#and looming and pacing behind a fence

[monstrslair]

Vanny would make spring go feral in sb. She better be packing those illusion disks, cause you go chasing after a kid in front of spring, he WILL hunt you down. Nevermind when Henry reawakens as fredbear, shes got another thing coming

[bitchiswild]

On The Court

GP Huh Yunjin x F! Reader

Warnings: Smut, Exhibitionism, Creampie, and others things probs 🤷‍♀️

Word Count: 1.5k

A/n: Sorry if it’s bad 💃🏼 but enjoYyY

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"Got the hang of it now?" Yunjin inquired, leaning against the fence surrounding her private tennis court. She had just finished an extensive session. As the girlfriend of a well-respected champion, she was teaching you what you needed to know when it comes to tennis.

"Yeah, I think I've got it. Let's try a game, shall we?" I replied, eager to challenge my skills and elevate them to the next level. I got into position, ready for the ball to come right at me.

"Love!" Yunjin's voice echoed across the court, a playful twinkle in her eye as she tossed the tennis ball into the air. With graceful precision, she brought her racket down, sending the ball gliding over the net, its trajectory aimed squarely at my side of the court.

As the ball landed within my court, I ensured it bounced once before my swing. "Keep it inside the lines," I coached myself, recalling every rule and fundamentals Yunjin had taught me. Mindful to avoid the net, I prepared to strike. With precise timing and just the right force, I sent the ball soaring over the net, a blend of power and control behind my shot. It zoomed past Yunjin after a single bounce on her side, earning me 15 points.

Excitement bubbled up within me,Yes!" I yelled out in sheer glee. "Ha! In your fucking face!" My triumphant outburst echoed across the court, a mix of elation and competitive spirit driving my words.

"Pretty good, babe," Yunjin said, initially shocked, but the surprise quickly faded, replaced by a smirk.

"Game on."

As the game went back and forth, the scores kept climbing until we reached this critical moment where every point mattered. The tension thickened around Yunjin and I as the final round loomed, signaled by the ball tossed into the air. I focused hard, determined to win. I wanted to prove a point—to show Yunjin that Y/n L/n did indeed grasp tennis, despite just learning it.

I was convinced I could pull off a win. Crushing Yunjin's ego seemed like a golden opportunity, and I was totally up for grabbing it.

Surveying her position at the far-right corner of the court, I seized the chance to smash the ball towards her opposite side. The ball raced across the court at a blistering pace, catching Yunjin off guard. She dashed toward the ball on the other side, attempting to keep up, but by the time she reached it, it was too late for her to make a hit.

A surge of realization flooded my face as I witnessed the ball whiz past Yunjin. I had won the game—yes, I had actually won! My body erupted with excitement, and I couldn't contain myself. "Yes! Hell fucking yeah! In your face! Did you see that, Jen!? "I beat you!" I exclaimed in pure triumph, relishing the victorious moment.

Yunjin's faint smile revealed a hit to her usually unshakable ego. It was clear that losing had hit her hard, especially since she's usually the one who dominates in tennis. "Congrats, babe," she conceded gracefully. "That was a good game."

I rushed up to her, unable to contain my excitement about the win. "Did you see that? The ball just sailed past you! Oh my goodness, that was too good! I wish we had cameras for a slow-motion replay!"

"Alright, Y/n, we got it, you won," Yunjin said, her tone beginning to carry a hint of irritation.

I pouted teasingly at her. "Aww, is Yunny Hunny Bunny’s ego feeling a little busted because she lost to her girlfriend?"

“It is not. My ego is fine.” She huffed,trying to maintain her composure.

"Hmm, sure, whatever you say... my little loser," I teased, a playful smirk on my face.

“Can you please stop calling me a loser? I get it already” She said looking even more annoyed.

"Is Jennifer Huh mad now?" I exclaimed, feigning shock with a playful grin.

“No… I'm not now, please shut up.” She said with an embarrassed, frustrated look on her face.

You leaned up to her ear and whispered “Make me.”

Once you leaned back you stared at her face. Lust clouded her eyes instantly. Immediately she grabbed your neck and pushed you over to the fence roughly. You stared at her, knees buckling, while she looked at you up and down knowing that you will always be on your knees for her. She leaned down to your ear and whispered “Look at you, always weak for me. Always willing to be on my knees sucking my cock like the slut you are.”

You started breathing heavily as she kissed down my neck. One hand on your neck while the other slowly itches down to your skirt. You lifted your head up to make room for her. Yunjin finally reached down to your covered pussy, rubbing it slightly. Tightening her grip on your neck. You held in a moan.

“I want to hear you scream while I fuck you senseless. Let the whole neighborhood hear you, got that baby?” She husked. Too turned on to utter a word Yunjin gripped my neck harder

“I said do you get it” She said once again .

“I will,” You whimpered.

“Good”

She spun you around roughly making sure you were facing the fence, pulling your skirt down to your legs, she started rubbing herself against you, making you even more wet. “Fuck, baby” she moans. You were holding on to the fence, looking back at her dry humping you. She then pulls her own skirt down to her legs whipping her cock out. You reached behind, and stroked her cock in your hands. Her hands slide along the outside of your thighs, then in between them, sliding against your slit. Fucking you with her fingers.

“Mmm fuck Jen.” You moaned out.

She coated her fingers with your juices, sucking them clean. Her cock slid through your dripping pussy. “Please no teasing” You whined.

She chuckled, gripping your hips tightly “Anything for you baby.” She then pushed her entire length into your pussy. “Fuck baby, you’re so fucking tight every single time” She moaned out and started to thrust hard and deeply inside you.

“Oh my fucking god” You screamed.

“Yes that's it baby, scream for me. Scream so the whole neighborhood can hear how good I fuck you. How I can reach deep inside you and fuck you so hard, so you can feel me for days.” She husked. Thrusting into you hard, making your body and the fence move with each thrust.

“You feel so good, I'm so close.” You moaned out loudly.

“No. Hold it. Don't you dare cum yet” She said, slowing down her thrust .

“Please, Jen..” You whimpered.

Her hand goes back up to your neck and slightly grips it. “Who’s pussy is this?” Her thrust is still agonizingly slow making me ache to cum. “Yours! Fuck! It's Yours!” You whined tears threatening to run down your face.

“Please let me cum!” You cry out.

Yunjin smirked “That's my girl,” Her thrust quickens once again making you moan out loudly as you get closer to the edge. Yunjin felt your walls flutter around her, she knew you were very close to the edge. Her other hand reached over to your front to rub your clit. That is all it took to send you over the edge.

“Shit Jen I'm cumming,” You screamed out.

She kept up her thrusts “ That's it baby cum for me. Cum all over my cock, soak it.”

Euphoria washes over your body as you came. Gripping tightly onto the fence so you don’t fall down. Yunjin is still thrusting into you as you came over-stimulating your whole body. “Please no more,” You told her weakly.

Coming back to my senses she now pulled out of you and spun you around, you weakly faced her after being overstimulated. She rests her forehead against mine, breathing heavily, gripping one of my thighs and lifting it.

“One more baby I know you can do one more,” she says to you.

The head of her cock enters you again then her whole length causing both of you to moan. Her thrust starts slow then slowly increases. “Fuck baby I love you” She moans out. You felt her cock twitch inside you signaling that she is cumming soon.

“I love you too, I’m almost there” You moaned.

You bounced on her cock while she thrust in you. Our moans getting louder. You clenched around her cock as you came hard, making your whole body shake with pleasure. Yunjin's thrust quickens but it gets harder to thrust since your pussy is like a vice around her cock. Her hips stilled as she cums. Her warm thick cum fills your pussy and you moan at the feeling.

Holding on to each other as your highs came down, breathing heavily. Yunjin pulled out, making you moan now feeling empty. Her cum starts leaking out of you. She reaches down to swipe it up and shoving back inside your pussy. You moan at the contact.

She leans down to my ear “Just so you know baby, I let you win” she grins pulling up her skirt and walking back to the court, she turns around and stares at you while you were still leaning against the fence, catching your breath. “Now get dressed, we are playing another game.” she smirks.

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[owlespresso]

the red fruit which ripens

alpha!blade/beta!reader you are a beta courier. one of your clients is getting too close. tags: blackmail, mind games, nonconsensual touching, blade and luocha are just weirdos idk pt 2 of my part in @lorelune's a/b/o collab. the first part can be read here.

You have never known peace. You doubt any emanator ever has. The Mother of Harmony, of peace, bestowed upon you a fraction of her immortal grace. She cored herself, tore out a seed—jewel like and glistening, and beckoned you to feast. The taste went down so smooth and sweet.

That was the first and last time you held your blessing in awe. Xipe sentenced you, that day, to never know the peace she covets. You could catch glimpses of it, inhale the scent of it deep, but it would fade like morning mist, chased away by the winds of chaos and whatever awful business you were to tend to next.

When you strayed from The Family, tore yourself free of their clutches and hid where their millions of bulging eyes could not find you; you believed it possible to know peace. Perhaps not immediately. There was so much to take care of during your first days on the Luofu, paperwork and apartment hunting. It was all jarringly normal. You were mystified by the mundanity, delighted by it even. The world suddenly closed in for the better. There were no enemy factions to worry about corralling, no petty politics, no attempts to usurp you or take your life.

The world became the Luofu. It became your apartment. It became your favorite food stalls and your neighbors and the little birds fluttering about in the trees.

But it was not peace. Soon, you came to realize that even the average Luofu citizen did not know the concept as intimate as you hoped. They live in fear of Mara, of the Abundance, which they are so intimately intertwined with. Every pain is a life threatening risk, a potential trigger to a deadly malady. Outside of the Abundance, so many run themselves ragged, weighted by long work hours and petty squabbles with loved ones. The kindly folk by the docks find themselves cornered by the IPC.

No mortal knows peace, you have come to realize. Perfect tranquility is a ripe and red lie, birthed gold and glistening from the Goddess’s many lips, spread carelessly and listlessly across the universe. Unattainable by the emanator’s closest to her.

You believed once, and it hurt you. Not again. You will heed no honeyed words. You can only believe in what is cold, concrete, and solid.

—

“I feel like—” you begin, pushing through the rusted metal paneling of the dilapidated fence. “—you could have gotten here by yourself.” You usually don’t talk this much, but Blade’s habitual silence combined with your burgeoning irritation leaves you uncharacteristically eager to complain aloud.

The abandoned warehouse looms an eerie, empty monument of crumbling sheet metal and shattered glass. Long columns of broken machinery are gutted in pieces across the concrete yard. You make note to return later, just to make sure you’re not leaving valuable goods out to waste.

“I have never been here before. Kafka thought it wise to come with a guide.” 

“And what do you think?” you pause, shoulder buried in the outside paneling of the building itself.

“What I think… does not matter.” Blade says cooly. “A blade is meant to be wielded. It does not choose who it cuts down or where it goes.”

“Hm,” you don’t have much to say to that. You shouldn’t have opened your yap in the first place. The less you know about the bizarre relations of the Stellaron Hunters, the better. You squeeze into the building through the gap. Blade hardly two paces behind. The metal groans and squeaks as he forces his way in. It feels like the loudest sound you’ve ever fucking heard, an offensive and high pitched screech that probably rings through the yard and neighboring alleyways.

“At least try to be a little quieter,” you grumble, squinting into the dark. The main room is made a maze by haphazardly laid out storage containers, many cracked open and already emptied. Wires hang from the ceiling, which has become an amalgamation of mechanical matter and rotting parts. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.

Black grunts his assent.

“Well. You’re here, safe and sound.” you waste no time, doubling back towards the Blade-shaped hole in the wall. Did he just walk straight through!? What are they feeding this guy? “So I—”

The sound of thundering footsteps and approaching shouts freezes you mid-step. Momentary panic jars you still. The Cloud Knights? Here? Now?

Your pulse thrums in your ears as you turn tail, ready to haul ass in the opposite direction, only to collide face-first with Blade’s firm chest. He jostles you to the side with his shoulder, ignoring your grunt of complaint. His hand rests on the hilt of his blade. Your stomach jumps into your throat.

“Where are you going!?” you hiss.

“To take care of the vermin,” Blade replies drolly, looking down his nose at you. His lips twitch into the beginnings of a puzzled frown.

“Absolutely not!” you say, and his frown pulls deeper. “Where there’s ten, there’s bound to be twenty waiting to back them up.”

It is unlike you to be so bold, but you seize him by the wrist, pulling him further into the jagged steel labyrinth. He allows himself to be led, surprisingly docile as you round corners and scuttle down corridors. Pale moonlight covers the room in a silvery sheen, providing just enough light for you to make out a door embedded into the outermost wall. Footsteps echo around you, calling voices made cacophonous by the echo. Blade’s grip on your hand tightens, likely annoyed and sorely tempted to begin the slaughter, but you yank open the door and jam yourself inside what seems to be a cramped server room.

A few circuit towers stand side-by-side, dark and dusty with disuse. Blade shuts the door behind you, opening his mouth to speak, but you’re already wedging yourself into the lone aisle between the wall and the towers, pulling him behind you.

A few moments later sees you crammed in the narrow space. The back wall and server towers rise on either side of you, caging you up against your troublesome accomplice. One of Blade’s thighs presses tight to your own. Warm and firm. The proximity betrays what you’ve expected since your first meeting. Blade is an alpha. Only now, brought so obscenely close, are you fully able to realize that. It’s a footnote in comparison to your agitation, which swims and simmers just beneath the surface of your skin.

“How long were they following us for?” you grumble aloud. “Tell Kafka she owes an extra 20% when you see her, and that I’m not doing this ever again.”

Blade sighs out of his nose. You can’t see his face well enough to make out his expression.

“You’re wearing a mask. Your identity is safe.” he says.

“The threat of being arrested still remains,” you grumble, listening to the clamorous noise outside. Trained troops rush back and forth, kicking up dust and old grease. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, beyond a few paltry words, but no one has yet knocked on the door. Surely a good sign.

Blade squeezes your hand, and subsequently reminds you that you are holding it.

“That won’t happen. Destiny’s Slave would not risk your safety over something so simple. No harm will come to you, tonight.”

Well, isn’t that comforting. You wrest your hand away with a scowl, and clamp down on the pressing urge to let him know what you really think about his boss. He stares down at the place where your hands were once joined.

The next half-hour passes in relative silence. His eyes are all that is visible in the empty dark of the room, candlewick embers extinguished when he shuts them and leans back against the wall.

Eventually, the outside noise quiets. No more thudding boots or searching shouts, the warehouse silent as it had been when you arrived. Shimmying out from the pitch dark crevice is much more awkward without the frantic adrenaline, but you manage it, emerging in a new layer of dust.

“Alright. I’m heading out. Be careful.”

“They won’t return anytime soon,” Blade remains inside, arms crossed and impassive. Your frown deepens. You clamber through a hole in the wall. No Knights have remained behind. You feared a few would have stayed just in case, but none leap out from behind the rubble. Which means that the horrible feeling prickling up the back of your neck is just Blade’s cold, empty gaze trained on your retreating form.

Strange beast, you think to yourself, scuttling into the nearest alleyway.

—

One of your favorite things about Luocha’s home is that he is hardly ever in it. The first time you met him after helping him with his pre-heat, he pressed a silver house key into your palms, before turning and leaving. Not even allowing you to splutter a single, indignant protest. Back then, you mentally swore that you wouldn’t use it.

Now, you use it almost everyday. His neighborhood, smack dab in the middle of the Luofu, intersects with several of your regular routes. It’s just too easy so slide in between deliveries for a quick rest. It helps that he’s hardly ever home, leaving you to pilfer snacks from his fridge and take brief naps on the couch. You haven’t been bold enough to stay overnight. You’ve become far, far too intimate with the man.

No more, you decide, and stay firm to that decision even when he beseeches your company not a week later. It’s rude, but you can’t risk getting anymore attached than you already are. He’s become a bothersome burr stuck to your side, a looming presence in your thoughts even when he’s far across the stars, doing Xipe knows what.

There’s a knock at the door. You startle, because this has never happened before. You remain stock still on the couch. If you remain still, surely whoever is out there will get the message and bugger off. Another knock. You should have known that any solicitor determined to walk through the forest of a front yard would be too stubborn to give up after only seven knocks.

At the eleventh, you get up and stomp to the door. It’s mostly to preserve your own sanity. 

You throw open the door, prepared to give the nosy bastard on the other side an earful. 

It’s Blade. Blade is stood there. He blots out the afternoon sun, leaving you in the shadow he casts. It’s like seeing your clothes in the fridge. You blink several times.

“Ah. It’s you.”

“It is,” He’s holding a bouquet of flowers in his left hand. 

“What… why are you here?” 

“Kafka’s orders. She wanted you to have these,” he hands you the bouquet. You receive it. Fresh petunias and sprigs of rosemary curl next to daisies and tulips. It’s a nonsensical thing. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Nothing particularly artful about the presentation besides the pretty colors. 

“I see… Is this your home?” He looks like he already knows the answer.

You decide not to humor him. You tuck the bouquet underneath your arm and lean up against the doorframe. “What’s it to you?” 

He blinks, looks confused, and then responds after a moment of silent thought. “I… there is someone else who lives here. I remember it clearly, now.”

“You two know each other, huh? What a coincidence. But… how did you know where I was?”

“I asked the woman next door. She directed me here. I’ve been searching for you since the early morning.” 

“All morning?” you tut, somewhat sympathetic. “That’s a lot of walking.”

“It is nothing compared to other pains I have endured.” Blade says, solemnly. “And I have traveled far greater distances on foot. You shouldn’t worry.”

“...Well,” you stare down at the bouquet for a moment. “I’d feel bad if I didn’t give you anything for the effort. You know that big, red maple by the pond? Go sit there. I’ll get you something to drink.”

Two minutes later sees you outside, cradling two crystalline glasses filled with lemonade. You didn’t get him the fancy stuff—the strawberry-kiwi-whatever fruit stuff that you hand mixed. But it’s something.

He’s hunched beneath the red canopy. There’s a dark, inky type of handsomeness he possesses. Dark hair tumbles down his back, shaggy bangs frame that wolfish face. He looks dour almost all the time. Like the frown lines and cold apathy have permanently creased it. He’s hunched beneath the shade. Like it sits on his shoulders as a physical weight. He looks up at you as you settle next to him, accepts his glass without fuss or thanks. Which is just fine, with you. You probably shouldn’t be doing this, anyways. He’s an intergalactic criminal. The less time you spend together, the better.

