#reminder to every person that they are a mammal and they don’t need to feel bad about having body hair

[basicmom]

One time someone (F) at work snidely asked if I (M) was annoyed by having arm hair and suggested that I consider shaving it because they thought having any body hair was gross…

they looked shocked when I said “I’m a mammal, what the fuck do you expect? Most mammals have body hair, I don’t need to change my appearance to make other people happy”

and they never spoke to me again :)

I literally love being a mammal sooooo much like im soft and warm and get to love other soft warm and nice smelling creature. In the winter I like to get wrapped up so as to stay warm and dry. Its just my #MammalWay. I eat fruits which are sweet as well and I can use germs to make breads cheese and wine. I cant wait to retire to my burrow tonight. And when you touch gently my mammal body it feels good.....omggggg

[casuallyimagining]

Fix You (2)

hybrid!Min Yoongi x female!reader

Summary: When you take in a stray cat, you have no idea he’s secretly a hybrid trying to escape his past. Can you help him heal? Genre: hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn, fluff Word Count: 2,987 Rating: M Warnings (may not appear in every part): minor character is a dick to animals, mentions of a gun, main character injury (non-serious), discussion of physical abuse, emotional abuse, discussion of sexual abuse, discussion of self-harm

Notes: Banner by @birbdae; thanks to @voiceswithoutlips, @taetaesbaebaepsae​, and @hoebii​​ for editing this for me.

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When you woke up, the cat was nowhere to be found, and your pillow was missing. It was just your luck that the random cat you had saved would end up being a kleptomaniac. You sighed and began to get ready for your day. It wasn’t like you could do anything about it. The cat was probably scared and confused, and you couldn’t blame him for wanting to be comfortable.

As you passed your TV stand, you bent down to peer underneath it. Copper eyes stared back at you. You greeted the cat and his tail swished back and forth against the floor, annoyed. So he wasn’t into mornings, then.

Heading into the kitchen, you quickly made yourself a cup of coffee. If the cat wasn’t a morning person, then you would probably get along. You were an early riser, but that was mostly due to insomnia, not because you actually enjoyed being awake.

You brought him the rest of the chicken you had cut up the night before, prepared with his morning dose of the antibiotics. Laying down on the floor, you pushed the plate under the TV stand for him.

He sniffed at the chicken, eyes not leaving your face as he started to eat. His canines were long and pointy, you noticed, and if you paid attention when his mouth was closed, you could barely see the tip of the right one poking out from his lips.

“I’m going to go shopping today to get you some stuff.�� The cat didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. He was a cat. “I know you’re feeling better, but please try not to jump on stuff. You’ll hurt yourself more, and I really can’t afford another weekend trip to the vet.” His copper eyes seemed to soften at that for a moment before hardening back into a glare.

You weren’t sure what you did to make the cat constantly glare at you. Maybe he had a resting grouch face. Maybe he was just uncomfortable in his new surroundings. You hoped that, if nothing else, he would eventually warm up to you. All the pets you’d had in the past had opened up to you right away, although you supposed that was because they were babies when your family had adopted them. You’d never adopted an adult cat before.

“Eat up,” you told him before pushing yourself off the floor. “I’ll be back soon.”

The pet store was larger than you remembered it being. When you were a kid shopping with your mother for your pets, there were only a few departments in the store. There was, of course, sections for cats and dogs, as well as areas for fish, birds, reptiles, and small mammals. Now though, in addition to the old departments, there were additional sections for hybrids of all kinds--there was even a department dedicated to large and exotic hybrids like lions, panthers, giraffes, and elephants.

Hybrids weren’t a new species by any means, but it had only been in the past decade or so that people had fully started to embrace them in society. Before, shops that catered to hybrids were usually small and boutique--hybrids used to only be seen as pets or servants, and ones that lived without ownership were few and far between. But after fighting for and receiving the rights they deserved, hybrids had become more prevalent in society. There was even a hybrid serving in the president’s cabinet, and quite a few serving in other high-ranking government positions.

You wandered through the cat section of the pet store, unsure of what to buy. You had a couple toys in your cart--catnip mice and little springs and balls that had bells in them. You knew the cat was somehow going to act offended by them, but you reminded yourself that he’s a cat, and indoor cats needed something to stimulate their minds.

You also had put some cat shampoo in your cart. The cat was dirty, and you weren’t sure how much blood was going to be caked into his fur under the bandage, so you figured a bath was somewhere in his immediate future.

Sighing, you grabbed a bag of air-dried food. He would probably hate that, too, but you couldn’t keep feeding him raw chicken. For one thing, you couldn’t stand the feel of it, and the less you had to touch the raw meat, the better. But also, chicken was expensive, and while your job paid decently, you weren’t sure how well it could support an all-raw diet for the cat. This air-dried food was turkey and salmon, and would be the next closest thing to raw.

Eventually, you would probably end up getting the cat a cat tree, but you didn’t think it was a good idea right now. With his shoulder injury, he really shouldn’t be climbing or jumping, and a cat tree would only invite that more. So you left the aisle, even though they had a tree that had a little house you knew he would love to hide in.

Before checking out, you stopped by the little kiosk that sold ID tags and collars. You knew he would hate wearing a collar, but if he ever escaped, you wanted to know someone could return him to you. You would ask the vet about microchipping later, but for now, a collar would have to do. Looking at the options, you couldn’t help but laugh. Most of the plain collars were pink or had things like little butterflies on them. A few had bells, which you knew he would find absolutely repulsive, and a couple others had bowties. You considered a dark blue plaid one with a bowtie, but decided against it. As cute as he would look, you knew the cat would probably bite you if you went anywhere near him with it.

You settled on a collar covered in piano keys. It was the plainest one they had in stock that wasn’t bright pink. You grabbed a small, circular tag, too. He would hate it, but at least maybe if you picked the least offensive options, the cat would tolerate wearing a collar.

On the way home, you stopped and grabbed a coffee from the chain cafe down the street from your apartment. You were still a little tired, and when you got home, you were glad for the extra caffeine.

“I’m home, kitty!” you called into the seemingly empty apartment. You hadn’t really been expecting the cat to be anywhere out in the open, but a small part of you had hoped.

Walking into the kitchen, you deposited the couple bags from the pet store on the table. You couldn’t help but feel like something was off. Nothing was broken or in the wrong place that you could see from first glance, but the niggling feeling in the back of your mind wouldn’t go away. Something had been moved in your kitchen. Your mug from your coffee this morning was washed and sat in your drying rack, along with another cup that you had thought you put away and the dish from last night that you had used to feed the cat. You didn’t remember washing the dishes this morning, but you were still a little tired, so maybe you had and just forgot.

You didn’t see anything else out of the ordinary, so you let it go, choosing instead to go find your cat. As expected, you found him under the TV stand. He was panting as if he had just run under there from somewhere else in the house.

“You know you’re allowed to be in other rooms, right?” you asked him softly, pulling the empty plate out so you could take it to the kitchen. “You don’t have to run under here every time I come home.” Copper eyes met yours for a second, and you could see panic in them. Then you saw it. The bandage around his shoulder was gone.

Your brow furrowed in confusion. Dr. Jung’s assistant had wrapped it securely. He must have really been running around the house to not only loosen it, but to dislodge the bandage entirely.

“What were you doing while I was gone, dude?” you questioned. The cat looked terrified. His eyes were large as saucers, his ears flat against his head. His mouth was open in a silent hiss, his long canine teeth on full display. “Are you hurt?” That seemed to catch him off guard. “Are you still bleeding? Can I see?” You reached into your back pocket and pulled out your phone. “You don’t have to come out if you don’t want to,” you said softly, waving your phone in the dark. “But can you at least turn so I can see?”

It took you a second to realize that, again, you were talking to a cat. He wasn’t going to listen to you, despite how human his reactions to you seemed to be. In the second that it took you to remind yourself that your cat is, in fact, a cat, his demeanor changed. His ears were still pressed back against his head, but he seemed less agitated, more resigned. He crawled toward you slowly, the limp almost entirely gone.

When he was out from under the TV stand, he stood fully. You pushed yourself up so you could sit and examine him. As you reached for him, he backed away slightly. His copper eyes met yours for the briefest of seconds before they flicked away, focusing on the floor. He stood still and allowed you to scoop him up into your lap.

“It’s okay,” you soothed, scratching his head gently. “Let me just look at your shoulder.”

You ran your hand over the joint and he froze. For a second, you thought maybe he was going to bolt back under the TV stand. But he sat there stiffly, allowing you to feel for the bite marks and anything that might still be bleeding.

You found nothing. Not even a scab. The only signs of the dog attack yesterday were a ring of indents--scars, you presumed--that ran from his shoulder blades down to his chest and onto his leg. There was no way he had healed that fast.

But you didn’t say that. Instead, you smiled at him. “If you don’t want to wear the bandage any more, you don’t have to,” you said soothingly, scratching at the base of his ear. His copper eyes met yours, and you pulled away at the apprehension in them.

He stepped out of your lap as soon as your hand was away from him. You nodded once, smiling at him. “I’m going to go do some work, kitty. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

You were a researcher. Always had been. When you were looking for apartments in the city, you had created spreadsheets and pro/con lists and had spent weeks researching neighborhoods. And when you decided on the right neighborhood, you had debated floor plans, after weeks of second-guessing finally settling on the single floor, three bedroom, two bathroom with the decent sized kitchen and living room.

You hadn’t done any research before taking in the cat. You loved cats, had had several growing up. You knew enough about them to not need to do any research before committing to taking home the stray living near your parents’ house.

Maybe you should have.

Although you weren’t exactly sure how researching could have possibly prevented anything. You pushed it out of your mind, though, choosing instead to focus on your next work project.

Except you couldn’t focus. Your client was a hybrid-owned cafe just outside the city, and you were trying to design their menus. Normally, it wouldn’t take you long at all. They were great clients, and they had given you all the information you needed, but your mind kept drifting to the cat in your living room. You assumed he had crawled back under the TV stand. He seemed to be comfortable enough under there, although clearly he felt comfortable leaving the shadows when you weren’t home.

And then there was the problem of his name. You had no idea what to call him, but you were sure he had a name. Though how you’d figure it out, you had no idea.

You had wanted to watch this movie for months. It had appeared on streaming services around Christmastime, but it was now April, and you still hadn’t had the chance to watch it. You curled up on your sectional in the living room to watch it, a bowl of popcorn sitting beside you. You had turned the lights off in the living room, so the only major source of light was what was coming from the TV, and it was a fairly dark movie.

Though you were invested in the plot, you still scrolled through your phone, your attention divided between social media and what was happening on the television.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a shadow moving under your TV stand. Your cat’s head poked out a second later, copper eyes watching you scroll through your social media. In another second, the rest of his body emerged from the shadows. You forced yourself to watch the movie. You didn’t want to freak him out by watching him. When you glanced back at where he had emerged, he was gone.

The movie was about halfway over when you noticed him again, slinking back into the living room from the hallway. Where he had gone, you had no idea. But he sat for a moment, staring at you from beside the wall. You had grabbed a blanket in the time that he had been gone. Your apartment tended to get chilly at night sometimes--it was old, and the insulation wasn’t the best--and you were a little cold.

Before you knew what was happening, he was up on the couch and in your lap, laying in the valley between your outstretched legs. He paused for a moment, copper eyes meeting yours as if gauging your reaction. In the dim light from the TV, you could see that hint of panic again, as if he was terrified you would shout or push him away. You smiled at him gently, resituating so more of your lap was available and going back to scrolling through your phone.

The cat was apparently satisfied with your reaction, because he readjusted himself, as well, curling up so he was taking up more real estate on your lap. You didn’t mind. His little body put off quite a lot of heat, and from what you could feel of him through the blanket, he was cold, too. Eventually, he settled in, his head rested against your leg beside your free hand, his tail flopped into the crook of your elbow, the tip flicking lightly back and forth.

After a moment, you felt him shift again, and you almost jumped when you felt his head press into your hand. It took you a second, and a few more tentative bumps from him, but you eventually opened your hand and allowed him to press his forehead into your palm. You rubbed your thumb gently over the soft fur of his cheek. He leaned into your touch and you could feel him relaxing. You heard the rumbles of a purr start to stutter in his chest. It wasn’t constant like other cats’--it sounded vaguely like popcorn, crackling and popping at random.

You sighed, resting one hand on his back and continuing to stroke his cheek. He stiffened for a moment and raised his head, wide eyes staring into your face, before he slowly started to relax again.

“I can’t keep calling you kitty,” you said softly when he was comfortable. He didn’t raise his head, but his ear swiveled in your direction to show he was paying attention. “And I’m terrible at names, so you’re going to have to figure out a way to tell me what yours is. Unless you want me to call you something ridiculous like Smudge or Shadow.” The cat grunted. Apparently he didn’t like those names, either. “I didn’t think so.”

Your attention returned to the movie, but you kept petting him. His stuttering purr resumed. He directed your hand by nudging it, up his head and down to his shoulder. He adjusted how he was laying so you could rub where the scars of yesterday’s bite marks were. You massaged the area gently, his purring increasing in volume.

His fur was soft and considerably less dirty than it had been that morning. If you concentrated, he smelled like your shampoo.

“I have to take some stuff back to the pet store tomorrow,” you said finally. “So you’ll have some time alone to do whatever.”

He froze, and despite the movie playing, it was quiet without his purring. His eyes were wide, and he hissed, but aside from his ears flattening, he didn’t move. He was scared--no, he was terrified.

It broke your heart.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” You kept your voice soft and even. “You can stay here for as long as you’d like. I want you to feel comfortable here.”

You sighed. You still felt a little weird talking so seriously with a cat, but his reactions confirmed what your research had told you. You had questions, and you were a little concerned about the logistics of everything, but you had started to come to terms with it.

Him smelling like your shampoo. The dishes being done. The stolen pillow and blanket. The things that were moved ever so slightly. The oddly appropriate reactions to what you were saying. How fast he had healed. Maybe you’d always known. Maybe that’s why you still talked to him like he was a person.

He was a person, more or less.

Your cat was a hybrid.

As always, your feedback is appreciated. Feel free to pop into my ask box with questions or thoughts about the series. I’d love to hear from you!

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Taglist: @min-yus, @melindagrace31, @shrimpmsg, @ghostkat23, @demcreeps, @ggsmashgg, @findingourtreasure, @20emma0, @springbean​, @black-rose-29, @cuteipat, @agustneeds, @deeepvibes, @yzkyzkuniverse, @softbbyg0rl​

[idontblushsrry]

Uhh may I make a request for Ouran High School Host club? Just a headcanon for how the host would react to meeting someone how is a big time animal lover. (Like they pretty much live there life like the Irwin family)

A/N: I was thinking about how I’d write this and my brain just went ‘they lost their shit at the sight of instant coffee’, so uhh I hope this is to your liking. I tried to get as much animal variety as I could even though I didn’t really touch on marine animals that much)

Warnings: Like 2 swear words (pinky promise), slight drug mention(literally so small you might not even notice it), spoilers (minor) for Tamaki’s mom

Word Count: 1292

General

So this is under the assumption that like the Irwin family, Reader (or their family) has access to a wide variety of animals (from domestic to wild)

All of them respect the passion you have for animals

While they all might have various feelings on animals (see below), they can’t deny that you truly do love animals

Your family’s sanctuary focuses on healing injured animals and rehabilitating them so they can go back into the wild

Of course, your family has many sanctuaries around the world and some focus more on conservation while others focus on research

The one closest to the school focuses mainly on conservation and as such, is massive and functions like a zoo ( in terms of having people come in and see the animals)

Anyways, the host club is very supportive and often helps you with organizing donation events

Oftentimes, your family will collaborate with them and allow them to rent out parts of the conservation center for events

Aside from the conservation center though, your family owns a few ranches and farms (not for commercial profit, although yall have sold a few animals)

The farms and ranches are relatively small scale but they make great venues for the host club and a great place for getaways/vacations

Your main house is where you keep most of your favorite animals

You have an aviary attached to your room (connected through a hallway that connects to your room) as well as a butterfly garden in the backyard

You also have an aquarium tank, 2 dogs, 1 cat, 1 snake, and a hamster that visits on weekends

You had to be stopped at some point

Tamaki

Tamaki loves animals

He was never really around animals growing up because of how sensitive his mom’s immune system is

So when he sees that you’re an animal person, he’s super excited

Like this man is already planning playdates between Antoinette and your pets/animals

You love his enthusiasm, just one small problem

It’s a little too much enthusiasm

Yes the animals are well trained, but how would you react if a 6′0 giant with long arms came barreling towards you screaming showing its teeth?

So yeah, Tamaki tends to set the animals off/ make them nervous

Because of that he’s only allowed around certain animals (ex. certain monkeys, certain birds, etc.)

He’s happy that he’s allowed around some animals but he still pouts every time there’s an animal he can’t be around

Kyoya

This man

Kyoya does not fuck with animals. Like at all

The first time the host club went to your house, you were holding a hamster and Kyoya moved back about 10 feet

When you asked him what was wrong, he just said “Rats are carriers of many of the most deadly diseases”

You told him that you were holding a hamster and that while hamsters were rodents, the worst he’d get sick with would be salmonella

He doesn’t believe you, but yeah sure whatever

For Kyoya it just gets worse after that

The first time he sees you holding a tarantula, he loses his shit

“Look how cute it is Kyoya!”

“Get that vermin away from me!”

I could go on and on about how much Kyoya doesn’t like animals (even domestic ones like cats and dogs)

He hates going to your house, but he often has to go there in order to set up events for the host club, what a nightmare

While he doesn’t care for animals, the business side of his brain can’t help but think of a marketing opportunity

Mori

Is one of two hosts that are going to be chill about it

He doesn’t feel one way or the other about animals and thinks it’s cool that you’re interested in them

Only thing is; if Honey’s afraid of your animals, he will have to ask you to leave he won’t hesitate to step in “harm’s” way

Surprisingly though, that actually makes him the chillest with your animals

Much to your surprise (and Tamaki’s sorrow), the animals love him

He just has this calming vibe that sets the animals at ease

It also helps that he smells nice and is super tall

For most of them it’s like sitting on a giant tree

He’s not really complaining though, it makes his job of protecting Honey that much easier

Honey

Oh boy

He might actually be the worst with animals

It’s not even an issue of being unable to defend against aggressive animals (Honey could probably solo a grizzly bear)

It’s just he has a very strict “cute” animal policy that changes wildly depending on his mood, the temperature, the angle of the wind, the humidity, etc.

He’s very bougie when it comes to what animals he will tolerate and what animals he will refuse to see

The general safe choices are rabbits (especially bunnies), kittens, cows, tits (the bird species), and baby animals of almost every domestic mammal species)

Him and the hamster you see on weekends are best friends

Also, you have had issues with him trying to feed the animals sweets

Explaining to Honey why rabbits can’t have carrot cake was not an easy conversation, nor was it one you thought you’d need to have

Because of how specific he is about what animals he finds cute, you likened him to a crocodile (because of how sensitive they are to temp. changes in egg)

Needless to say...he was not pleased

Hikaru

So him and Kaoru don’t really care for animals but they try to relate to you in somewhat similar but different ways

Hikaru is always trying to get you to do/recreate stunts with the animals

“Hey Y/N, we should-”

“No Hikaru”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say”

“No you cannot use the dolphins for hoop tricks, no you cannot teach the gorillas how to roll blunts, no you cannot “bribe” the koalas with eucalyptus...”

Yeah he’s a menace

It’s mostly all in good fun though

Hikaru doesn’t really care for animals but he does find it hilarious that the animals like him more than Tamaki

Also, completely random but Hikaru definitely send you those “horse-sized duck vs duck sized horses” memes

Kaoru

Kaoru also tries to use animals on the internet to relate to you, but he’s a lot tamer than Kaoru

Kaoru is kind of like the parent who learns one thing you like and is like “that’s your entire personality right?”

Poor bby is trying his best

Anyways, whereas Hikaru tries to recreate memes, Kaoru sends you them

They range in quality and format; from top text, bottom text to “is this a ____”

At least once a day, Kaoru will send you a meme or picture of an animal with a caption that says ‘this reminded me of u :)’

It’s so endearing that you can’t even be mad about it

Haruhi

Is the only other one who’s kind of cool about the whole thing

She’s really only been around animals in the park or the occasional pet store

Growing up, she didn’t really have the time (or money) to go to the zoo, that and the fact that Ranka doesn’t care at all for animals (she thinks they’re weird and gross)

When Tamaki hears this, he works himself up into a frenzy, torn that his “daughter” has never been to a zoo (even tho he hasn’t either)

But she likes the fact that you’re so passionate about animals

At heart, she’s a scholar, so she loves learning new things she didn’t know before, she could spend all day just listening to you talk about animals

Not to mention the fact that you’re basically giving her a free informational tour  every time you see an animal

[fandom-monium]

Alive Together - Day 1

Summary: Welcome to the Monsterpocalypse. You’re a lone wanderer trying to survive. Until you meet Joel Dawson and Boy.

WC: 4k

Tag/Warnings: light themes of death and grief?? Cursing but minimal. Slow burn. Enemies to friends to lovers?

AN: MEET CUTE? NO. MEET UGLY.

(Entry 2#3#)

Hungry. I have nothing else to report today except that I, (Your Name), am starving. Grilled spiders and roasted centipedes are starting to get old.

I've mentioned it before and I'll do it again, but I miss home cooked meals. Even Dad's shoddy attempts at recreating Mom's recipes. The last time I think was… nevermind.

It hurts; I barely remember the last time I had dinner with Dad, much less Mom, flashes of the memories I have left blurring. Probably from the tears. I used to cry at the slightest thought of Mom and then Dad. Now my heart clenches whenever I try because I shouldn't have to try to remember my own family. Believe it or not, it’s progress.

Maybe it's my fault. I hadn't bothered to snag any mementos that reminded me of them before fleeing the bunker, like an album or something. There weren't many personal items that they'd given me, now that I think about it. Too much clutter, the Captain said.

Or maybe it's the lack of consistent stimulus to my brain. I can't read as much as I'd like to, mainly because it's too dangerous to be distracted (constant vigilance is an important virtue in this world, if you hadn’t noticed). Most books that I've stumbled across (literally, I tripped over a hill of hardcovers. Not fun. Very painful) were either tattered or worn beyond comprehension, destroyed by rain or monster attacks.

Speaking of, my stomach grumbled. I need to start hunting before it gets dark... and before I attract another monster to myself. Again.

-(Your Name) (Your Last Name)

Day 1 - First Impressions

You shut the journal as an ominous roar thunders in the distance. Heart in your throat, you’re already on your feet, shoving the book into your pack and gathering the rest of your things. Once you’re certain there’s no trace left of you on the roof, you gaze at the neighborhood below, shielding your eyes as you scan for signs of alerted monsters.

Greenery and ruins go on for miles, unperturbed.

It’s high noon, rays of sunlight seeping through the clouds and warming your exposed skin. A gust of wind brushes your face and hair, and you suppress a smile. It’s not everyday the weather is this nice, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d relish in it.

Good thing you do know better.

You trace your path to the hills. The town is a maze of torn down buildings and overgrowth, winding roads littered with abandoned houses and wrecked vehicles, and, of course, hidden monsters. There’s only a couple hours before nightfall, and you’re far from your destination.

Better start walking. You’ve wasted enough time.

You climb down the side of the dilapidated house, dropping to the ground with a thump. If there’s one thing you’ve learned since the start of the apocalypse, it’s that residential areas harbored the most monsters, aside from the cities. Too many alcoves perfect for nesting. It’s safer away from the old world.

Safer, not safe.

You keep to the shadows, avoiding the open whenever you can despite the barren streets, darting between urban remnants. Your heart eventually settles as you scan your surroundings like anything and everything will pounce on you the second you let your guard down. By the time you cross the residential area and asphalt roads bleed into dry fields (from years of neglect, you somberly note), the sun has crept out from behind the clouds and the sky is clear blue.

You find a barn after hours of trudging through shrubs and your sore feet. It looms at the top of the hill leading to a dense forest, tall enough that as you step into its shadow it blocks out the sun. Walking closer, you tense as you scrutinize the place, eyes combing over the immediate vicinity.

Nothing. Nothing moves or breathes. You don’t see or hear a peep. Not from the barn or the woods beyond. It’s completely isolated from the nearby town, a perfect fort.

Or a nest.

You huff; shit like this has happened one too many times and you’d be a fool if you haven’t learnt your lesson by now. You pull out your javelin and approach with caution, leaves and grass crunching under your boots as you take in the chipped paint and boarded up windows, steadily making your way around the decrepit building. You frown at the clear deterioration, unable to spot any visible breaches.

Reaching the front of the barn, you gaze warily at the lone entrance. Tall doors ajar, old boards are still nailed across the slim gap or hanging precariously. As if someone or something pried them off, busted through.

In or out, you can’t tell.

For a moment, you weigh your options. You doubt the place had anything to offer, pillaged long before you stumbled upon it. Hell, there’s probably a monster nesting somewhere inside, or a bunch of monster eggs.

But you need food, supplies, rest. Are you willing to risk your life on the small chance this rickety barn can provide those things?

You stare down the the opening and it stares back, deceptively innocent. But it’s mocking you, you can hear it. Just daring you to walk away. 

You shuffle on aching feet, making your clothes rub against your sweaty skin.

As if on cue, your stomach growls.

Groaning, you adjust your grip on the spear before ducking inside.

You let your eyes adjust to the dark interior. Light seeps through the rotted ceiling and cracks from the boarded windows, enough that you don’t need a flashlight to see the place is deserted. You glance around the huge room, javelin ready as you wait with bated breath, ears straining to hear over your pounding heartbeat.

Nothing. You don’t hear anything, except the trees rustling outside. Nothing shifts or darts out of sight. No signs of life, not even eggs (that you can see).

It doesn’t mean you're clear, but it’s a start.

Biting your lip, you take a careful step, and another and another, your eyes sweeping the room as you tread over straw and debris. You pause mid-step when you catch a pulley system attached to the ceiling. It’s dark, but you recognize its outline. Frowning, you trace its small, thin woven ropes as they split in different directions against the ceiling and walls, hitting and crossing the floor until they disappear under a thick layer of hay.

You raise your foot, gently kicking away the straw. You step back.

A net. A decent sized one by the width of the patch of hay.

You sigh, shoulders dropping in relief. If you hadn’t been cautious you’d never have noticed it.

You make your rounds quickly as you check for resources. At this point, it’s muscle memory for you as you move through the room with silent purpose, efficient and controlled. You dig through every storage unit, every container, pulling open cabinets and drawers, tearing through the floor with precision as you toss aside rusted tools and empty cans, a pit burning in your stomach. You snarl, throwing down another torn rag. It hits the floor with a thud.

You knew this would happen. You know the chances, but after all this time you still feel the crushing disappointment? You let out a shaky breath, nostrils flaring as you attempt to quell your frustration.

You can practically hear your mother snap at you. Don’t let your emotions get the better of you, (Your Nickname), unless you want to die, her stern voice echoes. You unclench your teeth with a sigh.

