#arson is such a metal middle name

[the-real-list-of-ominous-threats]

I am going to make maia arson crimew CEO of this webbed site, as it deserves to be. This is both a threat and a promise.

[needtomakebetterusernames]

Headcanon of FNAF: (I got bored and decided to write something)

• Henry Emily served in the Vietnam war as a combat engineer. After his tour of duty, he vowed to build something that would bring joy and not destruction and death. Hence why he got into robotics and animatronics to create a kids restaurant. It would be in college that he met his wife and his future partner turned eventual enemy, William Afton.

• Michael Afton doesn’t speak with an English/British accent. He was raised in Utah and while I understand that his father was British, Michael was raised in American society and education system as well as the fact his mother was an American too. He does tend to use a British accent to mess with people or directly speak with his father. After being scooped and leaving his message, Michael Afton never uses the British accent again. Elizabeth speaks in a British accent because of her idolization of her own father. Evan Afton took after his brother until his demise in the hospital.

• Elizabeth Afton is actually a psychopathic and a manipulative child. She takes after William more than ever due to favoritism by her father and possible preexisting mental conditions (still debating on it). Even before becoming Circus Baby, she had tendencies to manipulate and lie to get what she want or to pin the blame on her brothers.

• Evan Afton possess the Golden Fredbear plushie rather than Fredbear due to the fact he ended up dying with the plushie in his arms rather than in Fredbears jaw. Michael found out after witnessing the plushie moving around and even calling him a jerk in the middle of the night for killing him. Needless to say, Evan did forgive Michael after realizing that Mike truly regretted what happened and the fact he was trying to do his best to atone with what happened and investigate the deaths around Freddy’s.

• Michael Afton was sixteen or seventeen when he was scooped by his own sister and the animatronics that formed Ennard. This happened in 1987 before the events of FNAF 2. He was either twelve or thirteen when the bite of 83 happened. As a result, Michael Afton never got a chance to graduate from high school, go to college or have a future family due to being scooped and turned into a tall teenaged purple zombie. (This part could change later on the more I flesh out stuff).

• Mike and Charlie were best friends and Mike often considered that they could have been more than friends in the future. However that was ruined when Charlie was murdered by William. After being scooped and trying to investigate his own home once he got back control of his own body, he discovered that William was the one responsible for her death. Mike was beyond pissed and when he encountered William in Fazbear Frights, he made it clear by using a crowbar on Springtraps kneecaps.

• Springtrap’s weakness is its knees. William Afton had sensitive knees before being springlocked into Spring Bonnie and that transferred over due to mixture of flesh and metal blending together. He learned this the hard way when Mike found him at Fazbear Frights and took a crowbar to his dad’s kneecaps on the day he first committed arson. William had managed to drag himself out of the fire but not without more damage to the suit. Even when he became ScrapTrap, his knees are always a weakness.

• Jeremy Fitzgerald is a veteran of Urgent Fury, having served in the 82nd Airborne. He’s not the same age as Michael nor knows him (sorry JereMike fans). He is the bite Victim of 87 and later on the same Jeremy in the VR department of Help Wanted.

• Mike Schmidt is actually a real person along with a fake name Michael Afton used in 1993. Mike Schmidt was the brother of Clara Schmidt who is Michael’s mom. He actually is the only member alive connected to the Afton family along with Michael (despite being a zombie). He is the one who encounters Michael and learned what the hell happened to him when they actually tried to apply around the same time at Freddy’s in 1993. In exchange for letting Michael use his name and getting this job, Mike began investigating Fazbear Entertainment and other places more easily than Michael while Michael was investigating on the inside at night due to his undead nature. Mike continued to help Michael even after the events of the Pizzeria simulator when Micheal Afton finally passed away in the flames. Mike was the one to make sure Michael was buried properly and given a place to rest.

• Gregory is not a robot or the crying child reincarnated. Rather he is the reincarnation Michael Afton given another chance at life (without realizing it) as well as in a position to stop William Afton again along with his followers. Hence why he’s a gremlin and has prior experience with certain tasks or knows stuff others don’t know.

[internet-xnopyt]

fic snippet

In the beginning the Church had advertised them as bubbles of safety, places of protection, age-old talismans as the homes of the holy. It was a safe guarantee, they knew even the greatest of sceptics would have to believe them; the axioms of science had long been disproven and the church had once more become the single authority the people could trust. People said it was like the Middle Ages all over again, yet there was no more irony to their words; after all, hadn’t everyone called the demons fragments of the human imagination then? Now here they were, fighting those same fragments with machine guns loaded with silver bullets. The sacred fictions had become the sole guidebooks to the war.

The old mantra went: Hate the sin, but not the sinner. It would seem even that has lost much of its meaning. There is no place here for mercy. Neither do names. Names have no meaning in the monasteries. The applicable phrase is only in name. For example: the Abbot is holy only in name. 

There are more. The monks are faithful only in name. The Oath is a promise only in name. Fulgur Ovid is a priest only in name...

…and the sun is rising again. Is He pulling the strings today, or is it the devil? Is the sun spinning itself silly around the earth? What does it see; a sphere or a blank sheet burning itself up from the core?

Still the white spills into the sparse wooden room, sneaking underneath Fulgur’s eyelids and flooding the void of sleep with an obnoxious raw vermilion. The colour makes his eyes want to burn.  This must've been what Mary saw looking at the angel. It's not quite there yet, but it's good enough for the imagination.

The dreary dormitory to which he has been assigned is shared with a young man, Shu Yamino, who fled to live in the monasteries here on a last-minute refugee plane after the yokai emerged in Japan. The same fate befell the remaining countries that had not yet been affected. There had been a wave of newcomers to the monasteries then, a horde of new accents and terrified faces and scarred eyes with no tears left to cry. Staying at home was a death wish, and they all knew it well.

(But he'd heard of horror stories from other monasteries. Sabotage, murder, arson... maybe the humans were no better than the devils after all. Such instances had yet to happen at the Salvacion monastery.)

Luckily for them, Yamino’s not too bad of a roommate; he's likeable enough, and sane enough for the two of them. His eyes are the colour of plum saturated in syrup. It does the same thing to his eyes as the vermilion.

“Hey." Yamino says, the reluctant alarm, emerging from the bathroom already dressed in the customary habit. He can tell this from the slow, shrill squeals of the wooden planks under the pressure of Yamino's boots. Fulgur shifts, to make the best of the last few seconds of sleep allocated him, then groans and forcefully drags himself up from the realm of sleep to slump against the metal headboard of his bed.

Mercilessly: “Sister Millie’s not here to sneak you breakfast from the refectory today.” 

Fulgur runs his hand through his frazzled bangs and props himself up a bit more, now awake for the most part. “You say that as if to imply that the food from the refectory is worth sneaking out at all.”

“Now you’re just being petty,” Shu sighs on his way to the door, and continues wholly unamused, “get up.”

[bucksfucks]

forbidden fruit

summary: you attempt to set your ex’s things on fire. bucky has a better idea. 

pairing: dad’sbestfriend!bucky x f!reader

word count: 1,974 words

warnings: significant age-gap [reader in early/mid-20′s & bucky in late 30′s], breakups, reader tries to burn ex’s things for ✨self care✨, teasing, mutual pining, mention of fire, forbidden love, praise kink, metal arm kink [slight], fingering, pet-names [kid & peaches], soft angst, open ending [happy] — 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI

notes: a few things: this is unbeta’d, i left it open to a part two, and this falls somewhere in the middle of dadsbestfriend!bucky universe — just not sure where yet. 

   “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Bucky was jogging up to you as you looked up at him with an unlit match between your fingers.

    “What’cha doin’ there, Kid?” He asks with a shaky, nervous voice as you roll your eyes and groan.

    “Lighting my ex’s shit on fire, what’s it look like?” You said rhetorically, eyes casting down to the small garbage can you had full of various items.

    Movie stubs, photos, letters, jewellery, anything that reminded you of your ex.

    “Okay,” Bucky says, “that’s a terrible idea.”

    You furrow your eyebrows, “I’ve seen it in movies.”

    Bucky lets out a chuckle, “you know how they say things aren’t like the movies?” He asks as you slowly nod your head.

    “This is one of those times.”

    You let out another groan, shoving the match back into its case before you’re looking back up at Bucky.

    It’s only now that you realize that you probably look like a mess.

    Stuffy nose, messed up makeup, and puffy eyes from the hours of crying you’d done.

    Then, you chuckle, shaking your head, “oh my God I look insane.”

    Here you were, standing at the end of your driveway at two in the morning about to light a match and set your ex’s stuff on fire.

    Bucky bends down to pick up the garbage bin, “c’mon, I have an idea.”

    You follow him, the walk is short as you walk into his backyard.

    He fishes out a lighter from deep within his pocket, “what in here makes you the angriest?”

    His question made you stop, looking into the bin before you’re fishing out a Polaroid picture of you and your ex.

    “This.” You say confidently, grimacing at the picture.

    Bucky places the bin on the ground, stepping around it, and handing you his lighter.

    “Light it,” he says with a smile, “light it and watch it burn.”

    It’s the first time in days that you’ve genuinely smiled, heart thudding as you grab the lighter and flick it.

    And flick it again as you watch the flame grow, waving it under the picture as you watch the fire eat at it.

    Watch it burn the memories away, a weight lifting off your chest as you’re forced to let go of the photo as it flutters down and turns to nothing but ashes.

    “Feel better?” Bucky asks, carefully watching your reaction as you look back up to him. 

    “I feel fucking amazing,” you laugh and you really did. 

    Bucky clasps a hand over your shoulder, squeezing, “’m glad, Kid. Now you don’t have to commit accidental arson while trying to burn your ex’s shit.” 