But at the same time… you can’t help but be curious. Curious about the mara which buzzes underneath his skin, yet somehow never breaches it. Curious about what manner of creature he must be to withstand the final stages of Yaoshi’s curse. Curious if there’s any real, lingering emotion beyond the stoicism he treats… well, everything with. 

The two of you sit in silence and sip. You don’t feel any need for artificial conversation. It’s easy to sit down and simply exist next to him. No impulsive need for niceties. 

“This house isn’t yours,” he says.

“No. The owner is a client of mine. He lets me stop by here, in between deliveries. It’s convenient.”

A few beats of silence. “How well do you know the man that lives here?”

“As well as I know any other client,” he looks at you expectantly, as though waiting for you to finish that statement. “Which isn’t very well. He’s not here most of the time.”

“You should remain cautious while in his presence,” he says, and you nearly raise a brow at the unsolicited advice. He levels you with his dull, candlewick gaze, as impassive as ever. A leaf flutters from the lowest branches onto his head. “That man draws his power from the source of the mara. He wields it under the guise of a blessing, and yet…” Blade frowns, almost a grimace, and doesn’t say anything else. 

“I know.”

“Yet you take shelter under his roof and exist willingly in his space.” Blade stares at you. There’s a faint bristling in the air. A shuddering of the atmosphere that emerges from him. Thorny tendrils of bitter gold crackle beneath his pale skin. You don’t know exactly what aggrieves him so, but you get the feeling that you should say something to appease him, quickly.

“Well. I don’t know any other rich diplomats willing to offer me a free, mostly empty house to take a break in for… around twenty minutes a day,” you shrug. “It’s convenient.”

That seems to settle him.

“Do you… not like him? The merchant?” Does he even know Luocha’s name? What kind of relationship do these two weirdos have?

“In the strange purgatory of my existence, he acts as both poison and cure.” Blade informs you, as if it tells you really anything. As if sensing your befuddlement, he deflates a little, nose scrunching. He looks like a dour cat, stuck out in the rain. “He wants something from me. I can’t tell what it is. His unseemly fascination means it can be nothing good.” His attempt at elaboration gives you somewhat of a clearer picture, but it’s still some insanity that you’ll have to unpack later.

“I see. I’ll make sure to remember that,” you’re not sure if it’s possible to forget a conversation with Blade. Especially one that lasts more than a few moments. What prompted this? Genuine concern for your well-being? You have a hard time believing that. There are many things that are better off left unsaid, in your experience, so you don’t ask. 

The rest of the visit passes in relative quiet. Blade finishes his lemonade.

You reach over. His gaze snaps to you immediately, a beaten dog evaluating a potential threat.

“You have something in your hair,” you inform him helpfully, plucking the leaf from his sable locks. You curl the stem around your fingers. 

He doesn’t say anything after that. The two of you stand. He murmurs a brief farewell, and is off through the yard, slipping through the ferns to become one with the cast shadows. You’re not sure how long you remain after he leaves. The pond water ripples with each gentle breeze. Glimmering koi bob to the surface, in search of mid-afternoon snacks. When they find none, they dive beneath, water droplets flickering off their lashing tail fins.

Well, you think after another moment, at least you learned something.

Now, it is high time that you tend to the bouquet so generously sent your way. You dump the glasses in the sink, halfheartedly vowing to deal with them later, before taking a closer look at the arrangement of flowers. As you expected, it’s more than a paltry, sentimental gift. Tucked into the plastic wrapping is a small card.

Bladie said you got in quite the mess, the other day. You have my deepest gratitude for handling it so cleanly. He’s not that good at talking things out. He seems to like you, though! I wonder what makes you so special?

P.S. Next Tuesday, please escort Bladie to the address written on the back of this note. Please? Do it for me. :)

—

You hate working with criminals. Criminals other than yourself.

Though, you don’t fancy yourself much a criminal.  Deliveries are an entirely different beast, simple points of contact which last at most for five minutes. Escorting a known, intergalactic criminal through multiple layers of the Luofu is completely different—something you would never do if anyone besides Kafka asked. You’ll dance to her tune, run her errands if it keeps you off her shitlist. But is there even a point if keeping off of hers just puts you onto someone else’s?

You’ll have some fierce thinking to do after you shake off the six Cloud Knights currently on your tail. You dive between market stalls. You leap over a counter, sending an array of fruits and vegetables tumbling onto the pavement. You ignore the enraged shout of the peddler behind you, pulse thundering in your ears as you weave between the passerby, narrowly avoiding a stack of crates.

The air stings at the corners of your eyes. The marketplace blends together to the point of featurelessness. You don’t know who you pass or what else you know over, too focused on what’s ahead to care about the wreckage left behind. At the very least, it may hamper the Knights as they shout and stomp and rush after you—and Blade, whose fault all this is.

You slide around a corner and into a red-bricked alleyway, lanterns strung between the two rooftops, gold and glittering against that fake, blue sky.

“Dead end.” Blade grunts. You hear the telltale click of his sword being unsheathed.

“No! Just follow me!” you snap, seizing his wrist and pulling him forward, all the way to the end. As you trudge forward, you tap a sequence into the walls on either side. The worn clay surfaces are coarse under your fingertips. None move after you touch them, but you feel a subtle shift in the energy as it rushes down to the focal point. The pattern ends at the back of the alley. You tap a chipped, ragged brick embedded into the dead-end wall. The slabs unfold, layer-by-layer, to form an opening.

You pull him through.

It folds shut behind you, the quiet sound of grinding stone following you through the passage. The hollering and thudding of the pursuit have been silenced. Their chaos of the market sealed away behind the otherwise impenetrable seal. You doubt the low-ranking footmen who chased you will know the way.

Yellow-green vines crawl up the pulsing walls. Luminous particles bob and float in the air like fireflies. The place is silent, leaving you with only the sound of your own panting and Blade—Blade’s rasping, spluttering wheezes.

You stop, right where you are, because you have never heard him make such a sound before. Even after a chase, or a fight. 

The passage opens to a wider tunnel up ahead. You drop Blade’s hand, and turn to look at him. The adrenaline is fading, now leaving room for fresh, common sense. 

Blades hunches up against the wall. The air enters and leaves his lungs in winded, rushed wheezes. His eyes are wide and unseeing. Those candlewick irises dart from the floor, to the place where your hands had been joined, and finally, then, to you. 

A scent, like firewood charred too long, blistering into crumbled charcoal, blooms in and clouds the thin space. It’s like nothing you’ve ever smelled before, the vicious pheromones of an alpha at the very end of their tether. Something more, too, something earthen and ancient and charged. A flavor which has graced your palate only once or twice before.

Encroaching mara. You don’t know what he’s like, when his symptoms flare. You’re not eager to find out. The capricious nature of his mara has not once posed a threat to you. But his composure is slipping, his hands curling like claws and flexing. Like he’s getting a feel for his own body. Like the joints are sore and need stretching.

“Blade,” you stumble forward, pressing your palm to the cold, pale pane of his cheek. “Blade, look at me.”

His shaky irises hover awkwardly over your shoulder, before at last meeting your gaze. 

“It approaches,” he rasps, looking as haunted as you have ever seen him.

“Blade, do not let the mara take you.” you take in a deep, steadying breath. The violent pulsing in your ears returns in full force, the unhinged mass of his disease gnawing at your physical form.

Bracing yourself, you reach within. You touch the very bottom of your long neglected wellspring. Harmonic Essence leaps to the surface, warm and loving and so eager to be put to use. It feels like an old coat slipped around your shoulders, a familiarity you wouldn’t dare indulge in under ordinary circumstances. It is a power long wasted on you, but useful this very once. It pulses from underneath your fingertips, washes underneath his pallid skin.

The acrid taste of his mara brashes against the tip of your tongue for a single, fleeting moment. It then skitters backwards. Retreats into the dark, churning void of what you assume to be his subconsciousness. It’s a temporary balancing of the scales, but his wild pulse settles.

You sigh, shoulder slumping in relief. The tension winds out of your body, hand dropping back to your side.

He still looms above you, jet black hair curtaining you in. When did he get so close? Or had it been you in your haste to soothe him? He runs hot as a hearth, the warmth which radiates from him thick enough to feel. This close, you can see his every breath, soft mounds of his chest straining the fastenings which hold his shirt together. Slender stripes of pale skin peek through his chest wrappings. You swallow and look away, up at the strong column of his neck.

“Are you with me?” you murmur. You don’t dare move, lest your retreat trigger the chase instinct which some alphas are known to possess. You don’t like making assumptions. You feel like Blade would be among that number anyways.

“Yes,” Blade’s voice is sandpaper rough. He moves before you do, shouldering past you into the wider tunnel. “You make use of these often, I take it.”

As though nothing had ever happened. Something bitter churns in your gut, but you don’t bring it up. There’s no reason to. He probably wants to distance himself from this episode as quickly as possible. You don’t blame him. The mara must be a humiliating affliction to live and cope with. 

“It’s the fastest way to get around,” you break into a brisk walk, overtaking him. You’re the one who knows your way around, here.

“The mara would rend asunder the minds of anyone not wearing the correct protective gear,” Blade observes. There’s nothing pointed in his voice, but the weight of his gaze makes your skin crawl. Its keen focus is that of an apex predator’s, a beast somehow sated enough to keep his teeth from your throat. How long will that last? Fifteen minutes? An hour? The air here swelters with abundance. His mara must sup on it like a starved prisoner, far stronger and fuller than it could ever be on the surface. 

He could easily match your pace, but he chooses to walk behind you.

“I could say the same for you.”

“I am an abomination of Yaoshi. The abundance has already taken hold of me.” Blade says, grimacing. You toy with the fraying edge of your sleeve between your forefinger and thumb. “All the saturation here does is spur on the symptoms.”

You make a face. He must sense your unease.

“I should be able to resist the pull until we surface. Provided we do not linger overlong.” Blade replies. It does remarkably little to reassure you. 

A predator stalks at your back, one whose sanity may pop like an overfilled balloon at really any moment. Against your better sense, you feel anxiety lash at the bottom of your stomach, guts churning with that primal fear.

“Reassuring.” you bite out thoughtlessly. 

“It would be in your best interest to focus on finding a way out, rather than back-talking me.” Blade says, and you swallow. 

“Back-talking? I think my frustration is quite justified. You’re the reason we’re in this mess, after all.” you pointedly remind him. The words roll bitter off your tongue. Prickling discomfort coalesces with the saturation of abundance in the air, becoming a consistent buzz against the back of your skull.

Blade makes a ragged little noise, wedged between a wheeze and a laugh.

“Another do I make pay the price. I was not always like this. deathless beast borne of blind ambition and hubris…” he trails off. “I was once a man. Death walked with me as it walked with every other. It was never meant to—to become—”

A distorted warble slowly creeps into his voice. Shit, you just shouldn’t have said anything. The hovering energy coalesces, thin whispers congealing into thick, mist-like mass around him. It’s drawn to him. 

“What’s your favorite food?” you turn on your heel and ask, crossing your arms. He looks down at you, brows furrowing as he roots around for an answer. “You haven’t thought about it, have you?” Do the mara-struck even have to eat? Blade is a particularly unique case among them, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he even remembers to eat. He is a blade, according to his own words. And a blade doesn’t need to eat. How desolate an existence he must have lived. Must still be living if his own preferences evade him.

“Well. Try to find an answer while I get us out of here.” you command. He’s quiet for the remainder of the trek. You emerge topside and immediately feel several pounds lighter. The air is fresh and sweet, the skies blue and open. You’re two blocks from your apartment in a dark, neglected alleyway. 

“You can find your way back from here,” you sigh, chancing a glance at your companion as you stretch your arms above your head. “Right?”

He’s still quiet. You don’t sense the acrid tang of the illness. He looks thoughtful. You wish he would just give you an answer already. You’re not eager to be chanced upon again by a patrol, or by any other witnesses for that matter. 

“Your question. I don’t have an answer.” Blade says. He sounds almost regretful. 

Over your few interactions, you’ve come to realize that not much bothers him. Very little manages to budge that glacial mien. His demeanor, as you have come to understand, either sits as stoney neutrality or maniacal, giddy rage. The shades between are so very visited.

“It’s no big deal. You can just tell me next time, if you want.” If he even remembers. The idea of turning your back to him still riddles you with unease, but you do it anyway. Your steps are slow and measured. He stares you down until you disappear around the corner, meld into the crowds like just another thread in a blanket.

—

The sky above hangs a pale grey. It’s the threat of a light drizzle rather than a raging storm. You slip through the abundant foliage of Luocha’s front yard, unable but to notice that the shrubs and vibrant blooms have somehow grown in size since your last visit. The greens are hearty, fresh dewdrops glimmering off grass and unfurled leaves.

It’s not difficult to spot him. He’s lounged beneath the sole scarlet maple of the yard. He’s a spot of red himself, swathed in a richly-colored, likely richly-made, robe of it. The fabric pools on the lawn chair he lounges atop of. His eyes are shut, blonde lashes fanning against his perfect cheeks. Those eyes open as you skirt along the jagged stone edge of the pond, manilla envelope clutched in your left hand. He smiles, but does not lift his head. Sumptuous locks of golden blonde fan out behind his head like a halo. The very picture of serenity. 

“Well, well. To what do I owe this visit?” he tilts his head, smiling like a contented cat. You huff, and avoid looking below his neck, where the plush robe parts to reveal the pale soft of his chest. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but any sliver of intimacy you may have granted him has long passed. The moment you look down, he’ll notice and impose upon you another outlandish favor.

“Don’t get excited.” You hand him the package, and begin to pull back, but he’s faster. He darts for you like a viper. Long fingers curl around your wrist to hold you in place. The look in his eyes is beseeching. He gently deposits the envelope on the side table next to his seat. He doesn’t look away from you for even a moment. 

“Always so busy… doesn’t it exhaust you?” he murmurs, a sympathetic coo. He’s putting just enough strain on your arm to make standing uncomfortable, in hopes that you’ll sit down beside him. 

“No. I’m used to it. I like being busy,” you bear the ache in your arm with unyielding ease. It is so small and insignificant in comparison to every other you have endured.

“Do you… like being busy, or is it that you’ve never known anything else?” Luocha tilts his head to the side, smiling. Your skin prickles. You resist the urge to swallow. 

“You know what they say about assumptions.”

“Which is why I’m glad I’m not making one. You go to awfully desperate lengths to not be known, Courier.”

The corners of your lips twitch downwards, and his eyes gleam. “Don’t be coy with me. Did you talk to them?” You ask. The question has lingered on your mind for weeks, leaving you restless and more unkind than usual. The persistent threat of him is always at the back of your mind, represented in the throbbing between your temples, in the harshness of your voice as you snap at someone who might not deserve it. There’s no sense in beating around the bush, anymore. Not if you want to preserve your sanity.

“How very vague, for someone who just accused me of being coy. Be at ease, I haven’t had any contact with The Family. Merely some… particularly useful informants who have heard a thing or two. Hunches based on speculation that you’ve proven by being cagey.” Luocha assures you.

“...So, what do you want from me?”

“Merely conversation. I do find our interactions so compelling, however short they may be.”

“Being blackmailed doesn’t put me in the mood for conversation. There’s not much for us to talk about.”

“I beg to differ. I know so very little about you, despite all we’ve shared. I’m curious—what set you on the path of Harmony?” 

“...” You look away, internally evaluating the pros and cons of going along with his little game. “Peace. She promised us peace. Because that’s what Harmony was supposed to be.” His eyes soften. The indignation sizzling inside of you sparks into a raw flame (he has no right to look at you like that), but you smother it. 

“Did it live up to your expectations?” he asks. His thumb rubs circles against the hollow of your wrist. His gaze sweeps from your face, down your arm, to where he’s still got you. He’s waiting for you to be vulnerable, you just know it. A shark that smells blood in the water, circling and searching for tender flesh to lay its rows of teeth into. How does he imagine it will taste? Soft and meaty, melting underneath teeth and tongue? Layers of skin peeled back and pried open, made thin by older slices?

“It didn’t work out.” you reply. sagacious enough to play along only minimally. When you elaborate no further, he releases you with a smile.

“How interesting,” he hums. He reclines further, eyes fluttering shut. You could pounce on him so easily, like this. You could fix your teeth into his jugular and make it so he never threatens you again. The blood would be so warm in your mouth. His skin would be so sweet.

Don’t be gross. You grimace.

He drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

The fluttering of wings erupts in the canopy above you, a flock of songbirds taking an afternoon flight. He cracks open his eyes, then. He tracks some sort of movement (you aren’t looking up), idle, like you aren’t even there. He tilts his head to the side, the slender column of his neck completely exposed. The robe slips off of his shoulders, curvature of his collarbones and soft expanse of his chest open for your viewing pleasure. You’re annoyed.

 “I’ve held you long enough,” he sighs. “Thank you for sharing. Though, I do hope we can manage a longer conversation next time.”

“We’ll see,” you just barely keep a sigh out of your voice as you turn to leave, speed-walking up the grassy slope.

—

“That old man’s damn cat has been coming into the yard and bothering all the birds,” you grumble, squinting into the aforementioned patch of forest. 

Blade makes a noncommittal noise, indicating that he’s heard you.

“It pisses me off.”

“You care about the birds in someone else’s yard.” Blade observes. You frown deeper.

“It’s annoying. Cats are an invasive species, here. They slaughter all of the native wildlife—and sometimes they don’t even eat what they kill,” you sigh, tampering down your rising agitation. If you’ve learned one thing in your short and storied life, it’s that being impassioned isn’t good for you. 

“So, how would you suggest the problem be solved? If the owner insists on letting it out…”

“I don’t really live here, so it’s not like I have any right to get involved,” you shrug, “It’s just… if you’re gonna be that irresponsible with an animal, you don’t deserve to have it. You know?”

Blade makes another noise. Closer to a hum, this time. You don’t know if he knows or not. But you do know that he’s listening. You stare into the yard, and in your periphery you can see him staring at you.

—

You see Blade more in the coming days. Despite your best attempts, a routine slips into being, like weeds through cracks in the cement. Silver Wolf doesn’t show up to accept her own packages nearly as much, anymore. It’s almost always Blade. You see him so often that you question if he even has a job anymore.

