Pairing: Sergei Kravinoff x Reader | 1 of 3
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Summary: Working as a prison nurse was never your goal in life, but helping inmates in one of the most remote penal colonies in Siberia has become something that you both enjoy and excel at. When you find yourself trapped with a new inmate during a riot, things don’t quite go according to plan. Inmate 0864 seems more than willing to help you, but will that help come with a steep price?
Warnings: Full list of warnings on AO3. Dark themes, dubious consent, protective-possessive Kraven.
Chapter 1 of 3
Extract
If he can’t find it, he can’t use it against me.
You crouch on the floor, curling into as small of a ball as you possibly can. You don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re hidden, but maybe, if nothing else, it might help buy you a little time? Or at least a little sympathy.
The door opens, light spilling in, blinding you. He towers above you, filling up the doorway; it’s as if he sucks all of the air out of the very room. The door closes behind him, plunging you both into darkness. You whimper. Golden eyes flash in the dark, and you gasp.
Thick hands wrap around you — one on your wrists, the other covering your mouth. Tears trickle down your cheeks. You don’t even have the time to beg for mercy. You let out a muffled whimper, and Inmate 0864 shushes you.
“Quiet. We don’t have much time. I am going to remove my hand. You are going to remain silent and listen to what I have to say. Do you understand?” he says, voice low and measured. Even in the dark you can feel his eyes on you. You nod. This is what you’re supposed to do in these situations, isn’t it? Cooperate. Build a rapport. Make your captor feel empathy for you.
He removes his hand, and the world falls silent and still. You force yourself to be quiet, to be good. He lets out a pleased hum. Taking a step back, he flicks the lights on. You cower away, trying to cover your hands, only to realise he still is holding them in his steely grip. Instead you screw your eyes shut, determined to be good for him.
“Good girl.”
Your eyes creep open. He’s using his spare hand to shield your eyes. There’s a softness around his eyes, you realise, one that you don’t usually see in inmates. At least not in the ones that last more than a week or two.
“There is a full-on riot out there. Unfortunately for you, I am still in the process of building my reputation here, so my presence alone will not be a deterrent. The way I see it, you have three options. I can open the door to the hallway and hand you over.”
“Oh god,” you choke before he silences you with a look. You shake your head, hoping it is enough. He stares back at you, body unmoving, eyes unblinking.
“I can drag you out there by your hair and put you in your place myself. Many of the inmates here feel wronged by the guards and the system. They don’t care if you are a part of the problem or the solution; they want to see blood.”
The longer he speaks, the stranger you feel. It’s almost as if a calmness is beginning to settle over you. Whatever inmate 0864 has planned for you, it’s not as if you can change his mind. Not really. Perhaps he isn’t giving you a choice at all; this could so easily be a game to him.
There’s only one way to find out.
You lick your lips. “And… my third option?”
His smile sharpens. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “You can come out with me willingly and trust me to put on a good show. I can promise you that I will not hurt you intentionally, but they need to see. They need to think that I am making you mine, so that they do not come in here to do so themselves. Do you think you can do that?”
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Prisoner 0864 (8242 words) by Otaku_girl
Chapters: 1/3
ATJ character masterlist | Otaku_girl_AO3 masterlist | AO3: Otaku_girl
Your quiet life in the woods was never as perfect as it seemed. When Sergei leaves on a hunt, promising to return with a surprise, someone from your past arrives instead — and nothing feels safe anymore. Tangerine has changed. Or maybe you have. Everything is unravelling. It’s time to ask: Was your life with Sergei ever truly idyllic?
Pairings: Sergei Kravenoff x Reader x Tangerine
Fandoms: Kraven the Hunter (2024), Bullet Train (2022)
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Warnings: For the full list of warnings, please check out the fic on AO3. Explicit smut, dark, kidnapping, unhealthy relationships, no use of y/n, long fic (180k+) Fic status: Updated on Fridays and Mondays
Master list: Baby, I’m Preyin’ On You Tonight
Chapter one
It’s easy enough to spot the traps once you know what you are looking for. You don’t like to set them yourself, but you know that it is a good habit, one that you must maintain if you do not wish to forget the hard-earned skill. There’s nothing in the first dozen you check as you slowly circle the perimeter. The river is higher than it should be, but nowhere near the flooding you had seen during spring. You plan to make your way back later with the jumpers if nothing else. You can’t quite bring yourself to change the sheets, even though Sergei’s scent has long since faded from them.
