see this isn’t helping? Let her go. At least give her that.”

Hayun brushes past the group, her movements deliberate. As she reaches the door, she hesitates for the briefest of moments, her shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. Then, without looking back, she steps outside, Seungmin following close behind.

The cold night air greets them as Hayun moves toward Seungmin’s car. He pops the trunk and takes her suitcases, carefully placing them beside his own packed bags. As he shuts the trunk, he glances at her, his mask of frustration slipping into a wry smile.

“Well,” Seungmin says as they slide into the car, the doors clicking shut. “Let’s go to Jeju and see if we can solve Yeji’s murder from four hundred kilometers away.”

Hayun exhales, her hands gripping the edge of her seat. “None of them know the address of Etta’s house,” she says quietly, her voice steadier than she feels. “They can come to Jeju all they want, but they won’t find us.”

Seungmin starts the car, the engine rumbling to life. He glances at her from the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable. “You sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” Hayun says firmly, though her hands fidget slightly in her lap. “This is the only way to keep them safe.”

Seungmin nods, pulling the car onto the road. “Alright then. Let’s do this.”

As they drive away, the lights of the house fade into the distance, leaving only the quiet hum of the engine and the unspoken weight of the journey ahead.

The hum of the car engine fills the quiet night as Seungmin keeps his eyes on the empty road ahead. The air inside the car is tense, but not hostile. He glances at Hayun, whose hands rest in her lap, her fingers twisting a silver bracelet around her wrist.

“They’ll forgive you, you know,” Seungmin says, his voice calm but firm.

Hayun shakes her head, her gaze fixed out the window at the shadowy trees flashing by. “I could live with it if they didn’t,” she murmurs. “I did this for them, not for me. The person on the phone was clear, if I leave Seoul, no more bricks, no more threats. Everyone stays safe.”

Seungmin sighs, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “That’s a lot of weight to carry on your shoulders, Hayun. What if leaving doesn’t fix anything? What if-”

“It has to,” Hayun interrupts, her voice low but steady. “I can’t take the chance. If staying means they’re in danger, I won’t risk it.”

Seungmin glances at her again, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You’re too good for your own damn good.”

A faint smile touches her lips, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re the only one who thinks so right now.”

The road stretches on, dark and quiet. The night is colder here, the frost shimmering faintly on the asphalt. Seungmin flicks on the heater, but before either of them can relax, headlights appear in the distance, blindingly bright against the dark road.

“Shit, that guy’s driving fast,” Seungmin mutters, squinting at the oncoming truck.

The truck barrels toward them, swerving wildly. Seungmin’s grip tightens on the wheel, his voice rising. “What the fuck is he-”

Before he can finish, the truck veers sharply into their lane. “Hold on!” Seungmin shouts, throwing his arm across Hayun’s chest instinctively as the truck slams into the side of their car with deafening force.

The impact sends the car spinning across the icy road, the sound of screeching metal and shattering glass filling the air. Hayun’s scream is cut short as her head snaps to the side, hitting the window with a sickening thud. Seungmin grits his teeth, struggling to control the spinning car, but another jolt from the truck’s impact sends them crashing into a snowbank.

The world tilts, then stills. The once-deafening noise fades into eerie silence. Inside the car, Hayun and Seungmin are slumped over, unconscious, their breaths shallow and uneven. The windshield is spiderwebbed with cracks, shards of glass glinting like ice in the faint glow of the headlights.

From the wreckage, the sound of crunching footsteps approaches. Two hooded figures emerge from the shadows, their faces obscured by thick scarves. They move with purpose, their boots crunching against the frozen ground as they approach the crumpled car.

The taller figure yanks open the driver’s side door, the hinges groaning in protest. Seungmin’s limp body slumps against the seatbelt. The figure unbuckles him and hauls him out, dragging him by the arms toward a dark van parked further down the road.

