#k prime

[ememz666]

c0mm1ssion of K' (K-Dash) from KOF !! Thank you !!

[foxydivaxx]

Lol

[maliwarm]

K’? KKKKKKKK’!!!!

[klavioli]

Because out of reasons out of my control, I went on a nostalgia trip with King of Fighters, and K’ would not go away. 

So now he gets drawn. *pushes k’ away* I HAVE THINGS TO DO NERD.

[maliwarm]

This boy is an absolute disaster of a human being.

[maliwarm]

Caged

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@writeblrs April prompts, day 1

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Everything was heavy, at odds with the distinct floating sensation that had enveloped him. Quiet, cotton-filled darkness had him ensnared, consciousness always brushing teasingly at the very fringe of what little awareness he managed to gather, allowing him only the vaguest occasional glimpses of the outside world before nothingness ensnared him once more. During such brief periods voices, muffled and indistinct, would reach his ears from time to time. Of them, there was only one he recognised, and it summoned anger and the faintest touch of fear. The tone was almost always gloating or an irate hiss from that bastard. Fucking coward should let him out of here and kill him already like he kept proclaiming he would. K’ might just welcome it wholeheartedly; it would be a mercy at this point. He was just so, so tired...

A voice tickled at his foggy awareness, younger and quieter than any other he usually picked up on. The speaker was still unfamiliar, though he’d seen them before a good handful of times; an infrequent visiter to his little clear prison. But this one didn’t gloat. The tone was always soft, laced with curiosity.

He grappled harder for consciousness, eyes scrunching. Prying them open was a monumental effort that took much time. And when they finally did, fluttering and drooping, everything was a vague, green tinted blur. Every sluggish blink to sharpen his focus was a gamble, the cottony darkness of the heavy sedatives in his system threatening to drag him back under again for another indeterminate stretch of unconsciousness. But he was winning so far, now able to pick out a figure on the other side of the glass. A mirror of his own face - younger, without all the scars and the scruff - peered back through a thick mop of white hair. Through the haze of green and the occasional bubble floating by, he watched the boy’s expression light up a tad.

Oh. It was that clone again.

His lips were moving, but the content of the words was lost to K’; he was too quiet, the thick glass between them, and the vat fluid he was afloat in, only serving to muffle the boy’s voice further. He strained his ears anyway, hoping to pick up even one word over the shifting of the artificial current around him. If he wasn’t so damn groggy he might have been able to attempt lip reading. As it stood, all he could do was keep blinking slowly, keeping the creeping darkness at bay as best he could, and watching the clone carry on a one-sided conversation.

Christ, he felt like some sort of zoo display; a tiger staring through the glass cage for the masses to point at and coo or jeer over. Being rendered unable to talk back fed into that image, his jaw obscured by an oxygen mask, and too damn heavy to move properly anyway. It was frustrating. Dehumanising. But he wasn’t even afforded the luxury to dwell on his festering hatred for NESTS and their methods as, inevitably, the next dose of drugs was depressed into his system like clockwork.

A panel set off to the side of the tank lit up, and the shackle-like contraption around his neck chirped in response. The needles within stabbed at him, making him jolt visibly, which in turn startled the clone. Coldness washed through him, quashing the flames in his blood from a rankling buzz under his skin to aimless, sluggish static. Though uncoordinated as all hell and fading fast, he managed to curl his right hand into a fist and slam the scuffed metal plating against the glass. It thunked dully, sending a larger cluster of bubbles flurrying to the top of the tank. K’ could feel himself slipping again, the cotton smothering his brain. The face on the other side of the tank blurred to an incomprehensible smear. Black slithered in through the corners of his vision, eating up the boy bit by bit.

Not.... again.......

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“Ah...!” Fragor hurried up to the glass, gauntleted palms clicking as they were pressed against it. But it was no use. The scruffy old guy on the other side had gone limp again, eyes closed.

He bit down on his lip in disappointment. This had been the first time in a while his source had woken up. The last time - and the first he’d ever witnessed it - he’d been far more lively, and Frag had hoped to see him as such again. He also wanted to know more about him; to figure out what about this battered human being was so enamouring that he kept sneaking into this lab. Then again, how could he get such answers if the man behind the glass was forced into a drugged slumber every hour of every day?