As you check on the last of the traps, you come across one that has been sprung, a bright splash of crimson across the carpet of leaves warning you before you see the metal teeth clenched tightly together. Whatever was caught is long since gone. Unease stirs in your chest, and you find yourself hesitating. Perhaps it would be best to shorten your route. You are still well within the bounds of where Sergei told you it is safe, where no predators should dare tread. You wonder if his continued absence is making them bolder.
Sergei will be back soon enough and then everything will be fine.
If you return to the dome on quicker feet than when you left, there is no one but you around to see or comment. The laundry can wait another day or two. It might be best to wait, you tell yourself, given how high the river looks. It wouldn’t do to get everything neatly washed and hung up to dry, only to be unable to leave it all outside in the elements.
You snag your basket from beside the front door, gathering your morning’s humble little harvest to take back in with you. There is always something to do out here; even with nothing but birdsong for company, time feels too precious to waste.
Vegetables neatly washed, you flit about the kitchen as you prepare both lunch and dinner. A simple enough stew in a slow cooker that should be more than enough to last you for several days, should company not arrive unannounced. You spend just long enough to wipe the kitchen table clean before you return to eat your lunch standing over the kitchen counters, a book propped open, a warm patch of early afternoon sunlight streaming in just the right place to make you feel like a contented house cat.
You clean as you go, tidying behind yourself as has become second nature. Why leave messes behind to gather in your wake? It feels too much like borrowing trouble — or like asking for things to go wrong.
Time slips through your fingers. Once everything is neat and tidy, you allow yourself to curl up to enjoy a few hours with your latest book. You should shower, or look at preparing one of the unused flower beds ready for more winter crops. There’s always something to do, yet you find yourself feeling lethargic as the sun begins to lower in the sky. The faint sound of birdsong begins to set your teeth on edge; a constant, mocking reminder of Sergei’s absence. You wish that you could tune it out.
You wish he was home.
Flicking lazily through a recipe book — you still haven’t gotten around to trying even a fraction of the recipes yet, though you have dozens upon dozens of dog-eared pages just waiting for you to attempt — the first, resounding notes of a phone going off sound harsh and grating to your ears. It’s not a sound that you hear often out here. It’s enough to set off warning signs in the back of your head.
Sergei rarely uses the satellite phone. What if something happened?
You approach Sergei’s desk with a level of care and caution. It’s one of the few parts of the dome you do not regularly clean and tidy. A thin layer of dust coats every surface. There isn’t a trace of paper on the otherwise immaculate dark wood. Sergei had been careful to clean and tidy everything away before he left on his latest hunt.
The draw isn’t locked. None of them are. You slide the third drawer down open, plucking the satellite phone from within its depths. You are careful to keep it charged despite keeping it neatly out of sight. You never know when Sergei might need to get hold of you.
Slipping back outside, you click to answer the call, knowing it can be only one of two people.
“Finally! I thought you weren’t going to answer.”
“Dmitri?”
A smile transforms your face, worry melting away as the familiar, melodic voice washes over you. You step further into the clearing, moving seamlessly between planting boxes as you go. You’re careful not to get too close to the line of trees surrounding, knowing that reception can be patchy at best. “How have you been?”
Deft fingers tug at the neck of your borrowed jumper, pulling it up to cover your mouth as you listen to the familiar, rambling voice on the other end of the phone. When was the last time you spoke to him — a week ago, maybe two? It hasn’t been that long, not really, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Hearing another voice is more jarring than you expected. It’s easier to allow your side of the conversation to fall into questioning hums and little noises of agreement as Dmitri tells you all about what has been happening at The Den since last you spoke.