    Okay, he had a point. You didn’t think it through entirely, but Bucky was always there for you. 

     No matter what. 

     You’ve migrated onto the grass sometime later, a beer in both yours and Bucky’s hand as you’re watching the light-polluted sky in hopes to see a star or two. 

    “Oh! Right there,” you’re maybe a little too excited as you point up to the bright fleck in the sky as Bucky follows your finger with his eyes. 

    “Plane,” he simply shrugs, turning his head to face you, the small speck slowly moving across the sky as you groan. 

     More small-talk fills the air before you’re both sitting up facing each other. 

    “Don’t let yourself get sad over them, Kid.” Bucky tries tough-love because it’s really all he knows. 

     You remember when he told you to walk your hangover off like it was nothing. 

     “Easier said than done,” you shrug, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. 

     You didn’t realize you’d let a few tears slip past until your nose had started running and God, you really hated that Bucky was seeing you like this. 

     Because secretly, you’d always wished to grow a fucking backbone to just tell Bucky how you often think about him. 

     Think about the way his sweaters would smell on your body, the way his hand would feel in yours, or the way his hips would feel against yours and...

    “Hey,” Bucky snaps his fingers in front of your face, “you still with me?” 

     You blink rapidly, shaking your head, “oh, uh yeah?” 

     He chuckles, “I hope whatever you were thinkin’ of was good at least.” 

     You gulp, swallowing thickly as your throat goes dry at the realization of the situation you’re in. 

     Sitting in Bucky’s backyard at well-past three in the morning with your knees touching his.

    “I never liked them, y’know?” Bucky changes the subject quickly, not looking at you as he takes the final swig of his beer before placing the bottle on the ground beside him. 

    “Really?” You’d always thought that Bucky wasn’t fond of your ex, but you told yourself that oh, it’s Bucky, he’s always grumpy. 

     He nods his head, “never thought they were good ‘nough for you.” 

     Your heart thuds, hammering in its marrow cage, carefully listening to his words so you don’t miss anything. 

    “You deserve only the best, Kid,” Bucky then says with a sad smile, eyes meeting yours and you want to hurl yourself into his lap. 

     But he was so, so, so much older than you. 

     For God’s sake he was your father’s best friend. 

     You understood why Eve ate the apple now; the forbidden fruit was Bucky and you wanted nothing more than to sink your teeth into him. 

     Then next words that came out of your mouth were unhinged, fuelled by your thoughts. 

    “You’re the best.” 

     The way Bucky’s eyes darkened was unmissable, like he had set his sights on his prey just waiting for the moment he could pounce. 

    “‘M not the best,” he said, “not even close.” 

     This time it was your turn to shake your head, “oh just shut up and kiss me.” 

     Bucky looked at you slightly bewildered at the brashness of your words, smirk tugging at the corner of his lip. 

    “’M sorry, what was that?” He egged you on, leaning closer to you and you got a whiff of the beer on his breath. 

    “I couldn’t quite hear you,” he winked, watching the way you flustered and rolled your eyes. 

     But you weren’t about to back down from a challenge because fuck if you weren’t close to tasting that sweet, sweet, forbidden fruit. 

    “I said,” you leaned closer, “shut up and kiss me.” 

     The fuse had been lit minutes ago, but the explosion happened when Bucky pressed his lips to yours. 

     Hands cupping your face, holding you tightly until you could no longer breathe and had to pull away. 

     Nearly gasping, wet and slightly swollen lips as you watched Bucky’s heaving chest in that fucking size-too-small black shirt he always wore.

     He tasted of the beer and nothing else other than Bucky, a taste you couldn’t explain but would spend the rest of your life trying to replicate. 

     Because now, you had tasted the forbidden fruit and you were greedy for more. 

    “Again,” your voice was hoarse and downright desperate; borderline begging Bucky to kiss you again. 

    “Mmm, what’s the magic word?” He teases, nose brushing yours. 

     No. You’re not playing this game. 

    “C’mon, jus’ wanna hear that one word come out of that smart mouth of yours,” his voice had dropped an octave, raspy and thick as you whimpered. 

     Okay. Maybe you were going to play this game.

    “Please,” you croaked, your lips brushing his before finally he connected them again. 

     But this time, instead of cupping your face, he pulled you into his lap. 

     Deepening the kiss as he wrapped his arms around your waist and suddenly it hit you that you were making out with Bucky. 

     It’s everything you’d ever wanted. 

    “You’re gonna be the death of me, Kid, y’know that?” Bucky panted lightly as he pulled away, breathy chuckle leaving his head. 

    “Might as well go out with a bang then, yeah?” You smirk, a low groan falling from Bucky’s lips. 

    “Fuck,” he hisses, “you can’t say that sort of stuff and not expect me lose my goddamn mind.” 

     You yelp, suddenly, flipped onto your back as it meets the hard and slightly cold grassy ground under you. 

     When his lips are back on yours, hips grinding into yours, there’s absolutely no going back. 

     There’s no going back because you don’t want to. You never want to look back. 

     It’s messy, teeth and tongues and wild hands roaming each other’s bodies until Bucky’s fingers (the metal ones, of course) apply pressure to exactly the right spot. 

    “S’almost too easy how well I know you, Peach.” There it is, your favourite nickname reserved for times for just the two of you. 

     For when he isn’t looking at pushing your buttons. For when he’s trying to tell you that everything is okay, that it’s not the end of the world and sadly, you’ve got more shit to deal with in the future. 

     More heartbreaks to endure. More job rejections. More broken friendships. 

     The beautiful irony of a broken heart is knowing that it just makes you stronger for the next. 

     But God do you hope that Bucky isn’t the next one. That Bucky won’t make you want to light a picture on fire and watch it turn to ashes and disappear from existence. 

     You want him to be the one. 

     But something tells you that Bucky, your forbidden fruit, might be your next heartache. 

     In the moment, it doesn’t matter, because he’s got your pants shimmied halfway down your legs and you gasp when he plunges a finger inside of your sopping heat. 

    “Shh, shh, I’ve got you,” he cooes, quelling your soft cries as you grip onto his biceps. 

     You shake your head, “more.” 

     His nose brushes your jaw, “greedy little girl, aren’t you?” 

     The slow pace mixed with the fact that he’s only using one finger irritates you because he’s just teasing you. 

     He wants to see you beg. Wants to see how far you’ll go. 

    “Peach,” he hums, “what’s the magic word.” 

     Oh fuck your magic words, just finger me you bastard. 

     Is what you’re thinking when you open your eyes to meet his glimmering ones. Pupils blown wide so that the blue in his eyes are just a thin circle, but they’re Bucky’s eyes. 

     They’re the eyes you first met when you moved back home at twenty, feeling like a complete failure. 

     Only for Bucky to tell you how proud of you he was for taking such a big step. 

    “Please,” you finally choke out, closing your eyes tightly and nearly biting through your lip. 

     At least that’s what it feels like before he adds a second finger and you sigh in relief at the welcomed stretched. 

    “Atta girl,” he smirks, “already shakin’ under me.” 

     You were, you really were. Teetering on the edge of your orgasm because of the way his palm bumped your clit. 

    “When was the last time a man made you cum, Peach,” that asshole was just stroking his own ego at this point and fuck if it didn’t make everything about this even hotter. 

     You shake your head, “n-never,” and it’s not a lie. 

     He hums, “well then,” he whispers. “Allow me to do the honours.” 

     His fingers curl, hooking against the spot you’ve only ever read about before white hot pleasure explodes all throughout your body. 

     “Never thought I’d ever get to see you cum, but fuck, Peach. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” Bucky mumbles, seemingly overwhelmed by what had just happened. 

     You’re still trying to catch your breath, recovering from one of, if not the, most intense orgasm you’ve ever had. 

    “I can’t get enough of you,” he mumbles against your lips and fuck did you understand why Eve ate that apple. 

     Any consequences could go fuck themselves because it was all worth it. Even if it was just a taste, it was worth every fucking repercussion. 

[zodiakuroo]

Cupid’s Bullet

Dabi comes home with a very special Valentine’s Day surprise for you.

Pairing: Dabi x Fem!Reader

Contains: dubcon/noncon, mentions of death, unhealthy relationship, gun play, fear play, forced orgasms, squirting, mindbreak, angst (if you squint?), quirk usage, one slap but it’s a hard one :3, overstimulation, creampie

Word count: 5.3k

Notes: pls this title is so cringe but it's like bullet instead of arrow cause... ya know but anyways happy valentine’s day from scumbag boyfie!dabi

Dating a villain meant that your relationship was unconventional to say the least. For one, public dates were out of the question, unless you wanted it to end in destruction of public property and some scorched heroes. You also always had to have some kind of flimsy excuse for your family and friends when they asked to meet your elusive boyfriend. In addition, you had to accept the fact that he would have to disappear sometimes for weeks on end to do his boss’ bidding.

There was also the small matter of arson, murder and theft and a multitude of other crimes that you’d prefer not to know about. And while you weren’t necessarily okay with a lot of what Dabi did, you loved him. You loved him so much that turning a blind eye was so easy it made you question your own morality. He didn’t scare you either. Not in the slightest, because you knew in his own special way, he loved you too.

In fact it ran much deeper than that. On his worst days, Dabi could set the world ablaze until nothing was left because in the end he didn’t care about anyone or anything, not even himself. Until he met you, he says. He tells you that in you, he’s found something to tether him to this existence.

Ok so maybe he didn’t use those words exactly, but he doesn’t have to. You know that’s what he means when he spoils you with expensive, stolen clothes and jewellery, when he offers to burn alive any person who makes you even the tiniest bit upset and when he comes home to you bloodied and beaten, trusting you to take care of him.