He glowers. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He says, low voice almost lost amongst the bustle of the crowd. The markets are especially full today. Nestled in the crook of your elbow is a plastic shopping basket, loaded with some bread, some spices, and some vegetables. The stall you’re at rests beneath a red tarp, casts warm shadows onto his pale, bone-weary skin. “There are currently no tasks which command my presence at the moment.”

“Well. It’s good to have time off, but you don’t need to follow me around.”

“...” he doesn’t reply, but he does follow you all the way up to the counter. You can’t tell if he doesn’t understand the nuance, or if he’s just being bizarre and stubborn. Regardless, tailing you like a lost puppy seems to alleviate his boredom. To each their own.

“If you’re just going to walk behind me, can you—” you shift the basket from the crook of your arm, preparing to offer it. He snatches it from you before you can even finish speaking. 

“...Thanks.” 

He takes his newfound job as the basket carrier very seriously. His dour face doesn't budge an inch as you peruse the rest of the wares, plucking a few items from open crates and wooden shelves to add to the bundle. 

“So, see anything that piques your interest?” you’re not sure what prompts you to speak up. You should get through this as silently and as quickly as possible. The less time you spend in public with this man, the better. The presence of the Cloud Knights isn’t nearly as felt on this level, making it as safe a haven for criminals as can be. You suspect, sometimes, that it’s purposeful. In your many travels, you have come to realize that the criminal class is a valuable part of any economy, no matter how much those at the top may protest it. Those who disavow it the most fervently are usually the most involved, under the table.

Blade doesn’t respond, at first. His crimson gaze glances over the nearby shelves. He grabs a bottle of cloves and presents it to you, completely straight-faced.

You get the overwhelming sense he’s appeasing you more than anything.

“...Yeah,” you pluck it from his hand and halfheartedly eye the label. It’s hard to muster the energy to argue with him, especially when he looks so resolute. The fact that he’s continuing to tail you through the market is cause enough to ignore him. You drop the bottle into your basket and move on.

Thankfully, the rest of the trip passes in peaceful silence. You can feel Blade’s gaze, unreadable, lingering on your form as you pull your wallet out of one of your many pockets. The shopkeep, a sprightly young man with a head of bouncy, brown hair beams at the sight of you. You don’t remember his name, but you’re familiar with him. He opens his mouth to speak, but shuts his mouth tight before he can get a word out.

He glances over your shoulder. You swivel just barely to look at your stubborn shadow. Blade looms closer than you remember him being, leaving you with an up close and personal view of his chest. You tsk and look up at his face. 

“Can you get a bottle of white cardamom for me? It should be with the rest of the spices.”

Blade looks at you, and looks at the shopkeep. He is silent. The lines of his face are harsher than usual, burdened with deeper shadow. For a few, agonizing moments, you fear he may object, but he turns almost robotically and walks off. You’re not sure what’s upset him this time. You don’t particularly care. If you troubled yourself with the qualms of every pouting client, you’d be just as miserable as you were with The Family.

“Thanks. I could hardly get a word out while he was giving me those evil eyes,” the shopkeep says, shuddering.

“I guess his manners still need work,” Not that men in his line of work really needed any. 

“Alphas that smell that strong and don’t even try to put a lid on it are the worst,” he gripes, bagging your produce with nimble hands, before pausing and looking back up at you. He wrings his hands, contrite and sheepish. “—er, no offense.” 

“He smells strong?” you tilt your head to the side.

“Well, yeah. He’s all over you,” the man blinks. Some of his bangs fall over his big, brown eyes. He swipes them behind his ear thoughtlessly. “You guys just get together? He’s probably trying to flaunt it. Stake his ‘claim’, y’know?” he says with a sympathetic roll of the eyes.

You don’t particularly care what he says about Blade. A man able to lift a three-thousand pound sword doesn’t need defending.  It’s his misconceptions about your relationship that irks you, for some reason. You don’t care about the opinions of others (you try not to care about the opinions of others) but you can’t resist the sudden urge to correct him.

“We’re not together.”

“Oh,” he blinks at you. “Does he know that?”

“Ugh. Enough. It’s none of your business.” your lips twist, a sliver of teeth exposed in your displeasure.

The shopkeep nods and beams at you, all previous curiosity wiped clean off his face. “Heard loud and clear!”

He finishes ringing you up and sees you off with a “have a nice day~!”. Blade follows you to your next stop, a stall that sells fresh fruits. 

The frustration builds within you slowly. It’s a candlewick of a thing, at first. Blade is following you around. Irritating, but you can cope with it. He would leave if he was asked. Maybe Kafka told him to stick around for a while. She’s gotten into a bad habit of pawning him off on you, like he’s a child that needs watching rather than one of the universe’s most efficient killing machines. That’s fine. You’re not keen to get on her bad side.

Blade is scenting you. He’s sticking to you tight as a cobweb and giving dirty looks to people you talk to. That, you cannot abide by. It takes you at least five minutes to simmer, from the crate of apples to the lefternmost all of the stall to the bundle of leeks close to its middle. You’re not really looking at anything. Lost in thought.

“I am not an omega for you to covet. I don’t need your protection,” you tell him, letting your gaze idly roam over the prices. They’re written on fancy little labels with red accents, each one neatly stickered just below the lip of each crate. 

“I never said you did,” Blade replies after a moment of deliberating. You look over a crate of cantaloupe. Selecting a ripe one is a practiced art.

“You didn’t have to,” you pause, melon held in your hands as you give him a scathing look. “Control your pheromones. You’re not an animal.”

“No. Worse, I am a blade.” he sighs, suddenly sounding unusually surly. Your lips twitch in the barest beginnings of a frown. 

“Not an excuse,” you helpfully remind him. A shadow is cast over his face, then, dark and brooding. The space between his brows wrinkles, an uncertainty you haven’t quite seen from him before. There’s so little need to deliberate in a life like his own, so what troubles him now? It nettles something in you, makes you feel in a way that you don’t care to name and don’t want to look into. You deliberate asking, but he makes the choice for you.

“I will leave you, now.” When you turn to look at him, he’s already walked away from your side, strides longer than usual. He dissolves into the crowd like a sunset shadow, naught left in his wake but the scent you know still clings to your clothes. 

—

“My, my. You rarely ever visit at this hour,” Luocha says, giving you one of those mirthful smiles where his eyes scrunch, unabashedly delighted (and undeniably smug) to see you. He lounges on the ottoman, slender fingers parting the pages of a furniture catalogue. “To what do I owe the honor?”’ He’s already deduced that you want something from him. You take no excessive pride in your poker face but it still pains you to be so easily read. Luocha stands apart from the crowd with his soft hands and feigned delicacy, but he smells blood in the water just as easily as any other follower of the Hunt.

“I just wanted to talk,” you see no reason to dance around it.

“You came all this way for a conversation?” He rests his chin on the palm of his hand in a haughty way that pisses you off.

“Isn’t that what you’ve wanted this whole time?” you grouse, and he laughs.

“I’m flattered, regardless. Come, sit and tell me all that is on your mind.” he beckons to a seat at his side, which you stiffly sink into, unable to relax beneath his hunter’s gaze.

“You’re an omega—”

“Yes, quite,” his smile is now coquettish. You feel your face wrinkle in annoyance, line of your brows dipping low. 

“I wasn’t done. You know more about secondary genders than I do—and I don’t have anyone else to talk about it with, so…”

“I appreciate you confiding in me like this,” Luocha says, sweet as honey, timbre smooth as silk. There’s an ease about him here, in his own domain, that soothes and disarms you despite your best efforts. “It couldn’t have been easy for you to ask, so unused to relying on anyone else. I’m no professional, but I will answer your questions as best as I am able.”

He steeples his fingers with a smile, way too delighted for you to feel good about his generosity. He just likes knowing something you don’t, doesn’t he?

“Well. I’ve been spending time with an alpha, lately. It’s a work thing, but he keeps hovering around. Even after I tell him he can leave.”

“Ah.” Luocha says. The corners of his smile grow taut with something you don’t quite recognize. 

And it’s a question you suddenly have to wonder for yourself. Is Blade bothering you? You can count on one hand the amount of times you have been genuinely upset with him. He’s quiet, most of the time. He answers your questions and attempts to appease you whenever possible. He carries your bags whenever you happen to be at the markets, together. Even if you really wish he wouldn’t, you can tell he’s trying to be kind. 

“He hardly speaks. And when I does, I don’t really mind. But he hovers and keeps grabbing my shopping bags whenever we’re at the markets. I don’t get it. Is it some sort of courting gesture?”

“He certainly sounds like a character,” Luocha muses, sounding far off for a moment. “You have the right idea. He’s carrying your things to both lessen your burden and to prove himself capable, even if he himself does not realize it.”

You grimace, face twisting up, The truth has an acerbic tang to it. Luocha laughs unabashedly at your dismay, the sound melodic and trilling. The longer you spend in his presence, the more convinced you become that the Aeons crafted him specifically to vex you. You give him a scathing look.

“Come, now,” Luocha wheedles. “My humblest apologies, Courier—it’s simply so rare for you to be so expressive. I was caught off guard. Shall I get you something to drink? Come, please, sit back down. Surely you have more to ask of me?”

Reluctantly, you drop into the armchair closest to the door, leaning back as far as you have the space for, You fold your fingers together, elbows perched on an arm rest each.

“I don’t envy you. It must be difficult to bear the attentions of such a peculiar alpha,” Luocha says.

“You know him, then.” You can’t keep the accusation from your voice, something frenetic and ugly kicking up your pulse, making your stomach go sour. How deeply do they know each other? Enough for Luocha to consider spilling your secrets? Enough for them to conspire against your purposes unknown?

No, don't be ridiculous. You're not important enough a figure to be the center of any such elaborate scheme. Weak, as far as emanators go. Painfully average, even as far as betas go. Unremarkable in status and career. All that threatens you is what you have long left behind.

“I do know him. Quite well, in fact.” Luocha muses, undisputed fondness in his voice. How close are they? The question lingers bitter on the tip of your tongue. It vibrates underneath your skin, wild and desperate and gods, you want to know so badly.  “Though he may deny it, he can be shy. You’re alike, in that way.”

“I am not shy,” you bristle. It’s your curiosity alone that keeps you in his company. 

“An argument best saved for another day. Let’s not get off track—Blade is an alpha, but he bears few of the typical mannerisms associated with his secondary gender, which makes this newfound attachment to you all the more significant.”

Progressively, throughout your conversation, you’ve been able to feel the wrinkles on your face multiplying and darkening.

“It makes sense, if you ask me. You’re quite the extraordinary individual,” Luocha says, drumming his fingers idly against the armrest.

“So how do I get him to stop?” you brush past his superfluous flattery with practiced indifference. He wants to fluster you, to see you squirm. It’s one of the ugly truths behind the chivalrous front he wears in polite company.

“Are you sure you want him to stop?” he inquires.

“What are you getting at?”

“If you truly wanted to no longer be the object of these behaviors, you would have no problem telling him yourself.”

You laugh, and it’s a cold and bitter thing. “Not all men take rejection well.”

“As I well know,” Luocha reminds you. He’s so haughty, so utterly confident that sometimes you forget he’s an omega, a demographic as subject to unwanted advances as any you are a part of. He stands up, empty glass cradled in hand. The sheer material of his robe billows around him like fine mist, treating you to the outline of his smooth, toned legs. Blade is more built, the thought comes to you unbidden. You squish it like the raspberries you juiced only a week ago on Luocha's kitchen counter. You wonder if the stains ever came out.

“Objectively speaking, you have more of a reason to hold your tongue around me than you do him. Yet, you hardly hesitate to make your displeasure known in my company,” he points out. “It’s not because of my secondary sex. You hardly ever remember that I’m an omega, unless my heat is soon.”

“And your point is?”

He seizes your chin, then tilts your head up until you’re forced to look into those grass green eyes. Cradled between his forefinger and thumb, you are left with nowhere else to go. You wonder briefly if it thrills him to do this because he is an omega. If he finds some kind of perverse pleasure in subverting the roles society espouses about his kind.

“You could have told him off on your own. Instead, you went out of your way to consult someone you deeply dislike, looking for another, less direct way of handling it. All of that implies some degree of care, whether you want to admit it or not.”

He’s right, and you hate nothing more than when he’s right.

“Thank you for your time,” you dip back into your customer service with a placid and empty drone, because you know how much he hates it. You say it to his chest, refusing to give him the eye contact. Unwilling to expend the effort. For plausible deniability, because you don’t know what you’ll find on his face. The air has grown balmy and cloying and fragrant. You stand up, and he steps backwards. “But I must be going, now.”

“How unfortunate,” Luocha coos as you awkwardly find your way around him, having been sandwiched between his body and the coffee table. “I was going to put the kettle on…”

—

The shroud of night has settled over the Luofu. A crescent moon winks down at you from the artificial sky, peering between the treetops. You’re laid on your back, on the concrete patio near the shed. 

Footsteps head in your direction. You already know who it is. There’s no one else that has that blistering, writhing aura. Blade comes to stand over you. His brows wrinkle in displeasure. You don’t know why. It’s not his patio that you’ve gotten your blood all over.

“You’re injured,” he says, frowning. He crouches over you. A pale thumb smears the drying crimson on your upper lip. Your entire face scrunches up, gnarled like a gargoyle, recoiling from the unexpected touch.

“Nosebleed,” you mutter. The space behind your eyes throbs in protest, accompanied by a fierce pressure at the bridge of your nose. All typical symptoms. The gifts bestowed upon you as Emanator unfortunately do not shield you from your allergies. To think, an Emanator could still be laid low by something as mundane as allergies. 

“Who gave it to you?” Blade looms a little closer, gaze steely.

“No one. Sometimes my allergies act up. That’s all.” you assure him, squinting irritably. You hope your judgmental flower will shame him out of your personal space, but he lingers.

“You should remain indoors, then.” he draws. He lifts his bloodied hand and looks at it, too contemplative for your liking. 

“I take medication for it. Just forgot today,” it feels wrong to justify yourself. He isn't owed an answer, but this is a rare moment. Blade showing such outright concern over something so novel is interesting (a more sentimental person might call it touching). Has his immortality rendered him incapable of distinguishing a few pesky allergies from a deadly ammonia? You can’t imagine someone so riddled with regeneration to register the difference between a gaping gash and a papercut. 

“Then remember to take them.” he advises coolly. 

“I will.”

You lay there, then, in silence unperturbed for a few moments. The hard ground is cool against your back. It’ll fix your aching spine, you’re sure. 

“Are you not going to get up?” Blade asks.

“No. It feels nice to be on the floor, sometimes.” you assure him quickly, lest he assume your nosebleed has robbed you of all mobility. He stares at you, blank-faced, but you somehow can tell he is skeptical. You pat the space next to you, a silent offering.

You don’t expect him to take you up on it. This rare creature, crackling with the energy of his divine “gift”. You don’t indulge in typical sentiments, and you spurn love and limerence for your own sanity, due to the madness you have seen both inspire. To adore is to give of yourself, to exhaust what limited energy you have left. Yet, there is no arguing the fact of his beauty. His hair pools like fresh slick pitch. Faint moonlight catches on the sable strands. His jaw cuts a sharp and handsome shape, eyelashes long and thick. He stares up at the sky, unreadable. 

“Kafka has no need of me in the coming days.” “It is… strange. The Stellaron Hunters are few in number, so our hands are always full. To be bereft of any responsibility… is rare.”

“You don’t sound thrilled about that.”

“No. It will leave me restless. And the silence will only give the mara room to spread. It’s better—more manageable when there is a task at hand.” Blade admits, a shiver in his voice.

“I do. I believe you are familiar with the place,” he says. That catches your attention. And makes you just a little nervous. 

“Do you even have anywhere to stay?” The Stellaron Hunters surely have a vessel of their own where he can lodge. You’re ultimately not too concerned. You shut your eyes and listen to the midnight breeze, feel the black of the night against your skin.

You turn to look at him, almost afraid to ask. “Familiar?”

“The merchant has opened his home to me. I will remain there for the duration of my… off time.”

Again, you are sorely tempted to question the exact nature and origin of their relationship, but it’s truly none of your business. You’ve long espoused a policy of isolation, but there’s no denying how thoroughly entangled you have become in them. Elbows deep. You’re not quite sure how it happened. They’re infiltrated your monotonous life, moved in so slowly that you didn’t even notice until this very moment. 

“Well. He’s not there most of the time, so it’ll be like having your own place,” You can’t imagine Blade as a homeowner, for some reason. It just invokes the image of him mowing a lawn in khaki shorts with that same, placid face he always wears. He’s too ethereal and strange to trim the hedges or fix a leaky faucet. Sometimes, you think he’d look more in-place if he levitated instead of just walking everywhere.

“I had lemonade the other day,” he says, and this fascinates you, because it is so very rare for him to initiate conversation about something so little.

“...And? Did you like it?” Perhaps it’s petty, but you already have a feeling that he didn’t. You hate to presume, but you think you have similar palettes. 

“...It was too sweet, and burdened by a lingering, chemical taste,” he confirms your vague conjecture and you very nearly laugh. Or make some sort of short, wry noise like a horse’s snort.

“Yeah. Ones that aren’t made from scratch tend to be like that.”

“And that is why you make your own.” 

“Exactly,” you lift your gaze from him and return it to the sky. “When you make something from scratch, you can make however you like. Ones you buy pre-bottled have too much sugar.” He hums in acknowledgement, but says nothing else.

The twinkling stars are no more authentic than the clouds which hover during the day. But you wonder how many far off stars he has visited across the span of his long un-life. How many civilizations he has seen toppled, how many lives have ended at his hands. What a terrifying beast Yaoshi has created. Yet, here he lay beneath a sky he has likely long tired of, humoring your purposeless requests for reasons unknown.

—

You’re tucked on the steps off the side door, head leaned back and eyes shut, drinking in the warmth of the artificial midday sun. Blade leans up against the wall next to you, arms crossed. You don’t blame him for staying in the shade, not when he’s always dressed so darkly.

You shouldn’t show your stomach to a known apex predator. Your instincts are tampered down, but you still curl your spine and lift your knees to your chest when you usually it on the stoop. You haven’t done it, today. Anxiety thrums in the space right behind your eyes. The scared animal inside of you writhes in his presence. You look at him, gaze by happenstance falling on the profile of his chest.

