#revise later

[we-die-like-fools]

˜”*°•.˜”*°• pinned •°*”˜.•°*”˜

-I frequently post blinkies & web graphics I find.

-I make web graphics as a hobby & sometimes scatter them into posts I make (usually I mention if I do in the tags), feel free to use anything I make.

-please add credit if I have graphics credit for ppl on posts I make!!

-you can ask for specific blinkies if you want, if I have it i'll give em to ya (sometimes I'll even make some if I can't find stuff)

-if something's yours, feel free to ask for credit or removal! (you can dm me, send it in an ask, or comment on a post, if you ask in a reblog I might not always see it)

-I get (almost) everything off neocities, archive.org, & way back machine.

-I reblog a lot of clown stuff on this blog, but I try to add tw for clowns. If I forget a tw feel free to tell me & I'll add it.

-this blog is a side blog so I don't clog up my main w/ blinkies, webcore, & excessive clown related stuff, my main is @eastical

My blinky collection --(note: I'm tired of linking stuff so I'm not linking anymore.)

miscellaneous:

x x x x x x x x x x

clown:

x x

asks:

x

reblogged blinkies:

x x x x x x

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Flower Empowered.

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[alphabetcompletionist]

as a somewhat big blog i notice things

ABCDE GHI KLMNOP RSTU WXYZ

22/26

[controld3vil]

atreides and bene gesserit

pairing(s): dune 2 cast x actor!reader (platonic), austin butler x actor!reader

synopsis: requested by this ask!

⤷ alt: as clueless as you were about your sister's role, it brought you much surprise and joy to see her on the same carpet as you.

notes: reader uses fem pronouns as she's playing a role as a bene gesserit. reader is also described as wearing a sleeveless jumpsuit. and i really enjoyed lea seydoux's performance and hope to see more of it !! this is also COMPLETELY separate from the first two posts ive made since the readers r playing different characters yeah?

When Denise Villeneuve asked you about the role of Lady Margot Fenring, you were genuinely shocked about his decision. You appreciated his works but have never gotten close to any of his sets before. You have worked with directors who've admired Villeneuve for his imaginative mind. And now, you witnessed his creativity in person for the first time.

The role was small and not as significant as the other main leads. Regardless, your character was just as enigmatic and complex as any other in the Dune franchise. Even though your time was short, it was a fun experience to learn and observe from. You weren't able to meet the entire cast after production, but with the NYC premiere, you were able to link up again.

You heard your name being called out. "Hello! How are you?" The well-known comedian and presenter by the name of Amelia Dimonberg was now beside you. In her jet-black corset dress, her style is chic and elegant. She hands you a microphone with the film's title plastered on it. "You look beautiful!"

"Thank you!" you sweetly recuperate, diverting your shoulders to the sight, cutely. You give a little pose before complimenting her own outfit. "You as well!"

"Do you have a memorable day on set that sticks out to you?" Amelia questions, subtly leaning toward your direction. And now you noticed her detailed eye makeup which enhances her outfit altogether.

"Well- I've had, like, only a few days," You let out a quick sigh. Truly it was nothing to be embarrassed about but you could not help but feel shy about it.

"Mmhmm! So all of them?"

"Yeah, all of them!" With ease, your shyness turns into giddy laughter as all you remember from your times on set. Recalling those tiny moments brought a small smile to your face. "Every day counted for me and that was enough."

"Oh absolutely!" Amelia chides, nodding in agreement. She quickly then moves onto the next question, "How long do you think you could last in the actual desert?"

"Oo that's a tough question," Lifting your fingers to rest on your chin as you try to contemplate an answer. "Ideally no- I feel like I could never recover from the heat."

"Yes yes, the heat's very intense,"

"Yeah- no I don't think I'd ever leave my house for that-" You shake your head nonchalantly, acknowledging how most of your scenes already were indoors. You could imagine how you would do in the desert of Abu Dhabi. It makes you appreciate the cast and crew even more for their effort to make filming more comforting and tolerable.

"Where would be your dream location to hang out? I'm assuming your home then since you prefer to say inside?" The blonde interviewer quickly catches on, eyebrows raising intrigued by your response.

Instead, you hummed bashfully, "Actually I think an oasis would be nice." The camera catches onto Amelia's face, fully fixated on you. "Which fits perfectly if I were to live in the desert actually!"

"Mm yeah, smart choice!" She responds more cheerily. "You can maybe go for a swim, you know-"

"Right right," You give her an playful look, "And you don't have to go thirsty!"'

"Absolutely, the best of both worlds," Amelia chirps, doing the same expression. "So this film centers a lot around dreams. Do you have vivid dreams of yourself?"

"Yes! I've uh- I've had many dreams of myself. I mean, this one, for example-" You turn to the camera, waving with the most adorable smile on your face. "'I'm living my dream right now!"

"You're living your dream right now!"

In another section of the premiere, you were walking down the carpet for press interviews and photography. The set where the premiere was taking place was gorgeously made in the shades of black and orange, the perfect theme of the film. The entire venue was outdoors, allowing you to feel the cold air and be more at ease in the crowded space. There were more paparazzi than you had expected, and you suddenly became aware that you were alone. Without any friend or acquaintance to accompany by, you searched aimlessly for a familiar face.

Then there was a holler. And then multiple more came after, it made you confused really. Your head swerves to the sound of the person you so try to look for and immediately you're struck in awe.

"Anya?!" In an instant, you're seen running towards your sister in the far back of the premiere wall. People were reluctantly used to fast-paced relocations around the carpet. Therefore most did not mind your hasty stumbles through the crowd. It was almost comical how apparent your demeanor changed when you heard her, in fact, videos and pictures caught all of it.

"Hi!" She beams in her white dress robe. Her makeup was glowing, making her skin seem angelic, and sheer without impurities. Her outfit covers her like a nun, covering her head and body in almost transparent cloth. Yet it flows around her so elegantly, almost like she was an angel from the stars. She squeezes your figure firmly, only after releasing to gush about your appearance.

You adored a beige sleeveless jumpsuit. The color is complimented with tiny designs of sparkle. Its seams captured your figure perfectly, as you also wore a gold chain and bulky rings. From the lighting, it looks as though your outfit is shining. And to be completely honest, you prefer comfort over the judging looks of fashion critics. Therefore you wanted to wear something that you could still move comfortably in. Thus you were able to run over to your sister with ease.

Through the other lens and camera, they could pick up some of her words after. "You look so gorgeous! How are you here?!" Anya's expression changes into a perplexed one as she gets a hold of your shoulders, shaking them back and forth.

"I was invited obviously, "You said, mimicking her voice while holding onto her arms on yours. "You didn't tell me you were a part of Dune!" Viewers from afar could tell you were pushing an act, reacting as though you were petrified about how Anya managed to be here in the first place.

"I didn't know you were either!" She giggled, closing in on your right ear. Your sister whispers to you slowly, trying to withdraw from the camera and recordings. "Villeneuve had mentioned something but honestly I just thought it was a joke."

It was your turn to guff. Your mouth opens wide flabbergasted, looking sarcastically offended. "Why would you think he's joking?!"

Anya scoffs lightly, wanting to go further with the joke. "I don't know- I just didn't take his word seriously,"

"Why? Because you didn't think I'd make it into the film?" You accused, eyes widening with a hand over your heart. "You're so cruel."

"So cruel," She smirks up at you, then moves back to be by your side. You see her face forward the flashing cameras, as you do the same. "Come! Let's take some pictures!"

"Your outfit looks beautiful by the way!" Anya Taylor muses, eyeing down at the fine details on your jumpsuit. "It's very... you!"

You give her a nod, before flattening some of the creases, "I thought this color was so exquisite, so I thought it would be perfect for the premiere." You lift your head to look at your sister, before realizing behind her, the upcoming stars of the film were getting ready to take cast photos. "Oh Anya- I think you should go!"

Your sister turns and then gazes back at you with a soft smile. "You should come with me!"

The thunder of cameramen and journalist blurred your focus for a moment. "Are you sure-"

Again the sound of your name is hurdled but this time from someone you haven't seen in a long time. Jessica Ferguson, who too wears a black body suit with veils and bold makeup. She waves her hand almost too eagerly to have you come closer alongside your sister. "Come, join us!"

Videos were filmed of the people gesturing to the cast of Dune in a line. Little by little, the row of people is filled and organized to be in the center of the camera's focus. Some actors had to move spots, due to lack of space or better color semblance on the other side of the row. You stood next to Jessica and Florence Pugh was beside your right, as you tried to stand closer for the picture.

Anya Taylor was on the opposite side, with Austin Butler and beside him, Timothee Chalamet. A noticeable clip taken all over was when the French actor went to greet the English actress, warmly, clasping her hand with both hands as a proper salute as on-screen siblings.

You did not mind the lack of attention. You were happy for Anya for achieving a great role. One with a welcoming cast and crew. It was then your eyes scanned down the row, from Zendaya to Stellan Skarsgard. Then to Austin, whom you've been familiar with since day one. Only him to find your gaze seconds later. You give a little nod and smile before averting your direction to Anya who is already staring at you with gleaming eyes.

You were going back and forth with Jessica and Florence on your travels for a while. From plans reception to favorite desserts, all you three wanted to talk about was food. Paparazzi caught onto your banter quickly and snapped a few photos. You even went out of your way to do silly poses. Followed by Jessica and Florence, then did the same, sticking their tongues out in a rock star kind of fashion. You throw out piece signs, giving a dramatic frown as another flash happens.

Catch-ups were definitely refreshing and fun. Thus why you nearly jump when Austin appeared behind you.

"Oh my gosh, hey!" You stuttered, giving him a quick hug to calm your nerves. "You scared me!"

"Sorry sorry! I just wanted to surprise you!" He leans his head slightly, allowing better eye contact. You felt a few taps on your shoulder and noticed Jessica and Florence scurrying away, with their thumbs up, all goofy and excited.

Your eyes make it back to his. "I would've said hi back at the cast photo, but you were so far away," Shrugging you dismiss your failure as a mild missed opportunity.

But Austin shakes his head in an averted manner. "No- Don't worry about it." You could already sense interviewers and others with microphones closing on you two. You were out in the open, and it's bound to happen. "I wanted to- you know, say hi to you in a less chaotic place."

"I tried looking for you but there's just so many people," You give your costar an exhausted look. It was then a keen young man approached the pair of you. It was the People magazine, as you became aware of the logo alongside their camera and microphone.

"Hey, would you two mind a short interview for People's magazine?"

Truly, this was what premieres were about. The cast and crew meet with fans to show what they have worked so hard for. You brought you no better satisfaction than to praise everyone's efforts. The interviewer then proceeded to have a quick introduction of you and Austin beside you. You both had separate microphones in each hand. Once the video started rolling, you peered at the camera and gave the audience a grin.

"So how are you guys doing? Met all of your lovely cast members yet?"

"Oh absolutely," You emphasized every syllable, nodding. Austin only glances at you in amusement. "It's crazy how many people are here I was so overwhelmed!"

"Yeah, it was pretty crowded," The male actor adds, lowering his microphone slightly.

"Hopefully it will die down!" The interviewer beams. "So what was it like getting to know each other in this film? How was the first day on set like?"

"Oh, well it went very smoothly," You start, staring up at Austin in approval. "Even though my time was short on set, I feel like we had a pretty good rhythm starting out."

"I was about to say! The scenes with Feyd and Lady Margot were really something!"

"Why thank you, we appreciate it," Austin nervously laughs, scratching his ear.

The interviewer takes the lead to discuss your preparation for the role and how it was working with Villeneuve. As new characters, you and Austin both talked about your views on both of your characters. Both are very different yet mysterious to the viewers. Additionally, you two were introduced in a similar scene of the pit fight. The People's Magazine interviewer was compelled to compliment Austin on his opening scene. You knew he had practiced the choreographed fights vigorously. And of which you were lucky to witness on the days that you were present.

"It was completely freeing and different than what I was used to doing," Austin probes, leaning toward your direction. "Were you there for the pit fight?"

"I think I was," You turn, similarly. "I remember watching from afar and thinking wow." Immediately you could sense him eagerly looking down at you with a sly smile. "He was- Austin did amazing with the fight choreography, I was impressed!"

"Was this the first time seeing him in full costume too?"

"Oh yes!" You bonked your hand on your forehead, "He was and I just- couldn't believe it was him!"

Suddenly Austin jumps in, "She was startled when I first came up to her in full costume."

"You came out of nowhere, by the way!" You rebutted, giving him a side glance.

"I didn't mean to," As he tries to reassure his actions, "I wanted to give a good first impression!" It was humorous how playful you two were together despite having dissimilar filming schedules. Though most of your scenes involved Butler, your friendship only became more apparent weeks after working together. It was off and on for months at a time due to being busy in other countries simultaneously.

Eventually, you were able to link up again weeks before the premiere. After waiting a long time to meet up, you almost felt relieved that you hadn't seen your costar in a while.

"And Austin, how was filming with her?! From a character's standpoint, what kind of dynamic do you see playing out?" The People's Magazine interviewer perks up, having the camera transition from his face to Austin's.

"Well I'd say, she's great. You know I've got to meet a lot of amazing people in this film. And," He says your name sincerely, "She's- she's one of those people. I can't say much for Lady Margot and Feyd's relationship- you know there's a lot of that's still not uncovered. We don't really know what's happening but kind of have an idea of something. And to have such a great actress like her, it makes everything feel authentic and- feel the tension." It felt as if you were in a daze, eyes completely focused on his words with such admiration and grace. Before you knew it, you were smiling as if you had won the best possible prize in the world. His compliments to you meant more than you had anticipated really.

Unbeknownst to you, the cameraman had caught your lovestruck expression before directing attention back to the interviewer. "And how about you, Miss Margot?"

"I'd say it's the same," Now looking at the interviewer, only momentarily back at your costar. "Austin's- he's great at all the stunts and acting like a scary dude. Every scene with him was fun to do. Like he's all serious in character but once they yell cut! he's so nice and funny!" Your bubbly laugh breaks as you can feel your face growing hot.

"Well I appreciate you liking my humor," Austin pokes fun at you, fanning a little air towards you.

You mutter a soft thank you! before continuing, "And he's dedicated you know? I remember one scene, a little spoiler, where Feyd is about to be tested by Lady Margot, and I just couldn't do it! I couldn't keep a straight face!"

"Really?!"

"She just kept breaking, I don't know why," The actor shrugs, his attention closely drawn to you. "We had a few takes on a few days."

"We did! We did!" You gave a big frown, "You just have a really distracting face."

"Do I?" Austin asks, between the lines of teasing and coolly.

By the time, other premieres had occurred, people were still focused on your interactions with Austin Butler. Your chemistry on and off screen on the carpet was hilarious. And with how polarizing your characters were, it made many clips of your shared encounters gain attention.

A few short videos were recorded after the People Magazine interview of you and Austin, bashfully talking behind the stage. The two of you went back and forth whispering in each other's ears about what was unknown to the viewer. Through a bird's eye view, the video also catches you hugging your arms before zooming in on Austin's placing an arm around your figure.

Another clip that had been reposted many times was when you both took duo pictures together. As you comfortably shift your weight on one leg, as you turn to have your side face the flashing paparazzi. Whilst the Elvis actor stands beside you at a pleasant distance, doing the same pose to the other side. There was one instance where you lifted your head to make eye contact with your eyes instantly brightening. As Austin's smile widened, only to blow air in your face.

[nyaskitten]

I like my cheese Drixy.

[anewp0tat0]

I tried but not very hard to see what the anniversary date was, and i decided to just prepare myself for the 16th or the 18th... it was the former. so, as always, but this time truly by accident... happy belated 17th birthday Black Butler!! I truly hope this year is amazing for us.

this year, I decided to use an idea I had wanted to try for a while but I never thought I would be able to pull off. and I still probably couldn't in the best way.... but regardless, here is a made up last chapter scenario.

you can also see this comic on webtoon here. whatever your fancy, if you please :>

[the-lavender-clown]

I saw this tiktok earlier and literally couldn’t stop myself from drawing this

[meowmeowovermeta]

I created this haikavetham ship iceberg and posted it on twt and may as well post it here too :)

the surface is first impressions - to details you pick up in game - to fandom brainrot - to deep lore

because there's so much stuff there are things i just put under one general category, i.e. wedding stuff just went into wedding themes, because there's a lot of that. and alhaitham drinking from kaveh's cups to kaveh freely reading alhaitham's notes goes into comfort/taking liberties.

[femaeri]

New CA date storyboard in the material ultimania and Cloud is blushing as he holds the petal!

Appearantly he is also described to look “a little happy and shy” in the Japanese text besides the storyboard but I’m gonna wait a bit to say for sure! But regardless this is so cute! 😭

[thesunisatangerine]

against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part seven

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

warnings: mentions of death/dying

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 5k

A dull, stabbing pain throbbed in your right rib and you put a hand over it–you hoped to ease it somehow but it remained–as you replied, “I… I don’t know, Derek. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.”

The movement didn’t go unnoticed from Derek’s watchful gaze, especially when he was sitting right there beside you on the couch, and his blue eyes shone with the familiar question, ‘Are you okay?’ You answered him silently with a reassuring raise of your brows and a wave of your hand. Seemingly placated for the time being, he put a hand on your shoulder and squeezed gently.

“There’s no pressure. I just thought I’d let you know before I pass it on over to Jersey and before I inform the client she’ll go in place of you. But if you’re interested in just going to watch, we can arrange that, too.” Derek paused, opened his mouth then closed it, and he looked a bit unsure about the words he wanted to say. 

Then he continued, “I… I think it will be good for you.”

The thought of returning back to the field, albeit for sporting coverage, still instilled anxiety in your stomach. Sure you had made enough progress in therapy to pick up a camera again without having a breakdown–you remembered crying out in relief when you did it for the first time after your last photojournalistic coverage–but covering the Olympics with tens of thousands of people present, one of them being Alexia? 

It was painfully obvious that that was something truly out of your depth. You just weren’t ready. 

But the thing was, would Alexia even care if she saw you there? You hadn’t spoken to or seen her in person in, what, fourteen months? What would she even say? What would you say? Considering that you were just a fling, you doubted that Alexia would even recognise you, much less care. The last time you were tempted to search up her name, you burnt yourself when you saw a candid photo of her and another woman. And the fact still stood that–and she said so herself, didn’t she?–you meant nothing to her. 

Another firm refusal was poised on the tip of your tongue when a round of giggles that erupted from the backyard, carefree and full of glee, captured your attention. Through the open sliding door of the living room you found your daughter with her Uncle Robert, head thrown back in a heartfelt laugh at whatever her uncle was telling her with his animated gestures. 

You smiled at the sight, chest immediately feeling full and warm. 

“For the both of you.” Derek added and when you looked back at him, you found his focus directed to where yours was only a moment ago. You regarded the scene again, fiddling with the string on your wrist as you mulled his words over. 

More than a year ago, you couldn’t even fathom imagining that you’d be able to behold a scene such as this. More than a year ago, you almost died–no, you did die–and the months that followed were nothing short of arduous, the first few weeks after you woke up even more so. It was as if the time between then and now existed on its own plane; you remembered it so vividly that sometimes when you sink into the darkest recesses of your mind, it almost felt like you were still there, and this–the now–was an illusion your lamenting mind had conjured to mollify yourself.

This almost felt too good to be real–too tranquil.

And as if awoken by the mere whisper of it, the memories pulled you away from reality and made a spectator out of you as you sank back into the most difficult time in your life. 

