#reoccurring injury

[tblsomedoodles]

Why are you here? Comic

They're dumbasses, your honor. Like, at this moment, neither of them actually believe they're sibling. (Mikey and Leo are dead set on it but these two are skeptical.) Yet they spend two minutes alone and devolve into sibling bickering. something i had not planned on when i went to make this comic. They did this on their own lol!

Bonus Traximus Reaction to finding his ward bickering like a child with one of the newbies

Honestly, it's actually a pretty important moment for both Rafa and Traximus. Rafa because that's that's the moment they realize Donny has like no self preservation instinct, so if he won't protect himself, Rafa will, while he's around to do it at least. It's important for Traximus b/c for the first time in years, he's seeing his ward acting like a child and he pretty much decides right then and there that 1) They're definitely siblings, and 2) if these 3 strangers actually manage to escape this place, he is making Rafa go with them.

Anyways, here's my little experiment with limited color pallets. I'm not sure i'll do this again b/c it was kinda annoying to figure out the colors first (especially since i knew i wanted both variations of red and purple but couldn't find a good pallet for that. Thus i ended up with this one.)

ps. Donny's shoulder is a reoccurring problem at this point b/c he won't let it rest long enough to heal properly. The injury first happened during "shredder strikes back" events and since Donny decided to start his training pretty much immediately upon getting to the farm house, it hasn't had the rest it needs to properly recover. theoretically, it should be healed by now, but he keeps pushing himself and re-injuring it, a fact he's been hiding as much as he possibly can.

[lemonyinks]

Acrophobia and The Nightmare

A Lyle oneshot

1252 words

Lyle wasn’t sure which came first: the phobia or the dream. They were both something that had always been there, lingering ever present in the back of his mind for as long as he could remember having conscious thoughts. 

In the dream - more accurately, the nightmare - he would be free falling. 

Hands of an indistinguishable size, shape, and colour reach out to him as an unfamiliar voice, different every time, screams his name. He tries to reach back, but his limbs are weighed down by the same rushing air that robs him of his words and breath.

It whistles through his ears like the howling of a monster or the scream of a siren. Its loud shrieking is like a warning, like death herself was calling out to him as he fell into her embrace.  He is left helpless, eyes wide with terror, as he rapidly approaches the ground below.

He never knows how close or far he is to the ground, the distance changes every time he has the dream, but the anticipation of the impact is the worst part. The fear grows, the desperation rages. He pleads and pleads for the hands to reach him, to stop his demise, but he always knows he is going to hit the ground no matter what. 

That is always the outcome.

He gains speed as he gets closer and closer to the end of the fall. His heart, high up in his throat, beats as fast as a hummingbird's wings. 

He tries to close his eyes everytime, but everytime he is unable to. Instead, he is forced to watch. Forced to watch his paralyzed limbs struggling to move. Forced to watch the colours blur and shift. Forced to watch the hands reaching out to him growing smaller and further away until finally his body meets the ground.

The loud crunch of his body colliding with the ground (he never knows if it's grass or concrete or metal or something else underneath him) is something horribly unnatural that haunts him even in his waking hours. The pain is unbearable and all consuming like a thousand flames eating away at his being. 

He is still unable to move his head from where he stares up at the mockingly blue sky, vision swimming nauseatingly, but out of his fading peripheral vision he can see his twisted limbs. There is blood pooling rapidly around him, the thick crimson coating everything in the vicinity until he lays in a sea of it.

He lays in agony as his vision fades in and out.  Blood soon begins to choke him, his chest spasming as it bubbles up his throat and spills out of his mouth in quantities greater than a body should be able to produce. He’s drowning, his broken and mangled body struggling to keep itself alive on instinct even though he begs it to stop.

There's no more hands, no more voice calling out to him, no spectre trying in vain to save him any longer. He is alone and he is cold. He tries to move, to close his eyes. He can’t. Eventually his vision fully fades, the pain subsides, and he dies. Alone and scared.

When he was younger he would wake up every night screaming and crying, almost always tangled up in his blankets or having fallen off of his bed and onto the cold ground, which never failed to make him panic that much harder.

In the beginning, His parents would come into his room to comfort him, but as the years went on they grew too busy to be home much and he would wake up to an empty house. Those nights were the worst, and he barely slept a wink during period of his life. 

Things got a little bit better once he started staying with the Foccarts while his parents were away. He loved sharing a room with Jacques, it was nice to have another person in the room with him at all times. He always did feel horrible whenever he inevitably woke Jacques with his screaming, though. Not that the other boy would complain, he would just sleepily pat his back and tell him it was alright until the two of them fell back to sleep, but the guilt was still there regardless.

Eventually he grew accustomed to the fear and the pain of the nightmare, and while he would still wake up full of terror, he would do it much quieter. When he was asked about it, he would claim that he no longer had the dream, that it had faded away with his age. It was a burden that he didn’t want to force onto others, a weakness he didn’t like sharing. 

The phobia, however, was much harder to hide.

He could barely go up a flight of stairs or look over the second story railing without his knees going weak and shaky, his heart climbing high up into his throat as his lungs spasmed in an attempt to take in oxygen. Tears would well up in his eyes entirely against his will and he would squeeze them shut as tight as they would go while he tried to tame the twisting nausea in his stomach.

There were more than a few times when he was young where he either threw up because the fear was so great, or he had to be carried the rest of the way.

It was embarrassing. 

He felt a sinking sense of shame every time he stood near an edge, glanced out of a ship window, or climbed a particularly tall flight of stairs with a banister he could look over and he felt that fear grip his very being all over again.

He tried, oh how he tried so very hard to get over this fear, but the thing about phobias is that they are hardly logical things. No matter how much hard reasoning or exposure therapy he subjected himself to, it did little to help.

When Querl’s abandoned alloy floated past him that fateful day during the Legion’s infancy, he had felt a surge of hope. He poured hours into his experimentation and creation of the legion flight rings. He was giddy with pride when they worked the first time he tested them and actually managed to hover a few feet in the air instead of crashing to the ground after jumping from his testing table.

Truthfully, the flight rings did help to reign in his fear just a little in the end. At the very least he had a semi-reliable guarantee that he would not be plummeting to his death anytime soon even if he should slip off of one of those horrible, unforgiving heights. 

The fear was still there, though, floating around in the back of his mind like an unkillable parasite. The dream never did go away either, and he was left lying awake each night he didn’t spend passed out in his lab dreading closing his eyes. 

So, he holds the banister a little tighter than the average person when he’s climbing high stairs. He stands as far from the edge as possible on raised platforms, uneasy eyes ensuring that he’s not too close and trying his best to mask the way his knees tremble. His eyes never stray towards the wind whipped windows of ships in motion.

He twists and turns the flight ring on his finger, praying to whatever higher power may be out there that it won’t fail him in his time of need.

He can only hope that the nightmare isn’t an omen.

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

ford accidentally knocks out a tooth and his responses range from ‘oh, whoops. it’s fine, i didn’t need it anyway’ to ‘i’ve got plenty more where that came from :]’

stan, as an individual who has lost all of his teeth, is equally disturbed by both flavors of reply

[bitchkay]

Me watching Haikyuu remembering how I wanted to play volleyball in highschool😔👊🏽💔

[prehistoric-megafauna]

Uh oh! This user hit their head and will now be afraid to go to sleep tonight!

[thedo0zyslider]

(Looked at the doc again and had thoughts)

I think, beside the loss of his wings and tail, the biggest injuries happened to his muscles and nerves.

Since his back was affected that's probably where all the nerve damage comes from, since the spinal cord is what sends messages from your nerves to your brain. This also made treating his wings a lot....tricker than it normally would've been. The healers (when they found some) and Gem would've wanted to avoid more damage to his nerves and spinal cord and would've needed to be very careful (AND they would've had to work around a bunch of burns and open/freshly healing wounds as well. I think he was literally bring kept alive by enchanted gapples and healing potions at one point)

I think some of his muscles problems are apart of the injures they didn't catch when assessing him. (The whole limb removal was the main part, and after that fwhip wasn't gonna stay down for much longer) They're just very weak all the time now, and that (combined with phantom and chronic pain) is why he falls over and drops things so much. Some days his muscles are too weak and it hurts too much to move

His hearing is probably fucked as well, now that I think about it.....

OH I JUST REMEMBERED- he already had slight back problems from eal chapter 13(?) (When the ravage basically implaed him on its horns and threw him several feet) So that made. All of what I said worse actually

I was thinking about this last night and...reunited fwhip probably has so many injuries he and gem just didn't catch because they didn't know what being exploded did to you/he had bigger problems to worry about......

And he wonders why he's so fucked up...

[pressureplus]

I actually have this request in my head for a while now... but I'm not sure if you be up to do it so thank to let me know if you will do it or not. Fem! Reader who is happily married and live together with Sebastian (when he still human). Until, Sebastian was arrested and sentence to dead. Reader found no long after his dead that she was pregnant. Years later, Sebastian manage to escape Hadal Blacksite probably very injured in the process. He was soon spotted by the kid that look similar to his human self (the kid probably be now close to be a teenager now), as the kid call up their mother. Sebastian was shocked to see his wife come to view.

I'm looking 👀

Love this dramatic shit, I'm SO here for it!

I'm going to be referring to your son as S/N, so y'all can name your boy yourselves! (I'm real interested in the stuff you might choose, so if you wanna put them in the replies, I'd love to see your baby names!)

Smaller Hands

Pairing: Sebastian Solace x Fem!Reader

Au: [Unnamed]

Warnings: Mentions of Pregnancy, an Absent Father, injury, and Imprisonment

◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟

He had been running a very long time before he got to where he was now.

Escaping the Blacksite was only the beginning of his long, long journey home. He had wrestled himself from the depths of the deep ocean and fought his way all the way up to the light far, far above him.

Breaking through the surface of the water had provided him with a hope he never thought he'd see truly grow into something he could really hold. Sunlight and open air and a horizon that stretched endlessly in every direction... Sebastian hadn't known freedom in over 10 years, but there it was.

The way the natural light caught the glint of his wedding ring had him already tearing through the water with a grin, energy back in his tired body. It certainly wasn't his original ring, no, that one wouldn't fit on his new, much larger hand anymore, but the replacement that he got so he could wear a ring on his hand and not just as a pendant was enough of a visual reminder of his love, sending him treading the water the way this body was made to do. He had to get to his wife.

He had to see his Y/N again. That's always what his efforts were for.

It was days before he even reached a beach, and weeks of dragging himself through the shadows and the alleyways, keeping himself out of sight. He would squint at road maps and try to figure out how he was going to get himself home, not very well able to get on the public transport or drive himself there with a body like this. He had to be more than a little creative with how he was going to cross the countless miles between his lover and himself if he wanted to make it there at all. He'd spend his seemingly endless days hopping trains and swimming rivers just to close the distance faster, like it may wash away the last decade he's had to go without her.

Sebastian could only hope she waited for him, though those chances were next to none. She had been there the day he was 'executed', watching him get taken back to the chair that was supposed to put his story to its end. She has every right and reason to think he died that day, and he could never be angry or upset if she decided she still needed to be held the way his other hands used to hold her... Would these hands even fit her anymore? They'd outgrown his first ring... Would they be too big to hold hers anymore? The painful thought was a reoccurring one, and it plagued every dream he had in the moments he would manage to rest.

He's nearing his old cottage now, beaten and scarred from the long trip home, more than a little bit tired and definitely hungry. He's barely going to make it if he manages to get to the doorstep at all, but more thankful than ever he'd made his home with her outside of the city and out into the woods so he might have a moment to his thoughts. He could very well find her with another man, or he could find a completely new family, or even find nothing but flowers and trees- The life that he made with her could be all but ashes on a breeze that swept this place years ago. She could be a memory and this could all be for nothing just as easily as anything else. He wouldn't even have a right to be angry... He wouldn't even feel a right to cry if she's decided to move on.

"SNAKE MAN! SNAKE MAN!!!"

He's shaken from his pondering by an unfamiliar voice, a starry eyed child fumbling out of the bushes like a little animal.

He nearly panics and flees before the brave, feral little boy reaches out for his hand and looks up at him like something right out of a story book- Which, he supposed may be fair given the way that he looks now.

"Are you a forest monster!? Do you grant wishes and eat people and stuff?!" It's clear the boy doesn't know fear, young and small still, with new eyes... But familiar ones.

Sebastian's heart drops into his stomach when he begins to recognize the thick, dark hair and deep brown eyes. This boy is the spitting image of the way he looked when he was around 10 or 11... It's like he's been pulled right from Sebastian's old childhood photos.

Too dumbfounded to speak, Sebastian stands there, every muscle in his body tense while his eyes flick around the boy's face trying to figure out how this could be.

"S/N! What are you doing talking to strangers, you were supposed to be at least playing in the yard and not the woods before the sun started setting." Y/N rounds the trees with a stubborn look on her face and immediately freezes when her gaze meets Sebastian's.

The air is knocked out of the both of them, leaving them only able to stare, and he notes the way she's remained nearly the same as the day that he was forced to leave her behind. Like a flower that never wilts, she stands as beautiful and as amazing as she was when he had first met her. Frozen with an expression he can't place, she makes no motion to do anything at all. The larger man acts first at the realization she must be frightened of him, going to put his two unheld hands up and open his mouth to explain himself-

"You said not to talk to strangers, this is CLEARLY a forest monster." Little S/N beats both of them to the punch and confirms to Sebastian all at once that his attitude is as strong in his blood as that unruly dark hair is.

"Heed your mother, would you? I could very well eat you." Sebastian ushers the child forward with a playful threat, the boy in reference pouting and looking back up at him.

"Come on, I'm only out a little bit late! It's not dark yet! Monsters only eat people in the dark." The boy argues, unfamiliar with the idea of real danger, it seems, but certain of himself the way only children really can be.

"Sebastian I can't believe it... Is it you? Am I losing my mind?" Putting the scolding and corrections on her son's statements off for a better time, Y/N looks up at the mutated form of her lover, hoping she might be right. When Y/N speaks, it's soft and uncertain, a hand going to rest on her child's shoulder so as not to lose him while she's distracted.

"You recognize me?" His heart practically jumps into his throat and he struggles to cope with how quickly she's guessed it was him.

"If not for the way one soul knows another, then for your voice and... Our ring." Unafraid just as well, she walks right up to the towering creature and brings her hand up to the necklace it's strung onto around his neck.

"Am I too late?" Sebastian asks, still scared.

"You're late, but never too much. You had better come home now though." She gets firm near the end and he laughs, melting.

"Awe that's no fair! I'm in trouble for being a few minutes late and he gets to be gone forever!" The boy whines and Y/N seems to laugh when she ruffles his hair.

"You can be out of trouble because it's a special day. Now, let's go home and get you to bed." Y/N's eyes stray back up to her husband, the fondness that was there in those beautiful eyes he fell in love with was something that had grown blurry and hard to recall until now. The way her gaze rested on him so softly brought him back like he'd never left in the first place.

"I think I have some things to talk about with your monster, here." She smiles at him and goes to slide her hand into his, the cold feeling against his palm of her own ring -the matching one to his from the promise that they'd made at that altar a long time ago- made him feel warm again, and made him feel alive.

"Yes, I've got a lot of things I've been waiting to tell her for these years we've spent apart."

[zara-renata]

And hope to die | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: A continuation of the 'wholesome apple boy' Caleb fics I started before he was released. I'm still getting the hang of his voice. You wake up from your reoccurring nightmare about Caleb dying, only to find that he's alive, but you keep having trouble trusting that this isn't all still a dream. Caleb takes care of you, through your anger and your disbelief. Your boyfriend drops by, and Caleb is on his best behavior in sending him back on his way. Caleb x mc, Caleb x f reader. This story contains: angst, fluff, a traumatized and deeply angry mc, codependent Caleb and mc, nightmares involving serious bodily injury and Caleb's death, nsfw sexual content, cheating [mc may or may not sincerely think it's just a dream, sorry nameless boyfriend, you can't help not being Caleb].

It’s always the same.

No matter the season. 

You are falling.

Not flying.

You are falling. 

The fall is endless.

The terror of hitting the bottom never lessens.

There is never relief, never growing numb to the sensation of plummeting, of the imminent end.

You fall through rain

You fall through snow.

You fall through cherry blossom petals.

You fall through sun drenched, blindingly blue skies.

You fall, and there is nothing, and no one, to catch you.

Until you fall into his body.

As always, it is he who catches you.

You sit up, panting, big chest heaving. You feel the strength in your arms, your powerful thighs. You smell your own sweat.

You turn, and you see yourself. You, not the Caleb you, the body you’re currently in.

You look wrong. Small, fragile, vulnerable. That’s not you. You’re indestructible. You can survive anything.

You hate that this is how he must see you, as you look at yourself through his eyes.

You turn. Look out the window. A bright, sunny day.