The second figure moves to the passenger side, pulling Hayun’s door open with a sharp jerk. Her head lolls to the side, a faint line of blood trickling from her temple. The figure hesitates for a moment, then grabs her under the arms, lifting her out of the car with a grunt.

They move quickly, dragging both unconscious bodies toward the waiting van. The taller figure opens the back doors, revealing a dark, empty interior lined with straps and restraints. They toss Seungmin and Hayun inside unceremoniously, the sound of their bodies hitting the metal floor echoing in the still night.

The shorter figure closes the doors with a solid thud, and the taller one circles to the driver’s side. The van’s engine rumbles to life, the headlights cutting through the darkness as it pulls onto the road and disappears into the night, leaving the wrecked car behind.

The road falls silent again, save for the faint rustling of the wind. The smashed car sits abandoned, its lights flickering weakly, as the van carries its unconscious passengers to an unknown fate.

Taglist: @hityoulikebahng @drewsandsebastianswife @fackeraccount @lily-loves-kpop @stilldontknowhoiam

@ziggy1221 @justaspoonofjam @tr-mha-fan @candycurshidkwhatthehell

@heeseungspookie @smigcrazy @skzstannie @nightmarenyxx @beaann

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laniusbignaturals · 2 months ago

Note

Please more modern Edward!

I’ll assume this is the same person who asked for titplay headcanons, so this will be NSFT. There’s also violence and grotesque toxicity. Be wary of that.

Absolutely disgusting first one but whatever - his nose is huge, and he likes to bare knucklebox, so naturally it’s been dislocated several times. Often he will just snap the bone back into place with his knuckles. This sounds cool on paper, but it doesn’t do anything to alter the ridiculous, nasally, congested tone that develops in his voice every time he sustains this injury, so. Cringe!

Edward doesn’t have as many tattoos in this universe, but he does have a branding on his arm from his time spent in a fraternity in college. He used a frozen brand, because he’s scared of fire. (I know.)

Joshua would love to strangle him but his neck is really thick and Joshua’s hands aren’t that big, so he can never do it as effectively as he would like to. This frustration increases the thrill for both of them, tbh.

Edward likes short bitches because he is a short bitch because he looks bigger standing next to them and they’re often just as pissy, spiteful and tense as he is.

As I’ve referenced in the past, Edward has done coke, but he’s not as big of a speedfreak/accelerant lover as you might assume of a man like him. Edward, constitutionally, is hardly ever calm, content or relaxed. Alcohol might soothe that need for others, but Edward severely dislikes the way heavy drinking debilitates his control over himself, so he doesn’t do it unless he’s desperate. Other depressants, like Xanax, Oxy and Neuroleptics have been known to work well on him. But these trips bring him dangerously close to like, meaningfully doubting himself. So he doesn’t do them often, and always acts like he’s forgotten their contents completely once they’re over.

On that note: Edward forgets a lot of stuff. It’s his superpower. It’s cus he’s a gaslighter, it’s cus he grew up without a sense of objective truth, it’s cus he saw a lot of things that small children can’t comprehend and learned how to stop accepting reality on command to stave off an immediate breakdown. It just sort of comes naturally to him, so much so that he’s confident this is human nature. And he’s sure as shit not gonna let objective fact get in the way of that judgement anytime soon.

Edward worked enough Real Jobs that he could always live comfortably before solidifying a corrupt position of power. By the time he’s in his late 50s/early 60s, they’ve really stacked up. He’s been an editor, a foreman, a bail bondsmen, a landlord, a professor (for court mandated community service hours,) a chef, and pretty much every other profession that’s easier if you’re a complete jackass. The long term affect of this Jack-Of-All-Trades lifestyle is that he doesn’t have shared life experience with most other people. This helps him isolate himself more comfortably.

Joshua once watched Edward slice up someone��s throat with a pair of garden shears. Afterwards, they went out to eat and Edward got him to break some Mormon food rules. It was a cute date.