In summary, your relationship forced you to give up on having any “normal couple” experiences.  That included, celebrating anniversaries and silly holidays like Valentine’s Day so you never bothered to keep track of them. It could hardly be considered a sacrifice when you compared those things to what you actually got from your relationship.

Dabi had been gone for close to a month now and you didn’t expect him back anytime soon, not knowing where he was or what he was doing. In fact the very last thing you expected was for him to creep into your bedroom in the middle of night and rouse you from your peaceful sleep with a soft kiss on your temple.

You don’t jump out of bed in a panic, like any sane person would. Instead you let out a satisfied hum, surrounded by the scent of burnt flesh, ash and menthol, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. It should be unpleasant but its Dabi’s scent and you’ve missed it. You’ve missed him. You pick your phone up from your night stand, squinting your eyes at the bright light that makes them sting.

Sunday 14 February, 2:43am

“Welcome home.” You mumble groggily, trying your best to fight off your tired body urging you to go back to sleep.

Instead of replying, he greets you by pressing his mouth to yours. You let out a quiet gasp, startled by the sudden display of affection. His lips are chapped but that doesn’t matter, your tongue darts out to moisten them before your lips lock into a gentle kiss.

You reach up, weaving your hands through his dark hair in an attempt to draw him closer but he retreats, opting instead to turn on the bedside lamp but keeping his other hand behind his back. “Sit up doll. Got a surprise for ya.”

Any thoughts of sleep were long forgotten as soon as his lips met yours but now he’s really piqued your interest. You push yourself up against the headboard and sit cross-legged. You look up at Dabi expectantly. Your boyfriend is smiling wide, skin pulled so taut you think one of his staples might give out. He reveals to you what he has hidden behind his back. A square black box, wrapped in a cobalt satin ribbon.

It’s so cliché you can’t help but let out a small snort. “What is it?”

“It’s a gift. You know… for Valentine’s Day?” He says as though it should be obvious to you.

Your heart swells at the gesture. It really was a surprise. Not in a bad way, you just knew he wasn’t your average boyfriend and that was okay. You didn’t want him to be.

“Well now I feel awful. I didn’t get you anything.” You pout as he props the box onto your lap.

“’S like a toy… so it’s technically for you but kinda for both of us.” It’s unusual to see Dabi this excited. The way he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes filled with mirth makes you all the more curious.

“Like a sex toy?” A giggle escapes you as you undo the bow.

“Are we playing fuckin’ 20 questions? Just open it.” He presses you.

You huff at his impatience but you don’t comment, not wanting to wait any longer either. You remove the lid of the box only to find something wildly unexpected.

A revolver?

You look up at your boyfriend with confusion etched on your face but his gleeful grin doesn’t falter. You’ve never seen a sex toy like this so you pick up the article to test its weight. It’s definitely the real deal.

“Dabi, this isn’t a toy.” You state matter-of-factly.

He merely rolls his eyes and says “Doll, when you can incinerate someone with a flick of your wrist, that little thing is definitely considered a toy?”

“O-okay? What do you want to do with it?” You ask, placing offending object onto your nightstand, not really wanting to hold on to it anymore, the metallic smell making you feel queasy.

“Ever heard of Russian Roulette?” Dabi, picks up the abandoned item, looking down at it with pride.

“What?” You furrow your eyebrows as nervousness starts to creep into your system and you instinctively move to back away from him but Dabi is quick to pull you back.

“It’s real easy doll. No need to look so scared.” He crawls on top of you, caging you in with his limbs. “6 chambers. 1 bullet. All you have to do is be a good girl for me. If not, I pull the trigger and we see what happens.”

The look on his face is positively demented. Azure eyes wide and bright, patchwork face contorted into a a sinister smile, white teeth and silver staples gleaming in the dim light.

“Baby,” you hope the pet name will placate him. It usually does. “I don’t know about thi-“

CLICK

You let out a shriek as your body jolts in fear but you’re unable to move with his weight pressing on top of you.

“You see now doll?” He clicks his tongue behind his teeth. “You’ve gone and wasted a shot.”

Dabi climbs off of you and you’re left lying there with your heart hammering violently in your chest, body trembling, still reeling from the shock of what just happened. Reeling from the shock of what is happening

“You gonna listen now? Gonna be good?” Dabi prompts, rolling the gun around in his hand.

All you can do is nod as your eyes being to water. The uneasy feeling in your stomach only grows worse as your mind races with the possible things Dabi has in store for you.

“Good. Now strip.” He command and like a good girl, you obey.

Your arms feel like they’re made of lead, moving rigidly to take off your shirt (one of Dabi’s old ones). You can’t stop the tears from falling as you pull down your panties, fat droplets roll down your cheeks, desperately trying to swallow the sounds of your sobbing.

This can’t be happening. It’s Dabi. He wouldn’t hurt you. He promised you that.

“Oh cut the fuckin’ waterworks.” He snaps. “As long as you listen, you’ll be fine.”

You try to calm yourself with deep breaths, not wanting to irritate him any further.

When you turn to face him, he’s leaning back on his haunches, one hand resting on his thigh, the other lazily gripping the revolver. “Fair warning, I’m more of a ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ kinda guy. But you know that already.” He thumbs the cylinder, making it spin. “Now, touch yourself for me.”

Breathing is difficult. No matter how much you try, it’s like you can’t get enough air into your lungs. Thinking only of gun in your boyfriend’s hand, you still you bring your own hand between your legs, but you can’t concentrate, what with the dread taking over your body making it tough to have any control of your body. Your movements are stiff and apparently not up to Dabi’s standards.

He only scoffs before-

CLICK

You scream again, body nearly flying off the bed before you curl yourself up into a ball. The fright is enough to stop your heart. For a second you believe it has.

“Doll,” Dabi’s gruff voice brings you back to earth, reminding you that you’re very much alive and whether or not you stay that way is entirely up to him. “You’re ruining my surprise. Got it ‘specially for you and now you’re being a brat.” He quirks an eyebrow at you, almost like a challenge.

“So-sorry.-“ your voice breaks. “I’ll be good.”

You’re still struggling to comprehend how any of this is real. You thought you knew him. You thought he loved you. And here he is, treating your life like it’s a game. You can’t help but think that this is your own fault. You thought you were above everyone else, the exception to your boyfriend’s villain behaviour.

“Yeah?” His voice drops to a whisper. “Then show me.” He challenges you. Dabi slips off his t-shirt and moves between your legs to get a better view, pressing on your knees to split them apart.

Self-preservation kicks in. There is one way out of this alive and that’s doing what he says. You spread yourself even wider, showing him all of you. Your hands, glide over your smooth thighs, kneading the pudgy flesh as you get closer and closer your sex, teasing yourself the way he would.  Your fingers find your clit and just a little pressure makes your eyes melt shut. Probably for best anyway. It makes it easier to imagine anything but this. You drag those fingers through your delicate folds, letting out breathy sighs as heat begins to bloom between your thighs.

You pretend, its Dabi’s touch. In your mind’s eye you see the two of you, limbs tangled with Dabi on top, resting his forehead against yours. It’s one of those nights where he wants to go slow. So slow that the sensation of his cock dragging in and out of is you bordering on torturous. It’s one of those nights where he wants to lay his head on your chest, mouthing at your breasts, laving your nipples with his wet tongue while you tell him, in that sensual voice  that you love him, that he’s perfect, that he’s yours.  Because it’s one of those nights, where everything feels like too much for him and the only person that he really has on his side is you.

It’s not long before you’re leaking. Somewhere, deep in the back of your mind, there’s a voice chastising you for being so easy for him… even now. There’s almost no resistance as two of your fingers, press into your entrance. Your fingers are no match for Dabi’s, they never hit all those deep, hidden spots  that make you see stars but still, you start to move them slowly, brushing your thumb over your clit every so often.

“Look at me.” You feel his breath waft over your pussy.

Eyelids fluttering open and you meet his gaze. It stuns you a little and your hands come to a standstill. He is handsome, breathtakingly so, even though he thinks you’re lying whenever you when you tell him that. The way he stares at you, with love and adoration in his eyes, it’s almost like the fantasy you were just imagining. Almost like the fantasy you’ve been living in this whole time. It’s enough to make you forget the situation you’re in. Then the muzzle of the gun is pressed to your clit, snapping you back to reality fast enough to give you whiplash.

“Fucking slut.” He growls and smacks your hand away from your pussy.

You jerk as he starts to move it the gun circles over your sensitive nub and then dipping down to your tight slit to gather up your juices.

“All those fuckin’ tears but look how wet you are.” He says more to himself than you as he admires the way your slick leaves a sheen on the barrel. With his eyes trained directly on yours, his perfectly pink tongue pokes out to lick it clean, groaning at the taste.

The next thing you know his arms are wrapped around your legs, guiding them over his broad shoulders. He kisses you on your mons before his tongue begins greedily lapping at your hole. “Tastes so good doll.” He mutters with his nose pressed against your clit. He slips the wet muscle inside of you making you whine.  You reflexively grab onto his black hair, tugging on the stands and he lets out a groan of approval. He moves up to your clit, circling it with his tongue before suckling on it. While he brushes just the tip of a finger over your cunt, making it clench around nothing while you desperately buck your hips, in an attempt to have it inside you.

The way he’s eating you out is almost romantic?

Or it would be, if it weren’t for the metal digging into your flesh.

“Doll,” He places a sloppy kiss on your clit, lighting dragging his teeth over the hood. “Want you to squirt for me.”

A lump forms in your throat. You can count on one hand the amount of times that has happened. You’re not sure of the odds that you’d be able to right now and it’s not a gamble you’re willing to take. “Dabi, I don’t think I can….”