It doesn’t take long, your anger simmering down with each exhale, and when you’re sure you’re calm enough, you resume your initial task: scavenging the barn. Is it a waste of time and energy? Yes. Will you find anything useful? Unlikely. Are you going to try anyway?

You head for the stairs to the hayloft. Even if there seems to be nothing left, you need to make sure.

A few minutes later, you're sifting through another trunk when a yelp cuts across the dusty air, followed by the shrill sound of grinding metal. You startle, hissing as you bang your head against the trunk lid. Pushing down the throbbing pain, you snatch your spear and clamber down the stairs, stumbling forward as your eyes darting around the dust drifting in the air. Something barks over you and you look up.

Huh. Did not expect that.

You were prepared for a snarling, limb crushing insect. Or maybe a triple jawed mammal. Even a mega-pig. You’ve seen enough of those and managed.

But a dog? More specifically, a dog caught in the net you barely avoided. It’s tangled in the ropes suspended just above your head, gently swaying. It seems it does not care for the swinging because it starts barking again, louder and more urgent than before.

“Ah, poor doggy,” you croon, lowering your weapon. To your surprise, the dog stops and jerks to face you, its dark eyes gleaming in the shadows. You eye the seemingly calm animal. “Now, how did you get here? Were you following me?”

The dog whines, squirming in a sad attempt to escape. Your lips quirk up. Aside from the occasional bird, you haven’t seen a normal animal in what feels like forever, much less a dog. Most regular animals were consumed by monsters or by people for food.

Food. You haven’t eaten.

You study the dog; its dark brown fur, sleek and short, its body small⎼almost medium sized, with pointed ears and a long snout. And by the way it looks at you, it has some intelligence.

Your stomach grumbles, and the creature cocks its head at you, ears forward.

Shit.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” you grimace at the dog, adjusting your hold before aiming the tip at it. “It’s nothing personal, okay? I’m hungry, and you’re the first thing I’ve seen that hasn’t tried to kill me in a while.”

Which isn’t a lie. Hunting is crazy difficult these days. But you swallow as your eyes meet, its stare unwavering like you aren’t pointing a weapon at his little body. Just one motion and you could end its life painlessly (lucky bastard), but your knuckles go white and you grip falters. Why are you hesitating now?

The dog, as if sensing your battle, barks again, this time more composed than panicked, as if trying to communicate with you. You’re grateful you can’t speak Dog. It’s probably saying something like ‘No, you’re better than this’ or ‘Please don’t do this’ or⎼

“Put him down!”

Or that.

Dear Aimee,

Guess what?

I got a dog! And he’s the coolest, his name is Boy.

He saved my life from a giant frog in a pool who tried to eat me with his tongue, and then we hung out in his bus! Man, do we make a great team. We found out that we have a ton in common too. I feel like we can talk about anything.  

You gotta see us out here; we’re like this iconic duo. I don’t know, feels like when we’re together, we’re unstoppable.

“Right, Boy? Boy?” Joel glances at his side, doing a double take. The dog’s gone. His shoulders slump, “Of course, the first friend I’ve made outside and he leaves me. Sounds about right.”

He didn’t think he could gain and lose a friend within the span of two days. This has to be some kind of record.

He jerks when he hears Boy’s faint barking, guiding him as he drags himself back to the old barn they just passed. For good reasons. The decaying barn looks like it’s in need of a new contractor and a paint job… or three. And an exterminator.

God, the surface is terrifying.

Gulping down his dread, Joel crouches to peer through the gaping hole in the wall. This must be where Boy came through. “Whatcha got there?”

The barking ceases, and so does Joel’s heart.

You stand in the dark like an apparition, back turned to him so he can’t make out your features. Your attention is fixed on the shadowed lump hanging over you, and while it’s dark and he doesn’t have a good vantage point, Joel’s mouth goes dry as he seeks out Boy.

Boy woofs again, and Joel’s heart drops. You step closer to the lump.

For a split second, he sees a flash of his mother’s face, her tears streaming down her cheeks.

He doesn’t think; no thoughts, head empty. Blood roars in his ears. His hands tremble. But he doesn’t hesitate, ripping the makeshift crossbow from his back as he scrambles under the opening.

“Put him down!”

He’s not entirely sure what he expects. He’s read enough comic books to understand the situation; the hero drops in to save damsel in distress then proceeds to demolish the bad guys. Technically, he has the upper-hand here. Right?

But realization slams into him. It knocks the air out of him, and he forgets to breathe.

He shouldn’t have barged in like an idiot. He isn’t a hero. He’s nothing like the superheroes in comics and movies and graphic novels. He doesn’t have super strength or speed or highly advanced tech and he sure as hell is not a genius. 

What he does have: a freezing problem.

He’s already lost feeling in his hands, and he almost drops the weapon as you look over your shoulder at him.

On the other hand, you have a pretty clear idea before you face your captor (seeing him now, can you even consider him that?). With the apocalypse, governments crumbled with ease along with laws and morals, so it’d make sense for people to disregard them. You’ve met quite a few… characters, and you’ve chalked it up to these main categories; garbage thieves, sleazy scavengers, and shitty thugs.

In short, humans are selfish creatures. Prepare for the worst.

You’ve thrown down, fought dirty, bartered with them all and still managed to come out on top, the scars across your body a constant reminder. Nothing surprises you at this point.

A fumbling boy though? You mask your amusement, raising an eyebrow as you take him in. The guy, tall and disheveled, blocks the only exit out of this godforsaken place, his red jacket rumpled and dusty like he’s fallen one too many times. However, what nearly sends you is, as he steps further into the light, you bite your lip, his eyes round and small lips pressed together as the crossbow quakes in his hands.

Who let this puppy out of their sight?

“Listen, buddy,” You finally speak, making Joel flinch. Your eyes narrow as his fingers jerk on the trigger. That’s not good. “If you’re gonna point that thing at me, you better know how to use it.”

He sucks in air, clearing his throat as his eyes dart between Boy and you. He cringes when his voice comes out octaves higher than he expected, “Let Boy go.”

“’Boy’?” You glance up, your weapon still raised at the squirming little fellow. “Oh, you mean Dinner?”

“You were gonna eat him?”

You shrug. “Maybe. Depends how this goes.”

“Okay,” Joel swallows, a futile attempt to keep his tone even as nausea sprouts in him. You plan to eat Boy? How can someone eat something so cute? “Let him go, and we’ll leave you alone. How ‘bout that?”

Beads of sweat drip down his temple as his breaths come out shuddered. He’s not used to this; he’s gone from being the chef of his colony to making demands, negotiating with a possible psycho.  He never trained for this! Well, he’d never been trained, period.

What if he says the wrong thing and sets you off, hurting Boy in the process? He might faint⎼no⎼he will faint. He doesn’t think his heart can handle losing more people… or animals. How is he supposed to save Boy? His fingers twitch against the trigger.

You don’t miss it.

“I don't know about that,” You reply, studying him. His hands tremble as they clutch the weapon. He may not be a scavenger or a thief, but that just makes him all the more unpredictable. Goons, you’d expect them to shoot first, ask questions later, but the fact this guy is making an effort to talk? You want to know his angle, his intentions.

Whether it’s good or bad.

“I’m hungry. It’s going to be dark soon, and Boy here,” You jerk your head at the canine, “was unlucky enough to fall into this ol’ trap.”

You watch, withholding a sneer as emotions and thoughts flit across Joel’s face like an open book. It seems a lightbulb goes off because he looks back at you, eyes wide and hopeful. “You want food? I have some in my backpack. If I give it to you, you let him go?”

He tries not to squirm, the little courage he has waning as your eyes bore into him.

“…Put the crossbow and the bag down. Slowly.”

“You too.” You tilt your head curiously as Joel stutters, “Your spear⎼I mean, if you could stop pointing it at my dog. Please.”

Your brows shoot up. Since the moment he entered⎼wait⎼floundered in here, he could not have made it more obvious that he has no idea what he’s doing. If it wasn’t the way he carried that exposed him, it was definitely his facial expressions, and if not his face, you can hear it trickle through the cracks in his voice. Yet despite how unfair the situation is for him, he’s trying to cover his terror. Failing miserably but trying. All for this cute, little doggy.

And he said please. You ignore the way it warmed you, his tone so…. genuine.

Manners, sincere or not, in the face of danger? You have to respect that.

“It’s a javelin, actually, but I agree to your terms.” Your grip slackens. He might be a wimp, but you have to give it to him. He’s got balls.

A flicker of relief crosses his face, and you both comply with your instructions. In spite of his obvious fear, you roll your eyes as he unzips his bag unnecessarily slower than you meant him to, throwing you a look.

On second thought, he’s either really brave or really stupid. It’s fifty-fifty at this point.

Joel pulls out an aluminum can. It glints in the light as he holds it up and tosses it to you. You catch it easily, inspecting it in your hands.

“Now will you let my dog go⎼Boy!” His scream tears through the barn.

You’re already composed. Uncoiling like a snake, you seize your spear and swing, all in one motion. He lunges for you, but you’re too far. He hits the ground.

Groaning in pain, he berates himself. He should have known; they had no reason to trust each other, so of course this stranger, this psycho, would betray him. He tries to brush it off, the false sense of security dissipating, the relief replaced with crushing betrayal and horror. 

This is what the surface is like? His chest clenches. He can’t breath, but this isn’t like when he freezes up on a monster. At least, not those monsters. This is worse. So much worse.

The net rips, then a pained grunt. Joel shields his eyes, burying his face in his hands as tears trail down his dirt-smudged cheeks. His heart thunders in his ears as he prepares for the inescapable sound of Boy’s pained yelps, the squelch of metal piercing flesh. He chokes down a sob.

He only knew Boy for less than two days, but within that timespan he bared his soul to the animal. He probably knew him better than his own colony. In the short time they had together, he became his best friend⎼

Okay, ew. What is licking him?

“Boy?” Joel groans, flinching away as the dog bombards him with wet kisses. “Wait, you’re not dead?”

You step into the light, javelin in hand as you snort, “Of course not. Did you think I was gonna kill him?”

Yes. Joel sits up and cradles Boy to his chest, gawking at you.

You glare at him, almost offended. “I’m not a monster.”

No. No you are not.

Decked in a faded blue jacket, you stand relaxed, spear perched over your shoulder (or a jav⎼java-something). Your eyes glint in the sunlight like steel, hard and piercing, with dark circles under them. You watch him with a slight frown. And like him, there’s smudges of dirt on your face and clothes, but you manage to make it look cool and purposeful.

You don’t look like a monster, but you kind of acted like one. Joel is conflicted.

He opens his mouth to respond, but he's not sure what to say in this situation, overwhelmed by a cocktail of emotions that he’s still coming down from. Before he conjures an appropriate response (is there even one?), you're shouldering your backpack and slipping through the gap. Joel rushes to his feet. “Hey, wait!”

You continue up the hill, not bothering to turn to him as you purse your lips. “Oh. You’re still here.”

“Yeah, I’m ‘still here’! You held my dog hostage; kind of hard to get over,” he grumbles, panting as he trudges after you with Boy at his heels. You’re faster than you look. “So⎼uh⎼where you heading?”

“Away.”

He nods almost sage-like, wringing his hands together. “Cool, cool. So mysterious,” He pauses, inhaling deeply. His voice, now deeper and a bit more relaxed, comes in a rush as he asks, “Is there any chance we could go with you?”

You freeze, and Joel almost crashes into your back. You whirl around and suddenly you’re faced to face, but you’re too astonished by his question to care that he’s in your personal bubble.

His breathes come in heaves. His eyes are big and round, brown and bright with… hope?

It occurs to you that this guy, who hasn’t even given you his name, is a loser. A hopeful, naive loser.

And it’s for that reason you come to a decision⎼you’ll entertain him. 

“Where are you going?”

“West,” Joel’s shoulders hunch, his voice self-assured as he adds, “to the coast.”

Yeah... fuck that. 

You turn to walk away. “No.”

“Wait!”

You glower at him, stopping him in his tracks. “Dude, we got what we wanted. I got food, you got your dog. End of transaction.”

Joel stares at you for a moment, like he’s debating how far he can test you. He seems to think better of it as his shoulders sag and he caves, “Fine, I’ll head west without you. I can do it.” The last part he says more to himself before turning on his heel, starting in the direction opposite of you.

You nod. This is good, for the both of you. And safer, you tell yourself as you turn to begin your trek again. You’re two strangers in the apocalypse; you don’t know who he is, where he’s been, and, from your experience, it’s best to travel alone. It’s inconspicuous, efficient and⎼

Where the hell is he going?

You halt, squinting as you watch him hike away from the west coast. “Hey!”

He looks at you over his shoulder, his face surprised but expectant. Hopeful. He reminds you of a puppy being called over by their owner.

He thinks you’re caving into him.

Well, jokes on you, loser. You raise an eyebrow, “You know that’s not West, right?”

“Oh,” Joel’s eyes widen, clearing his throat. Boy woofs and he shoots him a withered look, altering his trajectory. “I knew that.”

“That’s not West either.”

He switches directions again.

You shake your head. “No.“

And again.

“Nope.”

Joel���s face reddens, unable to meet your eyes as he stops trying so he doesn’t further humiliate himself.

You make your way over to him, rolling your eyes. He seems to make you do that a lot. “Okay, how much food you got on you?”

“Enough to last me a week? Why⎼”

That’s all you needed to hear.

“Then it’s settled,” You decide, clapping him on the shoulder. He winces. “You share your rations with me, and I’ll help you get to the West coast.”

He blinks, clearly taken aback as you begin your trek once again, gesturing him to follow you. You feel his eyes on your back. “Really?”

“Really. You are a food source. Also I’m pretty sure you’d die before getting halfway.” You add, unabashed.

He frowns, unsure whether to be grateful or not. He decides on the latter. “Oh…thanks anyway?”

“You're really not from around here, are you?” You pause, looking back at him.

He scratches the back of his neck. “No. Is it that obvious?”

“Painfully. So free advice,” You, with a hand on your hip and tone clipped, gesture up and down at his⎼well⎼everything. “Try not to let anyone know you’re a newb. Might keep you alive.” With that, you start heading West, not bothering to see if he’s comprehended the note you bestowed on him.

Joel glances down at himself before trailing after you. “Good to know.”

AN: I want to make it clear: I would never eat a dog, you would never eat a dog, no one would ever eat. A. Dog. That was a joke for this part 1. I even wrote emphasis on your character’s hesitation. It’s just that this is the apocalypse, so it’s safe to assume that survivors are driven into corners, desperate and have to make some hard choices.

The end dialogue is reference to @teenwolffanclub-me ​TW rewrite bc i love it and them so if you like Dylan O’ Brien and Stiles pls read their shit. <333

This part is a slow starter, but I don’t want to rush this, your intro and your development. But, now that you’ve finally met, hopefully the rest won’t seem any slower than the beginning.

I’ve never wrote for a lone survivor kind of character before. I hope you enjoyed the intro nonetheless!

I think I’ll forgo the 7 parts idea, but that’s a goal.

Part 2 in progress.

Also, how to get a beta reader??

[damsel-loves-machines]

Being Donatello’s Girlfriend Headcanons

Author’s Note: I’ve been writing headcanons for a good while on my anime account, so I thought that I could try my hand on ROTTMNT!Donatello’s character for the time being. Before anyone asks, no I will not be taking requests, whether it be at the moment or at all because I feel like I would be stressed if I did. I just write whenever I feel inspiration. Thank you for your consideration and thank you for reading.

Atomic Lass who???

You caught his attention when he would go on one of his famous techno babbles and you never made the attempt to interrupt or ignore him.

Even when you didn’t understand a good portion of the diction that flew out of his reptilian mouth, Donatello greatly appreciates that you, at least, try to follow along and understand his passion.

You may or may not help him with his inventions by physically building it, but you were usually the first one to help him with gathering materials and throwing ideas into his head whenever he’s on Inventor’s Block.

Don’t think any of your ideas are stupid or unnecessary. This soft-shell turtle built a self-cleaning toothpick machine and a Anti-Turtle Ray. Anything is acceptable.

He considers you his own personal motivator.

Whenever Donnie ever feels down, and the words from his family don’t seem to work at the time, he would call on you. Whether search to you in person or just a simple phone call, the sound of your reassuring voice puts his mind at ease.

He has written lists on your likes, dislikes, hobbies, favorite things etc for research and invention purposes. It might seem concerning, but this shows how passionate he is of you and how he doesn’t want to screw anything up.

You’re his very first girlfriend and he doesn’t even want to think of the percentages of you leaving him. You have to sit him down, calm him, and explain that you aren’t going anywhere. Then suggests that you do something that HE wants to do and talk about what HE likes to do because a relationship works both ways.

You make sure he has a functional working, eating, and sleeping schedule because yes he has to go on night patrols and stuff with his brothers, but they shouldn’t be telling you that Donnie never left his lab outside of retrieving a cup of coffee several separate times since you left the other night.

You have to text/video chat him as confirmation that he is going to bed to actually sleep. You make sure that he keeps his promises because Shell-don has your back.

You can never have an at-home date in the lair.

Not that Donnie doesn’t want you there at his home because you are always welcomed there. Without question.

It’s his family that he doesn’t trust. They are embarrassing as hell.

Leo is the tease master, stating that this might be his alone chance of fulfilling his ‘embarrassing his brother in front of his crush’ goal he would always see on TV. He will even text Donnie romantic advice he found on the internet from the other room to both bug him and help him.

Raph would be the mom figure and barge into the date and ask if everything is ok and if “Do you kids need anything” every 5 minutes.

Mikey is the little sibling who would try to be included in the activities, oblivious to the fact that it was only suppose to be the two of you. (Think of the episode ‘Shell in the Cell’.)

Splinter has no shame and jokes about marriage and grandchildren with with that boisterous laughter of his.

Never again.

You know that when Donnie’s soft shell is clearly exposed to you, he trusts you with his life. So the day when you gave him his first massage had him believe in heaven for the first time in his scientific life span.

This was around sometime late at night from a long mission where the both of you were retiring for the night.

You noticed the aches in his shoulders and the occasional strained groan when he would rub his back. You offered some help in the form of a massage, eyes shining in hesitance when asking for permission because you were afraid of moving faster than Mr. I’m Afraid of Togetherness could take.

Donatello blinked for a second before agreeing and laid down onto his bed. He would recall his father soothing aches on his soft-shell with his warm-blooded, mammal hands when he was much younger, but Splinter had to be careful with his rodent nails from scratch the shell’s leathery skin.

You began at his shoulders before working on the back of his neck. Then, you slowly made your way toward the fragile shell of your boyfriend.

Donatello never fell asleep so fast in his life.

Your hands were so careful with handling pressure and so warm and soothing that it unintentionally lulled him into slumber.

Hopefully, you aren’t in a position to be trapped in his embrace when he does because if you are, you are not escaping.

Do you see his arms? Hope you’re comfortable because you might as well sleep right next to him. His snores mixed with his turtle chortles somehow put you to sleep as well, despite how loud they might be.

Put violet hearts emojis around your name in his phone.

You were his self-appointed cheerleader during the Lair Games and cheered loudly when he won.

Whenever Donnie would do something really stupid or kinda mean, his brothers would threaten to tattle on you. You’re his impulse control and the others will keep reminding him of that til the end of time.

It works damn near every time and he hates that it does.

Donnie: *does something dangerously chaotic*

The turtles (most likely Raph): “Stop it or we’re telling Y/N.”

Donnie: *reluctantly stops with a glare*

Donatello would feel so starstruck if you managed to perform or solve something with knowledge you learned from him.

You adjusted an error on one of his gadgets to get it working again? You fought a villain with his tech-bo or some kind of staffed weapon in the environment and are owning the villain’s ass? 

He’s ready to marry you.

You might as well give him your ring size. He’s gonna try and find out sooner or later.

[sassycassie-s-writing]

Under the Moon

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): Avengers - Peter Parker/Spider-Man

Rating: PG/K+

Original Idea: I’ve been in a mood recently.

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) I actually put forth a decent effort this time to make it as gender-neutral as possible. It’s probably not perfect but I tried.

^^^^^

A twinge in the muscles of my back jarred me from my sleep.

$#!+ did I forget again? I thought. Another spasm arched me off my mat. I fumbled through my bag for my phone. No service. Of course not. With shaking fingers, somehow I managed to unlock it. Moon Tracker was waiting for me on my home page. It launched and actually loaded, despite the lack of service.

Tonight’s Moon: Full read the screen.

I swore aloud. MJ didn’t wake.

Scrambling out of the tent, I stumbled through the dark to the tent next to ours. “Peter!” I hissed, knocking a knuckle against the tent pole. “Pete!”

I heard a groan. “What?” Peter complained.

“I need your help. I need you to come with me. Now.”

The tent he shared with Ned zipped open. Ned was curled up in a corner and clearly Peter had been sprawled out. Peter slipped out, barely managing to get into his sneakers, and zipped the tent shut behind him. “What’s goin’ on?” He yawned.

I recoiled as pain wracked through me. “We need to get away from camp—and I need you to web me to a tree,” I replied.

“What?”

“Now!”

My tone scared him into movement. He grabbed my hand and we ran from the campsite. I stumbled more than anything. My control over my own body was slipping. I moaned in pain. Peter looked back at me.

“What’s happening to your eyes?”

“No time to explain. Keep moving,” I panted.

We blindly wove through the woods until we were over a mile away. I found a sturdy tree and backed against it.

“Web me here,” I said. “Just cover me.”

“Why?”

I looked up. The moon was starting to peek above the hills, casting its light through the woods. “Just do it!” I cried out—stifling the sound as much as I could—and slammed into the tree. “Now!”

Peter’s webshooters activated and he spewed webs at me. I gave him a small smile.

Then I thrashed in pain—

And everything went black.

—

Peter stared as his friend’s body began to change. Claws broke through fingers. Fangs replaced teeth. A snout elongated from the face. Thick, brown-and-black hair sprouted. Pajamas started to disappear under the hair.

Until, instead of a human, Peter was staring at a wolf.

An enormous wolf. Easily twice the size of a regular wolf—and he’d found out that wolves were twice as big as he’d thought not too long ago—and covered in grey fur. The beast’s paws were wide and ended in long dark claws sharp enough to tear flesh like cotton candy. Thankfully they were positioned too awkwardly to reach the webs holding it.

“Gah! What the he—” He cut himself off as the wolf snarled at him, writhing against the webs. He applied another layer just to be safe. “Since—since—since when could you do—” The moonlight shone brighter, catching his attention. He peered up.

The moon was a massive disc—full and shining silver-white down against the tree trunk.

The wolf in front of him seemed transfixed by it, staring up with a melancholy whine softly escaping its throat. It tried again to escape the webs, but only half-heartedly.

Peter whooshed out a breath as realization struck him like a blow from the Hulk. “You’re a werewolf,” he whispered.

The wolf whimpered and then growled. Peter stepped back.

“I’m not sleeping tonight, am I?” He asked.

The wolf didn’t reply.

Which was probably a good thing, because if it did he probably would have screamed loud enough to wake up their friends over a mile away—and every big nasty in the forest. And he doubted his werewolf friend would protect him.

The wolf’s amber eyes were watching him suspiciously. But Peter just sat down and yawned again. “You and I have known each other for like ten years now. You’re in on my secret. Why didn’t you ever tell me yours?” He stared at the wolf, who was still seething at being trapped, but not fighting against the webs. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Again, the wolf made no reply. Just turned those amber eyes up to the moon. Peter looked up at it too. “Yeah. It’s beautiful. Especially on nights like tonight. When there aren’t any clouds.”

The wolf whined like a puppy—and Peter had to remind himself to not tear off the webs to cuddle into that thick, soft-looking fur. That werewolves probably didn’t have any human memories when they were in their wolf form. He leaned back on his hands. “You’re probably not gonna remember this, so I may as well tell you: I’ve actually had a crush on you since like seventh grade. I know we’ve been friends for longer than that but…” He shrugged. The wolf kept staring at the moon. “I don’t know. Something changed that year. I saw you in the gym with the ballroom dance club, teaching some poor dude how to waltz when I stayed late for robotics, and it was like this… like a lightbulb went off in my head. You know? Suddenly it was like I was really seeing you for the first time. Like I caught a glimpse of the best pieces of your soul.

“And I’ve never been the same since. Never looked at you the same way. I notice the grace you use when you move. Even if you’re clumsy sometimes. But I see your compassion too. Your care. Like once I started looking, I couldn’t stop.”

The wolf didn’t even react to him at all.

Peter sighed. “I’ll keep an eye on you tonight. I promise. You won’t be able to get out or hurt anything. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

—

I came to under the pale orange light of dawn. The last dregs of dissolving web fluid clung to my pajamas. I felt drained. Like I always did the morning after a full moon.

“Hey, you’re up!” Peter said happily. I turned. He was sitting on the forest floor a few feet away, using a Bunsen burner camping “stove” to heat a small pot of water. Two paper cups were sitting near him, plastic spoons poking out of the top. I slumped against the tree trunk. “I’m making some cocoa. Want some?”

I watched him pour the water in the cups, adding packets of cocoa mix and stirring carefully. I didn’t have the energy to actually reply.

He handed me one of the cups. “This should warm you up. It’s a little chilly.”

“Did you get any sleep?” I croaked.

“I did, actually. See, the thing is, my webs dissolve in two hours. On average, it takes fourteen minutes for a person to fall asleep, and a single sleep cycle is ninety minutes—hour and a half. So I used my webshooters to set timers. An almost-two-hour one to know when to replace the webs around you, and another to wake me up roughly an hour and forty-four minutes after I set it. So I slept between replacing your webs and I actually feel alright. Probably better than you anyway.”

I grunted agreement at that. I felt like I’d been trampled by a herd of elephants.

I tried a sip of the cocoa. Not too hot, but enough to warm my core. I sighed, content with the taste and warmth.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Peter asked quietly. I met his eyes. He had the expression of a sad puppy on his face.

I huffed a little, stirring my cocoa. “My secret isn’t like yours, Peter,” I said. “You keep your secret to keep the people you care about safe. I do too, but mine—mine is different. You’re keeping the people you love safe from villains who want to hurt you by hurting them. I’m keeping the people I care about safe from me. Because I’m… we’re classified as monsters, Peter. Werewolves, vampires—we’re referred to as monsters the same way humans are mammals. I never told you because what I can do… it’s worse than what you can do. You’re a superhero. I’m a lycanthrope. Yours is a mutation of your DNA. Mine is literally a curse. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you looking at me like I’m…”

“A monster?” Peter finished gently.

I almost growled at the word. “Yeah,” I admitted begrudgingly, taking a sip of my cocoa. “You have no idea how hard it is for someone like me to make or keep friends. I’ve spent most of my life super lonely. Then I met you and Ned and MJ and I felt like… like finally I could have some friends. I was turned into a werewolf when I was four-years-old, Peter. Thirteen years, I’ve suffered with this alone. My parents know but they don’t talk about it. They pretend like my curse doesn’t exist. Then I make friends for the first time in my life and still know, deep down, that I’ll never belong with them. Not really. Even when you told me about you, I knew I still wasn’t like you. I never would be. So I hoped I could just be friends as long as I could with you guys and… find a way to live with it when you all eventually left me.”