Joshua’s got a big family, and he was fond of most of them. Edward might have an extended family, but if he does, he is rejecting them like a bad limb transplant. He actively does not want to know if he’s got any living half siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents, or cousins. He doesn’t even talk to his old high school friends. He will be an only child till the grave.

This is not an original thought, but he’s a beer guy. He’s that beer guy. The one who uses it as a part of his personality the way toxic white girls do iced coffee. Not only that it’s a weird sadomasochistic performance of gender, but also that he uses its purveyance and consumption as an expression of intimacy and camaraderie. Asking if you want a beer is Edward’s idea of affection.

Another thing Edward does for people he thinks he cares about is protect their ego. He will take your side when you’re obviously wrong and buy you a new blouse when you ruin yours and roll up all the windows in the car when you’re having a meltdown in the passenger seat. This behavior exists alongside intense possessiveness and sporadic cruelty because of course it does. Edward is sweet as antifreeze. The state of possession and the loss of autonomy is the only dynamic he believes to be worth maintaining, and even then, it’s more about the attempt than ever being fully successful. To receive his love is sickening.

Joshua has torn the buttons on Edward’s shirt to lick rivulets of wine off his breasts and pistol whipped him before jerking off on his bloody face and ashed cigarettes on him mid-fuck and called him every filthy degrading name in the book and Edward still identifies as the dominant between them. He is clinging to that pitcher’s mound like a ship in a storm.

He doesn’t believe in god, but there is room in his mind for hell. Deep down, he craves it. The grandiosity, the submission, the finality. Joshua likes this about him.

Have you ever broken into a house or apartment while the owner was at home? Edward has. It used to be for the purpose of stealing, but he didn’t give up the practice when he became economically stable. The truth is that he enjoys it. He enjoys busting in doors and breaking windows and hearing wives and daughters scream and making people feel scared & helpless in a place they thought was safe. This is such a brazen maladaptive recreation of his own trauma that he’ll sometimes find himself having uncomfortable emotions while doing it, so it’s an occasional occurrence. But still.

He had the most control over his body in his early and mid twenties, so during that era he had a quiet exhibition fetish. He’d get into bars, gyms, classrooms, bathhouses and libraries after hours with whoever he was fucking that month & get totally naked, savoring the fantasy of being seen and admired by dozens of eyes. His idea of beauty is an empty room. (No this doesn’t indicate anything about him what are you talking about.)

#edward sallow #joshua graham #sallowgraham #otp: philautia #nsft #ask to tag #asks

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carlos-in-glasses · 1 year ago

Text

Thank you for the tag @im-overstimulated-and-im-sad @whatsintheboxmh @strandnreyes @thisbuildinghasfeelings 🧡💛

Chapter 7: A Boy's Best Friend of Where All This Love Comes From is up on ao3 - so this is some TK and Owen from Chapter 8: Your Heart, As if It Was My Very Own - coming Sunday. Really looking forward to sharing!

“I let you go to Mike’s Superbowl party on one condition,” Owen says, heaving himself out of the chair. “No substances. And you promised.”

“I didn’t, I didn’t.” TK smiles and nudges Owen’s chest. “I’m just tired. I need to go to bed.”

“TK. Look at me.”

“Noooo I’m fine.”

“TK!” Owen grabs TK by his backpack. TK struggles and jerks his arms around until his backpack and coat come away in Owen’s hands. Owen lets both items clatter to the floor – and when the bag smacks the floorboards, there’s a strange buzzing sound.

“What’s that?” Owen asks.

“I don’t know,” TK says quickly, launching for the backpack at the same time as Owen – his blood running cold when he sees the black canvas undulating.

The Oxy has dulled his reaction times. Owen snatches the bag and unzips.

There it all is. A half-eaten Hershey bar. A green tube containing pills (opened). A strip of ribbed condoms (eleven serrated squares out of twelve). And a pink vibrator that is accidentally vibrating and thrusting at its highest setting.