Breasts, you think stupidly, and laugh aloud. The noise is so sudden that you almost don’t realize it came from you. Blade looks down at you like you’ve grown a second head, and you're still too caught up in your own disbelief. Spending so much time with him has softened your skill, started to fry your remaining brain cells. He’s always been handsome. But you’ve started to too keenly note the bow curve of his lips, the narrowness of his waist.

And you hate, hate, hate proving Luocha right.

“What is it that you find so amusing?” Blade speaks slowly, like he’s talking to a scared dog or a lost child.

“Nothing,” you shut your eyes and tilt your head back, letting it thump against the top step. Blade inhales sharply. “Just remembered a stupid joke I heard a few days ago.” When you open your eyes, Blade has turned away, inspecting a row of gladiolus planted next to the nearby shed. The line of his shoulders has gone tense.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” you muse.

“Did you plant them?”

“No. I delivered the seeds. Only a week ago, I think. They wouldn’t have been able to sprout this fast.”

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps,” Blade skates a finger over a bright orange petal. “That merchant utilizes his gift so shamelessly. Even while at the heart of his natural born enemy.”

“And it’ll all be for nothing if that damn cat comes and eats them,” you grunt. You’ev stumbled upon torn up patches of grass and bitten through flower patches, stems snapped and petals crushed. You briefly, in one of your pettiest and cruelest moments, nearly suggested Luocha plant lilies next. The callousness of your own thought had startled you into silence, so gladiolus it was.

“Ah. About the cat,” Blade begins. You blink, wide-eyed. A cold pit forms in your stomach, because—

“You didn’t,” you gape.

“I did not kill it,” Blade says sourly, clearly affronted by the assumption. “I brought it to Kafka. They seem to get along.”

The tension melts out of you at once. Your petty grudge isn’t worth the blood of an innocent animal. You let yourself fall back against the stoop. The edges of the stairs dig into your spine. 

“That makes sense,” you say, a touch wry.

Blade grimaces. “They send me images of the little beast every day I am not there. If Silver Wolf is to be believed, it ‘eats better’ than she does.”

Does Silver Wolf eat well to begin with? “That was kind of you,” you say instead. 

“Was it? Or was it cruel to the man who will wonder where his pet has gone?” Blade inquires. He doesn’t sound particularly bothered by the possibility. 

You scoff. “I doubt he’ll even notice.”

—

You are natant in the dull haze of half-sleep. The soft scent of camelias and fabric softener and linens. A cloying warmth cocoons you, keeps you mired in a state of partial sleep. Burrowed beneath the comfort exists a nagging feeling of wrongness, like a pebble in your boot. You cling to the sensation, let it pull you from the inky, peaceful depths. You’re not sure how long it takes for you to breach the surface. It feels like ages by the time you pry your weary eyes open.

There’s a body crushed into you. An unyielding, solid mass of muscle. The scent of something charred wreathes around you. Your cheek is pressed up against a heartbeat, steady and strong. It would be comforting if you knew where you were, or who you were with.

Alarm, molten hot, jots down your spine. Shaken from your stupor, you begin to writhe. Your palms slap against the chest of the man beneath you. You brace yourself against him in an effort to pry yourself free.

An arm around your midriff tightens, and the panic grows. You lash out, snarl, a hand reaching behind you to grab onto the assailant’s wrist.

The room blurs, then. The breath is knocked from your lungs as you’re reoriented and pinned with minimal effort. Your eyes blow wide, gaze caught by those candlewick eyes. Blade’s hair is mussed from both sleep and the struggle. His lips are pulled into a snarl. Your gut squirms at the flash of those deadly canines—sharper than you’d imagined (he’s never bared his teeth at you).

“Stop,” he commands, low and throaty. You shudder, foolish hindbrain moved to obey the order. This, you realize, is what an alpha’s command must sound like.

As you lay beneath him, chest to heaving chest, the pieces of the previous night return to you in fragments and shades.

Blade came to your door at dusk’s end. The shuttles had shut down for the night. You let him in, quickly, before anyone could witness a known fucking criminal at your door. You fed him dinner, anyways. Spoke late into the night—about what you cannot truly recall. Somewhere around three in the morning, you must have nodded off. 

“Have you calmed down?” Blade asks.

“Yes,” you grumble, feeling thoroughly chastised despite his flat and empty tone. You attempt to dislodge yourself a second time, but Blade stops you fast. “Blade—” The beginning of a feeling you cannot quite name crawls up your spine, up the back of your skull. It’s a creeping, white hot sensation. A sudden deprivation of air. His eyes have closed. You feel your pulse spike. “Blade.” You try again. “Let me up.”

He draws a shaky breath.

“You don’t understand, do you?”

“What is there for me to understand?” you ask, voice a tepid little thing. He laughs. The sound is manic and bitter. When he opens his eyes, they’re hot enough to burn a hole in you.

“I… remember you,” he begins slowly. There’s a creeping breathiness there, you feel it under your palms, writhing inside of his ribcage. “When you are not there. I remember how warm your hands are, the smell of your sweat—the taste of when we are… together. And I crave it every moment we are apart. It’s—maddening.”

“What.” you’re taken back, all the sudden, to the sixth time Sunday called you to his office. A servant of the Harmony, you were, still protected by your naivete, still convinced by the smiling faces and open arms which surrounded you. A child. A seed, among the older and wiser trees in Xipe’s forests. 

You remember the exact shape of his lips when he said it—you remember how it felt. You feel the same way now, pinned like a little butterfly. Lost in the reeds.

“I remember you,” Blade continues, slower and calmer, now. Burning wood to dead charcoal. “When we are apart, you are all I remember, and the emptiness that exists in your shape is too much to bear. I need—” he licks his lips, his empty pupils blown so very wide.

“The mara becomes quiet, when we are together,” he whispers, like he’s sharing a secret. His eyes close. His forehead is a wide rash of heat, pressed against yours. He takes a single, shuddering inhale, breathing your air. 

And you—you’re still frozen there, caught up in the vice of his body and the couch. You stare emptily beyond him. His face settles into the crook of your neck. 

The lamplight flickers on and off. 

[put-me-through-the-wall]

Okay how about Kidnapper!Konig who ends up crossing paths with you. A case file was dropped onto his desk one day. The manilla file consists of a couple of personal documents of yours and a glossy copy of your passport photo. Your hair brushed out of your face with wide eyes and beautiful lips pouting back at him. He knew from that moment you were more than just a mark.

In no time he is in your city, memorizing your schedule. It wasn't hard to do. You are very predictable. He doesn't even need to trail far behind as you walk through parking lots and sidewalks. He once followed you all the way back to your front door, caught up in the scent of your fading perfume. You never even looked behind you. You really shouldn't wear headphones all the time. You're far too pretty to be this oblivious to your surroundings.

You have a shitty live-in boyfriend who has gotten you into this whole mess. Konig hates watching you through your window when you get home. Seeing the loser guy lounging on your couch. Eating all your food and complaining about anything he can pick on. He watches as you pace room to room picking up after that pig. Thankfully, you were only targeted due to your connection to him. He's not sure how a sweet girl like you got involved with such a dangerous man.

After almost a week of tracking you he determines the time to act. You like to take a scenic side street when you walk home from work. The cobblestone path between two blocks of old historic buildings. The ivy and overgrown trees taking over the space creeping through the iron rod fencing line either side of the walkway. It's late in the evening, the lampposts lighting your path with a yellow tint while you walk down the cobblestone. You're heels click along the stone and once again you have those damn headphones on. Konig is thankful he able to be here instead of some creep. You step along your way so comfortable in your routine now.

You don't even notice when Konig's wide stride catches up to you. You don't see his large shadow looming over you while you mindlessly scroll through your social media feed. He can't help the smile that pulls at his lips underneath his hood when he sees you liking a silly cat video. Then he wraps his massive arms around you. Before you can make a sound he covers your mouth with a rag soaked with a certain special sedative. He shushes you gently as you scream against the dense fabric. You don't struggle for long. Nails scratching at his forearm don't cause real damage through his thick sweatshirt. You kick and thrash but he holds you tight to his chest. He feels your heart thumping against your rib cage like a scared baby bird until finally, you relax. Your head lulls to the side and falling into the crevice of his arm. He stare down at your closed lids, you look so peaceful now. The scent of your hair product penetrates the material of his mask.

There is plenty of time to adore your sleeping form, not here though. He hoists you up in his arms, carrying you bridal style back to his van. Carefully slipping you into the back but not before zip tying your hands and feet. You shouldn't be awake anytime soon but he's not one to take chances.

━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━

I'm just writing down some things I've been thinking about lately. Please let me know if you want more of things like this or if you want me to do a part two. Any comments or tags I see make me smile <3

ﾒ𝟶

[cthulhusstepmom]

The Horsegirl-ification of Gideon Coal

“Kremy, are you absolutely certain this is a good idea? I think it would be fairly obvious to anyone with a brain that these are simply mundane horses.” 

Leaning against the only mostly unstable temporary fence that the hands had constructed for this stretch, Kremy offers Frost a sharp toothed grin where he paces off to his right. 

“That’s the thing you gotta understand Frost: it doesn’t matter if they’re real or not. The kids will believe it and the parents will pay for it.” 

“Yeah and some people are just stupid plain man!” Gideon adds, leaning back on the inside of the fence.

“That’s exactly right! Even the halfway intelligent folks will pay just to see how fake they look.” 

Frost grumbles but seems to acquiesce, eyes turned away as the pattering sounds of bear feet and bare feet approach the paddock.

“Gricko! Did you bring what I asked for?”

“I did indeed, but first and most importantly-” the goblin pauses for dramatic effect. “Look at how precious Hootsie is with her little unicorn horn! Ooh aren’t you the most precious unicowlbear!” And she is precious, toddling behind her father with a bulging satchel and a headband with a unicorn horn attached to it. Allowing Gricko his moment, Kremy steps forward and retrieves the satchel from Hootsie, making a mental note along the lines of ‘mule and enforcer, pay in rats’. Within the satchel is a selection of wooden horns, ranging in length from about six inches to eighteen, each with varying texture, weight, and stain. 

“Gricko this is incredible! You did all of this last night?” Kremy asks, only half paying attention to any answer he may receive.

“I told you I was good with my hannnds Kremy.” He slurs slightly, wobbling just the smallest bit.

“I had taken that for a sexual euphemism. I apologize.” Frost says, taking one of the horns and examining it. 

“Well I did have a lot of Trice Melon.” 

“The fuck is a trice melon?” Gideon cocks his head.

“A try smellin deez nuts.”

“You’re fucking dead as soon as I’m over this fence you son of a bitch! I’ll kill you, you’re brain’s gonna splatter all over this fucking-”

“Gid Gid Gid!” Kremy placates with a hand to Gideon’s already heaving chest. “Gricko’s just tired, let’s not destroy all of Turblek’s or whatever his name is hard work and torch the paddock while we’re at it hmm? Frost, would you kindly take Gricko to bed?” 

“Yes, that would seem to be the best course of action. Come along Gricko, I’ll let you finish today’s sudoku puzzle.”

“Eugh you can keep it Frosty, you know I hate the number ones.”

Turning away, Kremy startles for a moment when he realizes his hand is still on Gideon’s chest; quickly dismisses how Gid hasn’t protested its placement. 

“Right, now we can get some fucking work done. You have the glue?” 

“Right here.” He smiles, gesturing to a glass filled with a viscous amber substance. “And I already tested it, it washes right out. Frosty may be missing a few patches of hair from tries one through four.” 

Kremy puzzles for a moment. “Where?”

“You don’t want to know man.”

The horses in the paddock are serene, grazing and mingling amongst each other with nary a care in the world. After a long week of travel they’ve certainly enjoyed the day of rest while carnies run to and fro setting up the tents and attractions. They’re a motley crew, ranging in size from a couple of ponies all the way up to a handful of old drafts. Kremy isn’t sure where most of them came from, being perfectly honest. 

When they’d first upgraded to wagons over tents he had allowed Gideon to guide the majority of the purchasing. Walking in lock step, trying to understand all the technical things he had to say; Offering his own input where it mattered and then haggling the price down as Gid loomed over his shoulder. He hadn’t had the slightest idea where to get horses beyond a livery stable and that wouldn’t do if they were to be moving long distances. Gid had disappeared into the crowd at a pub one night before returning with a grin and leading Kremy to an auction house on the edge of town. Kremy had felt like a sore thumb as they’d perused their options, Gideon occasionally stopping to run his hands over one horse or another, asking questions or sharing jokes that flew completely over his head. When it came to the actual auction, Gideon had leant down beside him, breath steaming in his ear as he instructed him what to bid, when to fold and when to press. That night they walked out with eight horses and two mules and, Gideon assured him, good deals on all of them.

Since then their little herd had grown, not from any auction house trip however. No, some days on his free nights, when he wasn’t tinkering with his rigged games, lounging in their shared wagon while Kremy did paperwork, or out on the hunt for a good time, Gideon would simply wander off. Never so abruptly that it would be hard to follow him necessarily, but gone all the same. And he’d come back with another horse. Usually it wouldn’t be much to look at, skinny or scarred up or old or lame. But over time and under Gideon’s watchful care, dull coats would turn glossy and haunted eyes would turn warm. 

So Kremy doesn’t need to know where they come from, only that they’re theirs now. 

Such a saccharine sentiment doesn’t do much to make this any easier however.

“Fuck!” he yelps, yanking his hand back as the little pony nips at him once again. “Would you kindly fucking stand still and let put the stupid horn on your stupid head!” 

If horses had eyebrows one of them would certainly be raised in defiance as the pony most decidedly does not stand still, kindly or otherwise.

“Woah what’s going on over here man?” 

“My patience is being tried.” Kremy tries not to sulk, defeated by an undersized horse.

He can see the laugh bubbling in Gid’s chest as he runs eyes over the situation. Hands covered in sticky glue, bleeding from a cut that feels worse than it looks, shirt certainly ruined, and a defiant pony staring him down like he’s the bad guy here.

“Alright Witch Stomper he’s had enough. C’mere let’s get you sorted.” And like magic the pony turns and trots up to his partner like a dog fed from the table; allowing him to affix the curling black horn to its forehead with little difficulty. 

“I’m telling you Gid something’s wrong with that animal, it has evil in its eyes.” He growls, straightening his clothes as best he can without sticking anything together. 

“Ah c’mon you kidding me? Stomper’s a good boy, he can just tell you’re not comfortable with him. Taking advantage of your inexperience, that's all man.” A single piercing blue eye glares into Kremy’s soul for just a moment too long before the pony tosses its head and moves off to continue whatever nefarious deeds it was in the midst of before Kremy came along. “C’mon we’ve only got a couple more to do.”

And so it seems. While Kremy was engaged in his battle of wills, Gid had gone through most of the other horses. Following close behind the larger man, all the while keeping a watchful eye for a vengeful pony, Kremy admires the ease that Gideon has with the animals. Hulking beasts eagerly offering their noses for a quick pat or snuffling into pockets for treats, letting this man walk among them and accepting him with zero hesitation. 

“Lady and Stormy should be it, you have the bag?” He hands the second to last horn over to Gid, offering the glue with it. “There we go, s’all right girl. It’s okay, it’s okay.” He continues, voice low and comforting as he approaches the mare.

Lady is their newest acquisition, or Gid’s newest acquisition to be more accurate. A pinto with patches of russet and a bold white stripe running up her face. She’s a pretty thing, even to Kremy’s untrained eye, but she’s skittish and along her coat he can see patterns of scars that would probably point to something if he knew more about horses. She’s been in their company for about a month but she’s still tentative at best and downright flighty at worst. None of the hands can even get close to her when it’s time to get hitched up and ready to go, leaving her instead solely to Gid and their wagon at the head of the train, paired up in a team with an old mule Kremy thinks is named Rusty, one of the originals that they’d purchased at the auction.

Looking at her now you wouldn’t know it, with how calm she is as the horn is carefully glued to her head.

Gideon looks over his shoulder, stroking the mare’s flank while the glue sets up.

“C’mere, give her a pat.” He holds out a hand, beckoning insistently. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea Gid, you know horses don’t like me.” Kremy crosses his arms in front of himself, it’s something in his gator heritage he’s sure. The scent of a predator or some such thing. 

Gid huffs a laugh.

“This look like a horse to you? You are looking at a 100% bona fide unicorn.” 

Kremy huffs if only to stifle a laugh. “Gods are you stupid.” 

Still he moves forward. Tentatively at first but when the mare stays in place a small bit more confidence creeps into his step. He’s just a step past Gideon when Lady blows a worried breath through her nostrils, pinning her ears back and pawing at the soft summer grass with one hoof. Hurriedly he begins to take a step back, only to collide with a wall of warmth as Gid steps forward behind him. It stuns him for a moment, robs him of words as his head is filled with hot air and thoughts of warm laughs and cigar smoke. 

“That’s it, it’s okay.” 

Kremy’s not sure if he’s talking to him or the horse. 

“Gimme your hand.” As if saying no was an option at this point.

His hand fits well in Gideon’s but that’s no surprise; he’s watched those clever hands long enough to do the arithmetic. His brain nearly leaks out of his ears like a poorly sealed shepherd's pie when he feels another hand on his waist, guiding him with gentle pressure to take another step forward; and another. Until he’s standing so close he can smell the scent of horse sweat and well oiled tack leather, a scent that follows Gideon. Gently, mostly of his own initiative after a little encouragement, he lays one hand on the flank of the mare, brushing over it with an almost delicate touch. When she doesn’t make any move to startle away he scratches through the short hairs of her hide like he would a dog. It’s relaxing, oddly: simply petting this animal, feeling the rise and fall of its great billowing lungs. Admiring the power of it, the beauty. Absorbing Gideon’s heat at his back. 

“Ain’t that something.” Kremy doesn’t look up, doesn’t need to, can feel a pair of dark eyes on his face. 

“You know Gid, horses aren’t really my pot of gumbo so to speak. But, I think I might come around to unicorns.”

anyone else notice that line at the end of ep. 48?

Kremy, approaching the unicorn, "What does Gid do?"

just me? amazing.

