#REPOST FROM SECONDARY BLOG

[madeinjapan-thailand-blbambeyond]

MADE IN THAILAND

Series: Your Sky

WANPICHIT NIMITPARKPOOM

[Nickname: TEETEE]

SUPPAKARN JIRACHOTIKUL

[Nickname: POR]

[kissablelips-desireslure-vol2]

ANGELO / ANGEL (2024)

EDUARD GALIÀ (as Angel)

&

SERGIO PÉREZ (as Marco)

[amaryllis-sagitta]

[Old reposts] Speculative timeline leading up to DAD

Large image under the cut

[Right click on desktop to expand]

[tasty-littl-snack]

what a day for drew gooden enjoyers

[he-him-his2-hotbod]

HEARTBREAK HIGH

JOSH HEUSTON

[alisonwritesimagines]

Count On Mom ~Batfamily Imagine~

Summary: The kids try to get Bruce to get away from the computer. Luckily, there is always one person who can take his mind out of anything including Batman duties. You.

Author’s Note: Haven't posted much in a while and I kept seeing a lot of Batfamily stuff at the last convention I went to so here we go!

BatFamily Masterlist

Reader’s Pronouns: She/Her

Warnings: boob flashing, hint to smut

Side Note: This is a secondary blog. If you comment a question down below, I will not answer since this is not the main blog. Please send the question to my inbox if you want a response back!

Do not repost this anywhere!

Three of the batkids stared at their adoptive father as he had been stuck in front of the screen in the Batcave. None of the moved as they watched Bruce in some kind of trance.

“How long since he moved?” Dick asked Cassandra and Jason.

“A day,” Cassandra monotonous answered.

“I think he blinked a minute ago, does that count?” Jason asked.

“It’s official. Alfred called it. He said he’ll bake cookies if we can get Bruce to stop working,” Duke said as he walked into the batcave.

"Step aside," Jason said as he cracked his knuckles. "This will be over in no time."

As the kids began to try to get Bruce to move away, no effort was made to moving Bruce.

"I got an idea," Dick said as he took out his phone.

You felt your phone ring, making you put the groceries down onto the kitchen island so you could answer your phone. You had just gone to the store to grab some ingredients to make dinner for tomorrow's dinner.

“Hello?”

“Hey mom! Are you and Damien almost done with grocery shopping yet?”

“We just got home. Why?”

“We’re trying to pry Bruce off of the computer in the Batcave and Alfred said he’d make us cookies if we get him away from the screen.”

“I’m on my way,” you say with a chuckle at the end.

"Already began to bake the cookies. I know you'll be able to get him away," Alfred told you.

"Of course I can. That's my superpower in this family," you joked.

When you got to the Batcave, you saw your husband tiredly staring at the screen in front of him. The dark bags under his eyes from the lack of sleep made you upset but you knew there was one thing you could do that would always get his attention.

"Aw my poor husband," you say.

"You got this mom?" Jason asked you.

“Step aside kids and close your eyes,” you tell them as you walked over to your husband.

“What are you going to do mom?” Dick as as he covered his eyes. The rest of the kids quickly covered their eyes to avoid to see what you were going to do.

You climbed onto Bruce’s lap before lifting both your shirt and bra in front of him. Bruce quickly snapped out of his daze before looking up at you with a smile.

“Tempting me my love?”

“Maybe,” you smile as you pulled your shirt and bra down.

“Let me have my cookies and you can have me,” you whispered into his ears as you stood up.

“Okay kids. Enjoy Alfred’s cookies,” you say as you headed out.

The moment the kids uncovered their eyes, they watched in shock as Bruce already began to make his way towards you.

“Leave it to mom for getting Bruce to do anything other than his Batman duties,” Jason said.

"I wonder how she does it," Duke says out loud.

"Because dad's got it bad for mom," Dick tells him.

By the time Bruce got to you, you were eating your chocolate chip cookies that Alfred had made with Damien. You winked at your husband as you kissed Damien’s head.

“Alfred, why don’t you and the kids go out for a bit? It’s lovely outside,” you tell him.

“Of course,” Alfred said before walking over to get the rest of the kids. You began to head upstairs to your room, knowing that you had stirred something in Bruce.

“You coming Bruce?” You called out. You smirked as you heard Bruce’s fastened footsteps.

You let out a laugh as you felt him pick you up. You held onto him as he rushed over to the bedroom.

“I owe you some alone time don’t I?” Bruce asked you with a smile.

“Yes you do. Now, while everyone is out of the house, why don’t you make it up to me?” You asked him.

“I plan to," Bruce said before kissing you passionately.

[kyuujo]

↳ screen time!

↳ michael kaiser x fem!reader ↳ nsfw ↳ voyeurism, slightly dubcon (reader is recorded without explicit knowledge), mutual masturbation (sort of), perv!kaiser, voyeur!kaiser, solo male masturbation, language, dirty talk, fantasies, sexual tension(ish), sexual pining, overstimulation, i think i got everything pls lmk if you catch something!

↳ 1.3k words

↳ uwaaah dahlings!! thank you guys so much for 106 followers!! it means so much to me! i’m so happy i can provide some entertainment to so many of you <333 it makes me so happy to do that TwT) this piece is actually a repost from my (deleted) blog, and i’m thinking it’ll be the last repost i do (idk why but reposting just feels weird to me T-T) but i hope you guys enjoy!! thank you so much for reading (im so sorry that this note was so long i had so much to yap about)

kaiser knew he was abusing a system that he shouldn’t even have knowledge of — but he simply couldn’t control himself.

the instant ness had clued him in on that little piece of information about the camera system, kaiser’s mind shifted straight to you; cute, quiet, shy little you. and ness, bless his soul, didn’t question kaiser even once when he requested (demanded) that ness find a way to hack into the secondary cameras hidden within the personal rooms of the facility.

kaiser wasn’t sure why jinpachi ego had felt the need to install such a security system, but he was deeply thankful for it.

because there would be no other way kaiser could ever witness this beautiful sight over and over again — you laid out across your bed, legs spread and fingers working over time plunging into your sloppy little cunt.

slick squelches and soft moans echoed through the earphones and traveled straight to kaiser’s dick, which was already hard and leaking despite only having started the recording less than a minute ago.

that was just the visceral effect you had on him; you could brick him up instantly with just a single glance in his direction.

and seeing you like this — oh, the effect was catastrophic. kaiser swears his dick has never been harder before, that he’s never felt so turned on and sensitive, each stroke of his hand down the shaft electrifying and borderline overwhelming — and when he ran the pad of his thumb along the tip to collect the dripping pre his whole body nearly convulsed.

it was amazing, satisfying, and yet so, so torturous. because at the moment, all kaiser could do was stare at your pretty cunt swallowing your fingers and imagine how it would feel for those velvet walls to be closing around his cock instead.

and suddenly, his hand just didn’t feel good enough anymore — kaiser imagined you must have felt the same way about your fingers, given the scrunch of your eyebrows and how desperate your movements were; it just wasn’t enough. you clearly needed something longer and thicker to fill you up.

and kaiser could do that for you — oh, how he would make you feel so good. he’d slide his cock in nice and slow so could you could feel him inch for inch, so you could enjoy that satisfying stretch it’d give your tight little pussy. he’d fuck into you recklessly in the same way you’re doing with your fingers while whispering sweet little nothings in your ear just to feel your walls flutter around him.

“so good, meine schöne rose,” kaiser whispered as he tightened his fingers around his cock, eyes zeroed in on your fingers sliding into that sweet nirvana between your legs. for a moment, kaiser could almost convince himself that he was buried inside your tight little pussy and not his own hand. “keep going. that’s it.”

kaiser’s breathing was quickly laboring, his abdomen twitching and tightening with every quick stroke of his hand. your soft moans and whimpers spurred that heat within his gut, and if he closed his eyes and focused, kaiser could feel your plump lips against his ear, honeyed voice begging him to fuck harder, to fuck you completely stupid, until all you could think about was his cock —

kaiser’s eyes snapped open when his ears were graced with a particularly loud moan from the earphones, and that liquid heat in his gut ramped up to a boiling point at the sight he was greeted with.

your other hand had abandoned its stationary place on your stomach and was now rubbing fast circles against your pretty clit in time with your thrusting fingers, and your whole body was trembling from the new stimulus. kaiser had seen this enough times to know exactly what was soon to come.

“oh, sweet girl.” kaiser murmured reverently, chest fluttering and hand picking up speed around his cock. “so fuckin’ pretty like that.”

and you were — you were so fucking breathtaking. eyes slipped shut and plump lips parted to release those sweet, sultry moans; fingers sliding into the prettiest folds and rubbing against the cutest clit; that perfect body trembling and shaking.

it was a vision of pure erotic perfection that was etched permanently into kaiser’s mind; a vision that he craves to see in person while he ravages you with his cock.

“c’mon, meine rose. you’re so close.” kaiser cooed, hand jacking his cock so fast that his wrist was beginning to ache — but there was no way he was going to slow down, not when you were both so close, hanging onto the precipice of pure rupture. his gut clenched almost painfully and his balls twitched, signaling the fast approach of his climax.

“i’m gonna cum, sweet girl. mmh — fuck, ah — you’re gonna make me cum — i’m coming —”

kaiser had to bring his other hand up and clamp his teeth around it to muffle the sounds that bubbled up in his throat. all it took was three more strokes and he was exploding, warm, sticky ropes shooting all the way up to his chest. kaiser couldn’t even control the moans that slipped out, nor could he control the way his hips jerked up to fuck his cock into his tight fist as he rode out his orgasm, eyes glued to the screen in front of him.

your escalating moans seemed to add even more fuel to the fire, stretching out kaiser’s orgasm to the point that his cock became almost unbearably sensitive — but he kept pumping his fist slowly, keeping his cock alive as he reached forward with a shaky hand to restart the video.

“just once more, meine schöne rose. make me cum one more time.”

[pranabefall]

⠀⠀THE DEVIL'S ANESTHETIC. ⠀⠀⸺ ⠀⠀blade.

syn. you were just a doctor, at the start of it all. then came the chaos, the knife, the bits and pieces of madness and coming horror. and in the center of it all, stood him ( a gentle cruelty ).

TW. ⸺ yandere + smut and dark content ahead. reader is south asian coded, blade is a little fucked up and inevitably fucks the reader up a little too. murder, corruption arcs, medical terminologies i only half know, breaking of medical ethics, the reader is a pathetic wet cat, gang violence, death, manipulation, angst, acts of murder and mentioned dismemberment, suicidal ideation, dub-con, non consensual kissing, hatefucking, blade having violent thoughts, the reader is not daijobu, blade getting off on being killed.

LOG. ⸺ this is another repost of this fic after my old account got deleted on accident. this work has been marked mature for containing smut & dead dove content. readers below the age of 18 / ageless blogs and antis, do not interact. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS BEFORE PROCEEDING.

"you can hold yourself back from the sufferings of the world, that is something you are free to do and it accords with your nature, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could avoid."

— FRANZ KAFKA.

I. DEATHBED

“We have another one.” The receptionist echoes out from the front desk.

Another one. The words still the twitch in your muscles, the incessant cleaning and arranging and scrubbing away blood from medical chairs and forceps that should not be here. There are thoughts in your head. They’re dangerous ones, lingering in places that are grimy and soaked in something tarred. They should not be there.

Another one and that’s enough to coat your stomach with ugly, stifling coldness. You don’t reply, keep your eyes down and let the man walk in.

There were never any faces to your clients. They had hands, ringed, tattooed, scarred. Some had suits. Some stank of iron. And they all had guns, or bats, or rusty crowbars and attitudes that were knife edged and brutally coarse. This one is much like the rest. He tells you he was shot in the waist and his voice is static and white noise and discord leaking out of your ears in droves till —

“— will you get moving?! It fucking hurts.”

“Yes.” you choke out. “Yes of course.”

It comes easily to you now, after months of repeating it over and over with varying degrees of perfection and prompt. Find the shrapnel, pull it free, clean the wound, suture it. Find the shrapnel, pull it free, clean the wound, suture it. Find the shrapnel, pull it free, clean the wound, suture it. Find the —

( Your thoughts unravel and they’re a mess in your hands like several bits of coloured petals. The scent has washed away. They almost seem to wither, bit by aching bit. )

You step away. “Done.” you tell the suited man and ask for no payments. Your receptionist does not either when he strides outside and it’s smart because patience was a whim when you reeked of viscera. That brazen naivete was drilled out of her a long time ago ( and you too ) and the rules were set forth, rules that must never be broken. You’d seen too many zipped up body bags scattered in the gutters to dare to. You do not want to be one of them.

( Coward, that spiteful half of you snarls and you know it’s right. )

Only he does reach in and throw some loose notes against the counter. You shuffle up to her, nails crusted with brown and red and count fifty kaas. It’s peanuts. It will do.

You were a doctor.

Or at least you’re certain you were. You’d spent the better part of your decade rooted within a small university where standard IPC dialect was taught as a secondary language and the fans hadn’t been replaced for the last thirty years. It was torture during the summer and the hospital adjacent had patients who spoke in tongues you didn’t quite understand. But you manage. You tried, you graduated.

You were a doctor. Your license reads you specialised in paediatrics. Children were all you needed to deal with, some too loud to listen to their parents' chides for silence. Some so young they were small enough to fit in your desk drawer. Some of them liked to talk too and ask questions during checkups and vaccine appointments ( nerves, you reason and you answer the questions ). It wasn’t much. It was peaceful. It was alright. This is your clinic, something you'd built from sleepless nights and mountains of referral literature.

Then you’d see less children and more of those suited men as the streets grow with a cacophony you can’t call safe after this. The carpet was worn down by blood and heavy footfalls, over the thread work and your mother’s faded name in the bottom.

You weren’t treating children anymore.

Still, you hold it together. This is yours, all of this. This is yours and it's a feeling locked away in your beating heart.

When the man returns — and you know it’s him because the birth mark on his hands were hauntingly similar — he brings company. The company in itself would have seemed unassuming, and they were, lingering by the doors speaking in words too fast to comprehend till the gunfire rang out and the windows shattered.

A part of you is thankful that it’s so late, where the streets are silent and the bustle is calm. The files you were rearranging fall to the floor. You duck beneath your desk and stay there, enclosed within tumult, within chaos, within something you wanted no part of ( and you grip your hands tight, quietly wondering if that persistent cat would be fed, if your father would care to know what happened to you ).

You hear glass break, fall, fall and hit the floor with a sadistic sort of tinkling.

You hear frantic footsteps thundering up by the door.

You hear the screaming.

( You hear your heartbeat. You want it to stop. )

Something crashes into the storeroom. It was large, heavy, clothed and it let out a strangled cry before iron clogs up your nose and heat and cold fizzles up and hammers into every crevice and pore and turns your chest inside out. The man tries to shift, to get up and out of the way, shoulders knocking against the shelves in panic that feels painfully palpable. He’s crying. You see that when you bundle into a corner, eyes burning.

His body jerks and is dragged to the door.

“Don’t,” he begs till the desperation chokes his reasoning and it meters into panicked threats. “You’ll be torn apart by this, I swear, you’ll be hunted down — ”

He’s pulled at again, his limp form slipping out of sight. You hear a sick sound — a squelch, the dripping of blood and viscera and the gamey crack of bones. Your teeth dig into your cold fingers. The stinging is numbed, dim and distant, while you press against the wall and try not to wail.

There is only a single set of footsteps now. It paces like a starved animal, like a caged beast. Leave, your thoughts scramble and correct themselves. Just leave. And it repeats, over and over like a maddening chant. Please leave, leave, leave. The footsteps stop at the door followed by a slow scrape against marble. A shadow falls over the doorway. That’s when you see him.

You think he could have been pretty. But there's terror beneath that veil of frozen numbness. You don’t think he’s pretty now, when he’s stalking into the room, bloodied sword in hand ( it’s mired and cracked and mended like kintsugi but twisted and terrible ). He walks like a man who’d been broken and sewn together and he reeks of death and a sickening sweetness.

His gaze meets yours for that fleeting moment.

( it felt like that throbbing helplessness. Of everything going wrong. )

One of the suited men had not died. Not yet, in some inane act of stubbornness. He’s tackled down immediately and you flinch back and finally scream, watching the writhing pile of bodies smack each other down with ease. The swordsman ends it. There’s a chilling disparity in strength with how his bare hands tear into flesh and rips his opponent’s arm off. He’s laughing, laughing like a madman and the insane hysteria sparks a primal instinct nestled in your mind.

You’re moving before you realise it, when you spot his fingers twitch for his fallen sword. Your hands close around metal. You’re surging forward, taut at the edges. That part of you screams into the void, stripping away morality, reason, the simpler parts of shame that could have stopped you then and there.

When your fractured mind pieces together and lets the spinning room rest into clinical stillness, you’re aware of the hysterical laughter that man trembles into. He slumps against your legs, weighted, boneless. He’s still laughing, like the world had whispered a funny joke into his ear and left him to rot.

The dislodged pole slips out of your hands. You watch him crumple down onto the floor, staining the tiles. A swing, a hit to the back of his head, a break to the vertebral artery, a medullary haemorrhage, a stroke, neuron death —

You spend the next hour tucked away in that storeroom, watching the swordsman’s body convulse, then his breathing still and his body run cold.

II. NEWLY DECEASED

Once upon a time, you told yourself that you could get by. You could get by and let yourself think you were a good person despite the ugly cracks tucked away and the bated disappointment breathing down your neck. It’s the human experience, a conditioned way of convincing yourself, a way you wish to live in the quieter corners of you.

It’s a lie. A lie. A lie.

The body does not move, as dead bodies usually do. As a frame of reference, dead bodies don’t do much to begin with. You stand back up and feel nausea coat the back of your throat, then wordlessly stumble to the man. Your fingers press against his pulse. Nothing.

A part of you wants to laugh at yourself for hoping.

The police take it all away. They don’t know what you did. Or maybe they do and care so little they swat that detail aside. Death is so natural here, so common and where is the sympathy for the damned when the damned were everywhere and your kindness wears thin?

( You’re left to pick up the pieces. The cracked photo frames, the toys and magazines salvaged, the bowl of tamarind candy tipped over. Bits and pieces gathered together and sewn back together. There was a heart in these walls. The pain was always there, but a dogged part of you loves this place. )

You answer what questions were asked and let them walk away, knowing they’ll do nothing about the situation to begin with. They never do. Most policemen were tucked up in the pockets and played dogs to gang members. Some lost themselves to apathy. Money could buy loyalty in droves. It was an open secret.

You get back home and let the hot water run into your bucket. You feed the visiting cat. You wipe the counters down and unearth some food from the previous night. You turn the water off. You bathe. You eat.

( “I’m fine.” you lie to Aleena when she calls you, frantic, scared. More frantic and scared than you present yourself to be. You don't tell her you’re a murderer.

“I don’t think you should go back tomorrow. I’m not saying this to get off of work or anything but after all that?” she falls silent.

“Maybe. But I need to keep the income coming in somehow.” )

Walking into the bedroom feels harder than it should. Lead bleeds into muscle as you patter along and try to keep yourself steady against the walls. For a moment, you stop and lean your forehead against it and tell yourself not to cry ( because cowards cry, and idiots cry and it was a pointless endeavour anyway because nothing — nothing about this would change ). Your degree falls into your line of sight, framed up against the wall.

You are a doctor. You are a doctor. You are a doctor.

That guilt knocks you in the knees. The guilt, the disgusted guilt that comes from killing a man.

( It’s engulfing, like tar and cloth pressed up against your face. The breathlessness, the storm rattling against the window, the messiness of it all. You’re screaming at the pillow. You’re clawing at it. You swipe till your arm bleeds and the cacophony dies down. )

The veneer shatters and the frame is clenched and thrown to the floor. The casing cracks. You heave, look at the mess at your feet and think to yourself :

What were those eight years for?

You killed a man.

You killed a man.

You killed a man.

A gasp tears through. It's painful, heavy and it's glass and shrapnel. The voice in your head whispers. Nothing. It's all for nothing.

Another one crackles through the muffled distortion, straining and rattling. A clear “I told you so.” grating past the chaos, disappointed, smug, knowing.

You shut your eyes and dream of jasmine and marigolds.

( You listened to Aleena when you passed the register and took a day off in the end. It’s the one kindness you let yourself have.

You did not eat for most of the day. Your gut gnaws. Your limbs feel weak. But food, as delicious as the thought seemed, invoked a visceral response. Of corpses and blood and things that you thought yourself too far removed to disgust you. A caved in skull did all this. A caved in skull made you retch and empty your stomach out into the toilet.

You think you deserve it. )

Your watchman stops you when you head back out again a few days later for a grocery run. "Are you alright?" he asks, peering through sleep. The cat curls round his legs and he gives it a gentle pat. You can hear the content purr it lets out from where you stand, and you venture a little closer.

"A little." you reply, smiling a little. The watchman tilts his head in consideration. You'd lost count of how long he's been here. Some of the older tenants mention he'd settled in over a decade ago, when the building still had four floors instead of five and a little more space to park out back.

"You still seem scared is all." he glances over at you again. It's the worry in his furrowed brow that makes you give pause. He reminded you of your grandfather then, strong jawed, stern eyed before that softness pervades through when he'd let you scoot over next to him to sneak a look at the newspaper ( cricket scores and stock prices were all he looked at. And the Sudoku ) .

You shift in place, tugging at the hem of your jacket. "It was a little jarring. The sudden attack, that is." you admit. You don't tell him about the death, the way deceitful monsters do.

The watchman shakes his head. "Horrible thing to go through, I agree. Especially for one as young as you." The cat slinks pat his legs and under the bed. he leans forward, tire heaving at his bones and his joints. A decade. One would assume he'd retire at this point given his age. "Try not to let it wear down on you, is all."

"It's easier said then done." You mumble.

"It is." the watchman snorts. "I told my daughter about you though. She's taking medicine too…Oncology. I scraped together every Kaas I had to pay her tuition fee off." he flexes his arthritic hands. You keep listening, that sliver of curiosity winning out. "She hasn't met you…but she knows about your clinic. the children your helping…suited men aside. It gives her a bit of spark at least. So you keep going too."

You feel gutted, eyes stinging a bit. He puts too much faith in you, you realise. But there is a small touch of warmth against the rattling cold. "Thanks…" you nod. The watchman leans back.

Keep going. What a mess, really.

You return to your clinic, the day after. You decide it's the last time you'd let reckless hope bar the instinctive tearing in your gut.