Inevitably, the conversation turns back towards Sergei. You bite your lip, fingers twisting in the soft fabric as you try to ground yourself. “No, no. He isn’t… here right now.”
Knowing that Dmitri doesn’t know where Sergei is sends a fresh twinge of worry through you. It’s a good sign, you remind yourself. If he knew Sergei wasn’t here and he still called, this would be a very different kind of call. No news is good news.
“Do you know if—oh… of course, of course.” You slowly turn in a circle, hand coming up to run through your hair. You tug on a stray strand, the dull throb of pain grounding you before you can begin to spiral. You should be better at this by now.
“Your birthday? I’m really not sure…” Neat white teeth bite on your lower lip, worrying the flesh until it is tender. It’s sweet that Dmitri is inviting you, even if it is still months away. You glance towards the treeline, and a frown flickers across your brow, furrow settling between your eyes. Something feels off, though you can’t quite put your finger on it.
It’s impossible to tune Dmitri out as he promises a night to remember. It’s worth the risk of the connection dropping, you decide, as you make your way back towards the dome. You don’t stop scanning the treeline, trying to figure out what it is that is setting your nerves on edge. There is no unexpected movement. Nothing seems out of place. There’s no sound of breaking branches or crunching leaves; just the usual rustling trees and low whoosh of wind.
You close the door behind you, careful not to make a sound. There is no lock to reassure you, no key to turn. Anything — anyone — out here that could possibly find you wouldn’t be stopped by something as simple as a lock and key.
“Ask Sergei about it when he next drops in. You know he wouldn’t miss it for your world.” You move towards the kitchen, gaze darting around glass walls, searching for any tiny clue that you can find. Your frown deepens. Maybe you are mistaken? It wouldn’t be the first time that your mind started playing tricks on you. Being alone out here is usually a calming experience, but even Sergei has his moments when the silence gets to be too much and he needs to hear another voice.
You rest a hand on one of the tall bar stools that line the counter, running your finger along the smooth, padded leather. Forcing your gaze away from the windows, you catch sight of a dark-framed photo of Sergei and Dmitri. It must have been taken at Dmitri’s last birthday. You recognise The Den in the background, the shy smile on Dmitir’s lips and the wide, proud smile on Sergei’s as he wraps his arm around his baby brother and holds him close. The two really look nothing alike at first glance. They have similar eyes, though, not in colour — Sergei’s are the brightest, most unsettling shade of blue that you have ever seen, while Dmitri’s are a gemstone green — but in kindness. There is a softness behind their eyes that they so rarely show anyone but each other; it would be easy to miss if you didn’t know to look for it.
“Are you still there? You haven’t been sleeping again, have you. You always have trouble when he’s away,” Dmitri’s voice snaps you back from your musings.
“Hm? No, no, I’m sleeping fine. I haven’t even needed to dip into those sleep gummies you sent back with Sergei — thank you again for those. It’s reassuring to know I’ve got them if I need them.”
Soft fingertips meet the cold glass picture frame as you trace the line of Sergei’s jaw. You miss him. The low ache of loneliness seems almost sharper, more persistent, now that you can hear Dmitri speaking. Now that you have been reminded of what you are missing out on. It’s been months since you last saw him in person, since you were last at The Den. You never would have guessed just how much you would miss some things more than others.
“I’m fine. Really, Dmit— Dima,” you correct yourself, rolling your eyes fondly as he corrects you. “If that changes, I will call. I promise.”
Your eyes linger on the treeline outside, scanning for any sign of something amiss. Nothing. Biting your lip, you add, “And I’ll remind Sergei to call you when he’s back.”
Late afternoon gives way to early evening. Leisurely reading gives way to evening routines. Firewood is stacked neatly in a shed not far from the dome; it’s a simple enough task to fetch enough to last overnight. You don’t need the fire technically, the solar panels in the day heating your little home efficiently along with the bright rays of sun themselves and underfloor heating keeps the room feeling cosy.
Leftovers are packed neatly away in sealed containers, half going into the freezer once they have cooled, the other half slipping neatly into the fridge. It never hurts to have extra on hand, just in case.
