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halcyone-of-the-sea · 6 months

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To Hunt a Silver Stag (III)

AU MASTERLIST || THE FINAL PART

PAIRING: Knight!Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Fae Princess!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 3.9k

WARNINGS: Talks of war, death, blood, gore, wounds, stitches, injuries, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You struggle under the weight of the knight. So unused are you to have to travel as a regular, magic-less, being, that you feel your muscles tighten; coil. Aches form in places that have not had them since you were a small child…if an immortal being can even be considered a child, really.

You’d been walking for hours, and your hand was bright with the pain of iron affliction.

“Stag,” Gaz utters, eyes half-closed tight and his breath heaving. “You’re hurting yourself, Love.”

“I have it under control,” you level. Your lungs burn inside of your chest. “We have to keep moving to the border.”

“We can’t get there if you,” his voice cuts as he grits his teeth, though it comes back a moment later. “If you can’t walk.”

You slow, his arm over your shoulders heavy as you look over at him gradually. Sweat dribbles off of your nose, silver eyes dull and blurry. Your head is still light.

You’d both left the cliff-face cave with a long trail of blood leading behind—thankfully, the earth had been sympathetic to your cause. Without any magic to help, it had taken it upon itself to shatter the ground, erasing any trace along with your footprints. But even those forces can’t will the strength back into your body.

You stare into Gaz’s clenched face, his body shaking with all of his armor left behind except his cape, which hangs off of him to try and keep his bandages protected from dirt and dust.

Your expression goes grim.

If you wouldn’t stop for yourself…then you suppose you would have to stop for him.

“Alright,” you whisper, and your quivering feet stop. With a slow and easy motion, you slip out from under Gaz’s arm and grasp him carefully, letting his legs bend until he’s to the ground—back resting against a nearby rock.

“How are you feeling,” you ask, your lips already moving to his cheek. To give him a small sliver more.

Yet, before your flesh can move over his, a hand lightly grabs at your chin, stopping you. Freezing, you blink in surprise as Gaz tries a slow smirk.

“I’m flattered,” he chuckles weakly, nodding. “But you need to keep your strength. I can take it.”

You frown, only pulling back when his grip lowers back to his lap and he takes in a long inhalation, head leaning to connect to the stone behind him.

Lysander flutters over, resting atop the object as you watch him silently. Thinking.

Gaz won’t make it at this pace—those wounds all needed proper care, and even as experienced as you were, there’s little you can do without the proper tools.

You’d discarded your crown back near the cave, and while bone could be used as a needle in times of need, it would do the man more harm than good if you decided to take it up again. It had hurt something in you to leave it behind.

“You hand.” You blink, looking back to the knight after you register his words.

“Excuse me?”

Gaz smiles, head shifting on the rock as his chest rises and falls under his soiled tunic. Those browns of his are something of value to you, and your face heats even looking into them anymore. You glance away for a moment as he repeats himself.

“Let me see your hand, then. Haven't forgotten about it.” You sigh, fingers flinching.

Moving out your limb, you give it to him as his hands grasp your flesh, picking at his cape bandage until you watch it slip away like a leaf. The fabric is stiff with blood and puss, and under, burst blisters show themselves to air.

Your lips thin tightly at the sight, disgust in your heart before a hiss escapes you.

Gaz grimaces, sitting up a bit straighter. His fingers slide up your wrist, taking it softly and tilting your hand into the light. Looking, studying, he grunts and sends you a glance.

“I…I don’t know how to treat this.”

“You can’t,” you ease out, licking your lips at the knowledge.

Gaz’s brows furrow, a breeze going through the trees, ruffling your tattered dress.

“What’s that mean? Don’t tell me there’s no way to treat it. There’s freshwater—natural salves, I can make one if I can find—”

“Gaz,” you speak softly, tilting your head at him with a sad smile. The knight’s speech trails, his eyes hard on your face in an honest stubbornness. It nearly makes you chuckle as he squeezes your flesh as if trying to convince you of his skill.

“I have no doubt your understanding of medicinal herbs is vast,” you tilt your head. “But this is not a wound that even time can heal. The boils may fade, but the pain never will. It is a wound of iron. None of the Fae can fix such things.”

“Why in the bloody hell not,” he grunts, and this time you do chuckle. Gaz’s face becomes confused. “I’m not finding this all that funny, Stag.”

“No,” you sigh. “No, you’re not.”

Your eyes stare at him, those silvers glinting in the light of morning. He glares back, determined but losing that bead of understanding that he had been holding onto. Magic, the mortal man, was not used to. You explain the best you can, his hand still holding yours as if made of the finest glass ever melted.

“It’s just how we were made, Knight. Just as you were branded to die,” your heart seizes, “we were made to fear iron. It is one thing I will never have the privilege of knowing the answer to.”

Gaz’s face tightens, his body shifting until a prick of pain forces him to stop.

“It was my choice,” you try to relieve the burden.

“And a damn stupid one,” your eyes blink in shock.

A moment passes before your bell-like laughter echoes over the trees. The knight’s form stills to near statue-like motion as you do, gazing at your hand as the sound moves like starlight and caresses with its windish fingers.

“What is the word?” Your free hand covers your mouth, oblivious to Gaz’s heating cheeks and how his heart soars. “Lionhearted?”

“I’d move more to foolish,” he grumbles, rolling his shoulders. But you had entranced him yet again. Everything about you was…strange. New.

Beautiful.

“Perhaps I was borrowing some of that from you, then, Knight,” you watch Gaz rip a strip off his cape once more. He moves to tie a new bandage, doing it gently as your eyes are as malleable as water. “It is more of a human trait than Fae.”

A glance, paired with a layered smirk. “Rubbing off on you?”

“Seems it,” you slide a calm look his way, fingers flinching when his knot goes too tight.

He mutters a small apology, face worried before he hesitantly lets you go.

Suddenly, your lips are near his cheek, pressing a delicate kiss. But there’s no magic in it—no power surge that enters his muscles. Just a whisper of passion before it’s gone with an utterance of, “My thanks, Kindly Knight.”

Gaz is left breathless as you stand up, feet shifting away a few paces and looking around. He has to blink away the haze behind his mind and clear his throat before he can speak beyond a heavy stutter.

“It’s…it’s no problem.”

You hum, looking around in a slow circle, your gold belt is still here, resting just under the broken straps of your corset. The gold glints for a moment, and just as Lysander flutters off with little more than a bird-ish call to stay near, you sigh and shake your head.

“We have to move soon,” you say. Gaz agrees, ever the strategic mind.

“There’ll be hunting parties until we’re caught,” he huffs a chuckle. “While I can put in my trust that you’ll be okay, I, on the other hand…”

Brown eyes look down, narrowing at the carnage of his body. His bandages are heavy with blood, and everything has a buzzing sheen of numbness to the flesh.

“Well, let's just say that my odds aren’t looking that nice, yeah?”

“I’m not leaving you here,” you pass a firm sweep of your even gaze to him. “You’ve far earned my loyalty, Gaz, and I will not falter in my steadfastness in return.”

Under his breath, he grunts out a teasing, “Was hoping you’d say that.”

Without another word, your arm is once more slipping his waist—Gaz’s long limb going over your shoulder to rest before you help push himself up.

The man strangles down a sharp cry, agony ricocheting through every nerve and splintering out like bark.