There is a woman sitting on the waiting room chairs with a dangerous smile. She’s dressed well, like those elegant omen-bringers or dapper businessmen. She’s dressed like the coming consequences and it’s there, that sadistic delight, hidden behind that lazy tilt to her head.

“Good morning.” she greets, like she hadn't broken into your clinic. “Hope we’re not intruding.”

You look to her companion next to her.

The dead man ( and he was dead. He was supposed to be — you were certain ) stares right back.

“Do you have anything to drink?”

“There’s a coffee machine…”

“Hm, never mind. I was never too fond of the instant stuff. What do you think Bladie?”

'The man named ‘Bladie’ does not respond. You’d have laughed a little — if your nerves weren't frayed. You’d have laughed over a silly, inconsequential nickname slapped onto some scary looking man, then gone on your way. But the scary looking man was a murderer. And you were certain, so certain, that he was dead.

( His blood coated your hands days ago. You can’t have imagined it — not something so innately ingrained within your psyche like some sadistic firebrand.

How is he alive? How is he alive?! Why is he — )

“I could pick up some tea.” you suggest, because playing meek was the way of a coward and you were that in the end. You still had to open your clinic in another half hour. There are still parts of the storeroom that need cleaning and a window that needs replacing. The woman laughs. She looks at you like you were an adorable specimen. A pet…or perhaps a bug to be stepped on.

( It’s a cruel sort of beauty that edges her face. You’d hate to admit you were staring a little longer than you should be. )

“There’s no need for that.” she looks to the side for a moment. “Bladie was here a few days ago, you know.” you flinch, perhaps knowing the ugly scene to follow. “Got into a bit of a tussle. Of course, I wasn’t worried…he’s got a knack for seeing things through, you know…” She’s staring straight at you now. “And he’s good at not dying, one could say.”

“That’s nice.” you mumble, shifting uncomfortably. Your cheeks are cold. Don’t look at me, you try to tell the should-have-been-dead swordsman. Like that would have worked ( he keeps staring ).

The woman continues. “It's funny though. After that affair at your clinic, I had to pick Blade up at some hospital’s morgue of all places. Quite the detour if you ask me.”

You still.

She knows.

Fuck. She knows.

“I…I see.” you play into stupidity, wring your hands a bit and force a far away smile. “I wonder how that happened.”

“Yes.” she nods, solemnly flicking dust off of her velvet coat. The playful lilt to her tone is back, delicately poking and prodding away and you feel the walls close in bit by bit. You can see the man tilt his head. You want to disappear. “I’d think you know though…so how about you tell us?”

You don’t look at her. You can’t, with that horror filtering through and spotting your vision.

“Now….listen to me.” she stands, saunters up to you and you stay rooted. Your mind fogs over with cotton wool and the aftertaste of wine blooms through your mouth. There is consideration there, her pointedly dragging her eyes across your figure and taking a sick pleasure in the fear that trembles at your fingertips. A tiny part of you that still remains too torturously aware recoils. “Were you the one who killed Bladie?”

“Yes.” you reply and it isn’t you. You wouldn’t have said that. You wouldn’t have.

Her lips curl. “How did you kill him?”

“I hit him on the back of his neck.”

Her face glows. “Good girl.” she pats your cheek. “We have a favour to ask you. How about you hear us out?”

She gives your shoulders a squeeze and you’re gasping for air. “That wasn’t so hard.” she grins. The cotton wool strangles and is caught at the edges, whisping, grasping, stubbornly trying to stay. You still pull at it incessantly while you back away from her touch. It burns. What did she do to you? What did she fucking do to you —

You’re pulled closer. It’s just a tug, a simple coil of her fingers round your arm. “I’m sorry.” you blurt out. “I’m sorry. I never meant it.” There are cracks against the surface, a spiderweb and it keeps going and going and going the more you talk ( you need to shut up ).

“There there.” She coos. “How about we sit down, hm? Bladie, think you could make some space?”

You don’t want to sit down with them. You try to pull back, to run because that’s what you should have done in the first place; instead of entertaining a pair of strangers with that stupid, naive hope of safety. She pulls back. Bladie catches your wrist when you try to squirm free and you’re half dragged onto the seat between them. “Honestly. A drink would have been nice. Oh don’t worry. I could hardly blame you for that.”

The woman fixes her sleeve. “I take it you don’t know who we are?”

“No.” you admit.

“Ah. the IPC influence here isn't as deep, huh? I heard there was an overhaul a few decades ago. The revolt drove most of them out…I wouldn’t count on it staying that way.” She passes you a measured flash of her teeth. It’s all good manners and etiquette you can’t return. “But we’re not here to talk politics. I’d like you to babysit Blade for a while.”

Blade seems to be expecting it. He does not mirror your dismayed shock.

“Why — ”

“Can’t say. It’s all a part of some very important work.” She holds a finger to her lips. “Would you be a lamb and do it?”

You grip at the metal armrests hard. The room is a blurred scape, a watered down stain ( ink tracked against damp paper ). “I won’t.”

“Come now. After that stunt you pulled with him, it’s the least you could do.”

It settles hard. “I told you I didn’t mean it.” you snap. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I didn’t mean to kill you.” Your unravelling seeps into something dangerous. You try to step back. To keep it together. It tangles, knots, frays and snaps and tangles again and the foundations crumble. You cannot think despite the clarity slowly creeping and the fog metering out. You cannot think because the man you killed is alive and right next to you and dead men don’t just come back to life.

The woman forces you to turn her way. “You didn't mean it?” she repeats, inquisitive, amused. “Doctor please, any normal person would have gone for the head. You made a very calculated move there…and I'm sure that pretty little brain of yours knows the consequences that come with it.”

It’s a coveted part of you that dies there, withering, burning, clipped away and cast aside and you shake your head as you’re retrained. “Don’t touch me!” you scream. “Don’t touch me!”

Because humanity despises the naked truths in the world. They’ll deny, deny, deny what stares them in the face for those fleeting, selfish little comforts skewed in ignorance. Better the downy coverlet to the thin blanket, better the sweeter lie that bitter sincerity. You’re no different. Not really. You’re not different at all.

And that woman was not a liar.

III. DISTENSION

Aleena doesn’t take well to a strange man lurking within the backrooms. Her eyes always flit to the doors and her shoulders stay tense as she directs a few straggling patients to the waiting room and updates their details into the salvaged computers. “I don’t like the look in his eye.” she whispers hurriedly. “Doctor. Have you seen him?”

“Yes . I have.” you reply simply. “Could you pull up the files from a month ago? We have a follow up due today.”

She hums, and you nod to the messy clattering from the keyboard. “He’s not from here, is he? His clothes aren’t local.” her voice dips. “Is he an outworlder?”

“Yes.” You flit through a case history. The ink has run a bit, the edges flicked a dirty red. Bile and acid sears the edges of your mouth. You don’t think throwing up here and now would be professional. And your receptionist has a very nice shawl on. “Have the police called?” you add, helplessly rubbing away at the browned stains.

“You know they won’t.” she clicks her tongue, wrinkling her nose to the injustice of it all. You bite back your tired humour. She might descend into an angry little ramble then curse those men in three different tongues. You were guilty of listening in ( it’s amusing, and she had plenty of anger for the two of you, and then some more for the smaller things ). “They’re too busy sipping cha at the local angadi.”

She keeps tap tapping away. “Do you want me to send a soft copy? Or will you directly look into the logs?”

You cease flipping through the files. “Just send me a PDF.” you mutter. “You still have a few cases to input from yesterday right? I won’t hold you up.” Another report is pushed your way. Two more patients, two more medical histories to pore over. The throbbing in your forehead is incessant and stubbornly clinging on.

Gang activity in your neighbourhood has stifled from its initial raucous to a cautious thrum. There were still glimpses and the ignored nods, and that delicate rope-work still standing strong despite men from their brackets dying some terrible death. They don’t suspect you. It would be stupid to ( because you could hardly hold a gun in their eyes, or fight back. Your claws are chipped and your fangs blunted. It’s not a mystery ).

It does not stop the occasional loitering goon up front as parents grow a little braver and a little more desperate to bring their sick children in.

You settle with your work email, tapping your foot against the faint buzz from the streets outside and the waiting area. There is the occasional loud call. Kids being kids, shushed by mothers and fathers with warnings of naughty ones being fed the nastiest medicines for bad behaviour. You’re not cruel enough to do so maliciously, but it quiets them down amidst the worried ogling.

A ping pulls you from sinking further into your pit of thoughts. The document pops up in your inbox and Aleena slows her typing to two finger taps. “Can I take a week off?” She pipes up, nervously picking at her fingers. “Next month, that is.”

“For the agelu?” you guess, a new sort of weariness settling. “I suppose you can.”

Aleena stifles away a relieved smile followed by a : “You're not going?” She looks a little surprised, then lets her eyes sweep across the clinic. “I mean…yeah I guess you won't, given the state things are in right now…”

You wince. Your father had sent a text in. He asks for you, in his own, distant way. Maybe he misses you. Maybe you miss him beneath the hurt and the anger. But feelings were messy, scary things and it was better to look away and stick your head into papers and books and words that could be read. “I’m not sure.” is the soft admission. “It's a little early, I think, for me to make a proper decision.”

( Going home feels like a fever dream now. You’d almost come to loathe the smell of marigold and incense smoke. )

That and you can't be certain if Kafka would pick your guest up any time soon. She never gave you a timing, or any sense of clarity and control in this mad scramble. Blade was to lurk in his little window in the backrooms with all the year-old files for as long as he should.

“Besides.” You finish with a hint of good humour. “I'll take full responsibility for any ancestral hauntings after. Maybe my great grandmother could make a nice home on my couch.”

Aleena purses her lips. It’s says enough. A little more if you squint hard.

“Okay that wasn’t very funny.” you admit.

“No. It wasn’t.” She tilts her head sympathetically, pressing the pads of her fingertips to the edge of the desk, half pushing up against hardwood and paper. “I have plenty to say…but you’re my boss and that would be unprofessional.”

You bite back that twitch to your lips. “A wise choice. Take care of yourself now…and don’t forget about the rest of the reports.”

Primal fear rear its ugly head and scrapes at the bars when you meet Blade’s gaze.

“I have two patients due in the next hour.” you manage to pull out, turning your heel immediately after. Any inch for a quick escape, really. “So don’t come out. You’ll scare them.” you add for good measure, like he’s a child himself, or a feisty dog muzzled and chained up.

( The kind of dogs who bite at anything and everything. The kind who quietly bare their teeth at cruel hands and kind. You aren’t certain of Blade’s stance here and now, if he was pleased with his arrangements — stuck in a room too small for him, with someone who clearly didn't want him here.

Because you don’t. There’s something about you and your face and the way it’s a traitor. It gives away your thoughts, your heart, the things you want to keep tucked away at the back but seep under the doors and stain the carpets. And your displeasure seeing him is on full display.

His corpse comes to mind. Still, dead, cold took the touch with the beginnings of rigour mortis settling when he was hauled over the stretcher and wheeled away. )

He says nothing back, unsurprisingly. He didn’t even bother speaking out as much when Kafka came in and dropped him off with all the unceremonious sneaking and threatening. You think he’ll carry on with his silence, letting whatever this delicate little semblance of distant amiability stay within its stagnant state. An untouched web.

You turn. Keep walking. You really don't want him here, you think miserably. The paradoxical warmth in his body now, when for a moment there was none. His gaze, unsettlingly intense. You don’t want him here at all.

Still, you turn once more. You speak. “Is there anything else you need?” be polite. Be polite.

Blade considers it. He looks at you. You fool yourself into believing the hunger simmering beneath harsh vermilion does not exist.

“No…” he finally relents. His voice is coarse, heavy, the whisper of a growl.

( You leave faster than you should have. )

He follows you home after the day is done ( you wish he didn’t ).

Blade keeps you within his line of sight — just within reach and just close enough to feel that faint prickle of body heat against the back of his neck. It’s an uncomfortable itch. It’s unwelcome. So you turn your head back to his silent figure and test your fingers against your bicep.

“Could you walk in front of me?” you ask.

Blade seems to consider it. “No.” he finally decides with finality edging every word. “You might run.”

“I don’t think you’d let me get very far to begin with.” you mutter under your breath. His footsteps are heavy, kicking aside loose concrete you avoid. Blade still stays an unwanted spectre behind you, treading in a way that is too soft to be human.

“I won’t.” he agrees, sounding sure of himself. Bored even. There is a scuffing sound, cloth against cloth. You’re tense again, anticipatory ( and yet, you don't dare to look back, to look at him ). “It saves inconvenience. That is all.”

You decide you’d like to be an inconvenient annoyance. That should drive him back to wherever he came from.

“I still don't think you should walk behind me though.” You repeat. Your fingers curl. You wish you had a taser. Your last bottle of pepper spray was spent as is on a few other thugs the past couple months. “You look like a creep. And a stalker. You might mug me.”

“I won't.”

“How do I know that?” You keep rambling, hysteria trickling down. It's a leaky tap, that anxious mess in your chest.

Blade blinks. “Kafka told me not to.” ( like it was the most obvious thing. You might be imagining the heavy condescension oozing through ).

That does not make you feel better. Kafka seems as reliable as a tsunami, or a flood, or any natural hazard creeping into its first few stages of utter destruction. It shows on your face, that muted mix of disbelief and horror. Blade's gaze is sharp, not quite the disconnected distance it held before. Kafka was suffocating as is but blade feels like rubble bearing down, down, down. You hate it.

“And it would be pointless, trying.” He continues. “Killing you would change nothing.”

You wordlessly rub at your knuckles, at the pulled skin of your hand. You do not talk to him for the rest of the walk. You should be more polite, you tell yourself. Be more polite. You killed this man, watched him die as his brain slowly collapsed in on itself. The least you could do after those fifteen and a half dumpster fires is extend some basic human decency, right? Be polite.

A scream ringing out gives you another thing to focus on. They're normal to hear, even as it wrenches open your viscera and leaves something sick on your tongue. It continues, growing increasingly hysterical, then stops.

( You almost run for the source, You want to. You do not. )

By the time you slip into the parking lot of the apartment and head for the elevator, you’re half hurrying Blade along. There’s nothing glamorous about the place — a standard five storey tall building just like the other projects lining most lower middle class neighbourhoods. The watchman was found out back, half passed out from his shift and stinking of beedi smoke, leaving the dog that frequented the neighbour's doors to rip into any intruders.

You don't think Blade is wholly impressed as he nudges at him with his foot. The watchman jolts with a huff and a startled snore, then passes out, head lolling to the side a little. The dog does not bark, simply trotting up to accept a few pats on the head. And indignant annoyance flares up. You sharply tug at the hem of his sleeve.

Blade jolts. The vermilion of his stare burns you.

"Leave him alone." you warn, giving his sleeve another tug for good measure. Blade's lips purse, his displeasure a quiet shift on his face for the most part, burying away immediately into the corners and crevices where things were never brought up again. "I hope you like cats." you add. "I have one who visits sometimes. She's a terror and a half…"

He grunts, stepping to the side as you fiddle with your keys, pulling away the string from your key chain and getting your door open. It’s a welcome ritual, feeling the cool breeze from your apartment filter in after a while. The cat is passed out on the balcony floor, cracking open a single yellow eye in greeting when you shuffle forth to take a peek.

“Hello, pretty girl.” you coo, feeling that heavy warmth in your arms and the softness of her fur against your palms. It eases you just enough to face Blade again.

Be polite, you tell yourself because you killed him, because he could snap your neck in two, because you think that the last thing you need is pissing off a pair of seeming psychos. “You won’t mind tea, right?”

Blade leans against the wall, maybe trying to make himself as small as possible within the cloistered rooms. “It’s a waste.” he replies, ignoring everything else; the hum from the streets below, the occasional flicker from the lights, the cat settling on the couch and sleeping an arm’s length away.

“Okay.” you mumble and set down two cups anyway.

You do not like Blade’s silence. His silence means he’d rather think about something and him thinking could involve certain death. There is a disturbed sheen glossing over his gaze. He does not look wholly there, the less he talks. Most conversions your parents had with guests were about the weather, then delving headfirst into some obscure gossip about a family three kilometres away.

Another fleeting glance at Blade has you reason that he’s not one for gossip.

( You let this silence settle in. It’s still a suffocating thing, an unwanted presence and an unwelcome guest. You think of the suited men and the gangs amok in the dirty corners and you think the silence looks like them. )

“So…our first meeting wasn’t…wholly ideal.” You speak up after a while, handing him his tea. Blade looks vaguely surprised when he takes it. “I don’t think ‘ideal’ would be the right word for it…”

“You killed me.”

You swallow. “Yes.” your voice shakes. “I killed you.” Your legs are drawn a little closer to you before you talk and you lower your voice, all that shame and guilt subduing the last bits of that cocktail of fear and tumult and annoyance. “I’m sorry for killing you. Even if you’re still alive…somehow…it wasn’t the best course of action, to be fair — ”

Blade’s lips twitch. He takes a sip of his tea, letting you stew there with your fumbling, your shame. It still goes unspoken. That damning ‘how are you still alive’. You don’t bother asking it. He can’t stay dead — Kafka said so herself. The very notion feels like an existential terror moulded to the shape of a man and you want it to stay far away from it.

“Four days.” he finally utters out, inspecting the last bit of tea staining the bottom of his cup. “I was dead for four days.”

Oh. Oh that stung.

“I’m sorry.” your voice cracks and your eyelids start to prickle. Stupid. Stupid stupid, you curse at yourself, claw at the offending load inside.

Blade snaps his head towards you. There is a twitch in his hands, slow, dog-like in the way strays jolt in alarm. You do not comment on it, awkwardly pressing at the surface of your cup while the tears are quickly wiped away and smudged against your cheeks. There's no use crying over it, you scold yourself. Grow a spine.

“Spare yourself the pity. It is not an uncommon occurrence.” is his uncomfortable dismissal. The words are nonchalant and his forehead crinkles to match the perplexed hitch to his shoulders. He probably wants to say more, speak more, tear you apart. Or he was just too put off by how pathetic you are.

“You’ve been killed before?”

“Yes.”

Horror stirs deep in your gut and a small sliver of morbid fascination shunting beneath the murky waters and glimmering up in those seconds of resurfacing.

( Can he not die? He’s still here after dying from a stroke. Does he regenerate? How does he do that? Do his cells simply have a faster metabolism? That means his neurons can too despite their limited replication in most normal people. Does he — )

The tear tracks are drying. Your face feels stiff.

“I was trying to protect myself.” you even talk like a guilty person ( it does not help. It’s subdued, the way you speak. Beaten down, half hearted. You wonder if you even want to protect yourself at all ). You don’t want to look at him anymore.

“I don’t blame you.” he replies. It’s soft, missable, sympathetic and you know that can’t be the case. Blade blinks slowly, setting his cup aside. “Would you do it again?” he asks solemnly. His hands twitch again, out of its usual bent stiffness. Beneath the dim lighting, the paleness of his skin is a corpse like macabre; greyish, sallow. He seems starved. “Would you kill me?”

Your lips part. Bile and acid burn your throat. You shut it again and shake your head and the desperation, you assume, is enough. No, no never again. You don’t want that nausea. You don’t want any more of the griping aches in your stomach and the incessant pound of your capillaries.

Blade straightens up and gives you a long, thoughtful look. He steps back and returns to his stony silence without a word. The air is restive, poisonous in how it melts away the peace.

You really should pray to that nameless god, to soften that blow. You really should pray because nothing good ever comes out of this. There’s that brush of scale against your foot, the shrinking courage when faced with dour vermilion. It’s wolfish; its jaws bear down. The cat cracks open an eye again, letting out an annoyed mewl.

No, never mind that.

IV. EXUDATION OF BLOOD

You should have prayed. The questionable existence of a god or not, maybe you'd have given yourself that tiny bit of assurance.

Even your ancestors would have done well enough. What would your grandmother say?

( Her old spirit's possibly disowned you, if she hasn’t already. She must have burned your seat in the afterlife and spat on the ashes. Bringing a man into your home, no matter the circumstance would have incited all the wrong reactions. )

You learn quick enough that Blade never sleeps. The third night after spent between lurking within the stuffy storage space and wedged next to old folders, you’d spotted him sitting upon the couch in the middle of the night. “What are you doing—” you croak out after the initial scream. He scrutinised you with clinical indifference, sweeping over your bare legs to your face. You tamp down the urge to pull your shirt down, cheeks burning.

“Thinking.” he says. There is no further elaboration to it. Blade turns to peer outside your window and the dead streets below. There is a faint echo of the strays barking trailing behind the occasional hum of a passing car. Your little town was far sleepier than the cities, where the traffic continues on, long past the morning calls and the reedy music from 24-hour bars.

“You scared me for a moment.” you purse your lips, picking at your hands. Blade blinks. “I mean, you're just standing there.” You try to justify it, fumbling a bit and coming across as far more slow than anything else. Blade tugs at his sleeve and smoothens over the damp spots.

“I'm not trying to kill you.” he reasons.

You dig your thumb down into the thicker skinned parts of your palm. It reeks of iron. He always reeks of iron. “Startled me, then. I thought you were asleep.”

Blade considers it. “I do not need sleep. Not more than what is necessary.”

Uneasiness filters in. Your throat bobs with it, unsure. “Everyone needs sleep.” you stumble out. Blade shifts, tracing along his nape with a purposeful look. His regeneration. Yes, his regeneration. Tissue rest and repair would be unnecessary with that, wouldn't it? Sleep, food perhaps, the little necessities taken for granted — peeling that away and pulling back the blinds to peer down that gaping hole, it's strange.

The grislier parts of his curse seemed to strip away those human needs. It likes to gnaw out any sense of humanity from his bones, in fact, scavenging away the bare ligaments and swallowing it whole.

“So…you’re just going to stay there then...” .

“Yes.”

Blade’s shoulders are set into its perpetual hunch. There’s something unfettered about him, roiling within deeper confines with a sense of wildness and entropy. You take your cautious step back and steel the nerves you have left ( there aren’t many to begin with — you still try ). It’s far from the moodiness he usually holds himself with and the cyclical introspection. “Could you be less…disturbing, then…?” you ask.

Silence. “Disturbing.” he echoes, tasting every breadth of the word on his tongue. You feel metal coming to rest in your mouth and dig into the insides of your cheeks. There’s a flicker from the apartment across and sterilised white shines upon the side of his face. He looks worn down, worse for wear. The darkened spots on his clothes are dyed red round his torso and dried blood crests across the rim of his fingernails. Red. Red on his clothes. Red on the floor. Red on your couch. Red —

“Did you leave this room?” it’s not a question. You’re not asking questions.