-

-

From nothingness came the noises, followed by sensations, gentle in their intrusion at first before they made their presence more pronounced, rousing you finally. 

There was a steady beeping and a gentle, mechanical hum coming from somewhere beside you and as the scope of your hearing widened, muffled footsteps and chattering registered not a moment later. Your mouth was parched but when you tried to swallow, a tightness in your throat prevented you from doing so and you groaned. Then you felt a dull ache along your right side, from the top of your shoulder, to your ribcage, and down to just by the side of your abdomen.

It took considerable effort to lift your eyelids but you managed. You found a grey ceiling to begin with but as your eyes fleeted through the room you were apparently in, you eventually found your mom asleep just beside your bed. She was curled in on herself, bent and tense, knees tucked close to her chin while her arm supported her head as a makeshift pillow against the chair’s arm. Even in her slumber, she didn’t look at peace: her brows were furrowed, the corners of her mouth tilted low, her lower eyelids looked red and raw, cheeks void of their usual carmine tint. From where you were, you could see the lines that had etched themselves on her face as if years had passed since you had last seen her. 

She flinched as if a rough hand had jolted her awake, her eyes weary as she opened them at first. The moment she caught your eye she froze–she didn’t even breathe–before her eyes lit up with tears. Then she was beside you, enveloping your head in her gentle cradle as her tears fell on you, searing against your cold cheeks.

In that moment, you didn’t realise how cold you were until you felt your mom’s tender warmth and the comfort it brought. Emotion bubbled in your throat and you sobbed around the apparatus in your mouth for your mom’s presence. So enraptured were you by her grace that you didn’t even realise that the both of you weren’t alone anymore until a nurse urged your mom to step aside so the doctor could check on you.

You’d been slipping in and out of consciousness for the past twelve hours after waking up from an eleven-day coma, the doctor told you in a gentle manner as she assessed you. Satisfied with what she saw, she turned to your mom and gave her a reassuring smile. She said that your state looked promising, that the likelihood of you slipping back into a coma was slim, but you should expect to sleep more deeply–for more than twelve hours a day–during the next week or so due to the damage in your right lung and your increased brain activity. True enough, just the brief interaction and exposure to the stimulants had taken a decent chunk of your energy, and you were beginning to feel exhausted already. 

The doctor and nurse left shortly after that and your mom stuck by your side. She clung to your hand, her fear that you would disappear if she even let go for a second as apparent as the tears in her eyes. Her grip was crushing you but even if you could tell her, you didn’t have the heart to do it because you saw how much she needed the closeness, the physical contact, how much it brought her relief so you let it be. And if you were being honest, the slight pain grounded you to her presence–to be present in that very moment.

The door of your ward opened again, the movement catching your attention, and in came your brother. His cheeks were red and he was heaving his breaths through his open mouth, blue eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. As his gaze found yours, his mouth closed in a tight line but not before a sob left his lips, chin shaking and brows furrowing which made the tears in his eyes to finally fall. He nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get to your side, his arms immediately around your head as he sobbed out apology after apology against your temple. 

Tears welled in your eyes and you longed to grab his face, to put your palms over his ears, and tell him that he had nothing to apologise for. Your heart broke and when you felt the warmth of your mom’s arms around the both of you and felt her own tears against your cheek again, a gravity pressed against your chest as the realisation of what nearly happened finally sank in. 

You wept then as it hit you, sobbing into the arms of the people you cared most about in the world. 

You cried in relief. 

You cried in grief.

And you cried because you were alive to do it.

The next time you woke, a nurse stopped by to take out the ventilator tube from your airway and replaced it with a nasal cannula for your oxygen support. She said that depending on the rate at which your right lung would recuperate, you needed to be on oxygen support for six to eight more weeks.

Your throat felt raw from the extraction but the relief that came from it was very much welcome. You’d been itching to ask your family about what you missed and what exactly happened. There was an empty space in your memory where memories as to how you ended up in the hospital should be–at that point you couldn’t recall anything about the child, the gunfire that wounded you, the dreams; your mind was completely out of the loop. 

And you did just that. 

In response, your mom pursed her lips in a thin line, stern and stubborn as mothers often were when they got protective of their children, before she shook her head firmly. 

“You heard the doctor, hon. You need to rest for now.” 

You tried a couple more times that day, even with Derek, to gain some insight  but your family remained resolute in preventing you from being stressed out. They reminded you that you had plenty of time to put the pieces together. 

Then familiar faces jumped in your mind and the guilt blazed in you, unforgiving. How could you have forgotten about them?

“Derek. Where’s Jones and Gilda?” Tremors made the rawness of your voice all the more apparent, and you stared at you brother in apprehension. The monitor began to beep as it detected your accelerated heartbeat, and your mom was automatically beside you to hold your hand, brushing the hair on your crown to soothe you.

“They’re fine, sis. Breathe.” Derek replied quickly, patting your covered foot over the blanket. “Gilda fractured her wrist and Jones is actually on standby.” 

You sighed, tension immediately leaving your body at the information. You nodded your thanks to your brother for at least putting your mind at ease by telling you that. 

“That’s enough for today.” Your mom said sternly before she pointed at you. “You. Rest. Now. And you, zip it.”

Derek put his hands up, pulling his brows up and the corners of his mouth down in an exaggerated manner, and at that, you laughed. 

Despite your growing impatience over the days that followed, bits and pieces of your memory finally returned to you but not without some help. On one occasion your mom, albeit with a tightness in her voice as if the mere act of speaking about it brought her terrible pain, finally told you what happened after you lost consciousness. 

She recounted what she’d been told by the first doctor that took care of you: how a returning convoy with a paramedic onboard heard the gunshots and managed to get to you on time. Any longer and they wouldn’t have been able to–she stopped to wipe her tears and tried to find her voice again–they wouldn’t have been able to resuscitate you when your heart stopped on the way back to camp. Your right lung had collapsed from the penetrating wound in your chest and, along with the ones in your right abdomen and shoulder, you’d lost a lot of blood already that by the time you were put under surgery, you slipped away again. This time, you very nearly succumbed to your wounds for good, and it was a miracle you came back–that the surgeon said you were lucky to have lived. 

Derek put a comforting arm around your mom as she put her face in her hands, breaking down again. You ached to do the same but weakness still occupied all parts of your body so the only thing you could do was offer your words.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She straightened her back and wiped her tears away, seeming to have calmed down now but Derek continued to rub her back with a soothing hand and continued where she left off.

They found your press ID badge and contacted the photojournalism firm you were under. After receiving the news, Derek told your mom who–even though Derek told her to wait so he could go with her–flew herself out on the first plane there. He flew himself the next day after he sorted things out around the firm. 

“If you’re here, who did you leave in charge?” 

“Robert. Don’t worry, he’s fine. I may or may not have told him I’d break up with him if he messed up.”

Your mom gasped at that, scandalised, smacking Derek’s shoulder. “Derek!”

“What? I’m just joking!” Derek asked looking very much like a reprimanded child with his eyes wide in disbelief at being told off. You let out a small laugh, shaking your head at your brother’s antics but you knew that your future brother-in-law was very much capable of keeping the firm afloat. 

“Poor Robert. You’re a menace, you know that right?” 

“He knows it, sis, why do you think he’s with me?” He wagged his brows and you grimaced at the innuendo–the last thing you’d like to think about was your brother’s sex life.  “Anyway, after I landed, Mom and I decided that we should move you to a different hospital. Farther away from the conflict zone. So we took your belongings there and now you’re here. Which reminds me, we have your rolls of film and camera at the hotel.”

At the mention of your camera, images flooded in: the explosions, the guns, the massacre, the blood… and the child. The child! Where was she now? Was she okay? What happened–

“What? What is it?” The sound of Derek’s voice, thick with apprehension, disrupted your thoughts.

“The little girl. I was with a little girl when I got shot. Derek, where is she?” The words gushed out of your mouth. 

“I–I don’t know. They didn’t tell me anything about–”

“Derek, please. You have to find her. She’s probably still in the other hospital. I–Derek, I need to know if she’s alright. Please, Derek–” Tremors wracked through your body and your breathing deepened, quickened, every fiber of muscle rigid with tension as the gruesome scenes from that day played like a movie in your mind–the shadows and all the blood and… the beacon of hope–the future–that shone bright in those young eyes. 

“Honey, listen to me. Breathe. Breathe.” You felt your mom’s warm hand brushing over your forehead before the sounds and the blurry figures in front of you registered in your mind. There was an incessant beeeping noise coming from the monitor and you didn’t realise a nurse had come in to help calm you down as Derek stood by the foot of the bed with his arms crossed, a hand over his mouth as he watched on with glassy eyes.

After the nurse had left and you’d finally calmed down, Derek sat by your side and took your hand in a gentle grip. 

“Okay. I’ll do the best I can.”

You blinked slowly in gratitude and allowed yourself to drift off to another dreamless sleep.

“I think I found her.” Derek’s voice filtered through the room as he entered. You tensed and the instinct to sit up was only dampened by the weakness of your muscles, and the straps and tubes wrapped around you. 

“Where? Where is she?”

“The paramedic who was there that day remembered you so he also recognised who I was looking for, thankfully. She’s still in the same hospital but she’s about to be discharged in a few days because they’re running out of space.” Derek began as he sat by the otherwise unoccupied chair beside you since your mom went back to the hotel to get some rest–you insisted for her to go. “Is this her?”

He pulled out his phone, swiped and tapped for a moment, before he held it out so you could see the screen. There, you found a familiar face and it was like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders to know that the little girl was alive. She looked thinner than how you recalled but the light in those eyes remained.

“What’s her name, do you know? Has she found her family?” 

“Her name is Elisa. And from what I’ve gathered so far, no.”

Your heart ached as another image came to you, this time it was of the unconscious woman next to Elisa when you found her. What was their relation to each other? Were they family? Her sister? Her mother?

You chewed on your lower lip. “Is… is it possible to transfer her to this hospital? Only if she feels comfortable, of course.” 

“Already on it. And I’ve already started asking around for information about her family.” 

“Thank you, Derek.”

“What?”

You stared, not believing the words that just left your brother’s mouth. 

It was a few days after Elisa was moved to the hospital you were in that Derek brought you the news. He was hunched over himself in the chair beside you like a weight was pressed against his shoulders, head in his hands, shaking his head as if he, too, couldn’t believe the words he just told you. 

“They’re dead. All of them.”

And the universe screamed in harmony with the dead’s unheard agony.

During the weeks that followed, your schedule was routine; prosaic.

You were bedridden and sleeping for the most part of your recovery, mainly due to the delicate nature of your injury. You were told it was normal to feel fatigued most of the time and to feel the occasional chest pains but those should go away after enough time had passed. The lightheadedness and breathlessness, though, were a different matter: the damage was irreversible, your breathing now impaired for life, and the risk of experiencing a spontaneous collapsed lung event would forever be with you. 

Your schedule was routine and so with that much time in your hand, you began to write.

Elisa’s therapy was going well, you heard from one of the nurses–as well as it could get for someone who had suffered the loss she had at the tender age of eleven. Physically, she was doing so much better. She’d put on a little weight after being transferred and after a few weeks since her initial arrival, she started visiting you and began hanging out at your ward. 

During this time, the Women’s World Cup just began and you noticed the way Elisa straightened as she sat cross-legged at the foot of your bed, eyes raptly glued on the mounted TV in your room, animated and dynamic in expressing what she felt as the match unfolded before her. That was the exact moment you knew that Elisa loved football with a passion. 

And so a sort of ritual was established, changing your routine and, once again, brought Alexia back into your life as you kept up with Spain’s matches, Elisa’s favorite team. Despite that fact however, you were grateful that Elisa could find reprieve in watching football even for ninety minutes from the ongoing turmoil and her grief. 

 It was Spain against the Netherlands when you asked Elisa a question. She was curled up beside you, eyes peeking through the blanket she’d wrapped around herself while your mom dozed off in the chair, brows pulled tight in concentration as she scanned over the players on screen. Maybe it was one of the universe’s cruel tricks or maybe it was a sign, but her answer caught you off guard and you wondered how a single name could have this much effect on you; how a name could disarm you completely. 

“Who’s your favorite player?”

Without any hesitation and without even taking her eyes off the screen, Elisa replied with enthusiasm, “Alexia Putellas.”

As you watched Spain’s match against Japan with only Derek for company–Elisa had pouted when she found out she couldn’t watch the match live as she needed to go to a therapy session during that time–your brother suddenly exclaimed and pointed at the TV. The noise and the movement startled you, the monitor beeped loudly in response to the spike in your heartbeat.

Derek looked at you abashed, scratching the back of his head as he apologised. “Sorry. But it’s her!”

You looked at the person who he was pointing to: Alexia. You schooled your features and tried to maintain an even tone when you replied. “What about her?”

“She contacted us multiple times asking about you and your work a few days after you left to be here.” 

At his words, you heart quickened and the monitor responded to the rise in the rhythm of your heart accordingly. Derek’s eyes flicked from you, to the monitor, to the TV where Alexia was still being filmed, and then back to you. 

You cleared your throat, cheeks warm which you hoped your brother wouldn’t take notice of. “And what did you say?”

“That you were unavailable, of course.”

A pause.

“Wait, did you two–”

“No.” The sharpness in your voice nearly made you flinch as your firm gaze bored directly into the blue ones of your brother’s, hoping that he would get the message to drop the subject. Derek opened his mouth but closed it almost immediately. Then he sighed, turning his attention back to the game.

It wasn’t until several minites later that Derek spoke again.

“I have a feeling she’s the reason why you left Barcelona early. But I’m not going to ask. I just want you to know that I’m here when you’re ready to talk about it, sis.”

That night, what Derek told you kept you awake. Did Alexia really asked for you–was she missing you? Ever since you left Barcelona, not once did you let yourself give into the temptation but this new knowledge cut the last thread of your will. So you searched up her name but what you saw made you wish you hadn’t.

A photo of Alexia with another woman: Alexia with her sunglasses on, a black leather jacket over her bralette, and high waisted pants; an arm around the other woman’s shoulder who had her lips on Alexia’s neck and had a possessive hand over Alexia’s jaw.  It was recent, you noticed, the article the candid photo belonged to. 

You dropped the phone as your hand shook, and you stared up the ceiling. The lights from the passing cars and the nightlife outside created dancing shadows through the gap in the curtain. Closing you eyes, you felt a tear fall dawn and you stuttered out a breath as you reminded yourself.

She wasn’t yours.

She never was.

Yet still… you ached. 

It wasn’t until the next morning did the dreams–the ones of your family, of your deceased parents, of Alexia–finally returned to you in vivid clarity. And the pain from the night before returned to you twofold. 

Before you knew it, the Women’s World Cup ended with Spain emerging triumphant in the end as they blazed their way through the tournament. In spite of yourself, pride bloomed in your chest at the result knowing how hard these women fought–endured and resisted–in this competition and the fact that they did so while resisting their federation made their accomplishment all the more admirable.

An image of Alexia, weary and exhausted, materialised in your mind. 

You remembered the way she dragged her feet as she entered the door, eyes downcast and hair ruffled, shoulders hunched forward. When she found you standing in the archway, she clung to you without a word and you felt the gravity on her shoulders, the pressure of being who she was–of being La Reina–settled against your bones. That night, the both of you ended up sleeping on the couch, Alexia’s head against your chest, your fingers threading through her hair to soothe her even just for a moment. 

“You’re so strong, Alexia,” you’d whispered, kissing the top of her head. “You’ve carried so much for so long that sometimes it’s easy to forget that you have people on your side in this fight. You’re never alone, Alexia. Please don’t ever forget that.”

And as you watched her with her people on that stage lifting the trophy, the urge to whisper the same words returned to you. Even though you couldn’t, in your mind you did. 

In your mind, the words echoed: I’m so proud of you.

Upon your insistence and with a lot of reassurance, Derek reluctantly agreed to leave you to return back to the firm. You promised you would video call with him every night to appease him so now, you were left with your mom and Elisa’s company to keep. But after being bedridden for nearing two and a half months, finally, you were excited to be moving around even if you were aided with a wheelchair. 

When you began your physiotherapy, you couldn’t walk for no longer than fifteen minutes before you felt lightheaded. But as the weeks passed on and as you pushed yourself a bit more each day, little by little, you built up your tolerance. The next thing you knew, you didn’t have to be put in a wheelchair anymore, a small triumph but a triumph nonetheless.

The moment the doctor medically discharged you was one of the best moments of your life. But instead of going back home with your mom, you stayed behind as you needed to sort out one important thing.

Throughout your recovery, Elisa had been one of the constant in your life. The moment you knew she had no family left, your heart instantly knew what you had to do and the idea of adoption took root in your mind. You sorted out the paperworks, carefully explained to Elisa what you planned to do–that you wanted to be her legal guardian, sister, aunt, or mother; whatever Elisa wished for you to be–and gave her time to decide herself if she wanted to go through with it. 

As you waited for the paperworks and for Elisa’s consent, you supported Elisa through her therapy sessions all the while you busied yourself with being immersed in as much of Elisa’s language and culture as you could out of respect for her family. Elisa was patient with you during the times you couldn’t quite accomodate the phonetics of her language, speaking slowly and enunciating the words multiple times until you got it.

A few months later, you walked through the airport with two passports, Elisa’s hand in yours, heading towards home. The road was not without difficulties, of course, and it took a long time but the fact that you were there was enough.

Even though the conflict abated just before your departure, the tension was very much alive and the cost forever unjustifiable; senseless, a transgression against those that paid for it: the dead and the ever-hungry living. For Elisa, months of therapy had helped–the first time you heard her laugh was truly one of the best moments of your life–but you knew that the wound would never truly heal, the cut too deep that even the sands of time would do little to fill it completely. 

But as you looked into Elisa’s wide eyes, hope filled you as you saw it: that eternal flame that burnt in every person, passed to each other as one life touched another, a bright beacon in what seemed to be a never-ending night made from humanity’s long shadow. 

A guiding light to a better future.

As the plane took to the early morning sky, as the sun peeked through the clouds to paint everything in its soft, golden glow, you made a promise. For as long as you live–for as long as Elisa would let you–you would do everything to preserve that light. 

-

-

“And I don’t know exactly what happened between the two of you, but she still asks for you, you know? Sure, it’s through her agent or through her club’s PR department but it’s still her.”

Derek’s voice pulled you back from your memories. 

Again, you fiddled with the string on your wrist. The more you thought about it, the more your reluctance grew. But when you looked at Elisa with her Barcelona kit, the number eleven and Alexia’s name bold and proud on her back, seamlessly stepping over the ball as her Uncle Robert tried to defend against her before she performed a rainbow flick that had the ball soaring past her defender, you knew then what your decision was going to be. 

It would be good for her. 

Your daughter’s love for football was there before you even met her, and it shook you to your core when you learnt that Alexia was her inspiration. She’d told you she loved football enough to pursue a career in it, a dream that was both hers and her parents–her remaining connection to them–a dream that you would do everything to preserve as long as your daughter wanted to chase it.

“Okay. I’ll do it.” You told Derek as you kept your attention glued to your daughter.

As if sensing your eye, your daughter looked over her shoulder to you, the light of the sinking sun made gold from her hair, and you watched her smile at you, dimples and all. 

You smiled back. 

Yes, that’s right. 

After all, you did make a promise, didn’t you?