“Fuck,” he hisses, clenching his teeth.

You stare from the side of your eye worriedly, pausing.

“It’s okay,” Gaz grumbles, reassuring you. He blinks for a moment, clearing out the black dots. “But wait a second for me.”

“Of course,” you begin but are cut off by the knight's arm moving away from you. A hand is placed on your shoulder, and your body is gently turned to the side. Gaz struggles on his feet for a moment, but he pauses until the abyss at the sides of his vision is gone.

“Let me…” Fingers dance over your corset straps, moving to tie the laces as best he can. “Tell me when it’s good, then, will you, Love?”

Again with that nickname—but even you can admit that there was an intoxicating electricity to your skin now. A deadly heat.

You stare ahead blankly as shaky fingers glide over the fabric, you hear the pulse of a fluttering heart that reminds you of a grand war horse; strong and firm. Gaz takes a deep breath through his nose, licking his lips slowly as he takes up the items and begins pulling lightly.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “it might end up being a bit loose. I have to leave the bottom loops open.”

Your gut swirls, moving to gaze over your shoulder with glimmering eyes. Gaz pointedly doesn’t meet it, fixing the stance of his feet. You stare, the fabric around your chest and back conforming as the corset is tightened to a comfortable degree, blinking softly as Lysander returns across the way.

“There,” Gaz nods, glancing into your unblinking eyes before he moves away like it burns to do so. “Is it too tight—?”

Your head snaps to the far right, and a shadow of a large body pushes through the bush. Swiftly moving in front of the knight, you blink through the rose-layered haze in your brain, startled. But what startled you even more was how Gaz tried to push you behind him at the exact same time you did to him.

Eyes meeting, you both stare, wide, before a body cusps the small patch of open grass.

All at once, every line of tension leaves in a calm exhale. A large smile peels your lips. Another laugh.

Gaz’s jaw drops.

“Gwendoline,” you move forward swiftly, hand outstretched to land on close-cropped white fur. You chuckle, moving to firmly push your forehead into the animal’s—careful of the horn protruding.

A delicate snort enters your ears.

Peeling back, a small and slender head shifts to show purple eyes to you; hooves move over the ground and a long tail with a line of flowing fur down the center whispers over the grass.

A unicorn.

“How?” You breathlessly ask under your breath, heart pounding. Her head elegantly tilts, needle-sharp horn poking out. “All this way, My Dear?”

Gwendoline’s eyes glint, as if laughing. Of all the beasts you’d come to know, this one still surprised you. Your head moves to Lysander, but the bird only flaps over and settles on your shoulder, cooing.

You hum. “Clever little bird, are you?”

“Am I already dead or is that a fucking unicorn?” Gaz bluntly asks, motioning weakly with a single hand as you bring the mythical beast over to him and ask her to bend down.

Hands grasp him, moving him forward swiftly to the awaiting beast as his feet skid for a moment. Your sly form comes into view in the side of his eye.

“Did you think I was lying when I said I knew one? Many I consider my friends, but none have I known longer than Gwendoline.”

Gaz’s lips open and close, blinking quickly as he’s forced to get on the thing, his injured body pushed over the kneeling side—in fact, he was a bit afraid he’d break the animal’s back, truth be told. It seemed so…delicate.

But as his hands had to settle themselves into the unicorn’s mane to keep steady, Gwendoline rising on sure legs, the knight was instantly proven wrong. Delicate looking, yes, but this best could break down stone with one swift kick. It had no trouble moving forward as you settled at her side, hand resting on her shoulder.

Your silver eyes stare at Gaz as he pants not from pain but from boyish wonder.

Smiling widely, you giggle at him. At his wide-open face and his honest smirk. It’s a magical thing.

“Bloody fucking hell.”

—

The border to your kingdom comes without a fight, and when the first river is crossed, and the bottom of your dress soaked by it, you feel the veil shimmer at your arrival.

“Rightly,” you begin as you set your feet to dry land, Gwendoline and Lysander listening in on your conversation. “I don’t believe I know what being here will do to you—this is a sensitive place, you understand?”

“I won’t stay any longer than what I’m allowed—”

“I am allowing you,” you interrupt, looking over with a heavy heat on your face. You stare at him, riding atop a unicorn with such grievous wounds he’d gotten defending you.

Gaz blinks before nodding slowly, smiling. “Then I’ll stay as long as you want me to.”

The air here is different; everything is lighter. The grass is greener—the sky more blue. It sings.

“Do you not have family to return to,” your eyes narrow. Gwendoline knows the path—you need not guide her. “Loved ones?”

“Ah,” Gaz shrugs the best he’s able, nearly commenting on the unicorn’s perfectly smooth stride. If he were on a regular horse, his wounds would be burning by now. The man moves his eyes from you to the ground for a moment. “I don’t think they’ll be roaring to have me back now.”

Your face thins.

“I…” you breathe out a slow breath. Emotions. Such fickle things. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” is the easy and swift answer. “I made my choice—and I’d do it again, as well. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t, yeah?”

Soft eyes move your way, and you meet them, a gentle smile peeling your lips.

“I knew when I gazed upon you in that Hall that you were strange, Knight,” your words move between the both of you, hovering in the air. “You carry yourself with something long lost. I can no longer name it, myself.”

Gaz’s head tilts. A humored smirk, but his brows are quizzically raised. “What does that mean?”

You only stare, Lysander on your shoulder and your expressions hidden to all but the old voices of the wind, who’ve known you far longer than all else. Your throat hums, and you turn back to the forest ahead of you, safely home. Gwendoline’s eyes watch you closely from beside your face, glinting their periwinkle hue.

“Alright, then,” the man sighs, but a large smile moves across his face. A low chuckle. Hell, his heart was even pattering like a bird’s wings.

“When we get to my father’s court, I ask that you let me do the talking,” you speak some minute into the walk, your strength returning the longer you live here with the magic in the very fabric of the sky. It seeps back into you, swelling like a wave. “You’ll be received by the best healers we have, but my father will need answers from the both of us before long. He is a thorough Fae, even by my peoples’ standards.”

Gaz grimaces as his stitched wounds pull as he shifts his upper body. A hand settles on his leg, keeping it lightly grasped before his face returns to a tempered calm.

“Right,” he utters, fatigued. He glances at your hand and clears his throat softly.

“Keep your head high,” you utter. “You have my word, Gaz, and I believe that it will account for much. You are under my protection now.”

Your fingers travel the side of his breachers, peeling back the torn fabric to stare at the bandages you’d wrapped. It was bloody, but it would last until you got to the castle. You miss the way the man’s breath gets caught in his throat.

“I think you’ll like it here,” you whisper, your silver eyes shifting upwards to meet brown—Gaz watches with barely hidden reverence. A great awe that extends to his bones. “You’re…different.”

That's all you can call him.

He huffs, tilting his head. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

—

The healers had gotten him squared away in no time at all, and now, days later, he had his own quarters in the castle—an esteemed guest of your father’s. The mortal knight who defended his daughter’s honor with all the strength of a dragon, even when he didn’t need to.

Your wound had healed as best it could, but, like most nights, you were up because of it—walking the halls and rubbing at the skin of your palm. What you had told Gaz had been true; the blisters and the throbbing blood had ceased, but the pain underneath remained. A brand of sorts. Burned into your soul.

The both of you were such self-destructive creatures. If anyone would have commented on it, they’d say you were meant to be together.