“K-20575.9e,” a cold voice growled from somewhere behind him. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

He jolted away from the cloning vat as though he’d been shocked by it, hurriedly folding his hands behind his back as he turned in place to face the speaker. Scarred eyes glaring from the lip of a heavy, feather-shouldered coat greeted him. His heart dropped into his gut even as he stood at rigid attention. As he’d feared, Lord Krizalid had caught him in the act.

“S-sir. I was...”

“Save the excuses.” A claw-tipped glove sliced the air in irate dismissal. Fragor’s mouth immediately clicked back shut, gaze straying to his feet. “Rest assured we will be having words about this later. For now, however, I want you in training room Delta within the next ten minutes.”

Fragor knew better by now than to question why this was. Instead, he bowed to Krizalid, deep and polite, before scurrying past him and into the hall beyond. Training room Delta was a good distance away, so every second counted to ensure he arrived punctually.

The deeper into the base he ventured, the more he saw friendly faces passing by. But even exchanging quick greetings with his fellow clones couldn’t lift the strange dark cloud that had settled over him.

When had the familiar walls and halls started feeling so constricted?

[maliwarm]

Fearful

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@writeblrs April prompts, day 16

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“You need to eat,” Fragor insisted, mouth pressed into a thin line. He tried offering the steaming spoonful of store bought soup to K’ again. But, frustratingly, the old guy turned his head away. “You’re getting weak.”

“Not hungry,” he murmured, voice a croaky rasp.

“You’re always hungry, though,” Frag countered with a tinge of desperation. When K’ refused to move his head to accept the soup, he gave up. It and the spoon were set aside in favour of peering down at his mentor with obvious worry.

The bandages wrapped around his side were damp again. He’d been stabbed in a scuffle with some NESTS agents three days back but had been seemingly fine up until yesterday. One second he’d been getting up from the dining table to go get some water, the next, his knees had buckled and he’d started listing dangerously to the side. Thankfully, Fragor had been there to catch him before he hit the floor and promptly dragged him into bed. He’d been keeping a worried vigil ever since, barely leaving K’’s side in spite of his patchy consciousness and general bedridden state unless it was for something urgent.

“... You’re looking even more like shit than usual.” It was astounding and concerning that the full extent of the injury had been kept from him for so long; he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or yell at the old idiot. Mostly he was just concerned. Gauntleted fingers curled tightly atop his lap. “Don’t you think it’s time to admit you’re not doing so good, you stubborn geezer?”

K’ twisted his head back his way. There was no sign of a scowl on his haggard face, just weariness. A fat bead of sweat slithered down his temple and traced the planes of a gaunt cheekbone. “‘M fine. Jus’ need to sleep it off...”

He kept saying that, but he wasn’t getting any better. If anything, he was getting worse. Last night he’d been thrashing and moaning in his sleep. And earlier today had borne fruit to far more concerning behaviour; he’d carried a one-way conversation with someone that wasn’t there - someone whose name he didn’t recognise, to boot - for a good few minutes, words slurred, before passing out again. He seemed lucid now, but how long would that last? Furthermore, he looked terrible; skin pale, but face blotched red. And eyes that were ordinarily so piercing were now dull and struggling to focus. He couldn’t keep going like this... Sooner or later that old body was going to give out. A serious intervention was necessary before things reached that point.

Fragor’s gauntlets creaked, clenching even tighter atop his lap. His throat clicked with a dry swallow. Every ounce of courage he could muster was summoned to bring up a proposal.

“I-I think you need to go to a hospital.” His voice, while still wavering and crackly, came out a bit stronger than his usual quiet volume to express his concerns. It raised another octave when he rushed to tack on, “I know you keep saying no, and that it’s dangerous for us, but the wound isn’t... the swelling and redness hasn’t gone away. And it’s... I’m starting to get really worried, sir.”

Fragor hurriedly ducked his head once he was done, thick fringe obscuring his face, in preparation for the scolding that would inevitably come. Bringing up a hospital trip alone always garnered a growled refusal. Or an argument if the matter wasn’t dropped. But referring to K’ as “sir” was a big no-no button. Fragor had never quite figured out why he was so adverse to being treated formally, but had gradually lessened his overly polite tendencies over the course of the year they’d been travelling together in order to comply with his wishes. Now he only really slipped up on rare occasions or if he was exceptionally concerned. Much like he was right now.