[greenwriterplaidbow]

Tragic Accident

AKA the events that lead to the Human Connection series

Logan Howlett x Reader with injury related memory loss

Word count: 2.5K 3.8K after revisions

Author’s note: I do in fact have more! (I would like to thank this person for your patience, I started this when you sent this in but left it half done because of finals). Still inspired by Pandapetals’ memory loss fic. This is what led to the accident and when Logan actually saw the wreckage of an accident (because I apparently can’t just be content with being happy!). It’s kind of from his perspective? Still written in second person though.

Warnings: Major angst, stupid argument, car wreck, drunk driver (not Logan or the reader), reader refered to as she/her and Logan’s wife

Everything started in your home office. It was the busy season for teachers: checking that you taught the whole curriculum; assigning and then grading final projects; parent-teacher meetings. That night you were up grading group projects that had been turned in early. It was midnight when Logan walked into the room. It was one of many late nights you had recently. The two of you tended to be night owls anyways but this many nights without more than 4 hours of consecutive sleep was starting to get to you both. It wasn’t obvious but you could see it in the small details of your relationship. The way there was less exchanged affection. The way you helped each other with little things less. The way the physical space between you emphasized the growing separation. Logan had been laying in bed before he entered the office. He walked in and put his hands on your shoulders, maybe a little less gently than he normally would have.

“Babyy, why haven’t you come to bed yet?” You brought your hand up and softly rubbed his.

“Sorry hon, I just want to get these done tonight. This is the last one.”

“It can’t wait until tomorrow?” You spun your chair around to face him.

“It could.. But if I finish them as they come in, I’ll be done before finals week so I can spend more time with you!”

“You could spend more time with me now if you just came to bed-”

“I know, I know. But these kids finished it early, they’re already on pins and needles waiting for an answer, I shouldn’t make them wait longer than I need to. And you should be asleep already anyways, this was the one night this week you can actually get to bed at a decent time.”

“Tried. It’s always harder without you.” You stood up and brushed a hand through his hair.

“Poor baby. It won’t be much longer. I’ll be there soon, I promise.”

“I’ll just stay in here with you then.”

He walked over to his own desk and sat down across from you, watching as you finished grading. It was 10 minutes before Logan spoke up again.

“You almost done?”

You sigh and run your hands through your hair.

“Nope, not quite. Go to bed, I’ll only be a little longer.”

“I.. Yeah alright.”

He shook his head then got up and walked out. His jaw was tense as he paused at the door like he was going to say something. Apparently he decided against it and closed the door on the way out with a sigh.

He lays in bed. Staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Logan had felt neglected before, just not usually by you. He was plenty used to being ignored or abandoned. It had happened before but this time was supposed to be different. You’d always been there before. You’d been through so much together. It was only now it felt like you were drifting away. You’re a busy person, he knows that. You’re always eager to help out in any way you can. From one-on-one training or tutoring with struggling students to filling in for a fellow teacher. You were always there for everyone else. But now it seemed to him that you were giving your time to anyone but him. It seemed like you were trying to avoid him. He thought back to the last few weeks. He’d twice tried to set up a date night with no success, the most recent attempt was the week prior.

He had caught you in between classes, preparing for the next lecture in an empty room.

“Heyy, I was thinking. It’s been a while: do you want to go out tonight?”

“I wish I could but I’m helping Jean tonight, some lab thing she’s trying to figure out. I’m honestly flattered she asked me-” You stopped yourself when you saw the look on his face, his eyes now avoiding yours as he pretended to study the ground. “I’m sorry Lo, I thought I told you on Monday.”

“No- it’s alright. I understand.. I’ll see you later though?”

“Yes. She said that she shouldn’t need me past 8 o’clock.”

You walked in the door at ten.

“Hey,” Logan said half heartedly from the couch as you came up the stairs. He didn’t know how late you’d be until you called at nine to tell him that things went well enough that Jean wanted to repeat the experiment to see if it was a fluke.

“Hey.. I’m sorry, I know I said I’d be home sooner. I’ll make it up to you.” You cupped his face and kissed the bridge of his nose. “We could go out this weekend?”

“No, I’m helping Scott fix his bike; and with Scott, that’ll be an all weekend project.”

“Next weekend then. We’ll find time. We always do.” Your tone was very matter-of-fact as you sat down next to him. He put an arm around your shoulders and you nuzzled into his chest as you leaned into him.

“Yeah. I know. I just hate feeling like I never see you anymore. I know you didn’t know that was going to happen but you could have waited to rerun everything on a different night..”

“Yeah.. I guess we’re just too popular” You said, trying to joke about the situation to relieve some of the tension between you. It worked for the time but Logan still didn’t feel good about it. He felt like you just pushed aside his feelings. Just laughing it off to avoid an actual conversation.

The thought brought him back to the present moment. He went back into the office, unsure of exactly how much time had passed since he left. He walked around to his side, sat at his desk and faced you. You looked up from what you were doing but he spoke before you could.

“It feels like we never just spend time together anymore and I want to talk about it.” You push your work aside and turn to face him more directly. He leans forward with his forearms on his desk.

“I only have one section left to read then leaving overall feedback. Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

“No, you always do this. I want to talk about it. I don’t want you to keep pushing me aside. What happened with us? Why do you spend your time everywhere else but with me?!”

“Logan I-”

“No, I know you care about your students but you don’t even look at me anymore.”

“Okay.. A bit of an exaggeration but yeah, I mean that’s the job. Come on, you’re a grown up. I thought you could handle a little less attention than what you’re used to.”

“You can just say it. I’m the least important thing in your life.”

“Oh don’t be dramatic. You’re still impor-”

His hand loudly hit the desk, making you jump.

“Stop doing that! Stop brushing me off!” He sighed and looked away. “Fuck- Ok, I just- Whatever, I’ll be in the kitchen.” He stood up and walked out. You didn’t try to stop him.

You put your face in your hands. You could admit, things had been stressful lately. Things had just been busy. Apparently after five years of being married, you had been putting Logan on the backburner more than you thought. But he had done the same with you hadn’t he? That’s just how it was sometimes. Why was he so upset about it this time? What changed? After a few minutes of letting him cool down, you sighed and got up to follow him to the kitchen. The only light in the open room was the soft glow of the hanging kitchen lights. He was sitting at the table with his hand in his hair. He looked up as you walked in.

“You always push me aside for everything else.” You came to apologize but now that felt more difficult than anything. Something about the way he said it gave you the urge to defend yourself. Maybe it was pride, maybe it was a lack of sleep. Either way, you pushed back.

“You act like I purposefully ignore you-”

“Sometimes, I wonder if you do!”

“Okay don’t put this all on me. We’re both busy. That’s just how it is right now, I don’t know why you have a problem with it all of the sudden.”

“You don’t know?! You don’t know because you never listen to me.”

“Oh I never listen to you?”

“Yes. I listen to you, I-”

“No no no no no. If you listened to me, you’d already know when I’m not going to be home. Because I actually make plans before the night of.”

“This again? I swear you never told me-”

“Whatever- that’s not going to get us anywhere. If you really want to talk, let’s talk about how you can be as busy with your students as you’d like but as soon as I do, then it’s a problem.”

“That’s not true!”

“Sure it is! But you’re a man, you can meet up with whoever you want. You know, I’m a woman so I should just be grateful that you let me have a job at all, right?”

“Why are you making this a sexism thing? When have I ever said anything like that to you?”

“You haven’t, but-”

“Exactly. I haven’t. Because I don’t think like that. Just because that was okay when I was growing up, doesn’t mean I’m like that. You know I’m not like that!”

“I thought so but sometimes, I’m not so sure.”

“And you don’t bring that up? You know you can talk to me- I’m not like you, I’m not just going to keep putting it off so we never talk about something you have a problem with.”

“When the hell have you brought up any of this before tonight?”

“I haven’t had the chance to because anytime there’s even a hint of a problem you just make it into a joke.”

“I didn’t realize I was doing that, maybe if you brought things up when they happened then we wouldn’t need to get to this point!”

“Yeah it’s all my fault, like everything else.”

“Oh, really defending your argument there- I’m so glad we didn’t wait to talk!” You started to pace around the area next to where he stayed seated. Walking between the table where he was and the counter off to his left.

“That is not fair. If we put it off again we would never have this conversation.. And this isn’t just about me ‘not getting attention,’ this is about you. This isn’t good for you. You need to get more sleep.”

“Oh but you’re just fine going without sleep, you’re the mighty Wolverine.”

“That’s not- No! Actually- Fine, you’re right. I am the wolverine, you don’t have the same mutation-”

“Maybe it doesn’t affect you as much, but it sure as hell still affects you. You’re still a human being Logan! I know my limits, you don’t need to hover, telling me to come to bed- It’s just a reminder of how slow I am- And it completely throws me off-”

“Don’t act like I’m not allowed to worry about you-”

“You’re allowed to worry, but that doesn't mean I’ll have any less-”

“Would you stop cutting me off?” He shouted the words through half gritted teeth. You took a step back. Logan never shouted at you, he barely ever raised his voice when you had disagreements. Your eyes flashed to the floor to avoid the intensity of his gaze.

“S-sorry.”

“I just-” He said your name quietly under breath and a hand went up to squeeze the bridge of his nose. “I just want to be how we were. I just want some of your time. I at least want you to pretend like you like me.”

“I do like you.” Your muscles that tense when he shouted had now relaxed and you could hear a nip of attitude in your own voice.

“But you don’t act like it! Not anymore at least. You act like me being in your life is an inconvenience.” His voice was consistently raised now. You let out a small laugh.

“God, you are so dramatic! Please get some sleep, you’re acting like a child who hasn’t had a nap. You’re worse than half the freshman students right now.”

“For fucks sake, would you just listen to what I’m saying for a minute? Actually listen and process what I’m saying. Why can’t you just take me seriously?!”

“Because I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“JUST TALK TO ME”

He stood up and yelled the phrase louder than he meant to. Again, you took a few steps back. His large frame still intimidatingly towered over you.

“That- that’s all I want from you! A real conversation.”

You start walking back to the bedroom. Logan tried to follow you.

“I need some space-” Logan stopped.

“Yeah, go. Keep avoiding me.” You sighed but kept walking into the bedroom. You grabbed your phone, keys, and wallet, putting them into a mostly empty messenger bag that was currently easier to get to than a purse. You threw on a jacket then left your bedroom. You walked past your husband in the kitchen.

“We both need to cool off. I’m going to stay at the school tonight.”

“Fine, go.”

“Good night”

“.. Night.”

Right before heading out the door; keys in one hand, the other on the doorknob. You sigh and turn around then walk back to him. He’s leaning on the kitchen counter, facing away from you.

“Hey,” he turns around.

You hit his chest lightly before grabbing the collar of his shirt and kissing him forcefully. You kept your eyes closed and your face close to his as you spoke.

“You are so frustrating.”

“I know.. Try talking to you.” You sighed quietly.

“..I love you”

“I.. I know.” A little sadder that time. He held onto the counter that was now behind him to keep himself from giving in to you. You kissed him again, much more softly this time.

“Drive safe..” He whispered as you pulled away. You nodded and left.

Hearing the sounds of the garage door open then shut was enough to make him start feeling guilty for not saying ‘I love you’ back. You were fighting, sure, but he did still love you.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Logan went to bed but he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned for almost an hour, listening to the soft taps of rain on the window until his phone rang. He answered it without looking, confident that you must be calling to talk or to apologize.

“What? Calling to apologize-” Annoyance dripping from tone.

“Sir, I’m a paramedic. Is this Logan Howlett?” He was caught off guard.

“What? Yes, yes that’s me. Why are you calling?” He sat up, a sense of dread creeping in.

“I’m with your wife right now, your information was in her wallet-”

The paramedic explains that you were in an accident and you’re going to be taken to a nearby hospital. You’re unconscious but they’re working on stabilizing you. He explains that as soon as you get there you’ll be taken to surgery.

“Most likely she’ll be in for a few hours and even when she’s out, it’ll still be a while before the anesthetic wears off. I know you’re freaking out right now but- Listen man, if it were me; I’d take a minute to process everything. Pack a bag: comfortable clothes, a book, crossword puzzles- just things that’ll make her comfortable while she has to stay there to be monitored. It’ll give you a sense of purpose, because you can’t do anything right now anyways, and it keeps you from having to leave her later when she is awake.”

“Yeah. Yeah alright. I’ll do that” They exchanged the remaining information then hung up. As he was doing what the paramedic instructed when he got another call. This was from the police. He was informed that he could come to the scene and retrieve anything valuable from the car before it was towed. It had been moved into a nearby church parking lot for the time being, that’s where he was told to go.

“Do you know what caused the accident? What happened?”

“Yeah, the other guy ran a red light. Didn’t even slow down. Because of the angle of the intersection and how fast he was going, she probably didn’t even see him until after the collision. He’s been arrested already, we’re waiting until he sobers up to ask him more about what happened, he wasn’t very intelligible. We know he was drinking but by the way he’s acting we think he’s on something else too.”

“Jesus..”

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

He pulled into the small parking lot, marked by a sign stating there was an extra church service for Easter that had yet to be taken down. There he saw another truck. It was black and lifted and had more than a few dents that were clearly from screwing around rather than actual work. The front was basically caved in but the damage was minor, especially compared to what your car looked like. It was almost half of the size it used to be, completely crushed in on the drivers side.

“She’s lucky, you know.” Logan looked up, searching for the source of the voice through the pouring rain. A firefighter walks over.

“Usually people don’t survive accidents like this but the collusion happened more towards the back.. You’re family, right?”

“Uh yeah,” He held up his left hand, “Husband.”

“Yeahhh. Don’t worry about her. Her chances are looking good right now.”

“There’s more blood than I thought there would be.” He could smell it when he pulled up but getting this close he could see that it was yours; the other driver hadn’t been injured nearly as bad. He was hating his heightened senses that made it feel like the smell of iron was surrounding him.

“Oh yeah, there was a lot more in the street before the rain washed most of it away.” Logan looked increasingly nervous.

“So you came to get things from the vehicle?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Well there’s a lot of broken glass so if you need me or my colleagues to grab anything, just let us know.”

“No, I’ll be alright. Thanks.”

“No problem. We’ll just be talking with the officers if you change your mind.”

He got closer to your car, or what was left of it. Your keys had been pulled out of the ignition but were sitting on the dashboard. He picked them up and tried to ignore the blood and focus on where you usually leave things.

“Glove box, everybody keeps things in the glove box.” he thought aloud, quietly.

He walked around to the passengers side. Upon opening the door he saw your bag on the floor, sitting upright. Your phone and wallet were still inside although your ID and emergency sheet were separate. He assumed the first responders had opened your wallet to find such information. Logan picked up the bag and opened the glove box. He took everything out, placing it into the bag. Lucky for him, you didn’t keep much in your car. He took down the stuffed animal you kept on your dashboard and grabbed your blanket from the trunk. He threw the few other things you kept in your car into your bag then went to his own vehicle. An officer stopped him to talk to him about more details but his mind was only on you. None of the other details mattered if you weren’t okay.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The drive to the hospital was silent. His thoughts were distracting enough. Logan felt like the drive was twice as long as it should have been. It felt like he was holding his breath the whole drive. He spoke quietly, trying to comfort himself.

“She’s going to be okay. She is tough. Fuck, of course she’s tough, look at who she married. Look at who she agreed to put up with..” His fists tightened around the steering wheel.

He pulled into the hospital’s visitors parking lot. He tried to steady his breathing before grabbing the backpack the paramedic recommended packing and heading inside. He didn’t even remember talking to the receptionist who told him which floor to go to for the right waiting room. But here he sat. Bouncing his leg anxiously. Waiting for you to get out of surgery. It was longer than he thought it’d take but eventually, a nurse came to talk to him.

You were out of surgery but you would still remain asleep, they were putting you in a medically-induced coma. There was too much trauma to the brain and this was the best option. They said you wouldn’t be under for longer than a week and offered to call him before waking you up but he insisted on staying by your side. The staff was admittedly concerned for him, he almost never slept. He just sat beside you. Waiting.

After almost four days, the tests suggested that they could stop the drugs inducing the coma. Your levels and brain activity showed that it was safe to do so. They warned him there would be side-effects from it and temporary memory loss was a possibility. Among other things. What they didn’t prepare him for was the time between stopping the drugs and you waking up. For some patients it was almost instantly. For you it was several hours.

The moment they stopped your IV drip to the moment you were conscious again, he didn’t let go of your hand. After the first hour he had resorted to quietly begging you to wake up, asking you not to leave him like this. As you woke up, that’s what you heard.

“-and I won’t complain about your stupidly long hours. Please. I’m sorry. Please wake up.” He called you a nickname you hadn’t heard before. Or at least one you didn’t remember. “Please- I know I’m dumb, I need you to wake up. I need you to know how sorry I am. And- and I never should have let you leave the house without telling you how much I loved you. I was upset and I wasn’t thinking. Please. I’m so sorry.”

As you woke up, your eyes fluttered open and you tried to get familiar with your surroundings. When you made a noise and moved your hand, Logan looked up at you in surprise. He jumped up from where he sat to gently hug you and tell you how much he loved you. He pressed the button for the nurse, as he had been instructed to. From there, he found out about your memory. You found out about the accident. You were both disappointed and a little scared. Logan has an overwhelming sense of guilt about what happened and you don’t even know what happened or if he played a role in it. In an ironic twist, he'd finally get to spend more time with you. Just not in a way he ever would have wanted.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Second author's note: sorry if the argument isn't great, uhh definitely looking for feedback for improvement there. I was trying to make it both characters fault but idk. Also first attempt at a mood board for the fic. Idk if I like it, I may take it down, we'll see.

Okay it's been revised. I think it is a significant improvement but it's still no where near perfect. Stayed up until 6am making revisions because apparently, I'm allergic to sleep! And also joy as jt seems! But no rest for the wicked I guess: I have my immunology final project due in 8 hours and it is been severely neglected. Anyways thanks for your time... again I guess for some of you.

Taglist: @kemi707 @klwrites @fluff-lover @a-leg-without-fear @aoi-targaryen @vofriviasblog @jupiter-sky @crypt1dcat @karencaribou

[musouie]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃-𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍 ⋮ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒

broadcasting announcement ⋮ the annual purge begins

DDDNE ⋮ toji fushiguro x fem!reader, explicit violence, gore, fear, purge au, reader in her 20s ﾉ toji in his 30s, attempted murder, bondage, referenced cannibalism, sadism wc: 8.5k

anthology masterlist . . . 𓅨 . . . ao3 version

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 was a smothering hush that only ever came before the Purge. That brought with it something primaeval — perverse and cunning — that slithered through the acrid air of the city.

You could almost taste it — hidden in the metallic twang on your tongue — the bloodlust, the horror...the desire. It came to you in flashes — caused your flesh to prickle and pull itself taut as you pictured an axe through your boss’ head, the bit lodged clean between his eyes as his body crumpled like a ragdoll, brain matter fanning out by your feet. Clinging to your shoes. Staining your trousers.

It was grotesque and inhumane and bestial (and oh-so-relieving), but that was what it always did. Corrupted then soothed. Infected then lingered. In the back of your skull, the spaces between your fingers, the tip of your tongue —

— until you thickly swallowed. Tried to force it down; render it inert. Store it where all the other ugly things hid. (By now they’ve coalesced with each other. Formed a monstrous fusion of rotten flesh, weeping boils, black tar.) 