[whatlovelybones-if]

I absolutely adore Salem and if you don't mind and if it's not spoilers, I have some questions. How did Salem and Mc meet and how old was the Mc when they first met Salem?

i’m just throwing crumbs from the actual book at y’all atp smh not that i’m complaining under the cut in case y’all wanna avoid spoilers

a kitten jumps over the fence with a speed so fast that it seemed like a black blur to the passersby. she runs on her little feet, scratches adorning her belly and paws and black fur slightly matted with blood. she couldn’t be more than a month old and looks extra small with ribs sticking out and her big green eyes staying on alert.

two dogs sprint after her, strays with large muzzles and jaws which could break her ribs in pieces if they ever bite down on her small body. the cat knows that turning around or stopping will not end well for her. so she runs. she runs with swift feet and a rapidly beating heart.

she would outrun them today, tomorrow, and however many times she has to. this is the price she has to pay for living in a dog-eats-dog kind of world. to survive, you must run. especially with her size, she was never going to soundly defeat those two dogs.

she knew she had made a mistake as soon as she entered the uncharted territory behind the diner. what was even more stupid was that she decided to dig through the large trashcan anyway, searching for any scraps thrown out by the diner.

it was the smaller dog which noticed her first, immediately growling and giving away his position. the sheer timing of that was the only reason why the cat managed to get out of the way when the other dog pounced on her. to her tiny frame, they were titans armed with big, sharp teeth and aggression. and she was nothing but someone trying to live another day.

the little cat did not go without a fight though. she jumped on the larger dog, scratching one of his eyes and leaving him to whimper in pain. the other dog backs away for a second, before gearing up to strike her. she uses the injured dog as a leverage to jump and leave a deep gash on the smaller one.

he yowls and smacks her away with his sharp claw, causing deep gashes on her belly. she shakes her body, trying to get rid of the sudden dizziness and pain which assaulted her at the impact. when she senses one of the dogs leaning in to smell her, she hisses ferociously with an anger of a lioness and lands another swipe of her claws.

she wasted no time in just running with no destination in mind. the little cat didn’t care where she was going, she just wanted to be rid of her two aggressive pursuers who were still on her tail.

this was when she noticed a manor in the distance, looming like a menacing shadow over its premise. she also saw someone coming out of there, walking to a car parked nearby. the little cat didn’t think any further as she darted towards them, slowing herself down to a pace.

the person stops in their track and tilts their head in interest as she walks closer, meowing and making sure to show off the slight limp in her leg. they frown and immediately crouch down, taking off their gloves to reach their hand forward so she could sniff them and get familiar. the little cat contemplates what to do just for a while before she comes closer and runs her head against their hand after sniffing.

she couldn’t understand it herself but the person exuded a protective and warm aura, despite the coldness of their hands. they coo at her as she gets more confident and rubs herself all over their white coat, purring like an engine going haywire.

“are you hurt, you sweet little thing?” they ask in a fond but worried voice, fingers scratching near her tail in a way which makes her lift her lower half up. she all but meows repeatedly in confirmation.

that is all it takes for the person to gently scoop her up in their arms while taking care not to hurt her. the kitten purrs even louder—feeling comfortable and loved like this was a new but welcomed feeling.

“it’s alright, darling,” the person coos in a reassuring voice, softly scratching behind her ear. “we’ll get you all patched up, okay?”

the kitten meows and paws at their arms, as if making tiny biscuits and it brings a genuinely amused laugh out of them. it abruptly stops when she notices, at the same time as them, the two dogs prowling and watching from a distance. they seem to hesitate, as if something was holding them back. but her nose had always been good, and she could detect exactly what they smelled of.

fear. the most primal kind. fear of what exactly, she couldn’t tell, but it wafted off of them like rotten fish. the mere whiff of it raised her hackles and she hisses at them, this time even fiercer than before.

“i think what she is trying to say here is that you should leave,” the person’s voice was colder enough to freeze hell over. “now.”

“i’m guessing they’re the ones who did this to you,” the person says, examining her and looking over the fresh wounds. “you’re a brave little girl though, aren’t you?”

the pair didn’t need to be told twice as they yelped and ran, tails between their legs in the opposite direction.

the kitten meows and nestles into them further, enjoying their embrace.

“how about a name, hmm?” they scratch her chin fondly. “what about salem? fits you quite well, doesn’t it?”

the kitten, now named salem, purrs in approval. the person chuckles, holding her close and pressing a kiss on her head. salem meows and paws at the collar of their coat playfully.

“looks like we’re gonna have lots of adventures together, little salem.”

[soulgazingwithbucky]

protect, ch. 2 (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: You've spent your life protecting your younger brother, until an invitation from Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes turns everything on its head.

Warnings: mentions of parent death, reader feeling traumatized, some violence

Word count: 5.8k

A/N: wanted to share my inspo for this fic! i was inspired by mcu phase 4, and wondered what it would look like for bucky to pass the mantle. obviously this fic took a different turn and doesnt rly focus on that, but nonetheless wanted to share :) hope you enjoy. divider credits to @lesbiacebian!!

Masterlist: {one} | {two} | {three}

And so you find yourself grumpy and groggy in the passenger seat, scolding Tomas.

“The next time they want you to train at this hour, tell them to eat shit,” you groan, arms crossed over your chest.

Tomas glances at you. For a second, you look like a smaller version of Bucky, moping about a situation you put yourself in. He names his observation, and you slowly drop your arms and release your scowl.

Sam and Bucky have grown to be close confidants in the past few months, checking in on you nearly as much as they spend time with your brother. Sam’s counseling sessions are on your only day off; when he picks up Tomas for their appointments, Bucky stays behind, helping you with errands or otherwise keeping you company. He seems more than happy to accompany you on grocery trips, help you with minor projects around the apartment, or just enjoy a film with you. You didn’t realize that during these weekly visits, you unconsciously picked up on some of his mannerisms.

Tomas stops short of a chain link fence. He presses some buttons on his phone, triggering a mechanism that slides the gate open. You squint at the spacious area; it’s nearly bare, save for the low lights illuminating the tarmac and the tall, metal building that looms to your right. Tomas delicately presses the gas pedal, and the car lurches forward at an agonizing pace. When the car just barely passes the gate, Tomas shuts off the car and switches off the headlights. You stare at your brother, who looks solemnly ahead–he has never done anything carefully in his life.

In all honesty, you thought Tomas would be meeting a date. After all, he told you about a last-minute “mysterious training” that happened to be in the middle of the night? You weren’t stupid. Under normal circumstances, you would wave him off and tell him to bring back the car in tip top shape. But in case that it was some corrupt alien monster trying to lure him out, you insisted on accompanying him. You figured you would make sure he was safe before taking off. He fought against this, only fueling your theory that he was indeed rendezvousing with some pretty thing. You had let him think he won, until you threw yourself into the passenger seat right when he was about to leave.

Rookie mistake, thinking you would ever let him win an argument.

But now, with Tomas’s knuckles paling with his grip on the wheel, his gaze steely and his body trembling in expectation, you wonder what you’ve walked into. Tomas holds his breath and the car now falls into complete silence as you both watch a small aircraft exit the hangar. Two figures follow, towing what looks like weapons and manila folders.

“Tomas, what’s–”

“Stealth exercise. Bye, sis,” he says quickly. Before you know it, his speedy ass is out of the car, making his way over to Sam and Bucky.

And he expects you to believe that? You quickly leave your seat, following after Tomas.

“What is going on?” you hiss, much to Tomas’s horror. He turns around, silently waving you off with an aggressive gesture of his hand.

“Oh, I know you did not just–”

Obviously, at this point, you have earned the attention of the heroes, who have stopped at the top of the airplane stairs. Startled recognition paints Sam and Bucky’s faces, and the latter points an accusing finger in Tomas’s direction.

“You got some fuckin’ nerve, kid,” Bucky growls. The light from the hangar illuminates his burning stare and tense snarl.

“I thought we made it perfectly clear–,” Sam begins.

“I know, but I can help you guys. I’m ready,” Tomas insists as he attempts to close the distance between himself and the two men.

“Aht!” Sam says, holding his hand out to stop your brother from ascending any further.

“Ready for what?!” you say from the bottom step.

Over the comms system, their pilot confirms they are ready for takeoff.

“You need to leave, now,” Sam instructs gravely.

“Both of you,” Bucky emphasizes.

“Great, have a good night,” you say. You’re donning well-loved pajamas, and the thin fleece does nothing to protect you from the evening chill. You grab Tomas’s sleeve, turning around and tugging him along. He shakes you off, keeping his eyes locked on his mentors.

“No way,” he tells them. “I’m coming. You guys have been talking about this forever, and it’s about time I get some field experience–”

“That’s not for you to decide!” Bucky says, exasperation dripping in his voice.

“I concur,” you add. Bucky gestures towards you, as if to say, See?! Can you listen to your sister?!

Through their earpieces, their pilot asks them what the hold up is. As Dr. Banner remotely tracks their mark’s location, he urges, “It’s now or never, guys.”

Sam glances at the airplane, then at the both of you. He looks at the stairs you’re all standing on, knowing that the aircraft can’t take off unless the area is clear and, most importantly, he and Bucky are on this damn plane.

After a few years of working as partners, Bucky can practically read the man’s mind.

“Sam, no–”

“I know, I know.” Sam turns to both of you, anger painting his features. “Get in, now.”

Tomas tries to mask his smile, knowing full well he is in trouble with the three most important people in his life. But he got away with it, didn’t he? He pieced together that Sam and Bucky were leaving for an assignment from the hushed conversations between training sessions. When he saw a text on Bucky’s phone naming a crime organization that had Tomas on their short list, he had to find a way in. So he could tell those bastards thanks, but no fucking thanks before breaking all of their noses.

“Fix your face,” you tell him discontentedly.

“As soon as we land, our pilot’s taking you back,” Sam grunts. “We’ll find our own way back. Banner, did you copy that?”

“I’m already here! You might as well make use of me,” Tomas argues.

“For what?!” you say, still in the dark about all of this.

Bucky addresses you, though his darkened eyes are still fixed on your brother.

“Organization called The Snakeroot Clan,” he says. He tears his eyes away from Tomas to face you. “They’re based in Japan, but we got word that some of their members are here on business.”

“The goal was to apprehend Harry Kenkoy and Feruze. But now it’s to make sure you two get home safely,” Sam picks up.

Tomas exhales loudly, earning a glare from both you and Bucky.

“They are dangerous,” Bucky says through gritted teeth. He feels the frustration bubbling and he suddenly rises from his seat to the back of the cabin, facing away from everyone in an effort to calm down. How stupid could this kid be to put himself in danger? And to put his human sister in danger right alongside him?

“Crazy dangerous,” Sam confirms. “They’re not just criminals–some of them are also mystics. They’ll fuck you up, kid, in more ways than one.”

“And that’s exactly why you took me to Kamar-Taj,” is Tomas’s rebuttal.

“That is not why we took you to Kamar-Taj!” Bucky yells, slamming his fist along the adjacent wall. In a split second, he’s in front of Tomas, leaning over him. Your heart stutters, and you’re ready to pull the hero back, but Tomas doesn’t back down, leaning forward until their noses are practically touching.

“You’re on a suicide mission, kid; you made a stupid plan like it’s your duty to put yourself in the line of fire when there are other people perfectly capable of doing it without–”

“Can’t help it,” Tomas spits. “Growing up, I drooled over my fucking history books, learning all about a man that no one believed in with a dumb plan to help save the world.”

Bucky is stunned, and Tomas breaks their staredown, hard eyes absorbing the night clouds you’re flying through.

“I heard he had someone by his side who stuck by him and believed in him,” Tomas spits. “But sis, you were right. Never meet your heroes.”

Sam and Bucky glance at you before sharing a look. You can only open your mouth, only to shut it. It was what you had told him when Steve Rogers was invited to read a book based off of him at Tomas’s former elementary school. Tomas had begged you to pick him up early from school so you could try to get even a glimpse of his hero. You agreed, but by the time you arrived, he was long gone, whisked away by something more important.

Sam stops thumbing his shield, standing up to use the lavatory. He claps his hand on Tomas’s shoulder.

“If it helps any, he was a hardass on Steve, too,” Sam whispers with a small smile before disappearing into the bathroom.

“I heard that,” Bucky grumbles. “And that punk deserved it, too.”

While the plane roars around you, you and Tomas are having a silent exchange. He can see the anger, understanding, upset, confusion, and sympathy in your eyes.

I had to, sis, his eyes are telling you.

I know, is the message your expression is sending back. But you’re gonna wish the evil sorcerers got to you first when I’m through with you.

He smiles, shifting his gaze to the airplane window once again.

“Look, I’m sorry, kid,” Bucky speaks up from across the aisle.

Tomas huffs. “I tried to come without her. I knew you would react like this if she came.”

“What does that mean?” you say. Much to Bucky’s relief, Sam’s exit from the bathroom is perfectly timed.

“He can take us to the entrance, Sam,” Bucky decides. “And then he gets his ass back to the plane. Immediately.”

His partner cocks his head at the idea, but has no rebuttal. Through their earpieces, Dr. Banner announces that the pilot has started their descent.

While Sam is handing Tomas a gun, Bucky takes his earpiece and places it in your hand.

“‘Cause I know you’re gonna be freaking out in here,” he explains. You manage a smile.

“Tomas comes back in one piece, you hear me?”

He nods solemnly, knowing your humorous tone is only a mask.

“You all come back in one piece.”

“And you stay put,” he responds. You nod, placing the communication device in your ear. He places a reassuring hand on the side of your head, smiling when you unconsciously lean into his touch. This time, it’s Sam and Tomas’s turn to exchange a look.

“We gotta go, Bucky,” Sam says, before turning his attention to the young man beside him. He points at his chest, emphasizing, “Entrance and back.”

“Entrance and back,” Tomas repeats with a grin. He meets your concerned eyes with a nod before disappearing into the night with Sam and Bucky.

For the first few minutes, your legs feel like jelly. Your nerves glue you to your seat, and you can only manage to buckle and unbuckle your seatbelt numerous times. You stare out of the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of your brother or the heroes, but can only see darkness.

The next few minutes after that, you’re pacing the cabin’s length, suddenly restless. You wipe your clammy hands on your pants, looking around for something to make yourself useful. Sitting around doing nothing was never your thing; Bucky’s simple request to stay put in the cabin was not a simple request for you. You decide your goal is to find a weapon, in case a mystic or two find the plane and need their asses handed to them.

While you search the aircraft, you hear Sam’s voice over comms, informing Dr. Banner that they’re about to meet the target.

“You sure you don’t want to do this instead, Banner?” Bucky muses.

“Covert is in your wheelhouse, not the big guy’s,” Bruce responds. “Be careful.”

You give up trying to get into the weapons locker, and instead decide on the aircraft’s fire extinguisher as your weapon of choice. You nearly invite yourself into the cockpit to confer with the pilot in case you were attacked, but you decide that the best plan would be to leave them alone so they could do their job.

You sit back in your seat, gripping the extinguisher. The red metal chills your lap through the fabric of your pajama pants. You fight every urge to run out into the darkness, to follow after your brother, knowing your role tonight was to practice patience and trust.

After a few agonizing minutes of silence, you sigh in relief at your brother’s hushed voice through the communication device in your ear: “They’re in the building, heading back now.”

“Roger. Watch your six, kid,” Bruce responds.

“Name’s Tomas,” your brother responds, and you can practically hear the goofy grin spreading across his face.

You peer out of the window, waiting to see your brother’s lanky figure appear through the darkness. One minute turns to five, which turns to ten, and you feel your stomach tying itself in knots.

“Bruce, come in,” you speak up.

“Go for Bruce.”

The plane door swings open, and you jump, nearly knocking the extinguisher to the floor. You quickly get to your feet, extinguisher aimed, but quickly drop it to hug your brother.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, pulling back and smoothing his windswept hair.

He gives you a lopsided smile.

“They told me to update our pilot, let her know everything’s on track. Means we’ll be leaving at the expected time,” Tomas says. You nod, but pull him into your arms one last time before he disappears into the cockpit.

Bruce’s voice comes over the communications system, and you slap your forehead. You had completely forgotten that you reached out to him.

“Bruce, I’m so sorry, everything’s good–”

He cuts you off, his voice low with a slight tremble. “You need to leave.”

The urgency in his tone is everything you need to know. “Wait, let me get Tomas.”

“No, you need to leave.” He is speaking quickly. “Operations logistics, including communication with the pilot, is strictly done remotely. By the mission lead. Me. Agents on the ground are there to focus on their job.”

You freeze, right outside of the cockpit. “What are you saying, Bruce?”

“Sam and Bucky would never tell your brother–”

You hear a strangled scream on the other side that causes the hair on your arms to rise. But the scream cuts off, the unnatural silence sending another round of chills through your body. The door swings open, and you swear your brother’s eyes flash purple as he fixes his gaze on you.

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “I wanted to do that a lot more subtly.” He has a blade in his hand, and he’s wiping the crimson residue on the wrist of his jacket. He’s slowly moving towards you; with every step forward, you take one step back. Your eyes flash to the extinguisher on the ground, the door on your left, the bloody knife in Tomas’s hand.

“You…never had a knife.” Your hands are reaching around behind you, trying to keep your balance as you continue to create distance between yourself and your sibling.

Tomas looks at the knife, then at you. He taps his temple with the blade, as if to say silly me. The gesture leaves a ruby dot on the side of his head.

“Duh. Sorry,” he says. He sheaths the knife; in the same instant, he pulls out the gun from Sam, pointing it at your head. “Is this better?”

“RUN!” Bruce yells through your earpiece, and you push past your brother, reaching for the aircraft door. You make quick acquaintances with the floor when Tomas grips your ankle, twisting you and dragging you back towards him. Your vision becomes a jumble of white stars and ceiling panels. Still, your legs kick as hard as they can, trying to release you from your brother’s painful grip.

Tomas appears to be talking to himself as he pulls you to the back of the plane. “I like this body. Real strong, real fast.”

This man looks and sounds like your brother, but the glint in his eyes and the inflection in his tone tells you that, right now, this is not the person you’ve been raising the past few years.

“Tomas! TOMAS!” you scream, clawing at his hands, hoping to trigger your brother back to reality. Were it not for the adrenaline, you might feel the tears flowing down your cheeks, the rhythmic throbbing in your head, the pain in your ankle as the bones threatened to snap under the superhuman grip.