Owen takes the vibrator out of the bag, stares at it moving in his hand like a living thing, and then switches it off with some difficulty.

“I can explain,” TK says once the room falls blessedly quiet but for street noise below.

Owen looks at the vibrator, looks at TK, looks at the vibrator. Looks at TK. “Did you get this the same place you got that?” he nods at the New York University hoodie that TK stole from Mike when Mike wasn’t looking. He put it on over his sweater and under his coat for extra warmth, which he thought was sensible. “Same place you got the pills?”

“And the chocolate bar,” TK admits. “Look–”

“You told me you were going to Mike’s, and you went to fucking New York University and came home with Oxy and a sex toy?”

“Like I said. I can explain,” TK says, even though explaining would mean repeating everything Owen just said. Because that is what happened.

“This is going in the trash. All of it.” Owen stomps away to the kitchen with TK in wobbly pursuit.

“No! I should be allowed to have that,” TK cries, more fussed about the vibrator than the pills at this point, because he had grand plans.

Owen pulls the garbage can out of its hideaway cupboard and dumps the condoms and vibrator into the sack – the vibrator springing to life again among egg shells and scrapped leftovers. Owen stares at TK seriously. Holding eye contact, he shuts the garbage can away while the vibrator carries on singing, slightly muffled. It will keep going until the battery dies.

Open tags and tags below

@lemonlyman-dotcom @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @paperstorm @eclectic-sassycoweyes @liminalmemories21 @heartstringsduet @welcometololaland @fitzherbertssmolder @ladytessa74 @lightningboltreader @bonheur-cafe @chaotictarlos @chicgeekgirl89 @alrightbuckaroo @noxsoulmate @freneticfloetry @herefortarlos @louis-ii-reyes-strand @carlos-tk @redshirt2 @wandering-night19 @inkweedandlizards @inflarescent @jesuisici33 @three-drink-amy @reyesstrand @theghostofashton @rmd-writes @goodways @louis-ii-reyes-strand - if you want to share/haven't already! No pressure ever! ❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜

#wip wednesday #where all this love comes from #flashback fic #cig tagged #tarlos fanfic #tarlos fanfiction

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jpitha · 2 years ago

Text

Just a Little Further 9

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Standing in front of the line of us waiting for the airlock to cycle, I don't think I've ever been this nervous! Even during my graduation, waiting to find out if I was selected for FarReach's mission, nothing was as nerve wracking as this. But, I had to be strong. I was going to represent humanity and K'laxikind here. I took a deep breath, held it for two, and let it out through my nose. Here we go.

The outer lock door cycled and the first thing that I noticed was the smell of the umbilical. It wasn't bad so much as it was unfamiliar. My nose was inundated with smells I've never smelled before. Starbases have a smell about them. They're self contained units where sometimes thousands of sapients will live work and play together, of course they're going to smell. Doesn't matter how fastidious you are about cleaning, something just permeates the walls. This was list that but...different. The smells of thousands of sapients I've never seen before.

The second thing I noticed was how warm it was! It was warm and moist like a hot summer day. We don't normally keep our Starbases this warm or moist. Moisture promotes corrosion and heat is cheap to make, but expensive to dissipate. It was odd.

I walked down the short umbilical until I reached the door to the Starbase. Like ours, it was an iris type door. Maybe that's universal. "FarReach, you're sure the gases on the other side are breathable?" I asked, one last time.

"Sensors indicate that they're pretty close to Earth and K'lax, Melody." FarReach said kindly. "The specific gas mixture is a little different. A touch more xenon than what we use, maybe just a bit less carbon dioxide. Oxy levels are fine though, you can breath it no worries."

"Okay then, here goes..." and I touched the pad by the iris.

With a whoosh, it snapped open. That's way faster than home, I was startled. I looked out, surprised and I saw them.