You’re at the dinner table, there is news on the TV. Explosions throughout the city.

You’re worried about Gran, you’re worried about Pipsqueak, her new, dangerous job.

You’re carrying secrets that even though you’re inside him, he won’t reveal to you.

The dinner continues. You watch yourself respond to your Hunter’s watch, you follow yourself out the door, concern rising, frustration that your help is being rebuffed. You send yourself into the cornerstore. You buy vinegar, condiments, what you demanded he buy to keep him busy. You return to the bright, sunny day.

You argue with yourself. You snap at him, cut off his complaints. Lie to him. You’re so frustrated with yourself, why won’t you just listen to him? Let him continue to shelter you, as he has done for the only part of his life that matters to him?

You turn, lead the way back to your childhood home. You say something cutting, sarcastic to him, trying to create more distance, keep him at arm’s length, he who is you, whose body you’re in. 

Your heart hurts, beats painfully. You go in first, as you have been ordered to do by your princess. 

It happens so fast, but there is still pain. So much pain. And then—

You fall into your own body. You wake up, slowly, painfully. The fire is raging, consuming the carcass of your childhood home. 

You’ve been here before.

But this time, he’s outside the house. Instead of his necklace, it’s his big body tossed over the walk leading up to the house. He looks intact, whole in way that you know is impossible.  

You crawl to him, hope surging, despite the impossibility. Maybe this time, it’s different.

Maybe this time, there will be a different ending.

You crawl to him—everything hurts. You push yourself up on your arms, lean over him. 

He’s so beautiful. He could be sleeping. His sweet eyes, closed. His long, straight nose. His full lips slightly parted. You just need to wake him up.

Caleb.

You call to him. You call to him, softly, and then loudly, as he doesn’t respond. You reach up, caress his cheek, as you remember him caressing yours so often when you were younger.

Open your eyes, Caleb.

He doesn’t move. 

You’re desperate. You’re yelling now, screaming. Your throat hurts.

Caleb. Caleb. Caleb.

You’re desperate. You let yourself do something you’ve never allowed yourself to do before.

You lean down. You lean down and press your trembling, panting lips to his.

You kiss him. A soft press, first. Then harder. 

Wake up, you say against his lips. Wake up.

Wake up, you beg.

You frame his cheeks with your hands, touch him tenderly, fingertips drifting along his skin as you kiss him, over and over, untethered from gravity. 

Wake up.

You kiss him for a lifetime.

Finally, he opens his eyes.

You make a noise in your throat as he opens his eyes, and he kisses you back. His lips meet yours, press for press. Soft and alive.

You stare into his pretty purple eyes, the pink shimmering in the flames of your childhood home.

You could fly, with the relief, the realization that he’s not dead. That he’s fine—he’s fine, and he’s kissing you back.

You draw your hands from his cheeks, slide your fingers into his soft, soft hair, pull him closer.

He smiles against your lips.

You can pull harder, if you want.

You grin, laughing breathlessly. You’re overcome with relief, with desire. You slide your hands further into his hair, around the sides of his head, toward the back of it, to cradle it in your palms.

Your fingers don’t meet. They meet air instead.

Empty air.

You pull back. Stare into his face. He smiles at you one last time, before closing his eyes again. Before going limp. You tenderly turn his head in your hands, reluctant to pull your gaze from his beautiful profile. But you do. You have to.

You let your eyes drift, over his soft brown hair, the curve of his precious ear. To where his hair, his bone ends.

You stare at the back of his skull, no longer intact—you stare at the gaping wound of where his mind, his brain, the core of him should still be.

But it’s empty.

You start to scream.

It’s always the same.

You wake up screaming.

It’s always the same.

Sweat-soaked. Heart broken, and yet still pounding so hard in your chest it feels like your ribs are breaking, all over again.

Again, and again, and again.

You hate falling asleep. You hate waking up.

It’s why you’ve never spent the night at your boyfriend’s.

You meet him somewhere, out. Surrounded by other people. Have nice, pleasant dinners. Take in a movie. Go back to his place. He makes love to your body with his body that doesn’t remind you of Caleb because he’s shorter, less muscular. He smells wrong. 

Not bad. 

He’s just not Caleb.

But he was there, in the blurry haze of the aftermath of Gran and Caleb’s deaths. A nice, inoffensive presence, across the bar. 

Normally you wouldn’t have accepted his offered drink. He didn’t look enough like Caleb. Sure, he was tall, handsome. But not tall enough, not handsome in the right way. He would have done nothing for you before.

But after Caleb dies, you can’t stand to be reminded of him, when before, you tried to find him in everyone you met. Poor facsimiles, but enough for one night of fantasy in your head.

When you tried not to call the nice guy back, after the first time you went home with him, he persisted. For weeks. Sending cute, self-deprecating texts. Flowers to the reception of the Hunter’s Association. When can I see you again?

He was dogged in his pursuit of you, as you left him on read. As you accepted the flowers, gave them to Tara, to Nero, to Simone.

One day, the pain was simply unbearable. You needed a distraction, from your twisting, racing thoughts. From the same nightmare, every time you went to sleep. 

You called him back.

But you still never slept at his place.

Now, you wake up from the nightmare, as you always do, with your throat raw, your heart wreckage on the ground, knowing that you are simply moving from one nightmare to the next.

The nightmare of reliving what happened to Caleb, and the nightmare of waking up to a world where he’s dead.

It’s always the same.

Except this time it’s not.

There are arms around you. Warm. Big. A scent you’d know anywhere, in any lifetime, fills your nose. You want to cry. You’ve learned not to trust these aftershocks of the nightmares. Where you’re so desperate for the world to still contain him, that you hallucinate he’s here with you, holding you tight. You can’t believe it. You squeeze your eyes shut, tight, tight, tight. 

You try to roll yourself into a ball, a little shrimp, he used to call you, but the strong arms don’t let you. He holds you fast against his own body, where you’re lying… somewhere. It feels too cramped to be the bed.

“Hey, Pipsqueak. Open your eyes,” a boyish voice you’d know anywhere, in any lifetime, murmurs in your ear. Even as he grew huge, worked so hard to gain heavy muscle, his voice stayed so cute.

A cheek, rough with stubble, against your own.

You can’t. You can’t, only to find this is not real, again. This has happened to you, so many times before.

“It’s not a dream,” the voice says. “Open your eyes, let me prove it to you.”

You want to cry. But you do as he says, every time. How can you not?

You open your eyes and see Caleb looking down into your face—his expression soft, warm. Everything you remember of him.

You feel like time has stopped. You’re disoriented, on your couch. Faint, orange-tinted light pours in through the windows of your apartment. As if the sun is setting. It’s always this way, waking up from a nap, the rare times you have time to actually fall asleep during the day. As if you’re coming from another life, from such a great distance. But now it’s even more disorienting, as the dream of Caleb alive and warm underneath you feels so, so real.

“Caleb.”

It’s all you can say.

“That’s right,” he says, full lips curved in a soft smile, eyes crinkling at their edges. “It’s me.”

He’s stretched out on the couch, one arm bent behind his head. His chest is bare, as it was before you fell asleep. You’re lying on top of him, head lifted from where you’ve been resting it against his big pectoral. He runs his metal thumb languidly across your lower lip as you look up into his face, as he looks down into yours.

“You’re dead,” you say, your heart pumping, pumping, painfully in your chest. The nightmare is still with you. You’re afraid to believe him when he says he’s here, that he’s real. That the nightmare is over.

“I felt like I was, for awhile,” he says gently, letting his thumb fall away, moving his new arm across your back, his big, hard hand, clutching your hip tighter. The pressure is a little too hard. You like it. Maybe it will leave a bruise. “But I’m not dead. Check for yourself,” he invites you. His hand releases you.

You sit up, straddling him, his hips. You stare at him. Let your eyes drink him in. The healthy curve of his intact arm, leisurely bent behind his head. The soft dark hair in his exposed underarm.

“You can do more than look. Why don’t you touch me, if that’s what you need? I’m right here, and I’m real.” He sounds amused, teasing. As if the past year is something you could ever joke about.

You can feel the anger, the fury, close under your skin. But you’re not ready to release him yet. You’re not ready to punish him yet. You’re not ready to retreat again, as you have done for years now, ever since he left you stranded on the ground amidst the wreckage of his broken promises. Right now, in this orange-soaked, suspended moment in time, you can’t resist accepting his invitation. You’ll be mad at him, soon. You’ll make him suffer, soon.

You can’t help it. It’s in your nature. He should know. He’s the only one who knows.

You trusted him with everything, with all of you, and he left you, and then he let you think he was dead.

If he’s actually alive. If this all isn’t still just the cruelest nightmare you’ve ever had. You don’t think you’ll be able to survive waking up and finding him in the ground again.

You shake your head, the feelings inside of you so big, your body can hardly contain them. You can’t bring yourself to decline his invitation. You need to touch him again, to feel him. After so many years of your hands being empty, even as you were touching other people.

But you have to carve out an escape route, even as you accept his invitation.

You will never leave yourself exposed, vulnerable, like you spent years being with him, again. Only in this moment, hanging suspended, spinning lazily between the nightmare and the truth, will you let your heart finish what it starts every time you wake—you allow it to jackhammer through your ribs, crack them open and allow him to see inside.

But he needs to know that this moment is a clumsily drawn card, slipped into his pocket. Caleb’s right to a time out in a fight, valid until the end of the day of its use. 

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you say. “You’re a stranger to me still.”

His face falls. He looks so hurt, for such a brief moment. But then he takes a breath. His eyes soften. You recognize their indulgent affection from when you were younger, and trusted him. “Whatever you say, Pipsqueak. I’ll accept it, whatever you need to say to yourself, for however long you need to say it,” he murmurs.

You reach forward, cover his pretty, gentle eyes with your hands. “I mean it. Don’t look at me like that.”

He laughs, and it sounds infinitely sad. “I’m just lookin’ at you like I always do. I can’t help it.”

You run your fingers over his face, trace his thick, dark eyebrows. Let them drift across his forehead. You take your thumb, and smooth the frown there. He closes his eyes. 

You move your hands, sending your fingers into his soft, silky hair. You let your blunt nails drag across his scalp, and you feel him shiver underneath you. 

You swallow, terrified. Pause your hands in their trajectory that you know you must follow in order to reassure yourself that he’s here, that he’s okay. That the nightmare is finally over.

But you’re so, so scared.

You’ve been here before. Your hands in his hair. Moving towards the back of his skull.

“Caleb,” you plead.

He opens his eyes. The colors of a rainbow oil slick, the colors of his evol, the colors of your dreams. 

You clench your teeth. You’re trying so hard not to cry in terror.

His eyes drift from your face to your neck. 

He reaches up with his silver hand, slips his index finger through the silver chain around your neck. His necklace slithers from underneath your shirt as he pulls. He keeps pulling, gathering the excess length of the chain in his palm, the faint clinking of the metal necklace against his metal hand loud in the quiet room. When he has most of it fisted in his hand, he continues pulling, gently.

You don’t try to resist—you let him pull you down to him. You rest your forehead against his, your hands still clutching his hair.

His breath is warm, sweet against your lips. 

You’ve had this dream before. Your heart is racing, in terror, in response to his proximity, after being so far apart for so, so long.

“Caleb, wake up.” You can’t help it. The plea comes out of you without thought, without effort, like it always does.

Your hot tears hit his cheeks, despite your clenched teeth, your effort to keep them in your eyes, where they belong. He has no right to see them. He never had any right to see them, even when you trusted him.

“I’m awake, baby,” he says against your mouth. “I’m right here. I’m right here, and I’m never going anywhere again.”

He’s promised you before. Promises you’re not sure he ever intended to keep. “You’re dead,” you whisper.  “You’ve been dead for so long.”

“I’m not,” he insists, for the first time sounding a little desperate. A little impatient. As if he has any right to feel impatient. As if he has any rights at all, if he’s actually alive. If he’s actually here, under your hands, and this isn’t the same nightmare it always is, with a more bitter flavor. “I’m not dead. Touch me. Keep touching me,” he urges, softly. “Until you’ve convinced. I’m not goin’ anywhere. Take all the time you need. Just touch me.”

You let his words fill you. You let him nudge against your cheek with his nose as he asks this of you, let his breath in through your parted lips.

You clench your teeth again, brace yourself. “I’ll never forgive you, if you’re lying again.”

He laughs, breathless, eager. “But you’ll forgive me, if I’m telling the truth?”

You tighten your fingers in his hair, hear a little gasp pulled from his lips, puffing against yours. “You’re in no position to negotiate. All I said is that I’ll never forgive you if you’re fucking dead,” you bite out. “If I wake up from this, and you’re still dead, I’m going to take a bulldozer to the cemetery. I’m going to reduce your headstone to rubble. I’m going to gather the gravel in a big fucking sack, along with everything of yours I still have, every last scrap of paper, piece of fabric, your stupid little model planes, the tiny, pathetic number of things salvaged from the fire, and I’m going take my friend’s yacht to the deep ocean, and I’m going to weight the lot of what remains of you. I’m going to fucking sink it. I’m going to make sure that the last bit of you is as far as you can get from the sky as possible, forever.” You breathe. You breathe, and you whisper, “And I might have to tie it around my neck, and go down with it, if you’re fucking lying. I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

He stares into your eyes, and you’re too close to tell what the rest of his face is doing. He doesn’t blink. 

You take a deep breath. Let it out. You don’t care if your breath stinks from your nap. He’s probably fucking dead. And you’ve felt dead, for longer than he’s been dead. What does he care? What do you care? “So no, I won’t forgive you if you’re telling the truth. But I won’t bury you as deep as I possibly can if you are. You can fuck back off to your precious, wide open sky. In either case, you don’t get to haunt me anymore.”

In the silence that follows your promise to him, there is only your breath. His breath. Your heartbeat, and his. The city outside your window is just a quiet ocean you’d like to drown your dead brother in, the cars are waves breaking on the shore.

“You have to keep living,” he finally says, as if nothing else matters to him. “You can have everything else. But you don’t get to die.”

“You don’t get to decide what I can, or can’t do anymore, Caleb Xia,” you snarl, and your anger gives you the courage to force yourself to send your fingers further into his hair, curving around his precious head.

You let out a sob when your fingers meet each other at the back of his head, with his hair, his scalp, his skull intact underneath. 

“Caleb,” you keen, and he finally moves. 

He surges up, taking you with him, your hands still buried in his hair, clutching the back of his head. He wraps both of his arms around you, metal and flesh, and squeezes you so, so tightly. You bury your face in his neck, and you wail like an animal.

“This doesn’t change a fucking thing,” you sob. “You’re not dead but you’re dead to me, do you understand? I don’t give a shit where you’ve been, or what you’ve been doing. Fuck you, Caleb. You let me believe you were dead for a year.”  

He holds you even tighter, absorbing all of your fury, all of your hate, all of the feelings inside you that are too big for your skin, like he has always done. “I know,” he whispers. “I know.” He lifts his left hand and holds the back of your head, gently, gently, and rubs the other along your back, up and down, up and down. He listens as you rip yourself open and let all your venom out, soaking him in it, and he holds you, and he soothes you, and he takes it all.

The daylight has drained from the world while you were exploding in his arms. The lights from the city are the only illumination in your otherwise dark apartment, as you finally slump against him, utterly exhausted. 

“Feel better?” he asks, turning his head, nosing along your temple.

You refuse to answer him, even as you try to snuggle closer to him.

He just laughs softly at your mutinous silence, your traitorous body that refuses to let space come between yours and his yet.

“How about a shower? Might make you feel better.”

“Nothing will make me feel better,” you grumble. You sniff his neck, savoring his warmth, the familiar smell of him, and then deliberately rub your snot and your tears into his skin. 

He just laughs, like he’s ticklish, when you know he’s not. Or like he likes your snot and your tears all over him. 

“Idiot,” you say.

“Hey now, be nice.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “C’mon, Pipsqueak. A hot shower, and then a hot meal. I’ll make you whatever you want.”

You sigh. “I don’t have any food, remember?”

“A hot shower, a trip to the grocery store, and then a hot meal,” he amends the evening itinerary.

“Sounds like work,” you complain. “It’s my day off. I don’t do any work on my day off,” you lie. Because you often work on your days off. It’s another thing that bothers your boyfriend.

Shit, your boyfriend.

You remember the events from earlier today. Seeing Caleb through the crowd. Leaving your boyfriend behind. Letting Caleb take you home. Even though you have no idea how he knew where you live, how easily he got here, without looking at his navigation system while he drove. He has never been here before. You never invited him after you moved in.

You stiffen in his arms.

“I’ll do all the work” he interrupts your racing thoughts. “You don’t have to do a thing. I’ll take care of everything.”

You pull back, feeling like your face is twice its normal size, your eyes puffy and raw from all of your crying. “I promised my boyfriend I’d call him later today.”