CLICK

You thrash, screaming so loud it makes your throat burn.

Dabi still holds you open, keeping you in place. “I wasn’t asking.” He makes sure to maintain eye contact as he drops a fat glob of spit right on to your clit before diving face first into your cunt once again.

He pushes 2 of his long, lithe fingers into your tight entrance. It’s unexpected and you wince. He drags his right hand (the one holding the gun) up your torso, resting the muzzle underneath your breast, right over your racing heart. A reminder of what’s at stake. He envelopes your sensitive clit with his lips, moving his fingers in tandem with the suction. You’re consumed by desire as Dabi brings you so close to the edge.

“Dee-Deeper please.” Your pant out.

He smiles against your mound before complying with your request. “Right here?” His fingers press against that squishy patch deep inside you and your eyes roll back.

“Nnnggg yeah.” You’re barely able to mewl out. You dig your heels into his back and grind against his face, chasing your high. Dabi keeps hitting that spot with astonishing precision but you hold off for as long as you can, letting the pleasurable sensation build until the pressure in your core becomes unbearable. When it finally snaps because you can’t hold it anymore, your eyes squeeze shut, hands flying to his biceps and you dig your nails into the sinewy muscle. You gush around his fingers and all over his face. Dabi doesn’t move though, flicking your clit with his tongue repeatedly until you’re trembling and whimpering, pushing him away from your pussy. He finally relents, a pop echoing around the room as he lets go of you.

He gives you a predatory look, scared face and chest wet with the remnants of your orgasm. “You made such a mess baby but I’m glad you’re finally having fun.” He’s just as out of breath as you are but far more composed.

Your head is still fuzzy and limbs are still twitching but your boyfriend doesn’t let you recover. “C’mon, doll. My turn.” He begins to undo his belt, silver buckle clinking as he rushes to drag it through the loops of his jeans

You pull yourself on to all fours, now eye level with his crotch. He pulls down his pants and boxers in one go, his erection almost hitting you in the face.

“You’ve been lucky so far.” He taps the bulbous head of his cock on your lips, smearing your lips with the pre that dribbles out of it. “But I wouldn’t test it if I were you. Open.”

Your mouth is already watering at the sight of him. So long, thick and veiny. It’s disgusting actually, this Pavlovian response. He fucks you deeper, stretches you wider and makes you feel better than anyone ever had. You wonder briefly, if anyone ever could fuck you as good as Dabi.

You stick out your tongue and he slides himself between your lips, groaning as he pushes into your mouth, slowly, inch by inch. He fills your mouth completely and you shut your eyes, savouring the salty taste of him but you feel the muzzle press against your temple and making them shoot open. “Atta girl. Lemme see those pretty eyes.” He grunts as he plunges into your throat. You bob your head up and down his shaft, the hand at the back of your head setting a brutal pace. The room is filled with the sounds of you gagging and his hefty sac smacking against your chin.

“So good to me baby.” He tilts his head back, losing himself in the pleasure. The wet heat of your mouth surrounding him while your saliva leaks out, dripping down his balls. Dabi is big and heavy, stretching you so wide and making you jaw ache from the weight of him. You’re already lightheaded from the lack of air, no matter how much you try breathing through your nose. You don’t dare to complain though.

He pulls out of your mouth slowly, stretching a string of saliva from the head of his dick to your tongue that’s hanging out of your mouth. You pant like a bitch attempting to catch your breath. He doesn’t give you much time before he’s in your throat again, back to fucking your face.

“I love you so much. You love me?” He sounds so sweet, totally blissed out.

He stops thrusting and tilts your head up to look at him, blinking tear-clumped lashes. You try utter a ‘Yes, I love you.’ but with his shaft gagging you, it comes out all garbled. The muscles in your throat convulse around the deep intrusion. “You’d do anything for me right?” He asks, jabbing the muzzle even harder into your temple, finger resting lightly on the trigger. You nod, watching Dabi lose his composure bit by bit. “Yeah. That’s why you’re my girl.” He pushes himself even deeper inside you, making you finally take all of him, until your nose meets his pubic hair and holding you there. “Fuck.”

CLICK

“Hmmhhhhngggh” You squeal around him but you can’t pull off because of the grip he has on your scalp. When he lets you go you’re choking and coughing up a lewd mixture of spit and pre-cum.

“Wh- Why” You blubber, voice hoarse. You don’t understand. You were doing exactly what he asked. You were being good.

“Sorry baby. Felt so good, my finger slipped.” He doesn’t even try to hide his mischievous smirk. The fucker is definitely not sorry.

You want to beg him to stop this ridiculous game because you see now there’s no way you can win because Dabi doesn’t play fair.

He doesn’t give you the chance though, already shuffling off his bottoms all the way and propping himself up against the headboard. “C’mon pretty baby.” He tugs on your ankle.  Wanna see you bounce on my dick.”

You clumsily position yourself atop his lap quickly, before you can even think about it. You know he doesn’t need a reason to pull that trigger but still, you don’t want to give him one.

He grinds his tip along your heat, piercings dragging across your clit over and over again. It’s something he does whenever you have sex, to rile you up. And just like all those other times, it’s working. Circumstances be damned. “Needa feel this hot little pussy. Give it to me doll.” He murmurs against the shell of your ear.

You nod as you lift yourself off of him to hover your dripping wet hole over his hard dick. You slowly squat down on onto him, the fat head stretching you out, burning with every inch you take. You mewl, making futile attempts to blink away tears. You get halfway before you have to stop, resting your hands on his shoulders trying to gain leverage. You’re outright crying now, wet droplets landing on Dabi’s chest.

“’S matter doll.”

I’m terrified. You yell in your head but stay silent, choosing to focus on relaxing your ever-tightening hole in order to take more of him.

“Oh, I know.” He coos, voice dripping with condescension. “’S too big for your tiny cunny.” He leans forward to kiss away the salty tears. “But you can take it. I know you can.” He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek with a calloused thumb. “You can do it for me”

You start to move slowly up and down, using gravity to force more of his monstrous cock inside you with shallow movements. You really are trying your best but that’s apparently not good enough for Dabi and he lets you know that by pressing the barrel of the gun into your stomach. You freeze, horrified, more tears start falling from your eyes. You open your mouth to beg him to just give you a little time. You’re trying.

��Quit being a baby and just take it.” He says before you even get the chance.

“I’m trying Dabi, please just-“

CLICK

He cuts off your plea.  He’s not interested in your excuses.

The rotation of the cylinder sends vibrations through your abdomen. Amidst the shock, you release your grip on his shoulders and impale yourself on his shaft by mistake. The combination of the searing stretch and the blunt head of his cock kissing your cervix is so overwhelming that you collapse forward, head falling on to your boyfriend’s chest. You feel the rumbles of his chuckles while he’s quite literally splitting you open.

“See? Knew you could. Just needed a little scare. Isn’t that right.” He rubs your back as if to comfort you. He lets out a low whistle. “But looks like you’re all out of chances doll. Now bounce.” He gives you a spank with an inhumanly warm hand, making you squeal and leaving your cheek tender.  

Your hands find purchase on his shoulders again. Dabi’s sapphire eyes are practically glowing, daring you to be stupid enough to defy him one more time.

You pull off almost entirely, keeping just his tip inside of you, before spearing his shaft into you again.

“Good girl.” When he praises you with that raspy voice makes you keen and desperate for more of it.

His hand snakes its way up your torso to cup one of your breasts. Your back arches, pushing into his scorching hot touch, forgetting momentarily about his other hand and what he’s holding in it.  He gropes your chest, tweaks and twists at your nipples, leaving red, inflamed hand prints in his wake. You’re practically delirious with pleasure, babbling out incoherent streams of his name along with “yes” and “more”.  All the while, he murmurs praises about how good you are and how much he loves you. It’s confusing and you can’t process any of it.

“Who owns this perfect pussy?”

“Dabi. Fuck. Dabi.” Your tongue lolls out of your mouth in the most obscene way, drooling down your chin. Your plush walls pulse around him as he hits that sensitive spot every time you sink down on him.

“That’s right it’s all fuckin mine. My pretty baby.” Dabi’s eyes are focus on where your two bodies are connected watching the translucent ring of your cream appear and disappear as you ride him.

“Preeeettyyy.” You slur and he laughs at how fucked out you are, brain completely jumbled between the fear, the pain and the bliss all combined into ecstasy.

“Doll.” He groans. “I feel ya squeezin’ me. You gonna cum?”

He’s right. You nod as you feel that coil tightening again, threatening to snap at any second. The man finally starts putting in work, pounding into you every time you pull off of him. Dabi abandons the gun in favour of playing with your clit, rubbing quick sloppy circles. “Yeah? Gonna cream and gush around me? Want you to baby.” He buries his head in the crook of your neck, sucking, biting and licking while he assaults your sopping wet pussy. “C’mon doll, please.”

With that you orgasm. He grabs your hips pulling you flush against his thighs, fucking you through your orgasm, rolling his hips up into you until your high finally subsides.

He doesn’t let you catch your breath before he’s got the revolver pressed hard underneath your chin. “Now make me cum.” You almost collapse but the harsh grip he has on your hair suspends you upright.

Your mind is so foggy and Dabi gives you a small smile, appreciating the perplexed look in your droopy eyes. But he’s not done with you yet.

“Hey.” You’re ripped from your daze, when he slaps you across the face, sending your head swinging to the side. “Don’t pass out on me now.”  