Two sides of the same coin.

Your unadorned head swivels to the wide open windows of the corridor—sheer fabric curtains of unicorn hairs whispering beside you. There were no fires here, only the illumination of the moon and the stars. The courtyard below is filled with merriment that will move long into the coming weeks. Laughter and warm voices. Dancing.

Their princess was back, after all. The King of the mortals was dead. It was a time of celebration.

You smile to yourself, rubbing your thumb into your palm as you continue to walk on, flowing dress dragging behind you. When you hear the firm heartbeat following after, you entertain him for a while, a tiny smile stuck to your face.

“You’re getting better,” you call behind you, not turning around.

Before long, a shadow moves up beside your form with a smirk and a heavy chuckle. “Really?”

“No,” you hum and hear the honest laugh.

“Hell,” Gaz utters. “Got my hopes up.” You shake your head lightly, side-eyeing the man. His soul was more Fae than mortal now—the food and drink were in his veins, and that alone made people…less than they were before. Not only that, but his tunic and pants as well; Fae made.

You both walk in silence for a time, the man’s eyes still trying to take it all in even since the days he’d been here; it was incredible.

But then he notices your hand.

Brows furrowing, he gently takes you by the arm and stops you as you slow, glancing over. Gaz frowns, and just as he did in the forest, he takes your hand and tilts it to him.

His hands are warm.

“Can I really not do anything?” You smile.

“No, Gaz, you cannot.” He grumbles, grimacing, and it makes you chuckle at him.

“Come,” you whisper, shifting the limb to grasp his own—the man’s eyes blinking quickly. “I have something I want to show you.”

“Alright,” he says, quietly, a layer of worship slipping between the word and his low breath, staring at the back of your head as you lead him wherever you see fit. He wondered if anyone was really led away from the battlefields by Fae—he wondered if they’d just been as enchanted as he had become, by men and women of pointed ears and unnatural eyes. Flowing clothes and soft voices.

They’d gone willingly. They had to have—they’d snuck off and now dance in the courtyards below; they live in the woods, near the rivers. Learning the words of birds and beasts, lying in the sun, and sleeping under stars.

Being taken not by corruption of a name…but by love.

Gaz’s eyes glint as your hand stays gently in his, a grin on his lips as the moonlight casts shadows over his face. He squeezes your hand and tries to will away the pain that lives under your flesh with his own.

Your face heats a foreign fire, one that is becoming more and more common the longer you live around this man.

You lead him into a courtyard similar to the one from Michael’s castle, yet, at the same time, so very different.

Phoenixes sit in trees of silver and gold. Unicorns graze on grass greener than anything ever seen across the border. In the air, illuminated wisps looking like stars float to shine light over bushes that drop gems like water droplets into woven baskets. Much like the ones from your crown—the stones that Gaz had given back to you from his pouch; sighting how you had led him to your hiding place without even knowing it.

Perhaps that was when you knew you would love him for all of eternity.

“Sit with me, Gaz,” you breathily say, turning and pulling him closer, noses nearly brushing while walking backward. Feet moving through long grass as if a phantom.

Your eyes pierce him, making him lean forward. He shutters, noses brushing.

“Kyle,” he whispers, only to you. The word burns from the power that surges from that monumental confession. “Kyle Garrick. Say it,” your stare, “please.”

“Kyle,” the man wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close. His very soul lights inside his ribcage, and his body quivers. His lips brush against yours.

“You’re setting me on fire, and I don’t want to stop it.” Your smile dances, your heart rampages. An old creature, you are—an immortal thing.

But as his lips press to yours, and you breathe down every ounce of loyalty he offers as his hands skate your dress, you would give it all up in an instant.

Just as he had for you.

You haven’t told him, but when a Fae loves someone, really loves someone…that’s the only person they’ll ever love for the rest of time immemorial. Or at least until one of them dies. After that, if the Fae is left behind, they wither. They Fade. A broken heart, everyone says.

Your people are delicate things when it comes to emotions. Everything is heightened. Your soul already sings for him—your heart soars when he speaks; when he looks at you. It was still the beginning, after all, but this man was special. He had a mind that would be remembered well after his years.

He’d damned you from the moment you’d seen him under that stained-glass window. A Saint and a Stag.

What is love, except eternal damnation and memories stuck like gold thread into skin?

—

Far off into the world, sitting near that dark and shadowed cave, a deer antler crown sits motionless in the grass. It has no adornments—no gold thread or gems of starlight. No grand wealth to it.

Just antler and the hint of magic laid in deep like the dirt of the earth.

Flowers grow in a small patch around a single broken tine.

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angsty-aliens · 4 years

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Truck Stop Knives And Other Accessories of Childhood

The fic isn’t finished yet, but it should be soon so I’ve started posting it on Ao3.

***

A little boy stood with his back against the wall, one hand hidden in a pocket, heaving panicked breaths. His jeans were worn through at the knees, with frayed bottoms where they dangled a bit too long. His shirt was a solid blue with small holes near the neck and slightly faded, like a hand-me-down of a hand-me-down. He had an oversized grey hoodie with grime encrusted elbows and a mysterious stain on the front. Ketchup? Blood? His entire ensemble gave the impression of being discarded, an after-thought. Nothing chosen by him, everything chosen for him and without much care.

Liz took one step closer and he plastered himself flat to the wall, nowhere else to go. His eyes were wide and flickered back and forth, trying to track every possible threat at once and finding the number of threats to be overwhelming. He looked like a trapped animal ready to gnaw off his own leg for a chance at freedom.

She raised her hands and spoke gently, “hey… hey it’s okay. You’re okay. No one’s gonna hurt you. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Liz took a cautious step forward and the little boy's hand clenched into a fist inside his jeans pocket.

Michael watched this exchange and warned, “Don’t touch him Liz.”

Liz didn’t let her eyes leave the boy, “He’s your inner child, Michael. He’s adorable.”

“My inner child will stab you.”

She spun around at that, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Michael just shrugged, “His hand is in his right pocket. There’s a switchblade there. I stole it from a truck stop when I was ten. Blue handle. Keep stepping closer and I’m sure he’ll show it to you.”

The little boy looked at Michael with betrayal and the older man just raised an eyebrow, “Don’t stab my friends.”

Liz took a step back and the kid took a shuddering breath but unpeeled himself from the wall. He was still ready to run, but looked less likely to make anyone bleed to do it.

This was the stupidest lab accident Michael Guerin had ever been in, and he was the idiot who let Liz inject him with various science projects like a lab rat. He’d found something alien buried out near the pods and brought it back to the bunker under the airstream to investigate. He’d been so careful not to touch it with his bare hands. They’d had the artifact for days. Long enough for Alex to run some programs to try and translate the sigils covering the flat shimmering disk. Long enough for Liz to swab, looking to break down the chemical components of the artifact. All Alex was able to translate was “memory,” “child,” and “temporary.” They were all just educated guesses, but considering there was a tiny version of Michael Guerin standing in his bunker because he touched the disk and without thinking, pressed it to his forehead like it was muscle memory… Michael was pretty sure that translation was correct. He had a physical embodiment of his inner child standing in his lab, ready to stab Liz. Perfect, must be Tuesday.

Michael took a great heaving sigh and forced himself to walk towards the kid who was scowling, and who’s hand was definitely still in his pocket, fisted around the knife. “Do you know who I am?”