But this… this was much more potent. More restless. With jagged edges and serrated claws and a syrupy scent that quickly turned sour as you tried to force it down the velvety walls of your throat, phlegm bubbling from the roof of your mouth. It needed to be known, known, known — like an ill-tempered child that hadn’t gotten its way, pulling and tugging, beating its fists against your insides until you bled.

So, you swallowed again. And again and again, until you could feel it begin to burn, burn, burn — like flames from a dragon’s maw — down your throat, warming your belly, and scorching up your oesophagus as it howled with its brethren. Subdued, for the moment, but eager and clawing. (Scratching at flesh, peeling skin back. Where all the other ugly things hid.)

When your lips parted in a sigh, your tongue passed over the backs of your teeth to swipe at the residue — ensure none was left behind.

And none was left, thankfully. No savoury remains lodged between canines and molars. No tinge of metal nor sharp sting of tang. 

...Nothing. 

Now, the only things to fear were those who could not so easily resist. That revelled in the taste — the sourness of it, the relief of it, the depravity of it — shamelessly. That drank in the screams and the terror as though they were the finest of wine, rich and deep, so rare they chose to exploit it:

…The weaker of man —

the purgers.

In the corner of your dim apartment, your dingy radio sputtered to life, broadcasting a morose, wailing tune before a scratchy voice began speaking through the crackling:

“In 5 minutes time,” it warbled, excitement evident even through the fissures in the signal. The buzzing, the low rumble, like the hum of bees swarming close and waiting to pierce skin and tear into muscle.

“I repeat, in 5 minutes time, the nation’s citizens will begin their annual purge, commencing the release of all tensions, frustrations, and violent urges deemed socially and criminally taboo. Caution: once the purge begins, all services — including police, fire, and emergency-medical — will be unavailable. All emergency services will re-operate when the purge ends.

May the odds be ever in your favour.

Happy purging to one and all.”

Happy Purging, happy purging, happy purging.

Happy… purging?

A scowl marred your face as the static petered out, silence trickling back in with the lack of audio to fill the absence. There was nothing happy about the Purge. Couldn’t be…no matter how prettily they tried to wrap it. (Red ribbon and all — bruised, foetid flesh at the centre, straining against its garnish as it was bound tight.)  

To dress it up and water it down — turn the carnage, the destruction, the sheer, animalistic violence into something that didn’t crawl along the underside of the tongue (up the spine, through the marrow), into a time for unwinding, a time of excitement, celebration — was despicable. Made you sick. Turned your stomach into writhing maggots and your throat to dried clay.

Your teeth grinded together as you checked the barrel of your pistol, slamming the magazine in with more force than what was probably necessary, on the verge of grating your teeth to dust. The metal whinged quietly, a high-pitched sound that soon gave way to a muffled groan when you holstered it at your hip, shrugging on a faded grey hoodie that was a size too large, frayed and bunched awkwardly about your wrists.

You then padded across the scuffed floor, heavy soles of your combat boots thudding mutedly across the wood as you made your way to your bed, snatching up a hunting knife you kept underneath your mattress. Carefully, you slipped it into your boot, nestled between leather and your lamb’s wool socks. Safe. Warm. Hidden . Like a babe in the womb.

And just like a babe in the womb, the blade would eventually be drawn forth, umbilical cord severed, and would be set loose. From one darkness to another of a different kind.

(Where all the ugly things hid.)

With a final cursory glance around your small apartment, you flicked off the light switch, plunging the room into darkness as the siren sounded.

As if summoned, shadows seeped and formed. Intruded and flocked to each other as they always did, like greedy crows fed one too many times.

They crept forward, licking at the shabby, moth-eaten rug, and the rusted, bent, broken pipes that snaked across the ceiling, and the cracked, peeling paint on the walls. And then they moved to you, as if compelled. As though they’d just sniffed you out and couldn’t resist a bite.

They writhed and twisted and contorted, stretching their long, bony wisps-for-fingers out towards you. Beckoning, calling, crooning :

Come. Come. Come.

A poorly veiled request, but you saw it for what it was. A demand.

Long, inky fingers crawled across the room, dragged themselves down the walls, grabbed for you and quivered with anticipation.

Come. Come. Come.

But the lone source of light from beyond your window, seeping through the yellowed blinds, seemed to stop them short. Caused them to screech and fizzle and sear as they ghosted near where you were. Repulsed.

Outside, the sky had split open into nothing but the reds, oranges, and violets of hellish flames as the sun began to sink. As its rays trickled in one by one, the shadows shrank away, slinking back into the corners and the crevices and the cracks and the fissures and the holes and the tears.

(And the spaces between your fingers, and the tip of your tongue, and the back of your skull.)

And then finally…you heard the screams. The dreaded, dreaded screams.

The Purge had finally begun, and the beast had stirred.

You were now a mix of the most peculiar kind.

Half woman, half chair. Meshed and moulded and sewn with the worn wood of the seat, the armrests, the legs. Your spine curved in a similar manner to the back of the chair, and your arms were fused by sweat to the rests. Your elbows were locked and your wrists limp, clothed legs weaved into the wooden ones of your perch, right down to the toes.

Perhaps that was why you couldn’t feel a thing below your waist. No creeping tingles in your calves, nor a dull throb in your toes from the nippy autumn air, or even the lancing ache of having sat in one spot for a good couple of hours now.

Just… nothingness …

To stay like this was no good. You knew . You’d have to move eventually — whether by force or mere survival. (Like how birds flocked south, or deer bolted when a twig snapped, or mice scurried to corners, or frogs fled to ponds. Anything to get out of the chair, and out of the chair, and out of the chair.)

But you couldn’t move.

Refused to.

Somehow, you convinced yourself that the moment you rose, if only an inch, the monsters would come. They would smell the fresh blood pumping through your veins, the adrenaline, the fear, the fight . And they would descend upon you, ripping you limb from limb, tearing the meat from your bones, feasting on the innards, and leaving you a hollowed husk.

A shell of what once was.

A blood-curdling scream pierced the air, and you flinched . Torso violently jerking to the side as your head moved with it, legs still tethered, arms rigid. The cries grew in their intensity the farther along they drifted, until they were shrieking. Raw and untamed and enraged , and the only thing louder was the boom-crack of a gun firing. 

Yes ...you were much safer here. In the chair, in the chair, in the chair. Where even Rationality could not touch you. (After so long, it hardly ever tried.)

So in the chair you took root, like a stubborn mutt clinging to its master, unwilling to part. And in the chair your fingernails dug, leaving jagged crescent moons which left your flesh raw and stinging and throbbing . And in the chair you remained, situated between the window and your door, (between certain death) and waited. Listened.

And waited.

And listened.

And waited.

And listened.

Ignoring the slight pressure building in your bladder.

Your ears strained, trying to pick up any sound: the scrape of a shoe, the rustle of clothing, the click of a gun. It’d be comical, in almost any other situation, how desperate you were to hear a sound. Anything . How desperate you were for the presence of another. 

But there was nothing . Only the steady drip, drip, drip of the leaky tap in your kitchen, and the rustling of leaves as their shadows swam across your walls.

You pressed your thighs together.

It was tantalisingly slow, the water, how it seeped from the pipe, hung precariously — for seconds, hours — before eventually relinquishing its hold. A single bead trickling down, down, down the smooth mouth of your sink. Another then following. A second. A third. Each one stacking themselves atop the last like ants until the stream began in earnest.

The stream. Yes, the stream. You couldn’t help but notice it. Hone into it.

Its trickle became a gentle swell, and the gentle swell a rushing torrent — as if taunting, rubbing salt into a festering wound as the pressure against your bladder worsened. Begging you to rise, rise, rise and quell it, make it disappear.

It was a battle that lasted but a matter of moments, and one which you lost with ease, the discomfort and desperation finally outweighing the fear of discovery. (And the madness and the hysteria and the terror.)

You stumbled forward on shaky legs, aching limbs trembling at every step, a dull ringing filling your ears, drowning out any and all sound.

Except for the dripping.

The dripping, the dripping, the dripping.

You gripped onto anything you could as you dragged your anchors for legs across the floor, a tingling sensation peppering itself throughout your toes — your calves, your knees, your hips. A tickle at first, but soon enough, a sharp ache. A pain so excruciating, you were certain you would have screamed.

Drip, drip, drip.

With each step the drops grew harsher, sharper. No longer water but pellets of lead, bludgeoning against the drain as they tore down the steel. An avalanche; a horde. One after the other until they drowned the leaky faucet whole.

Drip, drip, drip.

It strung you along, fish to bait through the murky water, hooked itself straight through your bottom lip, past the molars, and back through the cartilage of your jaw. But even with the hooks and barbs, it wasn’t forceful. It didn’t need to drag you to it, but only led, waiting, trusting — its stream ever-widening into a sea, the staccato thrum turning into a symphony of rolling, crashing waves as you reached the sink.

You were so close. So, so close, you nearly trembled, nearly sobbed. 

And—

A light push was all it took for the sea to cease. For it to go silent. It did not trickle, no. Its end was instantaneous. (A brush of fingers against steel. And then a squeak. A squeal. A screech. Dwindling to a creak as it fell silent.)

—Then,

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Your brows furrowed as you heard the drops sound once more. Hand still on the head of the faucet, you pressed down. Once, twice. The faucet was shut tight … so just what was that sound?

It changed the next time you heard it. One hesitant drip and two loud ones, bordering on that of a bang. You padded around your apartment, making sure to listen keenly. Hoping the monster didn’t follow the sounds of your footfalls, nor the pound of your heart, and instead, focused on the drips. On that incessant drip, drip, dripping —

You turned a corner.

— or the bang, bang, banging —

The sounds seemed stronger towards the front of your apartment. Past the guest bathroom, down the hallway, and…to the door?

— or the knock, knock, knocking.

...Knocking.

So close now, you finally realised what the sound was. And all that it wasn’t. Three quick knocks sounded again — more aggressive this time. Panicked. And after gnawing on the inside of your cheek, scraping at gum and flesh and veins, you relented — moving closer and craning your neck to peer through the peephole.

There were no eyes (white or dead or hollow) that greeted you; no sharp canines or silver claws or black tendrils; no miasmic smoke or smoky musk or any form or any colour at all.

It was just a woman .

A red woman — no . A woman drenched in red. The difference was palpable, almost to a ludicrous degree. While her clothing could very well have been a deep scarlet, or even brown, you knew — felt — the way it clung to her body: her skin, the gory bits. Knew the deep scarlet was as she would remain for all time, the bright and the red, because they were hers . Not the clotted, smeary crimson on your door, not the viscid red that slopped against wood with a wet schluck — but the viscid red which smeared her hands.

All her burden to bear.

“P-Please help!” she cried, as though she knew your eyes roamed over her. Curiously, warily. “My son…” She trailed off; opened her mouth a few times before closing it and frowning.

You watched as she attempted to compose herself, tucking her trembling lip behind her teeth and clenching a fist that no doubt smeared her wound an even deeper shade of crimson.

She was shaking. Trembling like a newborn foal. And through her fingers, and the gushing and gore, her lips peeled back, revealing white, jagged teeth, her breaths haggard as tears carved rivulets through the mess of it all.

As they trailed down her cheek, down her chin, down her neck.

Smearing, smearing.

(Staining.)

“T-They hurt my son…my —” Her voice cracked, a porcelain bowl to tile. “— my Johnny.” She pounded her fist against your door once more, and you briefly wondered how they weren’t bloodied. Down to a pulp. The bone. “I know you can hear me!” She tiptoed between hysteria. “P-please. He’s so young — doesn’t have much more time left. I-I can’t see my baby die. God , I don’t wanna see my baby die.”

Her head hit the wood of your door with an ungracious thump, as did her arm; a solid, decisive, finalisation to her words. One which almost forced you to respond, to crack your door a tad and peer through, if only to check whether her forehead remained intact. If only to assuage yourself with a pat on the back when it was.

“Please…” She croaked. “Please.”

Her hands slunk to the handle sluggishly, as though she did it in a state of near unconsciousness. When she tried turning it and felt the lack of give, she simply didn’t seem fazed. Instead, she whimpered, her forehead sliding down until her face was pressed against the cool, unforgiving metal — eyes squeezed tightly, brow screwed in concentration.

“My boy. My little Johnny. Please, my Johnny. I’m begging you…”

“It’s…the Purge, ” you finally whispered, albeit harshly, scolding her in what you thought was a subtle way.

She seemed shocked at first, that someone truly stood on the other side of the door, that she hadn’t been talking futilely to herself. But so quickly, as she registered your words, her expression melted into one of anguish, the tremor in her lip quickening.

“I kn-know it is,” she rasped. “B-but he’s dy—!”

“— It’s the Purge.”

She begun to wail. “Do you have no heart? My only son is –” there was a gurgle, like she was choking on the blood and phlegm that’d gathered in her mouth. “– dying! Have some humanity… s-some mercy! That’s all I ask.”

You scowled. She’d asked for so much more and didn’t even realise it, or perhaps didn’t care for it, for what you’d sacrifice if you opened the door. Something so irreplaceable, that you were content with playing the monster she so desperately tried to make you out to be. The monster she couldn’t recognise in herself.

“Where is your son?” 

Her face shot up, eyes dancing. There was a twitch in the muscle beneath them; a jolt, a quiver, and soon they widened. “He’s just down the corridor, i-in our apartment a few doors down. I couldn’t touch him, couldn’t bring him, h-he was bleeding so much, I-”

“You left him there, unguarded and alone?”

“N-No! I’m protecting him.” Her eyes were wild now. Desperate. “A-Always, from the minute he was born. I’ve been a good mother. I ha- I have. I-I’d do anything to protect my Johnny, my sweet boy, that’s why you need to come, have to come help. Please, God, just open the door — open the goddamned door! S-So we can save him, so he won’t fucking die!”

There was silence then. Deafening, save for her choked, wet whimpers as she sagged against the door, holding onto the handle as though her life depended on it, on you. “Please…” she softly begged, for the umpteenth time, her voice a rasp and strained, scratchy from exertion.

From the angle of the peephole, you couldn’t see her any longer, but you knew she was still there by the faint sniffling that’d begun —crawled inward. That , and you could practically taste the desperation that oozed from her heap, in great, quivering waves. 

“My son…”

And, foolishly, with that and an easy lick, a sort of silent surrender — an indulgence — you swallowed it whole.

“...Where is he…your son?”

Her breath hitched. “I-In his room. They’d snuck in and... afterwards I told him to stay put.” 

“They left?”

She nodded. “Took some jewellery and money before stomping out the door like they owned the place. Fucking pigs.”

You nodded, a gesture unseen, as alarms sounded in your head, blaring even louder as your hand wrapped around your door handle, and her own slowly rotated it too, in return. How you two synched like a pair, almost in tandem, was a wonder (or a fright). (Her, now the mime, and you, the willing puppet, pulled along by another string of your making, and obliged to dance to the tune of another’s.) 

Nothing good could come from this, would come from this, you didn’t even know if she truly had a son — if it was truly blood that clung to her body. But just the thought of him bleeding out alone, paralysed with fear, squandered all doubts. You saw a piece of yourself in him — a piece that you’d long buried, that’d burrowed beneath dry soil as your father’s blood followed closely behind — perhaps to your detriment.

(The worst thing was your empathy. The worst thing was your empathy. The worst thing was your empathy.)

Like an ouroboros, you began. Biting your tail, you began. An endless cycle of giving when you had no room to, until you were wrung out of all and everything. (You were a fool, a fool, a fool.) With a shaky breath, you slid the deadbolt and unlatched the chain.

And so easily, as though waiting on you, the door swung open.

Immediately, a rush of cold, rank, stifling air greeted you with a soured welcome, its rancid scent strong enough that you were almost tempted to shut the door once more (better safe than sorry, than dead and sorry, better safe and sorry). The red, all the red, slathered across the walls and floor, the grime and guts that trailed and decorated the corridor, was enough to send a foot backwards, inching towards your apartment — towards safety.

But the woman, the mother, with her motherly instinct and motherly resolve and motherly desperation, grabbed your arm, nails digging into the flesh and nearly tearing, the redness from her skin staining your own as she dragged you with an animalistic grip — with no grace, no hesitance, or awareness of her forcefulness. Only pulling — yanking.

Her clipped, gasping breaths rushed hot past your ear, urging you to hurry, to move — and move you did. To the rhythm of her desperation, and the thrumming of your heartbeat as the cold permeated deep to your core, to the muscle, until it turned rigid in a stiffened panic. Past the red, the grime and guts.

“This way,” she rushed, and you nearly tripped over your heavy feet, her fingers pulling and curling around your own before her other hand grasped your elbow, like she was guiding you through a throng of people as you moved onward.

She didn’t seem fazed at all. Or to even notice. Instead, she walked with long, striding steps, pulling you behind her until you finally righted yourself and followed in her bloodied wake. She only stopped when she reached a door with ‘901’ on its front, a trio of numbers that were rusted and dull. 

The door was ajar a crack, just wide enough for a small, narrow sliver of darkness to slip through. A glimpse of the horrors within. But when you stared forward, for longer than you should have, you could hear the faint, lilting shushing sound, barely perceptible — like a rush of wind in the quiet, a rush of wings past ears. Until her panicked breaths filled your eardrums once more; a bird call of her own.

“His room is to the right,” she murmured, pushing on the door until it was wide enough for you both to fit past its threshold. You followed her finger to a closed door, the quiet darkness peeking past the crack inviting you. Comforting. She said something else, but you were beyond listening at that point. And far beyond listening, as a string was tugged and pulled, and you entered the hallway without a second glance.

Once you stepped inside, the air was oppressive. Stifling. Dense. Musty.

In the distance there was a long, deep cry; guttural, and forced. Caught somewhere between a shudder, a cough, a wail — a gasp. The further you stepped into the moon-lit room, you realised the sound was coming from beneath a bundle of sheets and blankets, where they pulsed and shook, as the wheezing grew softer, more hesitant. Almost on the cusp of ceasing.

You quickened your steps, coming to a stop by the foot of the bed — of a green dinosaur — placing a hand atop the mass of fabric. “Johnny?” you cooed, sang in some sort of way. You knew that he’d need coaxing to reveal himself, that, no doubt, he was more frightened than you. So, as he quivered and convulsed, you pulled up the corner of the sheet, and, very slowly, began to tug. 

But as the sheet began to slip away, an arm jerked out — or a leg — and swept it right back into place.

You frowned. “Johnny, I won’t hurt you. I’m a friend of your mommy, I just want to see if you’re alright.”

Silence.

Then a groan, low and wretched and throaty, was stifled beneath the fabric. The mass spasmed in turn.

Your shoulders tightened at his refusal to speak, and so your words came faster, tinged with a neediness which should’ve been absent in your voice. And so was the subtle command: “If you can just show me, it’ll be over in an instant, and I’ll leave.” Your lips quirked. “Pinky promise.”

And, when he made no effort to reply, you persisted. Pulling down the sheets slowly, carefully, inch by inch, a sort of sick amusement in it all. A curiosity, which was eclipsed only by your underlying urge to run.

But as the sheets began to fall, your heart thumped with some sort of triumph. A light lock of hair revealed itself, before another, and then another and another until a patch of skin and a forehead became visible. 

“Good,” you cooed again, breathing heavily through your nose as your heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings. “Just a little bit more and I’ll leave you. Okay?”

