#Table Top : Dust To Digital

[ceilidho]

prompt: reader is hired as a live in house cleaner because ghost is always away and he only comes back on leave and he insists she stay in the guest room. Over time he increasingly acts like she’s his live in girlfriend or something. Very confusing for reader lmao.

-

The job comes at the exact right time. 

The way you stumble onto your new job is a bit dicey, if you’re being honest. You’ve been meaning to get out of the waitressing life for a while—the tips are shit and the number of times that you’ve had your backside pinched has slowly but steadily climbed into the double digits. You just haven’t had direction; somewhere to go. 

Your savior comes in the form of a six foot plus soldier. Oh, he doesn’t tell you that, but his body language speaks for itself. 

At first, even the sight of him makes your belly clench and palms sweat like when you watch rock climbing documentaries or parkour videos online (all moist and clammy and you have to wipe them on your jeans before shaking his hand). He’s a one-time customer at your little roadside diner that gradually becomes a repeat offender. 

He comes at odd times, sometimes disappearing for a month or two before he’s back to sitting in the booth at the back of the diner with his back against the wall. You smile shakily when you pour him coffee after coffee. He never eats. Always sits in the same booth, dressed in the same black hoodie that does nothing to hide the sheer size of him and a black surgical mask that he never removes. He has a sixth sense for when you’re watching him from behind the counter, waiting for him to take a sip.

You never do catch a glimpse of his face. Not completely anyway. You know him only by the faint smell of gunpowder and metal that clings to him like a second skin, and the feeling of his calloused hand against yours. 

Like ice slowly chipping off a glacier that one day cracks, a huge chunk splintering off and crashing into the sea, you know nothing about him until you’re suddenly in his house. Simon, he tells you, and the sound of his name awakens something in you. He needs a housekeeper and you need a reason to leave. 

You quit the diner; barely even put in a week’s notice. 

The day you drive up the long beaten road up to his property, a cabin deep in the English countryside, clear blue skies follow you. Clouds crisp, delicate even. Simon takes you through the house, showing you to the guest room where you’ll be staying while he’s away. He never directly confirms your suspicions, but the faint tightness around his eyes when he mentions his job tells you all you need to know. No wonder he needs someone to keep the house in order. Never around to do it himself.

Then he’s gone, swift as a ghost. You wake up in the guest room to a hastily scrawled note on your bedside table and a faint feeling of loss. 

You scrub tiles and dust the top bit of the fan that everyone always misses; you mow the lawn, clean the gutters, and sit under the shade of a poplar tree with a glass of lemonade in the early evenings. If you look up into the tree, you’ll see spiders and squirrel nests. It’s almost therapeutic. 

Weeks pass at a time. Simon reemerges like clear skies between periods of rain. Sometimes even before you wake up, you can feel the change like lighting sizzling in the air, crackling hot under your fingertips and then stumbling into the kitchen to find him leaning against the counter, coffee already brewing. You blush into an apology that he waves off.

Good soldier. Better boss. 

You fall into a routine, something of a cadence that is only interrupted by Simon’s hands on your hips when he moves you out of the way to grab a mug from the top shelf. His finger brushing over the curve of your cheekbone to wipe away flour smudged on your cheek. Then he’s gone again, passing through like a ghost. 

Perhaps he’s a more tactile man than you originally assumed. Something about the way he held himself in those first few weeks in the diner suggested otherwise, the way he seemed to radiate a latent hostility. Do not get close. You read this in the general slope of his eyebrows and the scars across his muscled forearms up until he reaches out to touch you, growing more and more comfortable with you around.

“You alright, love?” said into your ear on a warm night when Simon materializes onto the couch beside you, practically out of thin air. Your heart almost bursts in your chest. 

When you turn, he’s as beautiful as ever, honey burnt eyes staring out from behind a balaclava this time. Still dresses in his standard issue tactical pants, the faint smear of grime and gore around the ankles. There’s a lump in your throat when you smile. 

He smells richer now. Deeper, like the forest floor. Like crawling through mud and spider webs and a thick, cloying miasma of desperation. 

“Sorry—I didn’t know you’d be back,” you apologize, going to rise up to your feet. It feels wrong to commandeer his house when he’s on leave, even though you live here too.

A heavy hand on your shoulder pulls you down, settling you to his side. “Off your feet now—there you go, atta girl. No sense getting up; show’s not even done.” 

He angles you back to face the TV and tugs you into his lap almost effortlessly. You do not look back, even when you feel him slip the balaclava off, hot breath fanning over your neck. Not even when fingers play over the thin line of skin where your shirt rides up. You blink like your eyes are gummy and try not to shudder when his thumb dips underneath your shirt.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Follow You Anywhere 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, controlling behavoiour, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You're online existence threatens to leak into your real life.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note: I couldn't help myself.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

"So... this is what it looks like today?" You aim your camera at the sky outside your window, "sorry, the screen is kinda in the way."

You let out a nervous chuckle and flip the camera to yourself. You make a silly face. You were never overly fond of your image on the screen but the vlogs help. Like a little diary, mostly for yourself. You and your seven followers on Insta.

You bat your lashes and fix the clip in your hair, "oh, I got this free. Yeah, I bought a new hair oil and they threw this in the bag." You let your thoughts run wild from your tongue. You found a journal too daunting, the blank lines leaving you just as empty. This is easier. "Anyway, I shouldn't have spent the money to begin with."

You give another splintered laugh. The one you let out when you're anxious, or scared, or happy, or even mad.  You bite your lip and catch yourself in your digitized reflection. You stop and turn your camera to your bedroom.

"Today, I'm gonna clean this mess. Me and you guys together."

You scour the room with the lens. Your laundry is piled on the floor and you have a stack of books you need to put on the shelf. It isn't the worst it's been but it's getting cluttered.

"But first, we'll have breakfast, can't start the stream on an empty stomach," you chirp and nearly drop the phone, "oops, uh..." You fix your grip and check the number in the corner. You have one viewer; on a good day, it's three, most days, it's just you talking to the void.

You go into the kitchen, just down the short hall from your bedroom, opening into your living room. You go to the counter and prop up the phone so the camera is on you again. You tap your fingers and hum.

"What should we have for breakfast?" You ask. You don't feel as crazy talking to yourself even if there's really no one watching. "Oo, French toast. Gotta use up the eggs."

You go to the fridge and pull out the eggs and the milk. You bring them back to the counter, shuffling around for a bowl, a whisk, and the cinnamon.

You mix up your ingredients and dip the bread, one piece at a time. You put on a skillet and fry up the slices, presenting a stack of three to the camera. You smile and dust some icing sugar over the top.

“Probably shouldn't have all this sugar for breakfast,” you shrug at the camera, “alright, quick break…” 

You put the stream onto the ‘back soon’ page and take your plate to the small foldout table against the wall. You're not a fan of eating on camera. You finish and rinse up before snatching your phone up again.

You return to your bedroom and put the phone on a middle shelf and flip the stream back to live. Still that one viewer…

“Anyway, I'm back,” you wave at the lens.

You hesitate, looking around as you stand straight and spin. Cleaning, right. Before you can set to work, the phone dings.

A message?

You go back to your phone and squint at the chat bubble floating up.

‘Looked delicious too.’

“It was,” you agree with a grin, “thanks.”

‘Don't mean the toast.’

The next message has you blinking. Your nape burns. They can't mean… you clear your throat and giggle.

“Well, let's get started,” you back up and clap your hands, “you know, I've been so carried away with work. This place is a pigsty.”

You sit on the floor and sort through the clothes. You toss them into the basket as you sit in silence. You stop yourself and glance at the phone.

“How about some tunes?” 

You walk on your knees to your bedside and turn on your bluetooth speaker. You go to your phone and find a playlist before pulling the stream back to full screen. As you do, you hear a noise you've never heard before.

‘BourbonBear has tipped.’ Huh? Really?

“Oh, thanks, er, BourbonBear,” you giggle around the name, “how nice. Maybe one day I can afford a proper camera for this, huh?”

You smile and go back to the dirty clothes. You quickly ball up a pair of panties and shove them in the basket. You carry on until they're all untangled.

You move on and tidy your desk, bending underneath to gather up a few loose pens. You make your way around the bedroom, putting away books, fixing the blankets on the bed, and straightening the little figurines on the shelf above the bed.

You grab the stick vacuum and suck up the dirt and proclaim your task done. It took a lot longer than you thought. It's after eleven. The one viewer is still there.

“Whew, okay, I'm gonna get myself washed up and go to the park. Maybe I'll post that later,” you give a thumbs up next to your head as you talk to the phone, “thank you.”

You end the stream and let out a sigh. Your videos aren't much and you doubt they're very interesting but it's like venting for you. Almost like having an invisible friend. You think you will take some pictures of the flowers to share.

🧸

You take your usual path through the park. The walks help you unwind your worries. You try to come after work at least a couple days during the week and both days on the weekend. You find the mindlessness of the routine to be calming.

The deeper you get into the wooded length of the path, you slow to admire the birds in the branches and the critters crawling in the brush. You take out your phone and snap a few photos of a blue jay before it wings away shyly. You smile and flip the cam, smiling as you take a goofy selfie. You can add that to your post.

The path winds ahead and you follow it in the din, listening to the river just down the incline to your left and the tweeting from the sky. You lift your face and inhale the woodsy scent. The sudden crack of a twig startles you and you spin to face the noise. There's no one there. Sometimes you forget other people are free to just walk on through.

You chuckle at yourself and continue on. The path leads out to a suburban street where you like to look at the houses. They're much more spacious and pretty than your grimy brick apartment building.

You come out from the shade of the trees and wander along the avenue. There's a mailbox painted to look like the house it stands before and a little nook for second hand children's books to be borrowed through the neighbourhood. Sometimes you picture yourself living in one of those houses though you don't think it could ever truly be.

As you crane your head, you sense a shadow in your peripheral. You're walking a bit slow. You sidle to the side to get out of the way of the other pedestrian. When no one passes, you look back. No one.

You must be imagining things. You shrug and plod along. You're already thinking of what kind of tea you'll have when you get in.

🧸

You sit down with your mug of ginger citrus tea and set to editing your post. You add a light filter to the photos as you shuffle through them on your laptop. The process is slow as the computer is nearly five years old now and chuffing on its 4GB drive. You get to the selfie you snapped, a stop.

You lean in to get a better glimpse of the background. It's fuzzy but there's a figure just over your shoulder. How could that be? You looked and there was no one there. That's so strange.

You stare as a chill courses through you. You're thankful you hadn't put your earphones in. You wouldn't have heard whoever it was and they may have even snuck up on you. Or maybe it's just a trick of the light.

You hit ‘post’ and try to shake off the foreboding. It's nothing. You're being silly. Besides, you're home and safe now. Next time, you'll be more alert.

A message pops up. You stare at the dot over the chat bubble. You tap with your thumb and bring up the DMs.

'Stream tonight?' BourbonBear asks.

You tilt your head. You already did some today. You're tired and want to lie down and enjoy your time off. You type back 'sorry, not tonight. tomorrow <3' and another notification vibrates. A comment on your latest post.

'Pretty sweater', also from BourbonBear. You heart their comment and leave a thanks below.

You flip back to the selfie. You can't really see your sweater in the picture, just the scalloped knitting of the collar. Well, you suppose it does look cute. You put your phone down and leave it on your desk. That's enough Insta for today.

🧸

You time your shopping trip for the least busy hour. It's early and the store is almost empty except for employees stacking bread on shelves or wandering listlessly around the deli. You have your phone in the basket of the cart, aimed at you as you roll it along slowly and check your list.

The stream is just as empty. It's only just started but you don't expect too many people to be up at this hour. You stop and grab a loaf of sourdough, checking the date before showing it to the lens and putting it in the cart. You smile and announce the next item.

"Strawberries... you know I was thinking I might get raspberries instead," you say, catching the eye of one of the yawning employees. You must seem like a weirdo. It's why you typically don't film in public.

As you roll around to the fruit, you notice the count change. One viewer. You choose a basket of raspberries and show those. You see a message float up; morning.

You smile and return the greeting softly and place the berries down carefully beside your phone. You need yogurt to go with the berries.

You work down the list, making some substitutes as you tick off each item. You linger in the ice cream section a bit too long and talk yourself out of a gallon of rocky road. You lean on the handle of the cart and smile down at the lens.

"Going to check out," you say, "see you all later."

All? There's still just the one. You end the stream and take your phone out of the basket.

You wheel around to checkout and line up at the only open till. You put your items up as you greet the cashier with a smile. She seems tired as she gives a dull response.

As you put the yogurt on the belt, you sense someone join the queue behind you. You glance over as a large man stands only feet away. He's tall and burly and staring at you. Maybe he heard you talking to your audience, or he would think, yourself. You continue to unload your groceries.

"Never tried those," he comments as you take out a box of strawberry Pocky.

You pause and hold them up, chuckling nervously, as you do.

"Pretty good," you answer, "I eat way too many."

You notice the man doesn't have a basket or a cart. That realisation needles under your skin. Maybe he's just getting lotto or smokes?

"You like sweet stuff."

"Too much," you squeak even though it doesn't sound like a question.

He just stares, not saying a word. You swallow tightly and pull the last few items out of the cart and get behind it to wheel it through the lane. As you do, he looms closely, adding to the sweat gathering on your lower back.

You roll along and wait for the cashier to ring through the rest of your things. She bags them up neatly in two large paper bags. You pay with your card and thank her as you lift the first into your cart. The man behind you moves forward and grabs the second, startling you.

"Got it," he says as he places it with the other, squeezing by you, crowding you.

"Oh, excuse me, sir," you stammer, "oh," you lean on the cart to roll it to the end of the lane as you make space between you and the stranger. "Thanks, er, uh... thanks."

You turn and grab the handle, jittering. He's really weirding you out. Especially as you realise he's walked right by the cashier. He's following you.

"I can help get ‘em in your car," he offers in a drawl.

"Oh, that's alright, I... bus," you cringe as you realise you've said too much.

"I could drive you. I have a truck."

"No thank you," you walk faster, the cart rattling with your pace.

"Why not?"

"I don't know you, erm, sorry--"

"You don't?" He catches up and shoves his phone in your face, your Insta profile glaring back at you, "I paid for the milk, maybe the berries..."

"What?" You stop, just by the door and turn to him. "I don't--"

"You haven't eaten, have you? I'll take you for French toast. That's your favourite."

"Um," you blink at him as your eyes tinge, "I don't..."

"You got me through a hard campaign, just wanna say thank you," he adjusts his cap and you notice the pin on it. He's a veteran. Oh, 'campaign'. 

“Just got back home," he shifts on his feet, a meek gesture for such a large man, "and... your videos helped me remember it. Helped me hold onto it in the sh-- in the stuff."

"I... wow, okay, that's... I'm glad I could do that."

"I really don't mind giving you a ride. Lots of weirdos on the bus," he insists.

"That's nice but--"

"Please," he softens his tone, "been a while since I sat down and had breakfast without worrying about the sky falling."

You shudder and grip the cart tight. You don't know how to say no. You didn't think about who was watching. You always just assumed they were bots. Then you think of the chaching noise and the amount flashing on the screen.

"BourbonBear?" You ask.

"Yeah," he cracks a crooked smile and smooths his hand over his thick beard. "Everyone calls me Syv.”

[solarstqrs]

᯾HEARTBEAT᯾

yelan,nilou,furina x fem!reader(seperate)

minors nsfw dni!

cw:rope bunny(yelan) bondage(yelan) degrading and praise (duhh) cuniligus(nilou) hair pulling(nilou) strap on use (furina)finger sucking(furina&yelan)slight cock worship(furina) petnames

a/n: i relented and i wrote it…

Yelan

oo you knew better than to be bratty while she gambled with other paterons at her teahouse. rooms filled with top notch luxury and 8 pool tables the green table scratching your back.

Perky tits in the air aswell as your ass yelan cant help but tug at the string thats strangling your thighs and pretty tits in her eyes she chuckled softly at your expression her cold blue eyes boring into yours.