“No.”

You don't quite realise it, the scrambling and the frantically locked doors till the cold nip from your room settles against your skin and your shaky hand holds up your phone. It takes a moment for the buzzing numbness to fade to a tumultuous undercurrent and for you to dial down that emergency contact, seconds away from calling —

— a notification.

It's an unlisted contact, and a single message.

Unknown. I wouldn't do that if I were you.

A moment of pause. You don't move, balking at the sight of it.

Unknown. There's a good girl. I hope Bladie isn't giving you any trouble. If he's made a mess, just help him get cleaned up, please.

You. Is this Kafka?

Unknown. Look at you playing detective! That's cute. It is, by the way.

You. How did you get my number..

Unknown. Oh I have my ways. And I wouldn’t call the police. I can’t say I’ll stay quiet and pin the blame on you. It would be easy, hiding a few bodies in your storeroom. I like Bladie, you know. Can’t have him getting arrested and all.

It feels like you’re grasping at ice, with the way it feels cold. Cold, so cold and uncomfortably harsh against your cheeks. You want to tear into something, into your pillow, into yourself. You want to throw your phone across the room and scream till your lungs are hoarse. You want to call the police anyway and shove that into Kafka’s face. You want to cast them out into some forgettable void and be done with this fear and this painful grip in your stomach and…

…you do none of that.

Some small defeated part of you whispers its comfort. You ignore it, cast it aside, call it a fool. You’re gutless, maybe a little brainless and honestly, you half consider going back to your hometown and — no. You will not think about that. Not now. Not ever. You broke that life apart, stepped over the fragments and let your bloodied footsteps lead you here. All that hurt is not worth the quiet defeat.

The door creaks open. You peer back out at Blade. “Sorry…” you mumble. He glances up at you. “I just…i was shocked…there’s blood all over you.” You think about what you should say next. You chose your words carefully. “Did you…”

You don’t get to finish. Blade leans back and shakes his head. “I did not kill anyone.” A wry little tug twitches at his lips. “Not now at least.”

It takes a tentative step, then another for you to exit the room completely. Blade doesn’t look bothered, content in his solitude where sits. You look down at the tiled floor trying to summon forth whatever blind insanity you had. It takes a special sort for this, for this specifically where the cracks fissure into the sides and down down down to the foundations. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” A lie. There’s blood on him for crying out loud.

Still, you do not pry. “Should I…” you stop. It takes some struggle, reaching down deep and wrenching the words out into something stringed and legible. “Do you want to clean up?” you offer softly, motioning to the bathroom. “Just…a shower, I guess. I can get those washed.. Blood’s really hard to get off after all and they’re nice clothes…from my personal experience at least…”

Blade watches you, tilting his head a bit. He does look a little like a dog now, one with a wrinkled muzzle and dark, serious eyes. “Fine.” he relents after some consideration, impassively getting to his feet. He follows you to the bath, delicately sidestepping your frame to enter. You let the water heat before letting it run into the bucket, offering him a pitcher and some soap.

“You’ll have to make do with the towel…I might have some spare blankets around.” you add, because you will not have a naked man walking around your house. There’s so much your ancestors might allow at this point. This would be toeing the line from possibly being dragged into the afterlife.

He spares a grunt in response while bandages come undone. You chew against the inside of your cheek, inhaling stale metal and collecting blotched brown linen from him. He’s hesitant, letting you close, but it takes a quick turn of his wrist for you to pick out the worst of his wounds. These ones do not heal away the rawness and the sick pink of flesh. These ones still bleed.

“Can you manage?” you peep out. Blade stares at his hand, at yours grasping his.

“Yes,” he says after a while. His fingers brush against the inside of your palm as you let him go, and you take that shaky step out of the bath, leaving behind a clean roll of bandages and antiseptic at the door.

V. PUTREFACTION

The woman beside you looks tired, worn away at the eyes and around the edges of her face. “Stay still.” she whispers hurriedly, stuffing her phone back into her purse as she gathers the skirts of her seere.

The boy on the bed does not stay still, tapping his fingers away at his lap as you shoot him a reassuring smile. There’s plenty of nervous energy stuffed away in the cracks and crevices of that tiny body of his, and it barely abates with the ticking second hand from your analog clock. “Are you nervous?” you offer, taking a knee beside him. The boy purses his lips, brown eyes focused wholly onto the floor below.

“No.” he decides to be brave and squares his shoulders up. You appreciate the effort as you press at the inside of his arm.

“That’s nice.” you nod. “But it’s okay to be scared sometimes. I know how scary needles can be.”

“I’m not scared.” he insists. He challenges you, looks at you dead in the eye with the most determination he could pluck away at his reserves and gather together. “Last week I chased a ghost away from my room. I turned the lights on and screamed at it.”

You crack a smile. “Is that so? Did it try to come inside?” you entertain the thought, poke away at his imagination till you find the faint blue of a vein. You see how his mother bows her head down, looking a little sick. The boy doesn’t seem to catch on in the way his eyes light up and he draws himself up. You don;t think she wants him to see. Sometimes there are instances where you see parents squirrelling away those bits of childish innocence like uncut diamonds; biting down at grimy hands that try to snatch it away.

You cannot fault her for wanting him to be happy. He was only four.

“Yeah. I was all GRAAAAAHHHH’!” you flinch at his spirited demonstration. He’s pleased with the audience and the invoked emotion as his mother winces and tries to pull at his ear to keep him quiet. It’s too late given his excitement, ducking down to continue his babbling. “And it went ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH’! Then it left and I went to see if amma and appa were alright. They were and I hugged them to make them feel better.”

“That is brave.” you nod. “You be careful out there, okay? Don’t stop hugging your amma and appa. I’m sure they love your hugs.”

“After this, can I have the chocolate at the desk?” he asks, batting his lashes. He flashes you a cherubic grin, and you might have caught yourself smiling a little wider. It’s a rare instance of silly happiness after the mounting strain on your shoulders and the urge to rip your eyes out bloody and raw. “The one in the big bowl.” he adds for clarity; because adults, he might be thinking, needed plenty of that.

You look over your shoulder to the door with a thoughtful little hum. “It’s not chocolate. It’s tamarind candy. The sweet kind. But it’s sour too.” You admit. “Do you still want some?”

The boy draws his lips back. “I’d still like some. I like tammy-rind.”

“Well, listen to your amma and stay still, okay?” he does, his small hand reaching out to grasp at her seere’s pallu. She holds her hand out and he takes it, tugging at her fingers, then her thumb as the nervousness slowly trickles in and scrunches away at his brow and nose. “Don’t get all stiff. Deep breath in…deep breath out. You can tell me about things you like if it helps…what games do you like playing?”

“I like football.” he offers. “My cousins say I'm a baby so I can't play with them. But I'll grow big and tall one day and I will kick their legs and show them.”

“Don’t start there.” his mother warns. “You’re not kicking anyone.”

The boy makes a face just as you give him his shot, then yelps a moment at the pin prick. His eyes squeeze shut for a second, his grip white knuckled till you finally pull the needle out and pat his cheek. “Done. That’s his DTP vaccine done with. He’ll need to get his booster next year as well so keep a reminder on for that.” His mother nods, handing in the little booklet as you scribble away the recommendations and mark away at the sheet.

The boy grumbles, poking at his arm. “Do I get the tammy-rind now?”

“Of course. The brave kids always get an extra one too.” you appease, walking them out.

“Great.” he’s mollified at least, wiping away any residual tears with a discreet turn away. “And i think you’re brave too. I saw a ghost here. In the door at the back.”

You freeze up a bit. “Did you now?” you’re feeling your voice crack a bit at the end of that question. Even the mother glances over, unsettled. You shake your head and the reassurance returns. It’s nothing, nothing at all, you try to say.

“Yes. He looked super scary. But he just looked at me and told me to go back to amma.” the boy sighs.

“I’m sure that was just one of the boys who helps the doctor.” his mother reasons, her words taking a sterner edge. She’s bustling him out, putting away at his back as she straightens her pleats and fixes her pallu. “It’s not nice saying things like that now. You’d better apologise to that man if you said that to him.”

“I didn’t say anything.” the boy insists as you pause by the door and see them off after handing him his hard earned candy, ( “thank you, doctor. Say thank you to the doctor auntie.” the mother urges. The boy echoes it drolly then slips back into his stubborn insistence, pulling at her arm ). Their voices fade into the faint music playing at the lounge and the chatter in the waiting room. Aleena turns to call for the next person, peering down at the files.

A hush filters through. One of the men stands over the row of seated people. They draw some of their children closer, muted shock and fear splayed across and you feel flayed open. “Tell the clients to leave.” you mumble. She nods and sends the word out. Some of them seemed to catch on quick and pack away their folders and gather their companions. A line of men and women mill out, leaving that sole frame standing, arms crossed in wait.

You keep your eyes down as you motion to the doors. Aleena hides away as she usually does ( you’d torn into her when she’d gotten too mouthy, too brave the last time ).

“Is something wrong? I’m sure I paid off the fee two weeks ago.” you test out.

The suited man doesn’t reply yet, sinking into the backdrop of static and the panicked thudding in your ribs. You vaguely remember Blade hiding away within the archives and hope he doesn’t wander back out again. He takes his time, dragging out the seconds as he idles past your framed degree and a few photos from your childhood home.

“A few weeks ago there was an…altercation in your clinic, correct?” he states more than he asks it, rubbing at his chin.

Oh shit.

“Yes…” you nod when you sense his wait. Your nerves wither away and you lose your sense of touch.

“Some of the men on my side died here. I was sent in to get to the bottom of it all.” His narrowed gaze settles on you. “It’s funny. We know there’s a third party involved but his body went missing from the morgue before he could be ID’d. Any footage of him? Wiped clean, and aeons forbid the police trying anything when it comes to getting witnesses to speak a consistent story.” His footsteps are an echo in the back of your mind, too loud, too distracting. Blade, dear lord, his presence here is a mistake. “Now, I'm here to ask if you had a hand in it, doctor.”

“No.” you choke out. “I don’t.”

“Were you working with that man who killed them?”

“No — ”

“Did you see him?”

You're too slow to respond and it takes him grabbing a fistful of your hair to rattle it out faster. “No I did not!” you insist, squeezing your eyes shut. You recall what you tell the boy, and the empty words about bravery. You feel like a liar steeped in bitter hypocrisy. It makes you want to rip your insides out and claw at your viscera.

Nails dig into the softer parts of your cheeks as your face is slammed into the wall. It draws out a choked, gasping wheeze from your ribs and white hot pain screaming at your skull, your muscles. The small, scared animal in you is crying, crying, crying away into bleak emptiness. It tries to run, eyes blown out and mouth hung open. It tries to make you run before you’re gutted clean through. “Are you lying?” the man asks quietly.

“No. No I didn’t.” You stutter it out, pressing your fingertips into the chipped paint. “I was hiding…I-I was hiding till t-they took the bodies.” The pressure against your head builds, builds till you yelp and struggle, terrified of him digging down hard enough to cut away at your airflow and snap your neck in two. For a moment, you wonder if he’ll do just that when he finally, thankfully, lets you go…

( Your eyes flit up, desperate, moving things and you look at him, actually look at him and the cold death in his gaze. You never assumed someone could look like that — empty and scooped clean of any humanity lingering at the edges. He’s hollow, and angry*.*

You made your mistake. )

…You’re slammed back in. The scream in muffled into your wrist. “You saw nothing?” he repeats, guttural in how he addresses and enunciates every word. It’s like reasoning with a man eater. You nod, nod because it’s all you had. “Nothing at all? No faces?” another nod and the man slips back and lets you crumple to the floor with that warning.

“You better not be lying.” he tells you, slipping to the speedy notes of your local tongue. “There will be hell to pay for that.”

You’re lucky, you think, for getting off that easily. The buzz in your mind builds and smothers you against your spot and you shift a bit when Aleena presses a hand to your shoulder. Blade is right behind her and she’s flattening her lips.

“You’re a nuisance.” you tell him, annoyance and anger and all that frustration meandering and stubbornly oozing through the cracks. Blade fixes you with a glare, drawing his mouth back to a half sneer.

“Who did this?” he asks, voice dipping to trembling danger, entropy brewing underneath all that. “Who did this to you?”

“None of your business.” you snip in turn, wobbling to your feet. Your coat is blotched red around the collar and the shoulders. You didn’t realise you were bleeding till your fingertips came away sticky and wet ( you feel like you’re careening off of the edge of a cliff, in a car you have no control of ). “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.” you add, croaking through your words and the buzz and the annoyance. “So just leave. Leave, tell her I can't babysit you if this…this is what I have to deal with.”

Blade narrows his eyes. “I cannot.” he states and leaves no room for argument as his hand grabs you at the scruff and half tugs you alongside him. You’re not spared any more dignity around him, and he treats you like a wet cat nipping and scratching at his arm. “You.” he adds, turning to your receptionist. “She needs to be tended to.”

Aleena mumbles something under her breath but seeks out the first aid kit. She swats Blade’s hands away once she approaches you again. You appreciate it. You don’t want him touching you and the crawling chilliness of his body invites an ugly sort of desperation that blocks away your throat and nudges at all the parts of you you’re less than proud of.

Blade does not leave. He never does, on that bitter note, looming over the two of you by the wall, that beast twisting in his eyes like a snake.

He unsettles you with the way he stalks the emptiness of your apartment rooms, pressing his body to the wall with shaky breaths. You watch him from the crack of your door and wonder if this is what unravelling sanity looks like. If it is the face of a man ripping open his chest and screaming through the guts until that beating heart is carved clean from the cavity.

Blade is more animal than human in how he walks. The room smells strange too. You do not know what it is, in its pungent notes and the unpleasantness of it all. It’s not rot, you’ve smelled rot before, and tasted that stench of decay lain thickly on your tongue.

This is more rancid, like regurgitated food and butter. You spot a single leaf on the floor, fan shaped and dipped in sunlit gold. Then more at his feet.

His form flickers by, rustling past your door. He’s at the balcony, then he’s not. You pad out and scan the dark streets, spotting his hunched frame nestled within the alleyways tucked at the side. There is a glimpse of purple from Kafka’s hair as she presses her lips to his cheek, whispering something to his ear.

Blade seems to melt and you watch on, half transfixed from the scandal, cheeks warming when Kafka leans to the side and waves, a playful grin curling on her face. She whispers something again and has Blade turn too, and you think you’re almost drawn in, dizzyingly close to the edge of your balcony rails till reason snaps you back and you return to your apartment.

( “Bladie…” Kafka coos at him, her gloved fingers pressing up against the seam of his lips. Blade tries to hide away the dry hunger in his stomach and his mouth. “Do you like this one?” she asks.

He thinks about it. The release of death. The warmth of your hands. The tears. He thinks of the man sawed apart on the concrete, down to tendons and bones and muscle and flesh. He thinks of the scattered limbs and the bruise and your blood.

Her hands press to his cheeks. “Listen to me. Push the mara down…we don’t want to keep upsetting her now do we?” she asks, teasing in how her teeth flash. Kafka feels like a dream lost in the haze of it all. He leans into her touch and lets the flowering roots in his chest rupture and decay.

“No.” Blade admits, surreality dragging him under. He does not spare her a reply to that question. Kafka already knows. )

VI. DISCOLOURATION AND DESICCATION

“Tell me who did it.”

“No.”

Blade looks annoyed, scraping and haunting the walls of your apartment as he follows you through the kitchenette like a ghost. The brewing…whatever it was…from the past couple of days seemed to have cowed after that visit from Kafka, nothing more now than a placid beast ( as placid as a rabid mutt could be ). You clench fist into your knife’s handle a little harder than you should have.

She could have taken him back, her little lover boy guard dog and his strange balcony crawling ass —

Blade hovers close, so close. There’s an absence of heat beside you. He’s always cold, colder than a man, warmer than a corpse. That in-between he seemed to linger in. His limbo. “He hurt you. He will do it again. Tell me who it was.”

“Absolutely not.” You state, voice flattened against bemusement. “You'll just kill him.”

He stills, his eye letting out something of a neurotic twitch. He might just strangle you now, carve you open with that sword, eat your insides…maybe. “He suspects something. He must die.” He says it slowly, irritation budding through the dryness of his countenance. Your nose wrinkles at this.

“That's nice and all but you stink of death enough, and ‘enough’ is still far too much.” You angle your knife, pressing into the tender outer layers of the onion till you slice through it. The blade shudders against the impact and your hand strains into it. You bite back a curse.

( You're thinking about too many things.

You're thinking about Aleena turning in her resignation letter, and her apologies. A marriage, she'd said. And how could she turn down her parents’ demands after everything? They care. Despite the pain, you knew that too. It's that painful kind of love where you'd hurt and hurt and keep hurting them when the choices seemed so sparse. Better a bloodied knife, they'd try to say. Better a few cuts than being torn apart.

She only just found out, she admits. There was an uncomfortable shift in her body. She looked ready to crumple into herself and shatter into a million pieces. She's meant to meet him during the agelu. It's been arranged for.

How did you? you'd asked. You were afraid to ask. You shouldn't have asked. That meant looking ugly things in the eye through to the nauseating technicalities. Aleena swallows. She looks more distressed than she should. You let her weep a little and nurse those gaping cuts. Your bruises don’t smart anymore. You’d forgotten they were there.

She shows you a newspaper. And you stare on with an empty kind of apathy as you spot her details within the bridal adverts, down to her college degree and the colour of her eyes. )

( You were reminded that there's a kind of love fuelled by bitter hate. You were reminded of the sight of her shrinking back and fading into the walls of your clinic, like a collapsing black hole. It's how daughters and duties were here, a little better than the north but broken in a way where broken things couldn't be fixed.

You've seen it in a mirror once, hollow and void and dead in your eyes, and your mehendi stained hands tearing apart the the jasmine in your hair. )

Blade tilts his head and angles the knife just a bit before you could cleave a finger straight off. “I’m being reasonable. He won’t hurt you if you let me.” he tries to reason, playing clumsy diplomacy. But Blade still pauses between his words with that perplexed unsureness. He didn’t know what to tell you when you were sobbing on that couch. He doesn’t know what to say now, when your insides were burning away your peace.

You brush him away and viscerally visualise grinding him to a bloodied pulp with your grandmother’s mortar. The violence in your head helps a little.

Blade keeps watching you, turning his head away from the spattering chillies and the sour notes of tamarind staining your hands. The onions are still a bother. You think it can't quite get worse at this point, with stubborn tunicated bulbs and a dull blade. The over-stimulation you're half subjected to feels like claws on a chalkboard, gratingly demanding every bit of your attention.

“Give it to me.” It's not a request. He takes the knife before you could really mutter out sneering ‘no’. He slices through the onion, passes you a pointed look and keeps slicing ( why does he make it seem so easy? Why??? ).

“Give it back.” you try.

“No.”

“Please…?”

He nudges at your shoulder, towards the stove. Your shoulders sag and a frustrated lump gathers at your throat. At least he’s helping, you reason. You shouldn’t be so angry over this. A normal person wouldn’t want to throw a fuss over a stolen chore and a stubborn wraith. You light the stove and gather what you’d prepared. Blade was done with onions. It’s only been a minute.

…You decide to not question that.

( Please don’t kill me, you add in your mind for good measure. )

There’s something therapeutic in indulging with this familiarity. Your old home smells like this, like comfort and nostalgia in the idyllic sorts of memories. They’re the ones you lock away in a box, nestling that key deep inside your ribs. Even so, that horrible weight swells up like a tumour. It could burst any minute. It’s wearing you down and frying the ends of your nerves.

“Aleena is leaving.” you blurt out. Blade blinks. “My receptionist.”

“She told me.” Blade nods.

“She’s getting married.” you continue.

Blade considers this. “She is…young, yes?”

You nod. “Twenty four.” you swallow. Your throat is parched. “Some families do marry their children off at this age. Not all of them, of course…and not every arrangement is all that bad…I've seen some good ones.” He keeps listening, you know it in the way his head tilts ever so slightly to you. Your senses are clumped together, messy, messy, messy. “It’s none of my business.” you add feverishly. “I shouldn’t be getting upset.”

“...why aren’t you?” the question is sudden. You feel your confusion knock away reason. Blade tries again. “Married. Why aren’t you married?”

“That’s a very impolite thing to ask.” you reply quickly.

“I see.” he struggles, pondering over his next few words. “I will not push further.” You purse your lips, the conversation delicately fraying and fading out. You let the silence stagnate, hovering by the stove with your vessel-full of coconut milk.

Something inside you tugs.

“I was supposed to be.” you mumble. “He was a nice guy, was working for a stable job and had plans to buy a house close to the beach. The kid you’d see in movies, you know?” you laugh a little. “And maybe I was a little swept up. But then we talked and we both realised that…we had dreams of our own. Things we weren’t willing to let go of, a relationship he was serious about.”

The chicken goes next, as the gravy settles into a shade of brown-red. Blade is staring, something in his face set in an odd way. He looks off putting. Hungry, like those night spent pacing through your living room.

“We parted ways. There weren't any dramatic rejections…he seemed just as pleased with it, to be fair. I hear he’s settled nicely with his boyfriend…good for him.”

“So you came…here…” Blade works it out.

“Quite. Those choices weren’t wholly supported by my family. They kept trying to find someone and I kept pushing it away…I was scared I guess, and people got angrier and insistent and I started feeling less…human.” you take a deep breath in. “So I left one day. They never contacted me. My father only started again after my grandmother died. And I opened this clinic up…”

The room is blurred out. All you see are splotches of colour and a blemished, dark blue whee Blade stands, rimmed by the sunset.

You wipe the tears away.

“It’s all I have now.” you whisper, a painful crackle coating the peaks. “All of it. And it’s a nice place…I used my grandfather’s photo frames in the reception…my mother’s carpet too. It was a souvenir from the north. And…and some of the toys were my own. It took some digging and cleaning and repairing but they’re just as good as any other…” It’s flaking at the surface. You aren’t a strong person. It’s always been so easy to crumble with the weight ( like a paper doll ). “So please…please just leave before you make it worse.”

Blade regards you. He always is, watching, watching, watching, like there’s nothing else that could tug him away, take up his mind when he’s not snapping necks till they shatter.

“I cannot.” His brows are set, pulling together just a little.

“You can.” You insist, feeling stupid, childish. Its pointless trying to convince him otherwise anyway, Not without feeling hacked down and near helpless beneath his looming shadow. “You can leave. You and Kafka can, it's not that hard.”