There’s another flash of emotion on his face, there and gone again before you can decipher it. “It’s not every day you reunite with your closest friend back from the dead,” he says carefully. “He’ll understand, right?”

You stare into his eyes. He looks so earnest. He sounds so reasonable.

You don’t miss how he still refuses to refer to himself as your brother.

Closest friend.

Tara has never taken weeks to respond to your texts. Has never missed an important event for you.

Xavier has never made you think he was dead for a year.

Sylus has never broken a promise to you.

Rafayel responds to your texts immediately.

Zayne disappeared for years, but didn’t make you think he was fucking dead. 

You wonder who your closest friend is, now. 

You wonder who your brother is, now. What he’s been doing, the time he’s been gone. 

What else he had to pay, to attain his resurrection.

You think about retrieving your phone from your coat. Calling you boyfriend. Answering his questions about Caleb that he probably has.

But you don’t want to. 

You’re a liar to the world, but you’ve always had a hard time lying to yourself. You’re not quite ready to face the outside world. You want a little more time to indulge in the focal point of your inner world, so warm and solid beneath you, his arms around you, before you toss him back to the outside world and never speak to him again. He’s still dead to you, like he was before he died. Even though he’s alive.

He’s alive.

“Caleb,” you say, helplessly.

He smiles in response. “Yeah.”

Now that you’ve been emptied, for now, of all of your rage, your grief, your resentment, the relief is so big. It’s filling you, like helium. You could float away, without Caleb’s evol, you’re so full of it.

Caleb’s alive.

You don’t want to stab yourself yet, to pop the helium-bouyant balloon of your heart by tearing yourself from him, insisting that he leave, returning to the life you’ve made without him.

Is it so wrong to fly with him, for just a little longer? 

Caleb’s right to a time out in the middle of a fight.

“I’m tired,” you grouse. “The bathroom’s too far.”

When he realizes you’re conceding, he makes a little helpless noise, in the back of his throat. You feel his big chest expand, contract, as he sighs, closing his eyes. Then he smiles, opens them again.

 “Aaaall right, message received.” His voice takes on a customer friendly tone. “Wait one moment, please. Caleb’s personal delivery service is activating.”

You laugh as he shakes his body, and yours, while making brr brr noises, like an engine revving and shaking the chassis of a car. “You’re so stupid.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you, the motor’s too loud,” he says cheerfully, standing effortlessly with you still in his arms, your legs tucked around his waist. He carries you through your spartan apartment, to the bathroom. He nudges open the door with a foot, surveys the small space.

“You have a bathtub,” he says, lifting an eyebrow.

“And you have eyes,” you snark.

“I do have eyes, thank you for noticing, little puffer fish.” He smiles down into your face.

You scowl at him. “Puffer fish?”

“You cried so hard that you puffed up like one.”

You glare at him. You know your face and eyes are swollen from crying, but he has no right to tease you for it. “And whose fault is that?” you accuse. 

He lifts his left arm from under your ass and runs his hand over your hair, tucks a lock behind your ear. “All mine, Pipsqueak,” he murmurs, and his voice is filled with such familiar, sorrowful affection that you immediately deflate. “How about instead of a shower, you take a bath? That would be more relaxing. I’ll give you a massage, after.”

He’s been gone for so long. He’s not dead. He’s alive. You can’t say no, right now. Not yet. You want everything from him, like when you were younger.

Before he left you in pieces on the ground.

“I want bubbles.”

He laughs, caresses your cheek with his thumb. “Then you’ll have bubbles.”

You lean into his palm before resting your head on his metal shoulder.

He looks down at you in surprise. “Why not choose the soft shoulder?”

“Hard or soft, doesn’t matter,” you mumble. “It’s you.”

Inexplicably, his face flushes. He blinks, and then shakes his head. “One bubble bath, comin’ up.”

He sets you on the closed toilet before turning to the bath, fiddling with the knobs. He paws through your bath products along the edge, and then underneath the sink. He then turns to you, hands on his hips. “You have a bathtub, but no bath bombs? You only have shampoo and shower gel, you don’t even have stuff specifically for bubble baths.”

“Already breaking another promise?” you ask, softly, before you can stop yourself.

His teasing smile fades. “No, baby. You’ll get your bubbles.” He turns, and you watch his broad back, the muscles shifting under his soft skin—he’s right here, healthy, if no longer whole in the same way as before, with his metal shoulder shining under the soft bathroom light. His cargo pants are slung low over his hips. You can see the dimples of his lower back, the meaty curve of his ass before his pants begin. You want to touch him. You want to bury your face against his ass, use him as a pillow.

Your mouth feels empty.

He bends down and grabs your shower gel. He pauses, stares at the label. As if seeing it for the first time.

You feel your cheeks become warm, but he doesn’t say anything.

He shakes his head, squeezes the bottle. The viscous liquid forms a long, slow drip into the rushing water. 

Caleb’s scent fills the small room.

The bubbles build.

He turns around. His eyes are a lovely, dark indigo. His face is still serious.

He looks like the Caleb you remember. Mostly.

He was big then, but he’s even bigger now.

His arm is different, of course. 

He has that same angry, hungry look you remember that he’d sometimes get before he left for the DAA.

But there’s something else now, another layer to the complicated expression on his face. He’s looking at you with intention, in a way that you never remember seeing.

He squats down before you, looks up into your face.

“You’re going to undress now,” he says, voice low.

You swallow. Your heart is racing. “Am I?”

He nods, slowly. “Yeah, you are.” 

You stare into his beautiful eyes.

Part of you, the currently drained angry, abandoned, grief-filled part, wants to tell him no. 

That part of you wants to tell him to fuck off. He has no right to order you around. To tell you what to do.

That part of you wants to tell him that you have a boyfriend, and that when he’d help you like this when you were younger, it was unhealthy. Codependent. Dysfunctional. 

But he’s here, right now. He’s alive. After so, so long. You are filled with helium, looking into his beautiful, serious eyes. If you flicked an unlit match against the metal of his arm, you’d explode.

“Do it for me,” you order him.

He smiles, and it’s a smile you’ve never seen before. You can see his sharp canines, glinting like his arm.

He reaches forward with one big hand, and it envelops your foot. He pulls it into his lap, and he slowly, slowly peels down your sock. He sets it on the floor, and then pulls off your other sock.

He then slides both of his hands, the metal one cool, his other warm, even through the fabric of your tights, up your calves. He parts your knees, runs his hands up the inside of your thighs. 

Your heart is racing, so, so fast.

You gasp, when he lifts his hands right before his thumbs would meet where your thighs do, and instead gently hooks his fingers under your waistband. “Lift,” he tells you.

You lean back, place your hands on either side of the toilet seat, and lift your ass.

He stares into your eyes as he pulls, peeling your tights, your underwear, off of you in one long slide. By necessity, you close your knees again to ease his way.

The tights pool at your feet.

He doesn’t look away from your eyes.

He lifts his left hand, slides it between your knees, parting your legs again.

He still doesn’t look down.

He stands, takes a step forward, to stand between your now open legs.

His hips are at your eye level. Your eyes widen as you see the big outline of his dick, clearly hard, beneath his cargo pants. It looks painful, trapped down his left pant leg.

Your mouth feels so empty.

He looks down at you. “Lift your shirt.”

Your mouth is dry. If you could hear anything over the gushing water of the bath’s faucet, you’d probably be able to hear it clicking as you swallow again.

But there’s only the water, your heartbeat, his command in your ears.

“Do it for me,” you counter.

His skin, beneath the soft brown fur trailing down his stomach, sweeping across his big pecs, is flushed.

He leans down, gathers the fabric of your shirt in his hands, and lifts.

You raise your arms, and he gently pulls the shirt off your torso, letting it join your tights at your feet.

There’s only your bra, now.

He doesn’t look away from your eyes. “Take off your bra,” he murmurs, and you barely hear him over the water.

You lean back on your hands. Widen your legs. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, between your legs.

“Do it for me,” you say, one last time.

His nostrils flare as he exhales. His eyes look so dark. 

He leans down again, but this time, he runs his hands from your hips, up along your sides, until he’s holding you firmly along your ribs. He lifts you to himself, pressing your hips against his, your breasts against his chest.

His cool, silver arm is a steel band across your back, as he fumbles with the clasp of your bra with his other hand. You share his breath as he looks into your eyes as his hand works.

Finally, you feel the relief that only comes when you take your bra off after a long day. He gathers its fabric in his fist and gently tugs. You lean back in his arms, and he lets the straps fall from your shoulders, along your arms. 

He pulls you back to him, pressing your breasts back against his chest, skin on skin. He lifts you, like a princess, turns with you in his arms, and then slowly lowers you into the steaming water of the bath. The bubbles envelop you, come up to your neck.

He turns off the faucet, and the ensuing silence leaves your ears ringing with your ever-present tinnitus. Then he stands next to the tub, looking down at you, as if from a great height.

“Soak,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m going to the store for dinner stuff. When I get back, you better still be in this bath. I’ll help you wash your hair.”

In the warmth of the bath, surrounded by the smell of Caleb’s shower gel, pinned by his intent gaze, you can only nod.

“Oh, before I go,” he says. He flicks his hand in a lovely, graceful gesture, and his necklace lifts from your neck, caught in a shimmering, rainbow haze. Your hair is caught in the same weightlessness, floating around your face, allowing the chain to drift over your head without obstacle. Once the necklace is free, your hair gently falls back down. Caleb catches the necklace in his hand.

He bends down again, offers it to you. “Put it on me,” he says, an echo of a playful order from so many years ago. This time, he sounds authoritative. Like he’s used to giving serious orders.

Time compresses. You are laughing with him on a sunny day, heartbroken that he is leaving, hopeful that you’ll see him again soon.

You are looking up into his dark, stranger’s eyes from the bathtub, heartbroken, missing him, mourning him even as he’s standing right in front of you. You’ve already lost him, all of your worst fears come true.

“Don’t you have hands?” you ask, quietly. 

He snorts, softly. “Yeah, yours.”

He stares at you, waiting.

You suddenly realize you’re scared that if he walks out the door, you won’t see him again.

“If you want it, you have to come back to get it.”

“No,” he says.

You look away. Clutch the tag of the necklace in your wet hand. “Then, no,” you mirror him. As you always have.

“Look at me.” His voice is softer, now.

You refuse.

“Be a good girl, and look at me.”

You swallow again. Feel that familiar warmth in your chest, between your legs, when he calls you that.

When he used to call you that.

You obey him. Look back at his face, filled with that sad affection again. He’s so handsome, it hurts. You missed his face so, so much.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, a reward. 

You want to cry, it feels so good to hear him praise you again.

“Put it on me.”

You reach up, the bubbles sliding over, down the naked skin of your arms. He leans down further, turns his face to run his nose along your cheek as you focus on closing the clasp shut at the back of his strong neck. When you’re done, you rest your palms on the sides of his neck. You feel his thumping, living heartbeat under his skin. He presses his lips softly against your cheek  before standing again.

You look up at him, as he looks down at you.

“I don’t need the necklace as an excuse to come back. I’ve come back, from very, very far away, because you are enough to pull me from the dead.” His soft, silky brown hair falls over his serious, furrowed brow. “I’m going to make you believe that I will keep every promise I make, from now on.” His full lips are set in a determined line. “Starting now. I promise I’ll be back in less than half an hour, to wash your hair. Okay?”

Despite the sincerity in his words, you don’t trust him to come back. You’ve been here before. He was sincere, before. Or so you thought. You don’t want him to go. Not yet.

“Caleb,” you say. 

“Yeah, Pipsqueak.” He smiles down at you, and its warmth reaches his eyes.

You stare at him. You tell yourself that you’re going to toss him back to the world soon, anyway. What does it matter, if he leaves you here again, right now, instead of you kicking him out at the end of the evening?

At least this time, if he breaks his promise and doesn’t come back, you’ll know he’s not dead.

Maybe it will be even easier this time, if he doesn’t come back. You’ll survive, if he never comes back, as long as you know he’s in the world.

“Hurry up,” you say. Instead of, Don’t go. Instead of, Don’t ever leave me again. Instead of, Kiss me before you go.

His eyes drift over your face, and he rubs his left hand thoughtfully over his chin. “I can tell that you don’t believe me.” Before you can scoff at him, argue, lie, he continues. “I’ll just have to prove it to you. I’ll prove it to you, as many times as I have to. Until you trust me again. Be back before you know it.” He turns, and he walks out the door.

You want to scream.

You shove your hand in your mouth instead and bite down, so hard that you can feel your skin breaking.

You don’t make a sound.

You hear your front door shut.

The bathwater is hot. Your bathroom is filled with steam. You draw your knees to your chest, wrap your arms around them.

You think about the dream, and remind yourself that his head is intact. You think about your memory, and remind yourself that he survived the fire, despite everything. That he’s alive, if not entirely whole, anymore.

You want to get out of the bath. You want to crawl into your bed and pass out. You want to wake up, ten years from now. Maybe that’s enough time, to no longer miss him this much.

But he told you to stay in the bath.

So you stay.

You refill the hot water, each time the water begins to cool. 

He’s still not back. You hug your knees.

Your neck feels empty, without his necklace around it.

Your mouth feels empty.

Just as you’re deciding to accept that he’s not coming back, you hear your front door opening again.

You turn so fast in the tub, the water sloshes over the side. “Caleb?”

“Still in the bath?” he calls from your hallway. You can hear him smiling.

You want to throw something at him. How dare he smile, while you sat here, terrified he wouldn’t come back?

You hear rustling in the kitchen. Your fridge door opening, closing.

And then, there he is, in the bathroom doorway, filling it like he always does. He’s so big.

“Ready to wash your hair?” he asks, eyes crinkling at the corners with his smile. He’s wearing a shirt again.

“Caleb,” you repeat.

His eyes soften. “Yeah, it’s me.”

He walks over to you, squats next to the tub.

You can’t help yourself. You throw your arms around him, soapy and wet. He makes a surprised little “Oomph” sound, but he hugs you back.

“You’re gettin’ me all wet, Pipsqueak.”

“You were gone for so long,” you whisper.

He pauses. Seems to hear what you’re really saying. “But I’m back now. And I’ll never leave you alone that long again, okay? Cross my heart, and hope to—”

“Shut up,” you choke out. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

“Okay,” he says, indulgent. “Then I’ll just say, I promise.”

You’re not satisfied.

You’re so pissed.

“Is your arm waterproof?” you ask.

It takes him a second to respond. “Yeah. Why–?”

Before he can finish, you use all of your strength, all of your hunter’s training to brace your legs against the side of the bathtub for leverage, and pull.

He was already a bit off-balance, squatting awkwardly as he leaned over the tub to hug you. You successfully drag his big, stupid body into the tub with you. Water sloshes over the side.

“I want to drown you,” you huff, as you pull him down on top of you, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Well don’t drown me before we get your hair washed, or before I make dinner. That would be a waste of today’s perfectly good Caleb’s personal delivery service, wouldn’t it?” His voice has a sing-song, teasing quality to it. Its familiarity, its playfulness, makes you ache.

You clutch him to you. “That’s the only reason I haven’t done it yet,” you lie.

He laughs softly. “Sure,” he murmurs, pretending to believe you.

Eventually, the water cools again. He sits up, his sopping wet shirt clinging to his defined chest, his soaked pants outlining his big dick, still hard.

It has always been like this. His body, reacting to yours. His complete disinterest in acting on it.

He never said anything about it, so neither did you.

You used to think it was just normal for guys to constantly be hard, until you started fucking them.

He kneels above you and then strips his t-shirt, letting it hit your bathroom floor with a wet splat. He watches your face as he unzips his pants, as he shimmies out of them, water splashing over the sides of the tub again. You’re going to have to use up all your towels to clean up the mess.

Finally, he’s just in his soaking, plain black boxer briefs.

Your mouth feels empty.

He leans over you again. His necklace dangles in the air between you, dripping water. You want him to lean further down. You want to pull the tag of his necklace into your mouth with your tongue and suck.

He makes another little helpless noise, deep in his throat. Breathes through his nose. “Let’s wash your hair, Pipsqueak.”

You let him clamber out of the bath. You melt, as he runs his fingers along your scalp, as he shampoos your hair just the way he always did. You close your eyes, and just savor the feeling of his hands on you.

Instead of moaning, like you want to, you ask, “Where have you been, Caleb?”

His fingers pause. And then resume making you feel so, so good. “Skyhaven.”

It’s like a punch to your chest. He’s been so close, this whole time. 

So close, and so far. 

You want to cry. “This whole time?”

There is only the sound of the water, rippling against the sides of the tub. A droplet from the faucet, splashing. His smell, all around you. From his own body. From his shower gel, the shower gel you’ve been using ever since he left for the DAA.

“Yeah,” he finally answers.

“What have you been doing?” you ask, through clenched teeth. You don’t want to cry again. You want to ask him why.