When naught but silence stretched on, Frag tilted his head up enough to peer through the shield of his hair.

K’ had fallen asleep again.

“Oi... Quit fooling around, old man, I’m being serious here.” He reached over, taking hold of a scarred shoulder to give it a hard shake. In spite of the content of the words themselves, there was no annoyance in his tone, just mounting dread. “Hey... Hey, wake up!”

No response. Not so much as a twitch, even when Frag’s shaking became more desperate, when usually the scruffy fucker jolted awake at the slightest intrusive touch or noise. His breathing was all off, too; laboured, shallow pants through parted lips.

“Sir— K’...”

Panic began to flare, heart rate spiking. He scrambled from the chair he’d pulled up beside the bed to get closer. One hand scraped K’’s shaggy fringe away from his forehead. The other dragged his own back, exposing craggy scars in the skin. Frag pressed his forehead against K’’s, just like he’d seen being practiced on tv the other week. Heat radiated from the old guy’s skin even before their foreheads made contact, and he had to bite back a yelp once they did. This wasn’t the soothing warmth he’d come to know; it was like touching an overheated engine on a hot day.

Frag pulled away with wide eyes.

What was he supposed to do? K’ was quite clearly sick, something he’d never dealt with before, and had no firsthand knowledge in. He’d never had to until today; so far as he was aware, short of being poisoned, clones and other artificial humans couldn’t get sick. Which meant he was out of his depth here. The most sensible course of action was hauling K’ to a hospital, right? But that wasn’t safe. Not for the both of them, nor for the doctors or patients when NESTS was still dogging them, intent on hauling them back or killing them on sight. Because while the cartel prioritised clean work, they certainly weren’t above causing catastrophic collateral damage to achieve their ends.

But if he didn’t do something, K’ might just die... And if he did die, then where would that leave him? Alone. No teacher to help him control his powers. No gruff awakenings for a not so balanced breakfast. No warm, protective embrace and softly murmured words to soothe him after vivid nightmares of disintegrating to dust at the hands of his own powers.

NESTS wouldn’t exactly welcome him back with open arms either if he tried crawling back to them. He expected severe corporal punishment at best, and termination at worst. Not that he ever wanted to go back to them; not after K’ had opened his eyes to all the freedom he’d been missing out on whilst under their thumb. No... he’d sooner die than go back to a life of servitude and pain.

Somehow, miraculously, Fragor managed to plant his rear back on the chair, rather than miss and hit the floor in a clumsy heap. Fingers found hair, fisting the snowy locks tightly as his stress mounted. He could hear his powers rumbling in his ears, demanding an outlet. The bridge of his nose sizzled, skin beginning to curl and peel away. He did his best to slam a lid on his emotions, but the turmoil was gradually reaching boiling point. His usual coping mechanism wasn’t working. Instead the sizzling got louder, prompting distressed whimpering.

“What am I supposed to do?” he whispered to the prone form across from him, voice cracking with the threat of tears. “I can’t.... I can’t do this without you, old man. Please don’t leave me. Please...!”

[maliwarm]

Floats

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@writeblrs April prompts, day 5

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The diner was leaning on the rundown side, with chips in the tabletops and patched-over holes in the upholstery of the booth seats, but it had a warm and friendly feel to it. Old but well-loved, rather than old and falling apart at the seams, like all the motels they kept bouncing between. Or like K’. But the old guy was in a category all of his own, honestly; Frag was still trying to figure out his deal. He was so weird... always saying they couldn’t do this or that because they needed to keep moving to stay safe, but then heel-face turning every so often to go and do those same things he’d keep shooting down. Speaking of...

Frag peeked over the lip of the menu in his hands to scrutinise his travelling companion. Both of K’’s arms were slung casually over the back of his booth chair like he owned it. Judging by the slouch, he probably had his legs spread wide open, like usual, under the table. Whether that was a dominance thing or simply to air out his sweaty old man crotch, Frag still couldn’t say. And didn’t care to pursue, for that matter. Stubbled chin had dipped to meet chest, snowy fringe thoroughly obscuring perpetually tired eyes, making it hard to determine whether he was taking a light catnap or covertly scrutinising their surrounds. Both were equally likely.