“We have work to do and it must be done.” driven finality settles deep. He feels so far away, repeating words like a robot. It's hard to think of Blade as human in times like these, where he's either too robotic or too animalistic. It feels scripted, all wrong, all twisted up and chewed apart. “You wouldn't understand it. Leave it be.”

“I won't, if it's my business you're intruding on.” You set the coconut milk down, the steel vessel striking polished granite with a sharp ring. Your teeth grit together ( you hate feeling angry. You hate the cloudiness that comes with it ). “What if I run then?”

Blade's glare is cutting. “You will not run.” He asserts, scruffing you so easily, tugging you just a little closer. You fight back the urge to swat at him. At least you could think a little. At least you still had a tiny hand digging it's claws into your self control. “I'll drag you back. I will keep dragging you back till you cease this foolishness.”

( How were you being foolish? All you have are fragmented snapshots, the lingering sense of dread, the knowledge of something sinister brewing beneath the surface. You have a man in your house, a murderer. You have a man in your house you swore you killed. You have a man in this house who doesn't die.

How were you being foolish? You want to scream at him till your vocal chords fray and your arytenoids collapse. But Blade has probably never felt fear. You can't imagine his sympathy.

And you still killed him though. You stop. The guilt is back, and the anxious Turn of it, and the seething edge of your rage burning, burning, burning. )

“Did Kafka tell you to do that too?” poison burns holes into your words. You and Blade are sinking deeper and deeper beneath it, boring holes through your skin.

( You need to stop. You need to stop talking. )

“She wouldn't be as kind.” He asserts simply, rolling his eyes at the mention.

Defeat comes for you from the corners. You huff. “Let go of me.” your arm is shoved back, elbowing his ribs. Blade doesn't flinch, but his grip loosens and he dips his head down in acknowledgement. “Are you ever going to leave me alone?”

“When we collect what we need, yes.”

“...get it over with quickly then.” You mutter, stalking away from him. “Tell me when the chicken is cooked. Leave me alone till then.”

Blade takes a moment. “Alright.”

“Bladie, you're upset.”

Is he? Blade doesn't quite see it. But there is an ache where his heart should be. It's been there since you'd locked yourself away and he’s left to stare at the curry bubbling at the edges. Kafka laughs from the other end of the line, light, airy; she's probably wiping blood away from her swords.

“You are. Has the doctor been softening you up?” She's playful, prodding, poking, stringing along her words. “Cute. Is she why you’re calling?”

“She’s asking questions.” he steadies his phone. It’s so easy, how it slips between his fingers. It’s not the firm immovability of his sword hilt and it’s slippery, almost unusable with his twitching. Blade hears Kafka hum against his ear, kneading away at the issue before her voice picks up again.

“You know you can’t give too much away, right? We need to follow the script and if she meddles too much…”

“I know.” Blade cuts in, apathy sinking deeper. The script, yes, the script. There’s that flash of familiar awareness. The script is something to be followed, right down to the bare details. If pinstripes needed to be worn, then pinstripes must be worn and if Blade must cut a hand off, that hand must go. But even he knows of the variables being difficult, breaching at destiny’s thin skin.

“And she’ll only get hurt, Bladie.” Kafka coos it out gently, placating the tenseness building in his shoulders. “It’s unfortunate how scared little things tend to bite more. Listen to me, try appeasing her a little, yeah? I’m sure a treat or two should keep her from stepping too out of line.”

“How much longer do I have to stay here?”

“You want to leave so soon?”

Blade does not. He can feel the roots tugging at his feet, fixing him down here, leeching, leeching, leeching. The fluttering ache in his stomach has grown worse. Blade fears never slipping away and that won’t do. Wolves aren’t to be leashed. That fractured memory, the writhing ocean in those eyes…there is no place for him here.

( Destiny, destiny, destiny. The unattainable, the inescapable…Kafka whispers something else. He wants to break his wrists. )

And still, Kafka knows. He can practically see the cheshire curl to her lips. “Cute.” she repeats, drawling the word out. “I’m almost done. Just a bit of the usual…we’ll have the stellaron collected in no time and we can head out. Till then, lie low and be a doll for me before I come to collect you, okay?” he can hear the faint echo of her footsteps echoing past empty hallways. She might spare a visit soon, he realises. “And again. Try not to upset the doctor too much, yeah?”

Blade dips his head down, mollified. “Alright.”

The phone cuts away. You’re still in your room, cut away from most of his conversation. The chicken looks cooked so he turns the stove off and gropes about absently till he feels a plastic handle. Then he knocks on your door.

It takes you a moment to open it for him. “Is it done?” you ask. Blade stares down at your wide, tired eyes. “Yes.” he replies, dizzy and blotted out in the centre all at once. He can’t quite stop it, the rapid undergrowth, the rustling call of mara, that need to seize you by the face and tear into the softness of your cheeks, to bite, to taste blood, to break your bones and devour you. To feel the dig of your nails against his arms, something sharper, you scooping out his chest, his ribs and his heart till it’s beat ceases and he curls into your warmth —

“Do you hate me?” he asks quietly, unwavering. Its swelling. “Do you want me gone?”

You swallow, halfway out of your room. Blade wants to grab you, taste —

“I do.” you mumble.

Appease her. Kafka’s echo fades out once more in the back of his head. Blade presses the knife to your hand, holding its edge just over his stomach, pressing till he feels its prickle numb out. It’s where the fluttering was, unfettered when he tore his intestines out upon your couch and let the blood seep into the fabric ( you hadn’t liked that, so he stopped ).

He stops, gripping you just above the beat of your pulse. It speeds up, vivacious, so alive ( Blade is used to his steady thrum, slow, so slow unlike that of a human ). “You can kill me then.” he tells you. “If it pleases you.”

There’s a shift. The handle slips away and you snatch your hand back, face twisting to what he recognises as distress. Then you look angry, slamming the door back shut. “Don’t talk to me.” You scream through, muffled by hardwood.

Blade feels empty. He collects the knife and turns back into the kitchen, temptations spilling out when he lingers a little too long and thinks of sweet oblivion.

He muzzles himself as most dogs should be. His teeth are blunted, his claws filed.

He doesn't want to scare you.

VII. SCAVENGING

Aleena hasn't spoken much since she'd told you about 'the arrangement' ( you make it sound like some cold business deal. A travesty. Maybe you were being far too pessimistic with this whole ordeal, putting in too many chunks of those ugly memories into that basket. You could be wrong. You could be wrong about it all ). It's an all too familiar disconnect, a silent misery that you'd watch every day after. She's letting it fill out her whittled spaces, and it worries you. Worries you in the way your heart twists and your insides turn.

( Won't you be coming, he'd asked again over a messy phone call. There's a lot of things to catch up on. We'll lay off the insisting, we'll let you choose the groom this time. That would be far better, right?

And your father's words meter out to warbled static, spilling through your ears and onto the floor. )

Maybe you should put something out in penance. Let those ghosts keep to themselves and continue their silent vigils. You're not superstitious, and rituals like these feel more a far away dream since you'd moved away.

"Aleena…"

"Yes?"

"How about we go get some cha during our break?" you offer a kind smile, tired, a little neurotic but you think it will ache a lot more if you say nothing at all. That wound up and coiled-away thing in her, pulling at the set to her jaw and the firm stoicism she displays — it slowly lapses. She looks down at her feet, back up at you and blinks a long, slow blink.

"That sounds nice." she croaks out, pushing aside a stack of papers. You check the analog clock above the two of you. A lunch break was due in another fifteen minutes and there a few checkups and medical records to fill in for school diaries. You could finish soon enough."Is it at the local place? I like the one with the cardamom."

"Sure you can."

Aleena seems to think a thousand thoughts all at once. "Thank you." she whispers when you step back, trained down to the keyboard. She's not typing, tracing the plastic frame itself . You leave her be, let her stew a while before gently gathering her up and leading her to the closest stall.

( Blade was cornered in the stores. You tell him not to stir up any trouble.

"Where?" he asks.

"None of your concern. I'd like some time alone with her, please." He reaches out, curling his hands into the sleeve of your coat. His eyes look like smelted iron. You tell yourself not to flinch, to skitter away because you will not be a rabbit. For once you will not be a rabbit. "I'm going." you repeat with more purpose. "You can't tell me otherwise."

Blade lets you go. )

It's crowded as is, and you try not to let yourself be pushed out by the squeezing throng. Not until you and Aleena leave with your tea and a packet of glucose biscuits to sit by a roadside ledge beneath the tree cover.

She takes a few bites before she starts talking again.

"Sorry about the suddenness of it all."

"The marriage?"

"Yes." She picks away at some of the crumbs.

"It's okay." You pat her hand in assurance. "I was wondering if you were doing alright

Aleena seems to ponder over it. "A little. I know him. We went to the same school…so it's not all bad." She drains the last of her tea, throwing the Styrofoam cup into a dustbin. "I'm just…angry I suppose."

"At your parents?" You guess.

"Yeah." She swallows. "They've been pestering me since my second year in college. I had to keep telling them that I wanted more stability…a job. Something. I can't just keep relying on my spouse for money and all that, you know…my parents said I could do that after. That I was being selfish for putting it off."

You purse your lips. "It's good to be stable." You agree. "Sometimes it's easy to point fingers and blame it on unnecessary worry and paranoia…but from my experience, marriages like these are a gamble. You can't be too sure, even with people you think you know." You must be rambling. Embarrassment floods into your cheeks. You have the grace to look a little sheepish.

"Right! And I told them that and…" She shakes her head. "They don't get it, I guess. I mean…I don't mind settling down, really, but they keep pushing me and rushing into it and then they just put up that advert without saying anything and..." Her wide eyed hysteria is palpable. You might want to hug her, steal her away. Familiar pains tend to do that, stinging at your soft insides.

"Am I not a good daughter?" The fragility spotting it aches, unfurling, spreading forth. You shut your eyes.

"I'm sure you are." You tell her honestly. And she is. You know she is.

Aleena's face stretches, pained. "It feels the exact opposite. I might be making it all more difficult…I should be grateful, shouldn't I? They care about me, I know that and…this…" The words are turned over, thought upon. Her hands twitch, gesturing at the air with wild frustration. Aleena is shrinking by the second, cracking at the corners. "What do I do?"

Your throat dries.

"I don't know. I ran away from mine and now my family refuses to talk to me." You tell her. "There's a lot of different ways this could go. Parents react in different ways…all I can say is…you need to trust your instincts."

"I don't want to lose them." She admits shamefully, wiping away a tear. "I'm a coward."

You purse your lips. "I think we all are." You sigh. Your tea has cooled against your fingertips. “But…but I'd say it's better than being miserable the rest of our lives. It's selfish, I agree…” you feel defeat trickle down — defeat, hopelessness, a cocktail of too-many-things-at-once.. “it could work out too. It could work out and it will be alright after that. But there's a lot more before it all as well…I'm sorry. I'm not very good with advice.”

Aleena shakes her head, rubbing at her eyes. "It's better than people telling me that I'm being a nuisance."

"You said you knew him too." You add.

She scoffs. "He might have changed. The most I remember is him pulling at my hair and calling me ugly."

"Oh. Hopefully for the better, then."

Aleena rubs at her knuckles, humming softly as a trill of birdsong echoes above the two of you. "Thanks for taking me in." She says, and it's spoken so softly you almost miss it. "I learned a lot working under you.and you were good to me. Better than some other bosses I had…hopefully I should still be able to work after…" She breaks away.

A gooey sort of warmth trembles inside. It's the sort that cracks you open. "You're welcome."

She kicks out her feet, letting her footwear flap shutter against the balls of her feet, then stands back up. "We'll head back then? I don't think I'd want to leave you with unfinished work on my last day…"

"That would be terrible." you agree, cracking a grin.

Aleena veers the subject away to the common pleasantries. She talks about the weather, the new park in the better parts of the city and the flowers there. She talks about the old lady who invites her to feed the pigeons. You listen as you do, till you slip back into the clinic and start the afternoon shift again. Clockwork, familiar clockwork. Still, you ache. It's selfish.

"Blade." you call out when you step back into the stores. You're greeted with silence. You're greeted with emptiness.

"Doctor? we have another checkup!" You straighten up, smooth away the frazzle, the jumbled nerves and the frayed ends. There is a time and place for panic. Not now. Not when you have work to do. So you work. You work till the minutes and hours bleed in and the sun spills past the concrete rises. You work till the night falls and you realise the silence in the storeroom seems to have grown past the occasional rattle from the shutters and the wind.

You heave in a breath. Aleena has left, pulling you into a final hug. You find yourself looking for him.

( Where is he? )

It's Kafka who drops by after closing. The anxiety nips at you, your face, your hands, everywhere, between Blade still not making a reappearance and now…this.

You hadn't met her face to face in a while and you've almost forgotten the weight she carries. She'd turned you around before you could walks away any further, her gloved hands snaking round your waist and her lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Sorry for the visit, doc." she speaks out, like you're old friends. "Had some work to look into."

You hunch your shoulders, cowed of any initial annoyance. Something in you draws back, scared around her. It's the cat-like preening, the way Kafka smiles so emptily at you. "Right." you mumble.

"Bladie's been treating you well? I told him to be on his best behaviour."

"He's…he's alright. If you're here to pick him up…well he's been missing since this afternoon. I…i swear I didn't — "

Kafka shakes her head. "Oh no, I sent him on a little errand." she assures you, sitting down in the waiting room. She pulls you down next to her. "I've noticed he's been doing his best around you too…granted I'm sure some of his habits are a little…of putting." That smile is back, razor edged.

"It's fine." You try to say.

"Mhm. If you say so." Kafka crosses a leg over the other. "I've been souvenir shopping between work and all. I might pack up a larger haul after this final matter is dealt with. So many things to do…" She trails off, drumming his fingers against her chin as if deep in thought. "Have any places you recommend visiting? I've heard the silks here are to die for."

You hadn't known that either. "That's…nice." You lower your head, that far away beeping growing louder and louder against the chills clawing up your spine. You breath in, feeling the point of her nails press up against your cheek and turn you around to face her.

"Oh dear. I don't think you're very happy to see me." she coos. "Bladie hasn't been very good to you, has he?"

You open your mouth.

"You don't have to say anything." she cuts in with what seems to be kindness. You were almost fooled by it, set adrift, running straight into that tangle of webbing. Kafka feels predatory the way Blade does, and in ways that doesn't feel like him either, spinning you around and around in circles for those simple little amusements.

"He scares me." you blurt.

"Is that so?" Pity weighs in her sentence, cloying it together like resinous amber and sundew. She looks delighted.

"He does." you nod, feeling helplessness undo your seams. Kafka leans in close, close enough for the warmth from her breath to spill over your jaw. You want to push her off — you should, given who she is. But she clings so close, drinking it all in with strange euphoria. She's still holding your face, and Kafka was far stronger than she presents herself to be.

"You poor lamb. I hope he didn't bite you too hard." She smiles, caught in a trance as you sink further into magenta and pink and the smell of her perfume. "Then again, Bladie's always rough with the things he likes. I'm almost tempted to take you with us."

You shutter, blank out, flail about internally before all reasoning bears down with the impact of a comet. "I don't want to go with you though." You squeak, the words sinking in so quick and it shocks you.

Kafka considers you, tilting her head with assured grace. "Are you sure?" She asks again, thumb pressing up against the apple of your cheek. "It complicates things quite a bit for you. I'd say you'd be more miserable staying here than giving in, no? For one…" She's enjoying herself, her lazy gaze scanning the clinic again. "…you'll be loosing all of this."

You seize up. "…What — "

"This." Kafka repeats. "All of this. It'll be gone soon enough. Bladie and I have dipped into businesses that most should keep out of…I'll spare you the details, really…though you might just have more popping up in that little head of yours." She taps a nail against your temple.

"What are you talking about." You croak out, falling into a gaping bit. The vestiges of horror start taking root in your lungs. Kafka bites her bottom lip, playing coy.

"Oh dear, I've said too much. May as well let you in on it then." She croons. "The IPC don't have much of a hold here, do they? No wonder…granted it made going through this operation far easier." Kafka lets you go. You lean back, back away from her, sputtering. "To keep it simple, we were here to collect something. A very important something…and out of all the possibilities we had…your little route happened to give us the least amount of grief to deal with."

You grip at the armrests hard. "I don't…I don't understand…" You choke every syllable out with a tongue that feels like lead. "I don't understand." you repeat, the mania arching your higher notes. Your clinic, this clinic, the only thing standing between giving up and going back and…Your clinic ( You remember the money, the scraping together and the loans upon loans and that less naive part of you still folded into the walls and corners ).

Kafka shrugs. "I don't expect you to. You've been a tucked away and coddled into this peace your planet has blanketed you with. There's plenty more in this universe you can't quite comprehend; and there are plenty of big bad things out there that Bladie and I could hardly hold a candle to…" She grins. It's a vicious, predatory thing. Your fear is a feast to her, one lazy bite after the other.

"I don't want this. You're lying — "

"In another five minutes…" Kafka begins. "Bladie will come back , dragging a little friend of ours along with him. He'll have sustained a hit to his head, half healed. The hem of his coat will be ripped off." Her gaze darts to the clock. "Tick tock. I'll be busy after that so you'll need to be quick with what you have to say."

You're stunned to silence. Blade. An associate. It's a nightmare in the making. strangling every bit of air from your lungs. Kafka seems terrifyingly sure, watching the way you move, scramble, feeling disjointed and not all there or all quite present in your body.

"I don't want this." You tear up.

She kisses your cheek. "I know, sweetie." Kafka gives your shoulder a condescending squeeze. You may as well be stabbed in the stomach too, revulsion burning your throat, jerking you away from her. It makes you want to grow claws, to make her hurt somewhere, anywhere. "It's too bad, really. Maybe if you were a little braver, a little more gutsy, we might have struck you from that list." She laughs. "Honestly, I find it adorable. You're like a scared little stray…"

A sickening thunk suddenly echoes out back, soft against the tile, and moving trough whimpered struggles. Kafka's eyes narrow. "That seems to be our cue." she comments lightly. You look at the clock. Five minutes.

Your voice is stolen away, a failed note against the hand crushing your windpipe. You feel dizzy, dizzy, dizzy, almost stumbling over the chair. Kafka is drunk off of it, shoulder brushing against yours. It's just her, those footsteps, the smell of her perfume. "So…" she whispers. "What's it like?" Her touch sears at your wrist, edging higher. "Being scared?"

Blade steps between the two of you. His hand coming to grasp at your arm, smearing a brown, bloodied stain against the expanse and dwarfing your wrist ( he can break it so easily ). He stinks of iron and rot and you don't dare to face that monstrous view of him, just like that first day, feeling his pulse recede and the massacre he left behind under the fading colour of his eyes.

( And still, you feel guilty. Because Kafka is right. You are a coward. )

"Kafka." Blade utters, a warning stained against his stressed inflections. "Leave her be."

Kafka's lips pull at the corners, serene, seemingly innocent. She doesn't even try to hide the deception. "Jealous much?" she snickers, letting you go. Blade feels agitated, the beginnings of a riptide streaking beneath a still surface. He yanks at you, fingertips pressing at your cheek, the spot between your ear and the column of your neck. It's the most he's touched you.

( Has she hurt you, he wants to demand. Has she? )

"Don't touch her."

Kafka holds her hands up in surrender. "Okay." she relents, content and entertained with the way things seem to be. From the corner of your eye, you see a mass…something close to human, move. A scream is lodged in your pharynx. Your nails dig into Blade's hand, a hoarse, wheezing sound heaving from the depths of your lungs. The mass stretches, tries to move away. You see red plaster the white tiles beneath it.

Blade's gait shifts to awareness, sharp eyed, watching the man try to escape.

"You didn't break his legs?" Kafka asks.

"I did. This one is stubborn." Blade snarls. He looks dog like, wolf like, fangs borne between a drooling muzzle. Your eyes sting as you try to tug away, away from him as Kafka stands and saunters over to the body, that elusive little smile still present.

"Well, we have plenty to ask of him. He still has a few details to give away now, doesn't he?" She hums a little tune, yanking the man by the hair till his broken whimpers turn to miserable screaming. "Come on Bladie, I need help. And you…" She fixes that stare on the man. "Listen to me. You can't speak anymore, or scream, or cry. Not till I tell you to."

The man's cries fade out into open mouthed gasps, his face a bruised and bloodied mess of tears and snort. Blade was not kind in handling him, not with his torn tendons and the unearthly jut his legs were angled at. Your skin crawls at the sight. You reach for your bag, your phone, shaking past the initial terror to give a final call for help.

Blade looks at you. It's enough to completely shatter it, unwinding, undoing, pressing down harder against the fragile cracks in your walls and letting that mess slip away past the desperate grasp of your arms and down away on the floor.

You shut your eyes and tell yourself you saw nothing.

VIII. SKELETONIZATION

You don't hear much of the man, save for Kafka's questions muffled behind the walls. The whats, whens, wheres and hows that you can't keep track off without giving too much of yourself up ( you're afraid you do, a thousand different things will split. You tell yourself there's nothing there ). You focus in the clock instead, watching minutes after minutes pass beneath the incessant sound of it ticking, ticking, ticking.

Minutes after minutes after minutes.

There's a final exchange of words. You hear a tumble, a body hitting the ground. Kafka walks out, hardly bothered in the slightest and pristine save for that dampness of her gloves. She shoots you a charming smile, taking in how you'd tucked into yourself. "Well you're a sight for sore eyes. Scared, lamb?"

You're scared of a lot of things now, of the woman in front of you and the man outback and the man whose words they stole and the impending aftermath predicted. You're trapped in your own burning house, doors jammed shut and the window too high to take a jump. You'll suffocate in here, choke till your lungs collapse and your organs scream and fragment.

Kafka cups your cheek. "Hm, a pity. Scripts have to be followed though…sorry about that doc." She draws away and you let out a wet little sob. "Don't be too sad about it." She coos, patting your cheek. "On the bright side, I'll be leaving soon. Stay close to Bladie, okay? Can't have you running off and throwing a fuss now."

Dear lord no. Not Blade. Not Blade after all this. It feels like a joke and a half, an empty attempt at drawing out any laughter from an unenthused crowd of blank eyed faces. You stay seated, wide eyed and insistent. "No." you choke for good measure. Kafka's expression glows.

"No?" she echoes, a hand resting against either side of the armrest. You try to make yourself small, edging away from her farther and farther till her knee slots between your legs and you nearly cry out and kick her off. "Come on now." She coaxes, hand tugging at your waist, sitting you up proper. "Don't be too difficult. Bladie's not half bad."