The boy pressed his lips together tightly and glared up at him.

“Okay, so we’re gonna rip this off like a bandaid. I’m you, but 28 years old. There was an accident and you… manifested. No we’re not messing with you. You’re an alien. You can drink acetone. Max and Isobel are also aliens.” Michael telekinetically ripped the switchblade out of the kid’s pocket and floated it into his hand. “Believe me?”

The boy’s eyes widened as he watched his weapon float away and Michael slapped a palm over his face, “shit I forgot we didn’t develop the TK until we were twelve. Um, yeah, spoiler alert, that’s a thing you can do.”

Michael slipped the knife into his pocket. Better not to have the kid armed right now. Liz examined the alien disk while being careful not to touch it. “So he’s a construct of your memory? He’s not like literally you from the past? We’re not going to alter the future, right?”

“I promise to let you know if I turn into Marty McFly, but I don’t think I’ll be disappearing from any photographs soon. I mean this thing didn’t come with a users manual, at least not one we can read. But I think he’s me… but you know, shorter.”

Liz watched from a respectful distance, “mijo, how old are you?” She whispered to Michael, “he’s tiny.” With a great bellowing voice the kid shouted, “I’m ELEVEN and you’re UGLY.”

He bolted, but Michael just grabbed him around the waist and hauled him up before he reached the ladder. “Fun. Great, we’re like one big happy family. Ugh, but seriously why am I so little? I thought eleven year olds were bigger. I FELT bigger.” He held the kid out in front of him, dodging kicking feet. “I mean Isobel was always taller than me, but I could have sworn me and Max were the same size. Is this what eleven year olds are supposed to look like?”

Liz smacked the back of Michael’s head, “put him down. He clearly doesn’t like being told he’s small.” She turned to the still squirming child and said in a slow syrupy voice, “I’m sorry, you’re not small. We’re just not used to kids. We don’t know how big eleven year olds are supposed to be. I’m sure you’re a very big eleven year old.”

The kid just glared and tried to kick her while still dangling in the air. Michael gave him a shake in retaliation.

“Michael Guerin,” Liz hissed, “you will not shake him. What’s the matter with you? He’s a kid.”

He shrugged, “he’s not a real kid. He’s me. And it’s not like it hurts. If I whack him, then you can yell at me.”

Liz was scandalized, “you’re not gonna WHACK him.”

Michael rolled his eyes, “of course I’m not gonna whack him. But I’m also not gonna let him kick you.”

“And he IS a real kid. I mean, this might be a temporary thing. Maybe a therapy tool? You have to learn to love your inner child or something? But he is real.”

The two Michaels gave each other distrustful looks. Liz didn’t get it. Michael had never been a real kid. He was the changeling stuck in other people’s nests. He may have looked like a kid but he was never real. His foster parents understood that. There were good kids with parents who loved them unconditionally. And then there was Michael Guerin, who got left behind and never got picked. But Michael did remember what it felt like to be physically restrained by someone bigger, and so with a stern look he put down his younger self. “Do NOT kick Liz. Do not stab Liz. Maybe don’t even look at Liz. Stop being a little shit.” “I’m calling Alex. You’re terrible with children.” Liz threw her hands up, “I don’t get it, I’ve seen you interact with kids before and you’ve always been so nice, Michael. You’ve been gentle and patient. I don’t understand why you’re not giving Mikey the same care.” “Mikey?” They both asked her in unison.

Liz shrugged, “it’s easier than calling you Big Michael and Little…” She quickly corrected herself, “Younger Michael.”

She mused, “Maybe I should call Isobel and Max too. Kyle? Should we get Kyle to check him out?”

Mikey was eyeballing the ladder again and Michael just put one careful hand on his shoulder to discourage the impulse. “Do not call Kyle. Mini-me never actually stabbed a grown up. I just kept the knife to scare away fellow foster kids mostly. But if you call a doctor, the kid will freak out.”

“I won’t freak out. I don’t freak out.” The kid grumbled, deeply offended.

“Yeah? What happened when the Lees took you to that shitty pediatrician when you were eight?” Michael narrowed his eyes at the scowling eleven year old.

The kid announced proudly, “I bit him.”

“You bit him.” Michael added, “And we got our asses roasted when we got home.”

Mikey protested, “No doctors! You know no doctors!”

“Yeah. No doctors. Can’t let anyone know the secret. And yes, throwing an absolute fit every time we were supposed to get a booster shot meant foster parents generally didn’t try to take us. But Kyle already knows. I can give you a list of the grown ups who know. Obviously we’re not announcing it and having an Alien Pride Parade but we have some people who know now.”

Michael turned to Liz, “but we still shouldn’t have them all show up at once. Even I don’t like being in a room with that many people and I’m not an artificial construct of my inner traumatic childhood.”

The kid muttered, “you’re an artificial construct of my farts.”

“Call either Alex, or Isobel and Max. I don’t care which. But not your whole Scooby Gang.”

***

After several attempts to reconnect the Michaels by having them both hold the artifact, they ended up in Max’s living room. It was decided that the bunker was too small and the airstream was definitely too small and it’d just be easier to meet someplace a little further from town where no one would show up for an oil change and see a kid who shouldn’t exist.

The two Michaels sat on the couch as Liz, Max, and Isobel stood in front of them with arms crossed. Michael was starting to feel like a specimen, and Mikey sunk lower on the couch, once again feeling like an inconvenient piece of trouble.

Max broke the silence, “Well this is certainly Michael when we first met him.” He crouched down and said in an awkwardly soft voice, “heeeey buddy. I’m Max. Do you remember me?”

Michael rolled his eyes and whispered to his younger self, “don’t stab Max either.”

With that reminder of their first meeting, Max stood up and took a safer step back. Both Michaels chuckled conspiratorially. Isobel was more pragmatic, “Okay so we’re going to need clothing, a toothbrush, pajamas… What size clothing are you? Mikey? Ugh Liz, that’s a terrible nickname. Mikey, stand up so I can check your sizes and make a list. This is also the time to make any requests, or I’ll finally get to give my little brother…”

“Not your little brother!” Michael interrupted.

Isobel continued, “Give my little brother the makeover I’ve always wanted to.”

The kid found himself bullied up to his feet and Isobel began reaching into his shirt to check for a label. Mikey tolerated it until she spun him around to check for the label in the back of his pants. When she started to raise his shirt and grab at his waistband, he jerked away.

Isobel stepped away with hands raised in surrender. “Sorry. I’m sorry Mikey. You can tell me your sizes later. I… Honey, who hurt you? Your back…”

Michael found himself standing in front of the kid to placate his siblings, “Iz, you know I was with the religious fundamentalists. Leave the kid alone.”

Isobel protested, “I didn’t know they hurt you like that. Michael, his back…”

Michael turned back to the kid, matter of factly, “Hey Mikey, do you wanna talk about this?”

“Fuck no.”

“There’s your answer, Iz.”

Isobel looked torn between reprimanding the boy on his language, and trying to pry further. Max eventually took his sister’s elbow and led her to the kitchen where they could whisper furiously about all of Michael’s childhood traumas and pretend no one could hear them.

Liz twisted her hands, “soooo… are you hungry? I could make pancakes.”

Michael rolled his eyes, “it’s 4pm, Liz.” Liz replied, “Everytime is a good time for pancakes, Michael.”