You try to pull your head away from the barrel of the gun, but you’re pinned–there’s nowhere for you to go. Tomas presses the barrel right between your eyebrows.

“They say we need you,” Tomas huffs. He grits his teeth before moving the gun away from you, as if it puts him in physical pain to not put a bullet in your head.

You hear the door swing open once again, followed by heavy footsteps. Tomas’s eyes follow the intrusion. You act quickly, reaching out until your fingers find the extinguisher. You swing as hard as you can, hearing the metallic clank as the object collides with your brother’s head. As he reels from the impact, you propel yourself backwards on your heels until you feel arms hooking underneath you and lifting you to your feet. Bucky spins you until you’re facing him, giving you a quick assessment before stepping in front of you.

Sam moves forward, launching his shield at Tomas. The younger man ducks behind a seat, and the weapon ricochets off of the back wall. Bucky captures the shield in his right hand and leaves Tomas no time to prepare as he throws it in his direction again.

“Snap out of it, kid!” he urges as Tomas dives out of the way. The shield returns to Bucky, and he moves as though he’s about to throw it again. Tomas readies himself, but doesn’t notice Sam sneaking to his side, his fist connecting with your brother’s jaw. Tomas crumples to the ground, and you instinctively move forward, stopped only by Bucky’s left arm across your decolletage.

Bucky lifts the shield and Sam raises his fists.

“Sis?” Tomas’s voice cracks as he calls for you. He lifts his head, and your stomach turns again.

“Tomas,” you gasp in recognition. There’s the familiarity in his eyes, the voice that you’ve known for the past nineteen years. You push past Bucky, going to comfort your bruised and fearful sibling.

Tomas sits himself up against the wall, groaning as he feels the injuries on his body. He winces and grasps his side. You check over him with worried eyes as Sam tells Bruce to call for backup. Bucky is unloading an extensive first aid kit next to you.

“Tell Doc Strange,” Tomas groans as Bucky flashes a light into his eyes, “I need a re-up on that protection spell.”

“Idiot,” you and Bucky tell him. Your eyes meet at the shared utterance, and for a moment, the world melts away in the ocean blue. You find your mouth turning upward in an amused smile, one you were sure you couldn’t manage just a moment ago.

“They know I’m still here, right?” Tomas asks Sam, who rolls his eyes and shrugs.

And so you watch Captain America settle down across from you, taking a grateful sip of the fresh coffee. Bucky had just left with Tomas a couple minutes prior, telling Sam that he would never be able to keep up at the track with a super soldier and an enhanced being. Sam had waved him off with a yeah, yeah, but you know their jests were a kind attempt to make you feel better about the true purpose of the day.

The days since your brother invited himself to the Avengers’ mission have been…rough, to say the least. After the adrenaline finished coursing through your bodies, you and Tomas were left with the brutal reality that he nearly murdered you.

On his way back to the plane, he was accosted by several members of the Snakeroot Clan. Just as Sam warned, they fucked his shit up. Bad. Bucky relayed the information from Dr. Strange: the spell was basic, but sufficient. A mystic was able to take over Tomas’s mind, but the enchantment was limited in proximity. The further Tomas traveled to return to the plane, the weaker it became; several knocks on the head were sufficient to loosen the spell’s grip on your brother.

All the while, Sam and Bucky found themselves ambushed. Comms were down within the facility’s walls, and they could only hear the occasional crackle of Bruce’s voice. Bucky had seen red, knowing that if they managed to trap him and Sam, you and Tomas were faring worse. The thought was nearly unbearable, and Bucky had most of the clan slumped to the ground before kicking the sealed door open. Sam had stared at his shield, wondering if his presence was even necessary, before following Bucky back to the plane.

You and Tomas were in limbo. He apologized profusely, and you forgave profusely. He was a jumble of I’m sorry, I should’ve paid more attention at Kamar-Taj, I never should’ve put us in that situation. You were the choked responses of it’s okay, I’m just glad you’re okay, let’s check on that knot on your head. You were afraid to be around each other, but also afraid to be without each other. You wanted to hug your brother, ruffle his hair, lovingly call him a piece of shit, but you couldn’t get the image of him almost killing you out of your head.

Bucky had disappeared for a couple days, too; his rage rendered him unable to remember anything between getting to the facility and bandaging Tomas up, and it terrified him.

“It’s normal,” Sam tells you. You shift uncomfortably in the dining seat. “I hope you know that.”

You’re not sure what’s normal about being afraid every time you open a door or turn a corner, terrified that your own brother is waiting, gun in hand.

Sam sees this, continuing in a tone that is the perfect mix of gentle and firm: “It’s not gonna go away by itself.”

Your jaw clenches.

“What do you do to take care of yourself?”

Take care of yourself? You don’t know, eat, sleep, maybe put on a TV show every once in a while? Though now that you think about it, you’ve been working through your lunch breaks, avoiding moments of rest that were just filled with terrifying flashbacks. And sleep wasn’t exactly sleep–more like tossing and turning until sleep happened to overtake you for a few minutes, then you would wake up and start the restless cycle all over again. Oh, and the TV show was mostly background noise while you researched mind control–

Sam calls out your name. You blink yourself back to reality, realizing you haven’t said a word since you’ve sat down at your kitchen table.

“When my dad wasn’t running the restaurant, he was in church.”

You look up at him, recalling stories about the Wilson family that Bucky learned on his visits to Delacroix. You see Bucky’s bright eyes and big smile as he told you about Cass and AJ, about Louisianian cuisine, about Sam and Sarah’s bickering.

“And my mom was there for every one of his sermons, in the third pew.” He looks down at his mug with a chuckle. “Never the first, because Titi Nisa had a hearing problem and Mrs. Roberts was too short to sit anywhere else.”

You smile, imagining a woman with Sam’s friendly grin helping other church-goers into the rows in front of her.

“And never in the second pew, no, that was for newcomers. Families that had just moved in, visitors from out of town…They deserved the second row, not the pastor’s wife.

“But when my dad was killed, she started sitting in the back row.

“And when my mom got shot, that’s when I started going.”

He lets out a mirthless huff, a sharp and emotionless exhale through his nose.

“I was so mad. My dad stood in front of the congregation every week, talking about seeing the good in people, about our duty to do things to make the world better. I mean, shit, I dunno, I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t there.

“But I hated myself. When I went to bed, I had dreams that they were still alive, that I was getting ready for church with them. I feel like I replayed every waking moment. What if I tackled the dude before he pulled the knife out on my dad? What if instead of going to that birthday party in the second grade, I stayed and hung out with my mom? And when I wasn’t torturing myself, I was putting on a tough face so Sarah would be able to look at her big brother and know that everything was okay.”

Your eyes prickled with tears and your nose stung, hearing an all-too-familiar story. You had seen Sam in many different lights at this point: the hero of great skill, the coach of short patience, the joker of quick retorts. Bucky filled in the gaps of your Sam Wilson knowledge bank, painting a picture of a magnificent uncle, a more-than-capable partner, a trusted and beloved friend. But never had you expected to see him in this light.

“I was in college,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “when Mom died. Um, heart attack. We had no way of knowing. I was at a lecture, Tomas was in class. I got in my car and I drove. I, um, drove for hours. My university was out-of-state.

“When I got there, um, she was–she was gone. Tomas got to say goodbye, but I didn’t. He told her we loved her. That we would be okay.”

You quickly wipe the tears before they trace down your cheek.

“Sam, I don’t feel okay.”

He nods. His eyebrows twitch as if they want to furrow in sympathy, but he stops himself.

“The one and only time I was on campus after that was to withdraw. I got a job at the restaurant around the corner, I picked up extra shifts, I started working at this store in the mall–to make sure we were okay–”

“Yeah,” Sam cuts in. He sees how your chest heaves, how your breathing is turning erratic. “Yeah, I know.

“So let me ask you this. If you close your eyes and picture yourself calm, and happy, what do you see?”

You take a deep breath, trying to clear your mind as your eyes close and Sam disappears behind a curtain of darkness. You reach into your memory, pulling out moments of joy.

“Um, watching Tomas win competitions. Watching our favorite shows, especially the ones we liked as kids–”

“I’m gonna stop you there,” Sam says, and your eyes open. “What about…something without Tomas?”

“Without?”

“Yeah. Um, listen, we know how you love him, but a lot of your life revolves around your brother. And that’s great, you know, but I think…sometimes, you’re as dependent on him as he is on you.”

Your first instinct is to immediately shoot down the notion. But you realize how quickly you want to deny the sentiment, and you wonder why that is. You press your lips together.

You close your eyes again.

“A couple months ago, I drew a bath, lit some candles, watched this cheesy movie. Um, I saw some friends from high school a year ago–we saw a comedy show, then grabbed dinner.”

You smile as your words summon the memories to your mind. But a different picture paints itself over the recollections. You’re sitting at the edge of the couch, looking over at your favorite part of the film, smiling proudly as Bucky laughs, right on cue. You’re shoving leftovers into your fridge as Bucky returns your dining table to its original spot, making easy work of the furniture pieces. You see his cropped dark hair, his soft blues, his bright smile.

Your eyes are wide when they open, and you pray Sam doesn’t notice as your face floods with heat. His face, even the subtle smile, betray nothing.

The oven clock informs you that your time with the captain is up.

“You’re good, Wilson,” you say. “You’re good.”

He gives a dismissive shrug as you both rise.

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks, right?”

“They pay you the big bucks?”

“Nah.”

You and Sam stop in front of the front door.

“Thanks, Sam,” you say earnestly. “You didn’t have to do all that, and–no, stop, you really didn’t. You were a counselor for war vets, for heroes. Not for people like me. You’re a good friend.”

“What makes you think you’re not a hero?” he says. “Your brother thinks the world of you, you know.”

You give him a lopsided smile.

“And that bionic staring machine looks up to you, too.

“Not me, though. I think you kinda suck.”

He shoves his shoulder into you jokingly as you laugh at the sharp turn of his words. You open the door, ready to quip about kicking him out. On the other side, your brother waits with his keys in hand, Bucky standing expectantly beside him.

“Mile time is down to two minutes and thirty-four seconds, sis,” Tomas announces with a grin, shooting you a thumbs up. You find yourself looking closely at his eyes, making sure there’s no hint of a purple hue.

“Got a great view of the back of my head the whole time,” Bucky adds.

Tomas deflates, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, and your knees haven’t stopped cracking since,” he grumbles, earning a laugh from Sam.

At the training facility, the four of you look over Tomas’s lab tests.

“Everything looks good,” Bucky confirms, meeting your eyes and nodding.

“But it’s just as we suspected,” Sam said. “Your cells regenerate at regular levels, meaning you don’t heal like an enhanced. Can’t jump out of planes with no regard like this idiot here.”

Bucky is about to retort, before realizing Redwing’s footage somewhere in the ether. He settles for a displeased grunt.

“You’re up, Cap,” he tells his partner.

You and Bucky prop yourself up against the boxing ring’s ropes, getting a clear view of Sam and Tomas at the rock climbing wall. Sam is having him scale the wall incrementally, gauging at what height Tomas would need equipment for a safe landing. Bucky knows he wouldn’t be the most qualified for this session, because…

“I kinda just…throw myself at things,” he says, scratching his neck. “There’s really no better way to put it.”

You laugh with a shake of your head. “You’re a super soldier, not a boomerang, Barnes.”

He shrugs. “Don’t underestimate me.” He has his phone in his hand, flipping it around absentmindedly. You watch his nimble fingers for a few seconds.

“Hey,” you say, a lightbulb going off. “You should train me.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “In what, exactly?”

You shrug, nervously wiggling your foot, feeling a phantom hand wrapping around your ankle. Despite the passage of time, your bruises remain, serving as a torturous reminder.

“Self-defense, I guess. Maybe some cool moves to impress the ladies, or whatever it is you do.”

He smiles, stepping backwards off of the ring’s ledge. It’s not a bad idea, and he wonders why he didn’t think to offer it first.

“So you’re saying I impress you,” is his takeaway. His eyes scan the pegboard in front of him, running his fingers over the selection of weapons. He selects two training knives before making his way back to the ring, swinging himself over the ropes.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, now, Barnes,” you tease as you take his hand. He helps you climb over the ropes, his hand finding the small of your back as you lower yourself into the ring.

Bucky takes you through some basic techniques. He shows you several grips, pairing them with the best flicks, slashes, and thrusts. You’re surprised at how much you have to focus on your footwork. Bucky moves your hips, even guides your knees and crouches down by your feet. When you yelp as his hand gently prods your ankle forward, Bucky reels.

“No, it’s not you,” you say, propping your right foot on your toes to alleviate the pain. “Just…still sore.”

While he’s still bent low to the ground, Bucky silently offers you his hand. Questioningly, you gingerly place your hand in his, and he guides you down beside him. One hand forms a loose circle right above your ankle, the other grips your shoe. He draws slow circles with your foot, earning a hiss from you.

“HYDRA sent me to the Philippines for a few months,” he tells you. “First, for an assassination, but I was ordered to stay. Train with one of their contacts, who was an expert in a local form of knife fighting. Some of the most impressive knife skills in the world. Breathe, doll, breathe.”

You force an exhale as Bucky rotates your foot in the other direction. “Knives are really more the…Soldier’s thing. I stopped using them a long time ago.”

“I had no idea,” you said. “Maybe we shouldn’t–”

“We definitely should. Use HYDRA’s training for something good, right? Someone good. That feel okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Thanks.” You look up at him, trying to relax the pained scrunch of your brows. He smiles, tells you anytime. With his eyes meeting yours, his skilled fingers coaxing the pain out of your body, you feel your heart nearly beating out of your chest. Bucky moves forward, reaching further up to press circles into your calf.

“You’re tense,” he comments, but you swear he’s speaking to your lips and not to you.

“Not for the reasons you think, Bucky,” you say, finding your own eyes tracing down his face. His oceanic eyes, the curve of his nose, the slight part of his lips…

Bucky’s hand moves further up, finding the top of your thigh. He’s closer than ever, his free hand finding yours, pulling the knife out of your grasp and guiding your fingers between his.

The gym lights flicker on and off, startling you. Bucky hangs his head for a brief second; when he peers upward, he smiles, pushing himself backwards.

“The facility will be closing in five minutes,” an announcement comes over the speaker system. “If you have any items in the lockers, please get them now.”

As Bucky is helping you up and out of the ring, Sam tells Tomas to gather his things. When the teen is out of earshot, he presses a name on his phone.

“Sarah? Hey, you’re gonna love this…”

Masterlist: {one} | {two} | {three}

Taglist: @vicmc624 @zizzlekwum @monique2281 @d3m0n8ch1ld @just-a-stan Feel free to leave a reply/ask if you want to be added!

[fountainpenguin]

"Hey, youngblood! Doesn't it feel like our time is running out? I'm gonna change you like a remix, then I'll raise you like a phoenix!" (x)

---

New Criminal Experience chapter today!

Chapter 8 - “Shot”

❤️ Read on AO3

💙 Start from Chapter 1

💚 More Pixels Imperfect fics

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Mumbo and his new friend sneak up on Carrie's illager patrol... Looks like she, BigB, and their friends have Impulse in a pickle. But what happened to Skizz?

(First 1,000 words under the cut)

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Minutes later…

Despite Mumbo's insistence to the contrary, the enderman girl jogs with him down the messy street. Her name is Hazel, or at least that's what she tells him. What, are you gonna argue with her? She's just a kid, but when Mumbo urges her to stay out of the way, she laughs and skips backwards, keeping pace ahead of him.

"She can't catch me! I'd like to see her try. And I'd love to see those foreigners come crashing down. You should've heard that vex lady this morning; she was so rude when we were playing. I wish she'd run into my wall so I could crush her head with sand."

"Goodness me."

"Come on- Your glow will give you away. Can you turn that off?"

"Ah… No, I'm afraid. The illusioner pinged me with a spectral arrow, so even if I try to hide behind blocks, my outline's visible to everyone in range. Oh- Be careful with him. His species can see through blocks, whether you're lit up like this or not. Lighting us just makes it easier. For him and all his buds." The scythe hangs like an ice-coated stalactite in the center of his chest, right where his soul slot lies.

"Got it."

Wandering traders do get around quite a bit, you know. Even those who aren't big on going far from home (and there aren't many) have visited the neighboring hubs more summers than they've likely spent at home. Mumbo's seen a great deal of blocks, of course. The rare and the novel pass through Little Sun all the time.

But wherever he expected Carrie and her remaining raiders (Amused huff of emphasis on "remaining") to drag Impulse, it wasn't this. As they encroach the looming building, which must be at least, ah, five or six chunks high, Mumbo slows his jog to a trot. "Oh, my."

It's… a stadium? Yes, that might be the word for it, but if you think a community building like that has stayed untouched in an enderman city, you're terribly mistaken.

It's nothing the average person would construct. Mismatched blocks make up the walls, including anvils, birch, fence posts, gravel, leaves, and even sponges and kelp blocks. Those last two must have been traded for, because they stem from the ocean, and you certainly won't find one of those near the enderman hub. Mumbo gawks at them anyway. Wait a moment… Maybe he's been too hasty. Is it even a building? Is it the local dump? There are plenty of other endermen and endermites wandering around, browsing the walls like they're at the market for cupcakes and flowers. They cluster in groups, pulling blocks out and easing them back into place the way you do with drawers. Even the scrape of wood on wood's familiar, scratching in the grooves of blocks below.

"Who would trade for rare blocks, then shove them in a wall for anyone to take?"

"It's Mish-Mash," Hazel says, waving one arm with a flourish like she's introducing him to the finest work in the Fox Dragon's museum. "Mish-Mash is 'Give a block, take a block."

Mumbo tilts back his head, stepping backwards to take it in again. Technically, they're still within city walls (and the partially built ceiling above the amalgamation of strange things is there to prove it), but that doesn't stop a breeze from whisking through this place. It's dark out there… but the locals seem to like it that way. The claw-scratch moon hangs high above. "And… people do that? I mean, do they actually follow the rules of leaving things behind? … You wouldn't find that type of self-restraint among my kin; we wandering traders stock and sell whatever we can find."

Hazel huffs. "It's art. And if you take anything without leaving a drop-off, I'm turning you in."

"Well, we can't have that."