I downed the rest of my cup and stood. My joints ached.

“We should go back to camp before Ned and MJ wonder where we’ve gone,” I said.

Not waiting for Peter, I headed back the way we’d come, following my own scent through the trees, several hours old now, but doubly punctuated by Peter’s as he’d gone back to get the burner and the cocoa.

He caught up to me, jogging a little. “For the record, even though you scared the pants off of me last night when I saw you turn, I don’t think you’re a monster,” he said.

I managed a small smile. “Thanks,” I replied.

“And, also, I’m not going to leave you. You’re still my friend and I’m not scared. I can lift… like, a hundred times more than my body weight. I think I can handle you as a wolf. You’re not gonna hurt me and I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s… that’s a relief to hear,” I admitted. We kept hiking back. “Do I remember you saying you’ve had a crush on me since we were in seventh grade? Or did I dream that up?”

Peter swore under his breath. A normal person wouldn’t have heard it, but I did. Wolf’s hearing. “Uh… I think you dreamt that up,” he said.

Liar. But if he wasn’t ready to tell me human-face-to-human-face, I’d give him time. He’d taken my secret better than I could have asked for or anticipated. I could let him admit his feelings whenever he was ready. I owed him that much.

When we got back to camp, MJ was sitting on a tree stump, munching on some dry cereal. “Where have you two been all night?” she asked.

[kinktae]

flesh and blood || 2 (M)

You are living in a society that is just now picking up the scraps that the Great Outbreak left behind after the government killed off the majority of the zombies. Still, some remain, and fear still lies within society’s walls. So imagine your surprise when the very thing you’ve been taught to fear ends up saving your life, showing you that maybe two beating hearts aren't always required when it comes to love.

pairing: zombie!jungkook x reader

word count: 5.9k

genre: post-apocalyptic, sci-fi, smut

warnings: lots of TV watching, mentions of conspiracy, joon doing some illegal shit, mentions of murder, & smooching

A/N: inspired by warm bodies and the fact that I'm a legitimate crackhead. 

01 | 02 | 03

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PART TWO

Zombies were nothing like hamsters, you had come to find out over the past few days.

It seemed like an odd comparison, but it was the only other pet experience you could call upon. Your hamster, affectionately named Anarchy, was an impulse decision on your part, a running theme in your life it would come to seem. Nevertheless, you and Joon took it upon yourself to ensure she lived up her whopping two years of life, setting her up the biggest tank you could find and spoiling her with chew toys and salt licks. Anarchy was the perfect pet; she didn’t whine or grunt, didn’t eat all the chocolate in your fridge and she certainly didn’t follow you into the bathroom every time you needed to pee.

Your zombie friend, however, could not have the same said about him.

Namjoon and you spent many a night perched on the couch discussing very important zombie matters – Are steak saturdays a bad idea with a zombie in the house? Does he have a name? Should we be charging him rent? – while the zombie in question sat directly in front of the TV, completely consumed by the black and white film Namjoon had put on for him.

“Why can’t I just put some of my foundation on him?” You tried to reason.

“They’ll know he’s wearing makeup. Your foundation is cakey as hell.”

“What about— wait, what?” You blinked, surprised.

Namjoon shifted uncomfortably, flashing you an apologetic look, “Oh, sorry. I thought you knew.”

You rolled your eyes, glancing over at your TV to find that the zombie boy had not moved an inch since the last time you looked.

“Hey, brains.” You called out, feeling playful. “How would you feel about getting a spray tan?”

“Y/N, this is serious. I really don’t think he should ever leave the house.” Namjoon sighed, pulling your attention back onto him.

“You want to imprison him? He’s a person! He has to leave the house or he’ll go stir crazy. I know I would…”

Your best friend shook his head, and although you still felt like you had a case to argue, you knew that the discussion was over.

“I know, but if we’re seen outside with a zombie… It’s just what’s best for everyone, Y/N. Better safe than sorry.” Namjoon shrugged.

Leaning back into the couch, you crossed your arms over your chest. Of course, he was right, but that didn't make it any less unfair. Even if the zombie man had yet to utter a complaint since arriving at your place, you couldn't help but feel responsible for his well being. He saved your life after all.

A noise coming from the sitting zombie caused you and Namjoon to jump; it was a sharp, high pitched sound, unlike you had ever heard come from him before.

Shockingly, you looked over at the zombie to find the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly as the scene playing out on the television reflected in his dark eyes.

"Did he just..." Namjoon gaped.

"Laugh?" You finished the shared thought, a warm feeling falling over you. "Yeah. Sounds like he just did."

Namjoon hummed, tapping a finger against his thigh contemplatively. Suddenly, he stood up, heading out of the room. Your eyebrows furrowed, unsure of what he was doing.

"Where are you going?" You inquired.

"To start a Project Z chart. My groundbreaking research begins today!" His voice informed you from somewhere in the apartment.

You grinned, chuckling slightly. Bringing your knees into your chest, you wrapped your arms around them. Project Z, huh? Alright. Count you in.

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A thump against your foot pulled your eyes from your computer screen. You were sat in the living room, legs tucked under the coffee table as your ass took comfort on a pillow you placed on the floor.

"Hi, there!" You cooed, poking your head under the table as you greeted your hamster Anarchy. She had been roaming around the room in her giant clear hamster ball, one of her favorite ways to keep you company while you did your work.

The grey colored rodent continued forward, wheel rubbing against the length of your legs as she ran. Snatching the ball before she could get any further, you brought her up to eye level, her little nose sniffing at you.

"That's enough ball time for today, don't you think?" You asked her rhetorically.

Suddenly, your phone began to sound, the familiar tune of Monster by Lady Gaga ringing out for the kitchen.

"Brains!" You called out towards your zombie roommate, who was sat in his usual place in front of the TV. He wasn't actually responsive to your nickname for him, but thankfully, the volume of your tone caught his attention enough to turn and face you.

You placed Anarchy back onto the floor.

"Watch Anarchy." You pointed at your pet before pointing at him. "Don't let her roll out of the room."

The undead boy showed no sign of understanding, his eyes merely locking onto the contained mammal. He hadn't shown much interest in your hamster up until now, the TV taking up all his attention of course.

Thank god he was already a zombie because the amount of time he spent in front of that damn screen would have surely rotted his brain by now.

Assuming that his attention would not shift away from the rodent now that he was intrigued by it, you made your way out towards the kitchen, where you had left your phone to charge. You cursed as you watched the way the screen of your phone changed, the phone call ending before you could reach the device.

Grabbing your phone, you swiped it open, only to see that it had been Namjoon to call you.

Your eyes fixed on your phone, you sent him a message as you walked back into the living room.

[12:56 PM]

To: Joonie – sorry I missed ur call... did u need something?

You let out a small yelp as your toe hit itself on something– you knew exactly what it was as the sound of plastic rolling across the room rang out.

Your stomach sank heavily as you located the ball, not because you had just sent your hamster whirling across the room, but because the ball... was empty.

Your eyes widened as they found the ball's lid, lying ominously on the floor.

"Anarchy? How did–" You breathed before you realized you had left the zombie alone with your beloved pet.

A chill ran over you as you eyed him; he was once again watching the TV, cross-legged as if nothing was wrong.

"Oh my god..." You gaped. "Did– Did you eat Anarchy?!"

He didn't react to your voice and before you reason with yourself, you gripped his shoulder angrily, forcing him to look at you.

To your surprise, you were met with not just wide zombie eyes, but with the sight of Anarchy cupped carefully between his palms, very much alive. You let out a breath of relief, sinking down to sit beside him.

So your zombie friend didn't have a taste for rodents. Good to know.

"Sorry." You apologized reflexively before a chime, followed by another, called your attention.

The zombie watched carefully as you began to fiddle with that strange device he sometimes saw you occupied with.

You read the texts carefully.

[12:57 PM]

From: Joonie – just stopped by the market and picked up some human brains for dinner… JK lol

[12:57 PM]

From: Joonie – was gonna ask if you wanted something but im otw home. c u soon!

You were just about to put the phone away when something stopped you in your tracks.

Tap.

A finger poked at your screen, and your eyebrows raised to find the zombie leaning in close, attention fixed on the set of texts sent in by your best friend.

You gawked at him for a moment, unsure if he was capable of reading and understanding the words in front of him.

After a few silent moments passed by; you cleared your throat, deciding to read the texts to him.

“Just stopped by the market and picked up some human brains for dinner… JK haha.” You narrated.

To your surprise, the zombie boy let out a grunt, poking at your screen again. Confused, you followed his finger to see what exactly he was pointing at.

Tap.

His finger hovered over the acronym Namjoon had sent. Was he asking what it meant? You could imagine zombies weren't well versed in text slang.

“The letters J and K stand for just kidding.”

It felt silly talking to him like this. You had no clue if he even understood written language – or verbal for that matter.

If the boy understood what you said, though, he didn’t show any sign of it. Once again, he tapped his finger against the message, accidentally causing the word to become highlighted.

“Yes, yes, I see it.” You said, growing slightly frustrated at the clear lack of mutual understanding between you.

Tap.

“Okay, enough of that…” You sighed.

Ten minutes passed by uneventfully; Brains was watching his favorite show again, having had handed your hamster back so you could put her back and continue your work.

The sound of the front door opening caught your attention, accompanied by the rustling sounds of the grocery bags Namjoon was carrying.

"Welcome home!" You greeted, not peeling your eyes from your screen.

"Can I get some help, please?" Namjoon's disembodied voice called out, stealing a sigh from you.

Begrudgingly, you closed your laptop, trudging over to the kitchen to help the scientist.

Offering him a nod in greeting, you began sifting through the bags he had heaved over onto the kitchen counter, on a hunt for any frozen foods that needed to be stored immediately.

"Did you buy–"

"Chocolate?" Namjoon finished for you, tucking away a tub of ice cream into your freezer. "Yeah, duh. You only reminded me eight times before I left."

You flashed him a sheepish smile, pulling a plastic container of strawberries from a grocery bag.

"Did you get any work done?" Your roommate wondered conversationally. You shrugged.

"I guess. This article Seokjin has me working on for the paper is dull as hell."

"And how is our zombie friend? Did you guys bond with me gone?"

“Obviously. I mean, we're practically best friends now." You teased, rolling up a now empty bag. Namjoon gasped suddenly, a hand over his heart in pretend offense.

"You're not trying to replace me are you?" He sniffed fakely.

"Well, he does get along with Anarchy. He took her out of her ball and held her and everything." You shrugged, a small smirk pulling at your mouth.

The fridge door shut sharply, Namjoon's eyes narrowing in distaste, "You're telling me that little rat likes an undead stranger better than me? I can’t even put a hand in her enclosure without her trying to gnaw off a phalange!"

"Stop calling her a rat, she's a hamster!" A laugh escaped you, ever amused by the way your pet despised him.

"Interesting that he didn't eat her though." Namjoon continued, the two of you were nearly done putting the purchased food away. "I'll make sure to note that in his chart."

"I was surprised, too." You nodded.

"Learn anything else interesting that I should write down?"

"Not really. Just that he really likes the acronym JK. I read your text out to him and he wouldn’t stop tapping at my phone when I showed him it.” You explained, slipping a hand into the back pocket of your jeans casually.

The groceries were all stored meaning your moral duty as a roommate to help put them away was officially completed.

“Really? Interesting..." Namjoon hummed.

"Is it?" You mused.

"This could mean he understands transcribed text."

You thought back to the way the zombie had shown little to no reaction to Namjoon's words before shaking your head in disagreement.

"I doubt it."

"You said you read it out to him right? Maybe it’s zombie slang for something. Or at least sounds like it.” He pressed.

You pondered that idea for a moment before responding, “You think zombies have their own language? I haven’t heard a sound out of him other than the occasional grunt or groan.”

“Why not? If animals are able to communicate within their own species, why not zombies? Nonverbal communication occurs in the animal kingdom all the time.” Namjoon explained, once again proving himself to be the smarter of you two.

Suddenly, without warning, he began to make his way over to the living room; you cocked your head in confusion before following him.

“What are you doing?” You questioned, worried he was going to harass the unsuspecting zombie again. Often you'd have to step in and remind Namjoon that the zombie wasn't a test rat that he could just poke and prod at whenever he wanted.

Said zombie was, of course, exactly where you had left him, sat upright on the couch looking stiff and unnatural as ever as he watched his TV with a blank expression.

“I’m gonna test out a theory.” Namjoon declared without warning, and to your disbelief, he let out a loud grumble.

“J...K…” He groaned out, voice clearly trying to imitate that of a zombie’s. Oh, god. Your best friend was an idiot. He really was.

Just as you were about to hit Namjoon on the shoulder for being such a dumbass, the seated zombie unexpectedly turned towards the two of you, clearly responding to the word.

He stared at you both with wide, unblinking eyes before letting out a huff of his own.

“Holy shit.” You breathed silently.

“Well. I think I just spoke zombie." Namjoon whispered. Neither of you dared to take your eyes off the walker as a small ounce of fear began to set in.

What exactly had Namjoon said to him? Was it possible to offend a zombie? Should you both start running now?

And as if you weren't taken back enough, you completely lost the ability to breathe altogether when a corner of the zombie boy’s mouth twitched upward, flashing you both a crooked, yet unmistakable smile.

“Is he... smiling?” You turned to face your best friend only to see that he was smiling back at the zombie.

“Remind me to put zombie whisperer on my résumé.” Namjoon grinned smugly.

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"No, this is mine. That one is yours." You huffed, grabbing back the stolen candy bar.

"Mine." JK repeated, reaching over for the very item you had just taken back from him. You let out a groan, throwing your hands up in defeat.

"I take it he's not grasping the concept of ownership?" Namjoon glanced up from whatever hospital file he was looking over.

"That little brat knows what I mean, he's just greedy and stubborn." You accused, glaring at the zombie who had already peeled open the wrapper of your chocolate.

In the past two weeks since you first brought home the stubborn zombie, there had been much development on his part. For starters, Namjoon and you had deducted that his name must be JK as it was the only word he responded to every time without fail.

Along with that discovery came the shocking utterance of words on his part.

Y/N. Joon. No. Mine. Sorry. Candy.

Each one was just as jarring as the one before, even if simple. Namjoon, although disappointed your name was JK's first words and not his, was thrilled. Language reacquisition was certainly something reports on zombies failed to notice.

"Hmm... wonder where he picked that up from..." Namjoon muttered sourly. At his words, you frowned.

"Excuse me, are you suggesting something mister?" You raised an eyebrow at him challenging.

Your best friend let out a laugh, "You say that as if you aren't the most hard-headed, unyielding human being to ever walk this earth."

"Bold words for someone who can't even go to sleep unless a nightlight is present." You scoffed.

"Hey!" Namjoon slammed the paperwork down onto the coffee table, causing you to roll your eyes. The zombie frowned, eyes flickering between the two humans. "That was a low blow! I could have brought up the fact that you're in your twenties and still can't drive but some of us have class, you know."

"Driving is scary!" You defended, turning your nose up at him. "Besides, why do I need to drive when I have a chauffeur?"

"You ass, I am not your chauffeur–"

"Joon." JK's gruff voice rang out suddenly, silencing the room. His eyes glared at the tall human openly.

Namjoon looked taken aback at the zombie's sudden call, his eyes flickering to you for reassurance, but you hadn't a clue what was happening either.

"...Yes?" He finally replied, voice hesitant.

The zombie immediately dropped the chocolate, hand coming up to point at you instead. You quirked a brow, noting the way he had yet to take his cold eyes off Namjoon.

"Sorry." JK demanded.

You let out a laugh.

"Wha– Are you kidding?" The scientist marveled. "Hell no, I'm not apologizing to her."

"Joon. Sorry." The zombie said once more, a clipped tone behind the word.

You were a giggling mess, hand coming up to cover your mouth as you watched your roommates interact with amusement.

"Why just me? Y/N should apologize too!" Namjoon whined.

JK held the man's stare for just a beat when swiftly, he grabbed the file that he had placed down onto the table.

"Woah– Hey, naughty zombie! Give that back."

"No." The zombified man responded dryly, only causing you to laugh harder.

JK glanced your way for a moment, taking note of how pleasant the sound before once again turning to Namjoon.

"Yeah, Joon! Say sorry." He could hear you tease beside him.

"Yeah." JK repeated after you, his head nodding in a way that was convincingly human-like.

"Son of a bitch. He's like the undead male version of you." Namjoon griped, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ultimately, he cried uncle.

"Fine. Y/N, I am so sorry, please forgive me." His eyes flew back to JK, extending his hand out pleadingly. "Now can I please have that file back?"

JK frowned, wanting to say something but lacking the necessary words to express himself, so instead, he turned towards Y/N.

You were already looking at him, elbow perched on the table as you rested your chin on your open palm. You were smiling in the way that always made him feel funny; your eyes shiny and amiable.

You gave him a nod, which was all the reassurance he needed before he finally handed the file back over to the man he had stolen it from. Namjoon snatched it back eagerly, pulling it into his chest in case either of his roommates tried to pull that same stunt again.

"Monsters. Both of you." He said in a flat tone. You chuckled, heeding his words no mind as you spotted the abandoned chocolate lying on the table that the zombie had set down.

JK watched with a frown as you took the candy bar from him, his noise of protest dying in his throat the moment he saw the way your lips wrapped around the sweet treat.

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“Y/N.”

“Hm?” You replied, still concentrating on the apple you were slicing up for the zombie. As willing as he was to keep eating candy all day, you didn't want Jungkook's insides to decay any more than they already had.

Jungkook.

The sudden discovery of the zombie's full name was an unexpected one. It happened last week on a night much like others. You had just finished drying up his sheets and pillow cover, the fabrics warm and heavy in your arms. You had noticed your zombie friend had been particularly pensive that day, not chatting much which certainly was unusual for him nowadays. So as you walked into the living room, you weren't surprised to find him sitting at the couch staring out at the metal bars that ran along the length of the window as he appeared lost in his thoughts.

"Here you go. Nice and warm." You had announced, dropping the sheets onto the zombie's lap. He was yanked from his thoughts by the sudden weight.

"Nighty-night, sleep tight, don't let the zombies bite." You chimed breezily. The childhood rhyme might not apply in this particular case but you found the humor in it enough to say it to him every night.

The zombie gave you a slow nod, causing your brows to furrow slightly. It really wasn't like him to be this quiet. Lately, it had almost seemed as if he couldn't shut up; he was a human parrot, regurgitating and repeating every word that caught his interest, even occasionally forming sentences.

Namjoon deduced that this must be something of a second term speech emergence– or as you understood it, just a fancy science term meaning JK was rapidly learning how to speak.

A soft click rang out as you flicked the light switch on the wall off. The moon was bright and full tonight, it's light seeping through the window as it painted a wash of blue on the zombie and the couch.

"Y/N."

His voice was small; if it weren't for the quiet of the night you doubt you would've caught the call at all.

"Yes? Is everything okay?"

There was an undeniable melancholy in the air. It seeped through his tone and engulfed the room.

"I remember."

The words stunned you and after a silent beat, you were walking over to him, sitting down on the coffee table across from him.

"What? What do you remember? Tell me." You urged softly.

You watched as he swallowed shakily, eyebrows furrowing as his jaw opened and closed, fighting for a response. He could see it all, flashing from one scene to another in the back of his mind. There was a family that loved him. A pretty girl that made his chest tighten like it did when he was near you. A car accident. A morgue. Screaming. A group of six boys taking him in. Men in black uniforms pinning them to the ground as he hid and watched.

It was suffocating.

"JK?" You called out worriedly, noticing the way emotion clouded his eyes and how his breathing was becoming ragged.

"Jungkook." A name came out raspily as if saying it out loud was painful.

"What?" You blinked.

"Jungkook." He mourned, tears falling from his eyes. "I remember."

Your heart sank as his face twisted up, and before you could stop yourself, you stood and pulled him into you, his face finding the crook of your neck as he began to weep. You let out a breath, your hand petting the back of his head in hopes to comfort him, his hair still damp from his shower earlier.

Needless to say, when Namjoon came back from his night shift to see the two of you curled up asleep on the couch together, he had many questions.

“Y/N, come here.” Jungkook's voice insisted, causing you to huff.

'No please, huh? Typical man.' You thought to yourself bitterly as you placed the knife in the sink, scooping up the plate of freshly cut apples as you made your way over to him.

"Here. Apples. Eat." You ordered, placing the plate down in front of him. Jungkook had graduated from sitting on the floor to the couch while watching TV, truly an astonishing character development on his part.

"What are they doing?" Jungkook ignored you, completely captivated by whatever he was watching.

Pressing your lips together, you watched the scene unfold on the screened box.

“They’re kissing.” You said, glancing back at the fascinated man that sat beside you, unsure of how to approach this subject.

"What?" Jungkook cocked his head, clearly not familiar with the term.

“What they’re doing? Yeah, it’s called a kiss.”

The romantic lead and his female counterpart were locking lips under an umbrella as rain poured around them, uplifting music humming in the background. Just the kind of grand romantic movie ending all pre-apocalypse movies seemed to have.

“Kiss.” Jungkook repeated, testing out the word.

“Yeah, you do it with someone you care about. Someone you’re close with.”

“Do Y/N and Namjoon... kiss?” He muttered.

Your eyes grew, quick to shake your head vehemently, “Huh? Oh no! God no. We’re just friends.”

“Friends?” The zombie pressed.

“Yeah. We’re close and care about each other but… definitely no kissing.” You shuttered. You had known Namjoon for too damn long to even entertain that idea.

“No kissing. Just friends.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Jungkook nodded, seemingly content with the information he was just given. "But why do they kiss?"

You shifted in your seat. Was this what parents felt like when it was time to give their kids 'the talk?'

“Well… It feels nice. And I guess it's a way of showing someone you love them.” You shrugged shyly.

“Love."

Jungkook seemed to be merely repeating you rather than pressing for an explanation as he turned his attention back to the movie.

“Confusing.” Jungkook concluded.

“Yeah, well, you’re not wrong.” You mused through a laugh, bringing his attention back on to you and the way he couldn't help but smile every time you heard you do so.

And there it was again. That strange, tight feeling in his chest that he had yet to find a word for... up until now.

"Y/N."

Turning towards him, your world froze the second his lips found yours. They were soft and warm much like the hands that cupped either side of your face.

Pulling away from the kiss, Jungkook opened his eyes, heat finding both your faces as you gawked at him with wide eyes.

"Sorry." He apologized suddenly.

"Y-You just..." Your words failed you, there was no possible way to wrap your head around what just happened.

You brought a hand to your lips, fingers running along your bottom one before covering your mouth altogether.

"Gosh. You have to ask before you kiss someone, brains." You turned away from him, tone of voice serious as if to scold him.

Jungkook nodded quietly, unsure of how to reply, especially when he could see the way you smiled behind your hand.

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You were trying to sleep, you really were. But unfortunately for you, when your, admittedly good looking, zombie roommate kisses you, it tends to consume your thoughts. You felt like you were overthinking everything despite the fact that you knew nothing.

Was it a misunderstanding on your part? Did you explain kissing in a way that confused him and he was just trying to express his gratitude towards you for taking care of him for all this time?

Or did he... love you?

God, you sounded ridiculous, you know you did. How could a zombie even understand an idea as complex as love? Why was this even affecting you so much? Why did it matter?

Your thoughts were bordering on dangerous territory right now, and in desperate need of a distraction, you rang up Namjoon.

"Joon!" You greeted the second he picked up.

"Uh, hey?" Your best friend replied warily. “Is everything okay?"

"What? Yeah! Of course, I mean, why wouldn't everything be okay?" You replied, heart racing as you swung your legs against the side of your bed.

"Well, for starters, you're calling me at three in the morning? Why aren't you sleeping?"

Namjoon often went to do work late at night at the hospital for his internship; usually, it meant you got to see little of him in the mornings as he was passed out cold but this time it actually worked to your advantage.

"Oh, I'm just... thinking, I guess. How are things at the hospital?" You diverted quickly.

"It's kind of a slow night," Namjoon revealed and you could almost picture the way he'd shrug, "but I'm guessing you didn't call me to ask me that. What's going on, weirdo?"

You let out a sigh. He was your best friend, after all. Of course, he'd see right through you.

"It's just... Jungkook. He's just so different from everything we thought we knew about zombies."

"I know, right? He's nearly completely fluent now, don't you think?"

"No, it's more than that." You furrowed your brows, laying back on your bed. "He's just– I mean he's got... emotions and preferences and memories. I think he might even... Ugh, nevermind I’m just overthinking.”

"Did... something happen that I should know about?" Namjoon mused. You bit down on your lip, unsure of how to answer.

"We know he's different from the others but–" You chose to ignore before he cut you off.

"But what?"

Staring at your ceiling, you sorted through your thoughts– thoughts that you had been toying with for a while now.

"What if there are more like him? And if so, where are they? Have they been killed? What role does the DEAD Team play in this?"

"Hm. I don't know... but let me see if I can find out." Namjoon said, causing you to sit up in surprise.

Of course! Research was Namjoon's whole thing. If anyone could find out more about this, it was him.

"Okay, yeah! Let me know if you find anything." You replied.

"And Y/N," Namjoon began suddenly, his tone shift slightly. "If you’re right... Wait. Nevermind, let's, uh, just not talk about this over the phone anymore, okay?"

"Oh... okay." You blinked in confusion at your best friend's nebulous words.

"Good night, weirdo."

"Night." You muttered back, hitting the end call button as you tried to suppress the uneasy feeling in your gut.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

The feeling of someone yanking the covers off your body jolted you awake. Squinting, you tried to orient yourself, the lights in your room blinding your tired eyes.

"What the fuck?" You grumbled, eyes focusing on the hovering body that soon revealed itself to be your boisterous best friend.

"Morning, sunshine!" Namjoon chimed.

"Ugh, what time is it?"

"Around six in the morning!" He answered before taking a seat on your bed, dropping a pile of what looked to be meaningless junk next to your body.

“Can I just say, finding anything outbreak-related that isn’t Anti-Zombie propaganda is fucking difficult… Luckily for you, I happen to be a genius with a lot of friends in the computer programming field.” Your best friend explained cockily.

“Oh shit." You rubbed at your eyes before taking in the pile. "Find anything good?”

“Oh, yeah. Turns out you’re not the only one who thinks there is more to the zombie story. I found an archive of a forum of people like us sharing stories and conspiracies about the Great Outbreak and the government’s involvement in it.”

“Really? How have I never stumbled upon that before?” You pondered.

“That’s just it. It was an archive, meaning the forum doesn’t exist anymore, it was shut down. The whole site was shut down actually, seemingly out of nowhere. Unfortunately for whoever took it down, once someone takes a step onto the internet, there are always footprints left behind. Nothing is ever really gone forever.”

You let his words sink in, still on sleepy brain mode.

“So... do you think the government took the site down?”

Namjoon flashed you a look as if to say well, obviously.

“A lot of the thread was purely he said she said stuff, but I did find some compelling pieces of evidence. Most notably… this.”