“Cute, you look pathetic bunny.”

she smirked wanting to gobble up your adorable form aswell as rip your tits nerve by nerve to make you feel all good. her hand landed on your mouths tapping your plump lips one by one

“is my pretty whore desperate?”

her eyes peered at your desperate filled ones possibily feeling some pity for you being all tied up just for her, You couldnt answer her question in time maybe it was from the embarssment you were facing by her cold stare

she sighed before shoving her fingers in your mouth

“Answer the question puppy, Are you desperate?”

you nodded the ropes tugging at your skin tightly, They were wet but goddamn they hurt like a bitch. Feeling yelans fingers twist and turn in your mouth is enough to finally beg her to fuck you

“im sofrwy” your mouth stuffed full of her digits

“thats not properly baby”

“pwlearse” is all you can muster up before feeling a kiss land on your forehead

“if my baby can say it properly ill loosen the rope and fuck you.”

it was enough to get you stimulated enough but this? it was gonna be a long n wet night indeed

nilou

“baby m’sorry go faster..” her breaths shuddered gripping your hair so tightly

she was so tired from overworking herself at the stage and dance everyone just can get on her nerves sometimes despite this she sucks it up know you’re gonna lick and suck her up behind those curtains whenever she asks

“n-mh..baby..” her voice is breaking all because of the way you’re tongue works on her slit licking up every drop of her sweet release as your forehead feels her shakey abdomen rise and fall each second and the heat radiating from it.

her blue shawl massacred under your preadatory gaze and hunger. You always needed a drop of nilou on your tongue shes so addictive so tasty you couldnt leave that behind despite every treatment gaven to her

shes is yours afterall.

“m-mH! love thats it!” her voice reaches its peak as your head full of hair is pulled with every ounce of strength nilou had left

“you did so good..c’mon just..one more please love?”

furina

“oh hoho!~ look whos crying over my cock now afterall?”

she smugly grinned at the shaking of your abdomen as the strap on was placed atop of it, It felt cold yet warm n fuzzy about what was gonna happen next

“please furina need your cock..” you whined furina was generally so sweet in bed fucking you just the way you want and listening to what you need but you messed with her on set and looks like your back to the drawing board

“say it.” her words were sharper than the blade she carried; justice and disguise

you looked at her and had a dust of pink dance on your cheek

“i need..need…i need your giant cock inside me lady furina..” you mumbled not wanting to say it aloud

“hm? oh whats that? i could’nt hear you love, Louder.” she responds more harsher than her last response

“i need your..i need your giant cock inside please furina I can’t” you finally whine out but still she had that stare

“L-lady furina..” you stumbled over your words this time it was impossible not to afterall she had this effect on you. She smirked and finally sighed opening your pretty thighs immdieatly.

“Maybe ill shut your pathetic mouth while im at it hm?”

she smiles at you all you can do is just take before she shoves her gloved hand your mouth.

“so filithy. Dont get my white gloves stainned with your words kay love?”

she smiles clutching your thigh expecting a response. As you nod desperatly she knows shes won so she sighs and smiles before aliging her with a piercing slam was so shocking you didnt even have time to register it.

“love..your gonna be good for me right? try not to shake to much hm? I dont want a replay of your bratty behaviour one bit.”

she smirked all you could do was nod knowing how bad you fucked up to piss the director off.

[genshin-scenarios]

caught! - maid!heizou x reader

Summary: you’re a regular citizen (in a vague royalty-historical AU) who’s recently hired a maid! Heizou is charismatic and dependable, but one day you come home, discovering his real motives and occupation. 

Wordcount: 1.4k+

Adopt a Wanderer: Digital Store / Red String of Fate Prompt List

If it wasn’t for you moving from a small village to Inazuma city, you never would’ve been able to justify hiring a maid. 

You aren’t someone who can afford this in the long-term, after all. But you have to admit that having Heizou’s help with unpacking, settling down, and maintaining the house while you start at your new workplace has been a godsend. 

Most days, you’d be lucky if you returned home with any energy left at all. Heizou would always leave dinner on the table for you after he finishes his shift. He’s been nothing but kind and patient as you peppered him with questions about groceries and how to navigate around, along with your awkward first-meeting where your home was empty save for a few boxes and zero furniture.

All in all, you’re extremely grateful. And now that you’re starting to get used to city-life, it was about time to consider when to end Heizou’s freelance contract; you’d love to keep him around, but your future plans require some savings. As such, today you bought takeout from what you learned is Heizou’s favourite restaurant, hoping to treat him to a better meal by the end of his term. Perhaps you could stay friends after that, but you didn’t want to get ahead of yourself:

“Heizou? I’m back.” You push open the door with your foot, arms occupied with takeout boxes and other belongings. “I brought…”

You’d normally return to a greeting and Heizou busying about, but there’s no-one in sight right now. 

Odd. Maybe he left to throw something out. There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach as you realise he might have left early after finishing his work, since you didn’t tell him about your plans aside from a simple ‘there’s no need to cook today’.

Setting down the food on the dining table, you step around quietly to check the other rooms. The longer you wander in the silence, the more random scenarios fly through your head with burglars or some other incident. There’s one door left—the storage room—but when it swings open with a loud thunk against the wall, you’re dumbfounded at the sight of Heizou changing, halfway through taking off a shirt.

“I—I’m so sorry!” You squeak and immediately slam the door close, dashing away. 

You’ve seen Heizou dressed in casualwear before, but you don’t think he’s ever worn that particular top. It was dark in colour, almost like a uniform for a different job, with a golden crest that…

Heizou exits the storage room, ears dusted with a slight pink as he coughs into his fist. “Master, you’re back early!” He tries to smile, but the ribbon on his maid dress is a little crooked and he looks out of breath. “Is that ramen I smell? I can’t mistake it—you brought back dinner from the tonkotsu place I recommended!”

“Heizou…” Your brow furrows in an effort to remember what he was wearing seconds ago. “Why did you change back into your uniform? It looks like you finished all the chores already.”

“Whaaat? No… I haven’t dusted the windows today!” He steps forward to lead you back to the kitchen, throwing a glance back at the storage room where he’s forgotten to turn off the lights. “I’ll just tidy up before catching up with you—”

“That was a Tenryou Commission crest, wasn’t it?” You finally make the connection, remembering it from when you visited their office earlier in the day. But why would Heizou…

Heizou’s smile strains. “I… suppose it is.” You can tell he’s making a bajillion calculations in his head; a stressed version of the Heizou who’d ramble to you about mysteries and theories. “I can explain.”

“You don’t have to if you can’t.” You raise your palms. “I won’t question what a Tenryou officer is doing.” In your house, though? You highly doubt Heizou would need a side job. Horror washes over you, realising that you might’ve been a subject of investigation. “I’m not in trouble, am I? I swear that anything I might’ve complained about isn’t—”

“It’s not that, but you can’t tell anyone I’m an officer!” Heizou’s grip on your shoulders pulls you back to reality. Seeing his panic, you’re struck by the reminder that secret-officer or not, he’s still the Heizou you’ve known in the past two months. “I’m not exactly here on official business.”

“You can’t tell me you were just considering changing jobs.”

“Not at all—but I’m part of the investigation team and there’s a case that I can’t solve using regular means.” Heizou surmises. “Head Kujou might wring me out for going independent, but I’ve been making progress and I really need to maintain my cover as your maid.”

You maintain eye contact, and it’s awful how Heizou’s desperate expression is enough to disarm you.

“Is there anything I need to know before I agree?” Your shoulders sag, but Heizou lights up at the hints of agreement in your attitude. “No one’s going to get hurt, right?”

“No innocent bystanders, nor you.” He promises easily. Aside from his current maid dress, you can easily imagine Heizou in the Tenryou Headquarters solving crimes. No wonder he’s always had a confident charm. “If you were ever at risk, I’d leave your hair without a trace.”

You notice the pattern in his speech. “But what about yourself?”

“Huh?”

“Are you likely to get hurt?” You frown. And for a moment, Heizou’s capable aura wavers, freezing as he tries to come up with an answer. 

“I’m quite adept in combat, so there’s no need to worry.” His grin is a little less practised now. “It’s part of my job.”

Instead of giving him a direct yes however, you purse your lips and continue into the living room, starting to unpack the food. 

“I’ll overlook your lack of personal-concern if you’ll eat with me.” You say. You’re not close enough to Heizou to start giving him a speech, but he reads your effort to connect and his mouth tugs into a small, gentle smile. 

“How can I refuse my Master?” Heizou gets the cutlery, putting a kettle on the stove to boil tea as he sets the table up quickly. “Let me plate the dishes before they get cold. I’m still being paid for this, after all.”

“Where did you learn to do all this?” You tilt your head curiously. “I didn’t suspect you at all.”

Heizou makes a guilty hum. “I just did regular cleaning like I would at home. I believe the only reason you didn’t notice my blunders was because you were too stressed yourself.” He sets the bowl of premium ramen before you. But surprises you by picking up chopsticks and raising a mouthful of noodles to your lips. “Say aaah.”

You back away in embarrassment. “This isn’t part of—”

“The food is getting cold, Master~”

Helpless against his teasing, you sigh and lean in to let Heizou feed you. When he continues this for another few minutes, you finally reach your limit and demand that he eats with you, earning you a laugh that finally sounds like his usual self.

“Thank you.” Heizou says, calling you by your real name. You feel like a sort of barrier has been lowered with that simple act. “I won’t burden you with my work, so if anything happens I’ll send an actual maid to replace me, however long you need.”

“Would it be childish to say I’d only want you?” You admit, catching Heizou off-guard. “I was actually thinking that I’ll need to end our contract soon, since I can’t afford maids long-term. But I was considering extending it just because the house might feel empty.” And if earlier is anything to go by, you definitely aren’t used to coming back to an empty home anymore. 

“Well… In that case…” Heizou holds his chin. “Part of the reason I’m here is because your location is good for keeping tabs. Maybe we can figure something out.”

Roommates? “I don’t know, what if we get too used to it?” You joke, taking Heizou’s outstretched hand and shaking on it. “Housemates it is, until you fulfil your job for the greater good.”

“Do you think my work is so noble?” He muses. 

Maybe not his work, but certainly him.

“You simply remind me of the heroic type.” You say lightly. “Stopping criminals even with a broom, or while you’re mopping the floor.”

Weeks later, you find out (ironically,) that your statement couldn’t ring more true.

[insane-brit]

Royalty (prologue)

Muzan Kibutsuji x Soulmate!fem!reader

Part Links: Prologue, Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three

Tags/warnings: Enemies to lovers, semi slow burn, dark story/themes, anger, blood, bond seen as sacred (religious terms used), borderline hatred, mentions of Muzan’s wrong deeds. 

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word count: 672

The thread of fate marked many people’s lives since the beginning of time. It had many names, strand of providence, mortal bind, but no matter the denomination, it would attach itself to every living creature to grace this Earth. Binding their soul to another’s. Searing each other’s quintessence in an unbreakable link. To what daemon created such an inane occurrence, Muzan Kibutsuji did not know. It was engrossing to imagine. A demon, a behemoth to this land having such a foolish rope running from his veins and out into the depths of creation. However, he didn’t have one. Long before becoming this, before becoming perfection he had one. That gossamer thread felt like silk running between his fingers, and then it snapped.

Hundreds of years passed by in the blink of an eye and it never manifested itself again. Naturally, a mortal soul could only prolong itself for so long before its demise. Whoever had been tied to him all those years ago would be nothing but dust in the Earth’s crust. It didn’t matter to him anymore. An insignificant creature tied to him would only serve to be a thorn in his side. A weight he could not take on with the circumstances at hand.

A fascinating reality revealed itself as more and more of these creatures were fabricated by his hand. The progenitor studied their mannerisms, capability, and artistries, and through his own deduction and coercion, gained the knowledge that these organisms soul ties were cut. Upon their transformation, any link they had flowing from their wrist was severed. Just like his was on that day. A remembrance of their humanity, along with their memories exhausted with a puncture and drop of his ichor.

To deprive beings that once thirsted for the connection of another was a whole other power in itself. While he already felt and displayed the hierarchy to all, with him on top, this realization only fueled the fire that smoldered in his core. It gave way to new leverage and means of suffering, and he relished in every second of it.

Which is why he didn’t give much thought to the slight tug accompanied by a tingling sensation that spread under his sleeve. A mere remnant of what used to be. The last bits of what remained of his soul attempting to grasp at the traces of what tied him to his late mortal body. At least, that was his notion until it burned. An odd sensation circulated in his veins, and it felt as if they were swelling. However, when he gripped the cuff and wrenched it towards his elbow, he saw nothing.

The clinks and gurgles of liquid in flasks and tubes resounded throughout the infinity castle as he stared impassively at the sickly skin. Whatever vixen dared to tease the withered bond had better scurry along. The caresses of the wicked were not welcome, and yet a pale red permeated under his wrist. A surge of ecstasy engulfed his mind and body. The consecrated thread unveiled itself from a haze and danced around between his digits. It’s end dwindling as he watched it extend farther away from his position. Its form enveloped in blood.

His frustration reached its peak at this development. Blinding rage boiled his revered blood and escaped through hot breaths. How dare fate have the temerity to send forth this declaration. Was this retribution for his deeds? His arm swept across the table, slamming into the fine glasses, splintering them into millions of pieces. How revolting to be tied to something worthless. The string throbbed under his skin as he seethed. The essence of his supposed other half coated his like candied honey.

The rising temptation to ruin the tie with his sacrilegious acts was weighing heavy on his mind. Yet, he would face eternal torment for attempting to ravage what most would consider a blessed gift.

“Insidious…mutinous thing.”

He ran the tip of his finger along the thread. Letting it slice open the tip to drink in his blood.

[indigoflorals]

I just had a jj x reader (kinda rafe) idea pop in my head!

Reader and JJ are somewhere and rafe walks up all cocky and basically asks jj a question or says something that he would only know by getting close with reader. (ex: “hey jj, how you like that tattoo” , “has she done that trick on you yet?”) basically revealing that the reader and rafe has slept together at some point and no one knew.

I explained it all messy but I know you can write it amazingly!!

for your eyes only (18+)

Rafe Cameron x Reader (JJ Maybank x Reader)

Sum: Your boyfriend JJ isn’t the only guy to see your brand new nipple piercings

Warnings: DUB-CON, Oral sex, cheating, hair pulling, drug use, blood, piercings

Your grad party had mostly been a blur of vodka and loud music. Your parents had gone all out, making everything perfect for you.

They were not however, a fan of your boyfriend, JJ Maybank. He hadn’t attended the party. The one stipulation so that everything be paid for in full. You hadn’t cared, really, about the party. It was the money from wealthy friends and relatives on figure eight that intrigued you.

So when you found out your mom had invited Ward Cameron and his family, you had simply, neglected to tell JJ that Rafe would be at your party that night.

“Now tell me again,” Rafe smiled, showing off bright, white teeth, “how your parents convinced you to go along with that shit?”

Rafe had stayed after the party had ended as you two got caught up in the basement.

You leaned forward on the table, taking your credit card in your hand to chop the small white powder into thin lines. “Money. Everything boils down to money.”

Leaning down, you closed off one nostril and inhaled the white dust with the other. It stung as it entered your system, and shocked your brain lightly as it hit. You shook it off easily, relaxing back into the chair.

Rafe smirked at your clear experience with the drug. “Miss perfect not so perfect anymore, then?”

You shrugged, pulling your hoodie over your head to expose your skintight tank top. “I mean I guess you could say that. I’m dating a pogue.”

Rafe’s eyes scanned your now heavily exposed body, trailing over the curve of your breasts and stomach. Your mind clouded, you locked eyes with him as you leaned down, pushing the tops of your breasts together as you did.

A quiet groan reverberated in his throat at your actions. “Yeah well I’m sure he doesn’t fuck you right.”

“He fucks me great.” You hummed, plugging your nose to take another bump. You shook yourself lightly with chills after, and Rafe watched as your nipples perked underneath the thin material of your top, piercings visible.

You blushed, a small smile creeping to your lips as you raised your hands to cover your tits. “Sorry, s’cold.”

With that, he stood. You could see the outline of his cock in his shorts. Your heart raced at the sight. You wanted him so badly and yet you didn’t. Cheating on JJ was out of the question yet at the same time you yearned for Rafe’s cock.

He brought a hand to palm himself over his pants as he stepped towards you. You were still seated, looking up to meet his gaze as you were level with his crotch.

“I cant.” You croaked out, mouth suddenly very dry. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears and feel it in your pussy.

He stood in front of you, raising a hand to rub at the back of your head, fisting your hair.

Rafe’s fingers massaged your scalp, and like reflex your mouth fell open for him. With his free hand, he placed two fingers inside your mouth.

He pushed his fingers to the back of your throat, keeping you on the verge of gagging. “Suck them for me. You know how.”

Your brain snapped into action, sucking and licking the rough pads of his digits. He watched your intently, still rubbing your head.

“That’s it,” He mumbled, forcing his fingers farther into your throat, “Good girl.”

In an instant he pulled his fingers from your mouth, earning a ‘pop’ and a string of saliva.

You closed your mouth, clenching your jaw to keep yourself from moaning at the feeling of your thighs rubbing together. The friction rubbed against your clit.