You shake your head, blanking out through her crooning as your struggle intensifies. "Stop it." you repeat, shaking your head, seized and maniacal till your nails dig in. Kafka doesn't flinch. She's still smiling. "Don't you dare tell me I'm being —" You sob. it's messy, so messy and that pain in your chest only grows, spreading across like blooming rot. " — that I'm being difficult." You spit. "After all this, I'm allowed to. You're both insane, you fucks, I — "

Kafka presses a thumb over your lips. You bite, hard.

"Listen to me." She keeps talking. She won't stop. "Stop crying."

You stop crying. Your mind is empty white and fuzzy static stretching out like elastic. You feel her laughter against you. "Good girl." She praises. "Now, go on along with Bladie, okay? He'll do a good job looking after you."

You claw at the walls, trying to protest as your body lifts, padding out back, trapped within the long winding of corridors that didn't quite look like that once. "Kafka." you hear Blade echo again, his hands resting heavy on your shoulders. It sounds exasperated? Why? You're fine. You think you're fine. You see a magenta blur flutter around you and words spatter apart and stitch back together into nonsense and noise.

Blade takes you by the arm. You're half leaning against him, the soft, shaky breaths against his ribs and his heartbeat ( it's a slow, faint sound ). He seems to linger in place, letting you be as your nose screws against the smell of blood spotting his clothes. Then, he's leading you along the less crowded roads, shuffling past the harsh blaze of streetlights. Vaguely, you remember where this route takes you and you try to join the pieces — the memories feel so far, far away.

The mass tucked under Blade's arm moves. You look the man straight in the eye and do nothing. Your mind, your ribs are barren spaces.

You smell salt, hear the sea, the waves, the wind. The man in his arms struggles ( you're not here ). You see the panic stretched across, the way he pales to what looks like ash grey ( you're not here ). You watch Blade turn your face away, annoyance sparking in his eyes ( you're not here ). You look on anyway, as his fingers claw at his throat, so easily tearing apart soft flesh and tendon and muscle till his hands are stained warm red ( you're not here ). You're lain bare to those death throes, a wheezing from a broken windpipe, the yellow of subcutaneous fat and the ruptured arteries ( you're not here ).

"You should have looked away."

Blade's voice pulls you out. You finally breathe. Take it all in again as the cotton and the fuzz and the silk web is untangled from your notches. The man falls to the sand, nothing more than dead weight at this point.

( This could be you. )

You take a good, long look at him, at that tear stricken, marred face, that distended jaw and the awful angle to his limbs. The sand is already soaking up beneath him — he was alive once. You didn't know this person, you'd never met him and…

( You let him die. You're a doctor and you let him die. )

Blade's brow furrows when you take a shaky step back, two clear words; 'do not'. You look around you, spot one clear rout of escape amidst that hopeless need to collapse, the world spinning faster and faster and fraying and burning away at the far extremities. You try to run.

He doesn't lie when he says it's easy to catch you again.

You're drawn close, your back practically colliding against his chest before you could make it too far. That rabid, scrambling beast in your snarls and you sink your teeth into his wrist, kicking wildly till your foot connects with his shin. Blade grunts, and you slip away just a little, an inch, one more. But he's bigger, bigger and stronger and it takes a moment for you to fall to the floor, swiping into the buzz and feeling his heaving chest pressed against yours.

His hold closes round your throat. "No — " You burst out,. "No, no don't — "

Blade doesn't move as much against your kicks, face drawn to stony apathy while you try to pry his fingers away, vision blurring against tears and snot. His thumb presses down against your thyroid, breaths unevenly paced to an animalistic rhythm. He doesn't seem all there with how he seems so steeped in madness and…

…fuck it, you're terrified.

Your hand gropes to the side, closing round the uneven surface of a stone. You drive it into the side of Blade's skull, a faint crack ringing out. He falters, wide eyed as one hand presses against the wound and comes away wet. You take a gasping breath in, pushing yourself up but Blade drives you down hard, down to your back till it hits something soft, and still and dead —

( No no no nono no no no NO NO. )

The vermilion of his gaze burns you ( just like all those nights ago ).

It's already started to heal, collapsed parts of his skull scraping and pushing itself back out, repairing damaged bone and muscle. And Blade looks half drunk, sunken into rapture and starvation, his hand sliding up from your throat to press at your cheeks. You freeze, ceasing your assault to his chest and stomach.

He curls over your form, shrugging and swatting away your hands to pin you down proper. There is a wet squelch against your arm pressing against that open wound. "Stop…" You whine, trying to tug him back. "Blade. Blade stop — "

He presses his lips to yours. You slam your fist into his sternum, tasting his blood in his mouth. His teeth come next, biting against your bottom lip, taking, taking, taking. It feels infecting, like a disease, like something that shouldn't be there and you squirm. Blade's fingers tangle into your hair, giving it a sharp tug. You feel your back press against the corpse's shoulder, practically crushing you against it.

He's not gentle. Blade can't be gentle with the violence that comes with him. It's too deeply embedded into the crevices of his bone and marrow and in his veins and blood. It's the oxygen he breathes in, the lead that poisons his alveoli and files away at the pliable parts of his abdomen.

His tongue peeks through, pushing past your lips to take a taste. There's that heady taste in you, disgusting, curling in your guts and just about threatening to batter out. You kick him again.

His eyes flash, dyed more red than orange. He comes away with spit and blood smeared across his lips. You heave, staring up at him, then break down, sobbing openly. Blade keeps you still, bending down to kiss you another time, just at the corner of your lips.

"Enough." You beg him, sounding small. You feel defeated, the load wearing down the bones of your shoulder till you're crushed and collapse. "Please."

Blade blinks. He sits up and sits you up with him, nestled between his legs. You look behind you, the man's larynx having come turn free from your struggle, hanging out a hairs breath and cushioned by fat and crushed muscle fibres. You croak, tipping your weight over and emptying your stomach out onto the beach; till all you are retching out is acid and bile. He pulls your hair back, halting your mess from getting caught in it.

"Done?" he asks, drawing you back close to him, his gaze lidded. You shut your eyes.

"I want to go back home." you whisper.

"Alright." Blade promises you, putting you back down on the sand. "Don't move." You don't think you can. Your limbs weight down more and more with the passing minute. Blade drags the body out into the ocean, for a moment, disappearing beneath the surface. He returns, of course. He can't drown, or die ( He's not human, never will be ). "Come." he tells you.

You allow it, him gathering you in his arms. You don't make a fuss, or shout. "Keys." he reminds you. You hand them to him, leaning your head into his shoulder. Your tears prickle beneath your eyelids.

He takes you back home.

You don't know how he'd avoided the security guard's questioning, or the neighbours, But Blade sets you down on the little stool, pulling the bucket beneath the tap to let the hot water run. You draw your legs to your chest, thoughts collapsing into each other, fracturing and splintering as your trembling grows worse. All you can think of is gargling till the taste of blood is gone and the memory of that kiss is gone.

Blade fixes his attention on you. "You need to bathe." He says, taking a knee. You're exhausted, too exhausted to protest, trembling when he pulls away at your jacket and your pants, letting it pile up by the door.

"I can do it myself." You mumble. You question the necessity of it. He won't listen, after all.

He unhooks your bra and tugs down your underwear. "You're tired." He states. "Your attempts will not be as effective."

"Does that matter?"

Blade hums. "Kafka mentioned the need for hygiene. You could fall sick. Besides, you are a doctor." Not anymore, you nearly snap. He moves on to himself next, unbuttoning his jacket. "Detergent?" he asks when you squeeze your eyes shut and refuse to see any more. The sound of his belt buckle is next and his trousers being pulled down.

"Cabinet under the kitchen sink." you mutter. Blade steps out and you lean up against the bucket, watching the water steadily fill till it reaches your fingertips. You hear the beeping from the washing machine and Blade's returning footsteps. He settles behind you

"Turn around."

You turn. You do not look down.

He spends a moment regarding you, then empties a pitcher-full of water over your head. It's warm enough and you let your eyes slip shut as he works on scrubbing away the blood and sweat from your hair. That rotten thing curls in your belly, ringing round like a centipede crawling.

Blade's thumb wipes away the smudge on your cheek with sandalwood soap and he tips his chin up. "Don't fall asleep yet."

"Okay." you passively reply, opening your eyes. he hums and continues to wash you, treating your body with clinical indifference. You don't know what's worse, the hunger or the distance. The act of being viewed as anything but human leaves a sour taste in your mouth. "What about you?" You ask, filling the empty space. You don't want to think about tonight. You don't want to think at all.

Blade hums. "You can help." He shrugs right after. "We will be done sooner at least."

"Okay." You echo, reaching for the soap. You come to realise that he does need the help. Pulling the bandages off of him was a hard enough task. They were messily strewn on, almost cutting away his blood flow and he sweeps it aside. His wrists and his forearms are next. You don't undo the one on his thigh, furiously washing the dried fluids off of him.

What are you doing?

A part of you laughs at the obscene humour. A few hours ago, you'd have dropped dead at the very idea of doing this, if the hopelessness wasn't torn away from you the reins and left you on the backseat of a crashing car.

"You can…turn around."

Blade grunts and turns. you spurt too much shampoo into your hands. Some of it spills over. "You're scared." He says.

"I am."

He bends down a bit. It's easier to reach his head this way. "You should be. You should have killed me." He states, severity weighing his words.

Your shoulders slump, fatigued. "Please. Just stop." Your voice dips into a whisper. "Just stop. I want to rest, alright?" Blade falls silent, knitting his brow together. He nods wordlessly as you rake your fingers through his hair, undoing some of the knot building up against the shampoo suds.

( Blade thinks you're still too gentle with him, in how you trace one of his scars. But he feels the shudder, the roiling beat under your skin, the fear. He sees how easy it is to bring the tears out again and turn that mind of yours off.

He turns a little, pressing his fingertips to the softness of your thigh, just in case you try to run again. )

When you're both done, he has you swaddled in your blankets and deposited on your bed, clothes in tow. It's horrible, this tenderness. You don't think he's used to it either, in how he shuffles and cautiously pads at your arm like you're a fragile little thing, like he wasn't the one who took the mallet to it in the first place.

"Will you hurt me?" You ask, dead eyed.

Blade's lips part ( sometimes he does, when the mara blooms forth florets in his chest and stomach and he wants to break something that breathes beneath his hands ). "Will you run?" he asks.

"If I do, will you hurt me?"

"Yes." he replies bluntly, his hand resting on your calves. You know what that means. You squeeze your eyes shut and nod, laying down on the bed and curling up into yourself.

"You're a monster." you tell him with a shaky, illegible slur. All this for a preordained destiny, for convenience, because you're a coward. All this and you'll be left with nothing tomorrow. You think of your clinic and what you'd salvaged before opening it. It's foundations and the grey walls of the empty rooms it once had. Your heart poured into it all. "Both you and her."

Blade lowers his head. "We know."

IX. DISJOINTING

You did not sleep at all, last night. Blade still stalks the hallways at the unearthly hours you wake at ( five thirty on the dot ). A man is dead, a man you barely know, whose body now below the ocean's surface. Maybe the sharks ate him. And your clinic…you curse it all, and you curse that compulsion that has you reaching for your phone.

It doesn't take long to find it after browsing the local news network. A few live footage of the collapsed interior and the busted furniture. Years of work torn apart ( At least Aleena quit. At least she doesn't have to see this ).

"Do you know why they did this?" you ask, your voice scratchy when Blade comes to linger by your door frame. He'd washed his clothes last night, having pulled his trousers back on with a loose fitted tank top. Kafka must have dropped by.

Blade looks away.

"You know." You spit out, fury bubbling up, clouding your eyes, painting it all red. "You know, don't you? Look me in the eye and tell me you do, you little — "

"The man." Blade cuts in. "The man who hurt you."

You grip the sheets. "What did you do?" you whisper, numbness taking foot and taking away more and more reasoning.

"I killed him." he passes you a sharp look. "Letting him live would have put both of us at risk."

You let out a mirthless laugh. "So it's your fault then. You…you come in and just assume I would be fine with you just…" You laugh. You laugh and laugh and laugh till your ribs hurt and your sides ache because it was so unnecessary, all of this. He must be sick in the head, him and Kafka, to twist apart your livelihood and step all over it. Monsters, the lot of them. Monsters.

"Oh god you're a fucking riot. Now what should I do? I have no job…should I go back? Maybe you could get a kick out of me being sold off again, right?" You flash him a bright little smile, mania at it's finest, and anger. So, so much anger it boils your body alive.

He narrows his eyes. "You will not be leaving. They'll come after you next."

You giggle. "Of course they would." You whisper. "Of-fucking course they would. Then I'll just die. Let my father douse my ashes, if there's even a body to cremate because that just seems the best way to go." You lay back down, tugging at your hair with frustration. The mattress dips as he lays next to you, lips drawn against your nape.

It's possessive, demanding of every little thing and every little part you had to offer.

"I won't be leaving." You snarl, feeling all that spite gather. "I can't because of you. remember?"

"I know."

You press your cheek against your pillow. You're tired again. You want to sleep. "You may as well just kill me at this point." You state flatly. "There isn't much use keeping me alive. I've served my purpose right? What was it, some glorified shield?"

His grip on you constricts. You're pulled closer to his chest. "You will not die." He tells you, his nose pressing up against your neck. Blade inhales, tangling his fingers into your hair. "And I won't kill you."

You bare your teeth at him. Then you stop, and press your face to the pillow again. "Enough." you tell him, feeling angry and tired and empty and more. You try to push Blade off of you, the small of your back brushing against him. Blade lets out a hiss, nails digging into your forearm and you freeze.

He's pressed up, half hard against you.

You throw yourself away from him.

Your eye sockets burn as you flinch and struggle. "Stop." He rasps his order, pressing you stomach down against the mattress as you curl over the edge, letting out a panicked whimper, a migraine searing through your forehead. It turns into an ugly sob, into cries that bleed into the sheets, tracking saliva down as you're dragged back.

His weight bears down hard on your back, his mane curtaining your line of sight. You try to elbow him off and he wrestles your hands down, pinning them behind you. He's panting, letting out a stray growl every now and then. The edge of his nails dig a little deeper into your wrists, just as the other hand fixes itself firmly against your thigh.

You shake. You don't try to hide the glassy eyed look. You only shake.

Blade's annoyances seem to mount, his forehead pressing against your temple. ( Appease her, Kafka's voice whispers to his ear. Blade feels too much of you beneath his palm, and it stokes a selfish hunger that comes down violently ).

He trails his hand upwards. You lay slack, surrendering to it with a tense form. It tugs your nightwear down, spreads your legs a little more. You cry a little, then give up on it, his fingers exploring the softness of your thighs and slipping to the inside. He lets your hands go and you come to grasp at the pillows, nipping down at your bottom lip.

"Blade…?" You whisper, unsure.

He traces the seam of your cunt, dipping a finger inside to toy at your clit and you squeak, grabbing his arm. "H-hold on that's — "

Blade turns you over, draping your legs on either side of his hips. You look at him, pupils shrunken down at the sight of him surveying you, his lips pressing over the curve of your knee, then further down. You squirm beneath him, movements stilled by a firm hand on your belly. Blade bites hard, tearing into the skin of your thigh, breaking capillaries and drawing blood.

He pulls away to witness the bruising and the wet wail you shudder out, soothing you with his tongue brushing over the wound like a dog. You slam your foot against his shoulder. Blade simply grabs it and hoists it above his shoulder.

"Let me…" he mumbles, groaning up against your skin, spacing your thighs apart some more. You're squirming, and he roughly pulls you closer. "Stay still."

You can't, you want to say. You can't when he's touching you like that and —

He stills. "You haven't done this before, have you?" he guesses. You want to sink, sink down into a place that was far away from here. Blade's eyes are unnaturally bright, burning like coals against the dim lighting.

"Shut up and get this over with." You rasp. There's nothing here, nothing between the two of you. Maybe a few sick feelings from his side. You want it to be done with and let the maggots eat away at your body after ( if that makes it easier for him in the end ). Blade huffs, vague amusement flitting past his expression. His cheek is smushed against your thigh.

"Your first…" he mumbles, a vague story playing out in his eyes. Your legs are pushed back, and he sits himself down before you, teeth grazing through soft flesh till he latches his mouth to your cunt and presses the expanse of his tongue over your bundle of nerves. You mewl into it, jolting under his touch as his hands come to massage circles at your hips.

You stay steadfastly quiet after that, as the assault continues and he licks a strip up your slit while gauging every little shift and twitch on your face. You could have fooled anyone else with the forced apathy, fooled Blade with you looking at anything but him. He suckles at your clit, rolling it over the tip of his tongue and you twitch, bucking your hips into the grind.

Blade demands. He demands and keeps demanding, eating you out half starved and at a pace you couldn't keep up with; feeling that appendage slip into you at some point of it all. You moan ( this doesn't feel good. It shouldn't. How fucking pathetic are you?! ) trembling at all the new feelings blurring out your mind.

You tell yourself to take it. Take it and let him leave you be after that taste of satisfaction. Blade nuzzles into your cunt, smearing your building slick against your outer lips till smelted orange meets the fatigue in yours.

"You're being stubborn." he comments, pulling away for a moment. You grit your teeth, open your mouth to snap back. Blade dips down then, a finger slipping into you, massaging your insides and pacing himself with more gentleness than you'd expected. Gasping and grasping at the sheets, your narrowed gaze fixates on his, fuming, fuming.

You push his face away when he leans in close and he persists, teeth latching over your neck, licking a delicate strip up the column of it. His chest seems to vibrate — it's not a purr. It rattles at you, it's unnatural.

"Make it quick then!" you sob. "Please."

His finger curls inside you and you curl your toes into the sheets, keening into his hair. You hate this. You hate this. There is a warmth in your insides that stirs and seeps through the cracks. Blade seems to notice and takes it in with a hunger that terrifies you. He presses his pads against that sweet spot, a thumb returning to your clit. You whine, shake your head.

"Good?" he asks. It feels like a taunt.

"Shut up." you grimace, rocking your hips in pace with him. It's little jolts of that buttery feeling that has your mind sink further and farther away. Blade kisses your neck, grinding up against your ass through it all. It's awful. It's all wrong, this facade of gentleness.

You mumble, grinding at his hand as another finger is added and he stretches you out a little, testing your limits with rapture. That heat grows, grows, grows bit by bit, tuned to the way his finger curls into that spot. A moan spills out, then another and you spa a hand over your mouthy, shaking your head. You want it to stop. You want this to stop now and —

Blade's digits nudge against your cervix and he bears down on your clit hard.

It snaps, that warmth. You tighten round his gingers, clenching, sucking him in deeper and his lips part as he watches you fall apart with a jumble of words and begging. You fall back into the sheets as he pulls his hand away, laving at your mess while he undoes the buttons of your shirt. It spares a peak of the sweet of your breasts, the soft expanse of your stomach. He's seen it before. There's nothing new to it.

He bites again, not as deep this time as he pulls his pants down. You spare a glance, snapping out of the afterglow when you catch sight of him. "That won't fit." You whisper.

Blade shudders, his cock resting at your stomach. It's hot, an angry res that makes you feel uneasy. You half expect pain when he slides down to breach you entrance, you expect tears and you expect it with hunched shoulders. Blade is slow instead, thoughtful, almost. He keeps his progress slow, watching you wince against the stretch before he thrusts in deeper, finally nudging his tip to your cervix and staying there a moment.

Somewhere between all that, his hand finds yours, pressing down at your palm in awkward assurance.

You can't take it.

"What are you doing?!" you demand, whining against how full you felt. It's strange, so strange and you think you see the mad ramblings from friends and gossip over how good sex felt sometimes. But this is Blade. Blade, with his violence and his slashed wrists and the way he stank of death.

Blade pushes some of his weight on you. "It's your first time." he replies.

Your first time. A rare consideration. An emotion that bud out too late for your tastes. "Why should you care then?!" You snap, grabbing his tank top. "For fucks sake, stop treating me like I'm your lover! I'm not! You're not doing this to me because you have feelings do you?!"

The question was wholly rhetorical. It's a harsh accusation, mounted by everything else he'd done wrong. Blade falls silent, eyes wide. You leer up at him, then chortle with disbelief. "Oh god, you are." You choke out, feeling violated in a way. Feeling more violated than you were already. Blade keeps staring at you as you cover your face, cackling. "Oh god, oh god this is just unbelievable! You like me? Me?!"

You feel venom drip into your words. You feel that ache, the urge to tear his eyes out then and there. Boys will be boys. The words keep echoing through and it makes you physically ill to think of it.

"You're pathetic. You're absolutely fucking pathetic!" you cut through, grabbing his hair and pulling at it. Blade grunts, annoyed. You don't care, ripping at his face, his neck, his shoulders. "Fuck! Fuck you! After all this bullshit, fuck you!" Blade hisses, trying to shift a bit, move some more but you kick out at his thigh.

"Do not." he grits out, his voice low and angry. "Your anger is an inconsequential thing. I've seen far worse."

"You think I want your guilt, you ass?!" you demand. "You think I want you begging and grovelling for forgiveness?!" Blade thrusts. You dig down, fight against it and the sweet burn it brings. You feel that storm brew in your chest and you spit at him, jarring Blade enough with wide eyed shock ( it's a satisfying thing to see ) to slam your weight into him and roll the two of you over, your hands grabbing at his throat.

He nudges deeper into you and you cry out, feeling his tip coax into your g-spot. Still, you hold on.

Blade still watches, gauging the sudden shift, waiting to see you move. When you take a moment to gain your bearings, he grasps at your hips, guiding you down his cock and you almost falter, feeling his free hand tweak your nipples. sputtering a little, you persist, your thumbs coming to press against his Adam's apple.

Blade lets out a gasp, snapping his hips up again, drawing himself out then back into you. You feel him grind against those sensitive spaces he'd gauged out earlier and a few flustered cries sputter out before your grip tightens round your neck.

He sets his speed, increasing that pace to a faster rhythm, grasping at what parts he could, letting you take from him for a moment. You double over, teeth tearing into his cheek. "I despise you." You tell him. "I hate you for taking everything away from me. I hate you for ruining my life." You pour it all in, all the vitriol and the fury. Blade's eyes shut.

"I know." he grunts, feeling you clench down on his cock.

"I wish you'd stayed dead." You add, feeling it all pile up into a raw mass that eats you alive. "Do you hear me?"

"I know." He repeats.