Namjoon reached into the pile and pulled out an old copy of a newspaper, placing it on top for you to read. Printed on the first page was a picture of a family you didn’t know, consisting of a mother, a father, and two daughters. On top of the picture in all bold was the title, “FAMILY KILLED BY ZOMBIE DAUGHTER.”

You vaguely remembered hearing about this story on the news when you were younger. But even then, you hardly gave sensationalized news much thought.

“Anyway, the youngest daughter, Shelby, died some time ago from some form of cancer. There are records of her parents taking her in to get that sketchy ass drug if you remember–”

“Immortuos, of course.” You nodded.

“Yeah. Obviously, she ended up dying and coming back to life. However, instead of letting the DEAD Team take her into custody, her family somehow managed to sneak her out of the mortuary her body was being stored in.”

Your eyes grew in size, “Are you serious? Wait, how do you know this?”

Namjoon rummaged through the pile, pulling out a piece of paper before holding it out to you. You stared down at it.

“Is this… a credit card statement?”

“Shelby’s father’s credit card statement.”

You shifted back away from the paper, sitting up in your bed. You were looking at a dead man’s credit card history. Weird.

“How the literal hell did you even get your hands on this?”

“I have my ways.” Namjoon smirked. You nodded, impressed at just how much your best friend had gotten away with.

“Anyway, look at this. Five days before the entire family’s reported death, the father bought four plane tickets.”

Four plane tickets?

“Well, that doesn't make sense. If it was just the oldest sister and her parents, they would only need three.” Your brows furrowed.

“Right. But with Shelby alive again…” Namjoon hinted.

“Four tickets.” You marveled, finally understanding. “They were trying to run away.”

You shook your head, “But wait this newspaper says Shelby killed her family, right? So what really happened? Why didn’t the family make their flight?”

“So there’s speculation that the government heavily monitored the immediate family of the recently undead after their resurrection. People on the forum theorized that the government caught wind of the family’s plan and killed them off before they got the chance to flee. Clearly, they thought the family knew something they shouldn’t have otherwise they would have just taken the girl. I mean think about it, do you really think a six-year-old could overpower her sister and two adult parents? ‘Cause I don’t.”

You sat in silence for a second. It made sense. The zombie girl was already back with the family so it would be the perfect guise to fall back on: ‘Naive family takes back zombie child only to be eaten alive!’ That would certainly deter other families from trying to do the same.

A thought crossed you suddenly.

“Hey, this happened in our town. You have access to the hospital's morgue records… do you think there is any way–”

“One step ahead of you.” Namjoon interrupted, pulling out an aged manila envelope from the pile, the word confidential clearly stamped onto it.

You held Namjoon’s eyes in disbelief, wondering how the fuck you had befriended a master level criminal, before taking the envelope into your hands and prying it open. Inside were four sheets of paper. Copies of autopsy reports, with each respective family member’s name on it. Your stomach dropped as you let your eyes roll over them, realizing each sheet of paper had been signed off the same way:

Cause of Death: GUNSHOT TO HEAD

Manner of Death: MANDATED HOMICIDE

Police Notified: NO

"Mandated homicide– whoever executed their deaths was ordered to do so. And if the police weren't notified then..."

"Yeah." Namjoon confirmed grimly. A wave of nausea rolled over you suddenly.

“The family knew what we know. That not all zombies are dangerous.” You breathed, swallowing dryly. “And now... they're dead.”

Your apprehensive eyes met Namjoon's, the air thick with the feeling that you two had just stumbled upon something much bigger than yourselves– something you would not come out of unscathed.

[unaccomplishedwriter]

THE HERO YOU NEED

Chapter Four

Chapter Three Here

Your punishment was severe as the man who gave it. Not only were you and Malfoy late, for which he docked an entire 20 house points each for, but the two of you were also the only two students left after a round of interhouse pairing Snape had implemented prior to your arrival. Apparently the school wanted to promote unity within Hogwarts, though the deep glower on your professor’s face as he spat out said plan spoke volumes to what he actually thought of it all.

Malfoy had been strangely silent as Snape ripped into you two, and also when you settled into your two-person desk for the year. His lack of reaction made you quite uncomfortable, and the pitying looks Hermione kept sending your way every so often weren’t helping.

It wasn’t nice being called names, especially ones as foul as the Malfoy boy tended to utter. Your disappointment was palpable, the atmosphere between the two of you wrought with tension. You try not to glance over at the boy next to you, but that’s proving harder than you’d initially thought. Snape had already given you your first assignment, a potion who’s name you were too zoned out to hear. You watched as pale fingers slip down the page quietly, carefully following lines of directions. You considered yourself quite splendid at potions, but the careful, methodical motions Malfoy performed as he began cutting and measuring ingredients seems to make your abilities pale in comparison. You continued to watch him in a daze, still not making eye contact but instead brewing another kind of intensity in the air. Suddenly, Malfoy shifts, his body abruptly facing your direction.

“Are you going to be this useless all year?” He snapped, gripping the edge of the cauldron. His harsh words snapped you out of your reverie, reminding you that you are indeed still in the middle of class. Your neck flushes hot, your eyes finally snapping up to meet his.

For someone who’s nostrils are flaring in annoyance, the blonde boy looked almost awkward. His posture was slightly off, and his free hand fidgeted with his robes. Not one to adjust well to embarrassing yourself, you scoop up the nearest ingredient before crushing it in your hands over the pot.

“There,” you squeaked. You stared at Malfoy, and Malfoy stared at you.

As the boy’s brows drew closer and closer together, and the sound of bubbling from your cauldron grew louder and louder, you resigned yourself to admitting —

“I think I fucked up —”

BOOM.

Your concoction seemed to implode on itself, before rapidly expanding in a muted explosion. Most of it splattered back into the pot, but a good chunk went straight for your face, having just peered into the pot when you realized your mistake.

Your eyes instantly squeezed shut, your face now entirely dyed purple. Silence blanketed the classroom, a few beats going by before a loud laugh pierced the room, a roar of cacaphony and jeers following.

Your first official day at Hogwarts and you already wanted to crawl into a hole and die. The sophisticated image you’d worked tirelessly to nurture at Ilvermorny instantly flew out the window here, and you felt as if you’d possibly never come back from this with Professor Snape, who was currently attempting to no doubt murder you with his eyes.

Malfoy stood across from you gaping, questioning your sanity and intelligence. In no universe did he expect for something like this to happen. Why in the bloody hell did you even do that? Weren’t you supposed to be smart? What happened to the confident, self-assured girl he met on the train? The misfortune that was your face right now made the snarky Slytherin feel a little bit better about what happened between the two of you, and he felt himself relax a little bit more. At least you weren’t as perfect as he thought.

The grin spreading across Malfoy’s face filled your poor teenage soul with even more despair than you thought possible, embarrassed out of your mind.

One abrupt cough from Snape was enough to calm the class down, the man coldly instructing you to get out of his classroom and visit Madame Pomfrey. You gladly fled the scene, eager to free yourself from the situation. You faintly heard Snape demanding Malfoy to follow after you as you exited the classroom, to your despair.

Why was the universe doing this to you?

“You don’t seem to be as bright as you think you are, Hightower,”

“I swear I’m not as dumb as I’ve made myself look.”

You spoke at the same time; stricken dumb at each other’s words. He processes what you said before guffawing boisterously, bending at the waist.

The sheer delight and astonishment on his face surprisingly helped bring down your own emotional high, and you uncurled your hands from the fists you’d clenched them into. This boy was laughing at you, but for some reason the sound calmed your nerves.

How annoying.

“I just so happen to be a wonderful student. Hogwarts just doesn’t seem to agree with me is all,” you sniffed, speeding up your pace. The loud laughter still trailing behind you was enough to bring a small smile to your face, your shoulders finally releasing as well.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he replied, sarcasm dripping heavily from his voice.

You ignored him, walking a few more paces with your nose turned up before Malfoy cleared his throat behind you.

“Do you even know where you’re going?”

Not even needing to turn to hear the lilt in his voice, you froze. Whipping around, you face him once again to see his brows nearly hidden by his hairline. His face screamed amusement, and you cursed your own name for the nth time that day for repeatedly embarrassing yourself.

“Malfoy,” you attempted to say evenly. He wiggled his brows at you, leaning against a nearby wall.

“Hightower,” he drawled.

“Would you be so kind as to escort me to the hospital wing?”

“I guess Snape ordered me to do so, Hightower. Besides, wouldn’t want to disappoint you, now, would I?”

You half expected to be met with snark, but weren’t prepared for the humor laced in his voice. Malfoy turned and started walking in the opposite direction, clearly rubbing in your face that you’d hadn’t the slightest idea of where you were going.

Clearly.

You rushed to follow him, eyes focused on his figure from behind.

“You know,” you began thoughtfully. “You aren’t so bad most of the time. Fun, even. But you say awfully mean things, especially around your so-called friends.”

This seemed to throw Draco off quite a bit, as he began sputtering for a reply.

“Yes, well, some people should know their place is all.” He finally eked out.

“Yeah; what a grand mindset, you weasel,” you rolled your eyes. Now it was Draco’s turn to whip around to you, face aghast.

“I am not a weasel! Don’t ever compare me to those redheaded bumpkins!”

“A..ferret then...?” You raised your brow. He studied the self-satisfied smile on your face for a few seconds before rolling his eyes, continuing his journey. It was best not to respond at all in his opinion, you would only snark back.

“Ferrets aren’t weasels,” you sang. “At least not technically.” You could feel hot triumph bubble in your chest at the sight of the twitching at the corner of his mouth, the boy clearly fighting back a smile.

“I am a terrifying snake,” he joked, gesturing to the Slytherin crest on his robes. “Clearly superior to such mammals. I eat them for breakfast.”

You choked out a laugh, surprised by his sudden willingness to joke around with you.

“Don’t badgers actually eat snakes for breakfast?” You point out. You could see the gears turning in his head as Draco stops dead, flabbergasted. Not one to let an opportunity slip by, you tiptoe around him, satisfied.

“I guess us Hufflepuffs are tougher than you thought, huh Draco?” You smiled sweetly, prancing off into the hospital wing you’d just arrived at.

Draco stood still for a few moments, replaying the entire conversation he’d just had with you in his head. For some reason, he couldn’t stop grinning, completely amused with the easy banter he falls into with you. Yes, he was smiling at your admittedly higher than average wit, that was all.

Definitely not because you called him Draco again.

*

Madame Pomfrey was very good at what she does. She fixed you up in no time, your face coming back to its original color alongside your dignity. You got on quite nicely with the older woman, promising to return and study under her mentorship whenever you could. Magical properties and their effects on human anatomy was quite possibly the most important aspect of your studies towards the kind of witch you wished to be, and you were thrilled such an astounding mentor was actually found here at Hogwarts.

Surprisingly, Draco waited for you. He insisted it was because he didn’t want to deal with the torment of the class (or Snape for that matter) upon his return, but that didn’t keep you from noticing the way his neck and ears turned red.

“Can’t get enough of me, I see,” you teased.

He raised a brow at you, stepping forward before leaning in ever so slightly. Your gazes locked, and by the gods your heart was nearly beating out of your chest. The boy really did have gorgeous features, especially those striking eyes of his peering down at you.

“You really have been quite bold for someone who’s face had been purple this whole time,” he said calmly, studying your face for a reaction.

“Well,” you replied evenly, “it’s not now. And I think,” you took a bold step forward, “that I was flustering you regardless of the color of my face.”

Your chests were now nearly pressed together, your faces even closer. Draco smirked down at you, clearly entertained by the playfulness swimming across your features. He doesn’t remember the last time he was able to enjoy teasing, friendly conversation like this with someone. It seemed as he got older, his family got colder. He was sure his father was anticipating something, though he wasn’t quite sure what. Either way, he’d never felt any particular warmth from the man to begin with.

And his friends are just...not particularly great people. Sure, there was the Slytherin loyalty between them, but he doubted any of them understood who he was past his last name.

He’d finally met someone who even his parents were sure to like, someone his friends would like, someone he liked, but she—

Gods, she was infuriating! A bloody Hightower a blood traitor! Did she really think those filthy weasels and that mudblood and Potter were a better choice in friends? And choosing Hufflepuff over Slytherin even after they confided in each other? What was wrong with her?

What was wrong with him?

“Draco?”

You watched the frustration develop in Draco’s face in real time as he clenched his jaw, suddenly widening the space between the two of you by several feet. The loss of body heat was stark, just as much as the chilliness now embedded in Draco’s face. He slowly opened his mouth to no doubt spew some random venom, but the hot rage boiling in your veins bubbled up through yours first—

“Before you even speak,” you seethed. “I know you Draco Malfoy. Probably better than those buffoons you call friends, and that’s just from one conversation. And you know me. I don’t know what the hell you just convinced yourself of in that thick ass head of yours, but it’s not true.”

What?

Sorry, what?

What the bloody hell was she on about?

Draco watched you in complete befuddlement (a sensation he’s become increasingly more familiar with after knowing you) as you drew nearer, angrily ranting and poking at his chest. He hadn’t said a single word to you before you just blew up at him, a sudden hurricane to meet the storminess that had no doubt been emitting on his own part.

His brows grew closer and closer together the longer your rant got, the intensity of your voice only amplified by the echo of the hallway.

Your hands were still moving about wildly, your lips glistening. He watched the way your throat moved up and down with each word, entranced. What were you saying? What were you saying?

How could you know him so well without him even saying a word?

“—and if you think that just because you want me to be that I can be strong enough to do what I wanted without caring about what other people thought? What you said the other day hurt Draco! Especially coming from you! You can’t go walking around and being a bloody dick to everyone just to entertain your friends and then turn around and scold me! You were being a hypocrite then and you’re being one now! I know you convinced yourself that I’m the enemy somehow, and —“

And you continued. Draco did not know how the hell (Y/N) Hightower, a Hufflepuff witch who hung around the likes of Potter and his gang, a clumsy bobble head who blew up her own face, a frustratingly attractive enchantress —

Could read him for filth in that exposing, soul-baring way unique to her, but apparently you did, because —

“I know what you’re thinking,” you huffed, your shoulders rising up and down. You took a moment to catch your breath, your mouth completely dry. You didn’t expect yourself to explode in the way you did, but when you witnessed Draco drawing into himself again, felt the doubt start to creep in his mind as the frown crept across his face, you just knew,

“We’re the same. You and I are just alike — we were raised as certain people meant for certain things and are expected to do whatever it takes to maintain that. We play the part to the point that— that we don’t even know who we are, only who people want us to be. And then we question the motives of everyone we interact with — are they here for us, or— or—,” you trailed off, suddenly self conscious. Suddenly the halls seemed especially large, and your voice seemed especially large, and Draco seemed especially large —

“For who they want us to be, right?” Draco rasped out, finishing your sentence. He was silent, and then his shoulders were shaking, and then his voice starting shaking as he threw his head back and laughed.

He was laughing at you again, and you damn near screamed.

Just when you thought your humiliation for the day was over, you go and do something to make it come back full force.

Why do you do this to yourself?

How could you be so presumptuous? How could tell him you knew what he was thinking just because of his face? Did he make you that insecure?

Something about the sudden drop in Draco’s mood reminded you of yourself, yes. Just when you started to get close to people you found yourself questioning their motives and reasonings for knowing you; hell, you don’t even know yourself, so how could someone else claim to?

You saw that same type of insecurity in Draco - or at least you thought you did, but truth is you aren’t a damn mind reader and you just went off on some insane rant to a boy who’s not above taking advantage of it if he really wanted to.

Your eyes were wide as you just stared at Draco, who was still laughing at you. Of course he was, you’d made a complete fool of yourself. You were determined to write an owl to your parents first thing in the morning to save you form your misery and allow you to go back to Ilvermorny in peace —

“You’re something else, Hightower.” Draco interrupted, cutting off your increasingly escalating thoughts.

The chime of the bell signifying the end of the class followed, and the once empty hallway began to flood with students. Draco had finally calmed down as well, still facing you as people meandered around you.

“I don’t know about being the same person and all that,” he sniggered. You could feel your face burning in shame, but his next words surprised you.

“But I do know that we’re going to be partners for the next year. I’ll try to be civil if you do. Also, no more rants, no matter how freakishly accurate they are,” he murmured. He slowly widened the space between you once again, before turning his back on you.

“Wouldn’t want you to come after me for breakfast, right? Might as well play nice,” he twisted back, wigging his brows before completely turning away and disappearing his way into the crowd.

You were stupefied for a good moment, not even noticing the annoyed glances people shot your way as they brushed past you. Your lips finally curling up, you twirled and sauntered on your way as well.

And yet another time since you two met, Draco Malfoy made you smile.

***********

Author’s Note: clearly there’s a few canon changes I will make such as certain classes and their makeup. Also, I had to rewrite the second half of this TWICE because Tumblr deleted half my fucking draft godDAMN was I pissed but anyway that’s why it took so long to come out and is shorter than normal 🤧

[Taglist:

@dreams-in-blxck @fire-lady-livi @welpshitshit

@redheaded-hobbit @iriaeden @lunars]

If your name is in black, it wouldn’t let me tag you.

If you’d like to be added to the tag list, leave a comment or ask!

[emy-loves-you]

Wrong Numbers and Useless Gays Chapter 4

Sad Boys and Fun Facts

Patton’s a sad boi but Virgil has a distraction

Chapter 3 | Masterlist | Chapter 5

Three weeks had passed since Virgil had first texted Roman. In those three weeks, Virgil had learned a lot about his new friends.

First, there was Patton. God, did that man love puns. Virgil also loved puns, but he preferred reading Patton’s puns over making his own. Remus had caught Virgil blushing at his phone and made a comment about his new “friends with benefits” (Virgil had been unable to respond. He was too busy trying to hold back his giggles from one of Patton’s pun tangents). Patton also made it clear that he was the “Dad Friend” of the group. Virgil couldn’t type a single self-deprecating comment without Patton threatening to physically fight him. It was rather terrifying, really. He also made sure that everyone was taking care of themselves. Once they learned that they were in the same timezone (They hadn’t shared cities yet. Friend or no, Virgil was telling where he lived in that quickly) Patton made it his goal to check in and make sure that Virgil ate at mealtime. One last thing about Patton was his… struggle with technology. He tended to send almost everything directly to the group chat instead of private messages. Logan said that he tried to teach Patton how to do so, but the lessons never seemed to stick.

Speaking of Logan, the nerd had his own quirks. He didn’t type much, usually only responding when someone required everyone to respond. The other time that he typed was during debates. Nine days into their friendship, Virgil had mentioned saying “you too” to a cute barista and claimed that he ruined any chances with his new crush. While Patton and Roman offered words of encouragement, Logan remained silent. Virgil had assumed that Logan agreed with him but didn’t want to upset his boyfriends. As soon as their conversation ended, Virgil received a private text from Logan, requesting to debate. They argued over cognitive distortions for a whole hour before they reached a compromise. Logan had called the debate “lit” and asked if they could debate again in the future. That was another thing about Logan. Apparently, he had vocabulary cards for slang words. When he was talking out loud, he would hold the card up so the others knew what slang word he was attempting to use. When texting, he would put quotation marks around the word. It was adorable, in Virgil’s humble opinion.

Then there was Roman. Princey was known for his dramatic flair and Disney references. When he was feeling especially Extra™ , he would use “thees” and “thys” and call people peasants. He also had a love for nicknames. Patton had very few personal nicknames, with most of them being terms of endearment like “honey” and “amor.” Most of Logan’s nicknames pertained to him being a nerd, such as “pocket protector” and “Microsoft Nerd.” He seemed to have a limitless number of nicknames for Virgil, with most of them referencing his emo-aesthetic (how Princey had discovered that so early in their friendship, Virgil had no clue). He never repeated Virgil’s nicknames; the only exception was “storm cloud,” which he tended to use at least once every conversation.

Virgil had become extremely close with the trio over these three weeks. That wasn’t the only thing he did, just the thing he did most often. The Dark Sides had finalized their contract with Thomas, who set up a tour almost immediately. Virgil really should have seen that coming. Their band had become extremely popular over the past few years, and they had only done one tour before this. Performing across the country would help boost their popularity even further. Virgil sighed, his anxiety spiking at just the thought of seeing all those faces in the crowd. That was why he used the persona Anxiety. Anxiety wasn’t afraid of anything, he was fear. Being Anxiety allowed Virgil to be confident and suave without worrying about judgment. They judged Anxiety, not Virgil. The case was similar for Janus and Remus. Deceit was elegant and mysterious, while Duke was loud and over-the-top. They didn’t have to be rejects wanting to fit in with society. No, they were Rockstars. Society wanted to fit in with them. And Virgil was just fine with that.

Bzzz

Vigil glanced over at his phone. He was in Los Angelas right now, around halfway through his tour, which put him 3 hours behind his new friends. He glanced over at his clock, 9:45 PM glaring at him through the dark. He turned back to his phone. Why are they up at 12:45 in the morning? I know Logan keeps them on a rigid sleep schedule.

P- (9:45 PM) Ro? Are you still up?

V- (9:45 PM) Pat, why are you still up?

P- (9:45 PM) Why are you still up, kiddo? It’s almost 1 AM! Don’t you have a hangout with your friends today?

Virgil sighed, thinking of the concert he had tomorrow. He glanced over to his sketchbook. Patton had been really impressed with his sketches, so he had been practicing less gory drawings to show him. It had evolved into something almost therapeutic. Knowing how he worked, Virgil would probably sketch until around 2 in the morning, then sleep until 8 AM. The concert wasn’t until 7 PM, so he had enough time to sleep in if necessary.

V- (9:46 PM) First of all, you know I’m in California right now. It’s 9:46 for me. Second of all, we’re not hanging out until tomorrow night, so I can sleep in if needed. Third of all, you’re avoiding the question: What are you and Roman doing up at 1 in the morning? I thought you guys had work in the morning.

P- (9:47 PM) We do. Roman got a burst of inspiration at around 10, and he usually refuses to sleep until he writes it all down. He probably fell asleep at his desk, that silly billy!

V- (9:47 PM) That doesn’t explain why you’re still awake. And why didn’t you get up to check on him? I thought you guys lived together.

P- (9:47 PM) We do! I just couldn’t fall asleep tonight. And the bed’s too warm to get up!

V- (9:48 PM) Well, Princey’s probably being a “sleeping beauty”

Virgil frowned at his phone. Patton hadn’t responded to his text. Sure, that wasn’t a very good pun, but it was still a pun. Patton laughed at every pun he saw, or at least followed it up with another pun. He could be asleep, but didn’t he just say that he had trouble sleeping?

V- (9:50 PM) Pat?

P- (9:50 PM) Yeah, Kiddo?

V- (9:50 PM) Are you okay?

V- (9:52 PM) Patton?

V- (9:52 PM) I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Just because you didn’t answer my pun doesn’t mean that there’s something wrong with you. I’m sorry that I sounded like an asshole.

P- (9:52 PM) No, Sweety. It’s fine! It’s nice to know that someone cares about you!

P- (9:53 PM) I’m just a little sad today.

V- (9:53 PM) Do you wanna talk about it?

P- (9:54 PM) I’m fine, Kiddo! This just happens sometimes. No need to worry!

Virgil sighed, thinking about how much Patton reminded him of Janus. Janus grew up neglected, and was taught to convince everyone that his life was perfect. By the time Virgil had met him, Janus was 19 and a compulsive liar. Virgil wasn’t much better, having just gotten kicked out of the foster system. Virgil lived with Janus (and soon Remus) until The Dark Sides had enough income for Virgil to live on his own (technically Janus had more than enough money for that- his parents were loaded. But Virgil wanted to have something that he earned. He wasn’t just some charity case). When they first lived together, Virgil could never tell what Janus was actually thinking. It took a lot of time and trust to separate Janus from Deceit. Now, he was still heavily sarcastic, and he tended to close himself off when he got upset, but Janus had come a long way.

Virgil looked back to his phone. Patton didn’t seem to have it as bad as Janus did, but you could never tell. At least he acknowledged that he wasn’t okay. There is the chance that something really is bothering him, but Virgil had to trust Patton on that note. It is entirely possible that Patton is just feeling down today; God knows how many times Virgil would question why he should get out of bed. He bit his lip. What helps me when I feel sad for no reason? He smiled, remembering when Remus would spout the most obscene things to distract himself from his own negative thinking. A distraction.

V- (9:56 PM) Did you know that giraffes can clean their ears with their own tongues?

P- (9:56 PM) What?

V- (9:56 PM) “Rhythm” is the longest word in the English language that doesn’t have a vowel.

V- (9:56 PM) Elephants are the only mammals that cannot jump.

P- (9:57 PM) More like Elecan’t!

V- (9:57 PM) Haha :)

V- (9:57 PM) Without food coloring, Coca Cola would be green.

V- (9:57 PM) A 3-year-old boy was elected as mayor in Dorset, Minnesota

P- (9:58 PM) No way!

V- (9:58 PM) Yes way! His name was James Tufts.

V- (9:58 PM) 7 different dogs have been elected as mayors in the US.

P- (9:58 PM) I love dogs! They’re such good boys!

Virgil smiled, adding Loves Dogs to his mental list of Quirky things I like about Patton Morale. They continued to talk about dog mayors for a while until Patton ended it abruptly.

P- (10:14 PM) Why are you doing this?

V- (10:14 PM) Doing what?

P- (10:15 PM) Why are you going out of your way to try and cheer me up? You should’ve stopped talking to me 20 minutes ago. Instead, we’re laying here at 1 AM talking about dog mayors! I would have been fine on my own. Why are you wasting your time on me?

V- (10:16 PM) Pat, if you tell me that I’m wasting my time talking to you, I’m going to have to physically fight you. You are my FRIEND. I care about you. When you’re sad, I WANT to cheer you up. When you’re happy, I WANT to laugh along to your punny jokes. Because I know, at the end of the day, if I was sad and needed someone to cheer me up, you would do it in a heartbeat. You, Lo, and Princey are amazing people, and my time spent with you will NEVER be a waste. I swear.

Virgil sighed, dropping his phone on the bed. He might’ve been too forward with that last text. But it was true. While the four of them weren’t nearly as close as Virgil was with Janus and Remus, he still cared about them a lot.

P- (10:18 PM) Thanks, Virgil. That really means a lot to me

P- (10:18 PM) I’m gonna try and get some sleep now

V- (10:18 PM) Alright Patton, Goodnight

P- (10:18 PM) Goodnight

The next day, Virgil saw a postcard in the window of a gift shop. It had a puppy with sunglasses on the beach, with cartoonish letters saying “Having A WonderFUR Time!” He took a picture and sent it to Princey.

V- (1:08 PM) What’s your address or PO? I wanna send this to Patton.

R- (1:09 PM) Say no more, Hot Topic!

V- (1:09 PM) Aw, you think I’m hot.

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

Taglist: @bisexualdisaster106 @self-taught-mess @itawalrus

[milknette]

chapter 05 - jagged stone

we’re making waves of conversation; got a rush of energy, getting high on humans.

tumblr month: @adrinetteapril​​

links: ao3 | ff.net chapter: previous | next

THE CONCERT arena is absolutely packed.