“So-sorry! ‘M sorry!” You grovel as you slam your tired body down on his dick once again, trying to ignore the throbbing on your cheek, the ringing in your ears, and the ache in your battered cunt.  You’re so sensitive from your last orgasm but you don’t have a choice and you don’t dare deny him anything. Your thighs are quaking and burning with every movement but your boyfriend is unimpressed.

“You can do better than that doll.” He lets out a bitter laugh, enjoying every second of tormenting you. “It’s like you want your brains splattered on the ceiling.”

You start crying again, shaking your head frantically. In the time that you’ve been with Dabi, you’ve learned certain tricks, you know he likes it, but in this panic/lust induced frenzy, you can’t remember any of them. Instead, you bounce, mindlessly on him while your gummy walls clench tighter around him every time he nudges at your a-spot. Your legs are going numb from all the effort and you plop down, limp onto his lap, taking him to the hilt.

Dabi tsks at you, reminding you that you can’t rest just yet. You swivel your hips, grinding your pelvis against his while he’s buried deep in your wet heat. You pray to whatever deity is listening that he’s getting close, you’re not sure how much more you can take.

“If I don’t bust in the next 5 seconds.” His hand finds your clit again, you grind across his fingers has you rock against him. “Bang!” He emphasises the word by bringing a heated palm down on your ass.

A choked sob bubbles at the back of your throat, making him snicker

Hands pressed to his chest, you ride him like a woman possessed, the last bits of adrenaline kicking in. Your sloppy cunt squelches every time you drive yourself down on his cock just motivating you to fuck him harder.

“Five.” He grits out.

“Dabi, please!” But you’re met with icy, apathetic eyes staring back at you, feeling the terror that the rest of the city does when they so much as hear his name.

“Four.” He rubs your already raw clit, faster and you can feel another orgasm building, much quicker than your last two.

Your body feels so heavy but you can’t stop moving, not unless you want him to- “Please cum!” You beg. “Need your cum.”

“Three.”

He starts to fuck up into you again with unforgiving force.

“Wh-Why?!” is all you can manage as your mind starts to fog up again, the need to come becoming all the more urgent.

“Two.” He ignores your question, transfixed on your tits bounce in his face. You’re getting close to your third orgasm of the night and it seems Dabi is determined to get you there.

You still can’t believe this is real. You never thought that Dabi would treat you like this. You were supposed to be special.

Or at least that’s what he told you.

Moreover, you can’t believe how your own body is betraying you. You can’t believe you’re actually going to cum. Again.

“One.”

You cry out his name one last time, unsure if it’s out of fear or pleasure. You dig your nails into his arms again, in a feeble attempt to ground yourself as you cum around him. The orgasm that rips through you makes it difficult for you to be sure of anything.

What you are sure of is the fact that there was no bang or bullet.

Just one last CLICK (practically drowned out by your screaming) and the sensation of Dabi’s hot cum flooding your womb. He has a bruising grip on your hips, gun now discarded, and he ruts up into to making sure to stuff your cunt absolutely full of him. He begins to laugh as he softens inside you.

Your head is still spinning but once you’re able to push yourself off of him, you can finally make sense of what just happened.

He was fucking with you.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You yell, using weak and quivering arms to throw pillows at him while you cry so hard it makes you dry heave.

Your asshole of a boyfriend starts cackling, clutching his abdomen as if he just pulled the world’s funniest prank while your heart is beating so hard and fast you think it might break through your ribcage.

“You should have seen your face. You were so fuckin’ scared.”

You become nauseous, feeling bile rising in your throat as you come to a sickening realisation.

This is not your Dabi. This is the Dabi that the rest of the world gets to see.

Evil, sadistic, merciless. This is the real Dabi.

You attempt to scramble off of the bed to get away from him, feeling overwhelmed by the humiliation. But Dabi grabs your wrist and yanks you into his chest, wrapping you up in his arms. A gesture you used to treasure but now it just made your skin crawl. “C’mon Doll you didn’t think I was being serious did you?”

You writhe in his hold, hitting against his hard, toned chest with pathetic fists. “Don’t be such a crybaby. It was just a joke.” He strokes your hair oh so tenderly. But you won’t fall for that again. Dabi is a villain through and through. You know that now.  

It’s no use fighting him off though, all the fight in you is used up. You don’t know what else to do. So you do the easy thing: nuzzle your head into his chest, tremors rocking your body as you hiccup, while he holds you. That way you can pretend that you feel safe with him, just like you used to.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, doll. I love you.”

[boop-le-snoot]

main masterlist ☀️ taglist & faq

hot wheels | natasha romanoff x reader

explicit, 5,2k words, f/f. meet-ugly but still very much wholesome. we love a girlboss. natasha catches some random woman keying her brand new car but decides to be the better person for once and hear the woman out. turns out, being the better person can even get one laid! warnings: singular use of the d-slur, references to an abusive ex, lesbian sex.

[no y/n, no "you", nickname only, no reader description - race/age/body type neutral, she/her pronouns]

Natasha gave the tall, lanky boy an unimpressed look as she side-stepped the arguing couple to avoid colliding with the annoyed, teary-eyed woman the boy was groveling to. It was nearing rush hour and there was shopping to be done before the heavy NYC traffic could steer her already busy schedule down into an unmanageable chaos.

"But, Foxy, you know I didn't mean it! I love you, more than anything!"

The items on the spy's list were checked off methodically, item after item landing in the cart with a quiet thud as the redhead maneuvered through the isles with tactical precision. The usual afternoon crowd began to fill the store, taking up the so-needed breathing space; Natasha's shopping trip wasn't a moment of leisure and with her neverending to-do list full, she hurried to the self-check-out register, flying through the motions mindlessly.

Scan, place, beep, boop, pay, load up the bags, make way to the car, load up and pedal to the metal.

Scratch that. No, scratch - Natasha's eyes bulged as she neared her shiny, brand new Charger, seeing the obvious defects even from a mile away: the paint, previously cherry red and gleaming in the sun, ruined by a series of thin, gray lines, standing out unpleasantly on the otherwise pristine vehicle.

And the culprit, who's tuft of hair peeked over the hood of the car on the other side of the Charger, almost fully hidden between her car and the large Chevrolet in the next parking spot over.

Natasha's fingers clenched around the handle of the cart as she fought the urge to reach for her knife safely holstered under her leather jacket. "Excuse me?" Tone quiet and deadly, the spy prepared herself to fight or at least slightly shake up the hooligan.

The figure froze, vaguely familiar clothing and a puffy, tear-stained face slowly rising from behind Natasha's car. "In my defense, he deserves it," the girl - Foxy - the one that was arguing in front of the store earlier, declared through a stream of angry tears. "Call the cops if you want, I don't care." It was unclear if the girl recognised her, the Black Widow, as she made no move to run for the hills, just pathetically sniffled, pocketing the keys she used to scratch Natasha's car.

"That's my car," The spy responded flatly, a great deal of amusement crawling into her face as Foxy's eyes bulged, jaw fell slack, horror plain and evident overshadowing the waterworks. Natasha quickly pieced two and two together but patiently waited for the initial shock to subside before popping a question. "A word of advice, if I may?"

Foxy nodded, dumbfounded, frantically scrambling for the contents of her pockets, searching for something with the agility of a panicking cat, more than half of the contents spilling out onto the ground.

Natasha unlocked the car, popping the trunk and loading in her bags as she raised her voice to be heard over the noise of a busy parking lot. "Don't mess with the paint, the insurance will cover it. Slash three tires - not four - or take a swing at the front bumper and the headlights," the trunk slid shut with a quiet click as the spy inspected the damages close-up. Her Charger looked like it was attacked by a pack of aggressive, feral cats with nails of steel. "And always check the number plates before committing acts of vandalism to make sure you're enacting revenge on the right person." The last part was said with a smirk.

As the spy stepped closer to Foxy, she noted the excessive puffiness of her cheeks and the shaking fingers that held a checkbook and a pen. The woman looked torn between terrified and apologetic, worrying her lip between her teeth. "I'm so, so sorry. Todd just got his new car, it's identical to yours and I didn't get the chance to memorize the number plate yet," the offending man's name was said with a pitiful growl. "How much?" She weakly motioned to the ruined bodywork.

"What'd he do?" Natasha didn't resist her curiousity, leaning against the driver's side door and sizing up the other woman. She was pretty, well-dressed and reasonably wealthy on the first sight. "Yeah, he looked like a Todd," The quip slipped from the redhead's lips as she remembered the man from earlier. Foxy looked way too good to be wasting her time on someone who looked like an adolescent that hadn't outgrown his skater boy phase.

Foxy chuckled shyly at Natasha's remark, smoothing a hand over her face. "Lord, where do I even begin..." The sigh was loud and long. "He lived in my apartment rent-free, made me give up my cat by lying about his allergies, went through nine low-wage jobs in two years, did nothing but play video games in his free time and developed a pot addiction, thus spending all his money on it," she began steadily but her tone grew in pitch with every added offence as Natasha's eyebrows climbed higher and higher. "My last straw was when he took out a loan he couldn't pay off to buy his brand new cool car," the words were spat out with venom. "I threw him out last Saturday. He's been following me around all the time," Foxy continued, growing dark in the face. "And then I found out he had been cheating on me for I don't know how long. I just... I just lost it," she finished pathetically, all but crumbling into a pile of human misery.

Natasha's face had frozen into mute disbelief somewhere around the first half of the story, repulsion and astonishment mixing into a flurry of quiet rage on the random woman's behalf. Menfolk were bizarre animals, and as much as the spy felt herself annoyed by her roommates at the tower, she couldn't help but feel relieved that the men surrounding her were far from douchebags of the casual variety. This Todd, however, was no amateur, and had done Foxy really, really dirty.