He squeezed your scalp, pulling the hair roughly to get you to open your mouth again. “I promise you this is better than some pogue dick, baby.”

Removing the hand from your scalp, he leaned down, pulling the bottom of your top up to expose your breasts and nipple piercings.

“How pretty,” He smiled, thumbing at a nipple, “New?”

You frown, swatting his hand away, “Just shut up and let me suck your cock.”

You woke up the next morning with a pounding headache, and mild confusion. Why had you decided to sleep on the basement futon? And why was Rafe Cameron on the couch?

You jumped to your feet, throwing the blankets off and readjusting your top to cover yourself “You need to get the fuck out, now.” You hissed, shaking him.

Rafe groaned, clearly hungover, and rolled over the face you. “Fuck what time is it?”

“It doesn’t fucking matter!” You whisper yelled, “My boyfriend picks me up at noon for work. You need to be gone.”

With that, you had his attention. Rafe sat up, rubbing his eyes and wiped the drool from his mouth. “Shit I totally forgot you had a boyfriend. Maybank, huh?”

“Yes,” You growled, putting your hands on his shoulders in an attempt to force him up, “Now go!”

“Fine.” Rafe stood, brushing himself off and grabbing his phone. He attempted to turn it on only to see it was dead. “Fuck. You’re really gonna stay with him?”

You placed your hands on his back, not replying to his question. With one hard shove he started walking.

After Rafe was gone you got ready for work. JJ picked you up as normal and you both headed to the country club.

You were closing bartender, and the night had gone mostly smoothly until your boyfriend came up to rant.

“You know,” The blond handed you back a drink glass, “I hate serving when Rafe and his friends are here.”

Your heart sank to your feet, and you squeezed the glass so hard it broke in your hands. Blood ran from your wounds onto the glass pieces. “Shit.”

“Woah!” JJ walked behind the bar, putting his hands on your hips to step you away from the glass on the floor. “Alright baby let’s go get you cleaned up.”

As you walked beside your boyfriend, you saw Rafe out of the corner of your eye, smiling.

“Hey Maybank!” He called, shaking his glass, “More water?”

JJ lifted your hand to show the blood, “Little busy right now, Rafe.”

You breathed a sigh of relief at his silence, and followed JJ to the first aid kid. He bandaged your hands gently, cleaning every wound.

“You gotta be more careful, baby.” He lifted your bandaged hand to kiss it, “What would I do without you?”

You have a weak smile, turning on your heal to head back for the bar. JJ followed behind.

As you passed Rafe’s table, you held your breath.

“Maybank,”

You paused.

“How do you like the new piercings?”

[rotworld]

Human's Best Friend

your friend's dog runs off during a hike, so you go to the nearby ranger station for help. a werewolf shows up.

->contains mild feral behavior.

.

.

.

The Summitville Ranger Station’s front door has four deep gouges slashed across its surface.

The sight of them stops you in your tracks. They’re huge. You lay your hand over the damage and each jagged line is thicker than your fingers. They start just beneath the glass pane in the top half of the door and slither down diagonally in the echo of a single vicious movement. You find yourself glancing around, checking over your shoulder and peering into the woods to appease the panicked insistence of your hindbrain that you’re being watched. 

You probably are. This is wild wolf territory, after all. You know because the locals aren’t shy about telling people, the gas station attendant you saw half an hour ago absently mentioning there’s not just one but two packs in the area. So maybe that’s what this is, you reason. Some kind of territory marking thing, a message from one pack to another. That makes sense and helps ease the petrified terror that’s tying your stomach in knots. You’ll be fine, probably won’t even see them. You’re sure they’re busy doing…whatever it is that wild wolves do.

You suddenly remember a conversation you had on the way into town. Sitting in the passenger seat of your friend’s car with no cell service and a road atlas stretched across your lap, her dog Molly nudging her damp nose against one of your hands from the backseat, you’d stared at the little marker for Summitville on the map. “Why does that name ring a bell?” you wondered aloud. Your friend shrugged. Because she’d mentioned it before, she figured. She liked the trails out there, how remote and private it felt when you went deep enough. Maybe that was part of it.

But you remember now. You’d seen it in the news. Summitville has an unusually high number of disappearances for a city its size. All of the towns around here do. 

The lights are on but nobody’s home in the ranger’s station. It’s spacious and mostly empty, a few chairs and end tables clustered in the back behind an unoccupied welcome desk. A stack of wildlife books and tourist pamphlets gather dust in an antique cabinet. Old photographs hang on the walls, cloudy sepia snapshots of rivers and rock formations. You call out tentatively, the floorboards creaking beneath your hesitant footsteps. No one answers. You’re considering your options when you hear something outside. Quiet and distant, muffled through the wooden walls, it’s still unmistakable—a howl.

And then another. And then another, this one far closer than the others. You hear footsteps, but they’re all wrong. A heavy, four-legged trot creeps around the side of the ranger station before changing abruptly into a two-legged gait. You see dark fur in one window—flesh in the next. The door creaks open and your blood runs cold. Standing there, blocking your only exit with narrowed eyes and a sharp-toothed snarl, is a werewolf. 

It looks like he got stuck while shifting. His limbs are unnaturally long, thick with muscle and covered in black fur, each digit tipped with large claws. But the rest of him, head to hips, is all skin. Scars of all shapes and sizes cover his body, most of the hardened, puckered flesh littering his shoulders and chest. His hair is the same pitch black color as his fur, spilling long and wild down his back. His ears are a strange mix of traits, positioned where a human’s would be but with pointed ends covered in dark fuzz. In the same moment that you notice his shaggy tail, you realize he’s completely naked. Your eyes dart back up to his face. He’s glaring. He doesn’t say a word. You start to panic when he takes a step closer, stammering apologies.

“I’m just—I’m looking for a park ranger,” you manage to tell him. This doesn’t seem to help. He tilts his head slightly and you have no idea what the gesture is supposed to mean, what he wants from you. His eyes are gold and the way he looks at you is feral, assessing something you can’t even guess at. “I need help,” you say. Your breath hitches when he comes further into the ranger station but he leaves you alone, passing you for the desk. You watch in confusion as he starts rummaging through the drawers, clearly looking for something. Eventually, he produces a legal pad and a well-chewed pencil, and then he’s staring at you again. He looks absolutely bizarre, leaning an elbow against the desk casually with a tiny pencil clutched in his furred claws. His tail flicks in what looks like impatience. He clears his throat in a pointed manner.

“Oh,” you say, all of your breath rushing out in a sound of surprise and embarrassment. You’re an idiot. He’s the ranger. “I’m, uh. I’m looking for a dog. My friend’s dog, actually. She’s some kind of poodle mix, I think, with curly brown fur and a red harness. Her name’s Molly, it’s on her collar. I don’t know the trail very well, but we were down by the creek when she wandered off, just past the wooden bridge. My friend’s still there in case she comes back.”

The werewolf scribbles something so illegible you have no idea if it’s English or not. “Do you…” He pauses to cough and clear his throat again. His voice is gravelly like he rarely uses it. When he speaks again, it’s clearer but still hoarse and quiet. “Do you have something of Molly’s? A toy, or…” He gestures vaguely. You don’t understand why it matters, but he’s staring intently at the scarf balled up in your fist. It’s your friend’s. Can he tell? Does its scent clash with yours or something?

“Oh, uh, would this help?” you ask, handing the scarf to him. “My friend was wearing it, but Molly likes it a lot. She’s always rubbing her face on it.” 

The werewolf lifts it to his face and you hear him sniffing rapidly like a dog tracking a lost treat across the floor. It’s weird, and a little cute. His nose twitches. He seems put off somehow, his face scrunching up in distaste. Your friend’s perfume, maybe. You’ve heard that kind of stuff is a little strong for werewolves. You’re less frightened the next time you hear someone walking up to the ranger station, the sound of boots crunching the dirt loud and sharp with the door left wide open. The werewolves tail wags with slow anticipation, his eyes flicking to a spot over your shoulder. You turn around and go completely still, seized by primal terror.

 It’s a man. A big one. He’s so tall he has to duck to fit through the doorway. Something bothers you, and not just the obvious threat of his overwhelming size. It’s the way he walks. Just like the werewolf behind the desk, there’s something fluid and effortlessly graceful about his entire body, purpose in every movement. He doesn’t make any noise, you realize. The floor seems to groan and creak whenever you breathe, but it’s silent under his feet as he meanders over to the desk. It’s shocking that you might not have heard him coming if you hadn’t looked, given his size and apparent age. He’s older than the other one, you’d guess somewhere in his fifties. You’re acutely aware of just how much he towers over you as he passes. 

“Everything alright?” he asks. You nod meekly and his lips curl at that, a hint of a smile on his face before he wipes it away. Like the other werewolf, he’s grown his hair out long, tying some of it back in a messy bun and letting the rest hang loose. He glances briefly over the notepad and nods to himself. “Don’t worry, Sawyer’s my best tracker,” he reassures you. The other wolf, Sawyer, merely grunts, but his tail swishes at the praise. 

“Be back soon,” Sawyer mutters. He bumps against the other wolf when he leaves, but the gesture seems playful or at least friendly. They growl softly at each other, Sawyer’s tail slapping against the larger wolf’s leg before he suddenly drops to all fours and shifts. He’s engulfed by fur in seconds, ears lengthening, legs changing shape. You’re still stunned when he lops out the door and disappears.

“Here for a hike?”

That leaves you with the larger one who takes up a spot behind the desk with an easy smile. “Yeah, kinda,” you say. “My friend’s pretty outdoorsy. We’re not from here but we don’t live too far away, so she comes here a lot.” 

“This is excellent territory,” the werewolf agrees, nodding. “Quiet. Good hunting. Less light pollution. Humans like it, too.” He rests his arms on the counter, showing off full tattoo sleeves. You see curling, interlocking symbols and animals, the skeletal grin of a deer skull poking out beneath one sleeve. “Vanagandr,” he says, holding out his hand. You smile, appreciating his friendliness. 

Then you take his hand and your smile falters. You feel small and vulnerable, seeing how much his massive fist dwarfs your hand, engulfing your fingers easily. You think about the door.

He tilts his head the way Sawyer did earlier, examining you. “None of us where you’re from, I take it. Just puppies who forgot how to hunt.” The way he says “puppies” almost sounds derogatory. “Sorry if Sawyer gave you a fright. He’s had it rough with humans.”

“It’s fine, he just startled me a little,” you admit. “I didn’t expect him to be, uh…”

Vanagandr nods solemnly and makes a deep, rumbling sound. “Mmm. It’s a stress response. Shifting is emotional as well as physical. Going through something painful can make it more difficult.” You just nod, unwilling to correct him, but he seems to pick up on your hesitation anyway. A grin slowly stretches across his face. “Ahh. That’s not what you meant, is it? Nothing to be embarrassed about, I know it’s strange to you.” 

He drops the subject in favor of smalltalk, asking about where you’re from, what you do, how you like Summitville’s trails. You find yourself asking questions in return, cautiously at first, more eagerly when he seems endeared by curiosity. Yes, his pack really does handle search and rescue for all of the towns in their territory. No, they don’t get paid for it, at least not with money—they prefer food and supplies. He’s got an old family name that gets handed down through the generations to eldest sons and relatives still living in Norway and Sweden. He mentions he’s the pack alpha so offhandedly that you almost miss it.

He perks up like someone called his name. You listen, but you don’t hear anything. A full minute passes before you can make out something jingling—the little metal heart on Molly’s collar with her name and your friend’s contact information. You’re caught somewhere between relief and disbelief when Sawyer comes prancing back into the ranger station, still a wolf, with Molly hot on his heels, her muddy leash dragging behind her. She looks like a puppy next to him, a little brown ball of fluff against Sawyer’s dark fur. She’s got prickly seeds and twigs stuck in her coat but otherwise seems unbothered by her journey into the woods, more interested in yipping and batting at Sawyer than paying you any attention. Sawyer turns around and snaps his teeth but the gesture is playful, his tail wagging as he bows low and lets Molly pounce on him.

This is, in fact, the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. You’re debating whether it would be wildly inappropriate to take a picture, only to hear a mechanical click behind you—Vanagandr winks, his phone balanced somewhat discreetly on the counter. 

“Go find your friend and give her the good news,” he says, waving you off. You’re fighting a broad smile when you leave, hurrying down the trail. She’s never going to believe this!

Vanagandr watches you go with his chin resting against his palm. Sawyer barks at him. “Can’t delete it ‘till I get their number,” Vanagandr says slyly. “Should’ve seen ‘em earlier. They were so embarrassed you weren’t wearing anything. Fuck, humans are cute.” 

Molly tires herself out and slumps against Sawyer’s front paws. He curls up next to her, nosing against her head. He lets out a keening sound, a whining howl. “Mm, yeah. It was a nice scent,” Vangandr says, chuckling. He texts Linden, lets him know the search is over. He sends the picture of Sawyer, too, because you’re in it, half-turned and grinning in delight. He remembers how small your hand was in his, rumbling happily. 

Linden sends one word back in response: No.

Killjoy, Vanagandr thinks, pocketing his phone. He didn’t mean anything serious by it. You’re skittish and fun to tease, things that get him going. He watches Molly doze on the floor, curled up in the space between Sawyer’s paws. He frowns. How long has it been now? Five years? Six? He sniffs his palm, inhaling the faintest traces of your scent. He misses that—a human, safe and sound in his den. The loud, obvious patter of their clumsy steps, how they fit so perfectly against his body like the half he didn’t know he was missing. 

How much worse is that ache for Linden? How desperately does he maintain his distance from the pack humans he treats these days, wanting so badly yet denying himself? 

He feels eyes on him. Sawyer watches silently as emotions flicker across his face. Vanagandr sighs heavily. “One of these days,” he murmurs. 

He’s all smiles when you come back with another human, watching you fuss over Molly. Sawyer slinks off without a proper goodbye, unwilling to pretend. But Vanagandr stays, deflects your thanks and enjoys your company as long as he can have it. He hugs you both. Squeezes tightly, lingers with his arms around you, recommends a place to eat in town. It was like this, once. Humans, sweet and happy, wrapped in his scent. It will be this way again. He lets you go even though he doesn’t want to. He buries his face against the side of your neck and gives you a small piece of him to carry home, even though you don’t know and it means nothing to you.One of these days, he tells himself resolutely, standing in the ranger’s station all alone.

[doumidas-whumps]

no longer in solitude

Porter's first impression of Sonny, the new pet.

a little something from Port's POV this time (and by "a little something" I mean 2000 words). this is the night Sonny is brought to his new home.

consider this a sort-of prequel to this.

cw: BBU/pet whump, abusive master, whumpee emotionally attached to whumper

All day, the house was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer. It made Port a little twitchy. It seemed quieter than usual today, quiet enough that the florescent lights buzzing in his ears were making him sick. He had to step out of the bathroom halfway through cleaning the shower, scrubbing brush abandoned by the drain. He rinsed his hands and pressed his cool, clean palms to his eyes. Memories of lying alone in that cold, featureless room in the facility flashed behind his eyelids. 

He tried to think of something else, his master coming to mind easily. He had left for work that morning without a word to Port, just as he had the past two days. Mr. Oz hadn’t been speaking to him lately. In fact, he’d barely even looked at him.

Maybe something at work was bothering him. Did his boss yell at him? Could it be that the coworker he always complained about was getting on his nerves? Maybe it was unrelated to work; maybe he had lost more money at the casino. The last time that had happened, Mr. Oz lost two grand playing blackjack or poker or whatever it was and when he came home he threw one of his shoes at Port’s head. Port dodged it on instinct, which just made him angrier. Though come to think of it, Port hadn’t had any projectiles thrown at him, lately, so maybe it wasn’t that.

The grandfather clock started chiming, shaking Port out of his uneasy thoughts. He took a grounding breath and reentered the bathroom. 

After the bathroom was the living room. He pulled the remote out from between the couch cushions, itching to turn the TV on for some background noise. He set the remote in its proper place on the glass coffee table, next to a box of playing cards. He didn’t have permission to watch TV today. 

Lately Mr. Oz had been getting home around 7:00, so Port started dinner at 6:30. Talking to him over dinner was usually the most exciting part of Port’s day, but the two previous nights he had taken his dinner up to his room, leaving Port to clean up in silence. He hoped today would be better.

Dinner was finished by 6:55. He left it on the stove on low heat. When Mr. Oz still wasn’t home by 7:20, Port put it in the fridge. He had already cleaned the the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the living room, the kitchen, even under the fridge, under the oven, and the tops of the doorways. He supposed the bookshelf could do with some dusting. 