"I hate you." You sob out, your tears splattering against his jaw. Your thumb presses down harder. Blade moans, his tempo increasing and catching you in it's midst, hitting your sweet spot over and over till it tumbles through to make a mess between the two of you, the baggage and the tucked away harshness. "You're pathetic. Absolutely fucking pathetic."

It feels so fuzzy, the heat, the faint warmth from Blade, blocking out his airflow. His movements grow frantic, almost, his grip on you bruising your hips till finally, you find you release again, legs weakening below you. Still, you hold fast, dragging yourself over the expanse of his body as he keeps up with thrusting faster and faster to a brink of near over-stimulation, all of it animalistic grunts and grows and teeth nudging at your chest.

You press down hard enough and Blade finally cums, his release coming in spurts inside of you. The cartilages in his larynx give out and you feel tissue collapse into itself ( just like that man on the beach with his throat torn out, poetic in a gruesome sense ). You watch him struggle to breath and you push down harder, hysteria bursting as you bare your teeth and drive him closer to another death.

Blade goes still below you. He's cold as a corpse.

You sway a bit, lifting yourself off of his cock, falling into a haze of cotton wool and sick satisfaction, tipping into the space next to him. He's dead. He's dead.

You shut your eyes, and you feel nothing.

You have better to do now, the unsaid and the undone. The empty buzz of pleasure slowly recedes and you grasp your phone between your hands, tapping at the message app. You let out a soft cry, shoulders shaking. There was a life once that felt far too distant. Where you'd been tugged away and folded into silk and gold till you were shackled down and told to stay quiet. 

( There are many things you want to tell them. Many angry things, many quiet, introspective things. Many with a little more love lining your words, a little more longing. They still wait for you, even after shutting their doors. You know this too. )

So, you start to type.

Dear Appa…

Blade wakes when the sunlight filters in, and his arm winds round you in the silence, listening to the rustle down below and the coming commotion. Then, he rises, buttoning his pants up proper and drawing the blanket over your head. "Stay here." he tells you.

You listen to the angry voices and the encroaching footsteps from the staircase outside. Blade summons his sword, stalking out of the room, dog-like, wolf-like, his violence returned to him after briefly being cowed by your venom. 

The doorbell rings ( you know who it is, through the ringing metal and the acrid voices ) and you draw into yourself.

You are not here. You tell yourself. You close your eyes and open them back up, petrichor seeping through and your feet sunk into damp soil. You let yourself stay there, in the garden in front of your childhood home, away from torn flesh and the building agony.

You are not here.

📼 — AUTHORS NOTES + ETYMYOLOGIES //

MANY MANY THANKS TO MOTH FOR BETA READING THIS.

this fic was something that took me months to write ( and honestly it shows with the mess and the rush XD ). either way, tda does touch on a few cultural topics and reflects on some of the good old desi trauma when it comes to the arranged marriage scape, something i wish i could have explored more in depth. but with a fic nearly hitting 20k and my own set deadlines...perhaps another time. so here are some of the stuff i mentioned that were picked straight off of my own experiences :

the newspaper adverts listing out bride and groom details amongst other stuff is a pretty common sight here. within my own personal experiences, arranged marriages are a gamble to say the least, considering i only knew two within my immediate sphere that worked out pretty well. add in the stigma surrounding divorce and hooooo boi.

needless to say, there is a lot of shit to unpack with arranged marriage culture ( specifically down in the south where a lot of women and men are given the illusion of 'control' but are still heavily pressured into it ). it's not as overt or obvious to be fair, nor as deeply touched upon.

there's also the weird dynamics within our families where children cannot wholly cut themselves free from their familial unit, disownment and distancing aside. due to how community takes center stage here, family plays a pretty heavy handed role when we're raised. this is mostly due to assumptions of familial disownment being tied into 'questionable behaviour' in a sense. one of my friends was turned away during job hunting solely because some employers were unnecessarily quick to judge.

add in the sheer dependancy you grow into and how tight social circles tend to be and hoooooo b o i. ( you're dead if you live in a small town ).

the reader here does exist within these two spheres, half pressured into arrangements and a duty to be a 'good daughter' by proving financial stability. the clinic isn't just a ways of keeping her away from her family and the matrimonial expectations they have on her ( and trust me, it's not just the parents ) but also her own little act of rebellion by showing them that she can manage just fine.

some of the stuff are more in line with my own community's practices. the agelu is a feast laid out to pay respects to ancestral ghosts. cha is our way of saying 'chai' within my language.

blade in this fic was also initially supposed to be very unhinged. maybe a little more out there with far darker scenes. there was an instance where the reader was actually married prior but had a difficult relationship with her husband. the divorce was what incited the disownment.

she was also a liiitttlle more involved with the stellaron hunter's plans, but i thought the sheer disconnect and the painting of the hunters in this shadowed, unclear light made more sense XD. that and how i was sadistic enough to write a whole scene depicting aleena's marriage and a few unsaoury aftermaths.

anyway, thank you for taking the time to read tda!!! this fic took a WHILE to write out given my busy schedule so i appreciate it so very much!!!

TAGLIST ノ join the taglist. — @silentmoths @meimeimeirin @sleepynoons @vourfrede @endursent.

@jessamine-rose @ofoceansandtombsanew @chiyoso @4acoffee.

[lokis-coconut28]

Sports Bra (Y/N x Loki)

A/N: This is my first time posting a fic and getting used to writing on tumblr - please be gentle with me! Lots of ideas and things to come hopefully. If anybody can help me with dividers and such, please approach!

A/N: I am reposting this here, on a primary blog so I can access and follow you all! Thank you so much for the love on my secondary account on this story.

This has been living in my phone notes for a long time. I hope you enjoy.

Warnings: Slight voyeurism, Smut, 18+ only, Smut lol

Summary: Training with Loki in a sports bra gets spicy. WC 1.6K

Your hair curled around your face in sweaty whisped tendrils as you wrestled Loki on the mat. Training days were grueling and your body had alerted you to that as you were starting to get fatigued. Your body ached, especially your thighs. 

Loki pinned you to the floor once again and a cheeky smile spread across his face. 

“You are powerful, darling. But not strong enough to beat a god.” He snarled playfully. 

You huffed, breasts heaving up and down with your deep breaths. You bent forward, stretching your hamstring in preparation to attempt, yet again, to take your teammate down. 

You leaned into your frontal stretch, touching your toes with your eyes closed. Loki half-scolded himself for stealing a glance down your sports bra.

Though he would never admit it, since you joined the team he had had more than one fantasy about that body of yours. You curved in all of the right places. Forbidden thoughts raced through his mind more often than not after training with you. Loki would conjure images in his mind after conditioning with you. What it would be like to be intimate together. If the showers were empty, it wasn't uncommon to be found pleasuring himself to the rendering of you in his psyche.

It wasn’t all physical, though. Your quick wit made him genuinely smile. He admired your intelligence and influence being a new Avenger. You had such a beautiful soul. And for the most part, he trusted you. Not once were you judgmental of his past and you were instant to embrace him. You would jest, but did not joke at his expense like the other Avengers would. You were valuable to him. More than a Midgardian sparring partner, to be sure. He could never confess this attraction, fearing to lose his friendship with the closest person to him.

You did one more long stretch beyond your feet, hands splayed on the ground, breasts pushing outward. Loki noticed the periphery of one of your nipples dipping out from the top of the of your bra, almost to the center of it, forming a rose colored peak. 

Seeing such a private part of you caught him off guard. He blushed fiercely and pretended to stretch his arms in front of himself as he briefly looked away.

You softly moaned as you arched you spine into a neutral position and hoisted your bra back up, your breasts jiggling as you secured them in place. 

You peered up at Loki through spent eyes. “Ready?”

Loki was still enchanted having seen a small glimpse of you. He felt guilty for gazing upon you without your knowledge. “Y/N, wait-" he started just as you sprinted full force at him. You knocked him down in his moment of unsteadiness. The pair of you fell back onto the mat in a tackle. You straddled Loki's hips and pinned them to the ground as your forearm held his sternum tight to the floor. You exhaled in relief, finally defeating him in your playful competition, soft eyes - and supple cleavage - mere inches from his face.

Loki gasped hard, admittedly unprepared for the harsh blow to the ground. He gaped at you, restraining him with might between your sore thighs, sweat beading around your collar bones. His eyes flickered to your bosom towering over him, watching your erratic breath from physical exertion. He felt a tightness in his stomach and began to panic as he felt his cock twitch. He hoped you didn’t feel it. 

You did. 

It throbbed again, and you looked at Loki wide-eyed in disbelief. The God of Mischief, your best friend and colleague, pinned beneath you, growing hard. 

Aware of your gaze he scoffed in embarrassment and crimson crept up his cheeks. You fell on your back as he rolled you to the side, off of him. 

Putting his hands on his head, elbows on his knees, he gently spoke. “Y/N… I…” He was at a loss for words. Abashed tears welled in his eyes. “What you felt… it’s just…” he took a moment to compose himself.  “When you bent over, I saw, well, more than you had intended for me to see… I’m so sorry Y/N…” he whispered at the end. His lashes flickered downward, looking anywhere but at you. 

Your heart fluttered at his admission. Withdrawing his hands from his face, you could see his genuine worriment. Biting your lip, you turned his cheek, forcing eye contact. Taking a deep breath, you spoke just as honest and vulnerable as he had been.

“Loki… it’s okay… I would let you see all of me if you wanted to…” 

His mouth parted slightly in anticipation of your next words. Lust filled the air dense as fog. 

You grabbed his hand and gently guided it to your chest. 

“May I?” You lulled, handling his flesh with care.

He nodded, pupils dilating. 

You softly placed Loki’s hand on your breast. You observed as his eyes devoured you. You held a grip on his knuckles, urging him to take over. 

He lifted his other hand, following your lead, and started to caress your mammae, cupping them, and swiftly massaging them in circles, palming your mounds.

You tilted your head back and moaned. It felt glorious. You always did have an attraction toward Loki, but this, having him touch you with the look of adoration in his eyes, was stirring something more inside of you. You looked down at Loki’s obvious arousal. His eyes lingering on your chest - which had been pulling his orbs like a magnet this evening. 

You had an idea. 

“Loki… fuck my tits…” you cautiously offered to him. The situation seemed so taboo, but you wanted this, wanted him, and seeing his eyes glued to you gave you the confidence to propose this in the heat of the moment. 

“What?” His eyes snapped to yours, locking concentratedly.

“Fuck my tits Loki… I want you…please…” you continued. You were nervous now, unable to read his expression.

His brows furrowed. “My darling… I’ve, I have never done that… I..” he trailed off. 

“I will help you, Loki. If you want this?”

He nodded. “I want this. I want you more than anything in the realms”.

You laid back on the mat and instructed Loki to put his legs on both sides of you. You carefully pulled down his sweats to release his cock, already glistening at the tip. 

You wrapped your hand around his heated shaft and lifted the underside of your brassiere. You slid his head in and aligned him perfectly center between your mounds. You grabbed his ass and nudged him to move. 

Loki let out a stifled moan as his dick glided between your supple breasts. He rhythmically started driving into the crevice, watching his prick come out of the apex of your bra, bouncing your bountiful cleavage. 

He started thrusting faster now, hesitantly eyeing the training observation window. You took note and reassured him.

“Nobody will see, Lokes. I wouldn’t care even if they did. Keep going, Prince.” You sung gently to him.

He hissed and spasmed from his core at your words. Prince. Your soft skin enveloped his manhood so well.

You flipped your bra up on to your collarbones, exposing your entire chest. You pushed your boobs together as tight as you could, nipples hardening as you felt Loki’s shaft pulsate. His eyes darkened, eagerly taking in this new scene. 

“Let me taste you Loki…” The words rolled off of your lips.

You opened your mouth offering an “o” shape for his tip to enter. He slid between your tits, gliding his end into your mouth. 

“Ah Norns, Y/N…” Loki growled in a low timbre.

He rubbed against you quicker now, a fury inside of his veins and heart, quickening his oncoming orgasm. 

His eyes met yours as his knob slid in once again. This was more than just lust, he acknowledged in his mind. He loved you. He was madly in love with you, his best friend. 

“Fuck, Y/N, I’m close… Where.. where can I release…” he panted as he gyrated into your breasts. Your tongue flicked the tip of his penis as to offer a place for him to cum. 

“Y/N…” he hissed multiple times in silence before letting out an involuntary mewl, orgasm washing over him. He came in your mouth, bucking and convulsing. Loki pulled out with one more spurt shooting across the nipple he had stolen a glance at earlier. He watched as you swallowed with glee in your eyes.

“How was that?” You questioned from underneath him. 

He tenderly handled you, supporting your neck as you arose and settled next to him in a seated position on the mat.

“If that’s how good your breasts feel I can’t imagine how divine the rest of you feels, my darling.” 

Your hand touched his softly, rubbing a circle on his knuckle. 

“Why don’t you find out?” You purred into his ear.

Loki pulled you on to his lap, searching your eyes for deception. He saw many things in your eyes, but deception was not present.

Gracefully, he laid a most loving kiss on your lips. Securing your legs around his hips, he stood and maneuvered your back to rest against the glass. Pinning your hands above your head with one hand, he used the other to strip away both of your remaining clothing with a flash of emerald. Your ass pressed against the training window as Loki prepared to enter you. You clutched the nape of his neck, raven curls slick with sweat, holding him with an unspoken devotion. This was your favorite day of training.

****************************************************************

A/N: Thank you for going on that journey with me. Writing is hard! Please forgive any errors!

Special thank you to @mochie85 for encouraging me to write and publish. (On my @Kitrgator blog, I promised I would tag you if I ever did post!)

[jtargaryen18]

His Inheritance ~ Chapter 35

A/N: The center photo is indicative of the reader's gown only. Not her appearance which isn't defined.

Part 35: Dance with the Devil

Series Masterlist

Words: 5.2k

Pairing: Mobster Steve Rogers x Mobster daughter reader

Warnings: References to mafia, reference to violence and violent acts, intimidation, dark seduction. This is a dark fic. Please read responsibly.

Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site. If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but archiveofourown and tumblr, it has been reposted without my permission.

Summary: For @alexakeyloveloki. Your father is the head of one of the most powerful crime families in Boston but he’s protected you from that life. In your quiet home outside the city, you’ve been cared for and protected. When the desires of a more powerful man with the will to dominate bursts into your life, all your illusions are shattered as he comes to claim what is his.

"You are almost ready," Yelena said with a smile, just after the stylists left. "Now the jewelry."

You paused, looking at your reflection in the mirror. Your gown was an exclusive creation by a top designer, a beautiful sleeveless, a-line creation in layers of tulle, sequins, and matte satin. Shades of pale blue and gold transformed you, enhanced by the ornate way your hair was done, the subtelty of your carefully applied makeup. Beneath you wore the most elegant little gold heels that were surprising comfortable despite their minimal style. The stockings were sheer, hugging your upper thighs just below the skimpy ice-blue panties you wore.

The mention of jewelry brought up an unhappy memory and you knew Yelena recalled it too when your gaze met hers. How your husband's ex-mistress smuggled her necklace in for you to wear on another special occasion had never been solved.Had it been Neal? Hansen? A reminder from the not-too-distant past that your enemies could reach you at any time. A reminder to be vigilant. 

"What jewelry?" you asked carefully.

Yelena smiled. "I picked it up myself," she told you, lifting a delicate strand of diamonds set in gold from a black velvet box on the bed. 

When she draped it around your throat, you smiled at the way it completed your look. There were matching earrings, diamond studs each with a teardrop diamond dangling and catching the light. The set was exquisite. 

"Harry Winston," your friend told you, admiring how they looked on you.

"Nice of them to loan these for the ball," you told her, grateful you got to wear them. 

Yelena reached for the golden mask on the bed, holding it to you. "No loan. Steve bought them."

What?

"These must have cost a fortune," you mused. They probably cost more than everything else you owned combined. "Glad you're going with us. I'd hate to get mugged for these."

Yelena grinned. "Security is going to be tight already with so many important people there. The mayor will be there. One of the state senators."

You scoffed. "Why am I going? I'm no one special."

"But you are," Yelena told you. 'The fact that everyone wants you has been a powerful motivator in this game of chess. Your husband is completely devoted to you. Barnes would love to get his hands on you."

"Barnes would ring my neck the first chance he got," you pointed out.

Yelena's expression was difficult to read. "I'm not so sure about that."

"Hansen would for sure kill me," you said, putting your mask in place carefully. The soft mask of golden sequins fit over your eyes. 

Yelena's gaze dropped at the mention of the name and you were ashamed. You needed to work harder not to bring that up to her. And you needed a subject change. Fast.

"Who's going to be here with Nat tonight?" You weren't surprised Nat didn't want to go. She'd been through so much between the horrific end of her abusive marriage and all trauma of years being left to the sadistic nature of Banner. You wanted to make sure she was well looked after while you and Steve were gone.

"Clint is staying here of course," Yelena said quietly. "Dyson will be here too. He's arranged for extra security for the house tonight."

You nodded your approval. "What about Scott?"

"He's coming with us," Yelena explained. 

You smiled. Scott going had little to do with keeping you and Steve safe and everything to do with spending time with Yelena. You were pretty sure Yelena was aware of Scott's infatuation with her. Would she ever return his affections? You didn't know. Considering her tragic history, you weren't sure she could feel the same way towards him or anyone. But in the time you'd known Scott, you learned he was a good man who always had your back and never once questioned your authority. You trusted him with your life. You trusted him with Yelena too.

But would she ever give him - or anyone - a chance after all she'd been through?

You blew out an exhale, preparing yourself for the night ahead. "I guess we should let Steve know I'm ready."

"He knows," a deep voice caught you and Yelena both off guard. 

Your husband strolled into the bedroom and Yelena stepped back to allow him a clear path to you. He looked breathtakingly handsome in the classic black tuxedo he wore, tailored perfectly to fit his tall, broad-shouldered physique. His tawny hair was perfectly styled, diamond cufflinks winking in the light. His tie was shades of gold and blue to match your gown, a subtle touch but one you appreciated.

Steve moved to stand behind you in the mirror of your vanity, bending to fit his handsome face in the reflection with yours. 

"You look so beautiful," he said with something like reverence in his voice. "I can't wait to show you off."

"I'll be downstairs," Yelena said, making her way out to give you some privacy. "We worked very hard on her, boss. Don't mess her up."

Steve smiled at what he took as a playful warning, his large hands smoothing over your bare shoulders. Slowly, you removed the mask, placing it in your lap with your hands. His watchful gaze didn't miss the slight tremble of their movements.

"Everything is going to be fine," he explained. "I've been to this event before. All the rich, politic elite of Boston come out to dance and drink the night away and wallow in excess. It's probably Tony's favorite night of the year."

You could see it. And you were excited to go to the annual masquerade ball, as Steve's wife and not his trophy, and to enjoy a fabulous night on the town. You felt like Cinderella, going to the ball in the gown that truly looked as if magic had created it.

But you couldn't fight back an impending sense of dread. It had been so quiet in the weeks of your recovery and Steve's. Life went on. You were included in all the family's business meetings. The family business had recovered and was branching out, deals with three of the other four families made things even better. 

Not that you agreed with all of it. You weren't crazy about the loan sharking or protection deals the family made. The casinos and restaurants didn't bother you as much. And at least the family wasn't making any money off drugs or trafficking. Some of the stories about the business and how other families operated you heard now were just horrific. You made up your mind early that no matter what, you'd never allow the family to make money off the misfortunes of women and children. Never.

It had been very quiet where the Barnes family was concerned. Too quiet.

"I'll  be the envy of every man there tonight," he murmured, pressing a kiss into your neck. The soft brush of his beard made you shiver. A sensual smiled curved Steve's lips. "Are you ready?"

You nodded. You trusted your husband. You were going to do your best to have a wonderful night, just like he intended.

And still that little kernel of dread lingered.

You felt like you were in an old Hollywood movie to walk down the staircase on your husband's arm with the gown flowing softly with your movements. Honestly, you were grateful for Steve's help in keeping you balanced, relieved when you made it to the bottom of the stairs.

Dyson, Yelena, Scott, Clint and Nat were a small crowd, watching in admiration as you approached. Nat's smile was all you needed to feel like a princess. Her lovely green eyes lit up as her gaze swept over you. 

"You look perfect," she exclaimed, carefully hugging you. "I knew that gown was the one."

Nat had been the one to find it when the two of you went out shopping for it. And you were all too happy to give her the credit. You knew very little about fashion. You would learn. Until you did, it was nice to have the advice of someone who already understood it.

As Nat stepped back, you forced yourself to smile. She still looked so small, so frail. She had yet to gain weight and regain her amazing figure. Your sister-in-law seemed fragile, even with the protection and love of the man she'd always wanted. Even with the full support and love of her brother. It worried you.

Dyson looked worried too, but as you did, he put on a quick smile. "You two had best get going. The line at dropoff takes forever."

"True enough," Steve said, nodding to Yelena and Scott.

You stopped to hug Dyson. "Keep her safe for me," you whispered.

"You know I will," he muttered.

Steve whisked you away to the sleek black limousine waiting in the driveway. Its glossy, jet-black exterior reflected the fading sunlight with a mirror-like finish. The long, streamlined body stretched gracefully, its tinted windows offering privacy and adding to its air of mystery. Scott climbed in behind the wheel and Yelena rode shotgun as Steve got you into the back seat, helping you keep your gown away from the doors. Once you were settled, you studied your husband. Something was missing.

"Did you bring a mask?" you asked him. 

Steve smiled, pulling a small black mass from inside his tuxedo coat. No sequins, just a matte black mask he could wear. But he wasn't interested in the mask as he fidgeted with it. He was too busy staring at you.

"Are you excited?" he asked.

You couldn't help the smile the question brought on. "Yes."

Steve looked pleased. "As time goes on and things settle down, we'll get out more. Do more things like this. You look like a princess tonight."

Tears pricked at the backs of your eyes at his heartfelt words. He meant them. He was taking you out to a society function, dressed you up like you were going to the fucking Oscars. A night out like nothing you'd ever experienced before. You'd been excited since he told you he got the tickets a few weeks ago.

"There are going to be a lot of people there, sweetheart," Steve explained quietly. "I'm sure Belova went over everything with you. But I need you to listen. You are going to be with me at all times. If you're not with me, you'll be with Belova and Lang. No wandering off to talk to people or sightsee. Okay?"

You nodded. Yelena had covered the plans thoroughly while she helped you get ready for the evening. 

"If I have to talk business for a moment, Belova will be with you. You have to go to the ladies' room, Belova will be with you," he continued. "Take it easy on the drinks. You're not used to alcohol and I need you vigilant tonight. We're going to have a wonderful time but..."