But you don’t want to know why, yet.

“I got a new job. I’ve been working.”

You have a million questions. You’re too exhausted to ask them.

“Do you still get to fly?” you ask, instead of What happened to you? Why didn’t you come home? Why didn’t you tell me you were alive? Why now? Why not six months ago? A year ago?

He huffs in disbelief. “You’re worried about whether I can still fly?”

“Your only dream was being able to fly. It would make me sad, if you couldn’t anymore.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, before he takes the handheld showerhead and gently rinses the product from your hair. All you hear is the water trailing through your hair, past your ears. He sets the showerhead back in its holder. “Flying wasn’t my only dream.”

You open your eyes. He’s looking down at you, but he’s leaning over you, so his face is upside down in your field of view. “It wasn’t?”

“No, baby.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

You’re too tired to ask.

He finishes caring for your hair, like he used to. When he’s done, he wraps it gently in the type of towel you always use for your hair. He helps you out of the bathtub, but his eyes never leave your face.

He wraps you in a towel. Lifts you in his arms, like a princess, and carries you to your bedroom. He sets you on your feet.

You meet his gaze, as you let the towel fall, plop softly onto your bedroom rug. He refuses to look at your body, but he makes that noise again. Like he’s in a little bit of pain.

You turn, dive under your duvet. He tucks the edge of it under your chin. “You still use my old sweats as pajamas?” 

“Yeah,” you yawn. Your stomach growls.

He laughs, heading into your closet. “I’ll start dinner before we finish your hair. Just rest while I take care of everything.” You can hear him opening drawers, searching for his sweats. After a few minutes, he emerges, wearing only the sweatpants, slung low on his hips. He’s clearly not wearing underwear anymore. You try not to stare at how big he is.

You lift your eyes back to his handsome face, trace his long, straight nose with your gaze. “Caleb,” you say.

“Yeah,” he smiles. “It’s me. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He approaches the bed. Stands over you.

Time compresses. You are a kid again, and he is watching over you, making you feel infinitely safe in a world that taught you that nothing and no one is safe.

You are a teenager, and he’s lifting you from your bed after a nightmare, he’s clutching you to his chest, tucking you into his own bed, singing you lullabies in his breaking, teenage boy voice.

You are an adult, dreaming that he’s still alive, that he’s finally come home to you. But you know that when you wake up, the nightmare will begin, all over again.

“I promise,” he says, as if he can read your mind, just from looking at your face. “Dinner’ll be ready in a jiffy,” he says, turning, walking out of your bedroom.

You lie there, listening to him in the kitchen. Cabinets opening. Burners flaring to life. The fridge opening, closing. You fall asleep to the safest sound you’ve ever known.

It doesn’t take long for Caleb to orient himself in your kitchen. You have the absolute basics. A couple of pots, pans. Mismatched plates that look thrifted. Glasses that are clearly just jam jars repurposed for drinking.

He pauses, stares at a lovely set of crystal wine glasses that is jarringly incongruent with the rest of your things. 

He wonders who gave them to you.

Then his gaze catches on the world’s best hunter mug he had gifted you, after you had graduated. You had taken it with your fake smile. He was convinced at the time that you had gone home and immediately thrown it away.

He holds it in his hand, notes how its rim is chipped. It has faint rings of tea stains that are really hard to get out by just hand scrubbing. 

He looks inside your other mugs. They’re all pristine.

You wash his mug by hand, and you use it a lot.

He smiles.

No matter how angry or betrayed you feel, you still use his shower gel. You were wearing his necklace. His clothes are still in your closet, even though you had never invited him to your place, after you had landed your position with the Hunter’s Association. You clearly use his mug every morning, to—he grimaces at your half-empty jar of instant coffee—to drink your tea and your shitty morning coffee.

He lets his mind drift as he measures out rice, washes it, gets it cooking in your little rice-maker. As he pulls out your one, crappy plastic cutting board and sets it on the counter. As he takes your pristinely sharpened kitchen knives, and begins chopping vegetables. 

He’s secured his place as Colonel in the Far Space Fleet, as he was ordered to do. Things should be stable for him, for a while. Which is why he finally gave in to the desperate need to see you again. To weave himself back into your life, after being ripped from you a year ago. Long before a year ago, really.

Caleb Xia is a liar. 

He’s not going to let you keep him out this time. He was lying when he said he’d accept anything you said you needed, including acting like he’s dead to you, except your death.

He will accept nothing less but your hand in his, and your moans against his mouth. Your genuine smile, directed at him. 

He knows better than anyone how quickly circumstances change. How even on the sunniest, calmest of days, your plane can be knocked out of the sky. Each day is all you, he, anyone has, really. He’s not going to waste any more time. It’s a lesson from the book he used to read you. He had to leave his rose, for awhile. But now he’s back, and he’s going to give her everything she needs, whether she wants it or not. He should have learned this sooner. He wants to look at the world with the eyes of a child, instead of the eyes of a responsible, societally proper adult.

He has always been childishly selfish. He’s just not going to fight it anymore.

He looks around at your empty apartment, remembers the spoiled girl he used to know. But he can’t find her in this stark, deprived existence. He’s going to fix this too.

He’s a selfish child, and he’s a man with a plan.

It’s simple, really.

He’s going to prove to you, day in, and day out, that he’ll keep his promises to you. That he’ll show up, and be there for you, when you need him, and when you think you don’t.

He’s going to start with feeding you, and then a trip to the grocery story and the mall tomorrow. You need a full fridge and shit-ton of bath bombs, now that he’s back in your life.

The doorbell chimes.

He looks up, frowning.

He sets the knife on the counter. With his evol, he doesn’t need it for human threats.

He pads, barefoot, to your hallway entrance, checks the video feed next to your front door.

Ah. 

The minor obstacle in his plan.

He pauses, activates the cloaking function on his arm. He looks like a normal guy again, now. Nothing mechanical about him at all, not him, nope. He opens the door.

Your boyfriend is fidgeting on the other side, focused on his nice monk-strap shoes. Nice shoes, for a nice guy who works in a nice office.

Caleb knows that you need more than nice to be happy. That you need more than nice to be safe. Protected. Satisfied. Filled.

Despite his carefully cultivated mask, Caleb is not a nice guy.

But based on everything Caleb has been able to dig up on this guy, he’s a nice guy.

He’s just not the guy for you.

The guy lifts his gaze, eyes growing wider as he takes in Caleb’s sweatpants, his naked chest. “Oh, I must have the wrong—” he starts, but then he finally meets Caleb’s eyes, and his voice dies in his throat.

Caleb smiles at him. Wide and genuine. With that little slip, this asshole has revealed that he has never even been to your place before. Incredible. Caleb hasn’t even been back a day and he already has one over on this dude. “Hey, man.”

The guy swallows. Looks like he’s been hit by a truck.

Caleb just keeeeps smiling at him, letting him squirm. He’s certainly not going to be the one to break the silence. He’s got all the time in the world, on this side of your apartment doorway. He leans against said doorway, folding his arms. He doesn’t mean to flex his big biceps in the process, really.

Your boyfriend’s eyes flicker to the necklace that Caleb has the feeling you’ve never taken off since the day he died.

It occurs to him that this guy has fucked you while you were wearing his necklace. His augmented hand forms a tight, painful fist, without his permission. Sometimes he loses control of it, when he’s upset. He forces himself to focus on the fact that now the necklace is around his neck, and your boyfriend is staring at it. His fist relaxes. The pain in his arm recedes to its normal, low hum. Like a constant, distant bruise. The pain in his heart, on the other hand, throbs.

Your boyfriend frowns, shakes his head a little. “I’ve been texting. And calling. But she hasn’t picked up. Can I come in?”

“Oh, that’s my fault. I’ve been keeping her really, really busy,” Caleb says, cheerfully. “I wore her out.” He doesn’t mean to make it sound like an innuendo, honest. “She’s in bed, asleep. I’ll tell her you dropped by though.”

Your boyfriend’s frown deepens. “We had plans tonight.”

“Did you?” Caleb asks, eyes wide, innocent. “That sucks. But it’s not every day that you reunite with the closest person in your life after being separated for a year, you know? Can you maybe cut her some slack, take a raincheck?”

Your boyfriend sighs, runs his hand over his mouth. “I just… I just want to make sure she’s okay. She’s been really messed up, since you…” he pauses, looks at Caleb strangely. “Since you allegedly died.”

Oooh, he’s pulling out his fancy legal jargon. Caleb nods. “Well, as you can see, I got better.” He chuckles. He’s just a harmless idiot, after all. A meathead soldier boy. “And she’s fine. Just tired. She’ll call you when she’s ready. I’ll tell her that you dropped by,” he lies.

Your boyfriend stares at him for a moment longer. Caleb can tell how desperately the poor asshole wants to say something about how fucking weird this whole situation is. But he’s too polite. Too nice. He still cares about social conventions, and appearances. Obviously, he cares more about these things than he cares about you.

Because if his and Caleb’s situations were reversed, Caleb would have already torn the door off its hinges and removed this guy, permanently, from his path to get to you.

But right now, Caleb is inside your home, and this idiot is outside of it. And if he just disappears this perfectly nice guy now, you’ll ask questions. You’re a Hunter now. Which means you have to uphold the law and worry about optics. You’d probably be mad at him when he inevitably tells you the truth, because he can’t resist your cute, pouting face. Or your scary, angry face.

He can’t resist you at all, really.

He just needs to show you that this guy isn’t worth keeping.

All Caleb cares about is regaining your trust, and showing you the one fundamental truth of his universe.

You are his. And he is yours.

The world can end tomorrow, for all he cares. As long as you’re in his arms, nothing else matters.

The guy you’ve been using as a distraction for the past six months is nothing, in the trajectory of your life with Caleb, his life with you. A blip on the radar, after a little turbulence.

Now, he looks doubtful about Caleb’s reassurance that he’ll tell you that your boyfriend dropped by, so Caleb smiles even wider. “I promise I’ll let her know. Cross my heart, and hope to die.”

The guy winces at the reminder that you’ve been grieving Caleb for the last year, and seems to accept that he’s the one who’s being callous in this situation, as opposed to you, for not following through on the plans you had with him tonight. Then he nods in resignation, and he leaves.

Caleb smiles with teeth, shutting the door to your place.

He pauses at your coat, fishes your phone out. 

He snorts. Apparently he didn’t like the text Caleb sent saying that you’d be busy with him for the rest of the night. He sent a bunch of texts, sounding increasingly irritated about you flaking out on plans with him, and called five times. But the texts don’t directly reply to Caleb’s terse message blowing him off. The guy just comes across as unreasonably aggressive.

Caleb smiles. Leaves the messages and the calls untouched in your phone. He slips the phone back in your coat pocket, still on silent.

He whistles as he returns to the kitchen. He sautés the vegetables. Sets everything out in covered bowls, on a wooden tray he finds in the back of one of your cabinets.

Time to wake up his princess and feed her.

He grabs the massage oil he picked up at the corner store along with the food and heads back to your bedroom.

You’re out like a light. So, so pretty. He sets the tray on the floor next to your bed. He gently removes the towel from your hair, which is still damp but drying really prettily even without much effort from him.

He pulls down the duvet, and you make a soft noise of protest at the cool air hitting your naked skin. He stares down at you for a few moments, just drinking you in. 

You’re so, so beautiful. He feels his body reacting, like it always does, to your proximity, your lovely skin on display for him.

He gently nudges you onto your stomach, sits down down next to you on the bed. He pours some of the oil into his hand. It smells really good—it has arnica oil in it, for your no doubt sore muscles. He knows how hard your job can be on your body.

He places his left hand on your back, and it looks so big, against your smaller frame. He slowly rubs in the oil, smoothing his hand over your muscles along either side of your spine. Between your shoulder blades. Up the line of your graceful neck.

You whimper softly, shift a little.

He loves you like this. 

He loves you when you’re telling him that you want to drown him. When you’re telling him you want to bulldoze his grave.

And he loves you when you’re liquid under his hands, letting him move you however he wants.

He leans down, presses his nose into your damp hair. He presses his cheek against the back of your neck, not carrying that he’s getting oil on his face.

He keeps rubbing you with his warm, living hand, savoring your skin he can feel under his fingertips.

You wake slowly from a dream. A dream, where Caleb was alive.

You had tested it and everything. For the first time, Caleb was intact under your hands. It wasn’t his necklace on the sidewalk, or his empty skull under your fingers.

He was alive, and breathing, under you on the couch. Over you in the bath.

It was such a lovely dream. You’re so grateful for this reprieve, after an entire year of night terrors.

Your body feels so good. He’s rubbing your back, like he used to do after track practice. His big hand slide leisurely along your sore muscles.

You must still be dreaming your lovely dream.

You roll over, turning to look up at him. He makes a surprised little noise as you open your eyes, smile up at him.

“Caleb,” you sigh.

“Yup. It’s me,” he says, watching you carefully, but speaking with an upbeat note in his voice that rings false to you. “Delivering your massage, as promised.

You’re naked in the bed, the duvet only coming up to your waist. “What a lovely dream,” you say, reaching for him.

He lets you, his big body pliant under your hands as you rest your hands on his shoulders, pull him down to you.

“It’s so nice to dream about something else, for once,” you tell dream Caleb. “I always kiss you, but in the end you’re dead.”

Dream Caleb’s lovely lilac eyes widen, and he makes that cute little whimper in the back of his throat.

“Does it have to be a dream, Pipsqueak?” he asks, his lips hovering above yours, as you’ve pulled his face down to yours.

“You never kissed me in real life. It will always only be in my dreams. At least this time, you’re not fucking dead. Hurry up. Kiss me.” You’re getting impatient. Who knows when you’ll wake up, and he’ll vanish under the harsh morning sun? “My mouth feels so empty.”

He hesitates. “Do you still smoke, baby? When you’re anxious, or drinking?”

You nod. “I know you hate it. That it’s not good for me. But you never offered me anything else that I actually wanted to replace it with. And you’re fucking dead now, so you don’t get a say, anymore.” You sound mulish. Petulant. You don’t care. You’re mad at him, even in this lovely dream. He left you, over and over and over again.

“I’m not dead. I’ll prove it to you.” He leans down, runs his warm, wet tongue along your lips. “And this isn’t a dream.” 

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” you say, laughing softly, because otherwise you’d cry.

He smiles against your lips. “You don’t have to trust me yet. I’ll prove it to you, as many times as I have to. Open your mouth.”

You part your lips obediently. He lifts his necklace with his silver hand, places the tag, the apple charm on your tongue. “Suck.”

You close your mouth, wrap your tongue around the pendants. You suck, as he tells you to.

“You fucked your boyfriend wearing my necklace,” he says, nosing along your cheek. He caresses your cheek with his warm left hand, then lets it glide along your jaw, down your chin, over your throat. Over your clavicle.

He rests his big palm between your breasts.

You nod. 

“Why?” he asks.

It’s just a dream. It doesn’t matter what you say, whether it’s a lie, or the truth, because Caleb isn’t actually here to receive your answer. He hasn’t been, for a long, long time.

He gently tugs the necklace from between your lips. He puts the wet pendants in his own mouth and sucks, as if savoring your saliva.

You tell the truth. “It’s the only way I could stand for him to touch me.”

He opens his mouth, lets the necklace fall from his lips, swing into the space between his body and yours. The pendants hit the back of his hand, where it’s resting on your sternum “Why are you with him, if you can’t stand his touch?” He sounds so, so sad.

“What does it matter? You’re dead. I’ll never have who I want touching me, now. He’s nice. He cares about me. There are very few people left who do, anymore.”

You don’t want to talk about this, in the precious few moments of this lovely dream. “My mouth feels empty,” you complain. You want him to hurry up, do something. You want him to help you.

“Because you were such a good girl and answered my questions honestly, I’ll give you a choice.” He leans down again, kisses you softly. Your first kiss from him on the lips, ever. What a lovely dream. You’re full of helium. You’re surprised you’re not lifting the both of you off your bed. “You can have my thumb.”

He kisses you again. The strands of his dark hair sweep across your forehead.

“My tongue.”

His lips are so soft, as they press against yours yet again.

“Or my cock.”

You want all three. Everything. You want everything. His thumb, fingers, hand, wrist, fist, his tongue, his ear, his cock, his balls. For years, you’ve wanted everything of his. “Don’t make me choose. I don’t want to have to choose. I want you to choose for me.”

He pulls back from your lips, lilac eyes drifting from your eyes to your mouth, and back again. “All right, Pipsqueak,” he says indulgently. “But first, you have to admit this isn’t a dream.”

You scowl at him.

“It is a dream,” you insist. “Because you’re fucking dead.”

He frowns in turn, brows furrowing. “I’m not dead. I know you don’t trust me not to break promises anymore. I’ll spend as long as it takes proving to you that you can trust me not to leave you again, but it’s time for you to admit that I’m not dead.” He sounds stern. Your big brother, lecturing you to stop doing things that aren’t good for you.