When Mr. Oz still wasn’t home by 9:00 and Port had truly run out of productive things to do, he grabbed the playing cards from the coffee table and kneeled on the Persian carpet, arranging them for a game of solitaire. Mr. Oz had never explicitly forbid him from playing card games, so Port figured it was okay as long as he put everything away before he got back. 

By the time the clock chimed for the second time since he’d started playing, marking 11 o’ clock, Port was starting to get concerned. It wasn’t uncommon for his master to stay out after work, but 11:00 P.M. was far later than usual, especially on a Thursday night. 

Port had been in the living room for hours, having long since adjusted to a more comfortable sitting position. His current game was not going well. Stuck, Port listened to the ticking clock while he tried to figure out how to salvage it. It was hard to think when his eyes were drifting closed. He had gotten up at 5 A.M. that morning, like usual, and he wasn’t allowed to sleep until his master turned in for the night.

Port gave up on the game and rested his elbows on the coffee table, shifting the cards underneath his arms. He stared at the blinking colon of the digital clock under the TV, willing himself to stay awake. He should probably get up and move around, but the combination of the blinking and the ticking had a hypnotizing effect.

Just as the clock blinked to 11:08, he heard the garage door screech open and jerked awake. Port hastily gathered the cards into a stack and slid them into their box. He rose to his feet and padded to the side door to greet his master, where he waited eagerly, a smile already on his face. 

The door swung open and Mr. Oz stepped through into the yellow light of the hall. His cheeks were ruddy, teeth visible in a grin. Port found it encouraging.

“Welcome home,” Port greeted. “How was your—”

Port was startled as another figure appeared out of the darkness in the doorway behind him. His first split-second thought was that it was one of his master’s friends, as it wasn’t unusual for him to invite people over. The thought was dashed as soon as he spotted the supple black collar around the figure’s neck. 

It was a boy— a young man— who stepped into the hall, eyes cast down. Port couldn’t see his features too well at this angle— only his shining black hair, which was neatly parted down the middle of his scalp. 

Port realized his mouth was still open and shut it. Once he pulled his eyes away from the pet he noticed that Mr. Oz was looking at him, eyes glimmering. “Porter, this is Sonny.” He clapped the boy on the back, who visibly jumped. (A sign of poor training.) “He’ll be helping you out around the house.”

Every question running through Port’s mind was cut short. Was he saying what Port thought he was saying? “Sir, do you mean…?”

“That’s right! You get to have a little playmate, doesn’t that sound great?”

Port blinked.

Mr. Oz was looking at the pet with some sort of fondness. “I’ve had my eye on him for a while now… you should’ve seen the look on David’s face.” His hand moved to the pet's neck, whose shoulders raised higher. “I’m gonna get him a collar like yours,” Mr. Oz said, hooking a finger under the nylon. “So you can match.”

Some buzzing feeling was spreading through Port. His chest was shivering. He felt his smile grow wider. He clasped his hands in front of him and squeezed. “This is great, sir.”

Mr. Oz smiled back at him. It felt good to be on the same page as his master, to be excited with him. Port was already imagining what it would be like to have another presence in the house. Someone to help with housework, to get to know, to talk with like an an equal. A small spike of guilt struck him at the thought. His master was supposed to fulfill all his needs. He shouldn’t be craving the company of another pet, of all things. And yet…

Mr. Oz grabbed Sonny roughly by the shoulders and pushed him closer to Port, made them stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Sonny had to be at least half a foot shorter than him. 

He watched Mr. Oz admire them both, mind working. His hand shot out to Sonny’s face so fast that Sonny jerked back and Port nearly flinched. Mr. Oz gripped him by the face, dimpling his cheek with his thumb as he tilted his head upwards. “Look at me,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll have you…” He trailed off, eyes growing dark. “What’s with that face?”

Port glanced down to gauge for himself. On Sonny’s face was an unmistakable expression: fear. 

“Are you scared?” asked their master. He was no longer smiling.

Sonny said nothing. Port’s heart beat fast for him. Mr. Oz did not like to go unanswered.

“Well?”

Sonny hesitated too long. Mr. Oz released Sonny’s face only to crack his hand across it like a whip. Sonny nearly collided into Port’s shoulder, hand raising as if to cradle his rapidly flushing cheek. Port felt a rising sense of alarm. Where was this boy trained?

Mr. Oz’s hand grasped Sonny’s wrist, halting it in place. “Please, sir—“ Sonny finally spoke.

“Who taught you to act like this?” He was yelling, now. “Were you disciplined at all?”

Port couldn’t help himself. “Sir, he’s just—” 

His master whirled on him. “I don’t wanna hear a single word outta you!” 

Port’s jaw clicked shut.

He turned back to Sonny, who was lowering towards the floor like his knees were buckling. Mr. Oz  released Sonny’s wrist and ran both hands through his short hair, something he always did when he was exasperated. “Way to ruin my damn mood.” He rubbed his eyes, and when his fists fell he locked eyes with Port. They were slightly red. “Take him to your room,” he said. “Explain the rules.” His gaze drifted to Sonny, who now had his arms wrapped around himself. Mr. Oz sighed, pinching his brow. “If he doesn’t fix his behavior… we’re gonna have some problems.” Port felt Sonny curl further into himself beside him.

“Yes, sir.” Port wasted no time in guiding Sonny upstairs with a gentle hand on his upper back. He pushed open the door to his room— their room, now. There wasn’t much. A dresser, a blanket, a pillow, the soft rug he slept on. A painting of a seagull hung on the far wall. Port would have to grab another pillow and blanket for Sonny from the linen closet— that is, if Mr. Oz didn’t decide to revoke his bedding privileges for that little display.

Now that they were out of earshot, Port felt comfortable enough to speak. He needed to give Sonny the rundown on how things worked around here. But first… “Are you alright?”

Sonny lifted his head, looking directly at Port for the first time. His eyes were so dark Port couldn’t see the pupils. They shone like black pearls, wet. His cheeks were dry, the left still colored from the slap, but his face was otherwise unblemished. He looked young. His mouth made no movement.

“You can speak, right?”

Sonny’s gaze lowered. “Sorry,” he whispered. “This is a lot.”

Port sighed, feeling a pang of sympathy. The boy didn’t seem very experienced. “It’s okay,” he said. “Let’s sit down.” 

Sonny wasted no time in dropping to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. Port went to his knees in front of him, but after a few seconds decided to readjust and sit on his bottom to be more casual. He gave Sonny a minute of silence to calm down before speaking again.

“I don’t know what that was, but—” you shouldn’t be so scared? I hope you’re okay? You can’t do that again? “—he isn’t as bad as you seem to think he is.”

Sonny looked at him again, now reproachfully. Port tried a smile. “Are you new?”

His eyes turned sharp, flicking up and down Port’s figure. “Six months outta training,” he muttered. Secondhand? Sonny seemed to be considering him. “You’re not new.”

“No.” 

“You’re W.R.U.?” Dubya-arr-yoo.

“…Yes.” Technically. 

Sonny hummed, lowering his chin. “You kinda seem like it.”

Port wasn’t sure how to feel about that, or what could have possibly given him that impression, so he just asked, “Where are you from, if not W.R.U.?” Port knew of at least two knock-offs. “I didn’t even know Mr. Oz was looking for another pet.”

Sonny just sighed and lowered his head further so his forehead touched the tops of his knees, face hidden. 

Well, alright. Considering they were equals, Port supposed Sonny wasn’t obligated to answer him.

[shinsouscatpisssmell]

Other woman pt.2

Pt.1

It's been weeks since the conversation on the phone... but you had agreed to meet up with her as you couldn’t help but see the lady that he went home to everyday.

"I feel like I said the first thing I should say is...I'm sorry. I promise I didn't know he was with you if—if I knew he was I -" the lady opposite of you silences you by putting her hand on top of yours.

She offers a gentle smile that calms your nerves as she speaks, " this has nothing to do with you,sweetheart. It's his fault. He knew what he was doing with all the sneaking around." She takes a sip of her coffee as you let her appearance. She was like those strong ceo business woman you see on the cover of magazines or in dramas. Just looking at her you get enamored by her short hair getting brushed out of her face or fixing the her white collard shirt, or even wiping dust off her folded long legs.

"I can't help but be jealous," she chuckled rubbing her thumbs against her knuckles as she excuses her embarrassment, " we had been trying for babies but it turns out...I could never get pregnant." This time it was your turn to comfort her giving her consolation.

" you have nothing to embarrassed about. I can't say I know how you feel...obviously," you both laugh as she wipes the corner of her eyes," but you are so much stronger than I could ever be. After our call 3 weeks ago I was breaking down everyday I was broken and hurt. I felt disgusting with myself. I-I wanted to get rid of the baby at least I was thinking heavily on it. I mean how is a free lance sports photographer supposed to care for a baby," you took a breather," but...but luckily I have two idiots that refused to not help me along the way." The air becomes lighter between you two as you air out all the dirty laundry you had between eachother.

"I was really dreading meeting you," you confessed taking the last sip of your drink before putting it on the table, "I'm sorry I kept putting it off. I felt so guilty."

"You have nothing to be guilty for, (y/n). To make it up to me let's keep in touch, yeah?," she fishes for her phone out her purse and signals for you to put your number in.

"I'd like that..truly." You punch in each digit before handing it back to her. The vibration from your phone alerting you to pick it up, "excuse me for a moment." You take it outside.

"(Y/n)? We have a problem." You could hear the panic in the voice on the other side.

"What's wrong sakusa?" You cup the device closer to your ear out of concern.

"Atsumu and Osamu were trying to surprise you with new maternity clothes and Atsumu being an idiot asked a lady how big her chest was because she looked the same size as yours...they are currently being kicked out of the store."

"...put them on," you sigh

"Yellow?" Atsumu asked if nothing was going on.

"How big is your chest? Really Atsumu. I haven't even gave birth yet and I already have two of the biggest children ever!"

"In my defense osamu didn't even try to stop me. You know I can't be trusted and! He asked this lady to hold her kid so he could practice with yours."

"well at least i aint going around asking pregnant woman their breast side you dumbass."

"yer the dumbass osamu." atsumu stated

"no you." osamu recountered as a fight broke out.

"hey!hey!hey! Calm yer asses down! Yer both are dumbasses. Thats why i leave sakusa in charge," you hear them about to speak in disagreeance, " i dont wanna hear a but from neither of ya. Yer asses are supposed to be at my place so we could look for houses for me to move." you huffed. And turn around to feel a pat on your back.

"i have to run. But, i'll see you soon." she kissed your cheek while handing you your purse," i beleive in you ,(y/n). Call if you need anything." she wipes away her lipstick mark off of you before walking away the click of her heels putting you in trance as you hold your cheek and smile to yourself.

"(y/n)? You there?" osamu called out.

"huh? Yeah, yeah..im here. Meet me in 30. I want some ice cream,ok?" 

They both agreed and you walked home while touching your cheek here and there feeling the faded lipstick mark on your cheek.

“maybe this wouldn't be as bad as you first thought.” You said aloud.

"THIS IS HELL!" you screamed in the hospital bed the epidural pumping into your system to have some sort of numbing effect as you crush the twins' hands in pain. It felt like forever that you were pushing as if they were taking multiple out of you. You don't even know the gender of the bundle of life as you wanted it to be a surprise on this day. The only ones knowing were close friends and family.

You could feel them pulling the newborn out and breathing out a sigh of relief before the same pain started creeping up again.

"Come on ms.(l/n)! Just one final push and you can see your second baby." The doctor says excitedly.

"Two?! Did he just two? As in 1,2?!" Looking panicked between the two boys and with a yell of exaggeration from the news you hear the piercing cry of a baby.

"Congratulations on two healthy girls ms.(y/n)." He hands one too Atsumu and the other to osamu.

"I have...two...how? Why? When?" You asked confused

"We'll this one," the doctor pointed to the one in atsumu's arms ,"was very quiet not even a peep from her when she came out."

"Welcome to the world, naruto and sasuke."Atsumu whispered.

"Atsumu I said I'm not naming my baby or babies that."

"But then they'll be kick ass like they're uncle 'Tsumu."

"More like assigning." Osamu rolled his eyes.

"'Samu, you ain't any better, wanting to name them after your lunch specials." You said laughing.

"Gotta promote and get ready for my two new employees at onigiri Miya's." He held the baby up like simba.

"Their names shall be...," you think of it for a minute looking into their eyes as they were a perfectly blended match of you and Suna, " Sahara and haneen." You held haneen’s hand.

"I'll give you both the world." You say kissing her tiny hand. They were two beautiful beings born into the world making all those thoughts

of guilt and shame go away into the trash.

[hazbinned]

Plotted with @compelledcurator

The room should have been very dark, but it wasn't.

There was no proper lighting; not even a single window to allow some of the redness of the outside sky to seep in. Instead, there was just an unholy amount of TV screens, which hung from the ceiling and lined the walls— a TV ocean, vast enough to drown in.

Their blues and reds and other flashing colors had to have been migraine-inducing to anyone who wasn't used to it.

In the center of the room, there sat a sleek black table with a massive chair at the head of it. To the side, in a much smaller chair, (as if whoever was seated there was meant to feel insignificant on purpose), was Angel Dust: Valentino's little star.

Vox practically loomed over him.

The sinner with the television head was gesturing wildly at the screens behind him, surrounded by flashing lights and mock-ups of merch that didn't exist yet. Footage of Angel's own career played out silently on some of the monitors— just an 'Angel Dust's Top Ten Moments' thing Val had slapped together— while most of the other TVs were the same shade as Vox's face, or had color bars.

One was a live recording of the current scene.

"Imagine your body on every billboard, your face on every channel!" Vox was saying, "Val agrees: why are we keeping a cash cow like you confined to such a small scale? I'll make you a REAL celebrity; a superstar, a household name!"

The speed at which the Overlord spoke would have been overwhelming even without so much going on in the background. Angel had been subject to this for a while now, with little room to get a word in edgewise.

It was intentionally disorienting.

Vox suddenly thrust a tablet, with a digital contract displayed on it, in Angel's face, and pointed a few times at it in rapid succession.

"You'll get twelve percent of the profit if you agree right now. Sign here, here, and here!"

It was scrolled all the way to the bottom, so reading it seemed like an afterthought.

[saturnine-saturneight]

Writing Share Tag

Thank you to @the-golden-comet for the tag!!

I'm itching to share Haru's introduction on page, so I will do exactly that.

There is a dumpster behind the building, so hot in the sun that Ron has to pull his thin fingerless gloves as far down his digits as they'll go, unwilling to give himself blisters. He goes up and over, onto a wall that divides the backyard of the ex department store from a row of residential houses, and then up, up again, hanging by his hands from a ledge and pulling himself into an open window, rolling over his healed shoulder as he lands on the floor. Haha, still got it.

Somebody clears their throat pointedly. Ron sits up, startles, and comes face to face with hired muscle. Ah, fuck.

He's dragged through the corridors by the scruff of his shirt.

"Hey man," he laughs awkwardly as he tries to extract the guy's hand from his clothing. "I can walk on my own, y'know? No need to pull!"

"Slippery fuckers like you," the guy growls, "are something you never let go of if you can help it."

"Dude, c'mon."

"Let's see how the boss will deal with you." He raps his tattooed knuckles against the door of a back office.

"Yes," comes the voice from the other side.

The hired muscle opens the door very carefully, and then, anything but careful, throws Ron down face first onto the carpeted floors. He's just barely able to catch himself on his arms before his nose takes another hit, and has to push himself up by a hand to look at the figure behind the desk.

She's round-faced, East Asian, with black eyes like cool daggers staring out from underneath an asymmetrical black bob. The corner of her round mouth is scarred, and although she's small, there is heft to her, with broad arms and a full figure. She looks down on Ron impassively, like she's being presented with a bug.

"Found this one climbing in by a second story window, boss," the hired muscle says. "You want me to throw him back out?"

"Whoa, hey!"

The woman in the chair sighs deeply, folding her hands on the table.

"Are you capable of using the door?"

"Throw him out of the -"

"That wasn't directed at you."

Ron laughs out loud. "Nope! Fully incapable, sorry, boss."

Haru sighs again, pinching the bridge of her nose like she has a headache. "Thank you, Flint," she waves her hand. "You can go back to patrolling."

Flint looks back and forth between them very oddly as Ron picks himself off the ground. "…Got it," he says, shocked into silence, and shuts the door behind him.

"Come here," Haru says, and Ron does so as he's dusting himself off. "Sit." He places his ass on the table as Haru gets up to stand, and stares her down expectingly. She's small enough that the top of her head reaches his shoulder just so when they're both standing, so Ron hunches his back as he holds the eye contact. It's a long moment, then she breaks down. "Oh, fine, then. You win."