Mikey interjected, “Look, if the lady wants to make pancakes, let her make pancakes.”

Grateful to have a task, Liz disappeared into the kitchen where she could join Michael’s meddling siblings in whispering about them.

Michael flung himself back on the couch with a dramatic sigh, and Mikey joined him. They stared at Max’s empty fireplace, carefully not making eye contact.

“So where do you want to stay tonight? We can crash with Max, or I can maybe call my... friend, Alex. Alex has a cabin and he won’t be weird about this. Maybe. Hopefully he won’t be weird about this.”

The kid shrugged.

Michael swallowed, “what’s wrong with your back?”

Kid stared intently at the fireplace and shrugged again, “switch.”

Michael closed his eyes and nodded. “Yeah.”

It felt like no time passed at all before Max, Isobel, and Liz came out of the kitchen, which was an open concept kitchen and a terrible place to try and whisper about Michael’s childhood trauma. Michael gave them an unimpressed look to try and convey that thought through some artful eyebrow lifting. Isobel just shrugged, completely unrepentant. Liz had made pancakes as promised and they gathered around the dining room table. Mikey already had a hand out, pancake almost in reach. “Wash hands first!” Liz pulled the plate back.

Michael smirked and reached for the pancakes, “Yeah, kid, go wash your hands.”

The plate shifted again and Liz poked him in the chest, “¿Qué estás haciendo? Animals, all of you. Go wash your hands. Didn’t anyone teach you manners?” Michael couldn’t catch the rapid fire spanish that followed, but he was pretty sure she called him a filthy vulture. With mutual grumbling, they went to the kitchen to scrub up. When they returned to the table, the other adults were already eating having previously washed their hands. They left two chairs open for them between Liz and Isobel sitting at either end of the table. Max sat across from them, and continued to stare at the little boy with doe eyes. Michael was finding the whole thing extremely irritating, and based on Mikey’s rhythmic kicking at his chair, the kid was equally uncomfortable. Michael made the boy a plate with three pancakes and plenty of syrup before grabbing his own stack. Liz watched in horror as they both rolled a pancake up like a burrito and shoved it in their faces. There were going to be sticky handprints everywhere, little child sized ones, and big adult sized ones. Ridiculous. Isobel cleared her throat, “so… Mikey, do you want to tell us more about your foster placement?”

Michael looked up from his second pancake burrito and warned, “Iz. Leave it.”

Isobel protested, “Michael, I don’t see why it’s a big secret. We should be able to talk about these things.”

With a huff, Michael shoved the entire pancake into his mouth and wiped at his sticky hands before gesturing for his sister to follow him to Max’s bedroom. The kid just watched this exchange in silence as he kicked at the rungs of his chair, and took another giant bite. Maybe he could fit one of the dry pancakes in his pocket. If it didn’t have syrup on it, it’d probably stay good for at least a day.

Michael closed the door behind them, because unlike his siblings he knew how to meddle without being heard by the whole room.

“Iz, I know you’re concerned but not only does he not want to talk about this with you, but I don’t really want to talk about it either. I didn’t share and care as a kid ON PURPOSE.” She threw her hands up in frustration, “Why wouldn’t you have told us it was this bad though? We could have done something!”

“What were you going to do? Tell your parents? They weren’t going to come in and rescue me. They didn’t want me at seven, they weren’t going to want me at eleven. Were you going to tell the cops? Because they also didn’t really care. Only thing that maybe would have happened is I’d’ve gotten a new placement, and that could have been anywhere. It took four years for me to get to Roswell. I wasn’t going to whine about some bruises and get shipped back to Albuquerque. I know I wasn’t warm and fuzzy to you and Max at first, but I still didn’t want to leave.” “You could have still talked about it. Even if we couldn’t do anything, you shouldn’t have had to keep it a secret.” “I talked sometimes, and it always freaked you both out. I didn’t… I don’t want to be someone you pity.” Michael snapped, “Lots of people have shitty childhoods. They get over it. It’s not a big deal.”

Isobel gave him a displeased look. “Okay but Mikey could talk about it. You think the disk may have been a therapy tool. Maybe he NEEDS to talk about it. Just because you chose to keep it a secret as a kid, doesn’t mean you should have kept it a secret. And you don’t need to keep it a secret now. I’m not going to pity you Michael. You’re far too annoying for me to pity. I can be mad people hurt you without it being pity.” “Mikey…” Michael shuddered, “I hate that nickname and I’m annoyed it’s actually useful here. Mikey, can talk to me. It’s MY therapy. Even if it is therapy. I wish I never touched the damn thing. I thought I was so good putting up a mask as a kid, and obviously I sucked at it and it’s just adults didn’t care. He’s a walking, talking open wound and I’d rather everyone not get to examine all my childhood traumas. You wouldn’t enjoy a little Isobel walking around so we can all remember how scared you were of not being perfect.” She socked his shoulder, “I wasn’t scared of not being perfect.” “If we had a little Isobel here, I’m pretty sure you’d see and EVERYONE would see you were very, very scared of not being perfect.” He gave her a pointed look, “It’s not fun being under a microscope. Can we just… not? Kid literally manifested like an hour ago. Lets not force him into group therapy right now.”

Isobel inhaled deeply and raised an eyebrow, “fine. I’ll stop asking for now. But we’re having a conversation about this later, the two of us. I thought we all agreed, no more secrets.”

Michael laughed, “My childhood isn’t a secret. I’m surprised I didn’t win “Most Tragic Orphan” in the school year book. You and Max knew, I just didn’t give you the unabridged epic version. You got the cliff notes and that’s all you’re getting. Leave my little clone alone.”

Isobel in true, queen bee splendor, fixed her brother with a considering gaze before sauntering out of the room like this whole thing was her idea to begin with. Michael trailed behind her as they rejoined the table. Max announced in an awed whisper, “He’s eaten six pancakes.”

Michael beamed proudly as the kid licked syrup off his palm.

Before long, Max was on dish duty as Liz tried to wipe the kid down with a wet cloth while he squirmed, “I’m eleven, lady. I know how to wash my own face!”

She attacked a particularly sticky spot on his cheek, “Unfortunately for you I know Michael Guerin as an adult and if I don’t trust an adult Michael Guerin to properly remove syrup, I definitely don’t trust you.”

Both Guerins gave her an outraged look, but Liz was an expert at ignoring people and she just kept scrubbing the kid’s face. Without moving her gaze from the boy’s cheek, she dictated to Guerin senior, “You better wash your hands before you touch anything. I can’t believe you two didn’t use a knife and fork. Pancakes are not finger food.”

Michael rolled his eyes, but obediently went to wash his face and hands. He even submitted to Liz’s inspection afterwards to make sure he did an adequate job. His younger half seemed delighted that someone else was receiving Liz’s attention. In a fit of true maturity, Michael flipped off his younger half and while Liz was distracted being scandalized, Mikey made sure to flip him off right back.