Right. So… Mish-Mash, then. Well. Mumbo asks his earlier private question, but leaves out the 'dump' bit this time: "Well, is this a building? I'm not seeing a door… And why do I smell pork?"

"It's a sparring ring," she says, making a bowl shape with her hands. "The seats go all the way around. They start up high, but the sparring ring is in the middle, down low."

… That might be a problem. Endermites can cling to blocks, scaling with little effort, and enderman can poof past walls without needing doors anyway. No stairs in sight, though. "So it's an amphitheater, then."

Hazel looks at him. "I'm 8."

Well, the semantics aren't important. Mumbo smiles anyway, shaking his head. Whatever it is, Hazel gets him in. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she teleports them both up to the upper seats, tucked as far in the back as she could get them. Vision blurs, the sky dips, stomachs squeeze… Now, how do endermen go from standing before they teleport to landing in a crouch? Do they still comprehend whatever twisted position their bodies take in that in-between space, even as the world ripples like smoke? That's a question for the ages.

Hazel sits up on her knees while Mumbo clutches his head, wincing through the ringing in his ears. She peeps above the awkward chairs for a few seconds, then ducks her head like a startled duck. Did I say 'duck' twice? Ah, it doesn't matter; you get the point. "The skunk's cooking."

"The skunk is cooking?" Mumbo sits up too. Hiding has its limits; even up here, behind all the careful seats made from cobble walls and stairs, the spectral glow pulsing from his skin is sure to sell him out. His flesh gleams with lantern light. Yeah, you could shake him back and forth and stick him on a hook, too. Carrie might try. He did tear through the whole patrol. Mumbo creeps his eyes above the lip of the nearest stair block chair. Hazel does the same. "Oh," he blurts. "Now, how about that? The skunk is cooking!"

Let's set the stage...

[Full chapter on AO3 - Link at top]

[chloe-caulfield94]

Pricefield in the Times of Plague

“Don’t come near me, Max!” - Chloe shouted, mustering the last bits of her strength to raise herself on her elbows above her bed of pain. Her face was red from fever and covered in blisters. Her hair was soaked in sweat. She went into a coughing fit and collapsed on the bed.

Max stood in the doorway of Chloe’s house. Just like every other house in the village, it was built using logs of wood, it had a sloping, thatched roof and the floor was covered in a layer of fresh straw. Inside, it consisted of one large chamber, with a fireplace at the centre. There was little furniture, besides two beds with mattresses filled with hay. The smaller bed was Chloe’s. The larger was Joyce’s and David’s. The larger bed was empty. Just like it had taken William five years ago, the plague now took Chloe’s mother and stepfather. Chloe cared for them when they fell ill. And when life left their eyes, she wrapped them in the best cloths she could find in her modest household and left them outside, to be taken by people collecting plague victims each morning. Chloe fell ill herself soon after that.

When Joyce and David became sick with the plague, Max’s parents forbade her from visiting Chloe. She obeyed. But when she heard the disease had gripped Chloe in its clutches, she couldn’t stay away any longer.

Now, standing at the threshold of Chloe’s house, she had to make a choice.

Chloe had already told her to leave. Now, Max heard her parents. They must’ve noticed her sneaking away in the wee hours of the morning. They stood outside the fence, ten paces from the door.

“Max, please! Don’t go in there! Come home with us!” – Ryan shouted. Vanessa sobbed.

Lying on her bed, Chloe quietly said: “Max, I know you love me. But you don’t have to do this. I won’t blame you. Nobody will. Stay away. Live”.

Everything tried to lure Max the wrong way. Her parents told her to go home. Chloe absolved her from abandoning her. Fear of the plague gripped her stomach and made her limbs heavy. Max made her choice. And she chose well.

She turned around to face Ryan and Vanessa: “Mom, dad, I love you. And I love Chloe, too. Dad, if mom was sick, would you abandon her? Mom, if dad was sick, would you abandon him? If I was sick, would either of you abandon me? I must be with her, for good or for ill”.

Vanessa cried loudly in Ryan’s embrace. Tears flowed down his bearded cheeks, too. But he nodded at Max, understanding her decision.

Max went in and closed the door behind her. She approached Chloe, sat on the bed next to her and gripped her hand. Chloe squeezed her hand too, weakly.

Max said: “I promised to always love you. To always have your back. To never abandon you. Now that you need me the most, I intend to keep that promise”.

“Max, think about your family …” – Chloe whispered faintly.

“Chloe, you are my family now. Isn’t it written in the Good Book that there comes a time for everyone when they leave their father and their mother and become one with someone they chose to love? Besides, if you’re so worried about my parents, look at it that way - I would bring shame upon my house by not keeping an oath I made”.

Chloe smiled, her spirit uplifted both by Max’s love and her sense of humour.

Max cared for her. She fed her, washed her, put cold compresses on her burning forehead. She talked with Chloe to take her mind off the death of her family and of her own death looming over her. And when Chloe was too weak to talk, Max sang her or told her stories. After three days, Chloe’s strength began to come back.

And then Max fell ill and the roles were reversed. Chloe returned all the care and love she had received. After a week, they both emerged from the house, weakened, but very much alive. They held hands. Ryan and Vanessa, who had been leaving them food and water on the doorstep, ran to hug them.

The tiny Romanesque church, the only stone building in the entire village, was full of the plague’s survivors. Almost everyone had lost someone they loved. The dwellers of Arcadia Bay were desperate for some positive development. So when the news spread that there was going to be a wedding, the villagers saw it as a good omen – that the time of plague had come to an end, and the time of healing and rebirth had commenced.

Max and Chloe stood before the altar. Max looked at her bride’s face. Max remarked that not even the pox marks covering her cheeks could hide Chloe’s beauty. Nothing ever could. True beauty is always within, where no scars can reach. Max knew her face was covered in similar marks. She saw her reflection each morning when she washed her face in a bowl of water. Not only she didn’t mind them, she was proud of her scars. She earned them in battle. Fighting for her love, which is the only thing truly worth fighting for.

Sister Kate from the local priory, who was officiating the wedding, asked each of them if they wished to be wedded in the eyes of the Lord. Of course they wished so! They exchanged wedding rings. They were simple steel circles, made by the local blacksmith. They were the best jewellery two peasant girls could afford. The rings were precious to Max and Chloe not because of the metal used to make them, but because of what they meant. Their love. How they defied cruel fate. How Max chose well.

The brides kissed. Ryan and Vanessa had tears in their eyes, but those were tears of joy and pride.

[cyber-cry-baby]

Miasma pt. 3 "X"

Caustic x fem reader Words: 2300+ Warnings: swearing, and violence ofc it's time for a game A/N: I'm sorry that there is not much interaction between reader and Caustic yet... but there will be a lot in the next chapter ;)

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"Oh hell no, this can't be true...”

That sentence had been on your mind several times this week. The most vivid memory was the extremely unpleasant wakeup from a few days ago when you had a pounding hangover and realized you had to face the media and interviewers.

Immediately after that, the previous evening was deeply ingrained in your mind. You couldn't bear to think for a moment about the encounter that had happened in the elevator. Unfortunately, you remembered everything. The discomfort brought on by the hangover had already subsided, but the thought of embarrassing yourself hadn't. Fortunately, you hadn't had to run into Dr. Caustic again since that incident.

Until now.

"Oh hell no, this can't be true...”

The sentence was strong in your mind at this very moment once again. You stared at the tips of your boots, trying to focus on anything other than what was happening right now. Unfortunately, it would be a bit difficult to concentrate on anything else but this moment because it was time to jump out of the Dropship and into a new place and a new battle. Thankfully, excitement overwhelmed your mind, allowing you to overlook the fact that Alexander Nox was on the same team as you.

"It would be wise to move”, you heard a low voice say firmly. Kings Canyon loomed beneath the Dropship. You started to wake up from your thoughts and see what was going to happen just now. Any other stuff in your mind retreated, and you entered battle mode.

"Let's check out this area”, former soldier Anita Williams commanded. Leaving the Dropship behind, you leaped into the unknown.

Your squad landed into Market and you immediately run to find yourself a weapon. Opening a door, you simultaneously focused on adjusting the settings of your earpiece. The ear-device you had constructed could pick up speech and footsteps from a long distance radius, and you were pleasantly surprised by how well it had performed in your first game. There was no sounds to hear yet.

You picked up a few grenades and luckily found an R-99 along with a decent amount of ammunition. Shooting was by no means new to you. You wouldn't have even made it into the games if you had never picked up a weapon before. Years of practice had been part of your journey to join the Apex Games, and it had clearly paid off as you found yourself here now. The lightweight SMG fit well in your hand.

"Hey, Specter, supplies!" Anita exclaimed, pointing at a level 2 body shield and syringes on the ground. You rushed to fetch her findings and thanked her. You looked to the other end of the building, where Caustic set his traps at the doors.

"Let's reposition here", Anita gestured for you to move forward once you had cleared the building. You were eager to continue pushing ahead and appreciated the fast pace. You hadn't exchanged a word with Dr. Caustic and didn't feel it necessary at this point. You decided to stay out of his way as much as possible.

"Very well", Alexander nodded, and you moved forward.

You arrived at an area with multiple small buildings side by side. You studied the surroundings, searching for as many supplies as possible, and luckily came across a larger backpack.

"Just a moment, listening!" you called out to your team and gathered some audio data from the vicinity. Footsteps. About 500 meters away.

"We have incoming movement from an enemy team. They are currently located approximately 500 meters away from our position", you reported to your teammates. Anita nodded and readied her rifle. You slipped out of the door and behind the building. An idea struck you. Using the aid of an iron fence, you climbed onto the rooftop of the building. The suit you had personally sewed allowed you to move extremely fast and agilely. There was just sand as far as the eye could see. You detected footsteps that had moved a bit closer. Suddenly, three figures emerged from behind a dune, running.

You were tense, feeling your heart pounding in your throat. Your mouth felt dry and your hands were sweating.

"We got company, people!" Anita shouted, opening fire immediately. Alexander had set traps throughout the area, and the first opponent ran straight into one, triggering the gas to spread. Standing on the rooftop, you took aim at one of the running enemies.

Anita successfully took down one of the enemy team members. You also opened fire, and the battle raged on. Bullets flew in all directions.

"Incoming grenade!" Alexander warned. Everything happened very quickly.

"Hold up, there's more!" you exclaimed to your teammates. Just moments ago, it had seemed pretty easy as you stood unnoticed on the rooftop, and the opposing team was almost defeated. However, now other team came from a different direction and started shooting at you. Down at the ground, Anita signaled for you to retreat for a moment.

Fuck.

You maneuvered yourself down from the rooftop and slipped into one of the buildings where Caustic and Bangalore had already taken cover.

"Give me a sec. Recharging shields," Anita huffed. The previous game had gone well because the timing had always been on point. Now, the timing wasn't that good as the two enemy teams attacked simultaneously. From the building's entrance, footsteps could already be heard.

"Smoke out!" Anita fired her smoke launcher to provide some cover for you.

"What do we do? It's too dangerous to spread your gas here; we'd be trapped", Anita calculated, directing her question to Caustic. You didn't wait for an answer because action had to be taken NOW. People were already pushing in the building, there were enemies still remaining.

"That's not wise!" Anita shouted after you as you ran through the thick smoke. Wise or not, you didn't want to wait around for a bullet to the head. Your wristbands weren't just for show. You tapped the display on your right wrist as you ran forward. At a critical moment, you pressed a button, and as you approached the two enemies standing by the door, you successfully sent out a vision impairing signal at just the right time. That helped you to take them both down. You dropped to your knees. Both teams were eliminated.

"Throne's ours for the taking. Great job, Specter. I didn't know you could do that," Anita ran over and helped you up.

"Well, that was the first time I practically did that..." you gasped. Alexander also arrived on the scene, giving you a glance but not saying a word. You continued on your journey.

Only four enemy squads left. You were already in the top five. Anita led your team through the desert. You didn't feel very safe and scanned the surroundings for somewhere to take cover and wait for the enemy. Suddenly, you heard voices in your earpiece, quite close by.

"Just a moment, I'm picking up a signal," you paused.

"No time to stop," Alexander uttered. It was the first sentence he directed straight at you. You were momentarily taken aback, feeling your cheeks flush. A strange reaction.

"But I—"

It was too late; you were surrounded.

The guns started singing once again. You leaped and dodged bullets with agility. Each member of your team played their part, and you fought successfully. Until...

"I'm down!" Anita shouted. Damn it. You tried to run away from the bullets. Where was Caustic? You no longer saw him. All you saw was smoke. However, you had only been in one game prior to this. You felt that your inexperience led you to rush around without proper tactics.

If we lose now, it's my fault. You took cover behind the nearest large rock, trying to form some kind of plan.

Suddenly, you felt a gun pressed against the back of your head. Cold steel appeared out of nowhere, sending you out of the game.

That's it.

*

You stood dirty and breathless amidst a crowd of people. Medical experts ensured that everyone was okay, and people were guided out of the respawn chamber as they had lost the game. Physically, you were fine, but mentally, you were more worn out than after the previous game. It frustrated you, and you blamed yourself for letting a good game spiral out of control. You felt guilty.

"It wasn't your fault," Anita patted you on the shoulder, as if reading your thoughts. "I chose a bad route; we should have avoided open spaces."

"The outcome would have been favorable if our team had experienced and skilled legends", Alexander stepped forward from the crowd. He had taken off his mask. You looked at him incredulously. A lump formed in your throat. You clenched your hand into a fist, not wanting to show your vulnerability now. After all, you were still a legend, losses were to be expected. One bad game wouldn't ruin everything, especially since it was only your second game ever.

"Don't be so harsh on her. She saved your ass back there, did you already forget that?" Anita's words made you feel better. It was true, you had saved the entire team at the beginning of the game in that building. You were grateful that Anita defended you.

"I meant what I said", Alexander noted coldly, looking you directly in the eyes. There was disappointment and a hint of anger in you. That man annoyed you so incredibly much.

*

You returned to your apartment late. The feeling of disappointment had faded as you reasoned with yourself that you would learn more along the way, and one cynical idiot's opinion wouldn't matter. You had chatted with others for a while, and they were all incredibly encouraging. You were grateful for all the good people you had encountered here.

Heading towards your bed, something caught your eye on your pillow. It was something you hadn't left there yourself. A note. You glanced around. Who could have left it, and how? You opened the note and read it. You read it again, still not realizing who could have brought it.

"Congratulations on another outstanding game. We might have some use for you. See you tomorrow at 2 am on the rooftop terrace. X"

What or who on earth is X? How mysterious... You pondered, staring at the piece of paper.

Whatever it was, it would be revealed tomorrow.

[jesncin]

[Comic description: A comic portraying Superman and Lois Lane (depicted as a Southeast Asian woman in a purple office suit and skirt). Long description follows.

Superman sets Lois down gently as she says, ‘That’s going to take some getting used to.’ The two are far from the city, in a roadside canyon with a view overlooking Metropolis. Standing in front of a fence with Metropolis and a sunset-coloured sky in the distance, Superman asks, ‘The flying?’ Pulling something from her pocket, Lois says, ‘Oh, that and everything. Let’s get to it, shall we?’

The item she pulled from her pocket turns out to be a recorder device, which clicks on as she says, ‘This is Lois Lane of the Daily Planet, interviewing the elusive Superman. The date is – nevermind, let’s cut to the chase.’ He looks somewhat surprised as Lois paces around. She says ‘Although some feel that you’ve made your intentions clear to Metropolis through your acts of heroism and good will . . . others feel that the way you’ve avoided giving an official statement has led to speculation and worry.’

She holds the recorder up to him and asks, ‘So why speak up now, Superman?’ He pauses before responding.

Superman smiles and says, ‘Well . . . because I’m ready to talk.’

Looking incredulous, Lois asks, ‘Can you explain why you feel “ready” to talk.’

Now floating a few feet off the ground, he replies, ‘I guess . . . people have always been nosy about me, even before I started flying. Lately it’s like every other day someone’s trying to figure out who I am and how I’m like this.’

He finger guns in her direction and says, ‘Why, you were the most gutsy about investigating me, Ms. Lane. Didn’t you pitch that one theory about my strength being the result of a lab accident—’ She cuts him off- blushing in embarrassment as she says, ‘Okay, listen!’

Gesturing with the recorder still in her hands, Lois says, ‘All of that was before you came out to Metropolis as an . . . I didn’t—we didn’t know you were an—’

He completes her sentence. ‘An alien?’

Her arms fall to her sides, and Lois pauses. Crossing her arms, she says, ‘I was going to say “immigrant.”’ Landing back on the ground again, Superman says, ‘Oh.’

Lois sighs and tucks the recorder back into her pocket, turning it off with a click. She says, ‘Look, we can keep this off the record. I just need to know.’

Superman crosses his arms, his shadow looming out from under him as she goes on. ‘You have a good thing going. “The boy scout strongman who upholds truth, justice, and the American way.” The “Super-Man” with an “S” on his chest to show for it. Why put all that at risk by coming out as a foreigner, not just to this country but to this planet?’

Looking pensive, Superman says, ‘I see. I’ll start with what I know, then.’

As Superman talks, Lois has parallel memories of her past. Superman narrates, ‘I was born on a planet called Krypton. I can barely remember what it was like.’ The art shows a dark-skinned infant Lois being carried in a selendang (a baby carrier made out of long cloth tied from the shoulder to the waist) by her dark-skinned Indonesian mother. An Indonesian house is in the background, and the two are under a shady tree. In the next frame, Superman says, ‘I was sent away as an infant when my parents discovered the planet was doomed for destruction.' The parallel memory shows Lois now as an older child, crying as she is carried away by her father (a Chinese Indonesian man with glasses and pale skin) as the houses around them burn and are looted. Superman continues, 'Even with no memory of Krypton, I always knew I was different. Different in a way that scared people here.’ The art shows Lois as a preteen girl, wearing a sarong (long waist length fabric) and purple jacket, holding her father's hand as her mother (wearing a kebaya and sarong) walks behind them. Two passersby, both white, glare at the three of them, and Lois looks unhappily back at them.

Superman continues, ‘I began to fear that part of me too. So I tried to hide and suppress it. Maybe if I could convince others I was like them . . . I’d believe it too.’ The art shows Lois’s closet with a kebaya (an upper garment adorned in embroidery. The front is secured with a broach and a bow) stored far in the back behind a business blazer hung on hangers. Skirts and a patterned sarong are folded neatly at the bottom of the closet. In the next frame, an adult Lois chooses to wear the blazer while looking into the closet longingly.