Yessss. Ron wraps her in a tight hug, feeling the warmth of her, feeling her shape fill in the memory of her perfectly. Haru holds him in return, although stiff, for a long moment before she pats his arm as a sign to let her go.

Paging @fortunatetragedy @cowboybrunch @fairytaleinagem @rotting-moon-writes

[buckyarchives]

the balcony scene [prologue]

summary: have you ever really danced on the edge, or is something still scaring you?

or the one where theirs two winter solider, and now it's time to make amends. that is until you and bucky run into a homicidal 5'4 tall problem.

word count: 5.8k

warning: hydra and nazi’s, canon typical violence, bucky barnes

author note: hi, so i impulsively wrote this as a background to a fic i had a dream about. i’m not sure if i’ll continue this but if i get a lot of positive feedback i might. i need to stop making new wipes when i have like million already :( also i wrote and edited this high ion pain medication so i’m apologizing for now

read on AO3 | masterlist (coming soon)

the snow crunched under his feet and the wind whispered around him. pink knuckles grasped around his gun tight, his metal digits trigger-happy. unusual but not surprising that Bucky Barnes’s nerves were at an all-time high, he was jumpy and it showed evident when Maria Hill lightly tapped his shoulder and he sprung up like a cat. she was just asking if he was okay and maybe he wasn’t, Bucky said he was fine — just cold.

They were in Mongolia, which was in the world's top 10 coldest countries and that’s where Bucky activity avoided. He despised being cold, even when Steve would turn the thermostat down a little at night, it caused his nightmares to linger even after he woke. being cold made him freeze, mentally. Bucky would regress into the winter soldier and go silent. it made his skin crawl and he felt dirty.

It was a recon mission, an old and abandoned Hydra base. Bucky never trusted the “abandoned” part of the files. He knew better than anyone that Hydra doesn’t just die like the world assumes it did, it is a plague and a parasite. they’ll find some ways to continue to live and sometimes it's ghosting “abandoned” facilities.

It was a recon mission, an old and abandoned Hydra base. Bucky never trusted the “abandoned” part of the files. He knew better than anyone that Hydra doesn’t just die like the world assumes it did, it is a plague and a parasite. they’ll find some ways to continue to live and sometimes it's ghosting “abandoned” facilities.

So yeah. Bucky's finger stayed ready on the trigger of the gun.

the metal door was rusted orange and creaked as sam and he tore it open, it smelled of dust, blood, and the 70s (yes, the decade has an entire smell, and Bucky hates the 70s) Maria walked ahead of the boys and went straight to the file cabinet thrown everywhere, Bucky was too busy checking every dark corner.

it was obvious by the state of the place that the people here left in a rush. papers and files’s everything, tables tipped over, doors halfway open, and locks broken off. The base was much smaller than the rest, but an opening on the floor with a broken latch caught his attention. It practically taunted Bucky and before he knew what he was doing. he found himself with his gun slung to his back, flashlight in his mouth as he climbed down a ladder.

the whole room smelled of despair and screams. Bucky felt it deep in his bones and he turned to ice when he saw a familiar chair stuck in the middle. the stupid fucking chair. it was the same but he didn’t recognize it, no memories flashed back as he grazed his finger across the dusty arms. no feelings of electricity coursed through his head and he didn’t grind his teeth. He felt nothing and for a moment, Bucky thought he was magically healed from his trauma.

but that’s not it. he’s never sat in this chair, his finger fell back on the trigger as he explored the rest of the room.

Bucky Barnes realized sometime since the accords and becoming an “avenger” that normalcy wasn’t meant for him. he wished at night for just one normal day, but it’s always something, isn’t it? well, as he shoves a large steel sheet and it falls onto a hidden wall and becomes a domino effect until the air is filled with the smoke of ice.

the large bang made him jump, he was sure the other heard it but Bucky couldn't move. He couldn't move an inch as he stared at a cryo chamber crack open and filled the air with mist. it was active — that means something is in there, someone.

he found the victim that belonged to the chair and he’s grown frozen too. and almost on autopilot, in a daze, as he carefully steps toward it.

oh god. that face, the hair, those eyes — he knows that face. you feel like a distant memory from his childhood, he’d never be able to remember unless he was standing where he was now. ice shards cover your hair and nose, the black uniform he used to know covers your body. He remembers you, he knows he does — but who are you?

it shocks Bucky so badly, it makes his chest feel heavier and panic rises to his head. Is he having a panic attack? Why can’t he breathe? Bucky's legs go out and he falls hard on his ass and his vision goes blurry. his hands shake and the gun falls and cascades across the floor, Bucky feels paralyzed and by the time Sam and Maria come yelling in. he’s out like a light.

-

“Do you remember anything?”

The questions became background noise, ringing in his ears like an annoying fly. He was on autopilot and agitated as he sat in the infirmary. Sam, Steve, and Bruce were there so he at least felt safer than when secretary Ross was there.

His lips were dry and cracked and his mouth tasted slimy. Bucky croaked out, keeping his eyes on his lap. “there was a girl.”

Sam witnessed you too, but Steve and Bruce didn’t know that right now. They both visibly tensed as Sam took a few breaths. Sam was just happy he didn’t forget.

“What?” Steve spoke up. “What do you mean there was a girl?”

“Steve.” Sam tried to calm the blonde down. Steve was like this when Bucky got injured, even though he wasn’t. no one was sure why Bucky passed out when he saw you. a super soldier couldn’t black out like that from just a panic attack, Bruce was still working on it.

“I don’t know,” Bucky continued, his throat dry and a glass of water felt like a wonderful idea right now. “I knew her, but I don’t know from where.”

Bucky’s head was spinning and running in circles, he couldn’t find any coherent memories of you. He knew it was there somewhere but hydra had messed him up so extensively, Bucky felt defeated. hydra always held something above him, almost in reach. It made Bucky want to hurl.

“Well, when you get your head screwed on right.” Maria spoke from the doorframe, lingering there and quiet enough that wan jumped when she spoke. “debrief in meeting room 03. director Fury will be there.”

and suddenly the room fell tense at the mention of Nick. Bucky still felt bad for almost killing him even though - out of everyone - Nick forgave and knew well enough that it wasn’t his fault. Nick also rarely came by unless it was serious, like serious-serious. so it hit a nerve in everyone. showed very evident in Steve as he fidgeted with his thumbs. Sam looked more relaxed but Sam was always better at hiding his emotions than everyone else.

begrudgingly, Bucky threw his legs over the bed despite Bruce's protest. He was fine, he told bruce. and followed the two down to the hall. Bucky was still new to the compound, it was an insanely huge building and still felt like a maze. Tony said he could use FRIDAY to help navigate but the AI still scared the shit out of Bucky. so he relied on following Steve and Sam like a lost puppy, shuffling behind them with quiet footsteps.

Natasha and Maria stood lingering outside the meeting room door, their faces peeking up once the trio came into view. Natasha has been biting her nails, she was nervous. which made Bucky nervous.

“Is this about Mongolia?” Sam asked, a hesitancy in his voice.

Maria and Natasha shared a glance, and then she nodded and opened the door for everybody. the group shuffled in, Bucky wondered for a moment if this was an avengers problem or a super-soldier problem. or both. or none. He just knew it was about the girl and that made Bucky feel jittery in his chair as he fidgeted with the pen. The clicking was for sure going to annoy Sam in a few minutes but it was the only thing keeping bucky out of his head.

they sat there for what felt like an hour, but maybe only 12-15 minutes really. before fury shuffled in quietly.

“may 25th, 1997. february 5th, 2002. november 22nd, 1963. june 14th, 1972. September 7th, 1991…” fury read the files nonchalantly, Bucky didn’t need to see the mission report files on the glowing blue screen to recognize the dates. he knew most of them by heart and began carding his hands threw his hair, dropping his head to the floor as he pulled at the brown strands.

“These are all missions under the winter soldier, we all know this. Why are we bringing this up now?" Steve said. frustrated that fury was bringing up bucky's tortured past for seemingly no reason.

Fury turned his nose up and dropped the manila folder on the table with a thud. “you’re right. these are all from the winter soldier.”

He continued, “but Barnes didn’t do these missions.”

“What?'' Bucky's head shot up, his eyebrows knotted. “wha-what do you mean?”

like magic (Bucky was still grasping today’s science) a profile popped up on the blue screen. Bucky's breath caught in his throat again, his head spun and he felt like he did in that cave again.

your profile popped up, a photo of you with tight curls and a scarlet red lip. you were smiling and you looked incredibly young and happy.

“y/n l/n, a medic in the early cold war. she was captured when enemy forces stormed a camp in 49’. presumed dead.” fury sighed. “y/n was the second winter soldier.

The room fell silent and for the first time, Sam Wilson was speechless and mouth open. glances were shared between the group and fury stared down at Bucky, he felt like he was in the crossfires of a sniper as his head stirred. trying to grasp what fury was telling him.

“what does this mean for us?” Natasha spoke up, her voice incredibly calm.

“We found her files in Mongolia, hydra kept her quiet — only a few even knew of her inside the group. she was used as Barnes's backup, cleaned up his messes on took on missions he wasn’t capable of.” fury continued, “over 40% of Barnes missions were actually done at l/n’s hands. and many more that were uncredited until now. she has the same enhancement as Barnes, and Barnes found her in the cryo freeze before he fell on his ass and blacked out. they must have left her behind when hydra was found out.”

“Is she here?” Steve asked, and that brought Bucky to the edge of his seat. Bucky was sure the room felt his shift in demeanor.

“Helen is here looking over her, waiting for her to wake up. we have zero idea how she’ll react when she wakes so we just have to wait now” fury said.

“Let's hope she’s not a nazi,” Sam murmured under his breath, Natasha sent him a soft death glare.

and the rest of the meeting was foggy for Bucky, he heard stuff about your work as a nurse, and how much cleaner and smarter of an assassin you were. how you went through the same torture as Bucky and that’s when he completely drowned it out.

The meeting ended and Bucky found himself outside the door of the infirmary room you were currently defrosting in. his hand hovered over the handle, and Bucky gritted his teeth. FRIDAY must have been notified of Bucky's presence lingering outside the door, because it swung open and Bucky was met with her sympathetic face.

“James,” she moved away and let him in.

Bucky switched between gripping his hair by the roots or bouncing his leg, or both as he sat with a laser-focused gaze on you. He sat there for maybe a few hours, just trying to remember you, one single coherent memory because he knows you.

he’s never been more sure of it.

-

March 28, 1981

“he’s too unstable, sir.” the thin hydra scientist tapped nervously on the clipboard in his hands, adjusting his thin wire glasses. a younger Alexander Pierce stood in front of him, eyes glancing from the scientist to the supersoldier being restrained in his seat. teeth baring like a wild dog, chest heaving. “he could compromise the mission.”

“Start over, put him back under.” Pierce stated, a disappointed sigh leaving his lips. “bring out soldier X. she’ll do a better job, anyways.”

“Yes, sir.” The scientists scrambled to put the winter soldier back into his chamber, struggling to keep him up and practically throwing him in as the cold air took over and froze him.

it didn’t take long for the other division to bring in soldier X. you were always more compliant, you marched in with your hands behind your back — held by your handler.

you were lifeless and working on autopilot, you had a dark haze over your eyes that shook every scientist in the room. the pushed and shoved you into the chair and strapped you down. the handler brought out the tiny and tattered brown notebook, looking down at you with almost disgust.

“раздавить” the Russian words rolled off his tongue, your muscles tense instantly

“Венера”

“воспроизвести” the scientist and handlers watched you intently as you stayed still.

“современное” you clenched your fist gently.

“семнадцать”

“Мэри” you inhaled sharply but didn’t push against the restraints. Pierce smiled to himself, proud of you for being so compliant and calm. you’ve always been back up despite your skill being better, you had control over your emotions better than Barnes. you didn’t let your past control and let it slip through the cracks like he did.

“телефон” your face stayed stone still. lifeless — like a machine, good.

“гора”

“ближе”

“вечно” one tear fell down your check, but you remained cold and still.

“трогать”

“бабочка” you clenched your jaw and tensed your muscles harder. deep down in you knew what was coming and panic coursed through your veins, but you remained calm to the men surrounding you.

“красные флаги”

and it was over. an erring silence filled the room and your eyes lit up with a fire, a rage that only hydra could pull out of you.

“ready to comply, Soldat?” the handler's voice was too smooth, it would have made your skin crawl if any part of you was there.

“ready.”

-

november 22nd, 1963.

you watched intently through the sniper lens, on a high building, and hidden, through the crosshairs was the winter soldier in the same position as you. except his gun was pointed down and into the crowd where the president would be arriving soon.

This was a big mission and they said we needed all hands on deck, that this would be a good push towards freedom and you’d be rewarded if you kept the other soldier in line. pretty much babysitting at this point. He's been on edge and unstable. you’d always been the better soldier, more clean and precise work. Always so compliant and ready.

the car began to turn the corner, the family waved with smiles, completely open and vulnerable.

“come on, Soldat,” you spoke under your breath, your heart slowed at an unnatural rate. you stayed completely still.

a flash of something caught your attention, your eyes narrowed and your breath hitched for a moment. a man with sandy brown hair locked eyes with the soldier position, you were warned of the man.

“Sir,” you spoke into your comms. “the Soldat has been compromised, Lensherr is here.”

“keep him away from Soldat, get both of you out clean or frame him.” the grainy voice spoke through, and you sprung to action immediately.

“yes sir.”

you swung down from the fire escape, there’d be snipers for the president watching the sky. you acted fast as you tried to figure out if the sewers would be a safer option. you opted for that than swinging from building to building and across the street.

you slid down the ladder in no time and bounced from a trash can to just above the sewer entrance. disgust danced on your face as you got a wift of the shit-filled sewers, you lowered yourself in and dropped down. the water splashed and hit your angled as you sprinted through. you knew the route well enough for your body to act on its own.

quiet as you can be you opened the heavy metal lid open, you saw the man creeping through the alley as his eyes met the fire escape up to the Soldat. pulling yourself up and quietly closing the distance, a hand gripped right around the sewer lid.

once you were in the right range you threw the lid hard at the man’s head, it stopped right before him as his hand threw up to catch it mid-air. Pierce warned you he’d been enhanced, but this was just fucking weird. think fast, you thought and ducked quickly as he sent the lid back your way.

running towards his legs while he regain his focus, swiping behind his knee, and just as it fell weak to the ground you swung around his shoulder to pin him. the man took attention to this and wrapped a tight grip around your ankle and back and threw you forward, rebounding quickly and landing on your feet and knees.

Lensherr was already making his way up the ladder, and incredibly fast. you stumble your way over and wrapped a hand around the pole and shot a body of electricity through the metal. paralyzed him for a moment for you to get close and take a knife to his thighs, he curled into himself before he started stomping on your hands.

you winced and fell a couple of feet down, catching yourself before you could fall and hanging by one hand. the right one was crushed and broken.

catching up slowly, you met him as he stopped behind the soldier. but he was too late, he already took the shot and the bullet raced toward the streets. Lensherr held his hand up towards the bullet, think fast, you spoke to yourself and hit him hard on the back. falling and Lensherr lost his control over the bullet, the soldat noticed your presence and almost by instinct tossed a knife at you. you went to stab Lensherr in the back but he turned around you and grazed his shoulder.

“the window is closing! убирайся отсюда!” you yelled, the soldier perked uo and slung the sniper around his back. get out of here!

“ты тоже!” he yelled back. you too!

the soldier's concern for you caught you off-guard, head popping up to look at him. in and out was the mission, don’t jeopardize the mission and leave anyone behind if you have to. that was the rule and here the soldier was, trying to get you out with him and possibly revealing himself.

it caught up to you so that Lensherr took the time to switch places and slam you down and under him. you braced for him to strike by loud footsteps began towards you and the end of the soldier's gun hit his head and he fell to the side, you shoved him off and gave him a small twinge of electricity through him to wake him. soon enough the authorities would get to him and assume him as the assassin, but just enough time for you to flee.

you pushed the soldier ahead and fled.

the chaos in the crowd made you assume the mission was a success.

you fucking hated babysitting the soldat, you missed when Lensherr had stabbed you in the shoulder, bleeding and a crushed hand. great.

-

october 20th, 1993

sweat coated your body like a layer of paint, and the soldier's body pressed harshly against yours didn’t make you feel any better. your head spun and pounded like a drum, legs wobbling and you were dizzy beyond compare but you needed to stay up and ready.

the soldier had slammed, pushed, and punched you beyond humanly possible. you bled from at least 3 stab wounds and were more than 100% sure you’d had a broken nose or ribs, probably both and more.

you’d been sparring for over an hour now, the soldiers didn’t let up and neither were you. he looked as bad as you, maybe worse. you look as he stumbled around on his feet, practically tripping over himself like a newborn deer. trying to narrow his eyes on you but the soldier was seeing triple with how badly he was messed up.