Now that basic necessities were taken care of, Michael needed to figure out a place to stash the kid. The airstream was too small. Michael knew he could make it work anyway. He never expected anything fancy as a kid, and he hardly ever had his own room. Crashing in a sleeping bag on the floor wouldn’t be the end of the world by a long shot, but despite that, Michael wanted to give the kid a better experience than that. Max would die from doe eyes if they attempted to crash here. Michael could already feel Max’s overwhelming sense of guilt, and it was exhausting. The idea of being here without Liz and Isobel as a buffer was excruciating. Staying with Isobel? No. Too nosy. And asking to crash with Liz at the Crashdown wasn’t even an option. Arturo could sniff out an orphan a mile away and Michael needed to keep his little mini-me far away from mainstreet. Maria was also out of the question. They were still friends despite the breakup, but The Wild Pony was too close to town and a bar was no place for the kid. Alex was the only real option left. His house had more space, but was in the center of town. But the cabin was far enough away from main roads that hopefully Mikey wouldn’t get the urge to hitchhike to Foster’s Ranch at 2am. It was small, but the couch was comfortable enough, and Michael could trust Alex not to see this as an opportunity to dig into Michael’s past. He understood the importance of secrets.

With that decided, Michael sent him a text trying to explain the situation. He knew Alex wouldn’t turn him away. They may not be together anymore, but they were still friends. At least trying to be friends. With that in mind, he collected Mikey from the clutches of Isobel.

“I promise you can torment us both later. But I need to grab clothes from the airstream, and we’re crashing with Alex. You can drop off essentials tonight, or tomorrow. Whatever’s easier. It’s Saturday so Walmart will be open late.”

Michael steered the kid towards his truck while waving vaguely in the direction of his siblings and Liz.

As he drove off, the kid asked, “it’s Saturday?”

“Yeah, and I made Iz promise not to go crazy with the clothing. She owes me so many favors. Don’t worry about it. I fixed her instapot last week. Do you know what an instapot is?” The kid shook his head and Michael shrugged, “yeah me neither. But I fixed it. So she owes me. And we’re literally the same person, so she owes you too.”

At the airstream, Michael stuffed some essentials inside a ratty blue backpack. When he got back to the truck, he handed the kid two packets of peanut butter crackers. “You can eat whenever you’re hungry. No one’s locking down the kitchen. But I know I like having some emergency food anyway.” As the kid started to protest, he pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket and pressed that into the boy’s hands. “For the pancakes. So they don’t get lint on them.” Mikey glowered at him, “I don’t have pancakes in my pocket.”

Michael shrugged with feigned nonchalance, “We’re the same person, and if I were eleven and a lady made a stack of pancakes, I’d have at LEAST one in my pocket. I mean maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I didn’t get good at swiping food until I got older. Eleven is pretty young.”

The kid glared and pulled two pancakes out of his hoodie’s pocket, and shoved them into the plastic bag. “You’re old and I don’t need your help. You think you’re hilarious, but the only thing funny here is what a joke your life is.”

Michael started the engine, and refused to make eye contact. He wasn’t going to let an infant hurt his feelings. He didn’t need to prove anything. He was doing fine.

#my fic #inner child fic #roswell new mexico fic #rnm fic #michael guerin fic #michael guerin #future malex #isobel evans #max evans #liz ortecho #truck stop knives and other childhood accessories #cw child abuse #tw child abuse #feral stabby baby

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pastelwitchling · 5 years

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This prompt is courtesy of @unbuttonedbane.

hi! so idk if you’ve hit your fic limit yet, but here’s a prompt that’s been stuck in my head: michael is having a heated conversation with someone and when alex steps in to try and defuse the situation, an already frustrated michael loses his temper and unleashes his powers, unintentionally hurting alex. thanks, I love your writing ❤️

***

“Heard you took Alex out last night,” Michael said, the sound of the door as it shut behind Alex still echoing throughout the bunker.

Kyle looked up from across the table, the file he’d been working on still in his hands as his brow rose. “Heard from who?”

Michael shrugged a shoulder. “Just a friend saw you guys at the bar.” Together, the word remained unspoken, though not unheard.

“And thought it was groundbreaking enough to tell you?” Kyle asked, setting his file down. “Or are you just following Alex around again?”

Michael stared. “Just answer the question, Valenti.”

Kyle smirked humorlessly, his eyes dark. “I warned you the last time that I’d tell Alex you were stalking him unless you stopped, and you obviously haven’t, so now I will.”

“Did you take him out or not?”

Kyle shook his head. “What does it matter? You’re not a couple, and I think you’ve made your feelings about him very clear.”

Michael flinched, his jaw clenched as he recalled Alex’s wide, trusting eyes looking at him as if he was the only good thing he knew he could believe in, the only good parts of himself that he knew for sure at least one person saw. And he remembered the way that trust shattered as Michael told him that his father was a part of him, that it was that part that was too hard to get past, that part that hurt Michael the most.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet and dark. “I don’t think what happens between me and Alex is any of your business.”

“Funny,” Kyle said, continuing his search through his file, “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”

Michael had one hand on the desk in front of him, a list of old Project Shepherd files to go through, but he couldn’t think about them at all. He was here because Alex needed his insight on the alien research, but he didn’t want the cowboy here, that much was obvious. Michael’s eyes fell to the chair beside Kyle’s that had been pushed out as Alex had found yet another excuse to step outside, as if even being in the same space as Michael hurt him. He scratched a finger on the desk. Following Alex around, watching him from a distance, it was the only way Michael could have him.

“He loves me,” Michael said, and whether he was trying to convince Kyle or himself, he didn’t know. “Don’t think just because you take him out for a few drinks that that’s gonna change.”

“I know he loves you, Guerin,” Kyle said, his voice almost rough, his research forgotten, and Michael could tell he was touching a nerve. Somehow, it made him angrier. Why did Kyle care so much about Alex’s feelings for him? Why did it matter? “I know what he thinks of you, and I know what you mean to him.”

“Good,” Michael said. “So you’ll know not to get any closer to him than you have to.”

Kyle expression darkened, and he looked at Michael as if he was someone else. “Don’t threaten me. Especially not with Alex.”

“Stop saying his name like that,” Michael stood, his voice rising. “He doesn’t care about you, not like he cares about me. The longer you stay away from him, the less confused he’ll be.”

“That’s not up to you!” he said. “What right do you think you have to be making any decisions for him? Do you have any idea what you did to him? Comparing him to that monster – it’s sick!”

“I didn’t compare him to Jesse –”

“You may as well have!” He shook his head, looking at Michael as if he couldn’t understand how the cowboy was missing the point so badly. “You – You treat him like he’s made of stone, like he can take anything you throw at him – he can’t! Everyone has a breaking point, Guerin, and that was his. It’s sad that you don’t realize how much worse it is that it came from you.”

Michael’s nails dug into his palms, and he felt it; the slight shift in his balance. Suddenly everything that wasn’t bolted to the ground had risen up, from small things like scrolls of blueprints to larger, like discarded computers and chairs, all levitating up to their chests. Kyle looked startled only for a moment before his gaze settled on Michael, hesitant.

Michael, on the other hand, couldn’t have cared less about what his powers were doing, his anger directed at Kyle. He finally figured it out, the gradually growing rage in his chest, his blood boiling, the race of his thoughts and his heart at the same time – it wasn’t anguish because of Alex, it was fury at Kyle.

“You know, I’ve always hated you,” he said, his voice quiet and trembling. “Even when we were teenagers, and you were a total dick, you still acted like you knew Alex better than anyone. Like there was something between you that nobody else could live up to.”

Kyle shook his head, even as the objects lifted higher. “You can’t scare me, Guerin.”

“You always think you know best, even if that means keeping him away from me.”