Marinette’s only too grateful that Nino’s apparent connections allow them to slip past the crowds of humans, noisily screaming and bumping over each other as they try to catch a glimpse of their idol.

Even seeing them all gathered together is more than enough to give her a headache, and she can’t help but wonder how Nino survives through, much less enjoys it all— after having proudly told her that he worked similar shows and events whenever he had the time.

“You like this?” Marinette tries to ask, although she’s quite sure her voice is effectively drowned out by the noise around her.

(Mermaids aren’t one for loud places: they like the peace and quiet of the ocean— all-natural sounds outside of the ‘synthetic’ music of the humans, which they argue isn’t anything more than noise.)

Nino responds like there isn’t any problem. “Doesn’t seem to make sense since I’m a merman, huh?” He shouts back, laughing as they navigate through the concert hall. “But I think there’s a lot of things that our kind brushes off too quickly without really taking the time off to appreciate it. So we keep missing out.”

“What do you mean by that—?”

He and Alya share a meaningful look, with the latter rolling her eyes and playfully nudging his side. “He just means that if you were more open, you’d probably enjoy yourself a lot more.”

Marinette doesn’t get to respond— or even ponder on that question, however, as they’re led through a guarded door, entering backstage.

It’s a lot more quiet and less crowded, though the area buzzes with activity; people either giving or taking orders, rushing around as they attempt to ready everything for the concert in half an hour.

“Come on,” Nino tells them, waving his hand forward. “I have to get ready, but Adrien’s somewhere around here so he can show you around.”

(They don’t have to look long— finding him animatedly speaking with a group of stagehands who altogether seem to hang on to his every word.)

“Of course,” Alya laughs lightly, as he notices the group come into view.

Adrien doesn’t even take a second thought before rushing over to them, evidently leaving a group of unenthused fans in his wake. “Alya, you’re here!” he greets, before turning toward the mermaid and smiling. “And Marinette— a pleasure, as alwaves. I’m glad you made it.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t easy to get her to go,” Alya responds instead, rolling her eyes. Then: “or would ‘beelieve’ it be more on-brand?”

Adrien laughs goodnaturedly. Marinette’s only trying to recall where the deepest trench is in their area.

(Just for reference.)

At that moment, a stagehand rushes over to Nino, holding a clipboard as he rushedly asks him to hurry over for a sound check.

“Guess that’s my cue to go,” Nino finally says; then, with a sudden (almost wicked) grin: “Alya, wanna see my setup?”

“What? I’ve seen your setup a thou—,” a nudge, then: “oh… yeah, I’d love to!”

“Adrien, you’d be good to show Marinette around right?” Nino asks, a cheeky grin on his face.

The two of them share a meaningful look, and after a brief second, Adrien nods, shyly smiling at the mermaid. “Don’t mind if I dew,” he replies. “Come on, I’ll shoal you around!”

Terrible. Terrible. Terribly cute.

Marinette nods, and they begin to go around the set. Adrien’s a great guide, and he easily navigates through the venue to show and explain to her the different tasks that are being done. (She’s trying to listen, really: but it’s much more interesting to watch him animatedly talk about something he evidently enjoys.)

Only because he’s being a good friend to her, of course.

.

.

“How have you never listened to Jagged Stone?!” Adrien’s clearly in shock, and she has to stop herself from laughing. “Who hasn’t even heard of Jagged Stone?!”

After some time going around, they take a break in a more quiet part of the stage area. And after a lengthy conversation about the concert, she’d accidentally exposed what Adrien had kindly called ‘the greatest sin of all time’.

“It’s not like we have Jagged Stone underwater!”

“But you’ve been on land for a month,” he rebuts, shaking his head. “There is no excuse that you haven't listened to the greatest musician of all time.”

“He’s human, he can’t be that great.” Marinette pauses, then rolls her eyes. “Besides, I think you’re being a little dramatic.” 

“And I think you’re not making the most of your time here,” Adrien argues. “Come on, you’re stuck with us humans for a year. You might as whale make the most of it, and give us a chance.”

(Marinette catches the pun, but she ultimately decides to ignore it.)

“I am making the most of it!”

“Really? So what have you done in your first month here?” She’s about to protest, and he continues. “Aside from this concert. Which Nino and Alya basically had to corner you to go to.”

Marinette pauses, then audibly hmphs, knowing she’d been caught.

“I’m just saying,” Adrien points out. “Not all humans or human-related things are inherently bad. Some of what we do is pretty cool.”

“Sure,” she replies dryly. “Like toxic oil spills, trash pollution, dynamite fishing, coral mining, canal-digging and dam-building… need I go on?”

“I mean, of course those things are bad— but you can’t just use that as a reason to hate on all land mammals as a whole,” he explains, then pauses briefly. “Though I do get the feeling of wanting to throw those kinds of people into the ocean. And if you ever do meet them, don’t worry; I’ll be your willing partner in coralime.”

Marinette feels her lips curve into a smile, and nods. “That was pretty awful.”

“It still made you smile, though.”

Can’t argue with that.

Then she takes a moment to think about the rest of his points, as her eyes wander off to the humans busily walking around her— seeing them working together to make something a reality. And she spares a moment to look at Adrien, who continues to prove that everything she’s ever known about humans was wrong.

(For the first time, maybe since ever, she doesn’t quite mind being the only mermaid in the room.)

The lights suddenly flash around them, and Marinette subconsciously grabs his arm in surprise.

He laughs. “Don’t worry, that just means the show’s about to start,” Adrien explains, before standing up. “Come on, let’s go and support Nino.”

Marinette prepares to let go of his arm, but he easily manoeuvres it in a way that they end up holding hands.

They’re holding hands.

He… they… 

?!!!?!?!??!

“What are you just standing around for?” He asks, smiling as she dumbly looks at their interlocked fingers.

“I— just— I— uh.”

His hands are warm, but the good kind: the kind that makes her want to melt in the absolute best way possible.

Adrien gently pulls her forward, the same expression on his face; something she can’t exactly describe, but is definitely two things: (1) something she’s never felt before, and (2) something she wants to keep feeling forever.

They walk together to meet up with Alya, and are consequently guided to a stage area where they’re able to watch the rest of the concert.

Alya looks at their linked hands, then stares at Marinette in a half-victory and half-I-told-you-so expression. 

She pointedly ignores it, and decides to try and enjoy herself.

Nino is wonderful. He plays a beat that reminds her of ocean sounds, and she can’t help but miss home with it.

When Jagged Stone comes on to perform, Marinette immediately pins his personality down to be loud and chaotic and nothing short of intense— playing something that mermaids would objectively call as nothing but absolute noise.

As he continues to beat down on his guitar and scream, however, Marinette begins to think that maybe she likes it.

She watches Alya and Adrien excitedly screaming back, with the former documenting the whole event on her phone. Adrien pauses to look at her upon noticing her gaze, offering one of the brightest grins she’s ever seen him give.

She’s wrong.

Marinette likes it a lot, actually.

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 32: Martin

They’re right. Jon Prime can’t see the colors of fear like Tim can. It’s something between a shock and a relief to all of them, but especially to Jon. Less pleasing is the news that, apparently, the one in the Institute who can see marks is Jonah, although Jon Prime admits he doesn’t know how he sees them, or even if he actually sees them or just Knows they’re there.

Tim gets very dramatic about this, but Martin suspects it really does bother him more than a little.

They won’t let Tim push himself to experiment, but he does a couple of carefully controlled and supervised peeks at objects and statements. Martin and Martin Prime are both extremely vocal and vehement in their opposition to him going up to Artifact Storage to have a look around, and even Sasha agrees it would be a really terrible idea. Jon makes it unanimous by declaring that Tim has met his quota of bad decisions for the year and begun borrowing against the next. Tim gives in gracefully enough.

He cheers up some when the first Sunday in Advent passes—not that any of them are churchgoers, but it’s a convenient way to mark the start of the season—and they’re able to decorate their house for Christmas. Martin hasn’t celebrated, really, since his grandfather died, and Jon even longer ago than that, but it’s hard not to join in with Tim’s enthusiasm. Jon finds a sprig of mistletoe and hangs it over the door; Sasha teases him about it, then evidently regrets it when it touches off a mini-lecture about its history as a protective plant to ward off witches and demons.

Martin finds himself staring at it every time they pass through the front door. It’s just a silly superstition, of course, but if he thought it would work, he’d deck out every door and window in the place. From the fact that he comes back from lunch one day and sees Tim with a search page called up for protective plants and charms, he suspects he’s not alone in that.

As the calendar goes over into December, they’re all beginning to relax somewhat. Jon is less neurotic; Sasha is less secretive and a bit more open about what she’s doing (emphasis on a bit). Martin is able to keep himself from overcompensating for his shortcomings (or, as Jon insists on referring to them, perceived shortcomings), and Tim hasn’t done anything catastrophically stupid in three weeks. Even the Primes seem more relaxed. Jon Prime is getting progressively stronger; he still says he has trouble thinking down in the tunnels, but he’s able to move around without needing to sleep for two days afterward. Martin Prime seems less worried about him, seems being the operative term. Martin knows it can’t last, but he hopes they’ll at least get through the new year before they have to start really worrying about fears and monsters and cops and bosses.

He should really know better by now.

Martin assumes the footsteps on the stairs belong to Tim or Sasha. He cut his lunch a bit short because he was expecting a callback regarding a statement follow-up, which he’s just ended, and he assumes it took longer than he anticipated. He looks up, ready to pass on the information, but the words dry up in his throat at the sight of the person striding towards him. Solid, with well-defined muscles and a blonde crew cut, the woman looks a good deal like the description of the assassin in the Jeffrey Archer book he did his last school report on, but despite being in plainclothes, she screams cop. This, then, must be Detective Alice “Daisy” Tonner, and Martin has no idea why she’s here.

Her eyes narrow when she spots Martin, and he shrinks back instinctively from the intensity in her eyes before he gets a hold on himself. He hasn’t, he reminds himself, done anything wrong. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks, his voice only squeaking a little.

“You’re Martin Blackwood?” she demands.

“Y-yes?”

“The Martin Blackwood?”

If this were any other situation, Martin might respond with a paraphrase of that line from one of the Hitchhiker’s Guide books, he can’t remember if it’s the second or third off the top of his head: No, just a Martin Blackwood, don’t you know I come in six packs? That, however, would be tantamount to suicide. Then he remembers that the Primes got pulled over. “I’m the Martin Blackwood that works in the Institute, yes. Can I help you?”

Daisy—it’s impossible to think of her as anything else—eyeballs him, then grunts. “Detective Daisy Tonner. I need to talk to the Head Archivist.”

“Yep. Of course. Right this way.” Martin jumps to his feet, nearly toppling his chair over backwards, and starts towards Jon’s office. “Uh, can I get you a…cup of tea or…?”

“I’m fine,” Daisy growls.

The small, furry mammal of Martin’s inner being flattens its ears and crouches in the grass, desperately hoping to avoid being seen, and Martin swallows hard. “R-right. Um. This way.”

He leads Daisy over to Jon’s office door and opens it cautiously. He’s pretty sure Jon isn’t recording, at least not on the tape recorder, but he’s usually careful anyway, especially since none of them knock anymore; Jon’s asked them to stop and they’ve decided, collectively, not to ask questions. Yet.

Jon looks up from the spread of papers on his desk and smiles, but it fades quickly. Martin can only imagine what his face must look like. “Martin. Is everything all right?”

“There’s a Detective Tonner here to see you,” Martin answers.

He is in complete agreement with whatever emotion Jon’s face is attempting to convey as he shuts the folder and shoves the papers aside. “Ah…send her in.”

“Okay. I’m, um, there’s something I need to run down,” Martin says. “U-unless you need me to stick around.”

Jon seems to understand. Of course he does. “No, I should be all right.” He doesn’t sound completely sure. “Make certain your phone is on you, though.”

Martin doesn’t bother pointing out that the tunnels don’t get service. “Right.” He steps out and nods to Daisy. “You can go in.”

Daisy doesn’t thank him, just pushes past him and shuts the door. Martin stands still for a moment, trying to shake the creeping feeling of dread, then turns and heads for the trapdoor leading to the tunnels.

Something I need to run down. Jon told Martin, after Melanie’s visit, that he liked that as a code phrase for ducking into the tunnels, so they’ve all been using it lately. Usually it’s to ask the Primes a question or clarify something, sometimes just to check up on them and see if they need anything. Jon and Sasha are taking it in turns to map out the tunnels, too—they’ve almost finished the first level. Maybe. Tim and Martin, on the other hand, occasionally go down just to get some relief from the constant pressure of the Eye.

It’s interesting, Martin thinks as he clicks on his torch and descends the steps, how differently they react to the tunnels, or more specifically to the effect of the tunnels on them. Tim embraces it, and Martin suspects he would spend all his time down there if he thought he could get away with it, but he usually goes down at least once a day, if only for a few minutes. Sasha finds it kind of exciting, not being able to just ferret out the tunnel’s secrets easily, but the problem is that she’s addicted to the mystery of it. Jon is in a weird place; on the one hand, he also wants to know everything about the tunnels that he can, but on the other, he’s already starting to get to a point where if he stays down for too long, he winds up drained and shaky. Both he and Sasha are under strict injunctions not to spend more than an hour a day in the tunnels, and privately, Martin thinks that might be too long for both of them.

And Martin? He’s in a weird place, too. He does like the comfort of not being constantly watched, and of knowing that he can ask people how they’re feeling and know he won’t accidentally compel them to answer, and if he’s being honest, it’s one of the two places in the world he feels completely safe and relaxed (his mind skips away from actually acknowledging what the other place is). At the same time, though, he feels…guilty. Like he’s abandoning someone who’s depending on him.

With a sigh, he leans against the wall of the tunnel for just a moment, then straightens up and heads down to the Primes’ “room”. The door is open, and Martin can just faintly hear Jon Prime’s voice. It’s too low to make out the words, but when he cautiously pokes his head around the doorframe, he sees the Primes sitting up against the wall of the room, their battery-operated camping lantern lit and casting a soft golden glow over the pair of them. Martin Prime’s head rests on Jon Prime’s lap, and Jon Prime absently tangles the fingers of one hand through his curls. In his other hand he holds a book, and he’s reading aloud in a low, soothing voice. Martin almost wants to duck back out again, sit on the floor outside the room, and just listen for a little while.

But Jon Prime glances up as he turns a page, sees him, and makes a small noise of surprise. “Martin. I didn’t see you there. Is everything all right?”

“M-maybe?” Martin feels his cheeks go hot. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, I—”

“It’s fine,” Jon Prime assures him. He keeps his voice low, and Martin wonders if Martin Prime is asleep. “Come on in. What time is it?”

Martin points his torch at his wristwatch, just to be sure. “Almost one in the afternoon. I just—it’s maybe not an emergency. I can come back—”

“Sit.” Jon Prime sets the book aside and glances down at Martin Prime. “How are you, love?”

“I’m fine. It’s fading fast,” Martin Prime replies. He starts to sit up, but Jon Prime stops him with a hand to the chest. “Jon…”

“Relax. Rest. You don’t need to—you’re fine.” Jon Prime looks up at Martin. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, ‘course not.” Martin comes into the room and automatically makes sure he doesn’t shine the torch in Martin Prime’s eyes. “I just…I just wanted to let you know, I guess. Daisy just turned up.”

Jon Prime sucks in a deep breath. “Oh, God.”

“She’s just here to deliver the next tape, though, right?” Martin asks. Anxiety suddenly grips him. He shouldn’t have left the Archives, no matter what Jon said. “She won’t hurt him, will she?”

“N-no.” Jon Prime doesn’t sound too sure. “She didn’t hurt me this time around…not physically. But…in theory, yes, she’s just dropping off the next tape. I accidentally compelled a statement out of her—I hadn’t yet learned I could do that—and made her rather angry, but…well, let’s hope it won’t come to that.” He takes a deep breath. “Then again, she did encounter us. Who knows what she’s thinking.”

“Christ, I should’ve stayed up there. I-if Jon’s going to—God, he’s going to be exhausted after, and none of us are there to cut the statement.” Martin sucks in a breath. “And he’s alone, if she does anything—I’ve got to get back up there.”

“Go easy,” Martin Prime cautions him. “And don’t break the door to his office down. She might…you won’t be the one she takes it out on.”

Martin takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Um, d-do you two need anything?”

“Some paracetamol, maybe?” Jon Prime asks. “We’re getting low.”

Martin winces and glances at Martin Prime. “Migraines?”

“Mm-hmm. Hadn’t had one in a while. I kind of thought I outgrew them, but…” Martin Prime gestures vaguely at his head. “Been bad for the last week or so.”

“I’ll be back later with some aspirin,” Martin promises. “Works better for migraines. M-maybe some of that ginger tea, too? We’ve got a ton of it.”

“Thank you,” Martin Prime says with a soft smile. “Be careful.”

Martin hums in agreement, then heads back to the stairs.

By his watch, it’s been no more than five, ten minutes since he came down into the tunnels—not nearly enough time for Jon to take Daisy’s statement, and Tim and Sasha probably won’t even be back yet. He climbs the stairs, head bowed in thought, pushes the trapdoor open, and steps out into the Archives.

And flinches.

Elias—Jonah—stands next to Martin’s desk, hands clasped in front of him, patiently waiting. His piercing grey eyes are fixed on Martin as he stands, half-in and half-out of the tunnel.

“Martin,” he says calmly. “I wondered where everyone was. Surely you don’t all go to lunch at the same time—have you been exploring the tunnels on Institute time?”

Martin panics slightly. He swallows hard, and he knows his knees are shaking as he climbs out and lets the trapdoor close behind him. “I-I came back from lunch a bit early to take a phone call. Jon told me t-to go ahead and take the rest of it once the call was done.”

“In the tunnels?”

Martin swallows hard. He’s usually fairly good at coming up with a plausible lie to cover something he shouldn’t do, or at least of distracting people from the fact that he needs to lie. But somehow, he doesn’t think he’ll manage it. Not completely.

“I’ve—I’ve been putting some things together,” he says. He manages to take a step closer, then another, until he’s by his desk and not far from Elias. Definitely closer than he wants to be, but it seems important that he do it like this. “Making connections.”

“Have you now,” Elias says blandly.

Martin takes a deep breath. He’s got to give Elias just enough of the truth to make it plausible, but not let on how much he knows, and most importantly, he can’t let Elias know the others know, too. “I’ve been thinking about the statements. One in particular. That woman who ran into Gerard Keay and the—the burn victim. There’s something he said to her, something I can’t stop thinking about—‘For you, better beholding than the lightless flame.’ I wondered what that meant, and—and then I started thinking. You know, I-I feel like—we all feel like—we’re being watched a lot down here, a-and I know it’s not CCTV or anything because there aren’t any cameras down here, but that’s what it feels like—like someone’s peering over our shoulders all the time. And that statement had a lot of eyes in it, you know? There was even an eye pressed up against the camera for just a minute on the footage we looked at.” He swallows hard. “When I go down in the tunnels—I don’t feel that. I can think down there, because I don’t feel like someone’s looking at my thoughts a-and judging them. It’s not just the woman’s imagination, o-or a crazy delusion. There is something that watches us. It might even be called the Beholding. A-at least, that’s what I’ve been calling it. And it’s here. I think it’s watching the Institute. All the time.”

There’s a brief silence, during which Martin swears he can almost hear the Eye blinking. It’s fond of you, Martin Prime said, way back in the beginning of all this, and Martin desperately hopes that’s true. Or at least that it’s fond enough of him to keep Elias from knowing how much he’s withholding. Then, suddenly, he realizes that’s going about it the wrong way and starts instead hoping that the Eye is curious enough about how this interaction will play out to keep Elias from knowing how aware the Archives team is.

“That’s very clever of you, Martin,” Elias says after what’s probably no more than a second, but feels like an eternity. “How long have you known all this?”

Not thought you’ve known, Martin notes. Known. Interesting. And frightening. “A while. At least since the Jane Prentiss attack. I-I was alone a lot, I had time to think, so…I did.”

Elias hums slightly. “I see. And what are you going to do about it, exactly?”

“Wh-what? I mean…” Martin flounders slightly and casts an involuntary glance in the direction of Jon’s firmly shut office door. “I-it’s not like I can—what do you mean?”

“I mean, Martin, do you intend to keep this knowledge to yourself?” Elias lifts an eyebrow. “Or do you plan to tell Jon?”

Sadly, there’s no right answer to this question. Martin tries to summon up his train of thought from back when Martin Prime first started telling him about all this. What would he have done if the Primes hadn’t been there to tell Jon? “I—I have to. He gets upset when we keep things from him, a-and he’s paranoid enough as it is, so if he thinks I’m keeping secrets…I promised I wouldn’t anymore. W-we all did.”

“Of course.” Elias’ voice drips with soothing insincerity and makes Martin’s skin crawl. “Will he believe you, though?”

“I’ve got—I can show him the connections I made,” Martin says. “He can be a bit skeptical sometimes, but he’s not stupid. A-and we’ve all seen enough, done enough, between Jane Prentiss and the couple of things we’ve been able to verify and—I at least have to try.” He swallows. “I don’t think he’ll be skeptical about this.”

“No,” Elias agrees, which surprises Martin. “I don’t suppose he will. And I’m sure your evidence is very convincing. But what will you do if he doesn’t believe you?”

Martin licks his lips and tries to shrug. “Protect him, I guess. As best as I can. If I’m right, he’ll find out the truth eventually on his own.”

“Oh, you are.” Elias’ frank admission makes the breath catch in Martin’s throat. He expected Elias to prevaricate, or attempt to convince him he was imagining things, but…no, no, this is definitely more frightening. “You’re absolutely right, Martin. And I’m sure, as smart as you are, that you’ve gone over a number of other statements beyond Ms.—Saraki’s, was it?—and found even more connections to support your theory, so you know this goes well beyond the Institute.”

“I-I…yes?” The more Elias agrees with him, or seems to praise him, the more frightened Martin gets. Which is probably the point.

“Mm. I wonder, though, if you really understand the implications of what you’ve discovered. There is so much more to this than you realize, Martin, and I wonder if you realize how harmful telling Jon would be.”

“Why? Because he’ll ask the wrong questions?” Martin asks before he thinks about it. “If Jon—he won’t quit or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Not now. He’ll, he’ll look into things, start investigating. If I don’t have answers for him, he’ll try to find them on his own—that’s not a bad thing. What do you think will happen if I do?”

Elias jerks his head back slightly a split second before Martin tastes the static on his tongue and realizes what just happened. He tries not to let it show on his face. He’s fairly certain he isn’t supposed to know about that, and there’s no reason anyone would suspect that the Beholding gave them spooky knowing powers. Certainly he’s not supposed to have them. Hopefully his reaction doesn’t show on his face.

It doesn’t seem to. Elias gathers himself quickly. “You’re getting emotional, Martin. Just calm down.”

Martin isn’t sure if he’s relieved or alarmed that Elias seems able to resist his compelling. Then again, he’s not all that powerful. “I’m not emotional! I-I’m just—I was asking.”

“Of course Jon will try to find answers. But please understand that some of those answers…may not be in his best interest. Or yours, for that matter.” Elias leans slightly forward and meets Martin’s eyes. “Allow me to give you an example.”

Martin can’t stop the frightened gasp that rips itself from his throat as Jonah’s—there’s no denying in this instant that they belong to Jonah Magnus—eyes bore into Martin’s. The world seems to go black and white with a green wash and fill with static, and the thoughts fill his mind, thoughts and sights and memories not his own—

Her name on his lips is almost like a curse, and she lets one of her own fall as she sets aside the can and looks into those eyes, and she needs no prompting from the Eye to know what he has come to do. Even as they talk, as they both try to taunt each other and figure out who has the upper hand, she reaches into her pocket and fishes out the lighter, Gerard’s lighter—she never should have left the boy behind, but maybe it’s better this way—flicks it on. One little spark, and it will all end for him. But he reaches into his own pocket, pulls out a dark and ominous object, primes it, aims it at her. It comes to this, to which of them can ignite faster. She dares him to do it. He fires. She feels the impact, gasps and collapses, and for a moment, she wishes she had made other choices, she wishes—but no. She is dying, but in all she has done, she has kept safe that which she swore to keep safe. Still. She thought it would hurt more.

—and the color rushes back to the Archives, all the grey sucking into Jonah’s eyes as he blinks and straightens back up, adjusting his suit jacket with an imperious tug. Martin is pressed back against his desk, clutching it behind him with both hands and barely keeping from crumpling to the floor. His face is wet and his breath coming in short pants and gasps, and he realizes he’s sobbing, not sure if it’s with sorrow or fear. Maybe it’s both.

“Knowledge can be dangerous, Martin,” Elias says, as calmly as if he hasn’t just made Martin experience the death of a fiery old woman from inside her own head, at the hands of the man in front of him. “Do keep that in mind.” He turns to walk away, then pauses and glances over his shoulder. “Oh—and I would be cautious who I shared that knowledge with, if I were you. Jon isn’t the only one who would require proof, and I rather think Detective Tonner might have cause to suspect you had…ulterior motives in making such a wild and bold claim without evidence to back it up.” With that, he strides out of the Archives.

He passes Sasha coming in on his way out, or at least Martin’s pretty sure it’s Sasha; all he can see right now is a blur as he tries without success to get his sobbing under control. It’s definitely Sasha’s voice that speaks next, sounding worried. “Martin?”

“I—I’ll be right back,” Martin manages to choke out. He turns and bolts blindly from the Archives in the direction of the washroom. Once there, he locks himself in and slides down to the floor, buries his face in his arms, and cries.

It’s one thing to know Elias Bouchard murdered Gertrude Robinson. It’s another thing to experience it, to feel her dying moments imprint on him—what she felt in the moments leading up to it. And now he knows what it feels like to be shot, wonders if it felt like that for Martin Prime. God, he hopes he never has to deal with that again.

He takes a deep, shaking breath as the sobbing finally subsides and wipes at his face, then gets up to wash the tears and snot off. Once he’s done, he studies himself in the bathroom mirror. His eyes are reddened, his skin bears the too-shiny look of being freshly scrubbed, but it’s the best he can do. Hopefully it’ll be enough. He takes a deep breath and heads back into the Archives.

He gets there just as the door to the main corridor slams, making him jump. From the fact that Jon is frozen halfway across the Archives and Tim is over by their desks with Sasha, Martin guesses it’s Daisy leaving. Jon sighs and runs a hand through his hair, then turns and freezes. “Martin! Are you all right?”

Tim turns, his face creased in concern, and takes a step towards him with his arms already stretching out, but Martin shakes his head quickly. “Don’t—not right now. Please.”

It’s not that he doesn’t want a hug. He does, desperately. After what he’s been through, he can admit what he shied away from when he first went down to the tunnels—that the safest place in the world is in Tim and Jon’s arms. But he also knows that if he gives in and lets either of them touch him right now, he’ll fall apart. He’s just managed to get himself back together, and they still have half a day to get through, somehow.