“This is just a dream,” you insist. He doesn’t get to tell you what’s real and what’s not, after so long. He never accepted his big brother role, anyway.

“Fine.” He looks angry, hungry. “Then you only get my tongue, until you admit this is real.”

He leans down, licks your lower lip. You glare at him. He reaches up with his left hand, slides his thumb between your lips. You taste the massage oil, bitter. He opens your jaw, gently. “I know you can’t bring yourself to continue denying me,” he says, sweetly. “Let me in,” he coaxes.

You open your mouth wider, and he licks into it. His fingers fall away from your mouth, drift down your body, to one of your breasts. 

He makes that same helpless noise, as he thumbs along your sensitive skin, squeezes. As he rolls fully on top of you, chest to naked chest. He presses you into the mattress as he kisses you deeply, as his tongue fills your mouth. You suck on his tongue, curl your arms around his broad back, put your hands back in his silky hair. You shift your hips underneath his. 

He’s so big and hard—the only thing between your body and his, the gray sweatpants.

He bucks his hips, once, and you moan. He pulls back, tongue leaving your mouth. You make a little noise of protest. “Caleb.”

“Pipsqueak.”

“Why’d you stop?” you demand.

He looks sheepish. “I’m gonna come really fast in my pants if we keep going.”

“Then come, dummy,” you lean up to kiss him again. You want his tongue in your mouth again.

He looks frustrated. “This is our first kiss, and our first time making out. It’s not every day that I get to kiss you for the first time. I don’t want to just come in my pants within two minutes.”

You laugh. “What, Captain Caleb doesn’t have any stamina?” You run your hands down his back.

He hangs his head. “Not when it comes to you, no,” he mumbles.

“I won’t hold it over your head forever and ever,” you tease him, reassure him. “It’s just a dream—”

He leans down, shoves his tongue in your mouth before you can finish. He pumps his hips, and his big dick presses between your legs in a way that makes you feel as empty as your mouth was feeling earlier. You whine. “Caleb,” you plead, around his tongue.

He reaches down, slips his left hand between your legs. “I’m not gonna lie, Pipsqueak, I’ve dreamt about this before, yeah. But this is real. You’re so wet. Fuck.”

He pulls his hand back, stares at it, the wetness glistening along his fingers. He snaps them.

Rainbow shimmer bursts, soaks your body and his. 

You both begin to float. He leans down, kisses you again. Slips his hand back between your legs. Two big fingers slip inside you, and his thumb presses into your most sensitive spot.

“Caleb,” you whisper, moving your hips as he moves his hand. He pulls his hand from your body again, and you whine, but it’s just to flick his wrist. He fills you again.

Time slows.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you, and his forearm flexes, as his fingers, his hands make you feel so good. Your pleasure builds, so slowly. His hand moves languidly inside you, his fingers in your wet, slippery places, but the pleasure doesn’t lessen. It keeps building, and building. He grasps your neck in his silver hand, squeezing just a little. Like he’s afraid of squeezing too tight, and is overcompensating by making his touch as light as a feather.

You float together, caught in a cloud of your pillows, your duvet, his shimmering evol. He slides the hand holding your neck down your back, until he has a handful of your ass, and he presses your body securely against himself, rubs himself against your thigh through the soft sweatpants.

The slow trajectory of his hand moving feels like it takes hours, as he continues to work his hand between your legs.

Hours. Days. A month.

He has slowed time using his evol, in order to make you feel as good as possible from just his hand on you, just his tongue in your mouth. You laugh a little, because you suspect that he's probably also trying to to make up for the fact that he's on a hair trigger right now just from touching you. But he seems to take your laughter as a challenge.

“Caleb,” you gasp, as his thumb presses harder, circles faster against you, as he adds a third finger inside you. You forget everything else except how good you feel, and with a graceful flick of his hand, his thumb, you come with a muffled cry, deep in your throat. The pleasure feels like it lasts a decade.

He does something with his fingers inside you, a subtle gesture that feels really, really good, an aftershock of climax, and then time speeds up again.

He jerks his hips into your thigh a few more times, his hard cock rubbing through his pants against you, and then he groans. 

He pulls his fingers from inside you, lifts them to his own lips. He shoves them in his wide mouth and sucks them clean, while holding you tight.

"No fair," you complain. You grasp his shoulders, push away from him a little. He looks at you like a kicked puppy, but then furrows his brow as you gently pull him up, up, until you’re floating, face level with his big hips. You pull down the band of his sweatpants, down past his still-hard dick, sticky with his come. You lean forward, and lick him with the flat of your tongue. He smells so, so good. Like Caleb, clean sweat and clean laundry, but also bitter, salty, a secret part of him you’ve never smelled, tasted before. You lap at him, and he groans again. You take him in your hand as best as you can despite how big he is and lick him clean, like a lolly pop, as he bows over you, gently palming the back of your head with both of his hands, as you both drift in the air above your bed, caught in the shimmering net of his evol.

You pull away after the silken skin of his firm cock is clean again. He pulls you up to him again, body flush against yours, and kisses you, tongue plunging into your mouth. You taste yourself, and you taste him. He rolls your bodies in the air, until he’s under you, and then he snaps his fingers again.

You both fall back to the bed in a soft thwump of duvet and pillows. His body cushions your fall, and the mattress cushions his.

You rest your chin on his chest. Smile at him. “What a lovely dream,” you say.

He frowns at you, like he’s in pain, eyes a dark indigo. He wraps his arms around you, palms the back of your head as you rest your cheek on his chest. “It’s not a dream, Pipsqueak,” he says, but he sounds resigned.

“Promise?” you sigh, but you’re already yawning. Drifting back to sleep.

You don’t hear him say, “I promise. Cross my heart, and hope to die.”

[fckbatmanhiskidsareminenow]

dick grayson and his reoccurring shoulder injury

[4rk4n4]

Disability has been discussed heavily in Arcane as it is a reoccurring theme within the show, but I do think people forget that Silco is disabled and/or they have difficulty describing his disability despite it being very obvious. So, I feel like talking about this a little bit more here.

I don’t have the same disability as him, so feel free to correct me on vocabulary but from my understanding facial differences refer to a broad category that includes facial disfigurements which can be acquired through injury to the face. I do have experience with nerve damage, though, which I will talk about a little bit below.

Facial difference and disfigurement is considered a disability. I know you’re probably used to seeing villains with facial disfigurements. However, it is common for facial disfigurements to be associated with villains because real people with facial disfigurements are often ostracized from society.

It is difficult for them to find work, housing, relationships, etc. because of how we as a society position people with facial differences and disfigurements. On a social level, this disables them from participating fully in society. On a physical level, a person with a facial difference or disfigurement may not be able to utilize all physical senses though this varies greatly from person to person. As a whole, though, people with facial differences and disfigurements are socially and physically disabled.

The fact that villains represent the majority of on-screen representation for facial disfigurements is a problem. Any media could intentionally or unintentionally push those negative associations onto people with that disability. I think it’s fair to believe the same issue arises with Silco.

However, I do think Silco is a special case in that his facial disfigurement is not just a lazy trope, but one that is given a narrative explanation, though it’s still possible for the audience to consciously or subconsciously associate his facial disfigurement with his villainy. It’s in part why I appreciate that he still has a facial disfigurement in the alternate timeline, because Silco is clearly not a villain in that timeline.

Still, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that young Silco, who did not have a facial disfigurement, garnered more sympathy from the Arcane fandom when he was introduced on screen. People began to humanize him more. From my understanding, the fan content jumped in quantity. People began to associate his facial disfigurement less with his villainy and more with his trauma. This is the social impact on disability I’m talking about.

There’s also in-universe evidence that Silco struggles socially because of his facial disfigurement. Silco tries to cover up his scars with makeup. For people with facial disfigurements, makeup is not just an aesthetic choice. It could make a difference in how they are perceived or treated. Few people have seen Silco without makeup. This is not just vanity on his part. Some have fairly pointed out this might help with his trauma, but it may also be necessary for him socially.

As for the physical aspect of disability, we know the river water poisoned his blood, damaged his nerves, and infected his wounded eye. He says so. He does not cover up his eye with a patch nor remove his eye which suggests he may still be able to use it, but he may have limited vision in that eye. He is dependent on a dangerous drug to treat his condition. Medical dependency on a drug to survive and thrive is a sign of disability.

The infection and nerve damage also impacts his senses. Nerve damage limits movement in his face. It’s debatable how much he can feel on the scarred part of his face. It’s also pure speculation, but it’s possible that without medical treatments the infection could spread and damage nerves throughout his body. That’s why his dependency on Shimmer can’t be divorced from his disability.

We don’t know for certain what his experience with chronic pain is like, but I know what nerve pain can feel like and it can feel like your nerves are burning, freezing, or like “tv static.” We know that the injections don’t necessarily feel good, but he still does them which suggests the consequences of not doing them could be more painful. Chronic pain is a sign of disability.

Silco is not an open book in addition to being The Villain, though, so I think the audience struggles to understand what he is thinking or feeling and that extends to whether or not they view him as disabled. It’s just really interesting that he has a very obvious disability that people often don’t recognize at all. This doesn’t even get into the PTSD he likely suffers from, but that could be disabling too.

[stellarbit]

Confess

3k words NSFW Echoxreader

Someone requested some Echo smut and so I gave it a shot.

You catch Echo off guard and he has to deal with his feelings for you.

Laid up in the dimly lit corner of Cid's parlor, Echo grumbled under his breath as AZI-3 performed a body scan. Flanking him were you and his brothers, forming a protective semicircle. Omega, always eager to be involved, stood near Echo’s head, her eyes darting between you and the rest of the Batch as you all did a bit of bickering.

Chuckling, you lowered yourself into a bedside chair, “Wrecker, when are you going to learn to keep your eyes up.”

The burly clone rolled his eyes and head in the same exasperated expression. “I do keep ‘em up!”

“Considering you nearly made all of us fall, I’d say you didn’t this time.” Tech drolled.

At the mention of the fall, Echo gingerly touched the swelling bump on his head, a reminder of the chaos when Wrecker lost his grip climbing a cable to the Marauder, resulting in both of them plummeting twenty feet to the ground. Your voices were gradually sharpening the dull ache in his head.

A streak of red on Echo’s hand caught your eye. A tear in his glove exposed a cut you hadn’t noticed at first glance. As Tech and Wrecker continued their argument, oblivious to the new development, you reached out and gently grasped Echo's wrist. 

“Echo.” You said warily, as you pulled his injured hand closer for a better look. He kept his eyes shut, already knowing what you were about to say.

"Just a scratch, nothing to worry about," he murmured dismissively, trying to withdraw his hand, preferring to ignore the injury than address it in front of everyone.

You kept a firm grip on his hand, the pressure pushing a fresh drop of blood to the surface. Before he pulled away again, you took his bleeding finger into your mouth. The feel of your mouth around his gloved finger sent Echo lurching to attention. He was so caught off guard that he smashed his head straight into AZI.

At the same time Echo shoved away AZI and snatched his hand back. His sudden outburst had you reaching for him again, at least to stabilize him, but he had already scrambled up from his prone position, his eyes wide with shock. "What are you doing?" he blurted out, still wincing from the collision.

You opened your mouth to explain, but Echo cut you off, raising his hand to halt your words. He glanced down at his hand, then back at you, his cheeks coloring slightly.

Echo noticed the questioning look on your face and quickly averted his eyes. His voice carried a biting edge as he stammered, "I-It’s not clean."

Like every clone you’d ever met, Echo was a terrible liar.

You were about to respond when Hunter intervened, patting Echo on the shoulder with a light-hearted remark. "Glad to see you're okay." This gave Echo the perfect opportunity to divert attention from the awkward moment.

As AZI began to relay the results of his scan, your gaze lingered on Echo. You leaned back, puzzled by his intense reaction. During your time together, Echo had never before recoiled from such a simple touch. Well except once.

Echo soon walked off with his brothers, his attention drifting as he replayed the moment you had taken his gloved finger into your mouth.  The warmth that spread through him was something he thought the Techno Union's modifications had stolen for good. For the most part, his duties as a soldier kept him from thinking about it.

When the Batch reunited with you after Order 66, Echo knew he was feeling what you had when he was lost at the Citadel. His feelings only became more reoccurring.

 He would be lying if he said he’d never thought back to the singular night the two of you used each other as a distraction. For Echo, it wasn’t just a distraction, you were so much more to him. You saw him as more than a number and he saw you for the soul you were beyond a Jedi. Fearless, proud, and beautiful. But he also saw you for what you were, a Jedi bound by selflessness. 

Before Skako Minor, during a night spent in a medbay. Echo had been severely injured and, late that night you snuck in to see him. The weight of almost losing him overwhelmed you, and comfort turned into an embrace that quickly heated into staying the night wrapped around each other.

In the gray light of dawn, and under the threat of being discovered, you had mutually decided to confine that intimacy to just one night. However, Echo found himself frequently revisiting that decision. The memory of how you looked beneath him, the feel of your body pressed against his—these thoughts had been his companions through many lonely nights on the battlefield.

The warmth your mouth stoked in him spread, reminiscent of the heat from a kiss—his mouth on yours and then not just his fingers.

To be exact, the warmth of your mouth felt like it was around his cock. Even though your lips had touched him only briefly, his world narrowed to nothing but the memory of you.

A part of him felt undeserving and ashamed. You loyally spent years beside him, followed him to join the Bad Batch, and saw him as your most trusted friend. He wondered what you’d think if you knew what had transpired in him.

As the evening faded and days passed, you watched Echo, noting the careful neutrality he maintained in his interactions. He brushed off the incident as if it were nothing, but you weren’t fooled. You remembered too well the last time he had reacted like this.

After the night you spent exploring each other, the next time you whispered close to him, he had jumped as if blasted in the ass. He'd stammered some feeble excuse before quickly excusing himself. This time, though, you were determined not to let history repeat itself without a proper resolution.

This time you weren’t letting him off so easily. The war was over. You were no Jedi and he was not bound by his role of a soldier.

You were kind enough to wait until you got him alone to push him. A few days after the incident, you finally noticed Echo heading towards the Marauder by himself. You made no attempts at hiding your presence, in fact you sing-songed his name on sight. When the only response was a soft chuckle and an “Over here,” you continued towards Echo. 

He sat at the navigational screens, only turning slightly as you neared him. You smiled and leaned down, positioning yourself to look over his left shoulder for a shared view of the screens. The unexpected rush of emotions—loud heartbeats and butterflies—surprised you.

    Before second thoughts could hold you back, you reached out and gently touched his shoulder, your hand trailing down his arm until it rested over his. "Echo," you whispered softly.

    At your touch, his back straightened. You angled your face close to his, maintaining the contact. You kept your hand over his until he finally turned to look at you, his expression a mixture of caution and curiosity. His head still faced forward as you delicately laced your fingers through his.

   He reared his head and looked at you full on, his pale hazel eyes wide. Maintaining eye contact you picked up his hand in yours and pulled his glove off with your other. A light pink mark running up his forefinger was all that was left of his gash.

  You turned his hand over, inspecting the healing mark, then looked back to him. Echo swallowed and you couldn’t help doing the same. 

"I’m glad to see it’s healing," you commented softly, your thumb tracing the faint line. "Looks clean, too."

"What are you doing?" Echo's voice was tense, a sharp contrast to his usual composure.

At the same time, you asked, "What happened when I touched your hand the other day?"

Echo’s grip on your hand tightened, pulling you a fraction closer, almost as if he was challenging you. "You didn’t just touch me," he said, a hint of accusation in his tone.

You blinked at him, not suppressing your there it is smile. “What did I do then, Echo?”

His usual straightforwardness faltered, making this avoidance all the more telling. He sighed and his grip loosened slightly. "Please, just let it go," he pleaded, trying to pull away.

But you were quick to act, gliding your tongue along the length of his finger, a bold move that turned his hand rigid in yours. You ended with a soft kiss pressed to his lips, cherishing the contact and the rush of emotions it brought.

It took a bit of courage for you to meet his eyes again, lips still on his finger.

His eyes were shut, lips pressed tight, and heat scorched his cheeks. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was suffering. The thought made you panic.

Feeling suddenly foolish, crouched before him with just the simple kiss of his hand, you realized the irony of the situation. You had been far more intimate before, yet now, in this small gesture, you felt incredibly vulnerable. Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you kissed his skin again, softly whispering an apology.

“It made me think of you,” Echo's voice broke through the silence, a choked and hurried confession as his eyes fluttered open to briefly plead with the unknown before settling intensely on you. “When you licked my cut,” he continued with a heavy sigh, surrendering to the moment, “it made me think of our night in the medbay.”

That night had only been spoken of maybe twice over the years. During the war, you both had buried any thoughts of what could have been without the conflict. Because, without the war, you wouldn’t have Echo. But that hadn’t stopped you from recalling the things he whispered to you, or from clinging to the memory of how he felt during lonely nights.