The redhead made up her mind rather quickly. "That's a lot to unpack," she carefully studied the micro-expressions on the other woman's face. "I have a couple of nice bottles of wine at my place and nobody to share them with. Care for a glass?"

Foxy's eyes widened once more. "I don't- I don't want to take up your time, I mean, I'm sure you've got more important shit to do, like save the world and y'know..." The stammering was followed by a shy look to the side.

So, Foxy had recognised her. And she didn't go running the other way like most people that encountered her in disadvantageous situations did. "I actually don't, I was just getting my shopping done for a lack of better things to do," Natasha lied seamlessly, motioning to the other side of the car. "Hop in." Mission reports and Barton's pizza date could wait.

The woman made quick way around, buckling into the seat in seconds, right before Natasha peeled off from the parking lot towards the Avengers tower at breathtaking speeds. The car was a gift from Tony - one of the rare things he managed to get right - and an absolute pleasure to drive.

"What's your name?" The redhead asked, juggling the steering and her smartphone effortlessly.

The woman rattled of her first and last name on between attempts to fix her runny make-up and wipe the dried snot and tears off her face. "Foxy is a nickname my gramps gave me, said I used to excessively play with fox pelts in the attic when I was a kid," the woman added with a snort, totally oblivious to Natasha's eyebrow raise as the spy read the information on her in-between overtaking slower cars.

Good student, good family life, stable income and good career growth in a prospective sector. What did Foxy even find in a guy like Todd? The most important information, however, was also most pleasing. No ties to any kind of intelligence gathering organizations.

As Natasha parked and popped the trunk once more, the other woman offered a hand with her shopping bags. Friday acknowledged the newcomer, startling her, causing Natasha to roll her eyes and mention, loudly, that if Tony decided to pay them a surprise visit, he may end up castrated or shot on sight, much to Foxy's bashful snickering.

Once the shopping was put away and the wine opened, the spy let herself curl up on the couch opposite the woman who studied her Spartan style apartment with curios eyes. The lack of knick knacks must've been a surprise for her: Natasha's apartment looked bare compared to what she'd seen in other's people's homes but the desire to make the environment more cozy had never been strong enough to actually act upon it. She wasn't used to staying in a place for very long.

"Do you still want to get back at the bastard?" The redhead asked once the first bottle was coming to an end. The alcohol was sitting low, pleasantly warm in their bellies and the food that they'd ordered in the middle of a casual chit-chat lulled them into a state of comfortable stupor.

"I want to gouge his eyes out and wear them as a battle trophy," Foxy was slightly slurring her words, much more affected by the wine than the stoic, experienced agent. "But I guess I can settle for petty crime or arson."

"I'm sensing you didn't tell me the whole list of grievances," true to her words, the spy felt as it there was a possibility quite a few things were being left unsaid.

Foxy sighed once again, placing the empty glass on the table and using her palm to prop her flushed face against it, blankly staring off into the far end of the room. "I came out as bisexual last year and he was giving me so much shit for it. Todd kept pushing for a threesome and when I refused, started accusing me of cheating during our fights, called me a whore a couple of times," the more she spoke, the higher Natasha's anger levels rose.

Not only was a Todd a dick, he was an abusive one. Truly, the grand prize of Asshat Lottery. "I have an idea or three," the spy twirled the remaining red liquid in her glass before downing it. "But it'll have to stay between us two."

"I'm listening," Foxy turned to meet Natasha's face, eyes considerably more alert than seconds before.

A few days past their amicable wine-and-revenge get-together, Natasha's doorbell rang as if she wasn't already had been made aware by Friday that a visitor was coming up to see her. Boxes of hair bleach and dye laid stacked on the living room table, surrounded by jewelry and assorted accessories. A pitcher of fresh sangria topped the ensemble, two clean glasses placed neatly on the tray next to it.

"Hi, Nat," Foxy's smile was a mile wide - a far cry from the sniffling sad sack of a woman the spy had first met. The nickname flowed freely from the woman's lips, as calm as Natasha's own answering grin and greeting. "I gots the stuff," waving her purse about, the woman kicked off her shoes by the door, approaching Natasha with the same smile that seemed to be more effective at lightening up the room than Tony's expensive designer lamps.

As Natasha's plan achieved a solid state, the two women had quickly come to a realization that Natasha was far too recognizable with her signature red hair and over a flurry of text messages, the decision to switch to a warm caramel blonde was made unanimously. Foxy had rebuked any and all Natasha's attempts to affirm she'd be able to do it herself and the spy gave into the other's chiding, relenting to have her hair dyed by a person who at least had a possibility of seeing the back of her head without having to perform acrobatic tricks.

Foxy was an easygoing, non-problematic person. She was fun to have around, quiet but witty, with intelligent eyes and a realistic view on the world. It was something Natasha valued, alongside the lack of probing questions regarding her past or her job - her insides clenched uncomfortably at the thought of having to lie about those things, or even worse, having to admit to the wrongdoings in her past, however Foxy carefully steered away from topics that were sensitive and never gave Natasha as much as a side-eye if the spy appeared to lack some minor detail that normal women her age all seemed to be aware of.

The curiosity had her ready to burst. Nat's natural defense mechanisms were quite confused, not sure what to make of the woman who almost too friendly to be true, but the kindness in her eyes and the sometimes shy, awestruck looks she gave Natasha when she thought the redhead wasn't looking made up for it in spades.

"What do you think?" The noise of the hair dryer finally ceased, Foxy's voice echoing in Natasha's luxuriously large bathroom.

The newly-blonde spy studied her reflection with a tilt to her head. The ombre was a nice touch - her own hair was naturally darker than the caramel and honey blonde she had chosen, so the almost-brown shading at her roots took much away from the contrast between her lighter hair and darker brows. It was just another disguise for the spy, but somehow, this one felt more like home than any of the previous faces she had worn.

"I like it, you were right about the ombre," Natasha voiced her thoughts, eyes sliding over to the smiling woman behind her, feeling the corners of her mouth begin to creep upwards in involuntary response.

"You looked good with red hair, don't misunderstand me," Foxy briefly raised her hands. "But you have a light complexion and lighter colors do wonders for bringing out the youthfulness. Even if we don't have much joy these days, a good hair color is an opportunity to showcase the bit," she briefly touched her own hair in an exaggerated attempt at driving her point home.

The fun part was done, the time came to execute the revenge. It wasn't exactly anything special; rather, the plan was quite simple - let Todd make a fool out of himself in front of his friends and perhaps (a slightly, teensy possibility) get himself arrested. The two women took their time to get dolled up, not too much - but rather, adding just that little bit to themselves to easily attract moderate amounts of attention from men.

The bar was busy, noisy and full of people when the two women stepped through the door. Natasha's eyes scanned the room out of habit, easily spotting the tall, lanky Todd in the far end of the bar, laughing and boozing with equally pathetic-looking man-children. The urge to gag was almost irresistible.

The spy let herself to be led to the bar by Foxy who looked mildly uncomfortable. Natasha was sure that if she was to touch the other woman's face, it would be flaming under the circumstances. "Try to relax a little, I won't bite," with a quip to her companion, Nat ordered them a vodka cranberry each, sitting down with her back to the men. "Tell me when he notices us and starts moving this way."

Foxy nodded minutely, clutching her drink for dear life and taking generous sips to calm herself down and relax like the spy had requested. They talked about everything and nothing in between, Natasha's hand on Foxy's knee crawling closer to her hip as minutes passed by without interruption. Loud noises of men playing darts and drunkenly cheering reached the womens earshot every now and then, causing Foxy to throw increasingly infuriated glances towards her ex-boyfriend and the Black Widow's current victim of choice.

Sitting opposite the perfectly composed, smiling woman, it was clear as day she was, indeed, best of the best. Despite knowing Foxy for only a few days, Natasha managed to pull off a very convincing girlfriend: her body language was nothing short of absolutely besotted and the googly eyes the spy was making had Foxy constantly remind herself that it was only for show. There was no way this gorgeous, incredible human would be interested in someone as plain and ordinary as herself.

"Heads up," Foxy's smile suddenly grew a mile wide as she stared directly at Natasha, eyes alight with fury at the scene about to unfold. Natasha's reply was to briefly tighten the grasp on the other's leg in silent support.

"Hey, baby," Todd was drunk enough for the stench of his breath to reach both women. "Oh, I see you're with a friend," his attempt at flirting only made Natasha scrunch up her face like a cat that accidentally smelled a lemon.

"Leave me alone," Foxy stated firmly, knowing the phrase wouldn't do anything to deter her overzealous ex, but this time - she counted on it.

"It's okay, I can share," the slurred words had a couple of people nearby raise their eyebrows at the audacity.

"I'm not interested," Foxy snapped. "In fact, there is absolutely nothing your freeloading, cheating ass can bring to my table."

The woman radiated satisfaction as gasps sounded out around them; Todd was a regular at this bar and most people there knew him in one way or another. The moment of joy, however, was brief.

"Listen, bitch, you have no business talking to me like that," full of drunken bravado, the man spat angrily, taking unsteady steps closer to Foxy. "What you need is a decent man that can handle your outbursts, not some dyke..." before he could even utter another offensive syllable, Natasha had his wildly gesturing arm twisted painfully behind his back, easily forcing the inebriated man to his knees.

"Wanna try that again, champ?" Sarcasm flowed freely from the spy's lips as the patrons in the bar gasped. The civilian clothing and the new hair color might have been an effective short-term disguise but once the crowd had seen her neat little party trick and had taken a good look at her face, nobody was doubting her identity. "Call the cops, will you?" She addressed the shocked bartender who immediately scrambled to obey.

"I didn't do anything!" Todd cried out, eyes drunkenly darting between the Black Widow's quiet rage and Foxy's grim stone face.