“I’m not keeping him away from you, you’re the one who pushed him away!” Kyle snapped. “If you’re waiting for him to say that he’ll wait for you, you’re gonna be waiting a long time!”

Michael swallowed, and he could feel the objects start to turn around them, as if closing them off from the outside. “Did you sleep with him?”

Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Did you sleep with him?” Michael repeated. “And I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“Guerin –”

“What about kissing? Have you kissed him?”

“You need to calm down,” Kyle said, his eyes darting around as the levitating wall spun faster.

“Have you kissed him?!”

“No, okay?!” he snapped, panic seeping into his voice. “Guerin, stop already –”

But Michael couldn’t stop. Kyle acted like he understood, but he didn’t. Michael felt every racing thought since not only last night, but since the day Alex had walked away from him for what felt like would be the last time, since the look of hurt and betrayal on his face seemed to overwhelm any love he had for Michael – he felt every bit of that fear hit him at once.

What if that had been his one chance, and he’d thrown it away? What if Alex never forgave him? What if Alex never stopped blaming himself because of Michael? What if Michael had broken him?

“You don’t know what he is to me,” he said, his voice quiet, his eyes burning as the fear gnawed at his heart. Last night had just confirmed Michael’s greatest fear. Last night had shown him that Alex could move on, that he could learn to trust somebody more than he ever trusted Michael, that he could fall in love with someone else. The idea, Michael thought, felt worse than any death ever could. “You don’t know what I’d do to keep him, Valenti, you have no idea.”

Kyle’s eyes seemed to catch something behind Michael, and his face fell. “Alex –”

Michael exhaled a shaky breath, pressing the bottom of his palms to his eyes. “Stop saying his name!”

“Guerin –” a voice said, and a hand suddenly touched his shoulder. Michael, angered and blind to everything but the fire burning behind his eyes, yelled, and everything close to him was pushed away, hitting the walls.

Everything fell silent, and Michael, after looking up, realized that Kyle was still standing, though his expression had turned to shock and horror. Michael’s frown deepened, dread immediately crawling up his throat. Who had touched his shoulder?

He followed Kyle’s gaze, and his heart sunk when he saw Alex lay against the wall amongst piles of folders, wires, chairs, and smashed computers. He was breathing shakily, his hand holding his waist, his cheek and lip cut from one of the sharp tools, his arm barely holding himself up from the ground as Kyle hurried to his side, his hands on his shoulders. He tried to help him sit up, but Alex winced, and all but fell against the doctor. Michael’s arms went limp at his side. He hurt Alex.

“Alex,” he breathed, and took a step toward him.

“Don’t!” Kyle snapped, holding Alex closer.

Michael flinched, stumbling back. He hurt Alex. He hurt Alex, he hurt Alex, he hurt Alex.

“I’m – I’m sorry, Alex.”

But Alex had been thrown against the wall too roughly, his eyes hazed as he tried to control his breathing, as if he didn’t even know who he was holding onto and who he was keeping away.

Michael’s hands trembled, and he moved toward the door. “I’m sorry,” he muttered over and over as he left the bunker, taunted with the thought that the further away he got, the safer Alex would be.

***

PROMPT SUBMISSIONS ARE NOW CLOSED.

Thank you so much for your prompt, and I’m so sorry it took so long! School and fasting and yada yada. Ramadan is nearing its end, and these are the hardest days, lemme tell ya. But it’s almost over, and I’m so glad I was able to finish all the prompts beforehand.

Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who’s submitted, I really enjoyed the challenge. It was so much fun getting to put my own spin on your ideas, and I think, while I don’t see myself taking more prompts in the near future, I definitely value a lot of the lessons I’ve learned during this experience. Sounds stupid, I know, to be talking so dramatically about prompt requests, but I just want you guys to know how much I cherish each and every one of you, and how much your support means to me.

Thank you so much again - I love you 3000 ❤

#malex #alex manes #michael guerin #malex one-shot #malex fanfic #malex fanfiction #malex fic #roswell new mexico #roswell nm #malex prompt #malex prompt request #malex angst #malex fluff #tyler blackburn #michael vlamis #gay #love

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tafferling · 6 years

Text

Dying Light Werewolf AU?

For @maverick-werewolf.

The Lone Wolf of Harran

Babar Kizi-something was full of shit.

Literally, since he smelled like it (When’d he last had a shower? Before the first man had chomped down on another man?), and figuratively. Because garlic? Cinnamon? Wolfsbane?

Kyle winced. At least the idiot had no clue whatsoever what wolfsbane really looked like, and whatever purple flower he’d found wasn’t about to outright kill him. Taste like shit? Probably, though Jesus fucking Christ, what a tool.

Maybe he should have said something. Anything. Whack the weirdo over the head and carry him to the Tower, but whatever. Instead, Kyle watched, in absolute disgust, as Babar had himself a spoonful of cinnamon powder to dust down the, quotation mark, wolfsbane, quotation mark close. And promptly almost choked on the lot, right before he declared himself cured.

Cured of being a werewolf.

Yeah. Right. He huffed. Scratched at the seat of his jeans, because they were getting itchy with how fucking hot it was here and he collected itchy spots in all the places he really didn’t need them.

So— yeah— Babar Kizi-something was totally full of shit. That wasn’t how this worked. Kyle would know.

He spent the tail end of the day definitely not eating cinnamon, but being arguably useful. The kind of useful that left him itching all over and much, much worse, and really couldn’t wait until nightfall. Which, by the by, really fucking confused people, and yeah, so they thought he had a death wish, not bothering with returning to the Tower and snore the hours away until the sun’d come up again.

No, Kyle didn’t need the Tower. He had a place of his own, and his own it’d be, because he didn’t like sharing. Not that, anyway. Not the place where— aaaah— the pants came off, shit that felt good. Kyle hobbled on one leg, shook the other out of his jeans, and then repeated the motion with the other until he flung the thing off into the distance with a jerk of his leg. It landed in a pile in the corner, right on top of the already discarded (and really fucking soaked) shirt, his belt, and shoes and the socks stuffed into said shoes.

The boxers he kept on. Always did, because excuse me, he wasn’t a barbarian going streaking through the streets. Just a werewolf, and yes, werewolves have manners, shut up. No fucking way he’d be airing his nuts in the open, no matter how slim the chance of anyone catching a look.

To be fair, it’d taken him forever to find the perfect brand and fit, ones that didn’t come off or rip, but stayed on no matter how intense the night. And hoo boy, did his nights usually get intense. Yeah, often like that, exactly like that, but then he didn’t need the boxers, okay.

But there were also nights like these.

When Kyle had signed up for Harran, he’d expected zombies, and he’d expected lots of shit work. He’d not expected Rais and he’d not expected to get bitten, and he’d definitely not expected to find himself loving every second past nightfall.

It’d been— what— how long? Good as forever? Yeah, that was about right. It’d been good as forever since he’d last got to run in a city. Properly run. Run how he’d been built to run, with the wind whistling by his ears and catching on fur.

Kyle jogged on the spot, bare feet pressing down on gritty, dusty wooden floors. Pumped his fists. Felt his heart pick up. Pressure build in his chest. A searing throb build against the base of his neck and lance up into his brain.

Hated that. He hated that. Always had and always would, but fuck it, right? Sure, what was about to come put every single one of those shitty seizures to shame, but it was worth it. Always had been. Always would be.