"I understand," you told him. "Besides, I don't want to miss any part of tonight because I'm drinking. It's my first masquerade ball. I'd like to enjoy every minute of it."

The smile Steve flashed you had your heart fluttering in your chest.

"There will be dancing, right?" you asked.

"Of course," he told you. 

"You'll dance with me?" Would Steve dance with you to a beautiful ballad or classic song?

Reaching over, he tipped up your chin with his fingers, his touch careful. "There isn't anything I wouldn't do for you when you smile at me like that. I love you."

"I love you, too." 

His lips were a teasing brush against your own but in seconds it deepened, filled with longing and need. 

The sharp wrap on the dark glass that separated the two of you in the back seat of the limo from Scott and Yelena up front scared you. Then the glass slid down just a couple of inches. 

"Later," Yelena admonished. "I worked too hard on her for this party, boss."

You froze thinking that was going to piss your husband off but he laughed. "Okay, sorry," he called back to her.

It made you happy. Ever since everything happened that day between your family and Barnes', your husband and your best friend got along a lot better. Steve was kinder to her, treated her with the same respect as he would any of the men in his employ. That being the case, Yelena felt comfortable enough to tease him about things like tonight. She worked hard on carefully picking her moments with him to tease. She did even better at being thoughtful when offering criticism or advice. The fact that they were getting along better just made your life easier.

"That's supposed to be privacy glass," he said, still grinning.

"Or she's just that good at her job." Honestly, she was.

"After the ball," Steve said once the privacy glass has slid back up, "I want you out of that dress. Especially if you want to keep it."

The sly warning had you grinning. "I would like to keep it. It's the most beautiful dress I've ever seen."

"Noted," your husband said. "I'll do my best to contain myself until you get the gown to safety."

The heated looks he cut you the entire way into Boston made you wonder if he'd be able to. You couldn't wait to find out.

Once you reached the venue, you saw there was indeed an endless line of limos in the que leading up to the door. It moved surprisingly fast. Within ten minutes, Scott pulled up to the door and Yelena darted out to open the door for you. Before you could reach for her hand, Steve was there, helping you out of the back of the car with ease and ushering you up the carpeted stairs with Yelena behind you. The decorations and festive lighting dazzled you as you moved along on Steve's arm. The way the soft light reflected off the gown you wore made you feel like you were in a fairytale. 

Steve stopped and greeted more than a few gentlemen on the way into the venue. One man you recognized as a senator and the easy way the two men spoke had you curious. Did the senator know who Steve was? Were they old friends? For a moment, the two of them seemed to forget all going on around them. Just as quickly, the senator's gaze fell on you and the handsome older man smiled. 

"Is this your new bride?" the senator asked.

"She is," Steve replied, introducing you with obvious pride. You meant to shake the man's hand. He kissed the back of yours in an old fashioned gesture. You found him completely charming. 

"Have you been to the masquerade before?" the senator asked.

You shook your head. "This is my first one."

The man smiled. "I hope you enjoy tonight. If I get the chance, I'll introduce you to my wife. It's one of her favorite nights of the year."

"I'd like that," you told him. "It was nice to meet you."

Was it your imagination that Steve watched you with such wonder? Once his conversation with the senator ended, he led you further into the venue where the main ballroom was all prepared, looking like a view from a movie set. 

Clusters of elegant tables arranged in a wide horseshoe shape framed the dance floor, each adorned with lavish centerpieces sparkling beneath the soft glow of the majestic chandelier overhead. The chandelier's light cascaded down like a shimmering waterfall, casting a warm, golden hue over the room, making every surface gleam. A full bar stood ready, offering the finest drinks, while an orchestra played a symphony of enchanting melodies, weaving through the air like a spell. The room was a sea of Boston's political powerhouses, movie stars, and the wealthy elite, all dressed in exquisite gowns and tailored suits, their masks concealing only their identities—not their status. As you paused to take it all in, your husband's familiar warmth pressed against your back, grounding you in the moment as the dazzling scene unfolded before your eyes.

"What do you think?" Steve's whisper at your ear made you shiver.

"I love this," you told him with enthusiasm. "Thank you for bringing me tonight."

"You don't have to thank me." Your husband took your hand, looking like a tawny-haired prince in his tuxedo and black mask, and led you to the dance floor. Your surprise must have shown on your face because he laughed as he swept you into his arms at the edge of the dancing crowd and led you in an easy waltz.

Steve was a wonderful dancer much to your surprise. He led you with an easy grace that you delighted in and found easy to keep up with given your own love of dance. You knew you had to be staring at him but he kept you close, enjoying your surprise.

"When did you learn to dance like this?" you had to ask after he twirled you around gracefully. 

"It's not so hard," he said, his attention solely on you. "Not nearly as hard as your type of dancing."

Ballet was discipline but dancing a perfect waltz wasn't easy either. You were impressed. 

"Is this why you got us all dressed up?" you teased. "So you could show off your dancing skills?"

Steve chuckled. "Is there something wrong with wanting to have a magical night with your wife?"

You were delighted. But you knew it wasn't the only reason Steve brought you here. And now that you were involved in the family business, you weren't offended by the other reason the two of you were there.

Not long before he married you, Steve had acquired a prized property on the outskirts of Boston. He'd been so involved with marrying you and taking over the families he'd neglected it for a time. Now his attention was back on it, plans were being made to develop it. Together, you'd decided on an exclusive resort with fine dining, glitzy nightclubs, and a casino for the wealthy. It was a massive investment and to make it work, certain permits would need to be acquired. The senator and a few key businessmen there tonight could make or break the project that would expand your family's wealth. 

It was a very important night for Steve.

He'd be spending some time talking to these gentlemen tonight which is why Yelena and Scott were there, to keep you safe. You really didn't mind. You felt like Cinderella at the ball in the beautiful gown that flowed and captured the light with your movements as you danced with your husband among the wealthy citizens of the city. As the two of you moved through the dance, you caught a glimpse of Yelena, dressed in her dark suit and standing next to Scott, blending into the background. Your best friend's gaze never left you. Scott's never left her. You smiled, enjoying the beauty of the moment, dancing with your husband at your very first masquerade ball.

When the dance came to an end, it took you a moment to realize it. One of the musicians announced the band would take a short break and be back in just a few minutes. Steve's hand at your lower back urged you to turn. The senator making his way towards you with a lovely older lady at his side. 

The senator's wife was polished from head to toe. Her gown was bright pink layers of satin that matched her lipstick. Otherwise her white hair and face gave her a cold countenance, like she was an ice queen dressed for her best guess at spring. Her eyes were dark, small and mean as her gaze swept over you. The senator assured you that you and his wife would have plenty to talk about. As the woman stood there studying you with pursed lips, you decided talking to her probably wasn't the best idea.

Steve's gaze met yours and he nodded as he let the senator lead him away, leaving you with the judgy woman before you.

"This must be a special night for you," she said tartly.

Straightening your spine, you smiled. "Why is that?"

The woman's white brows rose slightly but a smile played about her lips. "You don't belong here."

"Excuse me?" You kept your smile in place.

"My father was a direct descendent from The Mayflower," she informed you. "We're practically royalty here. We built our fortune through hard work and our good name. You, on the other hand, come from poverty and crime. You father crawled out the shadows and robbed good people blind. That's why you have the money to play dress up and act like you belong here. We all know your husband fancies himself some sort of underworld prince. But he doesn't belong here either."

Oh, no, she didn't just put you and your husband down. Lifting your chin, you looked her in the eye.

"Your ancestors came over on a ship over four hundred years ago and nobody cares anymore," you told her. "You can pretend to be royalty, and tell yourself you made your money working hard and protecting your good name. But the sad truth is, your family made your money the same way mine did. In fact, your family probably paid mine to keep from getting your hands dirty or to protect your interests. And my husband is the king of Boston's underworld and so was my father before him. You may be someone in society right now, but your husband is currently anelected official. If you were smart, you'd spending a little more time being respectful."

Gracefully as you could manage, you turned your back to the rude woman and marched off. Yeah, maybe you hurt your husband's chances of getting the permits you needed for the project development once she talked to her husband. But you weren't about to put up with someone like that. 

You looked all around for Yelena. You were dying to tell her about the conversation you'd just had. But you weren't watching where you were going and you collided with someone hard.

And whoever he was, he caught you in his arms, sweeping you out onto the dance floor as another waltz began. He was as tall as your husband and the scent of his expensive cologne was familiar. You realized who held you a beat before he spoke, a low purr by your ear.

"Did you miss me, beautiful?"

Barnes.

Easing back, you glanced up at your uninvited dancing partner, wearing an aura of allure and danger with ease. Barnes' chiseled jawline was partially obscured by the intricately designed black mask he wore, adorned with silver accents catching the light. Those steely-blue eyes were shadowed but still piercing, glinting with a cold intensity as his gaze met yours.

His tuxedo was entirely black and tailored to perfection, hugging his muscular frame effortlessly. His attire seemed to absorb the light, creating a sense that he came from the shadows. Even his shirt was dark onyx, subtle embroidery only revealing itself when he moved. And he felt strong as he held you, solid and healed.

Stop staring at the man and answer.

"I haven't thought about you at all," you told him, trying to sound nonchalant but not quite hitting that note.

As much as you hated to admit it, Barnes was undeniably handsome. From the way his hair was slicked back with precision to the confident smirk curling his lips, the man was... magnetic. But there was a sinister edge beneath the polished surface. There always had been. Barnes' posture was too poised, his movements too calculated. Every inch of him whispered danger, a wolf in the presence of unsuspecting lambs.

Pulling you close to him, Barnes chuckled. "I don't believe that. I think you I live rent free in that beautiful head of yours."

"Maybe," you said, feeling his smile widen. "I do think about how I wished we'd used more poison."

Now he laughed, a deep rich sound. "I don't doubt that."

"What do you want?" You looked anywhere but at him. Still, you were so focused on the predator that held you, you weren't really seeing your surroundings. The music, the lights, everything else seemed to fade into the background.

"What do you think I want?" Barnes asked.

As Barnes swept you around the floor, your mind scrambled for a comeback. "Your hands around my throat," you said, going with honesty. "And me dead?"

Leaning in, he ran his nose gently up the column of your neck, making you shiver. "Oh, I did. I really did. And I could have made that happen."

You were dangerously close to having him think he had the upper hand here. "No, you couldn't."

Again, he chuckled. "You've got it all figured out, don't you?" Releasing you only long enough to spin you in the dance, he pulled you back into him tightly. "You made peace with your husband. You're now involved in the family business. I would call Steve a pussy for even thinking about that if it were any other woman. But you're not just any woman. But you're special."

You missed a step in your alarm. How the hell did Barnes know you were in the all the family business meetings now? And that you and Steve had made peace? The questions triggered your anxiety, reminding you of the days early in your marriage when Neal had been Barnes' rat and you were always looking over your shoulder. Was someone else talking to Barnes?

"A long time ago, your mother seduced my father," Barnes whispered. "She tore my family apart. And when you came along and you weren't the poor disfigured little girl we were told you were, I assumed you were a little whore like your mother. You look almost exactly like her. Has anyone told you that?"

You didn't answer, trying hard to put a little space between the two of you. Where was Steve? It wouldn't be too conspicuous if he broke in on the dance. If Yelena or Scott came to save you, it could create a scene and unwanted attention. 

"I even thought maybe, horrible thought I know," Barnes went on, "that you might be my half-sister. But it didn't take me long to realize that wasn't true either. Besides, that devious little mind in there, hidden behind all that beauty? You didn't get that from your mother. Or my father."

"What's it to you?" you snapped at him, trying to pull off pissed even though you held anger and fear in equal measure. "I'm Steve's wife. He's your boss. You'd do well to remember that."

Barnes was unfazed. "You're Steve's wife. For now. But he can't handle you." Barnes leaned closer, his gaze locking with yours. "You should belong to someone stronger."

Now you really were getting pissed. "I don't need you or any man, including my husband, to tell me who I am and what I should be doing," you said.

"You may be right," he purred. "But it's that attitude, that fire. It got me thinking... I had the wrong idea about you from the beginning. Yeah, all the bitterness from the past clouded my judgment for a while. I wanted you dead and buried next to your loser husband." When you tried to pull free of him, he tightened his grip. His grin widened. "Now I realize you're exactly what I need."

"For what?" You didn't know how much of your glare he got from behind your mask.

"To finally take my rightful place," he said as if it were gospel. "The position occupied by your current husband."

Current husband? Who the fuck did he think he was?

"Our children will be kings and queens," Barnes went on. "That dynasty would rule Boston for decades."

"My children with Steve will rule Boston," you told him angrily. "And when we're done with you, no one will even remember the Barnes family."

"One day," he said with meaning, leaning closer, "you'll be mine."

Despite yourself, you shivered. Barnes caught it.

"You want me too," he whispered. "I'll make you admit it."

As the song neared its end, you were prepared to do whatever you had to do to get away from the bastard, the man who'd done so much damage to your family. As the last strains of the symphony ended, Barnes released you to bow. You did curtsy to him, then you straightened.

"I will never be yours." You meant it with every fibre of your being. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find my husband."

Barnes' grin didn't fade. "Better find a way to keep him safe."

You spun on your heel, marching off the dance floor. You needed air, and a moment to calm down. You were blinking back tears, you were that angry. You felt someone on your heels as you made you way out of the main event room out ornate glass doors left open. It was chilly out there but you welcomed it, fighting back anger.

"Are you okay?" Yelena asked, her hand at your back as you gripped the railing and hung on. 

"No, I'm not... o-fucking-kay," you said, trying to regain your composure. "He came out of nowhere."

"He did," Yelena said. "He got to you so quickly after you talked to the senator's wife."

"Where's Steve?" you asked.

"Talking very intently to the senator," she replied. "It appears to be going well."

You had to wonder if that would still be true once the senator's wife caught a moment to tell her husband and your little "talk."

But you had bigger problems right now. Barnes.

"Barnes is all healed up," you told her. Looking beyond her, you saw Scott by the entranceway back into the ball. "And he's got big plans."

"He wants you," Yelena said it. "That much was obvious. It gives me some idea of his plans."

You nodded. "Don't say anything to Steve or Scott right now. I just want to find a glass of champagne to take the edge off and get through the rest of the ball."

With any luck, you could maybe enjoy one more magical dance with Steve before the evening ended.

You couldn't, however, complain. You wanted to be in on the family business and this was part of it. Barnes, unfortunately, was also part of it.  And he'd just announced his intentions to you and you realized now it was the pit that had been in your stomach the entire evening. 

Barnes would keep tearing your life apart until he was stopped. Somehow between his drastic plans and the animosity between you and your husband, you'd found your way to a happy marriage. A path to be queen in this world. And you'd be damned if you let Barnes threaten that future.

"You're going to tell Steve, right?" 

"I am." You didn't miss the concern in Yelena's voice. "I'm telling all of you. But not here."

Nodding her agreement, Yelena watched as you straightened, steeled yourself to return to the event. 

"Let's find you a glass of champagne, boss," she said with a wink.

Boss? Now that put the smile back on your face. 

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[ghostlythunderbird]

The Pack ~ First Impressions

Pairings: Alpha!Konig, Alpha!Simon “Ghost” Riley, Alpha!Keegan P. Russ X Omega!Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors/Ageless Blogs DNI, Omegaverse, Mentions of Human Trafficking and Domestic Violence, Extremist views, The UN exists here

Words: 2,784 (wow I wrote all that?!?!)

Author’s Notes: Please do not repost, edit, or translate my work. This blog and all content will be marked 18+ even if there is no NSFW content, if you are underage or have no age I don't want to deal with you. This is my first ever series so it will be updated whenever I can, due to my difficult work schedule. But please sit back and enjoy this series! Special thanks to @l-lend, @kelpiesummer, and @photogirl894 for all the help!

“Breaking News: Omega populations continue to fall.”

With recent all-time highs of Omega trafficking and high numbers of Domestic Abuse against Omegas worldwide, Omega birth rates are dwindling by the thousands in the last few years. While Omega numbers fall, other secondary gender numbers have begun to rise, with Beta birthrates rising to a staggering 84% over the last 5 years. Are omegas in danger of dying out?~

“The fall of the Omega second gender; A modern extinction?”

Over the last decade, the number of omegas of age has drastically fallen. Omegas were once considered roughly 20% of the world population and contributed to approximately 70% of birthrates worldwide; their current population barely comes to 7% across the globe, and their birthrates are almost non-existent. Could this result from unregulated access to this world bearing second gender? Will the UN seek to restabilize their population, or will omegas be at the mercy of those around them?

What had become of the world before you were born? It was a nearly lawless land, people turning on one another. The fight for breeding rights or access to an omega led Alphas into utter madness, their biology overriding common sense. Your Dam had told you stories of her childhood, how she saw the fall of an entire second gender. How awful the world indeed became, and how it rose from those ashes carrying new hope and protection to those who seek it. She remembered how fearful her Sire and Dam were during those years, but that was before new laws were established. New laws ensured the ability to return Omegas to their higher numbers to provide their protection.

During the years of the Modern Extinction, the UN scrambled to place laws worldwide to protect and nurture omega numbers. However, many early regulations did nothing to buffer the steady decline. It wasn't until an organization was formed: The Global Omega Protection and Population Program (GOPPP) was introduced. The Program had only a few essential purposes, to Pair off omegas to ensure total protection; to free and rehabilitate omegas who were victims of Trafficking and Domestic Violence. And finally, it is a form of Breeding operation to help nurture omega populations to where they were years before. Omegas who had become legal adults would be admitted to the Program to soon be matched with compatible Alphas.

The only downside to this Program was many omegas were often treated as broodmares and were often left emotionally neglected. Reduced to their primary duties of bearing Alpha and Omega children with occasional betas to be their legacy. Omegas were unable to work, much less be able to leave their dens without an Alpha to accompany them. While many Alphas believe it would be better for their mates to be allowed to do certain things without them around, the Program often overlooked their words. Over time, however, newer generations believed these precautions were beyond necessary and soon revised or added new laws to accompany them. Their latest law is; Omegas who are in public must wear protective full-length collars even with their Alphas present.

Those laws were added when you were just a pup and still living simply, unknowing of the world around you. Soon you were forced to acknowledge the dark reality you were born into when you presented; An Omega. Your parents, who were born Betas, cried when your first heat started. They had prayed you would be a Beta or even an Alpha, but it seemed their prayers fell upon deaf ears from the higher power.

Unfortunately, the Program soon discovered your presentation at 16 years old. While you were still too young to be entered into the Program, It didn't stop them from preparing for that day. You remembered those late nights hearing your parents downstairs talking about you, about your soon-to-be future. Your Dam was terrified, talking to your Sire about the stories from other omega parents. For some, they ranged from fairytale endings, but a vast majority were nothing short of horror-made flesh. Omegas were emotionally manipulated and abused by the very alphas they were entrusted to.

As you grew older, your parents decided to wait a few more years for you to enjoy life before you became tied to your future mates. You were incredibly thankful they pushed back against the Program to allow you to enjoy your young adult years. But as your Sire would say, "Whether good or bad, everything must come to an end."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The room was bare as you and your parents waited for the Omega Protection program representative to enter. You wished you were never born as an Omega; you wouldn't have to go through this Program if you weren't. Facing the fact that you would be removed from your parent's home only to be moved in with alphas you've never met before, and said Alphas were already selected for you. These alphas were being forced on you without knowing how they acted towards you or the other alphas; their past, what they looked like, and their personalities were beyond wrong to you. You were slowly being drowned in uncertainty; so many things could go wrong, hell you didn't even know if your alphas were good.

Your Dam grabbed your hand, sensing the rising anxiety in your scent. "It will be ok dear; these alphas will protect you. There is nothing to fear from this." You knew her words were supposed to feel comforting, but you couldn't help but think bitterly, 'well, it isn't you being fed to the wolves.' Before you could say anything, the door began to creak open, causing your Sire and Dam to straighten to greet the person walking in. You, however, just sunk into the couch, begging for it to open and swallow you whole.

As the door opened fully, it revealed two Betas entering, one male and one female. Their scents were almost non-existent as they stepped further into the room before sitting on the couch across from your family. "Good Morning, Mr. and Ms. (L/N); we're delighted you're here. My name is Matthew, and my partner is Hannah." The male beta spoke as he gestured to the woman beside him. "We will handle your daughter's case and pack introduction today." At the brief mention of you, the Betas locked onto your form. Noticing your rising anxiety, the female beta spoke up to clear the air.

"And you must be (y/n); I'm sure this is very overwhelming for you, but rest assured we have made plenty of healthy matches over the years," Her voice was quiet yet soft as the words fluttered from her lips. You could only briefly smile; she wanted you to trust her and her judgment. But even with that, you couldn't help but dread your matches. The fact you had to blindly trust two strangers who picked your lifelong mates was beyond unnerving.

Hannah leaned back into the couch, making herself comfortable. "now, before we introduce you and your parents to your new pack, we have a few things to discuss before we bring them in, ok?" The tension in the air was heavy as Matthew and Hannah shared a look before continuing. "Well, you know our priority is to pair all omegas with a pack of alphas to ensure their safety and increase omega birthrates. That being said, the pack selected for you is not exactly regular by our standards." That wasn't what you expected; you couldn't decide if you were more worried or curious about this confession.

This pack may be more interesting than you had initially thought. The dark-headed male cleared his throat, continuing, "This pack was already together before their application to our Program; these alphas are also active military with clean records. Two originate from Europe while the other is from the US; along with that, one of these alphas just so happens to be an uh...Apex alpha." Upon hearing this, the air in your lungs evaporated in mere seconds as a chill ran down your spine. This pack had seemed almost too good to be true, but with information, it only made you dread your initial meeting. Apexes were often found to be extremely dangerous, unable to control themselves in high emotional and hormonal situations.

Your Sire drew in a breath. "So what does that mean for our daughter? Why in the hell was she assigned to an Apex?" His growl filled the air. Also, being a beta, your father was not at threatening as an alpha could be, but with a protective Sire, anyone would be cautious with their following decisions. Matthew grew stiff. "With all due respect, sir, we've gone through an extensive background check with this apex. The alphas packed with him are his fellow service members who can fully vouch for him." Your eyes widened, a packed apex with people who know how he works; this pack was unusual and rare. 'Well, from what it sounds like so far, they don't seem like bad people. Maybe this is one of those lucky matches.'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He couldn't stand; still, the chairs were far too small for him, and standing in the quiet room only made his nerves light up more than they already were. König paused to look at the door; it was closing to an hour since the three alphas were left in the room. The beta Hannah had told them to wait a few minutes, and they'd bring in their omega and her family. His body responded to the thought; after so many years of rejection letter after another, this felt like some sick prank to the Austrian apex. He was so nervous that he couldn't stay still, pacing back and forth and wiping his palms along his jeans.