Yeah, definitely worse.

he yelled loudly and barreled towards your torso, you weren’t quick enough to move and he pinned you down and pressed his palm into your stab wound, you screamed out. He struck you twice in the face before you started to wiggle out of his grasp and dodge him.

“they’re killing each other, sir.” the agent spoke into Pierce's ear. both of your handlers stood on one side ready to break it up when necessary.

“I don’t care. I need to know who will be on top.”

you pulled back and hit him hard by his ear, a loud and annoying ring rattled his head and caught him off guard. enough for you to hit him hard in the chest. he flew to the other side of the mat as you dragged yourself towards him, you could barely breathe with how fast your chest heaved. you stomped hard on his knee.

“stay down.” you grunted, and knelt to grasp your hands around his throat. “stay. down.”

the soldier's eyes opened wide and began to tear your hands away from him, gritting his teeth as he struggled under you. baring his teeth and groaning, it was a battle of strength now and the soldier would win, you needed to be smart but you could barely focus.

you were slowing down and wearing out, you took one last chance. taking the soldier off-guard as you simply let go of his throat and before he could throw you off of him and hit him hard behind his ear. a pressure point that should paralyze him if you got hit hard enough, and you did.

watching his eyes lull back and neck give out as he fell limp on the mat, you followed soon after — blacking out next to the soldier from exhaustion and blood loss. You laid a few inches in between, fingers centimeters away.

“a draw?” the agent questioned, looking towards Pierce for an answer.

Pierce wore a scowl, he hoped Barnes would have held out. but you always impressed him with your performance.

“almost. soldier x will take this one,” Pierce said. his head perked up to each of your handlers, “get this fixed up, put Barnes back in cryo, and get l/n ready for her mission.”

-

sometime in early 1950. 5 years since Bucky fell off the train, 1 year since your camp got invaded.

your eye lulled half open as two men dragged you on your knees, arms grasped tightly around your shoulders and arms to keep you up.

fear coursed through your veins along with whatever serum they put into you. Either way, it made your bone feel like metal, your skin scrawled and it felt like your muscles were tearing apart. your body was on fire and you sweated like a pig in the tight bodysuit they assigned for you. soldier x labeled on the collar. whatever the hell that meant.

you ground your teeth and screamed the entire way to the cell, the agents jabbed you a few times in the rib and head to keep quiet but it only made the pain worse.

loud clanks rang through the facility halls before you were thrown onto the hard, cold floor. bruises would blossom later. you panicked and scrambled to a corner, but you bumped into something — someone.

before you could take a chance to look at who it was, you watched as the agents latched the door shut and the only light into the small cell was from the window, it was snowy and dim out. but just enough to see the sinister face on doctor Zola as he watched you before the door slammed shut. you flinched, and so did the person next to you.

looking over you saw a man with short brunette hair, it was damp from sweat and a few strands curled around his forehead. his eyes were red and puffy and you both wore matching bruises on your cheekbone and temple. then you noticed the shiny metal arm, the scarlet red star practically glowing.

“who- who are you?” you studdered out, still shaking from the pain.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” he sounded calmer than he should, pained but calm. “i’m not with them.”

them. Hydra, Nazi, Zola, whatever. you were still figuring it out.

you went to croak out another question but a burning pain shot through your spine and you scream out in pain again, curling into yourself. that stupid serum. it was tearing you apart.

the man before you must have been in your shoes once because he weakly put a hand on your back in an attempt to soothe the pain. but he knew nothing would make it feel better, your muscles and DNA were growing and changing in real-time and the pain would be unbearable until your body can catch up.

he was warm and your body acted on its own, it was the first gentle touch since they took you. leaning into him, Bucky understood and let you. He was tired, maybe he needed some touch too. you curled into him, your pounding head fell on his shoulder. He didn’t dare touch you with his metal arm, he was still scared of it himself.

“It'll be over soon.” Bucky cooed in your ear, a lie, he knew that. “you can make it through this.”

“mhm,” your eyebrows knotted and you clenched your teeth hard. “mhm, no— it hurts…”

“shhh…” he hushed and continued to rub at your back.

you cling to him as if your life depended on it, it felt like dying. you felt crazy, insane — latching into a man you’d never met and could very well take this advantage. but he seemed good, and you’ve been through the worse imaginable things in the past year and his hand is so warm.

“What's your name?” Bucky asked, soft and quiet. like he was trying to make sure no one heard because they could always be listening.

“y/n.” you choked out through moans of pain.

“you’ll be okay, y/n.” Bucky wasn’t sure if that was the truth or not. He'd already seen two subjects die from the serum, and you weren’t looking too good. the serum would tear a girl your size apart. “you’ll be okay. my name’s James you can call me Bucky.”

“James. Bucky,” you repeated under your breath, good, you were keeping yourself conscious. You squeezed your eyes shut and pushed your face farther into his chest, fist curled so tight you were drawing blood from pressing your nails into your palm. Bucky couldn’t watch, he raised his chin high.

“how’d you end up here?” he asked, mostly to distract you. keep you conscious and alive. He wondered if death would be better than being here and working for the enemy. Bucky was tired of waiting to be saved by Steve, he was losing hope but that didn’t mean you needed to.

“I was a nurse.” you winced. “in- in the war. the nazi or, uh, hydra. stormed the camp. I barely remember anything.”

“It’s okay.” Bucky knew the feeling, the time when he fell off the train and woke up was all blurry, and he wasn’t even sure what year it was. “a nurse, that’s great, doll.”

Bucky didn’t even recognize the name until it lulled off his tongue. yeah, he called girls that all the time.

“I wanted to be a real doctor. but a girl like me couldn’t try for a man’s job, I settled on being a midwife but then the war started.” you breathed in and out heavily, you were slowly calming down and your breath got steady. Bucky continued rubbing your back. “my brother was pissed, but I sighed up anyways.”

“you’re very brave.” was all Bucky could think to say. He thought of Becca — if she’d tried to join the military like that he’d probably have a fit and tie her to the house. no one should be in the crossfires of old men’s selfish affairs, especially a small girl like you. because shit like this happens.

your breath slowed and you stopped responding to bucky’s questions, at first, he was sure you’d given out and died. failed the experiment. but your chest still rose and it seemed you fell asleep from exhaustion and pain. Bucky kept his hand on your back and watched you intently, making sure you didn’t give out like the rest.

Bucky knew the circumstances were less than ideal to be gawking at a girl right now but with your face relaxed and not contouring in pain — you were very beautiful.

-

early 2017. 3 months since you were found in Mongolia.

you pulled the comforter away from your sweat-covered legs, your black shorts and tank clinging to your body, your throat was hoarse and dry and you desperately ached for water. another night of trying to sleep in the “comfy” and “cloud-like” mattered in the avengers compound. full of super-freaks, you didn’t have much room to talk but it was still fucking weird.

and the one that you recognize avoided you like a plague for some reason. the winter soldier, you remember him well — apparently, your memory was much better than his, Steve (Captain America, you knew him from the war, yes you were shocked he was alive) told you Bucky barely remembered his name. so maybe he didn’t remember you, which is probably for the better. you remember everything.

your life before, the times the soldier held you as your muscles grew three times their mass. when the soldier trained you and then being sent away once you both started to grow reliant on each other. you remember surpassing him in abilities after returning a few decades later, the torture at the hands of Zola, Pierce, and any man that came before and after them.

you also remember the panic of the end of Hydra. the last things you remember before they shoved you back in the freezer, just in case the organization regrouped and rose back up. they would need their fist.

Bruce, the nice and timid scientist, was the one you trusted the most. you’d almost choked the life out of him when you awoke and found yourself being poked and prodded. you stayed on guard but after a nice talk with the curly back haired man, you let him do some tests.

Anyway, your bare feet padded on the cold wooden floor. the presence of the AI taunted you, the fact you were always being watched and surveillance bothered you. despite if they were friends or foes, it left you jumpy and restless.

the dimmed warm lights lit the common room's kitchen, floor C, every floor had its own living area. Sam Wilson, the falcon — you like him, he lived here but was currently visiting his family. and Clint Barton, the archer, people called him hawkeye. you thought the name was stupid but never said it out loud because soldier X is as edgy and pretentious as it gets. he was with his family too.

which just left the soldier — Bucky, you needed to get used to calling him his actual name. you were so conditioned to calling him that, you needed to fix that soon.

you found the cabinet that held the glasses, you were still trying to remember where everything was, and poured a glass of water. filtered water was probably the best thing to grace this shit-filled earth. you probably gulped down the entire glass and put the glass on the table with a loud clunk.

“flashbacks?” the familiar horrifying voice spoke up from the lounge area, your head perking up in surprise as you found him laying on the leather couch. of course, the one with similar training would be able to sneak up on you.

“every night.” you scoffed and shuffled towards him. you weren’t even tired, just restless in a way that made you want to rip your hair out. maybe you’d go for a run, even if it was 4 am.

the couch's leather squeaked when you sat down by his feet, Bucky watched you intently as you slouched down with a frustrated huff. You had barely aged from the first time he met you, (yes, he was slowly getting his memories of you back. and maybe that's why he’s been avoiding you, but he’s kind of tired of it now) you just looked more mature, scarier and less like the small timid girl he knew. Bucky retracted his legs and sat up straight next to you.

“I’m still learning how to sleep on those beds,” he grumbles.

“I feel like I’m going to sink through every time I lay down.” you scoffed. Bucky chuckled under his breath, and agreed. “how much do you remember?”

Bucky's face dropped and he bit at his cheek nervously for a moment, “of you? barely anything.”

“makes sense,” you nodded. “for a while Pierce thought we were going to rebel against him and break out, I’m sure they tried their best to wipe any memories.”

“how do you still remember everything so well.”

you dropped your head in guilt, shame, all of it. a shaky exhale left your lips, Bucky watched with confusion dripping from his features.

“I was more compliant, I think it was just survival instincts. I acted like I knew nothing and was all for the cause whenever they brought me out of cryo.” you breathed, you didn’t have anything to control over your mind and to prevent them from using those stupid fucking words on you. And stay out of the chair. “I think I lost myself in it for a while though, it was scary.”

“I understand” Bucky nodded, sometimes he wished he did the same. but no matter what, his emotions took control and before he realized what he was doing they were strapping him to that stupid chair and scrambling his brain like fucking eggs.

your eyes glanced at the electric clock blinking on the wall. 4:45 am, you exhaled. mostly tired of talking about depressing shit and the nerves in your bones to just go. you could bond over trauma later.

“Want to go for a run?” you smirked towards Bucky, the dim lights showed just enough for him to see it.

hesitantly, Bucky nodded. “That sounds nice.”

tag list:

@ivywasmaroon @ozwriterchick @slytherinambitious @wintermischief @silverfire475

[sabraeal]

in a world of locked doors, she's an open window; Part 1

[Read on AO3]

There are few things Gojo could say he is unequivocally— naturally— good at. There's school— that’s what Kitagawa-san would tell him, pointing at his middling scores, ones that always make the board but never quite the top. But that isn’t natural talent; no, that is the result of weeks of study, of all the small bites he takes each night to help digest the whole.

And sewing too— that’s what Ji-chan would say. Or rather, you make a fine mebina, Wakana, accompanied by an affectionate pat on the shoulder— if he could still reach— but what he means is the clothes they wear. And he might be right, but…

But Gojo remembers the pile of small kimono he had to remake those first few months while he struggled to understand ‘cutting on the bias.’ Or how the first pattern he drafted refused to fit together at the shoulder, mismeasured so badly that Ji-chan had sat at his elbow for his next attempt, gently reminding him to mind both size and proportion. Not to mention those first costumes he made Kitagawa-san— forgetting that unlike dolls, humans needed to move in their clothes, needed to breathe, and…

And sometimes he simply wonders if, unlike everyone else, he doesn’t have talents so much as struggles he simply got better at handling. Or didn’t, considering how half a year away from graduation he still can’t get the eyebrows to sit right on this kashira.

“It’s good, Wakana,” Ji-chan grunts, shuffling behind him. “I’d be proud to put a doll like that on display.”

Gojo squints, tracing the curve of his brush. “It’s not like yours.”

Laughs do not so much bubble up from Ji-chan as they do burble, like a stream squeezing itself through the gravel in his throat. “And why would it be? Don’t you know how long have I been at this?”

“Forty—?”

“Fifty!” Ji-chan barks, setting a stack of loose-bound books on the table before he settles under it. “It’s fifty this year. And even if I didn’t have all those years on you…”

No kashira painter holds the brush the same way. A fair point, if Gojo didn’t objectively hold his worse. “What are those?”

Ji-chan blinks, staring down at those books as if he hadn’t seen them before. “What? These? They’re the accounts. Sales, purchases, that sort of things. You’ve seen them around, haven’t you?”

Once, when he was still able to wriggle into Ji-chan’s lap. He’d let him flip through it, marveling at the endless pages of cramped characters— and closed it when Gojo had squinted at a few strokes and tried to stumble through the words. They’re notes for me, he’d sniffed, dust whuffing up from the pages, not everyone has to be able to work them out.

“I though you would have switched to, er…” Gojo clamps his teeth around the word, digital. The shop might have a website— one designed by his uncle nearly fifteen years ago now, when he insisted that any legitimate business needed an online presence— but Ji-chan still wouldn’t get an email address. “I didn’t realize you still had, um, physical copies.”

“There’s nothing wrong with doing it by hand,” he huffs, hunching over his arms. “And now when that accountant comes, I can just hand him the whole thing. No fuss at all! Not like with those file things.”

Gojo can’t bring himself to mention that using 'one of those file things' would mean the accountant didn’t have to come to them. Then again, knowing Ji-chan, that would be yet another tally in the ‘con’ category— much as he might like to say that he preferred to stay at the studio, surrounded by familiar faces, Ji-chan could spend hours on quick trips to the corner store, coming back not only with the ingredient for dinner, but whose grandson just went to medical school, or which neighbor's daughter is having yet another bundle of joy.

Instead, he manages, “We have an accountant?”

“Of course! You don’t think I do all this math myself, do you?” Ji-chan laughs, shaking his head. “You’re a smart kid, Wakana, but you got that from your grandmother. I might have done all the work, but she was the one who kept the lights on.”

His hand sweeps over a hard cover, a fond smile chasing on its heels. Gojo’s tongue twists, useless in his mouth, and— and it’s not often that they talk about it, about what it was like before. Before it was just them, trying to make the empty space feel like home. He wants to say something, should say something, but he’s never known how to put this sort of thing into words— how to say, I miss them too and I’m glad it was you all at once.

“And now I have to pay someone else to make sure I don’t muck it up.” Ji-chan pats the cover with a rueful chuckle. “Costs a pretty penny too!”

Gojo frowns, setting the kashira aside in its canisters. “Can I see one of those?”

Ji-chan blinks. “If you’d like.”

“I would.” He slides the ledger across the table, hefting the cover open. Ji-chan’s spiky scrawl stretches across every page, too much at first, too messy, but then--

Then they setting in into neat columns, numbers running up one side of the page and labels down the other.

There may not be much that comes naturally to him, but holding this ledger in his hands, seeing how the rows tally and the columns coalesce into concrete answers— this decision finally does. “I think I could do this.”

Ji-chan glances up from across the table. “Wakana?”

“For—for the shop,” he clarifies, tongue tripping over itself to keep up with his thoughts. “I think I could learn to do this.”

It’s silent for a moment, both of them sitting utterly still, Ji-chan’s wide eyes not even blinking.

“Well,” he creaks, after a moment. “Do you think that’s something that needs a degree?”

*

It all falls together quite quickly, after that. There’s relief on his homeroom teacher’s face when he stops by the office, the fabric of his uniform pants scratching his palms as he tells her he’s changed his mind about university. There’s the exams of course— and a round of cram school in the fall, expensive enough that Gojo feels balanced on a knife’s edge, wondering if the money they might save will ever equal what he’s spent trying to learn.

Kitagawa-san only laughs when he worries.

“I guess I’ll just have to cosplay twice as much.” It’s hard to take her seriously when she’s taking bites from a burger the size of her own head; a promotional item she’d dragged him into the heart of Saitama to try. “Then you’ll break even like nothing!”

“I only charge you for materials, Kitagawa-san,” he reminds her. Expensive ones, sometimes, but it’s worth it to see the way she lights up, looking at herself and seeing someone she loves.