It was a group of 6 sapients in front, with a small crowd behind them. Three of them had iridescent feathers! They looked almost like gigantic birds! They had wings even! I wonder if they could fly. The other three were more like they were a sea creature long in their past. They had tentacles they stood on, and looked like they had no bones. If you squinted, maybe they looked like Octopuses, but they didn't really look like octopuses. Just the tentacles and the lack of bones and the large, wet eyes, though they weren't dripping or anything. They were standing apart though. With a large space between them. That's odd. I would have figured that they would be all together.

One of the bird looking ones took a step forward and said "Welcome! This is Reach to the Might of Vzzx. I am Starlight on a Moonless Evening, this is The Smell Of The Ocean and there is Rapid River Roaring."

They took a step back and then, one of the octopus people took a step forward. "Welcome from us as well! I am Vivvix, this is Zemmlin and over here is Ottarn."

Then, Vivvix took a step back and waited. This must be some kind of ritual. Mentally, I shrugged and took a step forward. I took a breath and said "Thank you for your warm welcome! My name is Melody Mullen, with me is my Captain Selem Q'ari, our linguist Fer’resi Perinem and one of our engineers, Omar Adel." At each mention of their names, everyone nodded or did something to indicate which person I was talking about. Fer'resi did a little wave even!

After I finished and the ritual seemed complete, I took a step back. Only then, did I notice how they reacted.

Maybe the nano bots programed me with some extra ability to tell facial expressions, but everyone seemed shocked.

Like, if they were humans, they'd be jaws on the floor shocked.

Uh oh. This keeps happening.

One of the bird people, The Smell of the Ocean I think, spoke. "S-So, you can understand us?" They asked haltingly.

I nodded, then realizing they might not know that gesture said "Yes, I can understand you..." Was I not supposed to be able to? "Can you understand me?"

The Smell of The Ocean's feathers ruffled. Maybe they were embarrassed? They were uncomfortable about something. "A bit, yes. But you are..." They stopped. Their head rotated slightly. Their eyes are more forward on their face than Earth birds so they must have binocular vision but for the life of me it looked like they were trying to get a look at me out of both eyes. Maybe an ancient instinct that has turned into body language. They took a deep breath and started again. "I am speaking my people's standard spacefaring tongue. You can understand me?"

"Yes" I said, puzzled.

They did their version of a nod. I wonder how I knew that? They spoke again "Now, I am speaking the language of the Northern Continent of my people's home planet. It hasn't been spoken outside of legal briefings for five thousand cycles. Today, it is more a ceremonial language than anything. Only people like me can understand it, and even then only haltingly. I was a student of it, and so can speak it fluently. There are fewer than one thousand of us." They stopped and stared at me. "Do you understand me?"

My eyes went wide. "Y-Yes, I understand you." I answered quietly.

With an expression that I could only describe as their version of raised eyebrows, Zemmlin looked at them, then at me, and spoke. "I see what they are doing, let me try. I am speaking my people's home planetary language. My... colleague The Smell of the Ocean here does not understand it. Do you?"

Horror dawned. "Y-Yes, I understand it." I whispered.

It was my turn to reply. "When you speak to me, and I reply, am I replying in your language, or the same language every time?"

Starlight on a Moonless Evening replied this time. "Every time you speak, you are replying in the Holy Tongue."

I blinked. The what?

"I'm sorry, the what?"

Starlight made a gesture that I knew was a shrug. I couldn't tell you how I knew though. "The Holy Tongue. The language of the Gods. The words of the Builders."

That last one struck a chord. "Do you mean the builders of the Warp Gates?"

Rapid River Roaring laughed. "Who else would we mean, Holy One?"

Ugh, and I thought being called Lieutenant was bad.

Vivvex came forward now and said "It seems we all have something to learn from each other. We would like to learn how you came to us though the Warp Gates which we thought were long deactivated and are speaking The Holy Words and you... probably have things to ask us too. Do you take food? Come. It's meal time for us. We can eat and speak afterwards."