His companions couldn't help but tease the anxiety-ridden giant. "König, relax, man. If you keep pacing, you might carve out a path in the floor." The dark-headed alpha joked as he shifted in his chair. While König was the most visibly anxious of the trio, Keegan attempted to keep himself calm, even with the bubbling excitement growing in his gut. Keegan's eyes traveled across the room, glancing between furniture and the small window. 'Not much cover, but at least it would be difficult for a potential sniper.'

"At least he's standin' up, be less of a shock to 'er." Ghost's voice echoed through the small room, breaking his zoned-out stare for a split second. The alpha had taken the only viable spot and backed into the furthest corner facing the doorway. Keegan snorted at the other alpha's remark; he knew it was true. König was massive on a human scale, but more so because he was an apex alpha. Before he could respond to the blonde-haired alpha, he heard two pairs of footsteps coming down the hall. Leaning up in his chair, Keegan sounded a low chuff to gain the other's attention before nodding towards the door.

Ghost made no move to his form; König, however, rushed to fix his messy hair to appear somewhat presentable. Keegan gave König a reassuring nod right before the door opened, and the heavenly scent of an omega swept through the small space. First, the Program's beta entered but then appeared their soon-to-be omega mate. 'Jesus, she's so.....small compared to us.' You ducked your head as the alphas zeroed in on you once you passed the threshold. Looking towards the blonde and black-haired alphas, you couldn't help but think that this wasn't as bad until you turned to look at, by far, the largest alpha you'd ever seen. His size had taken you aback, and the previous thought of being able to handle this pack was thrown entirely out the window.

Hannah gently rested her hand on your shoulder to regain your attention "(Y/N) meet your pack; first, we have Keegan Russ." Pointing to the smallest alpha, his eyes caught your attention first. They were a beautiful grey-blue that seemed to freeze you in place but also held a hidden sadness underneath them. Even with him being the smallest of the three, he knew he had a certain charm. His stature, eyes, and confident yet arrogant attitude had people flocking to him no matter their presentation. "Next, we have Ghost; that is his preferred name for now." The alpha in the corner made no attempt to move as his eyes raked over you before giving a slight nod. While his face was covered by a black medical mask, it didn't take away from his rugged beauty much; a mop of blonde hair with hooded brown eyes that slightly shined. Turning toward the last alpha, you could feel the tension between the betas and him. "Finally, we have the apex, König." She didn't seem too keen about him being here. A wave of well-maintained anger for what he was seemed to drive her not to acknowledge him; you couldn't help but feel a twinge of hurt toward him.

Although he had a large size, he seemed to fold in on himself, attempting to appear smaller to not scare you away. Unfortunately, you couldn't see much of him other than his eyes, a blue that reminded you of the ocean. "well, we will leave you all to get acquainted while we finish the paperwork and have her parents gather her things." With a final look over her shoulder, Hannah closed the door behind her leaving you with your new pack. Looking towards the alphas whose gaze tore into you, you could only give a slight grin "u-uh, hi there!"

Before you knew it, they all moved at once; while it wasn't swift, it still caused you to reel back slightly. You knew you couldn't just leave, so you forced yourself to stay still as Ghost reached towards you to grab your wrist in a firm hold. He brought your wrist close to his nose so he could capture your scent adequately, only releasing a deep chuff before slowly letting your wrist fall back to your side. The large apex released his own chuff before drawing in a breath. "H-Hallo omega, or (Y/N) w-which ever you want us to call you. If you even want us to use your name." His stuttering surprised you; how could this large apex even stutter? There was no reason for his nervousness, or so you thought.

Keegan stepped forward, touching the larger alpha's enormous bicep. "Take it easy, König; I doubt she's gonna bite you, right, Doll?" His joking tone helped ease the remaining tension in the room. 'At least these guys could take and make jokes,' You thought as you gave Keegan a toothy smile. "Only if you want me to, big guy." Giving the apex a wink, sending his gaze to the floor in embarrassment, and driving a laugh out of Ghost and Keegan.

The new-found atmosphere dissipated once a knock sounded on the other side of the door. Matthew and Hannah were soon looking in to check in on the four of you. "Well, everything is in order; I'm sure you are ready to head home. So we will allow Ms.(Y/N) to say her goodbyes to her parents before you all leave." Oh, that's right; you had forgotten you were being moved out of your parent's home and into your shared home with these alphas. Looking back at your parents, you caught sight of your Dam trying to clean up her remaining tears. While your Sire attempted to keep a stone face for you. Lunging towards them, your Dam and Sire tangled you up in their arms, whispering, "It will be ok little love; you'll see us again." "Please text us at least so we know your adjusting, ok?"

It broke your heart to leave them, but you all knew this was in your best interest. Drawing back from them, you reached to wipe away a few stray tears on your cheeks. "I love you guys. I'll try and stay in touch, I promise." Your words catch slightly in your throat. Stepping away from your parents, you looked towards the three alphas who stood off to the side, not wanting to rush your goodbye.

Stepping towards them, you stopped when Keegan and König took their places on either side of you. Ghost had left to pull their vehicle around, and as you started walking towards the main entrance, König offered his hand to you. "Don't worry Schatz, we will all die for you as long as it means you are safe." His words send a wave of heat through your body by his bold declaration. With a final look back toward your parents, you offered them a bright grin as you were guided away.

'Everything will be ok."

Tag list: @l-lend, @kelpiesummer, @wintersnnowie, @operatorinvestigatesco, @marytvirgin

Once again this is my first ever series so I apologize if somethings need work, am still a wee babe in the writing world XD

Translations: Schatz (German) - Treasure

[madeinjapan-thailand-blbambeyond]

MADE IN THAILAND

Series: Your Sky

SUPPAKARN JIRACHOTIKUL

[Nickname: POR]

WANPICHIT NIMITPARKPOOM

[Nickname: TEETEE]

[catcze]

⠀「 Grocery Shopping *ೃ༄ 」 

Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

「 FEAT : 」 Kazuha, Xiao, Thoma, Ayato, Alhaitham

「 ### : 」 gn reader, domestic fluff, established relationship, modern au

Reposted from my secondary blog !!

⠀「 KAZUHA*ೃ༄ 」

An absolute sweetheart who insists on pushing the cart or carrying the basket for you !!

Sticks pretty close to your grocery list, though if something interesting catches his eye he might pick it up and show it to you in hopes to convince you to get it.

His choices in food are of the healthier variety, I feel like. Mostly goes for organic choices, and is pretty well-learned in knowing which fruits, veggies and fish are the freshest and which are the closest to spoiling.

Tbh grocery shopping with Kazuha is so ?? Chill? Like, little to no stress, swear.

It’s just very easy and relaxing, walking through the aisles at a leisurely pace and plucking stuff off of shelves. You two talk about whatever you want as you walk, or sometimes you sing along to the music that plays from the speakers.

If something is too tall for either of you two to reach there’s no problem!! Kazuha can jump pretty damn high so he can reach the tip-top shelf easy peasy ♡

I feel like Kazuha also has a secret sweet tooth? Nothing too wild, but you’d catch him eyeing a pack of marshmallows every now and then, or staring a little too long at a tub of ice cream.

If you seamlessly pluck up whatever sweet he’s debating on getting and put it into the cart, he’ll literally light up and give you a sweet smooch on ur nose :((

⠀「 XIAO*ೃ༄ 」

To his credit !! He’s pretty damn decent as a grocery buddy. 

Xiao’s a little introverted, typically choosing not to be around other people for very long periods of time, so him actually volunteering to come with you nearly moved you to tears.

He also pushes the cart from you and keeps track of your grocery list, crossing stuff out for you without you even having to tell him.

Xiao doesn’t talk much, which isn’t very out of the ordinary, but he does give some helpful suggestions when you’re indecisive about something. And he’s very pragmatic and straightforward when he helps you make your decisions, too, so it’s very time-efficient having him with u ♡

He barely asks for anything that isn’t on the list tbh? I dunno, I guess he just doesn’t feel the need to. Not to mention, he’s not particularly picky when it comes to his meals either, so he’s content to sit back and let you take the reins for restocking the fridge. 

If his eyes sparkle a little when he sees you picking up ingredients for almond tofu, you choose not to tease him about it.

Definitely the one to try and bring all the grocery bags to the car in one go. And??? He somehow manages it to ??? You have no idea how, or how the guys somehow managed to hold your hand while also toting all those grocery bags but ?? Hey, you’re not complaining. 

⠀「 THOMA*ೃ༄ 」

I shit you not Thoma is the best person to go shopping with. Hands down.

Thoma doesn’t go to the supermarket for his groceries, actually. Or at least not all of them. For some stuff that have to be imported or that are a bit harder to come by locally, he goes to the groceries and such.

However, when it comes too food shopping, his first stop are the farmers markets!

He’s already a regular at the local farmer’s market. Old grannies love to pinch his cheeks whenever they see him and they always coo over you two being an adorable couple.

Thoma leads you by the hand all around the farmer’s market the entire time you’re out, knowing which stall to go to for the freshest produce and the most decent price. 

Knows how to bargain with the locals without being disrespectful! And he always manages to net really good discounts. If you ask him how he does it, he’ll wink and tell you that it’s just his charm. And you can’t fully disagree.

Definitely brings around his own eco-bags, too. He’s used to carrying all the groceries on his own, but if you offer to help he’ll thank you with a kiss and a smile.

At one point while you two separate to cover more ground, he passes by a stall ran by an old couple and their grandkid that sells flowers. He gets you a bouquet— nothing too big that’s hard to carry around, but something small and cute that you can press between your books and display.

When you reunite and he gives you the gift, he looks so goddamn precious holding out the flowers to you with his smile that u just wanna give him a kiss ♡

⠀「 AYATO*ೃ༄ 」

If Thoma is a god-send to be with when grocery shopping, Ayato is… nicely put, the exact opposite.

Listen I don’t blame the man. He’s rich enough that he’s never really had to do his own groceries before, so he’s a bit out of his element when he accompanies you to do it one day, but it’s still cute that he cleared a part of his busy schedule to help you out with this. He’s a little confused, but he’s got the spirit (and a pretty face, which helps.)

Motherfucker picks up some incredibly overpriced caviar, looks at the price tag ( $95 !!! For 30 grams what the fuck !!! ) nods to himself like he remembers you having that shit on your grocery list (you do not) and would have plunked it into your cart if you didn’t catch him in time.

He reasons that he’s tried this brand before and that it’s a very delicious-tasting one that you should try yourself, and his reasons are honestly pretty sweet, but it doesn’t change the fact that you don’t need the goddamn caviar. When you try to tell him that you don’t have the budget for it, he offers to get it for you which, again sweet and it makes you want to kiss him, but that’s not the point Ayato !!

Aside from his ignorance inexperience with how much a typical grocery run costs, there’s also the fact that this guy can’t cook for shit. As a result, if he’s not tossing rich person food into your cart, he’s placing shit that should under no circumstances be mixed together in the cart, claiming that he thinks the combination sounds nice to consume.

Ayato, dearest, I love you, but what the fuck is a Cheeto mango shiitake salad ?????? 

⠀「 ALHAITHAM*ೃ༄ 」

The mf who makes a detailed shopping list, complete with the specific brand of the item you’re looking for, the exact amount, the exact price for said amount plus quantity, and then several alternate brands if the one he was aiming for sells out. All of these are entirely researched before hand.

Well, he either does that, or he goes for he most outrageous expensive shit you’ve every seen.

And no half of the time he doesn’t even throw in the $60 per kilogram cheese because he likes it— he does it because he kinda enjoys pissing off a certain blond architect who invites himself over to sleep on your couch rather often.

It’s usually up to you to cross your arms and stare Alhaitham down, quietly judging him for a petty bitch while he crosses his own arms and stares back at you, one eyebrow raised in the way that makes you not sure if you want to punch him or kiss him.

Sometimes you win and with a sigh, your boyfriend quietly turns and goes off to acquire the next item on his incredibly detailed list, leaving you to put his purchase back as you victoriously fist pump to yourself.

Other times, he wins and you throw your arms up, rolling your eyes so hard as you try not to look at his smirk for fear of actually punching him (or, you know, kissing him and flagrantly having public displays of affection.)

Fine! You say to him with a huff that’s not actually angry. Keep your goddamn parmigiano reggiano. 

You can never feel huffy about it for long, though— not when you find an extra tub of your favorite ice cream later as you put the groceries away. 

[miueo]

repost ︐ squeaky clean — pub. 100723

warnings : shower sex , unprotected sex , petnames ( angel + baby ) , slight size kink , crying , oral ( m. receiving ) , etc .

pairings : softdom!hyunjin ♡ sub!reader

notes : i deleted my previous acct due to the fact i was posting my writings underneath a secondary blog ! i am not stealing anyone’s work, this is my writing.

the soothing and enjoyable sensation arises as the gentle, cascading water from the showerhead makes contact with your skin.

its as if a tender embrace of moisture graces your body, caressing you in a manner that brings forth a sense of relaxation and rejuvenation.

this gentle pressure of the water serves as a gentle massage, breathing life into your senses and washing away the cares of the day, leaving you feeling refreshed and revitalized.

your eyes closed, lathering your foamy body wash all over your body.

soft inhales and exhales leave your body.

you felt like you were in heaven, what could possibly go wrong?

who could possibly interrupt your alone time?

-

“mind if I join you..” a naked broad silhouette was shown behind the foggy-steamed covered glass door.

your eyes shut open, gasping loudly, “you scared me! I thought you were some axe murderer..” you whined, sliding this shower door open for your beloved, hyunjin to join you.

hyunjin giggled mischievously before soaking his hair and body under the showerhead, “sorry about that~! I just wanted to spend time with my angel.”

you couldn't help but giggle back, he was so cute. not only that, but you couldn't help but look at his god-sculpted body.

hyunjin is the most perfect man to roam on this earth.

his shoulders, broad and powerful, bear the promise of capability and determination. each line and curve of his muscles tells a story of dedication and hard work. his arms, sculpted with precision, are both formidable and inviting, capable of both protecting and embracing with tenderness.

bur it’s not just his physicality that makes hyunjin’s body perfect; it’s the way he carries himself. his posture is impeccable, exuding confidence and charisma. every step he takes seems deliberate and purposeful as if he’s navigating the world with an innate sense of elegance.

his eyes, framed by strong brows, hold a spark of curiosity and intelligence that draws you in. his smile is warm and infectious, radiating a genuine kindness that makes you feel at ease in his presence.

just thinking about it makes you want to drool and salivate over him.

-

“earth to [y/n]… hello?” your lucid daydreaming was cut short by the soft voice of your boyfriend!

you were staring a little too much. clearly.

you shook your head in denial, rotating your body the opposite direction, resuming your exfoliating.

“u-um yeah? I was just thinking about what to do after this shower!!! totally~! (ノ▽〃)” you blushed, you couldn’t think of a proper excuse to cover up your staring problem.

hyunjin smirked cheekily before lathering his body with soap, “totally.” he responded with sarcasm.

great! now he thinks you’re a nasty little pervert!

little did you know, he was doing the exact same thing as you. he was genuinely eye-fucking you.

too bad you’re horrible at taking social cues. </3

“come here angel..” he demands, and of course you don't hesitate to do as he says, you slowly make your way to him, looking up at him with doe eyes. you were heavily intoxicated by his presence.

“it’s been too long since we’ve been together like this.. i missed you.” you whine and bury your face into his soft chest, he smelt so good, too good.

“i missed you even more, i wanna stay like this with you forever.” he sighed, brushing his hands against your waist down to the back of your thighs.

“me too.. i missed you more.” you whimpered, slowly going down to your knees, leaving soft pecks and kisses on your boyfriend’s pelvic bone to the tip of his hard and pink cock.

hyunjin looks down at you with his eyes hooded, the sweet and wholesome aura of the room transitions into an intimate and sensual atmosphere.

“the things you do to me, angel.” he moans softly whilst you leave soft generous kisses on his length.

a peck on one side, a lick on his veins, and your lips around his cock right after.

you couldn’t help but grind your little cunt againt the shower floor while inneed of friction as you bob your head back and forth at a slow pace, constantly gripping onto your boyfriend’s legs for support.

hyunjin adored you, his hand makes his way to your head, guiding you to pick up the pace.

his other hand was placed on your hair, moving stray bits of hair away from your precious little face. you’re the prettiest doll, he loved seeing you like this.

“so fucking good to me.. don’t stop till i say so..” he grunts, thrusting hiself into your tight little mouth gently, not wanting to asphyxiate you.

were you dreaming? is this even real? what did i do to be in this position?, was all you had thought about in your little head. you literally cannot believe how far you’ve come.

“okay baby enough, i need cum in you, not in your mouth.” hyunjin pulls away as a you nodded softly, picking yourself up from the floor.

you bury yourself back into his body, sitting him down on the shower stool before climbing onto his lap.

you cried out and pouting your plumped lips, “i want you in me..!! i want your fingers and cock..please please please!!”

“all you had to do was ask, angel. whatever you want, i’ll do it for you.” he giggles, carressing your wet body before smoothing stroking and rubbing your soaked clit and labia, soon plunging his long fingers into your warm hole.

you gripped onto his shoulders, closing your eyes shut from the sudden sensation of his long skinny fingers touching the spots you couldn’t reach on your own.

preparing your hole for something bigger and better, just by thinking about makes you want to release your sweet yummy juices all over his digits.

“look at you, so adorable and vulnerable under my touch. tell me how bad you want me. beg for me more and i’ll think about giving you what you really want, hm?”

you wanted to sucker punch him for being so hot.

“b-baby..~! please give me more.. i-i need you.. i need you in m-me..” your voice alters to a higher pitch, already feeling overstimulated by the pleasure.

hyunjin was satisfied, he knew you were ready for the great finale.

he removes his fingers from your hole, replacing them with his hard monsterous cock. you didn’t even to worry about adjusting yourself. your insides were made for him, he slipped into you with ease from how absurdly wet you were.

he was strong enough to use you like a little toy, his hands gripping onto your waist, lifting you up and down on his cock with little to no effort.

mantras of cries leave your throat as tears of pleasure and glee run down your cheeks.

soft skin-clapping, moans, and whines from you and hyunjin filled the entire bathroom.

“i’m about to let it out.. please.” hyunjin huffed out, bitting his lips before pulling you into a deep kiss.

you were so paralyzed by pleasure that all you could do was sob and whimper. it all ends with his painting your gummy walls white, and you leaving a mess all over his cock.

you and him sat there in silence, your bodies pressed onto each other, soft panting, and the sound of the water hitting the floor accompanying this very moment.

“hungry..?” hyunjin whispered exhaustedly.

“mmh.. yeah.” you replied.

“how about we clean ourselves up again and then order some food..” he giggles softly, stroking your back.

“sounds like a great plan!” you stretched out your body.

fin.

[lazyjellyfish300]

💘 jelly. ♎︎ 🇹🇴 . 27 years old. infp. lover of rain, romance, breakfast, and coffee. kento's darling and shiu's doll face. ᥫ᭡

-Hello! ♡ Welcome to my blog where I write and gush about my fictional husbands. I am on AO3, however I am less active & my full works are on Tumblr only. I self ship with Kento Nanami and Shiu Kong and (frequently) get delulu/unhinged on here, fair warning. Enjoy your stay. ☕ @squidwardscranberryjuice is my secondary home. Most interactions/posts will be from here. 🫶🏽

PLEASE HAVE SOME KIND OF AGE INDICATOR IN YOUR BIO OR A PINNED POST. I periodically block blank blogs.

-who I write for: Miguel O'Hara (ATSV), Kento Nanami (JJK), Atsuya Kusakabe (JJK), Shiu Kong (JJK), Peter B. Parker (ATSV), Ben Reilly (ATSV)♡ open to writing for others, NO underage.

-requests:

Fics: CLOSED

Spider-Verse SMAU: OPEN

Moodboards: OPEN

Rules/More info:

1. MINORS DNI. 18+only. I write/ reblog adult content.

2. I write angst, fluff, and smut. If anything I write/reblog is darker in subject matter, I'll tag it. Kindly let me know if I forget.

3. If you want to be tagged in any of my works, let me know.

4. This blog is most likely not spoiler-free.

5. For requests sent via inbox/asks: basic etiquette i.e. (greeting, please and thank you) is preferred, otherwise it may go ignored. This is mostly for anon asks that are hard to interpret and can come across as demanding. This does NOT apply if I know you well or we are moots.

6. I have a family outside of Tumblr and updates can take me a while. Patience is much appreciated.

💘 masterlist 1 | masterlist 2

💘 spider-verse smau masterlist

💘 fluff/kinktober '24 masterlist

💘12 days of smutmas '24 masterlist

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©lazyjellyfish300 Please do not copy / plagiarize / edit / translate / feed into AI any of my work / content! Ok with reposts to other sites/fic lists but you MUST CREDIT ME. Thank you !! 𖤣𖥧

dividers by @/saradika-graphics. heart gif from pinterest

[martiandmichelle]

Answering You and Other Stuff

I (Marti), as well as the other ladies of Mountain Media, are doing our best to answer your messages, mail, and comments. I do think we're doing better. But be patient with us; we're still going to miss some things. Our priority of response is (1) mail to our inbox; (2) comments to our posts; (3) messages; (4) reblogs. We'll occasionally write to new followers or to someone who reblogs a lot of our stuff. (Reblogging will ALWAYS get you noticed!) We won't engage in a long list of your write us; we respond to you; you respond to our response; we respond to your response of our response - you get the idea, right? We get A LOT of communications and we'll do our best to respond but our "jobs" can sometimes keep us busy day and night.

On another topic: our blogs have always had lots of descriptions about our sex lives. On this Tumblr blog, we're going to reduce that in favor of more photos/gifs. However, we're going to open a secondary blog where we'll go into more of the details of our sex lives, especially mine.

We also plan to start populating our long dormant Blogger (Blogspot) site which will be reposting stuff from Tumblr. Also, Blogger used to let us post more X rated stuff (think blowjobs and nipple sucking) that Tumblr censors. We'll let you know when this is active again.

Lastly: THANK YOU FOR ALL THE MESSAGES, MAIL, AND COMMENTS RECENTLY! That's what keeps us going. Please, PLEASE keep it up!

Love you guys,

Marti