Especially in Harran. Where all that’d wait out there in the night, were just a lot of other monsters. Him and them, and Kyle was pretty damn convinced he could put on a good show on being the bigger one. Yeah. Bigger one. Him. How the fuck had no one caught on yet anyway? Did they really think catching your fall on a pile of garbage bags without shattering your spine was normal? Pffft. Idiots.

Then Kyle screamed.

That always happened, too, whether he wanted it to or not. And out there, the monsters replied, screeching and yowling, all out of tune with the night.

Sounded like shit.

He dropped to one knee. Then the other. Fell over on his side, and the world dipped out from under him as, for a few thundering heartbeats, it was nothing but red, hot nothing stitched together from pain.

Worth. It.

When the tremors stopped, the ones that’d made him rip rivulets into the wooden floor, he took a moment. Perked his ears. Let his tongue hang out and sucked in stale Harran air. Death hung in it. Heavy. Thick. That was a downside, that even the air was dirty here. Where was the scent of fresh food? Fat sizzling on a grill. Perfume. Aftershave. Sweat and alcohol, wafting out from packed crowds in a club, the air itself shaking with music beating at it.

That’s what he wanted.

Couldn’t have that. Not here. Not home either, because home was behaving. Can’t do that Kyle, what were you thinking— I wasn’t thinking, I just wanted.

Kyle shook his shoulders. Huffed. Turned his head over to a window. In it, moved his reflection. A flash of dark eyes set in a coat of chocolate merle, the sexist fucking werewolf in the neighbourhood.

And the only one—

Which stung. A little. Even if he had a lot of things to play with. Monsters to chase, but where was the fun in that on his own? Kyle let out a sad little whine. Shook his shoulders again. Growled at nothing in particular, and really missed his pack. Fuck the lone wolf routine. Seriously. That was lame as hell.

Lame like those stupid yowling monsters out there. Couldn’t hold a tone for shit, could they? Not like him. Kyle threw his head back. Howled. Let his voice rip from the small shack, and out into the night, told Harran, without doubt, that yeah. Yeah, he was the much bigger monster within those walls, and him and the night? They were old pals. Belonged together. And he was not past making a point to show it.

#Dying Light #Kyle Crane #Werewolves #Werewolf AU

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winifredmacias-blog · 7 years

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What Are Jeggings And Ways to Wear Them.

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mediafocus-blog1 · 7 years

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Disease-inflicting gene eliminated from human embryos in international first

New Post has been published on https://mediafocus.biz/disease-inflicting-gene-eliminated-from-human-embryos-in-international-first/

Disease-inflicting gene eliminated from human embryos in international first

Altering human heredity? In a first, researchers thoroughly repaired a disorder-causing gene in human embryos, focused on a heart defect pleasant acknowledged for killing younger athletes — a big step in the direction of in the future preventing a list of inherited sicknesses.

In a surprising discovery, a research team led with the aid of Oregon Health and & Science University said Wednesday that embryos can assist restoration themselves if scientists bounce-begin the process early enough.

It’s laboratory studies most effective, nowhere close to ready to be attempted in a being pregnant. But it suggests that scientists may modify DNA in a way that protects not simply one child from an ailment that runs in the own family, however his or her offspring as nicely. And that increases moral questions.

“I for one believe, and this paper supports the view, that in the long run gene editing of human embryos may be made secure. Then the query simply will become, if we are able to do it, should we do it?” stated Dr. George Daley, a stem mobile scientist and dean of Harvard Medical School. He wasn’t worried inside the new studies and praised it as “quite extremely good.”

“This is, in reality, a soar ahead,” agreed developmental geneticist Robin Lovell-Badge of Britain’s Francis Crick Institute.

Today, couples seeking to avoid passing on a horrific gene every now and then have embryos created in fertility clinics so one can discard people who inherit the disease and try pregnancy only with wholesome ones if there are any.

Gene modifying, in theory, may want to rescue diseased embryos. But so-referred to as “germline” modifications — changing sperm, eggs or embryos — is debatable due to the fact they would be permanent, exceeded all the way down to future generations. Critics worry approximately attempts at “clothier toddlers” rather than simply stopping ailment, and a few previous tries at learning to edit embryos, in China, did not paintings nicely and, more importantly, raised safety issues.

In a chain of laboratory experiments mentioned within the journal Nature, the Oregon researchers tried a one-of-a-kind method.

They targeted a gene mutation that reasons a heart-weakening disorder, hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, that affects approximately 1 in 500 humans. Inheriting simply one copy of the horrific gene can purpose it.

The group programmed a gene-enhancing tool, named CRISPR-Cas9, that acts like a pair of molecular scissors to find that mutation — a lacking piece of genetic fabric.

Then came the test. Researchers injected sperm from a patient with the coronary heart situation at the side of those molecular scissors into healthy donated eggs at the identical time. The scissors reduce the defective DNA inside the sperm.

Normally cells will repair a CRISPR-triggered reduce in DNA by using basically gluing the ends again collectively. Or scientists can attempt handing over the lacking DNA in a repair package deal, like a laptop’s cut-and-paste software.

Instead, the newly forming embryos made their very own perfect repair with out that out of doors help, mentioned Oregon Health & Science University senior researcher Shoukhrat Mitalipov.

We all inherit two copies of every gene, one from dad and one from mother — and people embryos just copied the healthful one from the donated egg.

“The embryos are absolutely seeking out the blueprint,” Mitalipov, who directs OHSU’s Center for Embryonic Cell and Gene Therapy, stated in an interview. “We’re finding embryos will repair themselves when you have every other wholesome reproduction.”

It labored seventy-two percent of the time, in forty-two out of 58 embryos. Normally an ill discern has a 50-50 risk of passing at the mutation.

Previous embryo-modifying attempts in China discovered now not each cell was repaired, a protection situation known as mosaicism. Beginning the method earlier than fertilization prevented that problem: Until now, “absolutely everyone was injecting too overdue,” Mitalipov stated.

Nor did extreme checking out discover any “off-target” mistakes, cuts to DNA in the incorrect locations, stated the team, which also included researchers from the Salk Institute for Biological Studies in California and South Korea’s Institute for Basic Science. None of the embryos became allowed to develop past eight cells, a widespread for laboratory studies.

Genetics and ethics specialists now not involved in the paintings say it’s a vital first step — however simply one step — closer to eventually testing the process in pregnancy, some thing presently prohibited by way of U.S. Policy.

“This may be very stylish lab work,” but it’s moving so speedy that society needs to trap up and debate how some distance it ought to cross, said Johns Hopkins University bioethicist, Jeffrey Kahn.

And lots greater research is wanted to inform if it’s definitely safe, introduced Britain’s Lovell-Badge.

“What we do no longer want is for rogue clinicians to start supplying remedies” which can be unproven like has happened with a few different experimental technology, he harassed.

Among key questions: Would the approach paintings if mom, now not dad, harbored the mutation? Is restore even viable if each dad and mom bypass on an awful gene?

Mitalipov is “pushing a frontier,” but it’s accountable simple studies that are critical for expertise embryos and ailment inheritance stated University of Pittsburgh professor Kyle Orwig.

In truth, Mitalipov stated the studies have to provide critics a few reassurance: If embryos pick self-repair, it’d be extraordinarily difficult to feature traits for “designer toddlers” as opposed to simply dispose of ailment.

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