Sasha holds out a mug—his mug, or at least the one he usually uses, the cobalt blue one with the raised pattern that looks like a cable-knit sweater, which happens to match the one he’s wearing today—brimming with tea. Martin accepts it with quiet thanks, then manages to sit down before he falls over. Tim pulls out his chair, turns it around, and straddles it, resting his chin on the back; Sasha sits down at her own desk, but doesn’t fire up her laptop yet. Jon hovers nearby, his face creased with anxiety and exhaustion in equal parts. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Martin lies. He’s never felt less fine in his life, but he’s also not sure Elias isn’t listening; even if he’s not lurking right outside the Archives, he could be watching Martin, waiting to see how he’s going to bring up his “theories”. “I was—exploring the tunnels. While you were talking to Detective Tonner. Sorry for sneaking around on you.”

Jon looks confused for a split second, then suddenly seems to understand. “Well, it’s not like I haven’t been down there myself. We all have. In fact, I think we’d best just leave the trapdoor unlocked in the future. I’d like to have a complete map of it anyway. But please, all three of you—don’t go down alone. Certainly not without telling anyone. Take a companion if you feel the need to explore.” He slides off Martin’s desk. “Tell you what. Why don’t we all go down there right now? There’s nothing going on at the moment. We’ll take an hour and look around a bit. Together.”

Sasha grabs a piece of paper, writes BACK IN 60 MINUTES on it, folds it into a tent, and leaves it up on their desks, then gives Jon a charming smile. “Just in case Elias comes down to visit.”

“Right. Bring your tea, Martin, come on.” Jon strides briskly over to the trapdoor, which Martin didn’t lock when he came out.

Tea. Martin opens his desk drawer and pulls out the bottle of aspirin he keeps there, slips it into his pocket, and grabs the box of ginger tea off their station before following the others down into the tunnels. Tim waits for him at the foot of the stairs, makes like he’s going to put his hand on Martin’s back, then evidently remembers his earlier request and instead takes the box of tea out of his hands. Martin nods gratefully.

The door to the Primes’ room is still open. Jon pokes his head in the door. “Sorry to bother you, but I didn’t want to wait until after hours.”

“Two visits in a single day. I’m honored,” Jon Prime says dryly. He’s smirking a little, but his expression falls when he sees Martin come in the room. “I am now concerned.”

Tim hands over the box of ginger tea. “That makes…four of us. Five if Martin Prime there wants to join in the concern.”

“Sure. I love worrying,” Martin Prime says, his head still resting in Jon Prime’s lap. “I’m guessing it’s not your Jon we’re worrying about? Unless he’s more upset by Daisy’s statement than you were.”

“No, it’s Martin,” Sasha replies. “I came back from lunch just as Elias was leaving and Martin was—” She catches herself.

“Having a bit of a breakdown,” Martin replies softly.

“Oh, God. Already?” Martin Prime sits up abruptly, then winces, evidently regretting it.

“Have a seat. All of you,” Jon Prime instructs. He studies Martin in obvious concern. “What did he say to you?”

Martin pulls the aspirin out of his pocket and shakes it once before handing it to Jon Prime. “It’s…I don’t know where to start. He was waiting for me when I got out of the tunnels.”

Haltingly, clutching his tea in both hands and staring into its depths, he tells the others the whole story—Elias’ questions, his own half-truths. Sasha’s eyes brighten when he mentions accidentally attempting to compel Elias, and she turns to Jon Prime, whose lips are set in a thin line. He shakes his head. “I know what you’re thinking, Sasha, but it won’t work. He’s strong enough to resist you. I tried, once, with all the force I have…he answered me, but only because he wanted to.”

“So it’s like Zone of Truth? He can choose to fail the saving throw automatically?” Tim frowns. “That’s unfair.”

“Well, he’s had two hundred years to practice, Tim.” Jon Prime turns back to Martin, and his expression is grim. “I don’t imagine he was pleased with that. What did he say about that?”

“He didn’t mention it,” Martin replies. “I—I think I managed to not let on that I realized I’d done it? He just told me to calm down. Th-then he said…he said there were some answers that may not be in our best interest, and…” He takes a deep breath. “He showed me Gertrude’s death.”

“He what?” both Jons shout in unison.

Tim lets out a string of Italian hot enough to blister paint and starts to stand. Sasha grabs his pant leg and tugs him back down, but even she looks pale in the lantern light. “Showed you. How? Put the pictures in your head?”

“Not pictures. More than video, too. It was like…like VR, o-or—I don’t know how to explain it.” Martin’s voice shakes, and he has to set the tea mug down before he breaks it. “I-it was like I was Gertrude Robinson. I-I could, I could feel what she was feeling, I had her thoughts, a-and I was listening to her talking with Elias—with Jonah—a-and then he…she had a lighter, I think she was going to burn the Archives down, and he had a gun, and she was telling him to shoot her or leave her alone, so he did.”

Jon Prime closes his eyes tightly. “‘Thought it would hurt more,’” he murmurs.

Martin Prime rubs his chest absently. “She must have a higher pain tolerance than I do.”

“It wasn’t physical pain she was talking about,” Martin says. Something clicks into place and he knows it with a certainty he’s felt about precious little else in his life. “It was the emotional pain, the knowledge that she was dying, that her plan failed. That the Fears were still out there and Jonah’s plan could still succeed.” A stabbing headache, not quite a migraine but similar in intensity, hits him directly between the eyes, and he closes his eyes, rubbing at the spot.

“Christ, Martin,” Tim breathes. “Will you take that damn hug now?”

“Y-yeah.”Martin manages a smile as he opens his eyes again and Tim’s arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling him close. Jon reaches over and grips his hand hard; Sasha rests a hand on his other arm.

“God.” Jon Prime looks shaken. He clutches Martin Prime’s hand like a lifeline. “I-I always just assumed…”

Martin shakes his head slightly. “From what I could feel, she was—there were some regrets, but I don’t think actually dying upset her all that much, and I think that kind of surprised her.” He sighs. “Not that I was doing all that great. A-and then it all stopped, and I just…I’m pretty sure I was crying before all that, but I hadn’t noticed. Elias told me that ‘knowledge can be dangerous’, and then said I should be careful about who I shared the knowledge he’d just given me with.”

Tim tenses, but Martin Prime just sighs. “In other words, he thought your first instinct would be to tell Daisy he killed Gertrude. Only there’s no proof for that, so she would have assumed you were covering up for Jon.”

“She said they know I didn’t do it,” Jon murmurs. “They got the CCTV footage cleaned up…”

“Then she’d have blamed me,” Martin says softly. “Not that I would have told her anyway. I’m not stupid. But—”

“But he knew that,” Sasha completes. “I bet he was trying to convince you to tell her. Put the idea in your head. Maybe he thought you’d do it to prove him wrong…”

“And then either you or Jon would get arrested,” Tim says harshly. “Or worse.”

“Probably worse,” Martin Prime agrees. “He—” He suddenly freezes, his spine stiffening. “Oh.”

“Oh? What ‘oh’? I don’t like that ‘oh.’” Tension creeps into Tim’s voice.

“Tim, have you—looked at anyone on the team?”

“L—wh—no,” Tim sputters. “You mean with my—? No! I promised I wouldn’t—a-and that’s, that’s invasive, I don’t—why would I do that?”

“Because I’m wondering how many marks you all have. Separately and individually.” Martin Prime takes a deep breath. “If Jonah knows your Martin is developing powers…”

“No,” Jon Prime breathes. “No, he—he wouldn’t, it won’t—it wouldn’t work that way.” He pauses. “Would it?”

“If they’re all reading statements? Why wouldn’t it?”

Martin feels the other three draw closer to him, all of them managing to huddle in a group together. It’s Jon who finally asks, his voice full of trepidation, “Why wouldn’t what work?”

Dread runs down Martin’s spine as Martin Prime seems to meet each of their eyes, despite his blindness. “If you all have roughly the same number of marks, and you’re all developing powers from the Eye…Jonah might be considering whether or not he has to actually use your Jon for his ritual. Or if he could use one of you instead.”

[farelian]

Humans Are Weird “Passing Out”

Hello again guys! Here’s another fun thing I just thought about in class, I don’t think this has been written before so hope you enjoy and uh sorry for the quite shitty English

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Michael is both proud and regretting accepting this offer, being invited to a GA meeting for Intergalactic Migration is something he thought he'd never be able to attend. He had to catch a shuttle at 5 in the morning that would transport him to the GA headquarters in the Murumu homeworld, a species of bird-like mammals. Their fur is black and white and they can grow up to around 5-6 feet tall. They have a beak for eating small nuts and fruits, and because their nature is flying and vegetarian, they have two strong eagle wings, able to make them fly in the air for long periods

He's personally chosen by the Minister of Immigration of the UTA as a representative in the meeting since he's the first human, species even to migrate to another planet that's under control of a different government.

Of course following the tight morning schedule, and waking up later than usual, he had no time to eat breakfast or even have a small snack, since there's none in the shuttle. So he's on his way to a GA meeting with an empty stomach, and his trusty Zarqonian guide that's always by his side, Yaku Latatarun

He could feel his stomach rumbling, begging for food to support his body, but the Murumu pilot said there's no food on the ship. He sighed deeply and could only hope for food or a buffet when they arrive later. He glanced at Yaku, looking fine and dandy as usual, he then strikes a conversation. "Hey Yaku... you've eaten yet?" He asked

Yaku looked up at the Human, forming a sort of smile. It's hard for Zarqonians to smile due to their horizontal locked jaw, but she tried her best. "Yes sir Michael, I have eaten food 6 cycles ago" If he heard that right, and his math doesn't fail, she ate breakfast at 3 AM in the morning, and it's 6AM

He stared on in disbelief, breakfast at 3 in the morning? He did sometimes get midnight snacks when he's busy researching stuff on his Computer but not a full-on heavy breakfast, usually just instant cup noodles or leftover Zarqonian-made pizza whose taste is not bad, but still unsatisfying to him. "O-oh... that's quite early for a breakfast Yaku"

"It's our normal eating period sir Michael, we've always been eating at 6-morning cycles" That just blows his mind, he just shook his head and nods to her explanation, then sighed again. "Damn..." He doesn't want to tell Yaku about not eating breakfast, he doesn't want to worry her.

But Yaku had noticed the human's strange behavior and decides to confront him with it. "What's wrong sir Michael?"

"N-nothing... nothing Yaku" He answered still attempting to hide the fact he didn't eat breakfast, but it was too obvious by his scrunched up face and rumbling stomach

Yaku wanted to continue, she's starting to get worried but from her previous experiences, when a human says no, it means no. And if he says nothing, then it's probably nothing. So she kept silent and sat in her comfy seat.

The intercom becomes online and the Murumu pilot talks. "Passengers please strap into your seat, we are about to warp" From the callout the two passengers put on the strap around their bodies, essentially gluing their bodies to the seat. "Entering warp in 3, 2, 1"

The ship began to warp and constrict, bending space and time around it as they open an artificial portal, and travel through it. For first-timers, the experience is sickening and shocking, but to Michael, it's just another Tuesday. In 5 seconds the ship went out of warp and glancing out the window, they can see the beautiful tropical homeworld of the Murumurs, Corta.

Neither of them talked with each other as the ship break through the atmosphere and landed on a pad, they took off their straps, as he fixes his tie and pat down his Tuxedo. 2000 years and it’s still a popular formal attire. He stood up accompanied by Yaku as the doors and a ramp extends out for them. Stepping out into the sunlight, they are now in a completely new environment. Unlike the Zarqonians, Murumur architecture uses hexagonal building blocks for their skyscrapers, making a satisfying pattern of hexagons, like a beehive.

Their buildings also climb up towards the sky, and he smells the wonderful air letting out a sigh and form a smile, at least that’s enough to keep his mind off his hungry stomach. Only taking a few steps forward they are met by the GA escorts, three Murumurs, all dressed in modest yellow and white robes. Without many talking, they get escorted to the GA headquarters

Entering the massive building that is the GA headquarters, he’s reminded of his empty stomach as it growl and rumble. He’s starving but doesn’t know how to approach the escorts to ask for food or where the buffet is. There’s gotta be a buffet somewhere, there has to be!

But instead, they are led straight to the meeting room. Pressing a button the door slid open with a hydraulic hiss, and they step aside. The pair enters the wide meeting room, looking around and notices every other species is here. Thankfully they’re not late for the meeting, it hasn’t even started. Taking a seat on their reserved chairs, Michael began to sweat, gulping as he felt his stomach rumble once again.

He looked around and noticed how many aliens there are in the room, there’s the Janids, Zarqons, Murumurs, Likoti. A species of green snakes that evolved arms on the side of their slithering body. He continues to look around the room to see if there’s a table of food anywhere, none.  He turned back towards the podium, then the table in front of him, not even a cup of water.

Before he could go out on a treasure hunt for food, the president of the GA stepped up to the podium, a Murumur of course, it was their idea for a Galactic Assembly that unites all the race in the universe. Then the meeting starts.

He’s been sitting here for TWO hours, his face looked pale trying to stay strong in the meeting and hear everything. The last two hours are filled with speeches and the species' opinion on immigration, and he also got a text from the General Secretary for when it’s Michael’s turn to go up.

He glanced at Yaku that’s sitting beside him, she’s looking on towards the podium focused and doesn’t want to be interrupted. “Michael Stone of the UTA” The announcer called for him and he stood up, and everyone else looked up at him. There it is, the predator that defeated the Janids in the war.

Michael took a deep breath and tries to ignore his stomach’s cries for food, but his body cannot. He feels weak, his stomach aching. He walked up to the podium with the script on his holophone. Setting his holophone and hold one end of the lectern, he started his speech although with difficulty. No one else in the room seemed to notice except for Yaku, his voice sounded strained, and his face is unusually white.

Half an hour in and he’s halfway into the speech, he suddenly stopped in the middle of a word, panting, his eyes bouncing all around the room as he looked down holding his temples with his finger and thumb. “Is something wrong Michael Stone?��� The announcer asked without a tone of worry.

He looked back up, his face is a sweaty mess as he swallowed and shook his head. He covered his eyes with her hand to block the lights around the room “Nothing... nothing is wrong...” He looked down at his Holophone, opening his mouth to talk again, and then he fell to the floor.

The crowd gasped in shock as the 6-foot tall predator just flopped to the floor without any reason at all. Yaku being the one more familiar with the human immediately left her seat and ran up to the podium, kneeling down with her tentacles holding the human’s cheeks in her hands. “Call for a human doctor!” She cried out as some of the delegates rushes out of the room in search of a human medic, meanwhile, the ones inside are in shock, sat silently in their seat staring at the unconscious human.

It’s not normal to go unconscious without reason, there has to be a reason. Is it a disease? Either way, everyone in the room is confused and speechless.

A few moments later a human medic from their military arrived in the meeting room, kneeling beside Michael and motioned Yaku to step away, but she won’t leave him, she won’t leave his side. Watched by 20 aliens in the room, the medic began checking Michael’s condition,  his heartbeat, breathing, temperature. It looks like he might be having a migraine and a fever.

Both from not eating and drinking anything the entire day, and standing for thirty minutes while talking. More human medics arrived bringing a stretcher, and carefully places Michael onto it and brought him into the human medical bay where he rests on a real bed.

All the while Yaku staying by his side, making sure he’s not hurt or anything. And when asking one of the medics, he said that he has a fever. Which translates to  having a temperature above the normal range due to an increase in the human body's temperature set point.  

It appears the meeting needs to be pushed to a later date, everyone did learn a valuable lesson though. Humans are fragile and if not maintained well by no feeding it enough or drink water, it could collapse from exhaustion and it’s body’s’ strange behaviors from such deprivation of sustenance and water

Strange, very strange

[h2ojustaddmako]

My Thoughts After Re-Watching Season 2

Hiya everybody. Sorry for the long times between posts. Working two jobs and keeping a social life, while also trying to sleep, eat healthy and get hydrated is taking a toll on this account. Bright side is, that because of the whole Corona situation, I might spend a lot of time home soon. So head-up, another headcanon/theory is coming this week, but just to break the hiatus, I decided to write today.

Every now and then, I decide to re-watch one of the three seasons of the show, just so I could have something to fill my time. So, recently I decided to watch season 2 again, and, as I like, pick up on some details, ideas or thoughts I didn’t get during previous binges. I’ve watched this season, like the others, around four or five times now since release, maybe more - and yet I’m still genuinely surprised at the things I notice or realize every time. So I figured I might turn it into a list of the good, the bad, and the plain interesting.

This list is in no particular order, I just write my thoughts as they go.

1. I am still BLOWN AWAY by how good the writing is on this show. It may not be an Oscar-winning script, but for a teen show of the early 2000′s it’s amazingly deep and well thought of, from every angle. That what makes my theories so fun to make, because they planted so much information throughout the shows that I genuinely enjoy picking out details and information from it.

2. To go into more depth, I really enjoyed all the different storylines they brought in throughout the 26 episodes. Look, twenty-six episodes is a lot for a TV series. Most shows release around 10, since long storylines are hard to follow and are easy to get messy. But while they added so many side stories (Max and the original mermaids, Ash and Emma, Cleo and Lewis’ breakup and Charlotte getting in between),. each of these stories merged with the main plot so well, and actually added depth to the story, making it more complicated for the characters, and more interactive for the viewer.

3. While the main focus for the season was the Cleo-Lewis-Charlotte  relationship, both Emma and Rikki had their romantic paths taken as well. But unlike season 1, where the couples fought for screen time, this time those relationships were put to the side in favour of the main plot, which made them more slow-paced and interesting to watch. I enjoyed the fact that Emma and Ash stayed in the dark throughout the entire season, and that Zane only appeared when he was needed. Both are good characters, but not needed every time.

4. On the other hand, Cleo and Lewis’ relationship was handled very maturely all through the season. From when they dated, through the post-breakup, and all the way to managing being friends, the relationship was very well looked into and explored.

5. Might be a side thing, but I loved that Ash was actually figuring out something was off about Emma. One of my favourite lines by him was, “You realize none of this is natural. But you already knew that.” (Ep. 26) Mostly in shows like these, the character either never questions the weird occurrences around them, or the curiosity fuel the storyline (like Zane in season 1). The writer really wrote out of pure logic and not out of plot requirements, and I dig that little detail.

6. This one is felt throughout the entire show, but was most dominant during this one. The show is not about mermaids at all. This is written as a show about three girls and their coming of age process, and the things they have to deal with, one of them being turned into mermaids. But it’s far from being the only problem these girls have, and it’s showing when some episodes really struggle to squeeze in scenes of the girls in their tails for pure rating, even when the plot is not in need of any mermaid action. The girls have a very full and normal lifestyle aside from being mermaids. They go out, go shopping, have other friends, work, study and fail, deal with personal issues at home or with partners. The tails are just another part of their lives and I love it.

7. Episode 23 is a turning point for Charlotte’s character arch. I’ve spoken greatly before about how I feel like Charlotte is seen in our minds as the “bad guy” while she was a nice character most of her time on the show. And she was! Up until episode 23 when was never trying to hurt the girls. She may have acted out of jealousy before towards Cleo, but she was insecure and worried about her boyfriend. What should she think when her boyfriend spends a whole lot of time with his ex and fails to explain to her exactly why? The show did a great job showing the point of both sides in the argument between the girls and Charlotte, and showed the entire process of how their relationship turned into what it was.  A lot of ego, assumptions, and false worries, and a lot of unfortunate events. Episode 23 was really a turning point because that’s where both sides of the fight were really right in different ways, things that led Charlotte to want to go on her own, and the girls to stay away from her. Charlotte acted the way she did because she felt like the girls were treating her badly (which she was wrong about sometimes, but they too hold the blame, mostly Rikki). From episode 24 and on, she started acting as the “bad guy” the show built her to be, and even then I can see her side. But enough on that.

8. Lewis is hot. Idk what’s up with Charlotte’s eyebrows.

9. One thing that feels off every time is how quickly Lewis started dating Charlotte. I don’t blame a guy for moving on quickly, I do find it weird that during the post-breakup from Cleo, he not only protected Cleo’s respect and jealousy by not flirting with any other girl, but also didn’t really seem like he was into Charlotte at all. She was a good friend at the beginning, then Cleo got in the middle, and for some reason, Charlotte did her best to rub it in Cleo’s face that she wants Lewis. But he never, for once, showed interest back until Cleo gave him permission to move on, and all of a sudden they’re dating. What I'm saying is that Lewis never seemed to like Charlotte romantically, like she liked him. So that was weird, they just never felt right together.

10. The reason Charlotte mastered her powers so quickly, at least in my eyes, is because that a) she had the girls to explain her at least the basics, and b) she didn’t put herself into a box of ‘this is what I was given’, bc she wanted to be better than Cleo at every cost. Her will power helped her master her powers. While the girls dealt with learning their boundaries and abilities and adjusting into the new life they got, Charlotte learned about mermaids before her transformation and knew what she was getting into.

11. The show never shied away from real-life issues, that may be considered inappropriate or harsh to the audiences the show is targeted at. Handling with divorce (and the outcomes of it!) and parents starting dating again (true story, Cleo’s way to handle with Sam’s introduction into her father’s life helped me cope when my mother started dating men a couple of years ago), while also showing signs of LGBT references (Nate mentioned people think Lewis is gay, in other words) or even sexual harassment and consent (both when Rikki was mad at Zane for kissing her against her will, and when Ash’s apology to Emma when he believed Lewis thought he was trying to have sex with her/spy on her showering, which to remind y’all, she was 16 while he was 18). It’s so brief I never noticed it before, but once I did, it was hard to miss.

12. And lastly, I just love how this show treats science. So much real life and true scientific information is included in the lines of the story, mainly by Lewis, but also by other characters like Will, Cleo, Lowrey, Max and Dr. Denman. When they wrote the entire base to what mermaids are and how they exist, they didn’t care it was a show for goddamn 9-year-olds, and that what makes it so interesting. If you’re not into science, let me tell you that every scientific blurb or word you hear on the show is 100%% real and makes sense within its context. From talking about marine biology, to referring to mermaids groups ‘pods’ (which is a group of marine mammals in scientific terms), to the science of “magic” and mermaids as a whole, the show knows what it’s doing is within the realms of possibility from a scientific point of view, meaning none of it is real, but it could be, in another life.

Anyways, if you have anything else to add, feel free! This is your list as it is mine. I just really love this show and I wish people appreciated it the same way we do. When I tell people I like this show they remember it as just another kids TV show, and it’s so much more than that.

Hope you’re having a great day, be safe, and wash your hands (just not in front fo people, keep the secret safe!)

Until next time, maybe not as far as you think. xx

[ghostmartyr]

how a life can move from the darkness [5/?]

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Summary:  Two drug addicts (Eren and Historia) meet in group and decide to be roommates to make their  living situation slightly less weird. From there we do the slow burn  found family dance mixed in with the struggles and agonies of recovery.  Heavy on friendship feels, especially EMA. Eventual yumikuri.

Eren had lunch plans for the weekend. An appointment. Specific time and everything. It took a lot of debate, stress, one meeting and several more confirmations from Historia that it was fine, but there was a plan, and Mikasa and Armin had agreed to it. Sunday lunch. Dinner reminded Eren too much of his mother watching every twitch of his hands at the table. Lunch’s only association was with forgetting it.

He couldn’t forget this one.

Of course! the happy letters from Armin’s latest text spelled out. Mikasa had been more formal, which was easier. He could tell she didn’t really believe the offer either. He should have felt like crap over that, but it was too nice being back on the same wavelength.

He was going to see his friends again. And try like hell not to screw it all up this time.

Petra had said, many times, that one of the best things they could do to aid their recovery was keeping their minds engaged in something besides sitting around wanting drugs. It was important to keep life going instead of hiding in its cracks.

The first time she’d said it to him, directly, had been when he’d gone off on a rant about Zeke’s damn baseball games. He couldn’t even remember why it came up, except that Petra thought maybe going to a few would be good for him, and he’d still been in the yelling stage of everything.

Now locked in the stage where he took people’s advice and did something with it, he was doing what he could to distract himself. Benjamin was accepting food that wasn’t wriggling now. His tank still needed regular checks and cleaning. Several bouldering groups were lined up for the week.

He’d mentioned it to Reiner, since Reiner knew more about keeping busy than anyone he knew.

What he got was a copy of one of Ymir’s books.

“This one’s not about the porn,” Reiner had assured him, like that was a mark of quality.

Ymir had rolled her eyes loudly when he said it, snagging Eren’s toast off his plate. “Great review, Reiner. You should be my new marketing team.”

Eren was fifty pages in, and except for the very disconcerting moments spent realizing that Ymir’s insights about human emotion could translate to something painfully earnest when they had nothing to do with an actual person, it was okay. Mostly.

The two characters who were the focus of the romance were starting to spend a lot of time together. On purpose, instead of being forced into it. The narrator kept denying that part, but the narrator was also starting to spend an uncomfortable number of paragraphs being distracted by the other character’s physical appearance.

It was a lot of hunger. Wanting. Not being allowed to have.

“Historia?” Eren called out, flipping a few pages ahead. He’d forced her to the couch with her homework by stealing her usual spot under Benjamin’s tank.

“Yes?”

“You’ve been in love, right?”

The vibrations of a very heavy textbook hitting the floor were followed by a hiss of pain. Eren’s head swiveled around to catch Historia sucking a paper cut. Her face was an uncomfortable red.

“I—why?” she asked.

He brandished the book into the air. “One of Reiner’s friends is a romance novelist, and he gave me this to read.” Historia knew one or two things about Reiner thanks to awkward questions about whether or not it was okay to mention his roommate was a drug addict to other addicts. “And I was wondering if it’s normal for it to all sound like…”

Historia picked up her textbook, continuing to look at him with the kind of paralyzed horror he would have reserved for one of their talks about dead people. Eren cut to the chase.

“Is it supposed to sound like addiction?” he asked. “Is that what it feels like?”

Because every single page was taking him further and further away from the kind of want he knew Ymir had been intending and tossing him back into the hazy memory of needing a fix so badly that he talked to the man behind Zeke’s batting cage and staggered into Armin’s granddad’s bathroom and—

He didn’t know how Reiner had gotten through the full book. Eren didn’t think he could.

Petra read romance novels. She enjoyed them. Was it just him?

“No.” Historia stopped rubbing at her finger. “It—they’re not the same. Whatever I…” Her eyebrows knitted together. Carefully, with a precision that was at odds with the panic that had somehow been unleashed, she placed her book on the other side of the couch. “I don’t know if it was love, but it was nothing like… that.” She looked at the offending manuscript like it was one of Petra’s cookies. “Why are you still reading it?”

Eren shrugged, flipping through more pages. “Trying to keep busy.”

Trying not to think of what Ymir would say if she found out he couldn’t stomach the tamest book from her shelf. He could picture it pretty easily. He had no interest in living it out.

Hell, though. Did this character ever bother doing anything about all the wanting? Fifty more pages, and the obvious conclusion was that this was the only one Ymir wrote that wasn’t pornographic because she’d picked out a main character who couldn’t figure out how to communicate her feelings to her love interest, so there was nothing to be explicit about. No wonder the project had stuck out to Reiner. Someone like Ymir writing someone with a sense of embarrassment or insecurity was jarring.