In the present day, Superman gestures to the S on his chest and says, ‘But I’ve had enough of denying who I am. I’m just now learning how much more I can do for others, and for myself, by being whole. I have to hope that people will see the good in that. That’s what it means to wear this symbol. It’s how I keep the memory of my people alive.’ The next frame shows him from the back, with the S visible on his cape.

Looking off to the side, Lois pauses and then asks, ‘What exactly do you want?’

He smiles and replies, ‘I want to fly, Lois.’

Lois rests a hand on the fence and says nothing for a moment. Then she leans on the fence and says as she looks over to Metropolis, ‘A lot of people aren’t going to be kind about this, you know.’ With her gaze pointed downwards, she says, ‘It won’t matter how much good you do. All they’ll see is how you don’t fit in.’

From over her shoulder, Superman looks to her and says, ‘It’s a risk I’m willing to take. I appreciate the concern.’

A wide shot shows the two are standing on a rocky area overlooking a canyon with a river and the city in the distance. Superman continues, ‘I’ve read a lot of your work, Ms. Lane. It’s admirable – the things you bring attention to in your writing.’

He smiles at her and adds, ‘If there’s anyone I trust to tell my story, it’s you.’

Playing with a piece of hair by her ear, Lois asks, ‘And what is your story, Superman?’ She finger guns at him and asks, ‘Who are you when you’re not in the cape and tights?’

Superman scratches the back of his head with an arm and looks away bashfully. He says, ‘Oh! I don’t know if we’re ready for that yet.’

Looking away with a playful look, Lois says, ‘Ha! There I go being nosy again.’ Behind her, Superman blushes slightly and says, ‘Hmm.’

Turning to her with a hand on his chest, Superman says, ‘I . . . have this name. No one’s called me it in years. It’s the one I was given on Krypton. Can we keep it between us?’ Lois replies, ‘Oh! Sure. I mean, if you’re comfortable.’

The river flows quietly by in the background as he says, ‘My name is Kal-el.’

Lois answers, ‘Huh, it suits you. Can I call you “Kal,” Kal-el?’

Hands on his hips, Superman says, ‘Haha! I like it! It’s nice being called that.’

Looking out into the distance, Lois asks, ‘Makes you feel whole again?’ She looks wistful as he replies, ‘Yes. It really does.’

Balancing on the edge of the fence, Superman braces to fly away, saying, ‘I should get going. It was nice talking with you, Ms. Lane.’ Before he can depart, she says, ‘Wait.’

Looking up at him as he floats just off the side of the cliff, she says, ‘You’ve put a lot of trust into this city, a lot of trust in me. I’d like to trust you with something, Kal.’

From where he floats, Superman asks, ‘What is it?’

Lois says, ‘My name. One I haven’t used in a long time.’ Her words float in the orange cloudy sky as she goes on. ‘It’s well – it’s funny. A policy changed it years age so that my family could better assimilate in Indonesia, but- since we fled to America, it’s gotten me rejected whenever anyone sees it on a resumé.’

Crossing her arms, Lois adds, ‘We went through all that trouble, just to change it again.’ Off panel, Superman pauses. Lois goes on, ‘I’ve dealt with a lot less of it now that I’ve taken my step dad’s name. But . . it’s just . . .’

Superman smiles gently and says, ‘You don’t have to explain.’

Smiling up at him, Lois says, ‘My name is Lois Liando. Let’s keep that between us.’

Superman says, ‘I will. Thank you.’ As he turns to fly away he adds over his shoulder, ‘Oh! One more thing.’

She leans against the fence and watches him fly into the distance as he says, ‘I hope you get to fly someday too, Ms. Liando.’ \End description]

[OP plain text: "Who Is Superman? A Private Interview with Lois Lane" a fancomic about hope and connection.

I've had this story in mind for so long and I'm very excited to be able to share it at last. Thank you for reading, and happy Lunar New Year! \End PT]

Thank you @a-captions-blog for the original image ID/descriptions! I just made some edits.

"Who Is Superman? A Private Interview with Lois Lane" a fancomic about hope and connection. I've had this story in mind for so long and I'm very excited to be able to share it at last. Thank you for reading, and happy Lunar New Year!

[creatureshrieks]

joey and frank were out on the town, causing problems on purpose. only they'd gotten more than a little carried away. the cops had arrived, and joey wasn't quick enough to wiggle his way out of their spotlights. he's on the sidewalk with one hand in the air and the other blocking the beam from his eyes. it won't be a huge charge against him, just vandalism, but he would be kicked out of the basketball team if he is booked. it's really up to frank, if he wants to try and help his friend out of trouble.. or leave him to learn his lesson.

@desiccation || Joey & Frank || unprompted.

Frank's feet hit the ground as soon as he heard the approaching sirens, grabbing Joey by the back of his jacket and yanking him back to get him to start tailing along behind him. He let go of him immediately as he broke into a sprint, his feet hammering down the sidewalk in an attempt to lose the cops before they had a chance to catch them. This wasn't Frank's first run in with the law, he'd been a usual suspect all his life. Theft, vandalism, fights, pushed through foster care like forgotten waste that just needed to be dropped off on someone else's doorstep until the place got too fed up with him to care. Now Frank was older, no longer able to claim a trouble childhood and use his foster care status for his own benefit. Jail time was a real threat that loomed over his head and Frank wasn't all too keen on getting the rest of his life thrown away in another shithole he couldn't escape from.

Frank had thought the two of them had the same idea, but Joey hadn't ever been so close to the cops before. He hadn't run too far when he realized Joey hadn't been following along behind him, caught like a deer in headlights as the pigs began to swarm. He turns back to look at him, his body still poised to run.

Fuck.

Frank's feet turn and he's sprinting back over to Joey, his fingers wrapping around the other's arm in a painful vice to snap him out of it. The cops are close, close enough to see their skillfully made masks to hide their identity. Too close. He pulls Joey then and begins to run, dragging the other behind him despite how much he gets slowed down. He could've left him, used Joey to get off scott free. He could outright these bastard, jumped a fence like it was nothing, and scurried off into the night.

But this is what friends are for.

" Move your fucking feet, " Frank demands, urging his friend to move faster. Pick up the pace, Joey. We can't get fucking caught.

" You need to hop a fence, " He speaks fast, pulling Joey around a corner and continuing to pull him down the darkened street. He's guiding him to where the separation would be, the perfect place for Joey to clamber over and disappear into the night.

" Get over it and keep fucking run. You stop, I'm kicking your fucking ass later, " A promise, though one made out of care. Joey stopped, he'd get caught.

" I'll keep running. Fuckers won't jump a fence for you, at least not fast enough. You get back home, keep your head down. I'll get you later. "

Frank almost throws Joey at the fence as he passes by and doesn't give him a glance back before he keeps sprinting down the road.

See you tomorrow. Don't get caught.

[silver-ink-iron-words]

Can you write a Villain X Vampire Hero Prompt. But there is a kind of drug that gives pleasure in the teeth of the vampires, like in Vanitas No Carte (anime). And Villain is a little (!) obsessed with this drug. I hope you wrıte cuz i wonder your style.

Lol I had to call my sister (who's read the Vanitas manga) to ask what this meant. Hopefully I created something you'd enjoy :)

Also, thank you for the prompt!

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The hero checked the slip of paper with the address on it, and sighed. Yep, they were in the right place.

“I’m not going in there,” they called up to the building.

It was an ornate gothic manor, with intricately carved archways and tall reaching towers. The windows were dark, except for a single flickering candle placed in each one. It created an effect that reminded the hero of eyes. The structure loomed high into the pitch-black night – a behemoth readying its attack.

“But you came all this way,” a voice said behind them.

The hero whipped around. Their expression only grew more agitated as they took in the sight of the villain, dressed in full regency clothing.

“I knew it was you!” the hero cried. “As soon as I saw this creepy house, I knew it had to be you!”

The hero had received an anonymous message from a supposed information broker, promising to reveal the secrets of the city’s most corrupt politicians. At the time, it felt like the big break in the case the hero had been waiting for.

But now, meeting the villain’s unwavering gaze, they wanted to strangle their former self for being so stupid.

“You must really think I’m something special,” they said, backing away, “to go to all this effort.”

The villain followed – a jungle cat trailing an antelope. “Well, you ignored all my attempts to seduce you.”

“You’re not my type, bud.”

“And to pay you.”

“Now that was just insulting.”

“So, I’m afraid it’s come to this.” The villain pulled out a remote control, and pressed a large red button.

The hero heard a series of clangs in the distance. And then, a few hundred feet away, they saw a barred fence start to rise from the ground, encapsulating the estate’s entire perimeter.

“Fuck,” they hissed, and sprinted towards it. The villain followed at a leisurely pace.

The fence was three feet tall.

“Fuck fuck fuck.”

Six feet.

“No, please – ”

The gate reached its full height of ten feet, and then halted with a reverberating bang.

“Oh god damn it!” The hero scrambled to a stop just before they rammed into it, their feet kicking into the mud.

The worst part was that the fence wasn’t even that tall. The hero could have easily climbed it, had it been normal. But judging by the way its mere proximity itched at their skin . . .

“Silver,” the villain said, strolling up beside the hero. “Pure silver. And forged in holy water, just for good measure.”

The hero whirled on the villain, fangs bared. “I will tear into you! I’ll suck every last drop from your body!”

“Oh, please do.” The villain seized forward, grabbing the front of the hero’s shirt. “You are going to drink me. Again, and again, and again. And only then will I, perhaps someday, consider letting you go.”

“Get fucked,” the hero said.

The villain smiled, and then proceeded to drag the hero – writhing and swearing and screaming – into the waiting belly of the manor.

[photobombingcryptid]

Finally free to move about freely, Blaze still sizes Whirl up and down as if ready to fight him if needed. Much to his relief, the other comes to a mutual understanding of how dire the situation has become. Stopping Blaze at this stretch of the race would be a futile endeavour.

"Finally," Blaze nods, backing up towards the dropped rifle to swing it over his shoulder, "you realize what's at the stake here." He paces back to the edge of the rooftop, scouting if anything has changed in that short amount of time. "Fraggers come to my hangar, steal it, nearly shoot me dead again, and from what I found? Primus-fraggers. They're the inventors of the ship. Stolen by some of their workers and then sold to me many years ago. The fact it's been under my ownership for four million years is secondary to them, apparently." He's full on ranting, spying the security on the ground. When he checks the rooftop, Blaze nearly instantly jumps into action.

With Whirl looming over him, he barely holds back on that urge to strike. "The rooftop guard's gone."

Changing his plans on a fly, keeping up with Blaze is a marathon effort. He's already several steps ahead of Whirl — figuratively and literally — changing to a new vantage spot. From a different building he uncovers a new story developing, seeing the security guards converge in front of huge hangar doors.

"Whirl? Got a job for you. Get as close as possible to them and find out what's going on. I can't risk myself getting sighted. They won't bat an optic if you pass by that sidewalk just behind the fence."

"I'll keep cover." He crouches behind balcony's railing. "Now, move!"

Whirl himself was immensely tense, legs splayed to plant himself on the ground, shoulder-plating flicking upwards with each frustrated vent he lets out. This entire situation was just bizzare from beginning to end, from the excessive violence on innocent mechs to the downright off behaviour his friend was showing. He's never seen him like this, not even when he almost died. This is something.. far more different. The silence, as well as the vacant stare of the yellow optics staring back at him were enough to distract Whirl to the point that Blaze's retaliation hit him completely off guard.

A quick shout escapes him as the blow hits his midsection, denting the impact area inwards, knees buckling from the shock of it all. The claws to his helmet sting viciously, a strangled garble of cursewords following suit.

The cussing ceases in an instant though when he comes quite literally face to face with the unstoppable force that is Blaze, startling him now to the point of silence. He's always known that the fellow copter was dangerous, that has never been questioned. The way he is behaving now though, the desperation, the anger in his friend's voice is unlike anything he's heard of him before. There's no defeat or exhaustion present, only rage. While he himself passively understands the importance of sentimental objects and places, he can't quite come to the true realisation of just how much the ship means to Blaze, since he himself doesn't have anything left to cling to.

A few kliks go by where it's just the internal noises of his frame's internal cogs whirring and hissing, when just like before, he errupts into explosive moment. His legs fold and bend to find halt, legs straighening and thus shooting upwards to yank those claws off of his helmet. Even though the entire side casing shreds off, which'll undoubtedly hurt like slag later, Whirl doesn't flinch, only shaking his helmet to rid of any stray flakes of plating, staring down at Blaze from his upright position, blowing harsh vents.

"So those bastards stole from you what wasn't theirs." He repeated what he heard, looking over to the direction of the QRF, optic slanting alongside his claws clacking together harshly.

They're the one's who hurt his friend.

"Alright. But I'm coming with you. So you don't do anything stupid," And hurt yourself, is the underlying message present, but admitting to such a thing freely in this heated moment, would be preposterous.

"You'll get it back."

[ancient-cats-unite]

Ototo’s New Recruit

Elmo moves to Ototo’s Development Team.

Elmo sat with Ototo in his van. The new mentor offered him a ride, but Elmo insisted on driving. Elmo steered on the gravel road past the camp. He could see mostly everyone went to sleep. Peggy was sad, Gamatoto patting her back. He felt sorry for leaving her behind. Ototo stared out absentmindedly.

“You Gamatoto helpers surprise me. Should you really be driving at this age?”

Usually the age of Gamatoto helpers were young kittens, but this one knows how to drive. What the hell was Gamatoto teaching these kids?

“Teacher Bun Bun taught me after I robbed a bank. I’ll stop the car if you want to take over.”

“Actually, no.. keep going. I’ll do directions and whatnot.” Ototo got a banger headache. Didn’t he get enough sleep? He did go to sleep, after.. oh never mind.

“Okie dokie. Are you doing alright?” Elmo peered over, making sure he doesn’t faint or anything.

“I’m fine. Just a headache.” Ototo said, stashing a coffee brown bottle with a blond label under the seat.

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Elmo drove for a short while. He debated turning the radio on, but Ototo looked stressed out of his mind. Must be tiring dealing machinery all day. The sun was almost down, so he picked up the pace.

“I’m excited to help you out! What do you have going on?”

Elmo said, chipper and clearly in the mood to talk. Better some small talk or none at all! Ototo was the opposite, but indulged him regardless. Anything to keep his mind off his pain.

“Holy Blast needs an Upgrade. Zombies are getting relentless. Maybe you’ll stay for more than a upgrade unlike everyone else.”

Ototo joked. Elmo actually got to see it up close once. The beam looked brighter than gold, sending repentance to the undead. Maybe he can see what makes it work?

“Turn left over here, you should see a Cat Base replica.”

Elmo arrived at their destination. It was bordered with metal fence and other cars. A clone of the Cat Base loomed over them, a familiar cat fixing up the bolts. Elmo saw them once, but who was it? Ototo got out and went to unlock the fence, Elmo in tow. Opening the hatch to the mechanical field, he pat Elmo on the head. Handing him a baby blue cap with gears sewn in and a wrench, he reassured him.

Authors note: a continuation of Lighthearted Goodbyes! Elmo becomes an engineer with Ototo. Next part has his fellow engineers so stay tuned!!

“You’re in good hands, Elmo.”

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[houserosaire]

Prompt #5: Cutting Corners

The blizzard outside was so fierce that even the courtyard was treacherous. Honore didn’t really mind, a visit to the bookshop could wait until the snow cleared and he had a project to settle himself to inside that kept his mind well occupied. It did not take long for him to realize, however, that the library’s other occupant was far less content with being cooped up indoors.

He had managed to tune out the muttering and the sound of shifting papers, focusing on his own meticulous measuring and drawing of lines. He had even managed through great force of will not to ask what it was that the papers had done to offend when one after another they were balled up and hurled into the fireplace.

The pacing that followed was harder to ignore. The library was a large and pleasant room, with a cheerfully crackling fire inside to counteract the snow battering itself on the large windows. But Silvaineaux’s tall frame stalking over the rugs managed to make even the large room feel a great deal smaller. Still, if Silvaineaux wanted to speak of whatever it was, then he would in his own due time, wouldn’t he?

This decided, Honore reached over to run his hand over Lord Mieux’s curled back, smiling as he was rewarded with the soft brief rumble of a purr. He shifted his book, measured a line and then bent to redraw it to a larger scale on his copy. The thump of his brother’s pacing feet gradually melded with the spatter of the snow against the window and the angry howling of the wind outside. Measure, tug, draw, and slowly under his fingers a plan formed. 

He was so focused on the shapes under his fingers that it was a moment before he noticed the change in the sounds, the pacing was gone. Honore looked up, just as Silvaineaux’s hand came down on the corner of his paper. Startled, he nearly heaved the chair over backwards into the man so suddenly looming behind him. “By the Fury, Silvaineaux! You scared me! You could have just asked what I was working on.”

Silvaineaux’s other hand came briefly down on his head, not quite ruffling his hair, as he had so often when they were boys. “I’m sorry I startled you. What is this?”

“I found a plan of…” He paused a little over the words. “The House where I was born.” He finally settled on. “In a book. But it’s very small, so I was redrawing it a bit larger. I thought maybe I might remember more of it if I did.”

Silvaineaux let out a soft hum of understanding and bent back to his examination of the paper. “Any luck so far?” He asked, and then suddenly frowned. “You’ve cut a corner, there, though.” he said, his finger jabbing down carefully beside Honore’s fresh drawing.

“No…I’ve been so careful.” Honore bent forward to look, then tugged his book closer. “No… No, I didn’t. Look, it’s just like that in the book too.”

Silvaineaux took the offered book and peered down at it for a moment. “You’re right.” He said. “Strange. There would be a bit of wasted space there…”

“Maybe it was the builders that cut a corner?” Honore suggested. 

“Or maybe they were hiding something.” Silvaineaux suggested and set the book back down on the table. After a moment the sound of his pacing feet resumed. 

Honore sighed and closed his book, tucking his quills carefully away in a box and out of reach of Lord Mieux’s busy paws. “Would you like to go fence in the ballroom?” He suggested. “I can finish this later.”