You stand in the kitchen as you pick at your stew, gaze drifting back to the framed photograph over, and over, and over again. Missing Sergei is like a physical ache. It’s as if a part of you is missing, one that you aren’t even aware of until you are reminded in startling clarity of its absence. It’s impossible not to think of him in every little thing that you do, and yet, somehow, your call with Dmitri is enough to make your thoughts linger.
Cleaning up behind yourself doesn’t take long. Everything is washed, dried and put away neatly in place. You linger by the back door, eyes falling to the impressive tub in the centre of the decking. It’s big enough to hold you and Sergei both with a little room to spare; he likes to spend his evenings relaxing in there, the water too hot for you to touch, much less bathe in.
You enjoy watching him relax, muscles unwinding, unblinking gaze fixed on his domain below. You live for that little grateful twitch at the corners of his lips when you do well and bring what he needs before he thinks to ask. Something to drink, a snack, and the latest stack of reports he has been reading through. Some nights, he will send you back inside, the weather too cold for you to linger, or his work too pressing. But some nights he will invite you to climb in with him, to rest with your back to his chest and feel the deep rumble of his voice as he explains the star-strewn sky to you.
It seems a waste to use it without him. To fill the tub just for yourself. Your gaze lingers on the starry sky; there is no moon tonight, only the tiniest sliver that can barely be seen in the sky. It’s enough to make you hurry through the last of your responsibilities so that you can make the most of your night.
Fire flickering away merrily, kitchen cleaned, food packed and stored away, you reluctantly remove Sergei’s jumper and linger by the full hamper. Hands clenching around the soft fabric, you pull it to your face, inhaling deeply. You can almost imagine you can smell him still lingering on the fabric, the sharp, fresh scent of pine, the deep coppery twang that always seems to cling to his skin, and beneath it all, the undeniable musk that is Sergei. You add your dress to the hamper, keeping the jumper clutched against your chest.
One more night can’t hurt.
You can’t face getting into bed. Just a little longer, you think, snagging your discarded book from where you had neatly tidied it away to your shelf. Little trinkets from Sergei’s travels cover the dark wood expanse: books and pens, a delicate hairpin he brought you back from Japan, a smooth piece of Lapis Lazuli from Chile, a hand-carved little lion Sergei made for you himself while he was visiting Kenya. You snag the tiny dark leather notebook from the edge of your shelf, flicking past pages and pages of neat little lines until you reach your most recent one. You trace across the row of little dark marks, counting off the lines one after the other. You add another. Fifteen. Fifteen days since you last saw Sergei.
He will be back. Soon. He promised.
You don’t allow yourself to linger. Moving across the heated floor feels good on your bare feet, no trace of chill to be found. You settle yourself on the floor in front of the flickering fireplace, a thick, dark green rug the colour of fresh leaves beneath you, the soft, sturdy presence of the leather sofa behind your back. You tug mounds of furs and scatter cushions down from the sofa to pile around you, creating your own little warm nest between the furniture and the fireplace, with nothing by the night sky able to see you. You still aren’t used to the glass walls of the dome, knowing that anyone could see inside. Not that there is anyone to see inside, not for hundreds of miles, or so Sergei has assured you. You daren’t venture past the safety of the perimeter of your home. Not without Sergei by your side.
The furs feel soft against your bare skin. Lying back amongst them, you press the balled up fabric of Sergei’s jumper to your face, rubbing it against your cheeks slowly. You can almost convince yourself that it is his knuckles trailing gently across your skin, his warmth seeping into you, deep and calming, as the fire crackles and burns. You can almost convince yourself you can hear the low rumble of his voice as he points out the brightest stars in the night sky, naming each and every one for you as you curl up in his arms and allow yourself to drift.
Your eyelids begin to grow heavy. You turn your head towards his jumper, allowing the fabric to pillow beneath your cheek. You keep your gaze locked on the stars, tracing the constellations. You feel yourself beginning to drift. The last thing that you see between heavy blinks is the distinct outline of Leo lighting up the night sky as sleep finally takes you.