“Well, you should let me pay you for your labor or whatever, my dude!” Her hand whips across the table, smacking his shoulder hard enough to make him jump. “Maybe then Juju-chan won’t say I’m a total mooch.”

Freeloader, that’s the word Inui-san uses. And once, more memorably, deadbeat. “I couldn’t…”

“Whaaat?” Kitagawa-san nearly launches herself over the table to stare at him, a smear of some condiment at the corner of her mouth. He tries— uselessly— not to stare. “Why not?”

“Ah…” His mouth works, trying to wrap itself around a reason. Because you were my first customer— too sterile, not a lie but dodging the truth enough to make his shoulders itch. Because you’re my friend— but he has others now, ones that do pay him in full, and she knows it. Because you were my first friend— still not quite true.

Because there’s no better payment than to see you happy. Ah, that’s— that’s not something he can say either. Maybe Amano-san could; he was charming, able to say the most heartfelt words like a performance. But Gojo— Gojo could only sound earnest, and she would be able to hear it, all the other words he can never say, and—

“Oh,” he murmurs, holding up the menu between them. “Did you see they have desserts?”

*

For so long— maybe even earlier than primary school, earlier than the day his only friend ran out the door with tears in her eyes— it felt as if every door had been locked against him. As if even asking to open a window in this room he’d made for himself was an imposition, a burden that could only be begrudgingly carried, and never for long. And then Kitagawa-san had come, dragging him out into the light of day, showing him how to do more than ask for some elbow room, but take up space, and—

And so it’s strange now to watch how the very stars align to make all this happen. A few extra commissions roll in just in time to make cram school not only break even but put him in the black again. He only sits in three exams— all of them to colleges either in or near enough to Saitama to allow him to still stay with Ji-chan— sweating through each one only to find himself posted on every acceptance list. He chooses the closest, and—

And now he’s here, seated toward the back of the lecture hall, squinting at the screen, trying to discern whether that's some new mathematical symbol on the teacher's notes or a flaw in the screen.

“Gojo-kun. Gojo-kun.” He glances sternly from the corner of his eyes, sighing at big dark ones staring back, half-black, half-red ponytails bobbing. “Do you have an eraser?”

Darting a glance toward the front of the hall— the professor is still elbow deep in his explanation— he fishes one out from his bag.

“Thanks,” Sugaya-san chirps. “Hey, this lecture hall is pretty full, huh? Weird.”

It’s the beginning of the semester, he wants to tell her—would, if they weren’t supposed to be in class. Most of these diligent academics will peel away over the next few weeks, until only he and a handful of other students scattered across the seats in the hall. Something Sugaya-san might know, if she hadn’t spent last year doing the same thing. Or at least she had in the classes they shared, taking shifts at her family’s restaurant and begging notes off him instead.

“You know what?” Her head tilts, thoughtful. “I think I gotta pee. Watch my stuff?”

“Sugaya-san!” he hisses, whipping toward her. “Class is almost—!”

It’s no good, her chair is already empty— aside from the bag slung over its back— the door to the classroom snicking shut at her heels. Gojo sighs, shaking his head. No wonder she and Kitagawa-san are friends; neither of them can sit still for a minute.

“If you have any questions” —Gojo’s head snaps to the front of the class, watching as the professor turns off the display, a handful of students already on their feet— “Please comes to the front. These problems will be on your exam.”

There’s only a trickle of his classmates that wind their way to the professor’s desk, most of them preferring to hurry out the door. Gojo’s tempted to join them; there’s only an hour until his next class, his only opportunity to eat before he gets home this evening. Enough time for a leisurely lunch, if he brought a bento or ran out to get one from the konbini around the corner, but—

But it’s the longest break in his whole schedule, and the only one that coincides with one in Kitagawa-san’s. Kitagawa-san, whose break is one and a half hours and likes to try something new each day. He just has to hope his meal comes quick enough that he can sit and eat.

Gojo glances down at Sugaya-san’s bag, slung over the seat. He can’t just leave her things here. But maybe he could take it with him-- she' eats with them after all, and he'd be saving her the trouble of carrying it to the restaurant--

“Wacchan?”

His muscles seize so quickly he nearly chokes. He’s…he’s hearing things. He must be.

His knuckle blanch where he grips his bag, bone white against navy blue. Maybe, it’s for someone else. Yes, someone else. No one’s called him that since—

“Wacchan?” There’s a laugh— not familiar, not as a woman’s voice, but he recognizes it anyway. Would have recognized it anywhere, even in a crowd, since it had been his favorite sound when— “Sorry, no one probably calls you that anymore. Maybe…Wakana-kun?”

Gojo’s head jerks up, and he— he must be mistaken. There’s no way that he— that she— that those eyes could be so familiar, not even if it’s her. Not when…when it’s been so long…?

“E-excuse me. Do I…?” Know you feels…abrupt. Terse. Curt, even. But he’s not sure what else he can say, not when his eyes keep trying to add a small side tail to the side of her bob, when what keeps echoing in his head is—

Why do you like girls’ dolls, Wacchan? You’re a boy. His breath comes barbed now, sticking spines into his chest each time takes one in. I hate you, Wacchan!

“Ah…” He clears his throat, a half dozen of those little spikes clattering down his windpipe. “Have we…met?”

Her head cocks, the once too-short bangs now perfectly cut to slip across her forehead. “Have I really changed that much?” Her mouth curves, mischievous. “You wouldn’t forget your best friend, would you?”

“N-n”— it’s terrible how easy the shape comes to his mouth, like it’s been waiting— “Non-chan?”

Her mouth rounds, matching the wide shape of her eyes, and he claps a hand over his own. “Sorry. I mean…Mizuno-san. It’s…nice to see you again.”

He says it politely-- friendly even. The way Ji-chan does when he can’t quite place a customer. But her forehead scrunches up, and— what if she cries? Right here, where anyone might hear, calling him a freak or a— a degenerate, or even—

“Mizuno-san?” she sighs instead, disappointed. “Are you really going to call me that?”

“I c-can’t just call you, N-n” —his voice drops to a whisper— “Non-chan. You’re not…we’re not little kids. It wouldn’t be…appropriate.”

Her lip juts out, just the way it used to. “Well…you don’t have to be so formal, do you?”

He makes an uncertain noise, more cornered animal than grown man, but she only stares up at him, eyes so wide, so expectant, he blurts out, “A-are you in this class? I haven’t…um…seen you…”

“I hadn’t either until today. I usually sit a little further back.” She gestures vaguely toward the other end of the room. “But I saw you sit down— you’re really tall, you know? Way bigger than most guys— and I was sure I recognized you. I worried that it might be too weird to say something— it’s been a long time right? And guys’ faces change so much— but then I saw, well…”

Her chin jerks to the open flap on his back, right where black hair and an enigmatic smile peer out from the pocket— his latest kashira, not the least bit hidden. “Ah! Oh…I…haah…”

“Your grandfather still runs that place, doesn’t he?”

“Um…” Gojo clears his throat, fists clenching tight around the back’s strap. “Yes. He does.”

Mizuno-san lets out the lightest laugh, eyes crinkling up at the corner, and all at once, it’s real. It’s her. Non-chan. Only older now, grown up in a way he’s not sure he’s achieved. “I guess that means you really are going to get saddled with that place, huh?”

“I…” It’s true; the shop will be his when Ji-chan retires— if he ever does— but there’s something about how she says that— saddled— that doesn’t sit right. That feels less like an honor but an obligation. “I don’t—”

“Ah, hey, Gojo-kun!” A small hand smack him in the vicinity of his shoulder, falling a few inches short of the goal. “Thanks for watch my stuff, bro. Want to…”

Sugaya-san trails off, eyes darting to where Mizuno-san stands, smile wide but eyes tight. “You…uh…good, my man?”

“Yes,” he lies. “Ah, I just…Mizuno-san, er…we…uh…”

“Didn’t I just say you didn’t need to call me that?” she laughs, not as bright as before. “I’m Mizuno Nobara. Wacchan and I went to elementary school together.”

Sugaya-san’s perfectly plucked eyebrows disappear behind the sharp horizon of her bangs. “You did.”

“Yes,” Mizuno-san says tightly. “You must be…one of his friends?”

“Sugaya.” She glances at him, too quick, before adding, “Sugaya Nowa. We met in high school. Through Marin-chan! Who, uh, just texted.”

Gojo blinks, fumbling with his pockets. He hadn’t even thought to look, not even when class got out. “She did?”

“Yeah, while I was peeing.” She flicks on her phone, squinting down at the screen. “She says there’s some place she’s been dying to try out around the corner. We can meet her there.”

“Oh.” He glances up at the classroom clock, wincing at the time. “We should hurry if we don’t want to be last for ethics.”

“Ethics,” she groans, throwing back her head. “Last thing I want to talk about after lunch is like, hostile takeover stuff. We shoulda taken the morning one.”

With infinite patience, he reminds her, “It was at eight o’clock.”

“Ugh, gross.”

“Oh, you have plans?” Mizuno-san asks, mouth settling into a grimace. “I thought if you were free we might go catch up, but…?”

“Yep yep.” Sugaya seizes his arm like pet birds take to a perch, fingernails digging in hard enough to turn his half-started sentence into a squeak. “Super set. Like, written in stone kinda can’t-move-it. Ritual disembowelment type thing.”

“Oh.” Mizuno-san’s wide eyes linger on him, wistful. “Some other time, I guess.”

“Y-yes! Definitely.” He tries a smile, but by Sugaya-san’s grimace, he’s wide of the mark. “That would be…nice?”

“Okie dokie time to go,” she sing-songs, dragging him out by the arm. “Nice to meetcha, childhood friend-chan. Seeya next time!”

*

There's a strange taste in his mouth as they leave the lecture hall, a nagging feeling that he has somehow missed something important. He means to ask Sugaya-san once they've gotten outside, but--

But Gojo’s barely put a whole foot into the hallway when there’s a squeal of sneakers against polished floor; his only warning before arms wrap right around his middle, fake nails catching on the fabric at his stomach. “Gojo-senpai!”

“K-kitagawa-san!” His hands hover useless over her cross arms, uncertain of how to untangle himself from her. “I-I told you that you don’t have to c-call me that.”

“Awww, but it’s true, my dude!” Her whole weight slumps against his back, warm and wiggling, like an overexcited puppy. Which he wouldn’t mind, not at all, except— except her underwire digs into his spine, a firm reminder of just what is pressed against him, and well…

Well, he’d like to be able to think for the duration of this conversation, that’s all. Not lose track of every word she says two syllables in as his brain forced him to imagine what it might look like if he had the neck flexibility to appreciate it. “I appreciate that, Kitagawa-san, but—”

“But I’m your kouhai,” she pouts, chin hooking around his elbow. “And you’re my senpai. Omigod, does that mean you should be taking care of me? Wait, that sounds so funny right? ‘Gojo-senpai, please take care of—’”

“We’re the same age!” Heat licks up his neck, stained pink as a shrimp’s shell. “I don’t think the same rules apply just because you, er…”

Started late. That’s what he meant to say. But it feels…rude, the way late bloomer had felt when his teachers had whispered it between their desks. Like somehow she’s behind because she’d spent a whole year flying around, doing exactly what she loved and getting paid for it.

“Huh? Why not?” Her head cocks, the grip she has on him loosening. Physically, at least. “You’re still my senior, aren’t you? I mean like, if we didn’t know each other, I’d totally call you senpai, and everyone would think that was like, super normal and stuff, so—”

“Marin-chan,” Sugaya-san sighs, pigtails tilting over her shoulders. “You’re torturing him again.”

“Whaaat?” He shivers when she steps back, hands hooked around her hips, a chill seeping up his spine. “I’m not! Totes not. Right, Gojo-senpai? Not torture at all, nu-uh.”

“Ah…” She turns huge eyes on him, so hopeful, and all he can manage is a half-hearted, “K-kitagawa-san…”

“Mah-ri-ne.” Sugaya-san pulls out each syllable, impatient. “Are we going to eat or what?”

“Uh, yes? I’m starving, my dude!” Kitagawa-san prances around him, sneaker squeaking as she twirls to his front. “You’re starving too, right, Gojo-kun?”

Gojo clear his throat. That’s better at least. “I…could eat.”

“Then let’s bounce!” She claps, smile blinding over her steepled fingers. “Where should we go? I just saw a guy like two days ago selling those meat-wrapped onigiri across from the student center or whatever, so maybe—”

“Ah!” Panic grips him at the thought of her cholesterol. “I thought…didn’t Sugaya-san say you had a place in mind?”

Kitagawa-san blinks. “I did?”

“Didn’t you?” His gaze darts to where Sugaya-san stands, too innocent.

“Sorry, bro.” Neither her words nor her shrug are the least bit contrite. “Thought it looked like you needed a rescue, so I did what I had to do, you know.”

He, in fact, does not know, but before he can inform her of the fact, Kitagawa-san’s eyes go huge in her face. “Rescue?” She’s practically starry-eyed, glancing between the two of them. “You needed to be rescued?”

“N-not as—”

“Sure looked like it,” Sugaya-san tosses over her shoulder, ambling down the hall. Her stride is two steps to Kitagawa-san’s one, and with hers one to his two, well— it doesn’t take long to catch up. Not when Kitagawa-san is so interested, at least. “Some girl came up to him after class. Said she was his childhood friend and then tried to get him to a secondary location and everything.”

“I-I don’t think you need to say it l-like that—”

“Secondary location?” Kitagawa-san breathes. “Childhood friend?”

“You looked uncomfortable,” she drawls, unconvinced. “So I did what anyone would do: lie a whole bunch and hope it works. Which it did! You can thank me any time.”

He nearly does, mouth already halfway wrapped around the word before he stops himself. “Mizuno-san wasn’t—”

“She was.”

“I don’t—”

It’s too much for Kitagawa-san; a squeal is his only warning before she bursts out with a shrill, “Oh-em-gee!”

Her hands clap over her mouth. “A friend? From when you were kids? That’s unreal, Gojo-kun!”

He can’t quite guess how; it always seemed as if everyone had one but him, as if he were the odd one out for not having a group of friends from middle school he struggled to keep up with, but—

“Omigod, you should invite her! To lunch I mean!” Kitagawa-san bounces on her toes, not so much walking as skipping beside him. “We’d get to hear all about what you were like in school? Ahhh, how fun would that be, right?”

Her cheeks are flushed, eyes shining, and yet his stomach twists, even though he can’t account for why. “I-I don’t know…”

“Come on, please?” Her nails snag on the placard of his button down, pulling him toward the orbit of her eyes. “I promise I’ll be totes normal about it. Even if she tells us about your cute baby cheeks. Omigod, or has pictures? Do you think she has pictures?”

He grimaces. There's a horrifying thought. “I don’t….think so.”

Her shoulders hunch, defeated. “Aww, well, still. You should invite her! I bet we’d have a great time.”

Sugaya-san shakes her head. “I dunno, seems like a bad idea.”

“Really?” Kitagawa-san blinks over at her. “How?”

One small hand juts out, giving a uncertain shake. “Vibes.”

“Well, that seems like a silly reason not to try.” She swings back to Gojo, all smiles. “You’ll ask her won’t you? I promise I won’t ask for anything else all week.”

“Er…” He doubts that promise will last the walk. “If you really want to.”

She nods. “I do.”

Sugaya-san snorts. “Your funeral.”

[cevans-is-classic]

18+ only! Sexual content, language, and frosting.

For the wonderful Anon who requested a reader birthday fic 😄

Sebastian Stan 🖤

Masterlist ❤️

The door banged close, drowned out by laughter and groans. Sebastian’s hands grip your hips, pushing you back, then pulling you forward. You feel his length press against your stomach — the heat of it burning you from the outside in. 

He tastes like bourbon and well-made steak. It makes you want to devour him, lick the taste away until Seb is all that’s left. The way his hands feel on your skin, pulling at your shirt and squeezing your back has you panting, tugging at his own clothes.

“Happy Birthday.” Seb laughs when you pull back for air 

You grin, walking backwards and dragging him with you, “Is today my birthday?” His shirt opens one button at a time, revealing the golden skin beneath and a dusting of chest hair. “Lucky me.” 

Seb waxes more often than not, but when you’re able to scratch your nails over his chest — it makes you feral. 

Everything about him makes you feral. 

“My favorite day.” He slips his shoes off, holding onto your elbow as you kick yours across the room.

Your pants come next, dropping at the base of the stairs. “I thought that was international pizza day?” 

Seb catches you around the waist almost tripping the two of you over a step. He hits the wall before you fall.

“Okay,” Sebastian breathes when you make it to the top of the stairs, nearly slipping when his pants drop between you, “Second favorite day.” 