Gently, you rolled his hand over to press his palm against your cheek, turning to kiss his touch tenderly. “Is that a bad thing?”

Echo leaned closer, his prosthetic arm pressing lightly against your shoulder, grounding the moment with its weight. “Of course not,” he replied sternly, his voice softening. “It’s just—”

“Because I like the idea of you remembering,” you interjected before he could voice his doubts.

His hesitation wavered as he searched your face, looking for something that might tell him this was real—that it was okay to feel this way. Finally, a gentle smile broke through his stoic facade, and he whispered back, "So do I."

Smiling into his skin you stuck your tongue out and licked him again. “And this?” You said between kisses. 

His eyes fluttered at the sensation. “It doesn’t feel like that’s my finger.”

The sight of him, relaxing back and a smile on him made you pounce. You took two of his fingers into your mouth this time and he took a sharp breath as he watched his fingers disappear past your lips. Echo felt you hum and a shudder ran through him. 

Echo withdrew his hand, leaned forward, and scooped you up by your arms. He effortlessly lifted you, pressing you against the control panel of the Marauder. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he leaned in, his face hovering inches from yours, his gaze dropping to your lips 

Overcome by the moment, you instinctively pulled your legs over his hips, drawing him closer. His hand moved quickly, silencing the beeping controls and sealing the hatch with a soft click, ensuring privacy.

"Careful," you whispered, your voice a playful taunt, even though you were completely alone. "Your training is showing, trooper."

Echo's response was a low chuckle, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours. "Say my name, please," he requested, his voice thick with emotion, turning the moment into a deeply personal plea rather than a mere flirtation.

You whined out a yes and said, “Echo.” Before pressing your lips to his. You felt him groan softly, his tension melting away as he leaned into the kiss with ease. His tongue sought yours without hesitation, initiating a deep, earnest exploration rather than a wild rush. Each moment was about savoring the taste and feel of one another, deepening the connection that had been simmering between you for so long.

Echo eventually pulled back slightly, his nose brushing against yours in a tender gesture. "I think I've known since the moment we met," he confessed softly, his breath mingling with yours.

Your one hand slid up to his face, gently kissing, “And what is ‘this’ exactly?”

Echo responded by capturing your bottom lip gently with his before he released it to murmur, "That I’d fall in love with you."

The words resonated deeply, sending a shockwave through your entire being. Every cell seemed to freeze, the significance of his admission striking a profound chord within you. On a reflex, you pulled back, creating a small space between you as you placed your hands on his shoulders to gently push him away.

Echo’s expression quickly changed to alarmed as he blinked at you, eyebrows raised. When he started asking what was wrong, your hands fell to your pelvis with fingers quickly working at your pants.

His breath hitched as he realized what was going on and made enough space for you to pull your legs back and wiggle out of your pants. Your pants hadn’t hit the ground and he’d already pulled at his own clothes enough to expose himself fully to you.

Neither of you broke eye contact as you nestled back together. A smile and hum bubbled from you when you felt him glide over you. 

Echo, leaning on his hand for support, choked out a curse when he felt you drip over him. Using your legs as leverage around him, you slid against him before positioning yourself at the head of his cock.

With your hands cradling the sides of his face, your thumbs gently stroking his cheeks, you looked as if you may plead for your life. In a way you were.

“Say it again,” you whispered, your voice a blend of demand and desperation.

Echo responded to the urgency in your voice, his actions mirroring the intensity of his emotions. As he closed the distance between you, joining your bodies slowly and thoroughly, the air seemed to thicken with anticipation. Though it felt like both of you could barely breathe, Echo's voice emerged clear and warm, filled with unwavering conviction.

"The moment I laid eyes on you, I fell in love with you," he confessed again, each word deliberate and heartfelt, 

The words themself sent a thrill through you, they hit you so hard you swore you could’ve came. You bit back a moan and he responded by pulling out a few inches and steadily pushing into you. He picked up a rhythm and his metallic arm steadied you against him.

Your hands held onto his shoulders for support as you pulled him into a kiss. Your body felt like it was thrumming, every move he made pulled a noise from you in some way as you came undone for him.

“Echo.” His name was a panicked plea.

"Yes?" He replied, his forehead resting against yours, both of you sharing quick, shallow breaths in the intimate space.

Your eyebrows drew together, your fingers tightening on his shoulders as the words spilled from you, heavy and raw. "I’m so in love with you."

 It was Echo this time that stilled, his sudden stop left him throbbing inside you.“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever met.” He said in awe of you. It felt like he released something deep inside him by allowing himself to say that. His eyes squeezed shut as another shudder ran through him. He let out a controlled breath. “I’m about to-”

It was you who now moved below him with quick, small thrusts, “If you love me, do it inside.” 

Echo dropped his hand to your hip and rammed himself fully inside you in one last thrust. The entire time he’d been inside you he had been stretching you, but him fully sheathed and pressing deep inside you was the point of no return. You writhed against him and contracted around him. 

“A-Are you?” Was all he could manage when he felt another sudden wave of pleasure.

 “Uh-huh,” was all you could utter through the thrill of your orgasm. Knowing you were cumming for him, on him, made Echo move against you again, throbbing and filling you again to the point his cum finally spilled out of you. 

Your foreheads touched, still caught in each other’s close orbit, and for a few moments ou simply breathed in unison, the storm of emotions settling into a calm. Echo looked into your eyes, his gaze steady and clear.

“That was a long time coming,” Echo said, his voice low and sincere. There was a hint of wonder, as if he was still processing the reality of the moment. The quiet between you was comfortable as you started pulling yourselves together.

As Echo buckled his gear back up he said in a teasing tone, “So, should we schedule our next confession for a few years from now or just surprise each other like today?”

Your laughter rang out. “Maybe without so many life-or-death settings.”

Echo’s eyes met yours again, reflecting a shared happiness and a forward-looking optimism. It was clear that whatever the future held, you would face it together, with no hesitations and no barriers between you.

[alterpathy]

Alterpathy: The practice of identifying, categorizing, and identifying with fictional and imagined illnesses due to a disconnect between your external and internal understanding of yourself - while also not intending to appropriate, romanticize, or cause harm to a minority group.

this is going to be a really long post because i want to cover all the basics. future coinings will not be nearly as long.

identifying, categorizing, and identifying with: making flags, coining terms, and posting about your experience. alterpathic conditions can also be divided into a couple of categories, which are detailed later in the post.

disconnect between your external and internal understanding of yourself: for some reason, even though you're aware that this isn't how conditions that affect the body work, you experience a reoccurring condition that is serious to you. this can be because of atypical dysphoria, delusions, alternate beliefs, delusions, or anything else similar.

appropriation, romanticism, causing harm: this doesn't mean that actions you take are automatically excused of harm, but it's a silent agreement and nodding between yourself and others that you're not trying to come from a place of ableism/bigotry.

ignoring/excusing bigotry: examples of ignoring/excusing bigotry would be implying that someone can "coin" a real mental illness/other condition in the same way you can coin a gender, implying you can "transition" into a congenital condition with subliminal videos or otherwise, and anything else that goes against science's understanding of illness and neurodivergence. there's nuance to this, of course, because the psychology field isn't an absolutely perfect field that can do no wrong - it's up to the person coining/the person identifying to look at the situation and act accordingly.

examples of situations that might bring you to identify this way:

being a fictive/kin/introject/etc of a character who had a disease or type of injury that was invented for their media, like zombie diseases, cyberbrain cclerosis, the cutie pox, hanahaki disease, etc, and feeling affected by it in any way

experiencing something in your system's headspace that's like a reoccurring illness

having limbs like wings, tails, horns, etc in your headspace with some kind of damage to them that causes you phantom discomfort

feeling anxiety/frustration because you're experiencing something on a metaphysical level which you know your physical body isn't experiencing, but it's still very serious to you and possibly even hurting your quality of life

grammar:

alterpathy: 1) the practice of naming/making flags/categorizing these, "here's my mogai blog and here's my alterpathy blog"; 2) this kind of condition. "my depression and my alterpathy make it hard for me," "i might have an alterpathy but i'm not sure"

alterpathic: descriptor that describes these conditions. "it's alterpathic," "how to cope with alterpathic..."

inspiration and some context on why we're coining this

this was largely inspired by the r*dqueer term of x*nomalady, because after the system looked into it, we did see a lot of cases of people who were genuinely experiencing something serious, but didn't seem to think that there was any space other than the rqc that would be accepting of someone identifying with a disease that technically didn't exist. these cases were mixed in with genuinely ableist people who displayed the behaviors i listed above in "ignoring/excusing bigotry," which feels wrong to me, and i think that people who aren't intending to harm anyone deserve their own terminology and space.

crossover

there is some crossover with dissodic, desirdae, intusui, ethix +etc good faith terms related to feeling like you have, internally have, desire, or identify with something you technically don't, and i think that's fine. you can identify with an alterpathic term and the equivalent of it in another term umbrella, that's fine. do whatever fits best to describe your experiences.

so, is this just x*nomalady but Good?

not exactly, i don't want this to be thought of as a 1-to-1 anti rq equivalent, because again, some x*nomalady people are just coining """disorders""" for fun because they think you can do that in the same way you would a gender. this is both an identity/experience, and a silent agreement to be critical of what you're putting out into the world. this is also not focused on "coining" new conditions unless that's really necessary. (not necessary = making up a new illness for funsies. necessary = putting a name to a reoccuring condition you've been experiencing in headspace, etc.)

in the same way that terms like dissomei and intusui aren't 1-to-1 tr*nsid but Good and are separate term umbrellas that have their own nuances and notes, this is a good-faith alternative for people genuinely experiencing this kind of thing.

can i coin my own?

yes, this is open to everyone to coin! though, i will be posting a couple of flags for some alterpathic things in a couple of days, so you might want to wait until those come out so you can see how i format the post.

TDLR: considering yourself to have a condition that's not possible in reality because of some internal identity, but not in a fashion where you ignore/excuse bigotry.

can i post this term on…

wiki/term definition sites: yes, and you don't have to ask, but i would like to be informed.

pinterest/other social medias: no, never, i'm not comfortable with someone else posting my term for me.

subtypes:

when a different self began working on this, he set out two subtypes of alterpathic condition. unlike something like the age ratings in nichelink, these are absolutely optional, and you don't have to include these in your term definition if you don't want to/don't find it useful. but i think that if you're like me and like lots of details, these could be appealing, so i will include what he wrote:

Fiction-based. This is aimed at conditions that are established some way in a work of fiction/media, such as:Hanahaki Disease Slender Sickness Radiation Sickness (as seen in the Fallout series, not the IRL version) Environment-Based. Specific conditions that you can recognize are happening because of things already in your environment, like trauma, alterhuman labels, existing neurodivergent symptoms and so on. As an example, I'll mention the specific thing one of the alters in my system has that inspired me to make this subtype. He is a fictive of an angel character, but from my perspective it is vary obvious that his wings don't work and cause him muscle cramps in our headspace as a metaphor for an injury we had when were a child that gave us severe muscle cramps and required extremely painful and traumatizing physical therapy. That's something that was in our environment, so I'd call it environment-based. Subtypes are an optional category though, and you might not be able to decide/understand if yours fits into one or both, and that's fine. Also, I acknowledge that just two subtypes might not be enough to cover all the bases, and also there are probably tons of conditions that fall into both or inbetween, and that's fine. I want to "cross that bridge as we come to it", and let people who identify with this tell me their thoughts about what other words need to be coined.

flag inspiration rambles

this flag went through a lot of design phases. it was originally much more inspired by the general disability flag, because we imagined that most of the appeal would be to people who are actually disabled (mentally ill people, etc). the final flag became more inspired by existing terms for people who experience a disconnect between themself and their conditions. i saw many examples of shades of purple and pink, scalloped stripes/rounded shapes, and specifically these flags were the biggest inspirations:

dissocogni and dissophysi by @/acetrappolaswife (deactivated)

desirsick/desirill by @shrubmogai

other stuff

tags: @antiradqueerguy | @radiomogai | @archive-of-form | @everythingarchive | @mad-pride maybe? | @plurality-faq | @anti-rq-gumi | @doomsd8ydevice // ask to be untagged

"would (thing) fit this?" ask, there's tons of room for discussion and nuance.

this post was written mostly by nichie.

flag template:

hanahaki disease example:

nonfunctional angel wings example:

[magiturge]

How did Hank and Sheriff first meet? And develop their relationship further?

well.. for their first meeting, you know. it left an impression.

with hank momentarily hesitating on the trigger to relish in the success of their rampage, just to lay with their brains on the table. it’s a lasting image.

in terms of developing their relationship more i need to back things with more context lest i wake some day, read this and feel a harrowing emptiness.

so if you’ll take a seat, pardon me, it’ll be long.

hank killing sheriff left a lingering grudge on him, printed on his mind for the years to come and as a result, hank became the target of almost any anger that came of the sheriff. even if more of sheriff’s mental strain and break came from jeb, his anger would funnel towards hank because his wrongdoing was more cut and dry than what jeb did to him.

the grudge festers and it’s almost as if it’s been put on a pedestal, kill hank j wimbleton, get your get back. give them the bullet you owe them, straight to the dome. you’ve got a force of men behind you, a fortress of some kind so do something with it. get that revenge.

and yet, those feelings aren’t reciprocated, because it was never that personal for hank.

..

the question here is “what does it mean to be recognized and acknowledged by hank j. wimbleton?”

what does that mean?

it’s what the sheriff wants, or atleast thinks he wants. for hank to get it into their head when he finally takes the shot that the sheriff is above them. you’ll see that i reign above you, that i’m better than you and you won’t get that jump on me again. you’ll answer to me, i’ve got the edge over you.

it’s just that hank doesn’t care.

even hatred isn’t reciprocated.

..so when they cross into the industrial sector, perhaps on their way to a different mission, and a particular grudge bearing cowboy puts his boot down, with years of actually toughening up under his belt, things are different.

somethings are the same though.

because when they have a spat on the wall of the industrial sector, and despite sheriff’s grand improvement in his capabilities in combat, when he gets slipped under and hank gets the upperhand, what does it do?

it relishes on the trigger, just the very first time.

because hank doesn’t respect anyone, hank doesn’t respect the sheriff.

and that’s how it gets its victory rugpulled out from under it, because he isn’t a defenseless coward anymore, he’s a coward that’s got a tougher shell and knows a way around a gun.

this should feel good, that he gave hank that bullet to the dome he owed him, but it doesn’t. not because he feels guilt, or remorse but that feeling that clarity that.. he’s watched hank clearly die in front of him long ago, and they came back. they always came back. even in a more grody, wretched shape they came back.

what made this death any different. and what stops them from coming back and chasing him down for this loss.

you’re acknowledged, at what cost.

one thing i like to clarify with hank, is they don’t have an issue with dying itself, but they have an issue with the way they die. if it was a stupid reason, a win stolen out from under it, bullshit that makes it all an inconvenience.

and that was all 3.

this is where i like to imagine they begin to have reoccuring spats between the two of them, across the industrial sector. ending in tight draws, be it from mutually sustained injury or sheriff ducking under the bullets of his own men into safety, a scummy tactic to escape his own loss.

..

hank is fragile. even in their hulking, tall and ominous frame they’re fragile. a network of bodies that don’t belong to them but they bear anyway. skin that isn’t theirs, grafted onto injuries. a heart that beats oddly, an inorganic jaw, muscles meeting the end of recruitment.

they’re a skilled killing machine, but they’re not immune to bodily exhaustion.

when you’ve got a score to settle, a petty useless on and off fight, with an equal parts FRUSTRATING target to catch. a practical moving turret, a once aimless useless coward knowing his way around a revolver, it gets exhausting.

so even when you’ve got the motivation to fight on, at some point, your frankenstein’s monster of a body will fail.

i’ve neglected to mention throughout this on sheriff’s side, he’s been continuously ruminating on just getting hank to buzz off again. that anger got washed away in victory and the clarity of this useless, resource wasting spat comes in.

so when hank’s body gives out in exhaustion, and they’re staring at each other. instead of gunning him down he..

..runs.

instead of keeping it up, he runs. instead of making sure hank is dead, even knowing as he glanced that the body is still moving, he runs.