"L-let me talk to my companions for a moment please."

Vivvex nodded and took a step back. I turned around can faced everyone. "Okay, how much of that did you get?" I asked.

Fer'resi was the first to reply. "Um Melody, how many languages do you know? I noticed they kept taking turns talking to you in clearly different languages and you replied every time."

"I think I know... all of them" I said awkwardly. "I know, it sounds crazy, but they said I'm speaking "The Holy Tongue."

"The what?" Omar asked, incredulous.

"I know, right? I think they mean the language of the builders of the Warp Gate. Oh! They also said they thought the Gate was disabled until we came through it."

"Disabled?" Captain Q'ari said, thinking. "Given what we saw at the previous address, I hope we didn't unlock the door for something to come through here."

I didn't even think of that. "Oh shoot. I hope you're right." I clicked my radio "Hey FarReach, Gene, please keep an extra sharp eye out for anything following us through the Warp Gate. The locals say they thought it was disabled until we came through it."

"You got it Melody." Gene replied. "How's the meet and greet going?"

"I don't know Gene. I think they think I'm a living God."

"In a good way, or a bad way?" Gene asked in that joking but not really tone that humans use sometimes.

"Too soon to tell." I said honestly. "We're about to go to lunch I think,"

"Ooh, tell me if you eat anything good, tell me and I'll try it when I get to go ashore."

"Will do Gene. You take care. FarReach, I admit this is a long shot but how's the language model coming?"

FarReach chuckled. "I was just chatting with Fer'resi. It's tough to build a language model when you can understand everyone but keep replying in one language. We're getting something though. Fer'resi thinks it might be enough to be understood. We're going to be replying in your language though. If they really think it's a Holy Tongue, they might be uncomfortable at that. They must have translators though, let's see if we can buy or borrow one. That'll help."

"Good Idea. They invited us to lunch or something, so I'll ask then."

I turned to Captain Q'ari. "They want to invite us to lunch. Do you want me to say yes?"

Selem's ears twitched in a way that signaled resignation and frustration. Hah. I think I can tell K'laxi expressions better with these nano machines helping too! "We should probably accept, yes." She turns and looks at us. "Did everyone bring their portable mass spectrometers?"

We all have a small mass-spec on our wrists. It can scan food and drink and make sure there aren't any obviously poisonous things or K'laxi allergens in it. It won't tell us if things taste good, but it'll tell us if we can eat them without going into anaphylactic shock or ruining our livers.

Nods of yes all around. "Go ahead and accept the invitation Melody." Huh. She didn't call me Lieutenant Mullen. Interesting.

I turn back around. "After a little deliberation with my team, we would be grateful to accept your invitation to dine together. Please lead the way."

Again, they are taken aback at my speech. I have a hunch that they're just not used to someone speaking to them in the language I'm speaking to them in. It's like a language they have only read or studied in school and here I was talking to them in it like it was normal.

At least they mostly understood me, and I can apparently understand them in any language they speak.

Starlight bowed low and spread their wings and said "Wonderful. Please follow me."

They lead us away from the dock and as we walked I looked around.

The Starbase was different than the Joint K'laxi/Human Starbase I lived on before embarking. It was more...organic? Maybe it was a function of the fact that I think it was built out of an asteroid, but it definitely felt more grown than built in places. There were curves and smooth walls and dark grey and browns. The lighting was more organic feeling than back home too. It was warm and bright and led an airiness to the Starbase that it would be lacking otherwise. We were pretty far from this system's star and we were not in orbit around a planet, so the cheeriness was appreciated.

And the people! All kinds of people. I saw more of the bird people, more of the octopus people and so many others. There were these large bipedal beings in very complicated looking pressure suits. Maybe they're from a world that uses a different breathing mixture than here. There were ones with long legs with knees that were almost parallel with their heads! They had large segmented eyes like an insect and it always felt like they were watching us as we walked by.