You bite his lip after dragging him down for another kiss. After letting him go, you back up and take off for the bedroom. Seb chases after you, dodging the side table as you spin around to stick your tongue out. He bares his teeth, then lunges to reach you. He crashes into the door frame, shoulder slamming hard enough to make him hiss.  

“Oh my God.” You rush forward, kissing his shoulder towards his pec, biting at his nipple. 

Seb huffs, “That hurt.” 

“I bet.” You kiss his shoulder again, keeping your lips lights over the red mark. 

He pulls at your shirt. “Come on, naked, you should be.” 

“Yeah.” Seb lets you drag him towards the bed, smiling as your shirt hits the floor. He bounces when he drops onto the bed, leaning back on his hands to gaze up at you. 

Woah, you pause, That’s a fucking sight. 

Sebastian leaning back, his chest on display, red from exertion. The sheen of sweat forming between his collarbones and the muscles of his stomach bunched as he breathes. The black briefs he’s wearing stretch as his cock strains against the fabric.

Your mouth aches to wrap around him.

Wait.

“Stay right here.” You step forward to kiss him, pulling back before he could pull you closer. 

“Sure,” He raises a brow, “but I’m getting started without you.” 

You smack his hand away before he touches himself “Stay. Right. Here.” The mattress dips when you shove his palms down. 

With a quick grin, you take off hearing him shout after you.

Earlier in the day, after getting home from work and having some great afternoon sex, Sebastian surprised you with a small cake. Its multicolored frosting smeared around the cursive “Happy Birthday”. The candle in the middle melting as the flame flickered, and you’d been too busy kissing him to eat any of it. It looked amazing and delicious, but nothing compared to him. 

Which means you have an entire cake waiting to be eaten. 

The candle is still there between the letters at an angle. It’s cute, sweet, the frosting of a burst of sugar on your tongue.

Being careful with it, you race back up the stairs and burst into the room. Sebastian is frowning, his hands still in place.

“I didn’t thank you for this.” You swipe your fingers through the frosting.

Sebastian watches you move towards him, his hands falling to your hips as you climbed into his lap. “You’re welcome.” 

“I didn’t get to enjoy it earlier.” Sebastian opens his mouth when you touch your finger to his lips. His tongue touches the tip of your nail, letting you slide the digit further in until he closes his mouth around it.

“Baby.” You hook your finger against his teeth. “I didn’t get to enjoy my cake earlier.” 

His eyes blink up at you, the blue almost gone, “Bast,” You kiss his nose, “I’m going to eat my cake, baby, but before I do.” Your hand travels down his chest, the frosting you’d swiped leaving a trail over his collar. You followed the line of his sternum until you dipped into his belly button, “I want you,” You licked at the frosting, “To eat me.” 

Seb groans long and low around your finger. His cock jumps beneath you, stomach tightening to keep himself still. 

You have a second to lean back before he shoves at you and flips you over. The frosting on his chest smears as he moves above you. His hands are everywhere, lips trailing behind. He fumbles to get your underwear down, tugging at it with his hands as he licks the smeared frosting off you.  

“Always room for dessert.” Seb grins, ducking your smack to his shoulder. 

He winks, shifting until he rests between your legs. He dips his head to drag his tongue over you. A gasp makes you jump. Knocking against his nose, Seb shakes his head and huffs before nipping the inside of your thigh. “Hey baby.” He looks up. “Mind using some of that frosting on your thighs here.” 

“Really?” 

His eyebrows bounce, resting his chin on your hip when you stretch for the cake. “Where-”

Seb catches your hand, directing you, bringing it down to lick at your fingers before spreading the frosting along the inside of your thighs. He hums after, cleaning the remaining mess before turning to your legs. “Delicious.” He licks once, twice, little swipes that move him closer and closer until he spreads you up.

“Ah, fuck.” Your hand goes to his hair, “Oh shit.” 

He goes back and forth, licking into you, nipping at your clit then turning his head and biting at you. When your hips jerk, he grins, buries his face closer to you, plunging his tongue in and out until you’re gasping and twisting under him. 

He’s relentless. His tongue, his teeth, the scrape of facial hair along your sensitive skin. Your head spins when he catches you watching him, pupils blown wide, hair a mussed mess. You run your fingers through the dark strands, tugging at them until he moans then letting go.

“I love you.” It comes out airy, a thin whisper before he tilts his head up, nudging you with his nose as his hand moves under your knee to hook it over his shoulder. He replaces his tongue with his thumb in quick succession.

You shiver, buck up into his mouth until he presses your stomach down. The pressure makes you moan, throwing your head into the pillow. 

If possible, he goes harder, deeper, his tongue circling as his thumb works your clit. It’s electric, blinding, your body thrumming with need. 

You want more — need more. 

You need him inside you, need him buried deep and fucking you into the mattress. The ache to have him moving, filling you, bringing you closer and closer makes your skin itch.

“Bast-” You whine, fumbling for his shoulder. 

He shakes his head, moving his hand until his fingers slid inside you and pressed. 

“Sebastian!” The orgasm crashes through you, curling your toes — stomach tightening until you’re pulling away from him. The feeling is too much. It sends sparks from your core to your fingers and toes. Pin pricks that light up your body.

You try to pull away, but he presses down harder, fingers slipping out so he can grab your thigh and pull you closer. It felt like his tongue went faster, fingers moving deeper, curling until you’re whimpering his name again. The sparks shoot faster across your body, zipping down your spin; settling heavy between your legs.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. 

Your skin is on fire, burning you up, your legs to twitch and hips jump against his mouth. There’s a feeling, a deep overwhelming twist that builds and builds until you feel tears in your eyes. 

“Bast-” You choke, “Please.” 

He slows down for a second, looks up at you long enough to watch you squirm and struggle against his hold. 

Then he goes back to work. 

“Fuck, Bast- please.” You grip his shoulder, trying to drag him up, “Sebastian, fuck me. Please. Please.” 

He keeps going, tongue deep inside you, his thumb pressing into your clit. He’s fucking relentless, moaning as he goes faster, deeper, his fingers slipping in as his tongue replaces his thumb. It makes your mind swim, letting you sink deeper and deeper into the floating feeling that drags through you.

“Shit.” Your thighs quiver, toes curling as that peak climbs up your legs and pools into your pelvis. It’s painful, too much, but not enough and you need more - “God, God fuck, Seb — Seb-” You grab at his hair, holding him in place as you jerk your hips and cry out.

It crashes over you, slamming you into the mattress with a breathless gasp. The buzz of it is like fire beneath your skin. Your body twitches as Seb licks you clean, his tongue cleaning your thighs, your hips, licking the smeared icing off your chest. 

The kiss is a mix of tangy sweetness. It’s you and the cake blurring together with each slide of your tongue over his. You’re drunk on it, wanting to savor it as he grabs your thigh and lifts your leg.  

“Fuck me.” You choke out, “Sebastian.”

He nods once, then fucks into you. Your eyes close against the feeling, the way he fills you up, how deep he goes until he presses his hips to you. The scratch of his pubic hair has you squirming. Each gasp of breath follows a whimpering moan as you try to move against him.

Seb dips down, lips brushing your ear, “Happy birthday, baby.”

[the-consortium]

Dear dr. Bile.

I have heard rumours that you might own the most priceless collections of ancient music data device in the galaxy, some mythical objects called "records". Can you tell us how you came across them, and which is your favorite?

In the semi-darkness of the room without windows, crowds of pedestals emerge as light from the opening door falls into the cavernous gloom. Rows and rows of pedestals. Each about chest high for an Astartes and made of dark stone. On top, a superstructure of glass and with golden struts around the edges. Luxurious on the one hand, yet simple on the other.

In each of these presentation showcases, a stasis field holds something in suspension.

Lumen globes illuminate each cabinet with matte light in which not even dust dances, so pure is the space kept.

And no two things on display are alike - apart from the fact that they are all flat and rectangular. There seem to be two or three standard sizes, but the design is different for each object.

As the Chief Apothecary enters the room, rows of lumen strips on the ceiling automatically switch on. The clack of their activation travels down into the depths, bringing more and more of the pedestals out of the darkness. When finally everything is illuminated, it becomes clear that there must be thousands of display cases.

Fabius walks between the rows to the centre of the room, where a huge cogitor console is connected to several external appliances. Voxcasters are set up and hung at obviously precisely calculated points. An armchair with a side table stands in a place that is presumably just as precisely calculated. On the table a bottle of Amasek, a glass and a silver cigarette case.

"No one enters this room except me and the service servitors. Not even the noise marines are allowed in here. I provide them with digital copies, of course. But the originals stay here.

There are hardly any surviving records from pre-unification times. And the hunt for them keeps some rogue traders busy, whom I pay well enough that they can retire after a few successful heists. Fortunately, I have little competition for that. Quite a few of my brothers may find old music interesting, but they almost always settle for copies. They're not really prestige items."

He wanders between the showcases. Touches some in passing. "I don't have a favourite object. Each of them has significance in its own way. But some of them are very suitable for concentrated work. Sometimes I wish I could find out in which context this music was played. Weddings? Ceremonial occasions? Military parades? For example, this song … it's in an archaic version of the language I grew up with. But it seems like meanings have changed completely. I desperately need to find a linguist to sort it out."

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Find the Word Game XX

(Double Feature)

tagged by: @ashen-crest & @chayscribbles my words: angle, light, hard, cold, strange, dull, hair, hot tagging: @drippingmoon, @drabbleitout, @calicoy, @zmwrites, and anyone who sees this. no pressure to do it as usual your words: escape, fault, memory, sprint, listen, ring

angle (Eternal)—

Through holes in the walls and a top corner, they watched black fog shrink into the building and disappear from sight. Thrive motioned for Warren to stay behind him and they crept forward. They reached the door and Thrive slid it open. The building was empty. Broken tables and panels lined the walls and a volumetric projector hung from the ceiling, wires and cables sticking from it at odd angles. Dust covered the broken and rotted floor. Warren had seen this room before, shiny and new, in a memory. "You think it was the Emmuli sending the signal?" he asked, distracted by the alien insects crawling over every surface. Thrive didn't answer. He frowned and entered the room, examining every piece of equipment there for signs of tampering. He used a little finger to move the metal casing hanging off of a control panel in the wall. Warren glanced behind him, goosebumps forming on his arms and his muscles tensing. "It doesn't feel good in here." "No," Thrive said, "it doesn't."

light (Aurora)—

With Warren sat at one of the tables, scrolling through heavy walls of text on a tablet he'd taken from the terminal, and Thrive pacing deliberately around the entire basement with his nose in a tome, the time seemed to get away from them. Warren made notes in his comm device of anything that looked out of place even a little bit as he worked backward from the present, though still being as human and not silhou as he was made the task somewhat difficult. Thrive finished one tome and started another, continuing his path weaving himself through the shelves. He remained engrossed, utterly silent the entire time, his brow creased in concentration. Every time he passed over a light in the floor, the holographic parts of his form suit would explode to life, casting a multitude of glitter on every object in the reflection's way. After some time Warren found it harder to focus on his reading as the words became more and more jumbled together. He rubbed his eyes, setting the tablet on the table, but when he picked it back up again, the documents had ended. "Okay, well, I just hit a wall," he said. "The digitized history only goes back as far as the beginning of the Milky Way War. It stops with the arrival of the eliyi."

hard (Meridian)—

The next morning Warren found he almost couldn't get out of bed. Thrive had to physically get him sat up, into the bathroom, and at least presentable for Angelina, as he was so bogged down by despondency and anxiety that getting those tasks done alone was impossible. Having spent the entire night with his arms around him, Thrive anticipated this and reacted accordingly, setting forth their earlier agreed upon method of respectfully assisting and moving him from place to place whenever his depression got bad. He gave Warren his toothpaste-laden toothbrush and disappeared into the bedroom to pick out some clothes, draping a nice hoodie and a pair of jeans on the bed. The idea was to start the tasks for him rather than do them completely, as starting was the hardest part and he could usually take over from then. This particular morning proved more difficult than most, as Thrive had to carry him from the bed to the bathroom to even get to that point. Warren was mostly autonomous by the time he combed his hair, opting not to shave in favor of looking as haggard as he felt to perhaps show Angelina that he was remorseful.

cold (Meridian)—

Thoeala and Calen had come down to help, completely shaken at the horrors of the scene. They combed the crater, too, and though they did their best to stay present, Warren could hear Thoeala's wails of grief from where they stood. They marked all of the remains they could find, and it took them hours. By the end of it, all Warren wanted to do was curl up in a ball and sleep forever, but the hardened look on Thrive's face and his cold, silent demeanor kept him on edge. "We'll bring the remains with us," Calen said thickly when they reunited at what was left of the port. "We can send them to ———." Thoeala approached, handing Thrive her tracker holo gun with shaky hands. She looked nauseated and pale. "I managed to identify a few of them." Warren swallowed. "———?" She nodded dazedly. He wasn't sure what he'd expected. He had no feeling left to react in any way.

strange (Eternal)—

Thrive nodded to the screen. "I think I see Ashva in the distance there," he murmured to Warren. Warren watched DeCosta point to something else in the feed—a strange construct, six long cylinders almost blending into their background, blinking a single lazy red light at the corner of each arm. "Activate Project Ingress!" DeCosta exclaimed proudly. Warren's focus darted from the arms beginning to extend out toward each other to the very small shine of Andromeda millions of light-years away. Then clarity hit him like a brick to the skull and his breath caught in his chest. He clamped a hand around Thrive's wrist like a sudden vise. Thrive looked at him, then his wrist, then to the screen again. "At the edge of the galaxy we have constructed a doorway," DeCosta continued as the arms connected into an enormous hexagon floating in space. The machinations within the arms began to work, spinning and spitting energy from the edges while the empty center started to warp and bend. "A doorway into the unknown, a doorway into the known—a gate leading directly into our neighbors' front yard." A dangerous trench formed between Thrive's brows and Warren watched with a very heavy gut and bated breath as the situation dawned on his face. It was as if he'd just seen someone desecrate hallowed ground, disbelief and betrayal and anguish and fury all encompassing him and his body language within an instant.

dull (Meridian)—

The outside activity sounded as if it died quite a while ago. A quick glance under the door told Warren the hallway lights had been turned off, and the house was blanketed in silence. Dull, throbbing pain behind his eyes served as a reminder and a cautionary tale, and he let out a careful wince as he rubbed his forehead. The mattress shook with the sudden force of Thrive bolting upright. "Hey," Warren said, leaning to him. He cleared the hoarseness from his voice. "Hey, easy. Easy." At the sound of Warren next to him, breathlessness exploded from Thrive as if he'd stopped respiring in his sleep, and he passed his hands over his face, relieved, settling back down onto his pillow. Warren rubbed a hand over Thrive's arm. "I thought obhelians couldn't dream." "It wasn't a dream. It was a trauma response." "Yeah...I'm too familiar with those."

hair (Warpath)—

Warren held Cascidi's gaze, idly cracking his knuckles. A tingle passed as slow as molasses down his spine, and he found himself drawn to the very subtle smile creeping across Cascidi's face. It wasn't a smile of recognition, however—it was a smile Warren had seen quite a few times over the course of his long, long life. A Cheshire grin, a roguish smirk. The hair on the back of Warren's neck stood on end. "Okay," he exhaled. "...I think you're gonna have to clear out for a while." Scot looked at him. "Why is that?" "This guy's making serious eyes at me and I think I'm about to make a hasty and conflicted exit to get my back snapped." "That may be the better scenario," Scot said. "You could develop trust with him, therefore further convincing him to join us in our investigation." Warren's attention darted to Scot. "Hey, don't mess with him. This is one of the best hackers this side of the Node we're dealing with. If you root around his shit, he'll know." Scot imbued him with a rare smile. "But he's not the best, is he?"

hot (Warpath)—

"Are you sure you don't need me to accompany you?" Warren rubbed the back of his head and let out a slow exhale, waffling on Scot's front doorstep. The suburb near the capital house had grown exponentially, with some venevans trickling in from their refugee settlement. "Nah," he said at length. "I'm just…I think I'll be okay to go myself." "I may join you in any case," Scot said, and the seams of his face lit a soft lavender. "If for no other reason than perhaps I should make a visit to NodeSource." "Got some hardware upgrades?" Warren asked, grinning. "...Perhaps." Scot was suddenly unreadable, and Warren's ears went hot. "Each day that passes in Orthrive'poliea's absence is a day I can prepare for his arrival and subsequent experiments—" "Okay, okay," Warren said quickly, waving his hands at him to shut him up. "I get it. I'll be leaving in the morning, so make sure you're at the capital shuttle pad or I'm going without you." "Understood."