“’Crystal Wick’?”

Historia had left the couch, and was investigating the book’s cover. She looked halfway alive, which was about as good as Eren had come to hope for lately. The shadows under her eyes had stopped darkening each morning.

“It’s a penname,” he said. “Bertolt says she mostly writes porn.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Reiner gave you porn to read?”

“He specifically said this one wasn’t.”

She peered closer at the cover, reading the quotes on the back. “Reiner gave you a romance novel that ‘Speaks to the truest soul of melancholic love’?”

Eren turned it over. “It says that?”

“Yes,” Historia said. “Crystal’s a ‘genius.’”

It did say that. Eren looked at the innocuous bits of text with a growing nausea the came from the book’s content, but felt appropriate for the glowing praise Ymir of all people had somehow earned. “If you ever meet her, you can’t say things like that,” he said. “Her head’s big enough already.”

Reading her reviews had probably paved the way on that. Ymir seemed like she came by most of it naturally, though. The reviews probably just confirmed what she already thought about herself.

“You don’t think she lives up to her accolades?” Historia asked. “She isn’t the—Eren your thumb’s blocking that one.”

Eren rolled his eyes and opened the book back up, pretending to read more about addictive, repressed lust with more of a smile than he’d managed all day. “Do you want to trade books?”

Historia stepped over his feet and grabbed the hardback Frieda had left on Benjamin’s table, pausing to give their fish a moment to say hello to her. She dangled his namesake’s volume over Eren’s head. He took it before he ended up with another black eye, handing over Ymir’s paperback.

“Frieda screens everything she reads around me,” she said. “She’s—protective.” Concernedly so, if it were over anyone besides Historia, but Historia didn’t need Eren voicing that. “You’ll probably have better luck with one of hers. It’s longer, too.”

Along with heavier. Eren rolled onto his stomach. “Thanks.”

Historia shrugged, returning to her couch vigil. Eren cracked open his Frieda-approved reading. Sci-fi, based on the cover. Armin had probably read it. He liked going through the bestseller’s lists. He liked sci-fi. They’d have something to talk about at lunch.

“It’s going to be fine, Eren,” Historia said, a minute into the author’s foreword.

“Yeah,” he said.

----

Not sleeping was marginally better than nightmares. He was supposed to look at the positives of his life, not focus on the negatives. Tossing back and forth between walls before settling for a few minutes at a time on the ceiling meant he wasn’t waking up in a cold sweat.

Frieda would be around soon, if she was having a sleepless night. He could make himself useful and start the hot chocolate early.

Mikasa and Armin would be showing up in a few hours. Their first time in an apartment he hadn’t shared with either of them.

Rivaille was coming with Mikasa. A neighbor hadn’t been watching their dog, Rivaille had no tolerance for non-human mammals breathing in his presence, and Mikasa didn’t trust him not to tear off his bandage if she left him alone. Armin and Mikasa had coordinated letting Eren know. They didn’t say that outright, but Armin had told Eren Rivaille was coming instead of Mikasa asking. They hadn’t wanted to give him the option of taking back his invitation.

He could see that conversation happening. It played out in his head until his worry about how things would go was smothered by how much he missed being there for those conversations.

He wouldn’t have taken back the invitation. He wondered how weird starting out with that point would be.

Eren swapped over to his side again. The streetlights several stories down barely winked at him through the blinds. He pulled the edge of his pillow up to block it out. He lowered it.

He snatched the blanket by his feet and swung off the bed. He’d make hot chocolate and keep a sleeping Benjamin company. If Frieda showed up, he’d keep her company too. That was better than lying awake all night wondering how he was going to screw everything up again.

He stepped out into the hallway, blanket over his shoulder, and there was no sign of anything but him being wrong.

He was thinking about hot chocolate and kitchen pans.

Down the hall, a thump sounded from Historia’s room.

Eren used to beat up his mother’s walls. And people. He’d heard worse.

It was just a noise. It was just a dark apartment.

It was just the sound of something hitting the floor in his suicidal friend’s room in the middle of the night where no one would be around to—

Eren’s blanket dropped to the floor, and Historia’s door appeared in front of him with a snap of motion he knew best from Armin’s toy magnets he’d got for his seventh birthday. The juxtaposition didn’t do anything to settle his nerves.

“Historia?” he asked the door. His voice came out loud and distant. One of his fists found the wood and knocked. “Is everything okay?”

Several more heartbeats of silence confirmed that to be the stupid question it was. Eren cleared his throat and tried to think of something besides how Frieda, who didn’t even have the full story, couldn’t sleep some nights until she saw her little sister breathing.

That was supposed to be weird. Kind of creepy.

“Historia, I’m opening the door,” he said.

He pushed it open more roughly than intended, and there wasn’t really a noise that came with it, but the door’s swing had some definite resistance that put his head in all the wrong places, and the random thought hit that he’d never been in her room before, and he was three steps in before his eyes even tried to pick anything out of the shadows, and for an insane moment he was so sure that this was the start of another nightmare, just in time to break Armin and Mikasa’s hearts all over again, and Historia was on the floor next to her bed.

Eren’s hand snapped out and hit the light switch.

The searing brightness hurt, but relief made up for it when it illuminated Historia’s tearstained face.

Eren almost fell to the floor. “You’re okay,” he said.

Historia, in a state of much less alarm over the last thirty seconds, stared at him with tears still actively falling, listless shock and a force that threw tennis balls taking in Eren’s presence under the spotlight that lit up her room.

“I don’t think so.”

Eren shook his head. “I meant you aren’t dead,” was the only thing he could think to say. He slid down into a more comfortable position on the hard floor. “What was that noise?”

Historia continued staring at him. She was in her pajamas, holding her flannel top tightly around her nightshirt. Like she’d tried to hide herself in it, and realized somewhere in the middle that there wasn’t enough room, so just left her hands frozen stiff.

One moved. Rigidly. She pointed at the floor behind him.

Somewhat wedged between the door and the floor was a book.

Ymir’s.

So he wasn’t the only one.

The comprehension wasn’t the gentlest place to land, but it was tinged with enough relief to pass.

“Too real?”

Historia nodded.

Eren smiled. Shooting for comforting. “Yeah, it didn’t work for me either.” There was a review to take back to Ymir. ‘Two out of three drug addicts agree your main character reads like a junkie.’ Maybe Reiner just read enough of her stuff to be inoculated.

But Historia was shaking her head. Not in a definitive motion, just back and forth. She whispered something Eren didn’t catch.

“Sorry?”

Historia swallowed. Visibly. “She left.”

Eren’s eyes drifted back to the book. It was the only thing on the floor. The only spot of color in the entire room, really. The furniture was all bare, left staged and sterile. One book, hurled at the door, was the only indication that someone lived in the space. The romance novel Historia should have had more of an interest in anyway, that the words on the back cover and that he’d skimmed near the end dubbed a tragedy.

“She doesn’t say anything,” Historia said. “She spends—she spends half the book wanting this girl, loving her so much it sounds like—” one of her sleeves pulled up, and the scars popped. “She spends all that time, but then she never says it. She leaves and never says it.” A new fount of tears started, and Historia whipped them away with the back of her hand.

Her voice broke. “If she doesn’t say it, how’s she supposed to know?”

Eren moved to the bed, sitting next to Historia on the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, he carefully put his arm around her shoulders. She curled inward, but not away.

“If she doesn’t know, she won’t know to…” The sleeve pulled further up, drawn by Historia’s hand raking through her hair. “She left,” she repeated. “She loves her, and she leaves anyway, over some stupid, idiotic, self-righteous—”

More tears. Eren had never been great with them. When Armin cried, it was usually after someone had hit him. Eren’s job was to go hit them back so Armin wouldn’t have to anymore. Mikasa had been better at that. She’d also been better at making Armin feel better. She was better at just about everything.

Eren wished Historia had one of the better ones in her corner. But she was stuck with him.

“I left too,” he said, the truth of many, many hours of guilt and hatred clawing its way into words that sounded halfway human, and like maybe forgiveness was okay to want. “People don’t always—”

“But you’re getting them back!”

The shout was hoarse and broken, and much louder than the rest of the conversation.

Historia continued on, savagely tearing through the words. “You never reached out, and never said anything, and you needed them. More than anything.” Her voice caught. “I… She was so… I always thought she didn’t need anyone. Even…”

Eren was five and Armin was the coolest kid on the playground. He mouthed off to everyone he disagreed with, even after he took a beating, because it was right.

Eren was seventeen and hearing for the first time how little Armin had thought of himself back then.

Eren was ten and Mikasa was winning all the fights he started.

Eren was nine and Mikasa would not let go of his hand.

“She left,” Historia said, “and all this time… but I’m the one who…” She stopped, and Eren could see the cords in her wrist tighten before she started again.

When she did, the words were slow and agonized. “I’m not like Armin and Mikasa,” she said. “I didn’t wait. I didn’t keep trying. I took it for granted that she didn’t want me and gave up. She left. I never chased her. I want her but I never—”

Eren was probably holding her shoulder too tightly. He knew his jaw was too tight. He could hear Armin tutting at him, flicking a spilled cheerio from the kitchen counter at his forehead. “You were stuck in juvie,” Eren said. “You’d have to be an idiot to expect someone to chase you from there.”

“She is!” Historia shouted at the floor.

Eren kept the half-hug stable through the laugh that choked out a sob. He thought he heard the click of their front door unlocking. Hot chocolate felt very far away. Historia was shivering. She could use some.

He hoped her girlfriend felt half as bad about everything as he had when he’d flamed out and abandoned everyone who loved him. Whatever had happened, there was no way this didn’t earn her at least that.

“I don’t know what went on between you two,” he said, not adding that he didn’t think Historia did, either, “but I never wanted Armin and Mikasa to stick this through. I’m—” hell “glad they did, but I was a jerk. They deserved better. I wouldn’t have blamed them if they never talked to me again.”

“But you would have wanted them to.”

And hated himself all the way through his bedroom wall for it. “Yeah.”

“Because you love them.”

“…Yeah.”

Those were definitely footsteps. Eren didn’t want to listen for the moment they spotted the extra light in the hallway, or his blanket on the floor. Historia’s eyes were peeking out from behind her hair again. They were trained on Ymir’s book.

“I don’t even know if she loved me back,” she said.

Eren couldn’t give an answer to that. All he really knew about Historia’s girlfriend was that all the flashbacks in the world wouldn’t be reason enough to shrug off a chance to punch her in the face, and if that needed to happen, Historia had first claim.

The footsteps stopped. Eren winced when they started again, slapping the floor, and he caught the second when Historia’s confusion at the noise turned into horror.

Frieda appeared as a breathless shadow in the doorway, and Eren didn’t even have a chance to spot the panic her body was screaming on her face before she swooped in. A blur of older sister dove on both of them, and shock and a welcoming thud of a heartbeat stole the breath from Eren’s lungs. Frieda’s fingers caught his head and pulled him over her shoulder while Historia was simply dragged bodily into her side with a surprised croak.

“You’re both okay?” Frieda asked, squeezing more air out of them. She sounded faint. Fear bled through her grip, and Historia had gone suspiciously still.

Eren had wanted her around for these late-night encounters, once. Right now it felt cruel to both of them.

“I’m good,” Eren said.

Frieda nodded, and Eren felt her pull away just enough to look down properly at her sister, who was still clutched to her like a limpet.

“Historia?”

Both of her sleeves had rolled up. Her fingernails were digging matching imprints into her scars, and every person in the hug could feel the flinch Frieda tried to hide. Historia buried herself closer. Shaking like it was her first night off the hard stuff.

“I—” she started through a new sob. “I’m sorry.”

Eren disentangled himself before Frieda’s hand decapitated him on its way to hold her sister more tightly, soft words and reassurances brushing by his ears as Frieda told Historia not to apologize, she had nothing to apologize for, and Historia dissolved further into tears.

“I’m going to go get started on the hot chocolate,” he said.

Frieda’s gaze shot over him, and Eren almost stopped in the middle of standing at the unadulterated terror dampening her eyes, but she only mouthed her thanks, pulling Historia fully into her arms in the midst of another litany of sorrys, one after another.

The one thing Historia had never wanted was for Frieda to know how bad things were. Eren doubted any of them wanted to think about how long she had guessed at it.

“Does it ever help? Talking?”

Eren patted Historia firmly on the head on his way out.

He also grabbed the book off the floor.

----

Eren was cleaning the apartment, which was stupid. They had maid service. They did a superhuman job of cleaning. Short of making a deal with the devil, Eren wasn’t going to be able to match their work. He was leaving streaks on the counter. It didn’t matter how many times he dragged the washcloth over the spots. The streaks just moved.

Armin had shared an apartment with him. He knew how Eren lived.

Right, and his last memory of what that was like was forever linked to digging through Eren’s bedroom and finding all of his drugs.

The streak moved from the edge of the counter to the center. Eren was chasing it around the way Benjamin swam after their hands when they were over his tank. With about as much success.

Lunch was takeout. Takeout plus a few mangled apples.

Historia had been nice enough not to say anything. Her face had handled that.

A night of no sleep and hysterics had peeled off some of the darkness in her eyes. She looked almost human again. By their standards, but their standards had improved lately. She’d stopped Eren’s jittery hands from costing him a finger and spun her phone over the marble at him, several restaurant tabs already opened.

Eren had texted Armin and Mikasa. Everyone had ordered. It was all fine. They had enough chairs. Frieda had double-checked before she left. She’d spent the night.

“You don’t want to stay?” Eren and Historia had asked in perfect, frantic unison when she announced her departure over breakfast. A breakfast she’d cooked for them, smiling through her yawns the whole time.

For a moment he’d thought Frieda might cave, with both of them asking. Instead, she’d given them both a perfunctory pat on the head. “You two are all grown up. You don’t need me to supervise your play dates.”

Frieda was the only one with that confidence. Historia had come back from feeding Benjamin dripping dread, and Eren was left wondering if sleep deprivation and drug addiction looked anything alike and how much it would worry Mikasa and Armin that he could barely walk in a straight line.

“Sorry,” Historia said, joining him with a washcloth of her own. She didn’t leave streaks.

“Stop saying that,” Eren said. He wiped down a dried spot of water he’d left earlier. “I was only up because I couldn’t sleep.”

“Still.”

Eren yawned into his hand. “If you’re sorry about that, I’m sorry for giving you the book.”

Historia’s mouth thinned.

They worked in silence for several minutes, contributing very little to the overall cleanliness of the apartment. Eren could hear a clock ticking. None of the ones either of them owned ticked.

“What are they like?” Historia asked in a blurt.

“Huh?”

“Armin and Mikasa.”

Eren stopped scrubbing. “They’re… Armin and Mikasa.”

“Your friends,” Historia said. She made the term sound alien.

Eren glanced at her. She was frowning at her rag. Tiny, blond, and maybe looking for the words instead of being too stubborn to share them, but the blast of nostalgia wasn’t pulling its punches. Eren slowly renewed his swipes at the counter.

His friends. The two people who made him get it a little when clients chattered on about their other halves. The foundation of everything he was that he’d bombed halfway to hell when everything he was turned out to be pain.

Armin and Mikasa.

“Mikasa’s good at everything,” Eren started. He remembered jogging to one of Zeke’s baseball practices, skipping over the cracks in the sidewalk and trying to keep up, whining those same words because his big brother would never tell anyone. “She’s strong. I—not just in things like sports, or fighting. I could never win against her when we sparred, and she has better times than I do on all the mountains nearby, but that’s not it.” His reflection blinked emptily from the shining counter. “She’s reliable. The responsible one. Always there, even when you don’t want her to be, because she knows more about when you need her than you do.

“It’s annoying,” he didn’t say. It used to be. It would have his head full of steam and his feet stomping cross the sidewalk. It had leaked into the things he’d said when withdrawal hit and he hated everyone.

“Armin’s… an optimist. He doesn’t think he is, because he’s always thinking about the most depressing stuff, but it’s always about… ways to make them better. To fix them. He doesn’t lose it when it’s hard or looks too difficult. He just does it. Like it’s nothing. He’s tough. The toughest person I know. And the smartest. He—I don’t know how many things he’s tutoring by now, but he picked up as many jobs as he could to pay for every college course he could stay awake for.” And then some. Eren had seven different alarms set for each day of the week to go and collect Armin for his classes. There were days he ended up carrying Armin to class. That was what finally got him to change up his schedule. “He’d be an expert in all of them after a semester. Sometimes less. He got a free ride to several places, but—he stayed behind. He cared more about staying with us.

“He lied about that,” Eren added. “He’s not usually good at it, but he was then. We wouldn’t have let him lose out on something like that. We both tried to get him to go when it all came out, but he wouldn’t. He—we kept trying, but he just wouldn’t. He staged—” The flash of the kitchen lights flashed against the counter, hiding the reflection he knew was smiling. “He staged an intervention for us. A whole PowerPoint on why we had to stop, because the only one who knew what was best for his education was him.”

Historia walked over to the sink, squeezing her rag dry. “Did it work?”

“Of course it worked,” Eren said, grabbing a fresh towel. “You can’t argue with the smartest person you know.” That was why people always tried beating him up; that was the only thing they could come up with.

For a while, that was the only thing Eren could come up with for dealing with himself. Mikasa would have thrown him over her shoulder and told him to stop hitting things. Armin would have devised his own twelve-step program, devoted to all facts about Eren he’d picked up throughout their years of friendship, and handed him a copy.

Historia took the paper towel roll off the counter, watching him with the subterfuge of someone who’d maybe read a summary of the concept in a book.

Eren balled up his washcloth and landed it in the sink, giving up the pretense for a moment. “What do you think I should say?”

Historia’s gaze took a small detour to Benjamin’s tank. “You’re the one who knows them.”

“You’re the one here who knows what it’s like to be screwed over.”

The storm cloud darkening her countenance was very specifically aimed at him, but it cleared fast. Historia sent her rag into the sink after his, frowning. She waited on the words for a few moments. “They still love you,” she said, “so… love them back?”

It sounded like a nicer version of what Ymir said, and he was about to say so when it struck him that comparisons to Crystal Wick were the last thing that would be helpful today. Or any other time.

“Would that be enough for you?” he asked.

Laughter barked out of Historia, surprising both of them. She shook her head and leaned against the island. “Eren, seeing her again would be enough for me.” She reached out and tapped his shoulder in an odd, noncommittal pat. “Just be you.”

Eren watched Benjamin’s lazy circles. “I’m not sure he’s around.”

“Oh,” Historia said.

“Oh,” Eren echoed.

Historia turned around to lean bodily over the sparkly clean marble, nudging Eren’s elbows with hers. Benjamin reacted to the extra viewership with a flourish as he rounded the rock he had decided was this week’s favorite.

“…You could try smiling more?”

Eren looked over at Historia’s unsmiling face. “You think?”

“Maybe?”

It was the sleep deprivation, maybe, that made him smile.

They both still sucked at this.

----

When Eren was little, there were few things in his life he enjoyed as much as sci-fi B movies. Zeke would let him and Armin watch the worst, implausible action adventures, all about mutated sharks that were part dinosaur and sludge beasts that lived in the Arctic. Horror movies were bundled in, but Armin wasn’t allowed to watch those because he’d keep his parents up with existential life questions about good and evil that they hadn’t wanted to discuss with their seven-year-old.

Eren didn’t have that problem with his parents. He would sit in Zeke’s lap while they went out wherever, chattering loudly about all the things the monster’s victims were doing wrong, and how he’d do it better. He’d be a good monster slayer, he told Zeke. He wouldn’t die first.

Zeke had always said if the scientists hadn’t been so careless, and the other humans hadn’t bothered the monster so much, none of them would have had to die.

He was the worst person to watch movies with. He’d also been the only babysitter Eren had who would let him watch those ones.

Some of Eren’s chief complaints about the screaming people in the movies had been how they handled doorways. They’d run into places and open doors without a second thought about where it would land them.

There was a knock on the door.

Eren dropped the plate he was fussing with and almost tripped over Historia bolting for the doorknob. He threw it open before any sort of sense had a chance of reestablishing itself, and met the alarmed eyes of the delivery girl with heavy breathing and

Historia pulled him back by his shirt. He stumbled back into the apartment, socks sliding on the wood.

“Sorry,” Historia said, plastered, rigid fake smile in place. “We’re expecting—”

Mikasa.

Armin.

Sound fell away to only Eren’s heartbeat. Historia pulling out her wallet and overpaying the delivery girl was barely a blip.

They were standing in the hallway. Behind the bright uniform. Standing there. Outside the door, like they’d never been anywhere else. Like he’d never left. Like Armin had forgotten his key when he brought Mikasa over for game night.

Ten steps away. Nine. Five.

“Ah,” Historia said, loud and echoey, “you must be Mikasa and Armin?”

A hiss came from the space below Mikasa’s elbow.

“And Rivaille,” Historia said. “Hello.”

No one said hello back. The cat’s perturbed mreow could have counted in another life full of hallucinogens. This one had Mikasa and Armin, standing in a doorway as the heavy apartment door heaved itself shut in their faces. Historia hurriedly blocked it with her foot, attention darting between the human statues she was surrounded by.

Eren wasn’t even sure which one he was staring at. Armin, caution and hope bursting like a newborn star all over his face. Mikasa. Mikasa. Somehow still standing and still there despite every horrible thing he’d thought and shouted and thrown.

“Mreow,” Rivaille said again.

Historia, having abandoned the bags carrying their lunch to the floor, pushed the door open more properly. “I could—take him, if you would like?”

Mikasa’s eyes snapped to Historia with such mechanic efficiency that Eren’s blink missed it. Her iron stare added one more statue to the scene as Rivaille continued to prowl about his enclosure. For an eternity, she and Armin were both staring at Historia. Slowly, that stare turned, very directly, back to Eren. Eren felt halfway to blitzed. Being all the way there might have been the only thing that could help to decipher the new looks they were giving them.

“Thank you,” Mikasa said at last. Talking like a Mikasa who hadn’t lived through the last year. She handed Rivaille’s carrier off to Historia. “He’s very well behaved. It should be safe to let him out. As long as you watch him around—Benjamin?”

Eren nodded. His head felt like it was on a string.

She nodded back, and addressed Historia. “I don’t know how he is around fish. He also shouldn’t be jumping, but I can… I will take care of supervising him.”

Historia held the carrier gingerly, and miraculously, Rivaille wasn’t screaming at the loss of his stable pedestal that was Mikasa’s arms of steel. “He hurt his paw?”

Armin interrupted before the storm cloud on Mikasa’s face could start thundering. “The neighbor’s dog did,” he said.

“Right.”

“Rivaille prefers his space.”

“Okay.”

Mikasa and Armin still hadn’t stepped inside. Their food was going to get cold if they left it on the floor. Rivaille was only a moment’s distraction as long as he was in his carrier. Eren felt like he was in the center ring of that circus Armin’s parents had taken them to when they were small enough to need to climb up on their shoulders to see anything.

He didn’t have a script or any pies to throw in his face. Just him and whatever that meant.

He was reminded, and he didn’t want to be, of another family meal. Back when his father had been alive, and there was a family. Mikasa, Armin, and Eren, all sitting around the table with his parents, candles lit, fancy tablecloth set out.

Someone had knocked on the door.

Zeke. Uninvited, unaware that anything was going on, and wondering if Eren would like to go see a movie.

Eren found himself echoing their father.

“Do you—want to come in, maybe?”

He hoped he sounded more like he wanted his guests to say yes.

Mikasa and Armin both relaxed their shoulders so much, for a moment, it looked like they were melting. Armin’s instant smile was so heartfelt and earnest that Eren wanted to scream, and he didn’t know how he was going to exist with Mikasa one step closer when all he could think was how many apologies he owed and how many they’d never let him finish because his friends were too damn kind and too damn perfect and he had missed them so much.

They hadn’t been here five minutes and he already felt like crying. He was fucking this up right out of the gate.

But everyone else knew that, too, so they were going to keep talking around him. Door collapsing shut, closing off the one path of retreat, Mikasa briefly stopped dissecting him with her eyes and turned her focus squarely on Historia. “You are Eren’s new roommate.”

Not really new, anymore. Just not Armin. Eren reached to the floor and picked up the food bags. At the same moment Armin stepped forward to reach for one. Their hands bumped and snapped apart.

“Yes,” Historia said. “Hi. I’m Historia Reiss.”

There was a pregnant pause of evaluation and judgment before Historia seemed to think to stick out her hand. It shot out from its place on Rivaille’s carrier like one of Zeke’s pitches.

Mikasa took it. “How is it you two know each other?”

Fussing with the food was suddenly a really convenient way to not be looking at any of them, but Armin had never been great about hiding his sharp draws of breath when he thought one of them was throwing a first punch. “Mikasa, that might not be the—”

“NA,” Historia blurted. “I’m a heroin addict.”

Eren didn’t know why he looked at Armin, but Armin was already looking back, dismayed panic as clear in his face as all his emotions always were. No one really wanted the door to drug-addled pasts thrown open. Not today, not now, not ever until they were all sure they were sticking around and not running off again to live with strangers.

“…You have a lovely apartment,” Mikasa said.

Historia was nodding in his peripheral. “Inheritance. From murdering my father. Self-defense,” she clarified in a hurry. “Maybe. I’m not—I am a murderer, but it was only that one time. I’m not going to do it again.”

Frieda should not have left the apartment.

Eren froze in the middle of setting the boxes out on plates. Armin, gathering the bags and folding them into a neat pile, mimicked him, and they both silently waited for the next thundering shoe to drop.

“I moved in because we had that in common,” would have been an honest response, and saved them all some of the silence, and it was at the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t want to start that. He didn’t want the shock or the tears, or the long argument that would all be kicked off with, “You didn’t kill Dr. Yeager.”

Maybe. Like Historia had maybe killed her dad in self-defense. Eren had still felt his heart stop. Eren’s hands had helped that along, and no one ever wanted to hear it.

Mikasa saved the moment. Calmly, like a modern day superhero whose qualities were eternally called out to balance Eren’s failures. “I have a cousin who went through something similar,” she said. Smiling. With her eyes, but that was where her best smiles were. “He’s less reluctant about repeat offenses.”

Armin coughed a chuckle, catching Eren’s eye. Another knot in his chest loosened.

“We should eat before it gets cold,” he said.

“We should,” Armin agreed, handing Eren one of the napkins set out.

Eren took it quickly and gratefully, swiping away his tears before anyone else could see.

----

“He’s gorgeous, Eren,” Armin said softly, peering so closely at the aquarium that with his old haircut, he would have already been drenched. Benjamin wasn’t swimming as close as he did with Historia, and not used to people saying hello from up above unless they had food, but he wasn’t hiding away in one of his caves, either. “Have you thought about adding to the tank at all?”

“Some. There are a few eels that might be a good fit, but he should have some more time to settle and grow before we give that a try. The tank could also use a sturdier hood first.”

“I’ve read they can be escape artists.”

“Yeah. I told Historia nothing that can get out and crawl around, but—” he wasn’t going to relapse, and Armin didn’t need to hear about how recently he’d doubted that—“it’s a big tank. Benjamin could use some company.”