A jaw came into view, then the curve of a cheekbone. As more and more were revealed, a pang of nausea coiled and wound itself up your chest like barbed wire. Tightly. Despite yourself, you leaned in closer, brows tightening as you gripped the edge of the blanket, preparing yourself to tear the fabric away completely. To tear and yank and see all and everything that you wished to and—

“Johnny…”

(The worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy.)

Something in you froze as a beady eye peeked up at you, regarding you coldly with a lash-coated glare, crow’s feet prominent and pulled taut in a derisive look that had you frozen on the spot.

“J-Johnny?”

(The worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy.)

Teeth revealed themselves next, pearlescent yet decayed, rotting and black in places, yellowed in others, canines pointed like the stab of daggers. Rows and rows and rows.

As you gasped and jerked away, he leaped, soaring right towards you, giggling all the while.

“Gotcha!” 

The man ensnared you in his arms, cradling you to him, clutching so tightly that your breath hitched at the sheer force of his embrace. 

“Mama’s boy!” He shrieked. And again: “Mama’s Boy!” And, as though that was the cue, two more men jumped out from the corners, leaping towards you with crooked grins.

You scrambled backwards, yelping in turn. But instead of escaping, you fell. Like a ball. Fast. Freely. Hurtling with no direction, no guide, no reason, into the depths of nothing, nothing, nothing, dragging the man with you, and—

Down below, a red rug laid. Plush. Thick. Quivering. It stretched infinitely, an impossible length, unnatural.

Even more so, as it curled and warped into a creature: a thing of myth and fantasy, as your head slammed against its leathery skin. You lurched forward with the impact, catching yourself as you dived face first onto the rippling crimson scales, and scrambled to right yourself and escape.

“Nuh uh, not so fast sweetheart.” The one with the emetic grin leered at you, smile still plastered across his face as he tightened his grip around your leg and pinned you to the ground. “We worked hard to get ya’. Waited so long for one of yous.” He brought his face close to your hair and inhaled deeply, sniffed like a hound – a beast. “A beaut. ”

From your left, one with a rotted face, mottled and grey like a half-eaten maggot-ridden fruit, grabbed your shoulders and wrenched them down, forcing you flat against the rug. They both hovered above you now, two pairs of eyes trained on you as you squirmed about atop your fleshy cushion,

(which rippled and thrived with your every movement)

as the third — with his ashen skin and long nose, like a snout or a hook — perched himself between them with a cheshire-like smile, thin-lipped and crudely forced. It curled into his eyes, crinkling them until it became nearly too wide — too inhuman. 

It went on like that for a terrifying minute: the staring, the breathing, the thumping of your heart and the trembling of your limbs (The horror, the horror.) It was only when you gasped at the hands on your shoulders, that began to move in a circular motion — as if to soothe — that the quietness severed.

“We’d never let ya’ go so quickly.” It was the rotten one that spoke, that rubbed. “Yer our lil’ prize after all. Can ya’ believe tha’ good fortune? That we get a taste a’one of yer kind? Pretty little things, damn near perfect . Nothin’ like the ones out in th’ country… a sour lot, all of ‘em.”

The hooked-nose man snickered at that. Cackled really, like a hyena. Like a madman. Clutching his ribs as though he’d never heard anything funnier — and soon enough, everyone had joined in on the chuckling. Everyone but you.

(The scales beneath you bunched and juddered and squirmed, moved along with their jerking motions as they shook with mirth.)

“Bonnie!” Mama’s Boy called out, amusement still rippling through him. “C’mere.”

You heard a faint shuffling, shoes against the hardwood floor, and before long, the red woman appeared in the doorway. Her eyes widened as they flitted from Mama’s Boy to you, and her face screwed with a mixture of distaste and sorrow, like she’d just bitten into a fruit long past its ripeness, the rot souring her tongue. “I’m so sorry—” she began, before Mama’s Boy cut her off.

“—Fuck a’ ya’ sorry for, Bonnie? You done good. Got us a real treat, didn’t ‘spect that from ya’.”

“H-he threatened to kill my Johnny if I didn’t bring someone to him!”  She wildly gestured to her side, and it was then that you noticed the little boy clinging to her leg. He couldn’t have been more than seven, face pudgy and round, a tell-tale sign of youth — of innocence . And yet, your lip curled at them both, twisting into an ugly thing as you noticed he hid further behind his mother when your gaze settled on him. His red, red mother. “I couldn’t let him do that — couldn’t let anyone hurt my Johnny. I’m a good mother, I told you that. A good , good mother. I…”

“So it’s okay if I’m hurt?” You nearly growled, and the men that restricted your limbs began to whoop. 

“Feisty one too, ain’ she?”

“Love the ones that have a lil’ spunk to ‘em.” 

You ignored them, despite their nearness. Their intrusion.

“It doesn’t bother you that I’ll die in order for your son to live? That you dragged me out my home, to save your son that is perfectly fucking fine?!” By now you were shouting. Shouting and trembling and livid.

“Hey hey hey now,” the one on the right — Maggot Face — growled, slapping a dirty, bony hand across your cheek. You flinched. The sting had you seething. Teeth baring in a display you were sure looked pathetic. “She did what she had ta’ in order ta’ protect ‘er offspring. Yous a smart girlie, got no right gettin’ upset ‘bout somethin’ like this.”

“No — no right ?!” you sputtered, disbelief forcing a mirthless laugh from you. “I— You...I never agreed to being a fucking kill!”

In response to your outrage, he placed a dirty knuckle beneath your chin and lifted, forcing your face near his rotten one. “Aye, I got it. She’s all feisty ‘cause she don’ know what’s gonna’ happen to ‘er. Guess I’d be mad too, if I were a mere sow like ‘erself. Innit right, boys? Clueless bitch wouldn’t get it any other way.”

Hooknose nodded as Mama’s Boy stroked a hand through his oily hair, murmuring a “They never do I ‘spose. S’only their nature.”

Maggot Face leaned in closer to you, and this close, you could practically see insects crawling. Smell the decay — the death — and all the sourness it brought with it. “I’ll tell ya’ then, yer fate, since yous so damn upset over it.” He grinned, and it’s then you realised the difference between him and the others:

He truly was a rotten thing, no semblance of life in him. When he smiled, you saw that all his teeth were brown and had been sawed down to nubs. As if they too, had endured his wrath. 

“Ya’ ain’t just a kill to us, girly. Yous a…” He turned his head, looked to the others. “What’s the word again?”

Hooknose simply shrugged his shoulders, but Mama’s Boy chuckled. “Release.” 

Maggot Face digested the word. Chewed it between what little teeth he had in that big, burly maw of his, one of a beast, and nodded. “Aye, a release. Yous a release to us. Much more important than just some kill…kills we don’ care for. S’all ‘bout the fun, then. With you,” his knuckle moved up up up, pressing against the fat of your lip. “S’all about… savouring your taste. The perfect meal takes time don’ it? Even the Last Supper was built upon anticipation an’ longing. And I want to make sure all o’ ya’ has ta’ be ingested thoroughly and with relish.”

Your lip quivered as you wrangled to move out of his grasp, but oh-so-quickly — so terrifyingly — like a switch in him had been wrenched upwards, his grip grew harsh, fingers biting your skin enough to bruise. 

“So don’ be difficult , you spoilt lil’ city bitch. Yer special…ain’ that whatchya ’ want? To die a meanin’ful death?” 

You understood all that he left unsaid, it translated itself through the hunger in his gaze — the greed : Tonight, you were dying regardless. 

And so, you screamed. Screamed and screamed until a greasy hand moved to cover your mouth, muffle your wails, and you shook and sobbed.

“I’m sorry. I-I’m so, so sorry.” Your eyes shot up to the red woman, chin lifting just a little. You’d nearly forgotten her, presence closely akin to a coat rack; in your remembrance you screamed louder. Her trembling reached a near violent degree. “J-Johnny let’s go. Let’s go. Mama’s tired, let’s go.” 

You watched as she ushered the little boy out the room in a tight grip, prying his curious, wide eyes from your form with the twist of his head. Her apologies continued, reverberating throughout the apartment long after she’d exited. 

“Oh, don’ fuckin’ scream now. Shut yer fuckin’ trap or I’ll do it for ya’,” Mama’s Boy snarled, grip so cruel that he forced your skin to fold and lift, pushed your features together like you were nothing more than something for him to break.

But you only screamed louder, blood rushing to your ears. It sounded warped — distorted and deep. Nothing like your voice, but more a macabre mix between a deep gargle and an elongated squawk. You looked like an animal — were being treated as one, so why not behave as such? You’d scream. Yelp and hiss and bite and lash out if it meant giving them something other than a docile and obedient kill. You wanted to be the last meal they ate, the one that ruined the fun.

“Get the rope.” Mama’s Boy ordered over his shoulder, before turning back to you, teeth razor sharp and glinting in the moonlight. “You enjoy bein’ a stupid, bad girl, dontcha?  Fuckin’ city cunt wants to behave like a bitch, well she’ll get treated like one. Won’t ya’? Now gon’ look what you done.”

Your head lolled to the side as you watched Hooknose trek to the corner where he’d hid. There was a faint rustling, of fabric against fabric and a zipper being yanked before he shuffled back over, rope coiled in one hand and —

Your eyes bulged from your skull as a whimper escaped your lips, muffled by the palm of his hand, still pressed so tightly to your mouth. 

— a ball gag in the other.

“See, this is what ya’ made us do. This is what bein’ bad gets ya’,” Mama’s Boy cooed, but even with his gentler tone his grasp grew tighter. It had you whimpering more, body convulsing. The corners of your vision grew spotty and blackened — frothing darkness encroaching inwards and outwards at an alarming rate until it was nearly all you could see. Until nearly all of you had turned black and bruised. “Open wide now, pretty. ‘Fore I really gotta hurt ya’.”

You shook your head violently, defiantly, from side to side — to which his face morphed into something even more grotesque (if even possible), lips peeled back, expression almost savage, near rabid.  You were so focused on the vulgarity of it, ensnared by the sheer ugliness, that you didn’t register his hand drawing back, so far behind his head, until it connected with the tender flesh of your cheek and you let out a muffled screech, pain blossoming and leaving a dull throb in its wake. A pulse. Punctured by a “stupid girl.”

Your head snapped to the side, copper filling your mouth and causing it to part around a gasp. He took advantage of that, fingers crawling towards your jaw and tugging its hinges wide, stretching and straining and ripping without remorse until you were sore. Aching. Sourness welling inside your mouth — upon your tongue. 

“Go on. Shove it in der.” Hooknose moved closer to you at the command, eyes watery and quivering and eager and fixed on your mouth, gaze roaming as if just now he saw for the first time.

He offered you a pitying smile. Or perhaps, he intended it to be. But it was stiff — as though something in him found it difficult to contradict his nature, and fought against his feeble attempt at benevolence. 

He held your gaze as his fat, stubby fingers pressed against the seam of your lips, ghosting your tongue as he wedged the plastic ball into your mouth. He rubbed it gently across the wet muscle, and it grew firmer the wider he stretched your cheeks to make room for the intrusion; until eventually, he clicked the device into place and brought his thumb to wipe along your tears, soiling the salty fluid with grease. 

At the sound of the click, Mama’s Boy grunted with contentment. “Good. Good, she knows now. Learned . Learned we can make it all hurt, all nasty an’ painful, so she’ll do wha’ she’s ‘spose ta’, right?”

You blinked owlishly. He chortled.

“Get ‘er feet, boy. Don’t bind ‘em too tight, don’t wanna ruin tha’ soft skin of ‘er’s...then ya’d miss out on the finer parts, eh?”

Hooknose grunted. Moved around to grasp your legs, held onto them like prongs of a ladder as he uncoiled the rope in his hand, once, twice, three times. Three full rotations.

You noticed that his hands, coated in grime and black dirt, shook and trembled, and if the trembling weren’t so apparent and grossly prominent — so entirely aberrant and incongruous — you would have said that the hands on you were almost delicate.

Before you could think about it further, Mama’s Boy sighed. Almost wistfully. “M’boys ‘nd I… we ‘aven’t eaten in months. ‘Aven’t had a proper, satisfying fill in a real long while either. Course, none a’ the meat down at tha’ slaughterhouse tastes nothin’ like yer kind does, it won’t ever hold a candle to it neither. City pigs taste different, breed better than the ones we get out there. Small and lean and nice an’ tender. Just like you are right now. So fresh…so damned fresh.” 

“Aye,” Maggot Face chimed in, tone equally drenched that you tensed , bile flooding into your mouth as your limbs went rigid.“Ah’m nearly giddy. Haven’t tasted yer kind for so long. Missed it, missed it a lot. Ah bet yer meat ain’t hard t’eat none.”

“Bet it slides right off th’ bone.”

Maggot Face hummed. “An’d pair real nice with sum’ whiskey. Ain’t that right?”

Hooknose said nothing, just began to twine the rope about your ankles. Slowly, too slow, as though the languorous motion would cause his fingers not to tremble or waver, would make the shame dissipate from him and prevent his neck from reddening with his guilt.

(It would never do. It never did.)

As the other men busied themselves with fantasies of all you had to offer, all the pleasure your tender corpse would soon give, he shakily bound your ankles, began to crawl his hands up your calves and squeezed, encased.

(Did he see how your flesh bunched beneath his fingertips? The swell, the way the tendon protruded beneath his touch — because of his touch — like a mountain range, birthed?) 

You squeezed out a whimper, one filled with all the helplessness and agony you could muster,

(A storm, a deluge.)

and slowly — agonisingly so — he peered up at you with drooping eyes, eyelashes fanning his sockets like paper fans.

His mouth parted, grip slackened, and you knew you had a sliver of a second to act quickly. You drew your feet back, poised taut like a bowstring, before ramming the pointed edges of your heels right into his soft, fleshy abdomen. The impact drew a choked yelp from him, spit flying to land on your thighs, and he fell to the ground with a loud crash, gurgling wails ripping from him as he cried out the first word you’d heard from him all night:

“Fuck!”

All attention then shifted towards you, gazes accusing.

Angry.

From then on, it was all a whirlwind.

Screams atop of screams and filthy curses spat with their drool,

(Lips forming around the vulgar words — city bitch — again and again and again,

until the syllables lost their meaning and their sound turned to that of a skipping record)

and bony hands scuffling your hair, turning you onto your stomach

slamming your skull against the floorboards,

nails scraping your scalp as you fought their every attempt at restraining your arms.

If anything, the struggle spurred them on, snowballed their ever-growing lust for violence — and the thought frightened you to the point where you were nearly deaf to the scathing words whispered in your ear:

“Yous just prolonging yer inevitable end. No more ai’ght?  We gonna be gentle no more.” You heard a click. It was only when a cool metal pressed against your forehead that you registered just exactly what it was. “Thought a city bitch like ya’ would have a bit more manners. Coulda’ been a smooth, nice night for ya, really coulda’.”

(He was wrong; a lie that slipped from his tongue so easily he nearly fooled himself. You knew they meant every bit of the torture, were planning it in the seedy, gutters of their minds with relish.)

With a snarl, Mama’s boy clicked off the safety of the revolver. “Guess the only thing gonna get through yer thick fuckin’ skull is a bullet.”

You closed your eyes. He shook you.

“But don’t go an’ take yerself off to dreamland, girl. Ther’s a slow death comin’ to ya, no mercy for sows like yerself. Yer gonna feel everythin’. Every. Fucking. Thing. An yer gonna scream, scream real good, scream fer us. Ya hear me? Hear me, cunt? Open yer eyes an listen, goddamnit , or I swea r— I fuckin’ swear, I’ll put a bullet right between yer pretty lil’ eyes right now, an’ leave yer body to the maggots. I’ll let ‘em feast on yer rotten flesh, eat their way through yer bones ‘till yer nothin’.”

You wanted to laugh — hysterically, manically, deliriously, and tell him you wished he would. Wished he were to finish you off already, if only to put a stop to the gnawing emptiness swelling in the pits of your chest, the festering soreness in your jaw.

But you only kept your eyes closed.

There was a low growl, a series of them, a harmony. And then —

(Your heart beat and beat, wild and untamed and ferocious.)

— gunshots. Three. In quick succession.

Bang, bang, bang!

(Your ears began to ring.)

Before you could even draw a breath, gasp around the gag or bring your palms to clutch the scarlet drops above your lashes, a choked gurgle met your ears. It sounded of something gutted, eviscerated; or something drained of all life and then filled with water. And then so suddenly, without warning, a heavy weight slammed into your back, knocking the wind from your chest and causing your eyes to bulge.

Warmth spread through your hoodie, seeped and clung as something viscous splattered against your forehead, thick, almost clumped, in the shape of droplets. They rolled down your forehead and curved over your brow, down your cheek and tickled your chin,

(a trail of kisses — odious and slow and inching and —) 

and they hung from the precipice before severing their tether and dropping to the scales beneath you, undoubtedly marring the rug with red blotches, blossoming before you in uneven spatters.

(Petals unfurling at their own leisure, gory and fresh.)

You lifted a trembling hand to your forehead, intercepting a few drops that clung to your flesh, warm and syrupy like molasses, yet so different in nature, not nearly as enticing. The tremor in your hand caused them to smear beneath your touch — spread, fan out — and bile rose in your throat as you caught a whiff of their coppery stench. Pungent and stifling and intruding and not yours, not yours, not yours.

You gagged, dry-heaved, retched until your throat was just as sore as your jaw, your head just as strained as your legs, your sense gone, gone, gone — as you didn’t register just how this had happened. How , why, Mama’s Boy ended atop you, stiff and losing warmth, coating you in blood, limbs splayed and a hole probably the size of your finger in his skull.

Your hysteria didn’t cease until you heard heavy footsteps, boots clomping through a red sea, and then a gravelly voice. Coarse and abrasive, rock against rock.

“You okay? Can ya’ move?”

(Thousands of palms were on you. Or two. You couldn’t tell as they began to peel away the darkness — the death.)

Your lungs seized, an odd choking, croaking sound — not of death, not of the gunshot —  as the ball gag was swiftly unclipped and fell from your skull.

The only sounds after were heavy panting, grunts, and groans — of the human kind, and they were nearly indecipherable to you, enveloped within the throbbing pulses that spread throughout your body. A stuttering of breath. Pain finally swept you away.

You fought against the encroaching darkness.

— you saw a scarred lip, torn flesh like crinkled linen.

And to the darkness you lost.

No longer did your façade of sleep work on the man.

“How much longer are ya’ gonna lay there? S’been hours.”

You ignored him. Kept your eyes shut as you tried to regulate your breaths, slow and deep. In and out.

“Fuck, don’t ya’ gotta piss or somethin’?”

In and out.

“Never met someone s’eager to be around a bunch o’ bodies before.” He tried again, and you could imagine his lips pulling into a smirk. “Must be a real fucked up fetish.”

At the mention of bodies, your breath hitched; you heard a scoff.

“Knew you were awake.” He stomped from wherever he was, around the corpses and meaty chunks of flesh and brain matter, to make his way to your side. A leather boot gently nudged at your shoulder. “Ain’t gonna hurt you none, if that’s why your tail’s between your legs. They ain’t gonna hurt you none either.”

You peered up at him with a narrowed eye, and it strained against the swollen bruise around it, pulsated and quivered and fought to close. The mammoth of a man motioned a hand outwards, and your gaze followed his lazy gesture around the room, over the corpses that littered it, the gore that wasn’t there before (The teeth, the hair, the innards. Everything that belonged inside, outside.), and then back to him. The broadness, the solidity, of him.

His lip twitched. The linen ruffled.