“If you’re going to stare, try and be less obvious about it.”

Heat crept into Fragor’s cheeks. Well that answered that particular question. “S-sorry...”

“Don’t be sorry. Learn.” K’ rolled his neck in a slow upwards half circle, bringing his face level with Frag’s own. His expression was set into the ever-popular neutral-bored, and the dark circles under his eyes added an air of general done-ness. “The sooner you learn some street smarts, the sooner I can ditch you.”

Indignation drew his brows down. Inside him, his powers rumbled lowly to reflect his soured mood. Always with the ditching talk... If it wasn’t for him, this scruffy hack would still be pickling away in vat fluid. Hell, he’d helped nurse the ungrateful prick’s ass back to some sort of semblance of health in the aftermath of their escape, stealing clothes, food, and money to achieve this end. A “thank you” or several was more than in order, he felt. But all he was getting was the cold shoulder. What the hell was his hangup on having company, anyway? And why, in spite of said hangup, did he still go out of his way to treat Fragor like this on rare occasions? What was the angle here?

“Then maybe I won’t learn at all so you can’t ditch me,” he gritted out, tossing the menu aside and scowling from the depths of his thick fringe.

“Guess I’m ditching you before you know how to hide in plain sight and pick pockets, then.” K’’s expression and tone remained unchanged, still coolly detached. It only served to infuriate Frag more. A hoodie-covered shoulder rose and fell a fraction in the faintest of shrugs. “No skin off my nose either way.”

Before another retort could be hurled or an explosion thrown into K’’s stupid scarred face, their waitress made an appearance with their drinks.

“Sorry for the wait, fellas.” A large takeaway coffee was set in front of K’, steam curling from the mouthpiece vent. A larger still glass was set in front of Fragor, bubbles clinging to the sides and the bottom of the ice cream resting at the very top. “You settled on meals yet, or do you need a little longer?”

Frag ogled the glass, all irritation momentarily benched in favour of curiosity. He held a particular fascination for the bright plastic straw peeking between the ice cream mounds, gently taking it between his fingers to move around. The impossible loops it was bent into remained solidly in place no matter which direction they were turned.

“Couple of works burgers - extra mustard on mine, extra bacon on both - and the largest serving of fries you’ve got,” K’ rattled off. His lips pursed with further consideration. “Basket of onion rings, too.“

“Some massive appetites to sate, I see.” Pen scratched gently against the small pad nestled in the palm of the woman’s hand. “Alrighty then. It’s a quiet day today, so it shouldn’t take too long.”

Neither of them acknowledged her taking of the menus, nor departure, instead reaching for their respective drinks almost in unison. K’ started chugging his coffee immediately, paying no heed whatsoever to the scalding temperature. The heat and caffeine made him feel a little less like a zombie, and the fire in his blood perked up along with him, increasing warmth spreading through his body with every gulp. Fragor was more subdued, dragging the glass closer to close his lips around the comical straw. A slow, cautious sip was taken, watching the brown liquid zip up, up, up through the coloured plastic until it finally hit his tastebuds.

He hadn’t known what to expect from K’’s beverage selection for him. Perhaps something as bitter as that coffee he was inhaling. Sweetness, however? Not so much. And he especially didn’t expect sharp pops to lash across his tongue.

Grunting in shock and physically jerking away from the drink, he flapped his hands near his mouth frantically, tongue still fizzing. He looked to K’, eyes wide with beseeching and cheeks puffed out with the liquid still trapped between them. He didn’t know what the hell was going on but it felt weird. Not painful, per se, but the similarity the sensation shared with his powers had him on edge, spurring worry that he’d blow up in the middle of the diner.

A snort met his panic. K’ tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a creeping grin behind his coffee. Though his mirth quickly morphed into panic of its own.

“Jesus, kid!” The coffee was set down hastily, the old guy fumbling over himself to unzip his hoodie. It soon sailed across the table and settled over Frag’s head, reducing everything to sweat-smelling darkness and the popping sensation still running rampant along his tongue. K’’s voice was an urgent hiss when he spoke again. “Hurry up and swallow that; you’re literally steaming from the goddamn ears!”