“A predator tank suits you,” Armin said. He floated his fingers above the water, clearly tempted to give petting Benjamin a shot.

Eren shrugged, leaning his hip on Benjamin’s table. “If you say so. I can’t handle the live feeding. Too squeamish. I’ve got tank duty on the chore wheel while Historia does the heavy lifting.”

Armin was quiet. A thinking sort of quiet where he was about to say something that made more boring people want to hit him. He glanced at the kitchen counter. Mikasa was sitting on a stool. Historia, with Rivaille’s prompting, had been encouraged to sit on top of the counter.

The cat hadn’t left her lap.

He’d hissed when Eren had tried to say hello.

With Historia, he nuzzled her cheek and purred like a chainsaw. Only less literally than what Eren had seen from those claws. Even Mikasa was taken aback by how gently Rivaille was behaving.

They were getting along. They’d all survived lunch past Eren asking who had won Levi’s MMA tournament this year (Annie, and Armin had immediately switched the topic to movies while Mikasa stabbed the floor with her eyes), Eren had a few lines on his hands from where he’d grabbed his knife and fork too hard, but none of him or the silverware was broken.

“Moving out helped after all, didn’t it?”

Eren’s hands gripped the edge of the table. “Armin…”

“I’m happy,” Armin interrupted. “I’m really glad, Eren.”

“Don’t.”

The low hum of conversation from the kitchen stopped. Rivaille’s warning meow was quickly stifled by Mikasa getting up from her stool. Historia grabbed her arm before she could take a full step. It was a surprise to everyone that Mikasa let that be enough, but Eren couldn’t think about that right now.

He wanted Armin to be hurt. Betrayed. Upset.

Not relieved that the person who caused all of that was better. Not putting some piece of disloyal garbage over—

“Don’t act like it’s all okay now,” Eren growled. Speaking to the floor because the floor did the right thing when he fell on it and gave him a damn bruise. “I—” he wasn’t supposed to do this Petra had told him to take it easy it didn’t need to come out all at once to be progress—“You can’t just be happy I’m not breaking everything I touch anymore and act like that’s the end of it.”

Armin was the weak one, in kindergarten. That’s what everyone thought. Lied to about themselves so they didn’t have to think about why this one kid made them all want to beat him silly instead of listening to him.

He was the bravest person Eren had ever met. “Well, why not?”

“Why—what?”

Armin pulled away from Benjamin’s tank. He patted his hands with the towel Historia had started leaving out. “If you think you messed up that badly,” he said with a forced, careful steadiness, “why do you think it’s up to you to say how we feel about it? Isn’t it more important for us to get a say?”

Eren had fallen back into looking at him. Armin looked back earnestly, months upon months of frown lines meeting his words and promising that this wasn’t someone who said things he didn’t mean. Someone who didn’t think for hours on end before he worked up the nerve to blow everyone’s mind with his confidence.

He’d had months of Eren not being ready to be his audience.

“Eren I don’t think—” Armin shook his head, his shorter hair not flurrying the way it used to when he did that. “I don’t think anyone here would say things went well. It was awful.” Understatement. “As happy I am that you’re doing better, I think I’m even happier none of us are back in that place.” Nothing gave Armin the right to say things Eren agreed with even when he was so angry he could barely see straight. “But if you’re going to be angry over us wanting you back—you should understand, shouldn’t you? How painful it is that you don’t blame us for missing everything you went through?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Eren said. “Those are still my mistakes, Armin. You can’t take on the blame for that.”

Armin kept shaking his head. “You’re my—you’re our best friend, Eren. That should mean you never have to go through anything alone, but you did,” he said softly. “We were right there. We saw you every day. And we missed… everything.”

He smiled his crooked, unhinged smile that their middle school D&D club had voted to ban. “You’re so busy being angry at us for being happy we didn’t ruin you that you’re letting us get away with being really selfish. Of course we want things to be fixed. We’re the ones who let them break.”

Eren could feel more tears waiting and burning under the pressure of his own heartbeat building up behind his skull. He’d heard that kind of blame in his head, once. Right before he screamed it at Mikasa. Hateful and full of everything he never wanted to be while he threw up his organs.

They were crap. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.

“We wanted to do more right,” Armin said. “Didn’t you?”

“You can’t argue with the smartest person you know.”

Hell. Oh hell.

Historia had said just seeing that girl of hers would be enough. Even after she broke her heart. She still thought about her all the time. They couldn’t have known each other that long if they met in juvie. Not anywhere near as long as Eren had known Armin and Mikasa. They had years of friendship backing up one really, really inexcusably awful year.

They wanted him back.

He’d known that. That was why he was so pissed. They deserved so much better.

Armin was standing right in front of him, earnest, brilliant eyes telling him that all over again. Staring at his idiot friend who’d ruined their lives and hoping, more than anything, the idiot would take him back.

He had known that’s how they felt, right?

This whole time?

Eren didn’t want to start sobbing in front of Mikasa. Not again. He thought that every single time it happened. It was maybe the one thing about him that none of this had changed.

Armin, his first friend, the guy who’d taught him all about why dinosaurs were the best and how to stick to a study plan, took pity on him, and moved in to grab him before the crying could really start, catching his shoulders and head in his hands and not feeling, or not caring, that this was closer than they’d dared to be for over a year.

And Eren hated crying, hated that he spent so much of his life now doing it, but Armin’s tears rolling down his neck felt too much like home to hate anything properly. He grabbed Armin right back and held him as tightly as he’d never let himself after the funeral.

He had missed him too. So much.

----

Lunch had technically been over for hours by the time Mikasa and Armin left.

None of them wanted it to be. That was why Armin had finally said they should get going.

“It won’t change just because we head out the door,” he said. “We’re doing better than that, now.”

None of them wanted to talk about how that was still a hope, not a fact, either. Eren felt more clingy than he ever had in his life. For maybe the first time, he fully understood why Mikasa had to be talked down from looking after him all the time. Some hurts didn’t ever let you think things could go back to being okay.

Armin was still the smart one.

Historia was helping to coax Rivaille back in his cage. Eren didn’t make the repeated mistake of trying to be friendly with the cat. His hand still hurt from earlier. Armin was standing out in the hall. Ready to go.

Mikasa was lingering in the threshold. Halfway between helping Historia with her cat and not leaving Eren.

Eren had only had half the talk that needed to happen so far today. Drilling Armin on his studies and Mikasa on her judo students and Historia on anything that wasn’t her family or drug habit had soaked up the time. Maybe too much. Armin and Mikasa’s questions about school had sounded very sincere and gentle, but Eren wouldn’t be surprised if Armin already had another PowerPoint project playing out in his head about what they now knew about Eren’s new friend.

Armin caught his eye as Historia finally, without a mark on her, convinced the devil cat that he wanted to be back in a box.

Eren couldn’t help one last scowl at the golden eyes leering at him. Rivaille returned the expression with interest. “He’s never done that for me.”

“You’re too rough with him,” Mikasa said.

“You used to pick me up like that all the time.”

“You are not a cat, Eren.”

Armin laughed and even the appearance of a grudge had to fall away. Mikasa smiled softly at him. Eren doubted his expression looked much different. “We should take him back downstairs while he’s still settled. Historia, would you like to carry him?”

Eren did his best to roll his eyes at Armin. The attempt wasn’t great. Ymir or Annie would have laughed themselves silly at him. …Ymir would have. Annie probably would have kicked him and told him to work on it.

Historia followed the leading question and flicked her eyes between Eren and Mikasa, catching on way too fast. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll… follow you down, then.”

To her credit, she raised her eyebrows questioningly at Eren before she actually followed Armin. Eren shrugged a shoulder, which she took to be good enough reason to abandon him to be an adult on his own. Petra would probably hug both of them if she ever got the full story out about today.

He and Mikasa watched their friends trot off.

The renewed silence wasn’t that awkward, but Eren was starting to feel it. Armin was the talker of the three of them. He took all of the twists and turns of Eren’s temper and made sense of it.

Mikasa didn’t talk as much.

They’d had a long time of not talking. Even the old kind didn’t feel right. He wanted to say something. Anything. As long as it included an apology.

“She’s very pretty.”

Eren’s readied words stopped short. “Huh?”

Mikasa had her scarf pulled up over her mouth. It didn’t quite cover the red in her cheeks. She wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was still on the now empty hallway.

Comprehension, hitting Eren over the head like a loud, embarrassed gong, rang out in his mind. The expected start would have been bad enough.This was different. This was Mikasa confiding in him, and he’d had too many talks about his and other people’s feelings to miss a cue like that. It wasn’t a year ago where he could be confused and move on with his life while Armin came back home five hours later and told him that his people skills needed work.

They did still need work. But Mikasa was his friend, and deserved the effort.

“I could get you her number,” he said hesitantly, “but she’s pretty hung up on this girl she knows.”

Mikasa’s face went so red that he knew for a fact that they both wanted anything else to be happening.

“I—see.”

He had to try. For Mikasa, he could do that much. “You two got along really well.” Or Historia got on well with her cat, which was like the same thing. No wonder Mikasa was asking. “I don’t know—she’s not… she’s really not available, but you could probably be good friends. Or hang out at Zeke’s games; he conned her into subbing for a few, and she could use someone besides me to practice with.”

He couldn’t tell if he was helping. He and Mikasa didn’t do this, and the unfamiliarity alone would probably be enough to make her face that color, because she knew as much as he did that this was not how they were them.

“Zeke stopped asking for my help,” Mikasa said, picking the closest side of normal to engage with.

Normal wasn’t safe. Pins and needles ran all up Eren’s spine before he went for it and took the damn plunge. “He was trying to be considerate, I guess. His version,” Eren added, more than aware what Mikasa thought about Zeke’s considerations. They were about what he thought, after all. “I… I’ll tell him he doesn’t need to do that anymore. It’s… better with you around.”

“…Thank you.”

The oppressive quiet came back. Eren’s fingernails were fighting to dig into his palms. The door was propped open by his back. He could imagine hearing Benjamin’s water filter if he just gave himself a second.

He didn’t want to put something this important off for any more seconds.

“Mikasa,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

Mikasa didn’t move. “I know.”

“The things I said…”

“Eren.”

“No one should ever talk to you that way,” Eren said. “I shouldn’t have—” He stopped short. His problems could stay with a different step. One that mattered less than his friends. Only one piece of it all really belonged here, and he said it again.

“I’m sorry.”

Mikasa had one hand buried in her scarf. Her blush had faded, as well as the gentle smile Armin had won out of her. There were tired lines in her forehead that only Eren could claim complete responsibility for.

“You wanted Armin to be angry at you,” she said.

Then cried all over him for sparing him that. “Yeah.”

Mikasa adjusted her scarf, pulling it tighter, but lowering it from keeping her mouth hidden. “It hurt,” she said. “You never say things you don’t mean, even if you only mean them for a moment.”

His mom had yelled at him for that. Many, many times.

He’d yelled back that moments were important.

That was another thing he and Mikasa agreed on.

“None of it was your fault,” Eren said.

“But you were right. We didn’t see it.”

“You were trying to give me space.”

“We didn’t.”

Mikasa had moved in for several weeks under the guise of helping Eren since his leg was broken.

“Your version of space.”

Another life would have seen that as a very strong complaint. Silent hovering was annoying and if Eren had been on a lower dose of painkillers or been less insane, it would have driven him nuts. But it stayed at silence. It stayed at a quiet hand helping him through the day and never asking how he was feeling because how he was feeling was so obvious.

“That still should have put us close enough to notice,” Mikasa said.

How she was feeling during all of that was pretty obvious, too. Even through the drugs. Eren just hadn’t been able to care. “My dad died,” Eren said, like it really was the accident Mikasa had never had any trouble seeing it for. “You knew something was wrong. You didn’t know I was making it worse.”

Mikasa wasn’t looking at him.

That should have made it easier than facing Armin, but he’d had too many years of getting annoyed over Mikasa always looking at him to finish the comparison just inside his head.

“It hurt,” she repeated, softly. “But what hurt most was thinking you might stay that way, and there was nothing I could do to help. Armin was right. We wanted to do more.” She frowned, a touch of irritation through the melancholy. “Zeke did more for you than we ever could.”

“Zeke didn’t stick around long enough for me to shout at him to leave,” Eren couldn’t help pointing out.

It almost got her to smile. The shadow of it faded too fast.

She did look up, and extensive cardio training as a way of life kept him breathing.

“No matter what happened, what matters to me now is that you’re okay. As long as that’s true, the rest is easy to forgive.” She closed her eyes and pulled her scarf tight. When she opened them again, they were the same eyes he’d seen when he woke up in the hospital.

“Are you okay, Eren?” she asked.

“Are you really?”

He’d gotten sick of that question long before he’d been anything close to the angry yes he kept snapping at his family. His mom had kept asking. Petra had always known better than to ask, but only because she’d been there. She had almost bit her lip through when he and Historia showed up with his black eye.

Who wanted okay, anyway? What kind of life was an okay one? Why would that be worth anything? He’d always been just okay. Armin was brilliant, Mikasa was perfect, and Eren was okay enough to lag behind them.

Until Eren wasn’t.

Until he couldn’t remember what okay or being a person even felt like, and someone had decided that the worst thing about him made him the best choice for a roommate. For a friend.

Armin had hugged him today.

Eren looked Mikasa straight in the eye, the weight of all their baggage nothing next to her being a few steps away and still caring. “I’m getting there,” he said.

She did smile, then. One of her real ones, with too much warmth to be anything but embarrassing when they were young. The step between them almost vanished, all of her starting to move forward before she remembered how many times Eren had actually called her embarrassing.

Armin had moved first with him. Fair was fair.

Eren took the step and wrapped Mikasa in the best hug he knew how. His chin bumped her forehead and their shoes snagged together, but he tried to hug her like he was never going to let her go again, and she hugged him back so tightly that his ribs creaked.

“I’m glad,” she whispered into his shoulder. “That you aren’t alone.”

He was not going to cry again. He squeezed her tightly. “Me too.”

----

Hours later, Eren was on the couch. Breathing into a cushion. Not on purpose, that was just where his face had landed after everything wound down.

“Thanks,” Historia said at some point.

“What for?”

“Letting me meet your family.”

Eren flopped his cheek against the side of the pillow. Historia had done her collapse under Benjamin’s tank. She looked as exhausted as he felt, drooped against the table. Benjamin blubbed away over her head.

Frieda had offered to drop some of her dinner off on them. She said she made too much for just her, and she had no room in her fridge. They’d have to help with the leftovers. One last visitor for the day.

“Yeah,” he said. “No problem.”

[next]

[goldenponcho]

A Cruise Fit for a King Chapter 5

Hugo tries to find help while his own funeral is being held across the sea.

Previous | Chapter 1 | Next

Kipo’s shoulders shuddered as she ascended the steps, regal skirt lifted to her ankles, to take her place at the pedestal on which sat Scarlemagne’s grand piano. She cleared her throat shakily as she approached the microphone there.

“Thank you all for being here with my family today,” a soft huff of laughter escaped her at the sight of what must have been nearly every, if NOT, every mute and human in Las Vistas congregated along the polished floors of Scarlemagne’s palace, “Most of you, I know, have terrible memories of the place we stand now. If you hadn’t wanted to be here, none of us would have blamed you in the slightest…and neither would Scarlemagne…”

Kipo’s throat constricted, and she swallowed hard as her eyes moistened, “But you did. You all had it in your hearts to return to awful memories for the sake of forgiveness and compassion that the Oak family couldn’t hope to repay you for in a million years. And I wish so much-” she choked through an involuntary sob, “-that we could express to you how much we appreciate what you’ve done for us…for ALL of us.” She looked to the front row, where her friends and family stood. Mom and dad…Wolf, Mandu, Dave, Benson, Troy…Doag, Dahlia, and Asher.

“Scarlemagne…” her voice cracked, and she bowed her head, several seconds passing in silence before she let the tears flow freely, “HUGO…my FRIEND…my BROTHER…was one of the BRAVEST people I will ever know. I can only imagine the dark places he’s been. The things he had himself convinced he had to do to survive…

“But I was lucky enough to learn who my big brother really is! And that selfless act on that night?! That’s who he truly was inside!” She inhaled sharply and paused to ride out her emotions, “And it saved me…it saved US…”

She watched through bleary eyes as every person also had tears in their eyes, human and mute, and Kipo smiled through her own, “I won’t give up on him. I don’t think he’s gone! But…if he truly is…I want him to be remembered just the way he really was. And that’s why the Newton Wolves have been kind enough to offer a place in front of their observatory for a statue in his honor!” She motioned to Billions, who gave a humbled nod, wiping a tear from his muzzle and stroking the fur of his cured brother next to him.

“Thank you…SO much!” Kipo grimaced, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes, “I know we’re all hurting, but I want this to be a time of celebration of Hugo’s life. I know it’s what he would have wanted,” she looked to her friends again with a sad smile.

“Thank you.”

~*~*~*~

Hugo had been combing the sands through the evening and well into the next morning and hadn’t found anything even as good as the tiny handful of shell he had started with. As the sun rose, he had come to the infuriating conclusion that he was going to have to work for the currency he needed.

So as soon as mutes were up and about, he started asking around. One horseshoe crab heard him out for a short time before quickly explaining that he didn’t need any more help running the arcade he owned on the pier. Another elephant seal couple turned him down at the snow-cone stand. The angler fish at the fishing dock, which puzzled Hugo in particular, was especially snappy and rude, telling him to go inland if he wanted any help at all as a land mammal.

But after rejection after rejection after rejection, it was becoming clear that going inland was his only option, so that’s what he did. He felt the old thrill he had used to in his less virtuous days when he snagged some hotdogs and cans of Explosion Berry soda from the food stand run by three sea cucumbers who had previously sprayed him with sweet relish when he had asked if he could play the old calliope on top of their wagon in exchange for shells.

Hugo wrapped his provisions in his blanket and tied it to the end of a bamboo shoot, adding a couple of red hibiscus blossoms he had found to the knot. As soon as he was set, he was off to a more centralized part of the island.

He thanked his lucky star blanket that his ancestors had been nomads, and thus he was suited to cover a lot of ground in very little time. And though it was still far from a vacation, it was better than being stranded on a car-boat at sea.

His suspicions were confirmed by plenty of old world signage that this was the main island of what was once the archipelago state of Hawaii. He had educated himself well on old world geography and had some idea of what life had been like here, but he could clearly see that just like Las Vistas, there were significant changes. Many palms which would have previously been as tall as fifty feet grew to three and four times the height, and most branched off into more than one trunk. While there were flora of old world sizes, plenty were large enough to fit even two of him in for a comfortable sit.

But as he encountered mutes along the way, he was met with much the same welcome as the ones on the beach. They quickly made it clear that his help was both unneeded and unwanted, and that he should look for help from mutes closer to his own species. This place was more segregated than what Las Vistas used to be. Some of the mega fauna were even worse than Las Vistas’s fair as well. His encounter with a mega centipede, which had a head with snapping jaws on both ends and a row of sharp, two rows of spindly legs along its sides, one row facing down along the bottom and the other inverted on the top, would be relived in his nightmares to come, he was certain.

At what was probably mile eight or nine of the hike, Hugo’s sleeplessness was really starting to catch up with him, and while the hotdogs helped hunger-wise, Explosion Berry was beginning to become less and less efficient at quenching his thirst. This was when he began seriously seeking water and shelter.

He pressed on for about two more miles, searching high and low for any kind of resources. He managed to find a couple of pineapples growing in the shade of some underbrush, which he took for later use. Soon after that, he caught a strange scent in the air that greatly reminded him of human industry. Or perhaps another mute. He had recalled the Scooter Skunks having produced a similar aroma when motoring by. Either way, it could mean shelter.

Hugo didn’t have to walk far before he caught a bright blue spot through the trees. He sighed in relief, “Water! Finally!”

Forgetting his fatigue, he ran on all fours to the beautifully gleaming lake, only stopping at the top of the slightly elevated hill it sat atop of.

He laughed with shrill delight at the vision of the brightest aquamarine he had ever witnessed in his life, “HELLO, GORGEOUS!” He continued without a thought in the world other than quenching his now raging thirst. Completely forgotten was what now should have been an unbearable smell of rotting eggs as he neared the electric shoreline, which was completely devoid of one bit of the dense plant life he had previously been trudging through.

And by the time he had even noticed his own labored breathing and feeling of lightheadedness, he felt a strong grip on his arm that spun him around just as he blacked out and collapsed. Through the haze, he registered something being forced over his mouth and nose, and when his eyes opened one final time before unconsciousness overtook him, peaking through the hood of a large cloak he caught sight of a red and blue muzzle.

[terramythos]

TerraMythos' 2020 Reading Challenge - Book 30 of 26

Title: The Cloud Roads (2011) (The Books of the Raksura #1)

Author: Martha Wells

Genre/Tags: Fantasy, Science Fiction (ish), Adventure, LGBT Protagonist, Third-Person

Rating: 8/10

Date Began: 10/20/2020

Date Finished: 10/28/2020

Moon has spent most of his life as an outsider, wandering from place to place. An orphan with little clue to his origins or past, he has the ability to transform into a large, winged creature. Due to an unfortunate visual similarity to the Fell, a destructive race of marauding shapeshifters, he has to keep his identity hidden. When his current home discovers his secret, the residents assume the worst, poison him, and leave him to die.

By luck, Moon is rescued by a huge shapeshifter named Stone. According to Stone, they're both members of a species known as the Raksura, and a nearby group is in the midst of a dire crisis. Desperate to know more about his past, Moon agrees to help. He follows Stone to Indigo Cloud, a dwindling court of Raksura under threat from the Fell. While the Raksura initially distrust Moon, and Moon has difficulty adjusting to their way of life, they soon discover they need each other to survive. Moon must come to terms with his place among his newfound people and help them overcome an insidious and overwhelming enemy.  

He spoke the thought that had become increasingly obvious all day long, with every interaction he had had. “I don’t belong here.” Maybe if he had been younger, there would have been a chance, but not now. 

Stone made a derisive noise. “You’re afraid you don’t belong here. There’s a difference.” 

Moon seethed inwardly but held his temper, knowing it would give Stone a victory if he lost it. “I’ve been walking into new places all my life. I know when I don’t belong.” 

Stone sounded wry. “You’ve been here half a day, and for most of that you were asleep.” 

Moon said sourly, “I like to make quick decisions.” 

Minor spoilers and content warning(s) under the cut.

Content warnings for the book: Lots of graphic violence, action, and death. Non-graphic sexual content. Mind control/manipulation is a whole thing. R*pe is plot relevant and mentioned several times, but not depicted.  

I read Martha Wells’ The Murderbot Diaries series earlier this year and enjoyed the hell out of it (reviews here and here). Featuring fantastic writing and the most well-written perspective character I’ve ever read, I cannot recommend that series enough. So I was interested in reading other stuff by Wells, and ultimately settled on this series. Murderbot is a tough act to follow, and The Cloud Roads is MUCH different in tone/genre, but I still thoroughly enjoyed this book and look forward to more. 

To me, the worldbuilding is the strongest aspect of The Cloud Roads. The Three Worlds is an interesting and creative setting. Humans are completely absent-- instead, there are dozens of different sapient humanoid races. While there are some cultural analogues to our world, everything feels distinctly alien and science fiction-y. I find it interesting that there don't seem to be countries or empires as such, though I get the sense it’s intentional. The Raksura, a main focus of the novel, are based on insect colonies like bees or ants, but with social complexity more like a wolf pack. 

Moon is a good choice of protagonist for this novel due to his general ignorance of the world around him, so we get a firsthand view of someone learning about it. Furthermore, I think Wells does a great job in heavy worldbuilding without it feeling overbearing. When information is doled out, it's always because it's relevant to the situation at hand, so the learning progression feels very natural. By the end I got the sense of a vast and complex world that we'd barely scratched the surface of-- which is a good thing.  

The Raksuran culture is fascinating. Personally I find insect colonies super interesting so I love to see a fantasy race borrow some elements of that. Without going into a whole essay, the matriarchal Raksura have a biological caste system and a ruling queen responsible for a lot of the reproduction. They're separated into two main groups-- winged and not. Within those two categories are various social roles one performs for the colony. All Raksura are able to shapeshift between a smaller almost-human form and a larger, more animalistic one. Despite the insectoid inspiration, the Raksura seem to be a hybrid of mammals and reptiles. They’re... sort of dragons? Gargoyles? Dinosaurs? There’s no perfect analogy. One thing I particularly admire about the writing is how Wells manages to make the Raksura human enough to be relatable, but with pronounced animal-like behavior to make the distinction obvious. Maybe I’m a bit of a furry, too. Sue me. 

I also enjoyed reading a story where the main characters can fly. I haven't read many books like that; I just think it's neat! It adds an extra element to travel sequences, or even how the characters view and observe the world around them. Journeys in fantasy can be boring to read, but this element keeps it interesting. 

The Cloud Roads’ plot isn’t mindblowing, but I think it serves the purpose of the novel well. It’s a pretty standard stock story-- orphan/loner must set out to reclaim his heritage and a new place in society. I think this plot works here because the worldbuilding is so complex, it would be difficult to also balance a complicated story. What keeps it interesting is that Moon struggles to adapt to Raksuran society; it’s his whole character arc. He is inherently mistrustful of the others and in many cases the feeling is mutual. The Raksura initially see Moon as a means to an end; something he is acutely aware of, and Moon keeps himself deliberately detached. The emotional thrust of the story lies in certain characters genuinely wanting him to stay on his own merits, and Moon realizing he actually wants to as well. 

One thing I hope to see more of in future installments is good ol’ character development. Moon is well-realized in this novel; he’s emotionally repressed, but starts to get over it and find a place to belong over the course of the story. We also gradually learn about his past, which adds more depth and context to his behavior. But I want more from the supporting cast. Jade, Chime, Pearl, and Stone get some development but I found myself wanting to know more about them outside of the main plot and their direct relationship to Moon. All the books are written and published by now so I guess I'll see for myself. One pattern I do like with the side characters is how several are set up to be obvious antagonists, but turn out to not be so bad, or are otherwise open to changing their ways. I like how Moon’s limited perspective influences perceptions of certain characters. Also: loving Moon's Peak Bisexual Energy. I tagged him as an LGBT Protagonist since he's clearly bisexual, though it isn't a big focus in the story. Casual rep is still nice to see. 

My main challenge is the Fell, which are basically an Always Chaotic Evil race of shapeshifters similar to the Raksura, and serve as the novel’s antagonists. I personally don’t find them that compelling. They sort of remind me of Reapers from the Mass Effect series, but thus far lacking the grand ulterior motive. They just come off as pure evil without much nuance. I also have to wonder how the species has survived this far if their main method of survival is targeting entire cities and eating the inhabitants (and each other?). I’m not sure where that whole thing is going. Maybe insight in future novels will help me on this. 

I’ll be honest, while I personally enjoyed The Cloud Roads, it is pretty unusual and I don’t think it’s for everyone. If anything, I recommend reading The Murderbot Diaries before this series, but both are well-written and creative. I’m planning to read book 2, The Serpent Sea, after this one, so look forward to that!