Come to think of it, everyone was watching us as we walked by.

They weren't too happy about it.

My newfound ability to know everyone's body language was ringing alarm bells. Everyone hated to see us. Especially the Bird and Octopus people.

We turned a corner and came upon what I figured was the main promenade.

I nearly lost my footing I was so startled. It was gigantic! Far larger and more dense than any city I ever visited on Meíhuā. I've never been to Earth, but I bet this was more crowded than some Earth cities! It was so tall too. More than 200 meters straight up if I had to guess. There were windows and lights and signs all the way up.

While we were walking Fer'resi was trying his best to speak with The Smell of The Ocean. I could understand both of them, so it was a little odd to hear.

"Um, what about this. Hello?"

"Oh, I got that one! Hello!"

"Amazing! Try this: My name is Fer'resi, what's yours?"

Ocean shook his feathers sadly "I didn't get that, friend."

Fer'resi made notes in his pad. This time, his translator spoke "Do you understand this?

Ocean rippled surprise. "I do understand it. But your accent is very thick. How did you do that?"

Fer'resi smiled. "Our Ship, FarReach helped. We're working together to build a language model. If you have a translator we can purchase or borrow, we can refine it further."

Ocean made an expression that I knew was a nod. "We do have them. I'll make sure you get one, yes. You can even keep it to help refine your language model, provided you provide us with an update so we can update our translators as well."

Fer'resi frowned and made more notes. "I got the majority of that, but I missed part of it. Oh well. We'll get more accurate with time."

I had a thought. "Hey Fer'resi. Speak to me in English."

"Um okay." He thought a moment. "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party."

"Coming to the aid of what party?" I asked, confused.

He chuckled. "It's apparently old filler text that people used to use on mechanical type writing machines. It's nonsense. But, you did understand it?"

"I did. It was easy."

"I have a feeling Melody, that you now can understand every language. I have no idea what those nano machines did, but they clearly edited the language processing part of your brain. I wonder what the limitations of it are. We should experiment later."

"Sure Fer'resi, we can do that."

Vivvix turned back to me "Holy One, why are you armed?" We notice the weapons on your back."

ughhh, I hate that. "Please don't call me Holy One, my name is Melody. I'm armed because we weren't sure what to expect and we wanted to come prepared. I'm the only one armed because I'm the best shot here, and we didn't want to come across as warlike with us all being armed. It was a compromise."

Vivvix's skin subtly changed color, a nod. Neat! "I see, thank you... Melody. Will you be armed in future visits?"

I shrugged. "I don't know yet." I said carefully. If everyone is... not a threat then... I don't see a reason to come armed next time."

Vivvix gave their version of a smile, but I was able to tell it was fake. "That's very nice to hear. Thank you"

Now that sounded menacing. I think I'm going to continue coming to this Starbase armed.

Rapid River Roaring led us towards a large stone looking building near the center of the promenade. It was either very old or meant to look very old. In front were a fountain and a statue of a being in a pressure suit looking out onto the promenade making a grand gesture. The fountain and the statue were carved in the same stone of the Starbase. "Here we are. It's the administration offices for Reach of the Might of Vzzx. There is a cantina here that offers many different kinds of food. I'm sure we can find something pleasing for you to consume here."

As they approached the building Captain Q'ari stopped dead. She was staring at the statue and was clearly frightened, almost shaking. Fer'resi, noticing her, followed her gaze and also immediately was frightened. "M-Melody." Fer'resi said, his voice catching. "Look at the statue."

I turned at looked at it and gasped. Omar noticed us, followed our gaze and softly said "holy shit."

It was a human woman.

Part 10

#humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #humans go on adventure #humans are space oddities #sci fi writing #writing #humans and ai #humans and aliens #the k'laxiverse #jpitha #just a little further

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