"Huh, that's weird. Because I clearly heard and saw an attempted hate crime," Natasha's voice attained a sardonic tint. "And I have a bar full of witnesses," the spy shrugged, letting go of his arm but keeping a boot firmly planted on his back to prevent him from escaping. "I hope you have a lawyer."

Foxy snorted, reaching for her unfinished second drink. "Tough luck."

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Todd's friends inching closer to the exit door second by second, as if they could stand a chance against a professionally trained secret agent. Luckily for them, Natasha wasn't interested in the remainder of Todd's gang of losers and merely raised an eyebrow when the other men reached the door, a tiny smirk appearing when his pleading eyes didn't cause any reaction in his friends, the spineless worms, hopping out of the door without as much as a goodbye to the man laying face-down on the dirty floor.

As soon as the police arrived, awestruck by one of the NYC's most famous superheroes just casually standing in a bar, they eagerly collected the inebriated offender, briskly escorting Todd to the squad car. The bartender and several other patrons confirmed Natasha's words that an attempted hate crime had taken place. Cops were in and out in less than fifteen minutes and the otherwise-pleasant hole-in-the-wall bar returned to its usual evening bustle.

"Celebratory shots?" Natasha laughed as Foxy exhaled, deep and slow, once her racing heart calmed down.

"My treat," the other woman motioned for the bartender and soon, a line of colorful glasses appeared in front of the women. Each downed a glass easily, slamming it back on the table. "Man, this is everything I never knew I needed," Foxy confessed with a shy smile. "Thanks, Nat. You're the best."

The spy responded with a satisfied smile, picking up another glass and holding it out for a toast. "To revenge well-deserved," the glass clicked, alcohol slid easily down their throats. "So, what now?"

Foxy's eyes shone in the bright lights of the bar, relieved and tipsy. The small empty glass twirled easily between her fingers. "Dunno," the shrug came and went. "Maybe go on vacation. To Florida."

Natasha let out a belly laugh, downing her last shot without as much as a stutter in her movements, Foxy's eyes lingering on the stray drops of alcohol running from the spy's plump lips. "A vacation with the crackheads? Romantic," the quip was received with an eyeroll from the other woman.

"Spoilsport," Foxy, too, finished her booze and placed the money and a hefty tip on the bar, tapping twice to get the bartender's attention. "I meant more like - lay on the beach, sip mimosas, look at sexy people in swimsuits..."

"Florida is for old people," Natasha objected, pulling her leather jacket back on and leading them both outside. The evening air was crisp, bringing a clearer head and re-arranging the thoughts back into a more sensible state.

Foxy easily picked up her pace to match Natasha's precise strides leading them in the direction of the former's building. The warm buzz of vodka coupled with the fresh air and her desire for retribution well-fed, Foxy settled into a comfortable silence next to the spy. They reached the building quickly, their pace brisk and distractions lacking.

"Care for a nightcap?" She didn't know what prompted her to blurt out the words; as soon as the words registered in her brain, they were already out and Foxy's face heated, fingers fumbling for the keys in her pocket, Natasha's touch still warm and lingering on the side of her leg.

The spy seemed amused, studying Foxy's nervous habits with a crooked smirk. "Sure," she agreed amicably, following the woman into the apartment building, not missing both the rigidity of her back and the added spring to her step.

A moderately sized, well-decorated apartment revealed itself behind the open door, scarcely illuminated by the NYC lights coming in from a glass wall in the living room, reflecting the vast living space furnished with a large couch.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Natasha turned around, stepping into the other woman's personal space with the grace of a predator. Two shining eyes stared back at her in the darkness, framed by fluttering lashes. Foxy's bottom lip disappeared behind her teeth, skin gleaming with perspiration.

The recently-turned blonde spy wasted no time caging the other woman between her body and the door, chests almost touching. The air around them was charged, Foxy's heart thudding loudly in her chest as she gulped. Natasha studied her expression, "You want this?" she whispered against her lips, sharing the oxygen between them.

"Ye-yeah," a short nod and a gasp later, the women were devouring each other, grasping at their hands and shoulders like they were drowning. Hot and wet and sharp from the booze, the kisses were as graceless as their fingers haste in removing each other's top layers of clothing.

The sharp corner of the living room archway dug painfully into Foxy's back, bringing an additional sense of awareness: this was real. This was happening. Natasha's blonde locks flowed through Foxy's fingers, soft and silky, a contrast to the teeth pulling on her lip in impatient hunger. Foxy grunted in response, parting from the other woman to send her t-shirt flying somewhere in the direction of the kitchen.

"Bedroom," mere minutes in and she already sounded utterly and throughly ruined.

"Couch," Natasha was equally feverish to get to the good parts. Her belt was unbuckled and the nice button-up she'd worn hung open, a plain white bra iriscendent on her alabaster skin.

Letting herself be led to the couch, Foxy could barely take her eyes off the woman in front of her, making sure she wasn't ogling Natasha outright yet secretly hoping to be caught anyway. The blonde was like a porcelain doll, unreal, firm and soft at the same time.

The moment Foxy gracelessly landed on the couch, Natasha was all up in her space, straddling the other woman with the grace of a savage cat; lips once more attached to her flesh, Natasha left a trail of hot, wet marks starting at the jawline and ending at the cups of Foxy's bra.

Not knowing what to do with her hands, Foxy grasped Natasha's hips, unable to hold back a moan heavy with lust as the spy ground down with her hips. It was exhilarating to see the other woman affected by their heavy make-out session; nothing short of absolutely smitten to see Natasha pull back, panting and disheveled, to shed her shirt and her bra.

Unable to resist the urge, Foxy's hands reached out to cup the spy's round breasts, tugging her closer to pop a rosy nipple into her mouth. Natasha shivered, arching into the caress, holding onto the other woman's hair and tugging it in the direction only she knew.

Natasha wasn't loud, she wasn't wild; her moans were more like muted gasps but her body spoke for her louder than any words: the grinding was getting more impatient, Natasha's hold grew stronger. As Foxy fumbled for the button of Nat's pants, she felt the soft, delicate lace underneath. Natasha had come prepared.

"Hold on," the spy mumbled, hopping off Foxy's lap to quickly push her pants and panties down her legs with practiced ease. The other woman followed suit, leaving herself to be bare besides her underwear, the attempt to remove them intercepted by Natasha. "Let me," quiet words tickled the skin of her throat where Nat had immediately attached her mouth.

Foxy scrambled to intake the oxygen she needed, letting herself feel the hot glide fully, having lost herself in pleasure, missing the exact moment Nat's fingertips breached the waistband of her panties. Soft and nimble, so different to a man's roughened skin, the sensation was as strange as it was sweet. The urge to arch and rock her hips against the nearest surface intensified and Foxy could only keen, quiet and high, causing Natasha to chuckle to herself.

"Enjoying yourself, sweet girl?" The miniscule trace of coyness seeped into the blonde's voice. The engorged, puffy, moist flesh of Foxy's lower lips parted eagerly to Natasha's experimental dip.

"Yeah, yes," the woman slid down, spreading her legs in invitation. "Please, touch me," begging to be filled in all the empty spaces, Foxy threw her head to rest against the back of the couch, watching Nat through unfocused eyes.

"Oh, I will," the spy purred, sliding lower to put her face next to Foxy's dripping cunt. The spy's fingers glistened with arousal and she popped them into her mouth, licking them clean before doing the same to her lover's swollen folds. The response was instantaneous and loud, Foxy shook under Natasha's expert teasing. "Stay still," she ordered quietly, patting Foxy's belly.

Molten, honeyed waves of bliss overtook common sense and awareness, tiny sparks shooting up Foxy's cunt every time Natasha suckled at her clit. The spy read her body like an open book, following the movements of her hips with her mouth, always a step ahead and slightly south. Foxy's peak was imminent, approaching rapidly, as Natasha's sweet merciless assault wrung every single drop of the thick, precious liquid out of her cunt.

It only seemed to gush more, the woman pushing her cunt into Natasha's face as the latter doubled down on her efforts to bring her to ecstasy.

The waves began deep in the pit of Foxy's stomach, making her legs tremble, her toes curl and the flutters of her cunt increase in speed and intensity. Silky soft and typhoon wet, her orgasm crashed her mind into million pieces and Nat dutifully extracted everything until the last drop with the skillful touch of her tongue and fingers.

"Tash," Foxy moaned. Her legs quivered at the slightest touch to her oversensitive cunt.

"Mhm," was the blonde's reply, contented humming getting closer and closer until the womens lips met once more in a fierce, passionate kiss.

Foxy's hands immediately sought purchase on Natasha's hips, searching for the spots that would make the spy's body song in the same way she'd done to Foxy; seemingly much more reserved, quiet but happy sighs broke past Nat's lips in response to gentle hands stroking where she was most sensitive.

"I've got a vibe in my bedroom," clarity finally broke through the orgasm haze, Foxy's brain slowly coming back to reality.

"No, I want your fingers," Natasha's reply was assertive as she moved her hips in tandem with Foxy's hand, dripping the sweetness of her around all over.

The urge to pop the fingers into her mouth was strong, so Foxy did just that, moaning at the tangy taste, Natasha's breath quietly stuttering at the sight in front of her.

"I want to eat you out," the words barely had left Foxy's mouth as Natasha flipped them so she was the one laying on the couch, spread-eagled and open for the other woman's eager mouth to explore. Wet, sloppy and so, so tender, Foxy let herself taste the arousal of her lover.

"Yeah," so soft, one could easily miss it, the approval didn't get lost in the headrush nonetheless. With grace, Foxy sought the spots that would force Natasha to break her silence with slow, broad motions until the blonde had no choice but to arch her hips into the sensations, chasing her pleasure, losing the aura of restraint she'd so carefully cultivated.