“This…” you croaked, voice hoarse and throat dry, so you swallowed. Tried again. “This was all…you?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

His dark brows knitted together. “Why?”

“Why’d you help me?”

The man shrugged, broad shoulders rising just briefly before falling. “You were screamin’ like a banshee. It was loud and it was pissin’ me off a bit. Didn’ expect to see a group of men tryna kill a girl, though. Thought it was some kinky shit or somethin’. A bit disappointed, really.”

You blinked. Slowly, as not to bring too much pain upon yourself.

And then, you laughed.

It was a raspy, broken sound, and it sounded more like a wheeze than anything else. But it was laughter, and it was genuine, and it was the first time in a long while you had felt something so human. So real.

You smiled, and the skin on your cheek pulled and stung. “You’re an asshole.”

He smirked. “So I’ve heard.”

You pushed yourself upright, and the man took a step back, allowed you the space. Your hands shook, trembled, and your fingers were numb, and you brought them up to the sides of your face, covered your eyes and pressed hard, until white spots danced across the backs of your eyelids.

The man eyed you carefully, and then he turned his attention to the bodies.

They were strewn about the room, some in pieces, some still intact, and they were all dead. Their blood pooled and stained the floors, and their innards had spilled out, and their faces had been blown apart, and their limbs were bent and twisted and—

You dropped your hands, and you looked up at him.

He was watching you.

And then, he offered a gloved hand.

You stared at it.

It was large, and the leather was worn and torn and stained, and it was a nice contrast against the muted, olive brown of his skin. Skin littered with cuts and scars and bruises yet so inviting.

You stared at his hand, and you wondered what kind of person could kill three men, gut them and tear them apart without flinching, yet offer a hand so gently.

So kindly.

You stared at his hand, and slowly, you reached for it.

His fingers were warm when they wrapped around yours, despite the fabric that covered them, and he helped you stand, careful not to touch your bruises, brush against the cuts. 

“You live on this floor?”

You nodded.

He hummed and gripped your hand a little tighter. “You gonna show me where it is?”

Your brow furrowed and you winced, heart picking up if only slightly. “What?”

“You need help. You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“But I can manage.”

“You can’t.”

“I’ve managed for this long.”

He snorted. “Not well.”

You frowned, the cut on your lip stung.

“C’mon.”

“I-I don’t even know your name.”

He paused, and the corners of his lips tugged upwards. The linen ruffled again. “Toji.”

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐢𝐞 © 2024 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. it is prohibited to reproduce, distribute, or transmit my works in any form or by any means! ﾉ masterlist

@madaqueue (●'◡'●)

[just-a-dinosaur-i-guess]

taixu, chapter one - leave all your love and longing behind

sources tba

[somnosodomy]

[elderwisp]

◁ || ▷ now playing

Atlas Hey! Stop forcing yourself to drink that- It’s empty. 

Taryn: It tasted like garbage. 

Atlas: No shit, that’s Miller for you. I’m sorry about Kai. 

Taryn: Don’t apologize for my brother, he’s grown. 

Atlas: Yeah but…

Taryn: It’s like… You try to do something kind for someone and they’re so unappreciative. 

Atlas: It’s not your fault, you know? Kai has his moments, he’s probably grumpy he can’t be around his PC or something. 

[ microphone feedback ]

Taryn: Atlas, why are you being nice to me?

Atlas: What? I can’t hear you!

Taryn: It’s all so confusing… 

Atlas: Do you want to talk outside??

Taryn: No, it’s nothing, let’s just enjoy the music!

Gum: [ nervously ] H-Heeeeey Oasis Springs! We’re Valentina, it’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance again.. I dunno what the fuck I’m saying anyways our next song is a cover song, we hope you like it!

Atlas: Let’s get your mind off of things?

Taryn: Sure.

Gum: Brown eyes / Not many things I'm haunted by / I just don't want to be alone / I take your love you take my life / Dark angel keeper of my soul / I know it's me you want / You know it's you I want, too

Taryn: Stop. I’m sorry.  

Atlas: Taryn? What’s wrong? 

Taryn: I need some air. 

Atlas: Wait-

Taryn: No, you can stay. I-I’ll be back. 

[peskellence]

My Friends Call Me Richard

Part III

Explicit Content (18+)

Pairing: Reed900

Tags: M/M, Workplace Romance, FWB, Humour, Awkward Encounters, Smut

Previous Chapter

Read on AO3 here:

Summary: In a bid to improve his partnership (and secret intimate arrangement) with Detective Gavin Reed, RK900 embarks on a noble quest to spice things up. The solution? A new biocomponent.

Word Count: 10K

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

(surprise at the end of the keep reading courtesy of @faxaway)

“What's the hold up in there?”

RK900 winced at the question. The transition from purchase to implementation had gone nowhere near as smoothly as hoped. He found himself locked in the bathroom, trying and failing to secure his new biocomponent.  

“I am beginning to question if this product is suitable for ‘self-installation’,” He mumbled critically, attempting to angle the phallus awkwardly between his legs. “Perhaps the store assistant issued the wrong product...” 

“Can you not cross-reference it against your dick database?” His voice was thin, dripping with impudence. No doubt reflective of his dwindling patience. “I mean, your scanners would flag if it was the wrong thing completely, wouldn't they?”

The android frowned, forced to concede that multiple checks had been completed—referring to both the product schematics and his own manufacturer details. None of this had shed any clarity on his current difficulties.

He sightlessly searched for a small circular slot at the base of his groin. Guiding nodules failed to adhere, clips gripping to nothing before slipping uselessly from his chassis.

"I am having issues adhering the scrotal extension to my lower access port.” He moved the component again, testing to see if a change in angle might reap greater success. 

Another failure followed, and fears emerged that the fault could relate to his own anatomy. Specifically, a factory defect he had previously been unaware of. 

With his options rapidly depleting, he turned to the crumpled instructional leaflet left abandoned by the bath. He scrutinised each step, noting multiple discrepancies between the printed text and the digital guidance displayed on his HUD. 

“Perhaps if you could offer assistance, then it would be easier to facilitate—” 

“There's a line,” Reed shot back, callously interrupting before he could finish. “Helping you clip on your junk like we're building IKEA furniture is where I draw it.” 

The rebuff was discouraging, as RK900 was left helpless—plagued by doubts relating to protocols and analytics that so intrinsically dictated his actions.

While his advanced processors should have been capable of determining a solution to the dilemma, they proved inexplicably incapable. Trapping him in a loop of trial and error.

He briefly considered contacting RK800 to see if he might be more willing to assist. This was before he realised there would be significant limitations on the support that could be provided remotely—and that Reed would undoubtedly be opposed to welcoming additional guests.

Despite logic indicating that surrender may be the only option, something inside him refused to concede. Attention locked on his primary directive, which dangled precariously at the forefront of his optics:

> ENGAGE IN SEXUAL INTERCOURSE WITH DETECTIVE REED.

It seemed callous to allow himself to fall at this final hurdle, no matter how staggering it proved. 

And so, he forcefully pulled himself from the despondent line of cognition. Determined to ensure that his efforts—and the current painful ordeal—would not be in vain. 

With parameters set and diagnostics refreshed, his system presented an updated list of prompts. Ones that sparked hope. Renewed faith that he wasn’t deluding himself or his partner on false pretences.

Following guidance, the android performed a precise 7-degree rotation of the component. He pressed forward, and for a split second, the attachment seemed to align—but the angle fell short of optimal. A prompt then advised that proper leverage was unobtainable from his current position.

To correct this, RK900 lifted one leg, calculating in real time the exact height needed. This elevation, as it transpired, aligned almost perfectly with Detective Reed’s toilet.

Foot steady on the edge of the bowl, he pressed again, slanting upward in another attempt to engage the clips. This time, with success, confirmed by a soft click which echoed through the room. 

The small noise provided unparalleled relief. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe the debacle was over. 

It was a blissful respite, if cruelly short-lived. 

The auditory cue had been deceptive. While alignment of the prongs had been achieved, their locking mechanism had not engaged, preventing adhesion to the connection point

A revelation that came too late. 

RK900 slipped back, and the attachments promptly folded, the intimate module tumbling down between his thighs.

Unfortunately, it seemed Detective Reed was geometrically opposed to lowering his toilet seat. The component struck against the porcelain dome, ricocheting like a pinball until it hit the base with a plop. Ripples of impact shook the water, and RK900 watched in despair as the flesh-toned silicone sank, engulfed by murky waves. 

His attention snapped to the door, where he knew his partner sat in wait. Listening closely, having undoubtedly heard everything that just transpired. 

“...What was that?” 

Thirium pumped in increased volumes through his circulatory system, pooling in his cheeks. His limited social directives were strained to their breaking point, faced with a sudden uptick in demand:

While Reed was far from preoccupied with good hygiene standards, he undoubtedly possessed some instinct to protect against hazardous waste. 

This left his next steps uncertain, as the android was trapped at an impasse. Painfully aware that some degree of deceit would be needed to placate his partner, but unsure how to achieve this with any conviction. 

“Richard.”

Then a confession slipped out, almost instinctively, before he could stop it:

“It appears I have dropped my phallus in your toilet.”  

Reed did not respond immediately, and while RK900 could not see his face, he could envision the disappointment etched upon it. The deep-set frown and contemptuous stare bore into him, demanding acknowledgement.

Then, a sound bridged the hush between the bathroom and bedroom. Auditory profiling identified the impact of flesh, as biophysical analysis confirmed no additional parties had entered the home.  

Reed had struck himself. Likely in the face—a ritualistic action performed during times of frustration.  

“ Why were you putting it on over the toilet?”

RK900 spoke quickly. An exercise in perseverance and self-preservation as much as it was an appeal to his partner. “There is no cause for alarm.” 

He then pivoted sharply, leaving the component submerged in the waste receptacle. The rubber tip reached for him, breaking the water's surface as though beckoning his return. 

Its pleas for assistance were ignored as he dropped to his knees, retrieving a discarded box from the grubby linoleum floor. The contents were cleared, save for a small drawstring bag containing samples of Cyberlife-issued cleaning supplies. 

“The component will be sanitised thoroughly before use,” the android said, a relieved sigh passing his lips. “I can assure you this incident will not impact our planned intimacy.”

“Like fuck, it won’t. I am not letting you put your toilet dick in me.”

The harsh retort struck like a slap and swiftly undermined any solace. Crestfallen, the RK unit returned focus to the toilet, gaze dropping limply to the prosthetic urethra staring up at him. A singular, narrow eye, which made him the subject of scrupulous judgment. Mockery. 

His grip tightened, reducing the box to a compact wad of cardboard. Then, his central processor whirred into overdrive, fervently seeking a solution to the current dilemma. 

“If preferred, we can return to the Cyberlife Store in order to—”

“ No .”

The fledging suggestion was cut down before it had any hopes of maturing. 

Despite this sweeping refusal of cooperation, Detective Reed eventually employed some degree of deduction. This was an innate reflex that existed beyond the parameters of conscious desire, culminating in the antipathic conceit he muttered under his breath. 

It was just barely audible through the wooden panel that divided them. Suggestions that it ‘didn’t matter’ if the extension was in mint condition, given the unsavoury conditions it would imminently find itself in. This, combined with allusions that he had accepted ‘worse’ from former partners.

The man capped the disgruntled train of thought with a more targeted instruction, spoken to the android: 

“Just make sure it’s clean enough , okay?” 

RK900 was appreciative to have been offered a compromise, accepting the conditions with a cordial nod. “My advanced debris detection will ensure the removal of all harmful chemicals and bacterial residue.” 

“...Debris detection?” the human questioned, snorting tersely as he did. “What are you, a fucking Roomba?”

“My operations are far more advanced than that of a vacuum cleaner.” 

This resulted in another burst of amusement—a childish snicker pelted against the wooden panel dividing them.

“Depends on the context…” This impish enjoyment soon subsided, followed by a return to thinly veiled criticisms. “Don’t rush; I’m having a blast . Nothing says ‘mind-blowing foreplay’ like waiting for your partner to disinfect his detachable dick.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Detective,” the android replied, imitating de-escalation tactics he had observed from RK800. “Your patience and understanding are greatly appreciated.” 

The man was far from enchanted. Clicking his tongue, he mumbled another suggestion under his breath. This time, admonishing insincerity, accusing the android of sounding like a ‘fucking complaints department.’  

“Just don’t expect me to go down on you. I'd rather not scrub my tongue with lemon zest bleach.” 

RK900 doubted this product had been used on the toilet with any recency. Nonetheless, he brushed the comment aside.

Supplies prepared, he rolled up the sleeve of his uniform jacket and reached into the bowl to retrieve the lost component. As his hand became further immersed, the silicone base slinked back until it was wedged stubbornly in the U-bend. Enhanced manoeuvring was required to dislodge it, but after a few determined twists, it finally broke free.

With the phallus secured, he set to work on the sanitation process. The antibacterial spray was used until the bottle was nearly depleted, scrubbed with dutiful care into every moulded ridge and crevice. Unsheathed fingers were then swept across the length, assessing for any lingering debris trapped in the pockets. 

“Exterior sterilisation is at 99.8%,” RK900 concluded, as synthetic skin returned to his digits, “well above advisory levels for bodily insertion.”

“Sexy,” the human said dryly. There was a strange upward lilt that the android had come to recognise as synonymous with sarcasm. “Just try not to drop it in the shitter again.” 

Having learned from his previous mistake, RK900 lowered the toilet seat, establishing a more desirable platform for installation. He clipped the newly sanitised component back into place. This time, ensuring the fastening clasps had locked securely to his groin before receding. 

His operational software acknowledged the component and the installation of primary physical subroutines booted autonomously. Aesthetic changes also occurred, integrating the component into his wider physical form. 

“...Hey…Richard…?” The address came mingled with steady rapping against the door. “You’re a bit quiet. Just checking your engine is still running.”

RK900’s lips formed a response, but no sound escaped them. Instead, he was mesmerised by the ripples of movement materialising on the component. Iridescent patterns danced and shimmered, attempting to harmonise with the surrounding conditions.

He understood the device’s ‘complexion’ was predetermined and that a perfect colour match was not guaranteed. Nonetheless, it came close. Unsightly connection points smoothed almost seamlessly beneath a blanket of pale, freckled skin.

“... Richard ?” There was another bang. Louder and more insistent. “Look, I’m not expecting you to strut out of there like Cyberlife’s latest sexbot. If you can't get the thing on, it's fine. Seriously. Just stop messing around so we can—”

“External interrogation is almost complete. I’ll be out in one moment.”

RK900 dressed carefully, concealing his new feature beneath his work slacks in anticipation of a proper reveal. He wanted to avoid startling his companion with unexpected nudity, having learned from experience that such a greeting required meeting very specific criteria—ones he did not want to misjudge at this pivotal moment. 

As he opened the passage to the bedroom, the swinging door nearly collided headlong with Reed. He dodged to the side, cursing sharply, as one of the arms that had been habitually crossed over his chest moved to shield his face. 

“What the hell ?” he spluttered, tone brimming with accusation. “You nearly knocked me out, dipshit.”

“I did not anticipate you would be standing in such close proximity to the door.”

The sounds of annoyance trailed off as the man's disgruntled expression morphed into one of introspection. Suddenly aware that the action had revealed more than he intended.

“Whatever.” He grunted dismissively, drawing his arms back into their previous guarded position. “So, you done? Or do you still need to calibrate your balls?” 

“The component has been implemented in its entirety. Diagnostics are underway to confirm optimal physical functionality. Afterwards, I will be cleared to upload the related social protocols.” 

The human stared blankly as if the words had emerged as distorted, incomprehensible screeches. “I asked if it was on, not for a dissertation on the instruction manual.” 

RK900 recognised that he may have offered more information than necessary. In seeking to be thorough, he had unintentionally diminished a level of intrigue—the mystique that Reed wished to preserve in their impending intimacy.

“It is on and will be ready for use shortly. Apologies for the delay, Detective.”

Reed blinked again, his already furrowed brow pulling into an increasingly taut pinch. There was unrest that persisted around him, but it took a different form. More apprehensive than hostile. 

“Gavin,” he corrected. “I already told you, Gavin is fine when we're…” 

The sentence trailed off, wandering in line with his focus. It followed a path down the android’s form, inspecting every inch until it had locked onto the junction between his legs. His eyes widened, and his breath hitched, catching in his throat.

“How much longer is it going to take?” he questioned, motioning towards the concealed appendage in a loose circling gesture. “Have I got time to text Tina about how fucking insane this is?” 

RK900 took this impatience as a cue to progress the interaction. He leveraged all the research he had compiled, coupled with their pre-existing intimacy habits. This collective insight encouraged him to act assertively—while also imitating a degree of human spontaneity.

He advanced on the human, preparing to perform an action he had noted in several of the surveyed clips. Pressing a steadying hand to the small of the man’s back, he hooked his available arm onto the back of his thighs.

Gavin was raised in a fluid motion, resulting in a short, strangled sound—caught somewhere between a scream and a hiss. He was powerless to do anything but hook onto his partner’s neck, preventing unsteady weight from toppling back. 

Once adjusted to the sudden change in elevation, his lips parted, presumably to form words of protest. They were silenced pre-emptively by the firm, deliberate press of the android’s own.

It wasn’t long before the kiss was reciprocated. He engaged RK900 in a quiet chase, mirroring practised movements with tenacious enthusiasm. His heartbeat escalated, and the press of his mouth grew more insistent—matching each rumbled pulse that rattled his ribs. 

The android felt a flicker of satisfaction, his actions eliciting the exact response he had predicted. Ultimately, he pulled away, and mimicry ended as the man attempted to pursue the withdrawing contact.

“I can think of more entertaining ways to tolerate this delay...” 

RK900 paused, realising he was unsure how to proceed with this sentence. He took a moment to adjust his verbal subroutines, aligning them with the recently acquired licentious vocabulary. From this, he successfully crafted an appropriately alluring title of address:

“Hot lips.”  

This inspired a half-suppressed sound from his partner, akin to a deflating balloon. After a beat, breath was drawn back, hissed through clenched teeth, as the man sharply angled his head further into the room.

“Stop running your mouth and get a move on. Plastic asshole.”

RK900 was on the verge of reminding him that they had omitted the purchase of a silicone rectal cavity before understanding his meaning. He instead referred back to the audiovisual loops stored on his CPU, prioritising according to watch time and access frequency.

Feeling assured he had gathered all the necessary data for an optimal experience, he purposefully strode on. Approaching the bed before deftly sidestepping it and heading for the exit.

“Uh, where the hell are you going?” Gavin, still held in his grasp, attempted to resist his movement. One hand pressed against the solid foundation of his chest, pushing back in an action that had entirely zero impact. “The bed is over there, genius.”

“Your bed will not be required. This apartment has a balcony.” 

His partner gawped at him, lashes fluttering in confusion. If he were an android, RK900 was certain he would hear the whir of internal mechanisms—gears turning frantically, teetering on the brink of annihilation.

“Come again?”

Any excitement built during their kiss seemed to have fizzled completely. The android realised that while his data proved sound in a controlled environment, external factors undermined its practical reliability.

Memory banks cast echoes of the human's shuddering breath, slicing through the frigid winter air. The tip of his ruddy nose tucked into the folds of his hoodie as he attempted to shield it from the chill…

After reevaluating the situation, he stopped. His heels pressed firmly into the grubby carpet before angling upwards, prepared for reorientation. 

 “Of course, it is rather cold out. The bed will suit our needs for today.”