Today was just another day without Sergei. Perhaps tomorrow he will return. All you can do is wait.
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Baby, I’m Preyin’ On You Tonight (4082 words) by Otaku_girl
ATJ character masterlist | Otaku_girl_AO3 masterlist | AO3: Otaku_girl
Raven slipped into her usual seat, the classroom already humming with low morning chatter. Students murmured sleepily to one another, some finishing the last bites of toast they’d smuggled from breakfast, others flipping open textbooks with resigned sighs. A few had already given up entirely, bunching their dress robes into makeshift pillows in preparation for the inevitable.
She set down her books and inhaled slowly, praying the Earl Grey would finally kick in and drag her fully into consciousness.
Ominis tilted his head toward her, wand gliding over the embossed cover of his textbook. “Morning.”
She stretched, rubbing the last traces of sleep from her eyes. “Good morning,” she murmured, however the words drifted out with a faint, unintentional lilt, almost sung more than spoken.
Ominis paused, tilting his head slightly and raising an eyebrow, “…was that a pitch?”
“What? No. I’m just tired.” Shit.
“Mm,” he hummed unconvinced.
Before either could say more, Professor Binns drifted straight through the blackboard, chalk dust blooming like a cloud around him. Conversations died instantly. Robe-pillows were adjusted. Someone groaned quietly.
Binns launched into his lecture, his monotone droning about the Goblin Rebellions with all the enthusiasm of a dying candle. Within minutes, half the class was slumped over their desks. A Hufflepuff two rows up snored softly.
Raven tried to focus, scribbling music notes in her journal. It lasted perhaps a minute before something nudged her elbow. She glanced at Ominis, whose expression looked perfectly neutral, tapped at a piece of folded parchment next to her. Even though she wasn’t worried the professor would notice, she still unfolded it beneath the desk.
So, when am I helping you and Sebastian register for your household charms?
Raven’s breath caught and felt her face go hot. Wide eyed, she stared at Ominis, who had the biggest smirk curling around his mouth.
Sebastian must’ve told him, she thought. Hell, he probably already figured it out himself.
She tried to think of something witty to write back, however, Binns’ voice was already dissolving into background noise making her eyelids heavy. But then her mind crept somewhere warmer.
Suddenly she wasn’t in History of Magic at all.
The image wasn’t sharp, more like a memory she hadn’t lived yet, but the feeling of it made her chest tighten. She saw Professor Fig at her side, their arms linked walking down an aisle. Not some grand cathedral… just a quiet, sun-lit path lined with faces she trusted.
Just the thought of having someone to give her away, someone who cared enough to stand beside her in a moment like that, hit her harder than the vision itself. Fig wasn’t her father. But in that hazy-formed glimpse of a future, he was the one steady presence she could imagine offering her hand to someone she… loved. Oh, stop, she thought, feeling her cheeks warm.
Then the vision deepened. A white, simple lace dress, with no blasted corset digging into her ribs. A veil trailing behind her. A bouquet trembling slightly in her hands, though she couldn’t tell if it was nerves or anticipation.
And at the end of the aisle… stood Sebastian patiently waiting. His curls tamed (mostly), his smile soft in a way he never showed anyone else. His eyes never left hers, not even to blink. He reached out a hand, and her heart thudded so hard she felt it in her throat.
What were wizarding weddings even like? Did it matter? The feeling was the same, terrifying and beautiful. She blinked hard, shoving the image away before it could root itself any deeper. Thank goodness Ominis couldn’t see the color blooming across her face.
Her fountain pen trembled slightly trying to take notes, though the fantasy shattered completely when Professor Binns abruptly shifted tone, well, as much as a ghost could.
“Class… we will now relocate to the Entrance Hall to examine the historical displays relevant to your essays. Please remain with your assigned desk partners.”
Chairs scraped. Students groaned. Someone muttered, “Thank Merlin.”