..something about hank, is that it views many things through the lens of how optimal it would be in combat.

and the choice of a coward, turning his back on them, choosing to not shoot him dead like any reasonable mercenary would, his ‘stupidity’ was intriguing.

that’s how it begins.

because one of you is a script, and the other an actual entity. there are differences to be worked with.

their relationship develops more in the way of trial and error as hank is a rather independent, socially avoidant person in the sense it has little use for small talk, talking to people in general, sparking a conversation. sheriff also holds a certain image of hank in his mind as a killing machine incapable of grasping things like affection, friendship, even the idea of caring for someone, being considerate.

hank doesn’t have faith in anything, it just does.

sheriff has little expectation, but hungers the most.

it’s all still a cat and mouse chase, still with knives and guns but with an addition of chasing down thoughts and emotions.

a curious, intrigued desire to understand.

because you’re peculiar, and you did something stupid. you’re not the same as i last remember you being, a coward that put up so little of a fight and ran. you know what you’re doing now, and that irritates me.

sheriff is the most human of the cast to me, having had a social life, a job, a rational and completely reasonable fear of someone chasing him with a gun with intent to kill. a seldom seen sense of self preservation. he’s jaded and he’s desensitized but he doesn’t forget.

those kind of human treats, those luxuries of affection, of consideration and care.

hank doesn’t know that by default, it’s taught, it’s learned, it’s attached.

they never stop fighting, but they also never stop exploring each other.

they never normally vocalize their want of the other but they never stop digging their nails into each others skin when the embrace isn’t tight enough.

it’s a rocky, unpleasant and jagged path they’re walking..

and it feels good.

[laswells-ashtray]

It's a reoccurring issue in John's life. It strikes him with the spontaneity and force of a drunken father. The colour drains from his face and a familiar nausea bubbles under his skin, clawing its way up his throat.

He's yet to find a cause or a cure, it lingers behind him and attacks him unexpectedly.

It'd been Hell the rare few times it had struck him on a mission, he had fought despite the sickly feeling ravaging his body. He'd been planted on the ground, boot slammed into his gut and had lifted his head quickly enough to vomit over the enemy soldier's boots. He would've apologised if he hadn't followed it with a bullet between his eyes.

No one had to know about it, a perpetual weakness that led his system through a rollercoaster while his body remained immobile.

It often struck him while he was in his office, he spent so long in the room that he'd perfected the procedure to deal with the sudden bouts of rampant nausea that encompassed his system. Head on the desk for however long he required to rid himself of the queasiness and prolong sleep for however long he needed to catch up on the work he had missed in the wasted time.

At home, he had taken to just dropping to the floor, sitting with his head in his hands, Blocking out the familiarity of home that suddenly overwhelmed his senses and breathing heavily in hopes that the sounds of his breathing would be effective in tamping down the stomach-churning silence.

That's how Nikolai finds him. Leaning back against a kitchen cupboard, legs sprawled out in front of him and hands held so tightly over his eyes that Nikolai assumes the pressure has to be dizzying.

John's face is ashen and he's breathing heavily enough that the Russian knows it has to be deliberate, he's following a breathing exercise that he typically uses to calm himself when his patience is getting tested. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.

The worry Nikolai feels is almost palpable as his eyes scan over his partner, relying on what medical training he's been taught for the field as he looks for an injury of some kind. Some kind of answer that could allow him to slip into a clinical viewpoint, treat the cause and do so with a warm bedside manner.

He finds no injury, no wound, no sign of some old ache playing up. He doesn't hear the telltale gruff swearing as John is overcome by a twinge of pain striking his back.

He quietens his approach as he walks towards his partner, kneeling down in front of the other man and carefully pulling one of John's hands away from his eyes.

John lets out a soft groan, Nikolai is positive that the other man isn't aware of the noise as it leaves his throat.

"What do you need?" It's a low murmur as he brushes the back of his fingers over John's face, subtly checking for a fever. He doesn't find one.

John peers up at him for the briefest of moments before his eyes are firmly closed again and he offers a subtle shake of his head. Nikolai would have to guess that he's close to cleaning vomit off of their kitchen floor by the way John swallows and grimaces.

He tries to mollify the sound of the fridge door opening, the seal is stubborn after years of use and whenever he brings it up, John refuses to let Nikolai just buy them a new fridge.

Maybe, when he no longer looks like he's going to hurl, Nikolai can convince the captain to authorize the purchase of a new one.

He's quick to grab a bottle of water and close the door, inching towards John and setting the bottle on the floor by his legs as he lowers himself against the cupboard next to his partner. He's cautious not to jostle the other man as he slips his hand behind John, planting it firmly on his hip.

He considers the pros and cons of taking John through to their bedroom, the man would surely feel more comfortable if he were in bed but the journey to the bed might be his undoing. There's no point in attempting to alleviate John's discomfort if he only worsens it.

The Englishman slowly lowers his head onto Nikolai's shoulder, a faint breath of relief breaking through his trained, methodical breathing exercise.

Nikolai flexes his toes, circling his ankles and making himself comfortable as he prepares himself for however long they'll remain sitting on the kitchen floor. They'll sit on the kitchen floor for however long it takes to see colour back on John's cheeks.

Only then will he interrogate John on his sudden state of illness, and then he'll make him soup and thoroughly plan for how he can help treat it the next time it may occur.

[justice4gyeongsu]

━━━ 'CHAPTER ELEVEN' [WHEN DAWN BREAKS]

SYNOPSIS ➢ adults seemed cooler before the infection outbreak.

PAIRING ➢ lee suhyeok x male!reader

AU ➢ enemies-to-lovers au!

CONTENT WARNING ➢ this chapter contains; flashbacks, near death experience, choking, betrayal, violence, alot of angst, mentions of bullying, depression, some fluff, mentions of puking, reoccuring ptsd, exclusion, mentions of gore, blood, cannibalism [let me know if i missed any!]

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gwinam lunges at cheongsan, grabbing his shoulders with a vicious grip. wujin tries to intervene, attempting to pull gwinam off cheongsan, but he's too strong. daesu joins the fray, punching gwinam in the stomach, trying to distract him. jimin tries to pry gwinam's hands off cheongsan's shoulders, but he refuses to let go. despite the commotion, gwinam's grip only tightens, his fingers digging deep into cheongsan's skin. cheongsan's face contorts in pain as gwinam forces him to kneel, his shoulders screaming in protest. the group's efforts to stop gwinam only seem to enrage him further, his eyes blazing with a malevolent fury.

the situation is spiraling out of control, and it's unclear how far gwinam will go. the group's attempts to intervene only seem to be making things worse, and cheongsan is paying the price. joonyeong, determined to stop gwinam, swings a wooden stick at his head with all his might. but the stick shatters upon impact, splintering into pieces as gwinam's head barely flinches. gwinam takes advantage of the momentary distraction to break free from the group's grip. with a swift kick, he sends joonyeong flying across the rooftop, his body crashing to the ground feet away.

"joonyeong!" you shout, racing towards him in panic. joonyeong struggles to sit up, wheezing as he tries to catch his breath. "i'm okay... i'm okay..." he gasps, his face contorted in pain. you kneel beside him, helping him up as the others stare on in shock. gwinam stands tall, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes gleaming with a fierce intensity. the group's attempts to stop him have only seemed to enrage him further, and it's clear he won't hesitate to hurt anyone who gets in his way. cheongsan still kneels at his feet, his shoulders throbbing in pain. gwinam's rampage continues as he shoves off daesu and jimin, sending them stumbling backward. with a sudden burst of strength, he grabs wujin and hurls him at daesu, the two crashing to the ground with a strained groan.

cheongsan, determined to fight back, rises from the ground and throws a punch at gwinam. but gwinam intentionally takes the hit, his smirk growing wider as he shows off his strength. with a swift and merciless counterattack, gwinam punches cheongsan in the face, sending him crashing to the floor once again. cheongsan's body slides across the rooftop as gwinam kicks him, his form skidding to a stop near the girls. onjo, hroryeong, and jimin cower in fear, their eyes fixed on cheongsan's battered form. joonyeong, still recovering from his earlier injury, struggles to get up, his face etched with worry.

the group's efforts to stop gwinam have been met with brutal force, and it's clear he won't stop until he's asserted his dominance. suhyeok, still nursing his injuries, looks on with a mix of anger and helplessness. gwinam's gaze sweeps across the rooftop, his eyes lingering on each of them before settling on cheongsan's prone form. his smirk grows wider, his chest heaving with excitement.

as he stalks toward cheongsan once more you walk over and block his path. you stand frozen, the hammer trembling in your hand as gwinam's words cut deep. “look who it is,” his bored tone and scoffing gaze make you feel insignificant, and for a moment, you doubt your ability to confront him. gwinam's eyes linger on the hammer, his expression unimpressed. "you think that little thing can hurt me?" he sneers, his voice dripping with contempt.

your mind races, fear threatening to overwhelm you. you try to steel yourself, taking deep breaths to calm your racing heart. but your body betrays you, shaking uncontrollably as gwinam's gaze pierces through you. "shut your mouth, you gopher." the others watch in silence, their eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before them. they can see your fear, your hesitation, and it's clear that gwinam senses it too. his words echo in your mind, "i thought you would've killed yourself by now." the hurt and shame wash over you, making your grip on the hammer falter. gwinam takes a step closer, his eyes glinting with amusement. "you know who i am," he repeats, his voice low and menacing. “so why dont you crawl back into that hole you came out of, faggot!”

your heart screams at you to run, to escape the terror that stands before you. but your legs won't move, rooted to the spot as gwinam's gaze holds you captive. suhyeok's sudden attack catches gwinam off guard, the wooden plank cracking against his back as he lunges towards you. gwinam spins around, his eyes narrowing as suhyeok throws a punch that he effortlessly dodges.

but gwinam quickly gains the upper hand, his hand closing around suhyeok's throat like a vice. suhyeok's eyes widen as he tries to break free, but gwinam's grip only tightens. suhyeok's coughing and gasping grows more desperate, his face turning red as he struggles for air. you watch in horror, your mind frozen in shock.

but then, without knowing, you're sprinting towards gwinam, the hammer still clutched in your hand. your heart races, your breath comes in ragged gasps, as you launch yourself at gwinam. time seems to slow as you cover the distance, your eyes fixed on gwinam's head, twisted in a snarl. suhyeok's struggles grow weaker, his eyes pleading for help. you raise the hammer, ready to strike, as gwinam's gaze flicks towards you, a hint of surprise in his eyes. but he doesn't release suhyeok, his grip remaining unyielding. you swing the hammer with all your might, the back of it striking gwinam's neck with a sickening crunch. you feel a surge of adrenaline as the hammer pierces his skin, and gwinam's eyes widen in surprise.

he releases suhyeok, who collapses to the ground, gasping for air. gwinam turns towards you, his face twisted in a snarl, and pulls the hammer out of his neck. he raises it, ready to strike, but namra appears out of nowhere, pushing you behind her. with a fierce determination, namra swings a wooden stick, engulfed in flames, at gwinam. he tries to defend himself, but the stick connects, sending him stumbling backward. namra falls to the ground, but she's far from defeated. with a fierce cry, she crawls towards gwinam, the leftover piece of wood still clutched in her hand. she plunges it into his leg, piercing his skin and causing him to cry out in pain.

gwinam's eyes widen in shock as he drops the hammer, momentarily stunned. you seize the opportunity, quickly picking up the hammer as gwinam's gaze is diverted. namra's bravery has given you a chance to counterattack, but gwinam's anger and pain make him even more dangerous. you grip the hammer tightly, ready for the next move.

gwinam's face contorts in rage as he tries to stab namra with the wooden stick, but she refuses to let go of his arm. despite his kicks, punches, and shoves, her grip remains unyielding.

"let go!" he yells, his voice echoing across the rooftop, but namra's determination only grows stronger. gwinam's attention is focused on namra, his anger and pain clouding his judgment. he sniffs towards her, his senses heightened, and for a moment, he's distracted. you see your chance, hammer at the ready, and take a step forward. but jimin's voice holds you back, "don't, y/n! he's too strong!" you glance back, seeing jimin's worried expression, and hesitate. that's when namra seizes the opportunity, grabbing gwinam's hair and sending him tumbling towards the edge of the rooftop.

suhyeok rushes forward, trying to grab gwinam as he struggles to get up, but gwinam's newfound strength is too much. with a swift motion, he chokes suhyeok, holding him over the edge of the rooftop, half his body hanging precariously in the air. the scene is chaotic, with everyone frozen in shock. gwinam's eyes gleam with a malevolent intensity, his grip on suhyeok's throat unyielding.

you sprint towards suhyeok, namra by your side, and together you grab gwinam's arms, pulling with all your might. gwinam's grip on suhyeok's throat falters, and with a collective heave, you both send him tumbling over the edge of the rooftop. time seems to slow as gwinam falls, his body plummeting seven floors down. you grab suhyeok's sleeve, pulling him towards you, and peer over the edge, watching in horror as gwinam hits the ground with a sickening thud. the sound echoes up, a haunting reminder of the violence that's unfolded. you feel a shiver run down your spine as you pull suhyeok closer, ensuring he's safe. namra stands beside you, her chest heaving, her eyes fixed on the spot where gwinam fell. the rooftop is silent, the only sound the heavy breathing of those around you.

you glance around, taking stock of the group. suhyeok's shaken, but alive. namra's eyes gleam with a fierce determination. jimin and the others look on, their faces etched with shock and fear. suhyeok's gaze falls upon you, his eyes locking onto yours with a mix of gratitude and relief. he looks like he's seen a ghost, his face pale and shaken. "thank you," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the wind. you feel a lump form in your throat as you nod, still trying to process the events that just transpired. suhyeok's eyes seem to bore into your soul, as if searching for something more.

his expression softens, his eyes filling with concern as he takes in your trembling form. he gently pries his sleeve from your grasp, but instead of letting go, he wraps his arm around you, pulling you into a warm embrace. "hey, it's okay," he whispers, his voice soothing. "its safe now."

your eyes well up with tears as you bury your face in his shoulder, the visual of your past trauma still haunting you. suhyeok's grip tightens, holding you securely as you shake uncontrollably. the memory of being huddled in that corner, helpless and scared, comes flooding back. but just like this time, you're not alone. suhyeok's presence anchors you, his warmth and comfort a beacon of hope. namra and the others give you space, their concerned glances a reminder that you're surrounded by people who care. but in this moment, it's suhyeok's embrace that holds you together. "i'm here, he’s gone," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. your tears soak into his shoulder as you cling to him, the fear and adrenaline slowly giving way to a sense of safety and security.

its been a few minutes as you cry, suhyeok's grip only tightens, his arm a steady presence around you. he doesn't try to shush you or tell you to stop, he just holds you, letting you release all the pent-up emotions. slowly, your sobs subside, replaced by shaky breaths. you just lean your head against his chest, as he swayed slightly while holding you. his cheek on your head, as you closed your eyes. suhyeok uses his thumb to wipe your tears, he tilts your chin upwards, his eyes never leaving yours. "better?" he asks softly, his voice gentle. you nod, still sniffling, feeling a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. suhyeok smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "good." the word sent a shiver down your spine.

suhyeok nods, his arm still around you. "let's go." the group begins to move back towards the fire, suhyeok guiding you with a gentle hand on your back. as you walk, you feel a sense of relief wash over you. you're not alone, and you're safe. but the memory of gwinam's twisted smile and the sound of his body hitting the ground will haunt you for a long time to come.

the group makes their way to the fire pit, the warm glow of the flames a welcoming respite from the chaos that unfolded. suhyeok guides you to a seat, his hand still on your back, before sitting down beside you. namra takes a spot on the other side, her eyes scanning the group as if checking for injuries. jimin and the others settle in, their faces somber, still processing the events on the rooftop.

the fire crackles, casting flickering shadows on the surrounding walls. the warmth seeps into your bones, calming your still-frayed nerves. suhyeok puts his arm around you again, pulling you close. "we're safe now," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. you nod, feeling a sense of gratitude towards him. namra hands you a steaming cup of tea, which you take gratefully, the warmth spreading through your hands.

as you sit there, surrounded by the people who just helped you survive a nightmare, you feel a sense of belonging. you're not alone, and you're safe.

you bite your bottom lip, trying to distract yourself from the haunting memories of gwinam's words. but they linger, echoing in your mind like a cruel mantra. as you lean into suhyeok, he wraps his arm tighter around you, offering a comforting presence. the warmth of his body and the gentle pressure of his arm help calm your racing thoughts. around you, the others tend to their wounds, their groans and winces a reminder of the battle you all endured.

the group's quiet determination and suhyeok's reassuring presence help calm your nerves. but the memories of gwinam's twisted smile and words still linger, waiting to pounce on your fragile peace of mind.