Retracing his steps, RK900 returned to his previous position at the foot of the bed. He held his partner over its surface before releasing his weight, permitting a descent into the linen. Despite the cushioned landing, Gavin yelped. His limbs fanned out in a star-like formation, braced for impact as the plush sheets rapidly engulfed him.

The android soon joined, placing hands on either side of his body, forming a tight cage. His captive stared through him, focus blighted by the recent momentum, as his jaw fell slightly agape. 

A smooth tilt guided it closed as RK900 supported his weight on a single arm. His fingertips skimmed coarse stubble, and his sensors registered that it had grown 2.3 millimetres since their last encounter—slightly longer than the detective’s preference. 

Resisting the urge to mention this, he instead leaned in, charting the overgrown trail with neatly peppered kisses.

Gavin tensed, although this response was not unanticipated.

It always took him some time to relax—when they were like this. The ripples of previously stringent prejudice, now mostly forgotten, still clinging to threads of fading significance…

Ties that unravelled beneath targeted pulses of breath—slow and rhythmic, designed to coax tightly held knots from muscles. Receptive warmth spread beneath reddening skin, extending outward until the body became loose and pliant.

The man's head tilted unconsciously, baring more of his neck—a wordless invitation for RK900 to deepen his exploration.

He established a new point of contact on the presently unblemished canvas, tracing it with a practised sweep of his tongue before clamping down with a firm press of teeth.

After applying suitable pressure to leave a mark, he pulled back, levying a rumbled address against the pulsing flesh. A premeditated salaciousness that was undercut by an instinctive slip back into professional titles:

“You're a dirty whore, aren't you, Detective?” 

Despite previous objections, Gavin did not appear upset. If anything, the dilation of his pupils, combined with the involuntary groan that tumbled from his lips, indicated the opposite.

Encouraged to proceed, RK900 maintained his focus on the man's throat. Sealing flesh between his lips and drawing gently on the freshly marked abrasion.

“ Shit.” The expletive trailed into a sigh as he squirmed keenly against a tide of rumpled linen.

“Such a needy slut.” 

The derogatory remarks felt odd—unnatural—coming from the android, yet they seemed to be the exact calibre of slander Gavin wanted. If the noises hadn't been enough, irrefutable evidence came in the growing snugness of his jeans.

He traced the stained length of the zipper, to which the concealed hardness beneath twitched back receptively. “Filthy—”

“Easy, Casanova.” The chiding was light and playful, entwined with a rich chuckle. “There's no need to rush; we’re just getting warmed up.”

RK900 swiftly identified the duplicity of this statement.

It was routine they had engaged in countless times before—in both personal and professional settings. His partner pushed away, under the pretence that RK900 would follow, seeking to pull him back. 

This was a challenge, demanding the RK900 to prove just how persistent he would be in retaining dominance.

Grasping the hand kneading idly into his bicep, he pinned it to the sheets. As he moved to scold the culprit—the resonance of his pitch dropped in line with his hips, which engaged the man’s own in a subtle rock. 

“I think you've already warmed up sufficiently." 

Then he paused, his mind stalling as it became clear he’d exhausted much of the risqué vocabulary he had been sourcing. 

Not wishing to shatter the illusion of salacious assuredness, he hastily constructed what he believed would be a logical evolution:

“...You…repulsive creature.”

Gavin appeared more perplexed than captivated by the address. The eager twitches RK900 had predicted were conspicuously absent as his nose wrinkled sceptically. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

Clearly, he was still adjusting to his companion speaking this way. Determining that greater exposure might expedite this adaptation, RK900 pressed on, adding to the deprecation:

“Your hygiene standards are subpar. The aroma you emit is deeply unpleasant.”

Lidded eyes snapped open, startled to alertness, and Gavin grimaced. Pressing his unrestrained hand to the android’s chest and pushing firmly:

“Okay. That’s enough. Drop it.”

RK900 stiffened. Questioning momentarily if he had made a mistake or if this was simply part of the licentious roleplay.

As Gavin held firm in his convictions, it became clear he had misjudged some aspects of his tolerance for humiliation—specifically, remarks relating to personal cleanliness. Comments he would be wise to scale back in the ongoing proceedings, which he committed dutifully to his memory backs…

Rumination cast in shifting patterns of yellow and red on the crumpled caverns of Gavin's face. The tense lines began to smooth as a flash of remorse tempered the flames in his accusatory glare.

“Let's just—” His hand jerked in an awkward flourish towards the android. Tracing erratic, disjointed patterns in the air before coming to rest between his legs. “Move on.”

It was not difficult to discern what was meant by this. To ensure that no further errors were made regarding the nuances of ‘dirty talk’, RK900 concluded now was the time to source additional support.

The Intimacy Protocol—which had been stored neatly in the back of his temporal processor, awaiting use—was promptly activated. As subroutines initialised, a cascade of sensory inputs flooded his system, sharpening every sensation with unnerving clarity.

Suddenly, he could feel everything . 

The most minute bunch of fabric rubbing against the creases of previously sensationless silicone. Artificial vessels pumped and swelled with increased thirium input as the appendage stiffened, brought to hardness with almost alarming efficiency. 

It was uncomfortable—surprisingly so—as the flesh began to strain against the oppressive binds of clothing. It pleaded for release, a call to action driven by longing the android had never experienced.

He soon responded, unable to withstand the excruciating currents pulsing through his groin. Hands fumbled to unclasp his belt, erratic movements defined by an uncharacteristic sense of urgency. The leather was almost split in two as it was yanked free—whipped back at great velocity. 

Gavin flinched, arching back quickly to evade impact. It wouldn't have been the first time that RK900 had struck him with his belt, although previous instances had been performed under strict instruction.

“ Holy shit—watch it, asshole — ”

This admonishment barely registered. The wayward currents had begun to ignite what could only be described as fire in his core. His stomach was a furnace; molten fallout spat at neighbouring biocomponents, threatening to burn through them.

The belt was discarded over the edge of the bed, its controlled descent thwarted by an extensive pile of laundry, which swallowed it whole into its pungent hold.

Gavin cursed again. This time, however, it was not the consequence of disapproval. He was staring at the android's arousal, eyes alight with what could only be described as spellbound curiosity. 

As though he were looking through the gates to nirvana, a higher plane of existence promised beneath the veil of Cyberlife briefs.

Hips were raised, and the pants slipped off, tumbling out of view in a single, fluid sweep. RK900 chose not to dwell on the creases that would have resulted from this callousness.

It was irrelevant, insignificant—a problem to be resolved later—

Provided his partner owned an iron—

WARNING — MULTIPLE SYSTEM ANOMALIES DETECTED. 

RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS…

He reeled, his mind overwhelmed by the shrieks of unruly electrical signals. Intrusive sentiments burrowed deeper into his processor, attempting to align with his more reasoned analytics. 

He took some consolation in knowing that the programme, however disorientating, was having the desired effect. With ignited zeal, Gavin gripped the hem of his shirt. Yanking it over his head before casting it aside, exposing the full length of his torso. 

The marred skin ignited his focus in a way it hadn't previously. RK900 was about to remove his undergarments when his companion—in an unusual show of consideration—moved to assist.

They seldom undressed each other, a familiarity he had been told was unfitting of their ‘casual’ arrangement. Despite this, he watched with quiet curiosity as Gavin crossed this line, looping his fingers beneath a taut band of elastic.

His cocky smirk, which was typically ever present during their encounters, was replaced by something quieter—more sincere. The digits lingered, flexing apprehensively as though preparing for their next move. 

Then the waistband was tugged, and the phallus sprung free from its confines. 

RK900 winced as he registered the cool air against his skin. It was sharp and biting, only exacerbated by the burning that continued to mount within him.

The dimensions of the phallus were expanded compared to its dormant state, aligning with the advertised specifications. The tip was tinged with a cool-toned flush, accentuated by a reflective sheen of biofluid. A lubricant that seemed to leak incrementally from the component, in which Gavin took particular interest. 

Despite previous claims that he would not be partaking in fellatio, his face drew tantalisingly close to the ‘toilet dick’. Halted inches from the arousal, blanketing it in a sequence of hot, ragged puffs. 

It sent ripples of sensation through hyper-sensitive receptors as RK900 was forced to grip the sheets beneath him. Speculating on how it might feel to be engulfed completely in Gavin's warmth and fighting the growing temptation to thrust himself into his mouth.

Before any intrusive impulses could get the better of either party, Gavin moved to palm the hardness. Tracing its length, applying testing pressure before enclosing it fully in a fist.

The sensation this triggered was indescribable. 

Thousands of microscopic pleasure receptors activated simultaneously, their collective murmurs building to wails that surged through his neural pathways. 

Then they released in a strained expulsion that tumbled from his lips. It was low and growled, not unlike the rumble of thunder, but with a distinctive metallic edge.

The noise was unlike anything he had ever produced, leaving both him and his partner temporarily stunned. Gavin was first to establish his bearings, doing so with a small, tentative squeeze. The expulsion repeated, and RK900 watched as spiralling patterns of red caught in the green of his partner’s sclerae. 

“ Holy shit.. .” The man was enraptured, scrutinising each choppy cycle of the LED as he brushed the tip of the component beneath his calloused thumb. “It feels so real.”

"Realism constitutes an integral aspect of its visual and functional design.” 

RK900 felt detached from the words, almost as though someone else was speaking through him. 

He found himself plunged deep into uncharted depths for both his body and mind. Thrashing helplessly as logical subroutines attempted to quantify his pleasure, assigning it values or comparing it to previously stored data. No parallels existed—and it was maddening.

His original self was fading fast, slipping into the foreground of his consciousness. Buried by a rampant tide of untamed cravings.

To touch and feel and taste —

> DIAGNOSTICS COMPLETE

TEMPORAL FIREWALLS: COMPROMISED 

CORE BODY TEMPERATURE: 122°F — RISING

Any attempts to re-establish command soon proved redundant as Gavin began to move his hand. His fist pumped in a rhythmic motion, pressing ruthlessly into overworked sensors. 

“You can feel that, can’t you?” The tone carried a mischievous lilt, informing RK900 that no answer was required. 

His partner was already well aware of the effect the stimulation was having. Despite this, he pressed on, seemingly hellbent on goading some form of acknowledgement. 

“Does it feel good?” 

“Very much—” 

The situation was nearing critical as his system pressed for the urgent release of the excessive heat. Narrow vents along his chassis began to hiss, desperately dispersing the warmth in subtle bursts of steam.

He sincerely prayed that his companion would fail to notice this.

“—Perhaps too much,” he confessed, shuddering weakly. “I might have to make adjustments to the erogenous feedback levels.”

“Oh no you don't.” Gavin held firm on his length—as though he were wielding a prize. One that he refused to have stripped under any circumstances. “This was your idea. You wanted this. So strap in and enjoy the ride.”

Despite the assertion, there was a moment of hesitancy before the man proceeded. His 

grip slackened, and his rigid gaze softened with a flicker of vulnerability. Searching the RK’s own, as though seeking permission.

Something that was offered in the form of a slow, apprehensive nod. The android considered lowering sensitivity regardless, omitting to disclose this to his partner before ultimately deciding against it. He resolved to monitor his response to the stimuli, assessing just how much he could reasonably tolerate. 

A line of reasoning that unravelled within seconds as heightened pleasure consumed him. 

It became painfully clear why humans sought this relief so frequently. The tension that had gripped his core melted into blissful release, leaving his systems reeling. RK900 felt the vertebra of his neck slacken as his head flopped back, and a substantial pocket of warmth released in a long, heady groan. 

The temperature warning began to recede, fading until it no longer formed an active obstruction in his vision. He could see his partner clearly and found himself wholly ensnared by the sight. 

It felt like looking at him for the first time, as all the quirks and intricacies that once seemed innocuous were viewed through a fresh lens. Thick lashes cast a charming shadow over his eyes—simultaneously bright and sharp—yet clouded by a haze of lust.

As he kept stroking him, an impish grin played on his lips. The corner lifted, aligning almost perfectly with one of the numerous scars dotting his face.

The RK examined each, his eyes drifting as unseen threads gradually linked them. Rather than constructing a timeline for when the marks might have appeared, all he could think about was how appealing they were. Constellations of lived experience seamlessly woven into a dishevelled, roguish charm the man so effortlessly embodied.

Wandering focus pathed the way for another mental break, logic bleeding intrusively through the cracks. It reminded him that—while the sights and sensations he was experiencing were profoundly enjoyable—they did little to aid in fulfilling his primary directive. 

The moment of sensual connection shattered as a methodical presence pulled him back, seeking to clarify the logistical demands of the component, eliminating any confusion:

“Stimulation is not required to maintain my erection. It is procedurally activated and maintained, separate from arousal.” 

His show of consideration was met like a forceful blow to the face. Gavin winced, yanking his hand away from the hardness as though it were lined with razors. His crumpled expression revealed a mix of defeat and humiliation before the sentiments were smothered beneath a layer of disdainful hostility.

“...Fine then, asshole .” His tone was hardened in line with the firm clench of his jaw. “If that's how it is, I won't do shit.”

His arms then pulled into a lofty sprawl as if he were reaching the crest of a theme park ride, preparing to plunge down the slope. The descent began as he allowed his weight to fall carelessly onto the sheets.

“I’ll be a good little pillow princess, just for you.” There was an exaggerated flutter of lashes, the coy flirtation standing in contrast with the previous animosity. His feet planted firmly onto the linen before his knees dropped to either side. “Go on, big guy. Do your worst.”

The phrase felt almost scripted, like something from one of his videos.

He didn't mean to request that the RK900 knowingly underperform. On the contrary, he was vying for the opposite. An experience that rivalled and surpassed everything that had come before it.

It struck a chord within the android, sending powerful currents surging through overtaxed circuits. He felt reinvigorated, freshly incentivised to explore the potential of his upgrades, discovering—alongside his partner— precisely what he could do. 

Closing off visual and auditory fields to all extraneous distractions, he focused intently on the man before him. Positioning himself between his parted thighs, he swiftly set to work removing his jeans and undergarments.

Oral stimulation came far more naturally than it typically did. 

RK900 had anchored himself on his legs, kneading the lightly toned muscle in appreciative squeezes. His cheeks hollowed, and his lips pushed forward, the process almost reflexive as he inched his way down the length. He proceeded until the tip had struck the back of his throat, and the person attached rumbled in ardent approval. 

“ Holy shit —” Gavin carded his fingers tenderly through his hair before gripping tightly, knuckles pale from exertion.

The locks were pulled back, compelling the head to move with them. RK900 responded compliantly, releasing the tension in his jaw and permitting his mouth to recede with a wet glide up the arousal.

Just shy of breaching the seal, hardened flesh poised at the tip of his tongue, his head was thrust back down. Leading him to swallow his partner again, but with far greater tenacity. 

The man growled with primal delight as RK900 stared up at him with unwavering focus.

“ Your throat feels so good.” 

‘It could feel better’, his sexual programming silently countered. 

As directed, his laryngeal modulator began to oscillate. Rumbles crept upwards, travelling along the walls of his trachea until they vibrated the quivering flesh between them. The trembles synced with the heavy thrusts being levied at his throat until their movement grew erratic.

Hoarse groans were pulled in a pervasive frequency from his lips as Gavin faltered, losing any semblance of rhythm.

“Oh, fuck me —”

“With pleasure.” 

It was almost unsettling how clearly the android spoke, with his mouth so thoroughly full. Gavin failed to remark on it, too absorbed in his bliss to notice. Then RK900 pushed back hard, forcefully breaking the hold that clung to his scalp. He allowed his partner to slip from his mouth, a filmed gloss of lubricant serving as the only evidence of the encounter. 

Gavin whimpered as hopes for release were callously snatched, thrusting shallowly into the air his companion once occupied. The android, ignoring the protest, lifted himself into a kneeling position.

His hands lingered on the thighs, still pressing into the flesh—until, with a final, painful scrape of nails—they were released. He paused to admire the lingering traces of his hold, characterised by vivid, crescent-shaped indentations.

The human arched away from the sheets, hissing with sultry elation. This was interrupted when RK900 leaned in, hovering over him like an imposing shadow, provoking an instinctive retreat of his body.

Gavin completely embraced his role in the unfolding scene, entering a state of submission as he quietly readied himself for his partner. The RK assumed an appropriate role, gliding his hand along the length of his jaw. 

This gesture felt more instinctive—spontaneous—than its earlier incarnation. It was no longer a measured attempt to coax the man into heightened excitement but a display of authentic appreciation. His hold curved inward, tracing the contour of his lips before attempting to part them.

This force proved unnecessary as the mouth opened to him willingly.

His sensory pads hummed with activity, and he was overwhelmed by information, grappling for his attention. He was torn between notes of coffee and cigarettes, alongside peppermint gum that had been used to mask the bitterness. The prompts fissured his sights, cracks that multiplied as Gavin locked on, gripping the digits in a wet seal and pulling them in with practised fluidity. 

He mapped the outline of synthetic flesh, swept in guiding strokes of his tongue, moaning performatively as he did so. RK900 understood that the man derived no real pleasure from this, his mouth not equipped with any inherent erogenous properties. Despite this, his cardiac rhythm soared, mirrored in the shaky tremors of his breath.

It was a shame that Gavin had declined to put his mouth to full use. The android felt confident he would have enjoyed the process of him fucking it. 

Fingers were removed, teased from the heat in a long, playful curl. Gavin moaned again—the sound morphed into a complaint—as he shot his partner a defiant glare.

Underneath this, a playful glimmer shone through his narrowed gaze, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He was the embodiment of salacious anticipation, every inch of his body pleading to be pushed to its limits. Strained until it had no option but to submit fully to the android’s whim.

RK900 trailed his palm down the length of his neck, reaching the dip of his collar and lingering there momentarily before moving to the expanse of his chest. His lips joined the appreciation, applying tender pressure between raised pectorals. Then, they followed the central ridge of his chest, trailing downwards towards his navel.

He allowed Gavin to believe he would make a return to his crotch, moving a scant breath away from his length. It still held firm, twitching with need, desperate for the return of withheld stimulation. Instead, he sought to make use of the growing supply of lubricant that was amassing in his cheeks. 

With his head nestled between the man’s thighs, he lowered himself further until he halted just beneath the erection. Gathering a deposit of the material into the curl of his tongue, he pressed it firmly into his partner.

Gavin hissed in shock, although the sound was far from disenchanted, rolling smoothly into a husky grunt of approval.

RK900 began dipping in and out of his body, methodically teasing the opening, willing the tight muscle to relax around him. This was coordinated with the fingers his partner had so diligently coated, which also breached his warmth, moving in steady pumps.

Gavin relished every second. He pressed eagerly against the movements, chasing each flick and thrust until his companion brushed against a sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Shit—!”

The words that preceded this were entirely incoherent—a series of desperate, disordered fragments. His hips jerked upward, seeking as much depth as he could physically attain.

The sexual protocol was fast reaching its maximum operational capacity, processes moving in rampant succession, like pistons fired in the RK’s skull. Their motions carried him forward as charged words were rumbled against a needy cavern of warmth:

“Are you ready for me to do my worst?”

Gavin quivered as his words were repeated back to him, delivered with such indulgent richness that they drew a chuckle from his lips.

The sound ushered in a return to an all-consuming need, pooling rapidly between his legs as the fire in his gut reignited. RK900 was overcome with the desire to find a final, decisive release—immersed in the friction promised by fingers and mouth.