Raven and Ominis gathered their things and headed out with the rest of the class. The Entrance Hall was bright and echoing. Too bright, Raven squinted from the glare. They moved from display to display, Ominis listening intently as she read aloud the descriptions about a Goblin Artefact,
“…the horn was used during the 1612 Goblin Rebellion, to rally troops and annoy witches and wizards—” Just then a rush of wings swept overhead. And an owl landed neatly next to them, holding a sealed letter with Professor Fig’s wax stamp. Quickly, Raven opened it,
The Third Trial is ready. Please meet me in the Map Chamber during lunch. And yes, Mr. Sallow may accompany you.
- E. Fig
Her heart thudded once, hard. ‘Bout goddamn time, she thought.
I cannot focus on this story rn. I don't know what's going on lol, but every time I try to work on this, I keep writing something else.
Monday and Tuesday, I tried to second-draft Chapter 12 (the second dream sequence). Thought I'd add some foreshadowing for the next dream. But to foreshadow it, I needed to know what happens in it, right? Before I knew it, I'd written the entire next dream sequence and done absolutely nothing for Chapter 12.
Today I planned to write Chapter 21, but when I sat down I wrote something completely unrelated instead. It's good and I'll definitely add it to the story later, but like... this is not what I was trying to do today. 😅
Anyway, I'm sharing a piece of it because I usually like to post something for the holiday, and it doesn't seem like I'm getting a full chapter posted today.
Happy New Year!
"My essence. It's like—slush," I managed through chattering teeth. "The Dementor must've frozen it somehow. I can't—I can't make it move—"
Severus stared at me for a long moment. Then, without a word, he unfastened his cloak and threw it at me.
I caught it reflexively, the heavy fabric pooling in my arms. "No—Severus, you'll freeze—"
"Put it on."
"We could just make a fire, or—"
"Put it on, Winters."
His voice left no room for argument. I hesitated a moment longer, then swung the cloak around my shoulders.
The warmth hit me immediately—residual heat from his body, trapped in the thick wool. And underneath it, something else. A scent I hadn't consciously registered before but recognized instantly: something herbal and sharp, layered over smoke and old parchment. Him.
I pulled the cloak tighter, trying not to think about it, and immediately felt guilty for how much better it made me feel.
"You'll freeze," I said again, though with less conviction.
"Unlikely." He was watching me with an expression I couldn't read. "Walk me through it."
I blinked. "Through what?"
"Your temperature regulation. The technique. Explain it to me."
"That took me months to master—"
"Then be concise."
I stared at him. He stared back, implacable, apparently unbothered by the wind that was now cutting directly through his robes.
"Fine." I took a breath, trying to organize my thoughts through the fog of cold. "You start by finding your essence—the warmth at your center like I showed you before in my classroom. Then you... push it outward. Not all at once, but in a steady flow, like blood through veins. You're creating circulation, not explosion. The key is maintaining it—keeping the current going without consciously thinking about it. Eventually it should become automatic."
He closed his eyes.
I watched, shivering, as his expression went still and focused. For a long moment nothing happened—and then I saw it. A subtle shift in his posture, a slight relaxation in his shoulders. His breath, which had been fogging in the cold air, began to fade.
He opened his eyes.
"That is effective."
I gaped at him. "You—that took me months."
"You required acclimation."
"I had masters—"
"It is not the masters I was commenting on."
A scene from chapter sixteen of my upcoming Dramione fic, The Curious Nature of All Things Dark and Lovely.
In which things start to heat up 🫡 (really, I’m being quite generous with this one, do enjoy).
The moment Hermione’s lips touched his, Draco went still. She could feel his confusion, his hesitation in the way his body stiffened, and she had a brief moment of doubt, wondering if perhaps she’d made a mistake. But despite this uncertainty, her body seemed to have a mind of its own, and as her mouth parted, her hands twisting in his shirt to pull him closer, it was like something awakened in him.
A low sound escaped his throat, and Hermione gasped as one of his hands encircled her waist, the other tangling in her hair. His mouth was warm and demanding as it opened against hers, and she could barely think as he pressed her back against the mattress, climbing onto it himself. Every place his hands touched made her feel as though it were on fire— the sliver of skin at her navel that peeked out from beneath her blouse; her collarbone; her jaw. She let go of his shirt and let her fingers drift up to tug at the back of his hair, holding onto him for dear life as he met her with the same level of urgency, like this might be the only chance they had.