“what was with that gwinam kid?” joonyeong's question hangs in the air, and cheongsan's response only adds to the mystery. "he turned into something totally different," cheongsan repeats, his eyes clouded with concern. you nod in agreement, still trying to process the events on the rooftop. as you move away from suhyeok, he lets you go, but his eyes remain on you, checking for any signs of distress.

you attempt to remove your arm from the vest sling, wincing slightly as you move it. but to your surprise, the pain has subsided, replaced by a dull soreness. you flex your arm, testing its range of motion. "be careful," suhyeok warns, his voice low. "you don't want to mess it up more"

you nod, still moving your arm cautiously. the others watch, their faces etched with concern. "what happened to gwinam?" wujin asks, his voice laced with frustration. "he was always a bit off, but...that was something else." suhyeok shakes his head. "i don't know, but i dont think he can die." the group falls silent, lost in their own thoughts. you continue to move your arm, testing its limits, while suhyeok keeps a watchful eye on you.

namra's voice cuts through the silence, her eyes wide with a mix of excitement and trepidation. "did you hear that?" she asks, her gaze darting around the group. you follow her lead, scanning the surroundings, but there's no sign of movement. hroryeong's confusion is palpable as he asks, "what? is it someone?"

namra's eyes narrow, her thoughts racing, but she says nothing. cheongsan chimes in, "i don't see anything," his voice laced with a hint of skepticism. but then, he freezes, his feet shuffling restlessly as he prepares to stand. "wait a sec... i hear... i think i hear a helicopter," he says, his voice low and uncertain. the group's attention snaps to where cheongsan is looking, their faces filled with disbelief. "what?" suhyeok asks, incredulous. but then, you hear it too - the unmistakable whir of rotor blades. "holy shit, there is one," you exclaim, wincing as you stand up, your sore arm protesting the movement.

a massive black helicopter thunders over the vast river encircling the school, its rotors churning the air as it hurtles closer and closer. cheongsan's voice rings out, urgent and clear: "fire! use the fire!" the group springs into action, scrambling to gather pieces of wood to signal the helicopter. anxiety and relief swirl together in a dizzying mix as they frantically wave their makeshift torches.

as the helicopter bears down on them, its intentions unclear, you whisper a fervent prayer: "oh, thank you god." with your uninjured arm, you wave wildly, hoping against hope that they'll be seen, that help will finally arrive. the helicopter's roar grows louder, its shadow looming larger, and it seems to be heading straight for them - a behemoth of metal and wire, bringing with it the promise of rescue.

in an instant, the helicopter's spotlight slashes through the darkness, bathing the rooftop in a blinding glare. everyone shields their eyes, momentarily disoriented by the intense light. as the helicopter draws closer, the wind whips up, sending hair flying and eyes squinting against the gale. thankfully, it hovers above the roof, its spotlight still fixed on the group.

you turn to check on namra, only to see her clutching her ears and wincing in pain. a jolt of fear hits you - they might discover her secret, her bite. you rush to warn her, but your words are lost in the chaos. the group is shouting, hands raised in defense, as two men in black military gear emerge from the helicopter, guns trained on the rooftop. confusion etches your face as you freeze, unsure of what's happening. before you can react, two more men descend from the helicopter, their movements swift and synchronized. and then, without warning, the helicopter banks away, leaving the group stunned and vulnerable, surrounded by armed men in black.

"wait..." you trail off, turning to face the four men who tower over you, their eyes burning with an air of command. their guns are poised, fingers hovering over triggers, ready to unleash a deadly storm at a moment's notice. "sir, can you help us?" daesu ventures, his voice barely above a whisper, but it's met with a curt, stern response: "get on the ground! now!" the group exchanges startled glances, uncertainty etched on every face. then, slowly, they begin to lower themselves to the ground, their movements hesitant and fearful. the men in black loom over them, their guns unwavering, as the rooftop seems to shrink, becoming a tiny, precarious stage in a high-stakes drama.

you cautiously lay down, careful not to exacerbate your injured arm, keeping it at your side while resting the other beside your head. fear of further damage holds you back from moving it. the man's voice cuts through the tension, his words sparse and clipped: "high school roof. 10 survivors confirmed." it's clear he's reporting to someone, following orders from an unseen presence. your gaze drifts to the man beside him, who produces a device and begins scanning hroryeong's head. "checking for temperatures now," he announces, his voice directed at the walkie-talkie in his hand. a shiver runs down your spine as you wonder what they're searching for. you glance to your left, where namra lies beside you, her eyes wide with fear. you try to whisper to her, but suhyeok's urgent voice on your right side drowns out your words, calling your name with a mix of desperation and concern.

you turn to suhyeok, "what is it?" you ask, sensing the urgency in his voice. his nervous gaze locks onto yours, "the helicopter left. i don't think they're here to save us..." he trails off, his words laced with a growing unease.

your attention snaps back to the men, who are methodically working their way down the line, their devices at the ready. a spark of desperation ignites within you. "grab something," you whisper to suhyeok, your eyes scanning the rooftop for anything that can be used as a weapon. suhyeok's bewildered expression makes you realize the recklessness of your plan, but you press on, your voice barely audible. "if they find out about namra, they'll kill her. if he tries anything, i'll jump on him and you hit the guy next to you, put him in a choke hold." but suhyeok's incredulous reaction cuts you off, his lips curling in disgust. "what the...y/n, listen to me. these guys are trained and have guns. you wanna just die off a stupid plan?" he hisses, anger and fear warring in his voice.

you ignore suhyeok's protest, your focus fixed on namra, who's now the next in line for the device-wielding man. your heart races, anticipating the worst.

"do me first," you blurt out, trying to divert attention from namra. the man pauses, his gaze narrowing as he takes in your awkward demeanor. "i'm just... really cold, right now," you stutter, "so i just need you to... uh, know that." your words trail off as the group's eyes flicker towards you, their expressions a mix of confusion and suspicion. it's clear you're trying to cover for namra, but your excuse falls flat.

the man's response is curt and unyielding: "we will reach everyone and take their temperatures accordingly." he turns back to namra, the device poised over her forehead. you silently curse, your mind racing for a solution. your gaze darts around the rooftop, desperate for anything that can be used as a weapon. your eyes land on a piece of metal near your feet, and you slowly extend your toe, trying to hook it and drag it towards you. but the metal scrapes against the rooftop, the sound echoing through the tense silence.

it's too late, the man's voice cuts through the air, "below average temperature. providing a warming blanket." he says matter-of-factly, as the guy beside suhyeok hands over a tinfoil-like fabric, wrapping it around namra's shivering form. you exhale a silent sigh of relief, grateful for the distraction.

then, it's your turn. the man takes your temperature, and you wait anxiously for the beep. when it sounds, he reads the result, his expression unreadable. "higher than average temperature," he announces, his words sparking confusion. suhyeok's voice rises in concern, "what?" but the man's gaze remains fixed on you, his silence unnerving.

your breathing quickens as he exchanges a weighted glance with his partner, then looks at the smoldering fire. his eyes narrow, as if piecing together a puzzle. "one was sitting too close to the fire, should reach average temperature in an hour," he states, his voice detached. "one has hypothermia, and the rest are normal." with that, he rises from his kneeling position, and all four men retreat to the other side of the roof, leaving you with more questions than answers.

"we'll rescue after the mission is complete, over," the man's voice crackles through the walkie-talkie, his words laced with a sense of detachment. you feel the weight of suhyeok's gaze upon you, and turn to meet his intense stare. "what?" you ask, a hint of defiance creeping into your tone. suhyeok shakes his head, his eyes clouding with a mix of emotions, before he looks away. you sense a deep understanding in his silence, and whisper, "if i was bitten, i know namra would've done the same for me." your words hang in the air, a testament to the bonds of friendship forged in crisis. as you glance upwards, you notice the military men watching you, their expressions unreadable. "you can get up now," the man says, his voice firm but detached. "are you all the only survivors?" he asks, his gaze sweeping the group. cheongsan hesitates before responding, "we don't know."

you take a deep breath, pointing towards the building you last saw the kids in. "i think i saw a group of kids heading that way," you speak up, your voice laced with a mix of hope and trepidation. "but, i'm not sure if they're still..." your words trail off, the unspoken fear hanging in the air like a challenge. the military men seem to understand the unspoken implications, their faces set in determined lines.

jimin steps forward, her voice trembling with urgency, "will you rescue us?" she asks, her eyes pleading for reassurance. the men nod in unison, their faces set in determined lines. "we will," one of them confirms, his voice firm and calm. "so stay here and wait, don't go anywhere," he instructs, his gaze sweeping the group. a collective sigh of relief ripples through the survivors, their tense shoulders easing slightly.

the four men then move with purpose towards the edge of the roof, their movements swift and synchronized. they begin anchoring themselves with thin black ropes, securing them to the rooftop with sturdy knots. the helicopter, now a dark silhouette against the moonlit sky, hovers above, its spotlight casting an intense beam downwards. the men clip themselves to the rope, their harnesses glinting in the light, before beginning their descent into the darkness below.

as they rappel down into one of the classrooms, the silence on the rooftop grows thicker, punctuated only by the creaking of the ropes and the distant hum of the helicopter. you all wait in uncertainty, unsure of what to do next, your eyes fixed on the spot where the men disappeared into the darkness. the minutes tick by, each one stretching out like an eternity, as you wonder what lies ahead.

the silence is oppressive, punctuated only by the occasional creak of the ropes or the distant hum of the helicopter. you shift your weight, trying to ease the tension in your muscles. namra, still wrapped in the warming blanket, catches your eye, her gaze questioning. you try to reassure her with a nod, but your own doubts linger.

suddenly, the rope attached to the roof jerks, and the sound of muffled voices drifts up from below. the men are communicating with each other, their words indistinguishable but their tone urgent. the rope jerks again, and a figure begins to ascend, hand over hand, towards the rooftop. as the figure emerges into the light, you see it's one of the military men, his face set in a grim expression. he reaches the rooftop and unclips himself from the rope, his eyes scanning the group before locking onto the man in charge. "sir, we've found something," he says, his voice low and serious. "you need to see this."

you look to suhyeok curiously, wondering what the military man could have found that's so urgent. suhyeok's eyes are fixed on the man, his expression unreadable. you nudge him with your elbow, trying to get his attention. he turns to you, his eyes narrowing slightly as he raises an eyebrow.

"what?" he mouths silently, his gaze flicking back to the military man. you shrug, equally puzzled. "i dont know," you whisper back, your eyes locked on the scene unfolding before you. the military man is now speaking in hushed tones to his superior, their conversation intense and serious. the rest of the group is watching, their faces filled with a mix of fear and curiosity. suddenly, the superior nods, his expression grim. "alright, let's move out," he says, his voice firm. "we need to get out of here, now." the group exchanges nervous glances, unsure of what's happening or where they're going. suhyeok turns to you, his eyes questioning. "what's going on?" he mouths again. you shake your head, just as unsure. "no idea," you whisper back, "but it can't be good."

the helicopter's rotors grow louder, whipping up a frenzy of wind as it descends closer to the rooftop. the military men spring into action, their movements swift and precise. they rush towards jimin, quickly hooking her up to a harness attached to a winch cable. "what's happening?" jimin asks, her voice laced with fear, as they secure her in place. "we need to get you out of here, now," one of the men responds, his voice firm but reassuring. suhyeok steps forward, his eyes wide with concern. "wait, what about the rest of us?"

the superior turns to him, his expression grim. "we'll get to you, but we need to do it one at a time." the winch cable starts to retract, pulling jimin towards the helicopter. she looks back at the group, her eyes filled with a mix of relief and happiness.

the military men swiftly move to hroryeong, hooking him up to another harness. namra stands frozen, her eyes fixed on the spot where jimin disappeared into the helicopter. you quickly move to her side, standing close to shield her from the military men's attention. you gently take her arm, trying to reassure her without drawing attention. namra's eyes flicker to yours, her gaze filled with fear and uncertainty. you try to offer a comforting smile, but your own anxiety betrays you. as the men finish securing hroryeong, they start to move towards cheongsan. you subtly position yourself to block namra from view, trying to make her blend in with the group. you close your ears, pretending to be affected by the helicopter's noise, hoping to deflect attention from namra's condition. the military men seem to be moving with a sense of urgency, their actions swift and efficient. you wonder what they've found, and why they're prioritizing some of you over others. the uncertainty hangs in the air like a challenge, making your heart race with anticipation.

as suddenly as it started, the military men halt their operations, their movements abrupt and unexplained. they quickly pull jimin back down onto the rooftop, removing the harness and wires from hroryeong. the group exchanges confused glances, unsure of what's happening. "what's going on?" wujin asks, his voice laced with frustration. "why did you stop?"

the military men seem just as perplexed, their faces etched with concern. they confer with each other in hushed tones, their words indistinguishable. the superior turns to the group, his expression grim. "we've received new orders," he announces, his voice firm. "the extraction is aborted. we need to secure the perimeter." the group looks around, bewildered, as the military men swiftly move to form a defensive position around the rooftop. it's clear something has gone terribly wrong, but no one knows what.

namra tugs on your arm, her eyes wide with fear. "what's happening?" she whispers. you shake your head, just as confused. "i don't know," you reply, trying to reassure her. "but we need to stay close." as the military men take up positions, their guns at the ready, the group huddles together, unsure of what's coming next. the silence is oppressive, punctuated only by the distant hum of the helicopter, now hovering ominously above the rooftop.

cheongsan steps forward, his voice laced with desperation. "aren't you gonna save us?" he asks, his eyes pleading with the military man. the man's expression remains grim, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the rooftop. "don't move," he barks, his voice firm and commanding. the group exchanges nervous glances, unsure of what's happening. suhyeok takes a step forward, his hands raised in a calming gesture. "hey, what's going on? why can't we leave?"

the man's eyes flicker to suhyeok, his expression unyielding. "i said don't move," he repeats, his hand on his gun. namra tugs on your arm again, her voice barely audible. "what's happening?" you try to reassure her, but your own fear is rising. something's gone wrong, and the military men seem to be preparing for a threat. but what? the silence stretches out, oppressive and heavy, as the group waits with bated breath for some sign of what's to come. the helicopter's hum grows louder, and the wind picks up, whipping hair into a frenzy.

one by one, the military men turn and make their way back to the helicopter, their faces set in grim determination. the group watches in horror as they depart, leaving them stranded on the rooftop. "wait, don't leave us!" joonyeong screams, his voice cracking with desperation. "please, you can't leave us here!" onjo begs, her eyes welling up with tears.

the military men don't look back, their faces resolute. they climb aboard the helicopter, which lifts off into the night sky, leaving the group behind. the rooftop erupts into chaos as everyone starts crying and begging for the military men to return. namra collapses to the ground, her body wracked with sobs. you try to comfort her, but your own tears are flowing freely. "why did they leave us?" hroryeong wails, his voice echoing across the rooftop.

"we're going to die here," jimin moans, her eyes streaming with tears. the group's despair is palpable, their cries and screams filling the night air as they realize they've been abandoned. the helicopter's lights fade into the distance, leaving them alone and vulnerable on the rooftop.

your tears fall freely, but your anger and frustration boil over, and you start pushing the tower of random chairs on the roof. they crash to the ground, the sound echoing through the night air. "you fucking cowards!" you shout, your voice hoarse with emotion. you point at the helicopter, now a tiny speck in the distance. "how could you leave us here?" you scream, your anger and betrayal pouring out. "we trusted you!"

namra looks up at you, her eyes wide with fear. "stop," she whispers. "please stop." but you can't stop. you're consumed by rage and hurt. you kick at the chairs, sending them scattering across the rooftop. "we're going to die here because of you!" you shout at the helicopter, as if the people on board can still hear you. the others watch in shock as you vent your anger. some of them start to cry, while others look away, unable to bear the sight of your despair.

as you finally exhaust yourself, you slump to the ground, surrounded by the scattered chairs. your body shakes with sobs, and your eyes burn from crying. the rooftop is silent, except for the sound of your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the helicopter, now almost out of sight.

you feel a hand on your shoulder, and you turn to see namra looking at you with concern. "it's okay," she whispers. "someone will come back." you groan with your hand gripping your own hair for dear life, “no ones coming back..”

[its-autumn]

random headcannons but they slowly get sadder

leo is scared of toasters because he stuck a fork in one when he was 7 and is forever traumatised

mikey likes making people he loves bracelets based on their favourite colours

donnie forgets to eat 24/7 so his brothers made him a chart where he ticks every meal per day so he doesn't forget to eat at least 3 times

raph gave leo some of his plushies to try and help him sleep after the invasion

leo and donnie share a room after the invasion because leo developed major separation anxiety and they found out when mikey walked in on him pacing around his room in the dead of night

mikey has chronic pain in his hands after the invasion

raph is completely blind in one eye and struggles with numbness in his shoulder

donnie freaks out whenever anyone touches him without warning no matter the situation

leo hides under tables when he has a flashback/nightmare and wont come out until he's completely convinced that he's safe

splinter doesn't know how to deal with the boy's trauma and problems but he tries his best despite the blow ups

they couldnt treat leo so he had to go to a hospital in the hidden city. when he came home an accident happened and donnie blew up on raph and splinter because of it

mikey has reoccurring nightmares that he failed to get leo back, hence how he ended up walking in on him in the middle of the night

raph constantly feels guilty about hurting his family. leo being scared of them during flashbacks doesnt help

donnie and leo both have memory problems due to their own injuries

more later? 😭