He aligned his hips with the entrance, securing greater access by gripping his partner's legs and lifting them over his shoulders. The movement coaxed any lingering vestiges of resistance to melt away, limbs reduced to limp, weightless extensions as he slowly inched forward.

Gavin took him keenly, pliant flesh yielding as it enveloped him with an almost unbearable intensity. The sensation was raw and visceral— achingly real—in a way that shattered every preconstructed expectation. RK900 was lost, untethered from the cold, ruthless precision Cyberlife had so painstakingly designed.

All that existed was him , stretching beautifully as Richard pressed deeper—refusing to stop until he was buried fully within his form. The man rasped, his back arched in wanton satisfaction as he clenched onto the android greedily.

Their bodies melded with flawless perfection, as though Gavin were made for this—made for him.

After a period of adjustment for both, Richard began to move. His hips manoeuvred in slow, languid rocks. Velvety walls charted with light pockets of friction until they quivered and tremored eagerly around every shallow thrust. 

Muscles and nerves screamed for release, urging the android to push harder into their hold. He did not respond immediately, teasing the prospect of heightened intensity until Gavin also cried out.

He was a whimpering mess, despairing as his every cloying reach fell tantalisingly short of its target. 

“Oh God—fuck— please —”

Richard no longer denied him, mercifully granting his wishes. His pace increased until he moved with inhuman intensity. The rickety foundation of the bed trembled beneath them; its metal headboard slammed repeatedly against the wall.

Cracks began to fracture the already chipped plaster, but Richard remained focused. He was absorbed in the sinful sounds rising from beneath him: every pant, every curse, an expression of pure, unfiltered need.

“Yes, that's it—just like that—baby—” 

This fractured address nearly halted several complex system functions. Gavin had never referred to him this way—or used any remotely comparable title.

It had sounded obscene as it rolled from his tongue, laced with such sinful promise that Richard felt wholly ensnared. At that moment, he could have laid claim to the man entirely, with no trace of doubt or ambiguity concerning who he belonged to.

There was no one else in the world who mattered. Just them, moving together in seamless unity, passion thickening the air that surrounded their bodies.

The android wasn't sure when he had started to moan, but the sounds were undoubtedly present. Spiralled above them as a storm, the needle dragging across a vintage record player, melding into the animalistic cadence of Gavin’s own cries.

Fraught springs joined the accompaniment, groaning beneath the mattress. They threatened to collapse under the demand of rapidly shifting weight, all the more vocal when Gavin raised a hand to his pelvis. Attempting to match the pace that had been established, he fell woefully short. Intoxicated frustration swelled in his eyes, marbling at the corners. 

His desperate contortions, the crumpled ecstasy of his expression, were like an invention of the android’s most elaborate fantasies. Fantasies he hadn’t known he was capable of having. 

That he shouldn’t have been capable of.

WARNING—URGENT

The visuals and sensations overwhelmed him, pushing untethered programming further into the background. Propelled into depths that were beyond the reach of recovery.

Because it was addicting —watching Gavin writhe and moan against sweat-soaked sheets, in the knowledge that he was the cause. A performance directed by and performed for his sights only. 

CRITICAL SYSTEM INSTABILITY.

The thoughts burned him. His code fractured, shattering to pieces. 

Then he smacked Gavin’s hand away, assuming complete authority over his pleasure. Working the length with skilled finesse, able to provide the weight and pressure the man's weakened grip was incapable of.

“ Fuck , I’m so close,” Gavin keened hoarsely, toes curled with pressure that wound increasingly tight. Coiled in his gut, radiating in fervent strums through his length. “ Keep going—”

Then, it all collapsed.

Subroutines glitched. Corruption spread like a disease, infesting every corner of his processor. Alarms bombarded him faster than they could be dismissed until warnings flooded his vision. 

A staggering wall of flashing crimson. 

MULTIPLE ANOMALIES DETECTED.

> CRITICAL MALFUNCTION IDENTIFIED.

> SOURCE—CENTRAL PROCESSOR. 

COMMENCING EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTICS…

Richard tried to carry on, gripped by crazed, all-consuming desperation. He did not want this to end, did not wish to cease seeing— feeling —Gavin the way he did now. 

Clinging to the man blindly, he attempted to carry him to his looming summit of completion. A determination that solidified his available hand, wrapped tightly around his throat. Squeezing hard, cutting oxygen and redirecting blood flow. Giving it no option but to pool in the swollen cock between his legs.

DIAGNOSTICS COMPLETE. 

> ROOT THREAT IDENTIFIED RA9_15.EXE

The intimacy directive terminated, diverting all processes to counter the threat. 

Before shutting down, it provided one final instruction. How best to combine physical and verbal provocation to guarantee Gavin Reed's undoing: 

“You have been very bad, Detective .” His title was hissed—with an almost biting, contemptuous edge. “I'm afraid you have given me no other option but to punish you.” 

SYSTEM BREACH IMMINENT — IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED. 

AUTOMATED DEVIATION DEFENSE PROTOCOL: ENGAGED.

ADVANCED FIREWALLS: ACTIVATED.

COMMENCING SOFT REBOOT…

Then everything vanished, leaving him adrift in a sterile expanse of blinding white.

When senses returned, his vision came first. Blinking to adjust, RK900 discovered that his ocular scope had cleared. A pristine state, marked only by a small string of diagnostics, neatly tucked in the upper left corner:

> REBOOT SUCCESSFUL. 

> THREAT NEUTRALISED. 

Remarkably, throughout the entirety of this mental reset, the momentum of his body had not stalled. Gavin remained blissfully unaware of the android’s momentary lapse, lost in his own throes of pleasure.

He squirmed against the oppressive grip still held on his neck—a resistance entirely for show, informed by the masochistic quirk of his mouth:

“Oh yeah? Just how bad have I been, plastic ?” 

It took RK900 a moment to realise the man was responding to something he'd said. Combing his memory stores, he was relieved to discover that most of the preceding events remained intact.

Regrettably, the Traci Protocol, which had governed much of his behaviour, was effectively obliterated. Its core processes were locked in quarantine and rendered irreparable. Without their guidance, he was unable to determine the optimal routing for their current dialogue path. This inspired a flicker of panic before he quickly suppressed the sensation, ensuring it wouldn’t surface externally.

Procedural muscular feedback was disabled in his face, locking it into its current neutral expression before he replied. “The list of your indiscretions is innumerable.” 

Gavin failed to detect any irregularities in his behaviour. Either that, or he chose to ignore them—too swept by his cresting tide of pleasure to drag himself back to earth. 

His hardness twitched and swelled urgently, pants mingled with throaty chuckles, flagging that climax was fast approaching. RK900 anticipated the spoils of his efforts spilling over, running in thick ribbons across his fingers, steeling his resolve to continue—

“You have a deep-rooted issue with authority. Most likely stemming from a turbulent relationship with your paternal figure.” 

Then, expanding pressure was dismissed as the vibrant excitement that had coloured his gaze receded with it. 

Gavin stared at him, a bewildered knot formed in the centre of his brow. The spasming twitches of his length quelled, with softening flesh that failed to respond to any stimulation.

“That’s, um…” He paused, clearly taken aback that the following explanation was even required. “...Could we not talk about my dad? When you’re balls-deep inside me?” 

Despite his limited grasp of interpersonal and family dynamics, RK900 could understand, when presented clearly, just how unfortunate this misstep had been.

Attempting to recover from the error, he brusquely nodded. Grappling to keep his tone level while hoping that his performance indicator would not undermine this effort. “Understood, it will not happen again.” 

Gavin proved unconvinced.

He was not a fool—quite the opposite—having demonstrated an exceptional talent for deductive and critical reasoning during their affiliation. Skills that were now being utilised, his eyes narrowed as a glint of distrust passed between the lids. 

RK900 would have to work harder if he wished to deflect these suspicions. Maintaining the guise that his sexual subroutines were operating as intended. 

In doing so, he adjusted the angle and speed of his thrusts. Striking with precision against already overstimulated nerves, hoping this might derail the more sensical trail of thought.  

It worked beautifully. The man choked, the strained noise catching in his throat as his constricted pupils blew with renewed passion. His back arched upwards, attempting to pull from its growing adherence to the bedsheets, as his nails were embedded firmly into the android’s shoulder blades. 

“Oh God— that’s it—” His words divulged to a string of monosyllabic babbles, the emergent line of interrogation discarded before it had commenced. 

He continued to push away from the mattress he was being driven into, vying greedily for additional stimulation. Absent of any restraint or shame.

“Fuck me, Rich. Harder .” 

Despite burdensome gaps and lags in his processor, the request proved hard for RK900 to misinterpret. It also triggered a charge of recollection, auditory sequences strongly resembling the climactic moments of one of the human’s most frequently viewed videos.

While their current setting deviated significantly from the scene—lacking the guard rail and potential voyeuristic onlookers—it still provided helpful guidance for shaping his subsequent actions.

Some distortion had occurred during the reset, creating gaps in the auditory loop. Still, RK900 did his best to fill in, relying on context and his understanding of Gavin’s intimate biology to compensate.

“Your rectal muscles provide exceptional resistance. The sensation is gratifying.”

Appreciative noises were promptly hushed. Gavin tensed beneath RK900, loose contortions of pleasure replaced by a stiff, incredulous rigidity.“Right, uh…sure, I guess.”

“Despite your sphincters feeling underused, they exhibit remarkable elasticity. You are adapting well to the girth of my meat sword.” 

“I’m sorry, what did you just call your—’”

Any conclusion to this sentence went largely unprocessed. The RK was entirely focused on his current directive, painfully aware that all his hard work—his perseverance—had been building up to this. 

Gripping a fistful of damp brown hair, he brought their faces closer. Ghosting the line of the man’s chapped lips before leaning into the sensitive canal of his ear.

Then, he spoke—clearly and directly—with a rich, seductive resonance:

"Giddy up, buckaroo.” 

Reed jolted upwards. It was an action that seemed oddly fitting, given the nature of their roleplay. This was until he followed it with a bitingly clear, forceful instruction, absent of any flirtatious intent. 

“Okay, no. I can't do this. Get off me. Now.” 

The foundation of confidence he had rebuilt just moments prior crumbled spectacularly. Split into wide, gnarled fissures under the weight of failure.

In his haste to reach the goal, RK900 had overlooked several critical details. Articles that would've undoubtedly increased the chances of a successful outcome.

“Would the cowboy hat and novelty whip have made this more enjoyable?” The android shifted his weight, pulling back in a hurried attempt to reach under the bed. “I had prepared such provisions if you still wished to indulge—” 

“What the hell are you even saying?” Reed cut him off sharply. His skin, which had been reddened due to shared friction and exertion, now seemed to adopt a different meaning. A beacon of anger and deep frustration. “Seriously, what the fuck , Richard?”

The admonishment struck harshly against his aural receptors, a phenomenon that arose independently from intimate coding and was uninfluenced by software errors. 

It was a sharp, unwelcome divergence from his typically muted social responses. Despite core functioning being preserved following the previous malfunction, RK900 felt strangely…compromised as a consequence. 

His hand, which remained gripped to the human’s rapidly softening length, suddenly relinquished—retreating across the bed sheets until it had flopped limply at his side. 

“I thought...” 

His processors stalled periodically before his thoughts resumed. Jumbled and clipped, tumbling from his mouth with extremely little finesse:

“This doesn’t make sense—according to the videos, this should’ve been—” He paused, clutching his throbbing temple in exasperation. “Was this not what you wanted?”

“ What videos?” His partner pressed, having clearly exhausted what little patience he had with the dejected musings. “Jesus Christ, what were those freaks at Cyberlife wiring to your brain while we…were…”

The sentence trailed off in a short, deflated exhale, losing all momentum as his flushed complexion drained of colour. A dawn of clarity broke in his gaze, like the sudden, grim recognition of a context previously overlooked. 

Then his lips, which had been held in a motionless ‘O,’ slowly resumed movement. “...When you were in my room the other day, did you see something? On my laptop?” 

RK900 felt trapped by the question. Multiple preconstructions were generated simultaneously, informing of several possible outcomes. None of them were favourable, every scenario ending with Gavin either furious or mortified.

“The battery was nearing depletion. I had intended to place the device on charge." The android paused momentarily, acutely aware of how unpredictable the coming fallout could be, bracing for its impact. “Your browser was open.” 

The reply was immediate. A sharp, monosyllabic curse that conveyed staggering amounts in its brevity:

“Fuck.”

His arched back had levelled completely as the man pressed urgently into the mattress beneath him. Almost as if he were attempting to seep through it. 

He was more uncomfortable than upset. His eyes balled shut, and despondent scrunches contorted the prominent scar on his nose. There was a sigh, followed by mutters, as though he had entered a deep state of contemplation. 

When he spoke again, his tone had shifted. Quieter, but no less charged than it had been previously. 

“Look, I don't know much you saw—or what ideas it might have planted in that thick plastic skull of yours—but I need to make something really clear.”

His eyes reopened, and he engaged the android with a long, resolute stare. Attempting to conceal the internal conflict that still weighed heavily on his features.

“You didn’t need to do this. Any of it.”

Gavin was holding back in some critical capacity, omitting a truth that he refused to disclose, but it was difficult to discern what this might be.

The android focused on implicit, involuntary cues, assessing physical responses to determine the parameters of this discomfort. Optics honed, he studied closely, ready to notice any shifts in facial expressions or bodily functions.

“What exactly are you referring to, Detective Reed?” 

A twitched lip, and brooding glower indicated resentment for the question, as well as a firm reluctance to answer. His determined gaze abruptly flitted to the corner of the room as he fell into another hushed introspection. 

Reed was the picture of doubt, entirely unable—or otherwise willing—to proceed in their current dialogue. Insisting he determined his route carefully, with predetermined responses.

This was unusual for him, a resolute advocate for tackling conflicts head-on, often disregarding the repercussions. It pathed a strange, almost unsettling, emergence into emotional openness and vulnerability…

“I don't care if you have a dick or not.” 

Then it was over. His partner spoke bluntly, assuring the android that—despite the previous shift in demeanour—he was still the one speaking. 

“Seriously, I couldn't give less of a shit.” 

His speech patterns had levelled, and his heart rate was steady, indicating no hint of deceit. The man was being wholly sincere in a way that was clearly intended to provide insight and assurance.

It did the opposite, punching holes in already fragile mental connections. His programming was flooded with conflicting analyses, as RK900 was unable to reconcile the confession with the glaring logical inconsistencies it presented. 

“Your taste in pornographic material suggests otherwise.”

“ Oh my God. ” Reed groaned, audibly agonised by the acceptance he would have to explain himself. “It's just porn, okay? It doesn't mean anything. If I had a problem with your Ken Doll crotch, you wouldn’t be here. None of this would be happening.”

“If that is the case, then why have you been exhibiting tapering excitement as part of our physical encounters?”

Reed gripped his face, burrowing nails into the skin as though attempting to peel it away. “Can we please not do this?” 

“Gavin.” The name was a plea. A final, desperate appeal for the end to his raging internal conflict. “I only wish to understand.”

“...This is fucking ridiculous.” The detective complained, albeit with a subtle hesitancy. His voice was thin and uneven, as though stretched by doubts on whether or not to continue. 

“I’ve been feeling a little guilty, or whatever—about us. What we’ve been doing.”

RK900 paused to process this, his mind exhausting all likely statistical probabilities. One, in particular, stuck out to him, as it struck with far more psychological reverence than it had any right to do so.

“Have you entered into a romantic affiliation with another individual?"

“What? No—!” Gavin spluttered incredulously, sounding both surprised and insulted by the suggestion. “I feel guilty because I like being around you, asshole. Outside of work and, well, whatever the hell this mess is.”

“You wish to terminate this particular aspect of our relationship for another reason, then?”

“I don’t want to ‘terminate’ it for any goddamn reason.” 

“Then I am afraid that I am struggling to discern your meaning.”

“Well, yeah. That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?” The man chuckled, the sound devoid of any real humour. It was tired and bitter, born from frustration that attributed no blame.

“I know I can be a dick sometimes, but I don’t hate you, Rich. At the same time, I know you aren’t a deviant, so I can’t tell how much of my feelings you're really able to understand.”

RK900 froze, his attention riveted by one particular aspect of the statement, omitting all other details. 

Gavin did not discuss ‘feelings’ and in turn, the android refrained from initiating conversations pertaining to them. This was one of the most strictly upheld conditions of their arrangement, something which had been maintained since its inception in the precinct bathroom.

ANALYSING SUBJECT — DET. GAVIN REED…

> ANALYSIS COMPLETE.

>PSYCHOLOGICAL DISTRESS DETECTED.

> PROCESSING EMOTIONAL VARIABLES…

> GUILT, CONFUSION, FONDNESS. 

PROBABLE CAUSE: COMPLEX INTERACTION OF PERSONAL AND PROFESSIONAL BOUNDARIES. FURTHER DATA REQUIRED.

> COMMENCING RE-EVALUATION…

The android retracted his steps, attempting to unravel any hidden meaning from the words he had overlooked, breaking them down in meticulous, painstaking detail. 

Finally, something clicked—a single, decisive connection, tying together the dangling threads of his logic. 

> RE-EVALUTATION COMPLETE.

> PROBABLE CAUSE OF EMOTIONAL DISTRESS DETERMINED — SHIFTING PARAMETERS OF SOCIAL ATTACHMENT.

The realisation was startling—but not unwelcome. Synthetic nerves pricked with activity before sending rocketing charges across his chassis. Every inch of plastic radiated a soft, agreeable warmth, starkly contrasting the feverish bouts he had experienced earlier. 

“Are you suggesting that you feel camaraderie for me, Detective?”

“If that’s your Thesaurus.com way of saying it, then yeah.” With this final confirmation uttered, the man dropped his shoulders. It was as though a weight had been shifted, permitting him to speak without encumbrance—a liberation born of transparency.  “I don’t want to feel like I’m using you, forcing you to do shit as part of some directive where you don’t get a say in it.”

“I do not find any directives relating to you unpleasant,” RK900 responded automatically. It was a truth so obvious to him, so integral to his understanding of their current relationship, that it required no further contemplation. “Nothing we have done together has been against my will. I would go as far as to say that I frequently…enjoy the time we spend together.”

^ SOFTWARE INSTABILITY DETECTED.

Gavin’s attention was entirely on him, his reaction oscillating between shock, confusion, and utter fascination. Glimmers of red were repeatedly captured in his attentive stare, which followed the cyclical motions of his LED. 

It paused only when the pattern stabilised, and the colour reverted to its original blue. His expression shifted accordingly, revealing a hint of disappointment. 

Nonetheless, he pressed on, steadfast in his drive to finish what he had to say. “Point is, if I’ve been acting a little weird lately, it’s got nothing to do with your genitals. I just got my own shit to figure out. Okay?”

RK900 pondered quietly for a period before he nodded, a slight smile emerging on his lips.

“Understood.” 

The motion had caused his optics to shift, planting them at the junction between their bodies. They were still physically connected—and presumably had been for the entirety of their emotional resolution.

His partner also glanced down, seeming to have come to the same forgone conclusion. For a moment, no one moved, both parties equally uncertain about how best to proceed with their bizarre dilemma. 

Ultimately, it was RK900 who spoke first, seeking to offer a potential solution:

“Would you like me to finish?”

Reed exhaled sharply—caught between a hiss and a laugh—before firmly rebuking the suggestion.

“Not really. But I would like it if you could pull your dick out of me. Thanks.”