No, this kiss was different than before. Desperate. Frantic. All-consuming.
“Granger,” Draco breathed against her lips, and Hermione felt like she might die if he didn’t kiss her like this forever.
YEPPOS ANOTEHR EXCERPT WHILE I SPIN MY HEAD WRITING THIS CHAPTER
Happy birthday, @xxlord-plebxx <3
Excerpt below the cut :D as with the last one released, this time there's no extended cut on Ko-fi-- a full course treat for everyone ;D
Lazerbeak comes online with a jolt, literally, as her half-powered engine tries to online despite the cascade of system checks still running through her frame as things power on in rapid succession. Her joints immediately ache with crimped strain, and a current feels like it shorts out in her left upper spine somewhere, but she’s awake, and she’s immediately worried. The EM-fields surrounding her are anything but calm and relaxed, and she’s pretty sure it’s Soundwave’s distress that yanked her out of recharge so deep, she’s not even sure if she should really count herself as actually awake yet.
-=”What’s wron--?”=- is barely out her vox in a panicked twitter while she desperately tries to run transformation scripts the absolute instant her engine is fully online, Spark whirling with distress, before she’s cut off.
A silent ping from her Carrier, faster than any words could have been, immediately informs her that all is well. Sort of. He didn’t actually send the code for all is well, but he sure didn’t send something that said everything’s bad wrong no fun. Context hints at greater nuance, and she’s sure she’ll find out soon enough.
He just said things are… Stable.
Which prompts her to wonder, what had rocked the scales?
Then she feels the tiniest pluck at her own EM-field, as a plaintive voice calls out to her in a quiet, breathy plead that’s interrupted by what sounds like the cutest, most concerning, little organic beeps.
Their human is hiccuping again. Frag. Also holy scrap that’s so adorable, why? How can a glitchy sequence be so cute?
“Be-- hic! --eaky! Make him p-- hic! --ut me d-ow-- hic! --own!” her Squishy whines.
The quiet tonal distress that bleeds of Soundwave is answer enough. He’s not just cranky, he’s fussing.
-=”She makes that noise when she’s stressed,”=- Lazerbeak observes after transferring her conscious focus of language through new software, speaking to Soundwave through the silent comms. Aloud, she makes the softest, most gentle coo in binary she possibly can, hoping it soothes their Squishy. To Soundwave, she thinks; -=”What happened?”=-
-=”Sick,”=- he responds immediately, the worry starting to leak from his EM-field and into hers, enough to paint the picture. -=”I think. Won’t provide diagnostics.”=-
If she could roll her eyes, Beaky would.
-=”Just ask her what she needs,”=- she suggests. Even if they had the information of her vital functions, they’d hardly know what to do with it or what was normal for her. An oversight she’s starting to think they should remedy as soon as possible, but maybe after Squishy is better again.
“Dammit, Sounders! Set me down,” Butterfly pleads, freely providing an answer, and Lazerbeak hears him suck in a sharp in-vent. It comes out loud and clear, even over the sound of her own engine turning online with a startled fuel-flush, hearing the nickname said by another’s voice.
For a split klik, no one says anything.
Then, Knockout lets out a sputtering laugh he immediately attempts to smother, but as soon as his vox is muted, the idiot’s engine onlines with a noisy rumble that blatantly broadcasts his amusement. Auugh! Shut the frag up you noisy fuck! Lazerbeak thinks bitterly, seriously considering the pros and cons of electrocuting his shiny aft. She’s mad enough to think in human insults, just to hurl ever more irritation and dislike his way.
She feels cringing sympathy even before her Squishy outwardly recoils from the sound with another pained whimper.
Soundwave heaves a sigh, retracting his cables with the barest brush of contact as the heavy limbs lift up off the floor, and vanish within his chassis. As soon as they’re stored away, he shifts his elbows and leans forward, then smoothly transforms as he holds Butterfly to his chest, and curls up around her.