No time for self-control. The temperatures were climbing steadily with every single movement, both lost in their imperfect shared rhythm, the soft of Foxy's tongue and fingers like finest silks on Natasha's eager cunt. Two fingers slipped in without resistance, immediately seeking out the soft, spongy spot that made the blonde's toes curl and mouth open in a silent scream.

Foxy's free hand groped around for Natasha's ass hastily, bringing her hips closer to her mouth, tongue never ceasing its assault on the blonde's clit as her body grew more rigid, fingertips going white with the force she was gripping the comforter.

"Gospodi bozhe," came the mumble, the only warning before Natasha's powerful thighs locked Foxy in place as the blonde rode out her orgasm, violently shivering, dousing the other woman's face in her sweet release. Dutifully, Foxy stroked the silk of Natasha's skin everywhere she could reach, her hot breath on the blonde's pussy easing her back to Earth through the aftershocks.

Natasha's eyes opened, feeling her lover's look of adoration, and she cracked a reluctant but genuine smile. There was something about Foxy that was just so-

Natasha taglist (open, see fic hat for info; crossed out nicknames are the ones I couldn't tag, please update your info):

@mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins @persephonehemingway @bluecrazedandbeautiful @slothspaghettiwrites @xoxabs88xox @marvelsbanner @sapphicnoodle69

[luminous-shifting-vibes]

actual fucking quotes from the shiftblr coffeehouse discord server

out of context of course, what do you take me for? a sane person?

"they made lightning mcqueen hot"

"inch resting"

"Nix: Cars (2006) several people are typing..."

"im evaporating"

"enjoy precipitation"

"tow mater is more attractive than lightning mcqueen/hj"

"lightning mcqueen looks like he would call me a slur"

"why did I come back to a discussion regarding the attractiveness of vehicles"

"lark is the braincell of shiftblr tbh"

"you all need some grass in your life"

"me over here simping for block men and now literal cars"

"didn't nick wilde commit fraud canonically"

"i have no strong opinions on whether or not nick wilde is attractive"

"I AM AROMANTIC AND I AM NOT IMMUNE TO NICK WILDE"

"I am bisexual and I. Am not into Nick Wilde based on a simple fact he looks like he will drink all my pepsi and call me names"

"What is shiftbkr but not a bunch of simps"

"cries in Bianca Monroe"

"listen i have a folder called gayass

it is mostly pictures of kyoka jiro and virgil sanders"

"Nick Wilde x Reader where he steals your car 📷 carjacker to lovers AU 📷"

"he says "mama i like to step on keyboard""

"MY MOM JUST WALKED IN AND I HAD TO TELL HER I WAS LOOKING AT LIGHTING MC QUEEN HUMAN FANART"

"crab walks away"

""Y/N..." Nick whispered into your ear. "Your car...is a Honda Civic, right?" You looked up at Nick with a baffled expression. "Nick, my beloved? Whatever are you talking about?" "Just asking..." He said as he let you out of his embrace. "Hey, wanna see a magic trick, babe?" Your eyes sparkled. "Really, Nick? Of course!" Nick smiled. "Ok, close your eyes!" You giggled and closed your eyes, waiting for Nick to tell you to open up. Instead, you heard the loud rumble of a car starting up, and you open your eyes. Nick has stolen your car, and he has driven off into the sunset..."

"did y'all know his name used to be canonically Montgomery--he changed it to lightning mcqueen to get rid of his past"

"That is my exit number"

"cars trauma arc"

"wait do y'all know about car jesus" "as if jesus wasn't a ford focus in the bible"

"oh yall do not want to know about the trauma in my cars dr lmao"

"Dewit tau style babey make Lightning McQueen outlive everyone and stalk their reincarnations"

"Do they baptize other cars in like gasoline then"

"there is a pope car in the cars universe which means car jesus died for cars sins"

"NOT THE BOOMER MEMES"

"-lays facedown on the floor while caramelldansen plays-"

"like im serious how many of you guys endorse me falling face down on my floor" (NOT THE SAME PERSON AS PREVIOUS QUOTE)

"I will be Tall and no one can stop me"

"is a soft floor?"

"stop I thought faceplant meant like a succulent in the shape of a face instead of falling onto your noggin for a solid 10 seconds"

"Touch some grass??? What about eating grass"

"what if for every employee of the month i just printed out really horrible boomer memes"

"what ab smoking grass /j"

"Can the grassdirt smoothie be a special in the cafe"

"PLEASE IM ROLLING ON THE FLOOR REWRITINH THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE WHIKE SPEEDRUNINT MINECRAFT"

"you have to get good dirt from like the middle of a pennsylvanian forest for it to taste good though"

"I ate a four leaf clover as a kid cause i thought it would make me lucky"

"guys how do i see the mee6 leaderboard"

"I used to think i was half dragon and I ate plants out of sidewalk cracks"

"i think i punched someone"

"my parents told me to stop doing that so I looked at them and ate a flower"

"I ate grass when I was 9 bc I read warrior cats and thought I was a medicine cat ....................."

"bees are just spicy flies"

"I had a mental breakdown when I was three cause I didn’t know how to turn off a phone"

"My mom drank a bee once"

"when I was a baby I kinned ink sans."

"bro who here find the yellow hat man from curious george fine as heck 📷📷📷"

"mY LUNGSSSSSS"

"no one topping Him"

"I like em big"

"I think Moto Moto has no game like move over hunky boy I could beat you 1v1 Roblox Arsenal 📷📷📷"

"If you didnt have a crush on springtrap, jeff the killer, or Underfell/Gaster/Error sans don't talk to me /j"

"LOOK THEY'RE BOTH DILFS WITH ABS THAT WOULD FIGHT GOD"

"ZORO IS BANNED"

"Guys please help I found my old fnaf fanart from when I was 8 I'm in literal tears"

"OH NO BOT MY FIFTH GRADE HAMILTON PHASE"

"The worst attraction ive ever had has to be Sombra Overwatch"

"My family is like "save all ur art so I can sell it when you're famous" I literally could not sell this if I tried"

"screaming puppet"

"I just remembered Ive drawn overwatch/hamilton crossover fanart"

"my hermit crabs ate each other again"

"we're cannibals ????"

"having me here is a curse you have inflicted on yourselves and I for one am glad for it <3" "scitters around like a crab in anticipation"

"CARB DAY"

"WE NEED TO HAVE A WATCH OARTY"

"hey y'all ill be right back i have to throw away a crab carcass"

"if I watch cars I'm going to start laughing in the middle of it nonstop just because the word cars is funny and also cars are funny like how do you move silly little metal box with rubber circles"

"Lark asleep post catboy pitbul"

"Mwista Wowldwide! Nya!" "hermit crab 2: electric boogaloo"

"Is that why your name is chaos"

"manifest the crab power!!"

"cool dex fact: i can't read 📷"

"sighs adds to worship these entities list"

"with a knife <3"

"yeah and if he betrays me I could probably throw him across the atlantic ocean"

"give me his eyes"

"my good citizen i am a- wait no im nonbinary nvm"

"it worked on a fish idk what to tell you"

"what is gender??? Is that a board game?? If so can I be apples to apples that one's my favorite"

"CHUTES AND LADDERS"

"anyways actually my gender is Candyland"

"Oh god romes the destroyer of friendships/j"

"i am a simple gay i see math i run in the opposite direction survival instincts 101"

"math my beloathed"

"algebra makes me want to rip open a bag of swedish fish and swallow them whole"

"cackles in they're au characters and this will be very fun"

"pog !!!! me too ksajgks one of my drs is a sanders sides au"

"Is that bipper"

"tumblr sexyman"

"Good because he’ll fuck u up if u hurt a child"

"I want a wing-suit"

"looks like a bean would poison someone"

"my hermit crabs are cannibals what can i say"

"sonic the hedgehog kinnie"

"get yourself a man who is capable of the most ungodly actions but won't do them because of their morality owo"

"tell him he can steal my wallet"

"eyes"

"idk about y'all but I need blueberry sweet tea to live"

"y'know the red souls from soul eater i really want to eat those"

"but like only respectable crimes like stealing from elon musk"

"You can go cultbashing with he!"

"He acts like a flamboyant gay man, but if a flamboyant gay man was straight."

"Simp Satan 📷"

"definitely arson"

"They look like they enjoy lemon squares and other lemon desserts"

"Satan is all-powerful but he spends most of his time building honeymoon locations because he is convinced that the protag loves him"

"bc shes the reincarnation of his dead wife or something i guess"

annd here's a quote from our very own dream (@shiftingwastaken) that sums this post up:

"shiftblr but context makes it worse"

[ahgaseda]

phoenix | one

I’ll be the phoenix, leave it to me, we be flying, spread your wings behind your back, they call us phoenix, ride or die, ride or die...

summary : the clock is ticking as you recount your passionate affair with Jackson, the most wanted man in Shanghai, to the people trying desperately to catch him, but no one - including you - knows if he will risk his life to save yours.

warnings : strong profanity, explicit dialogue, mentions of blood and violence, references to drug and alcohol use, graphic sexual content, self-destructive themes, potentially triggering elements involving kidnapping, arson, etc.

miniseries chapters : one / two / three / four / five / six / seven

The chains rattled on the steel table. The cold cuffs wrapped around your wrists were anchored to the surface, looped through a bolt. You weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

It had been a quiet Thursday night. Nothing out of the ordinary to note. You left your apartment and went out for dinner. The steak was cooked just right. Your company of friends were lighthearted and buzzing from wine, but for once didn’t grill you about your relationship.

On the way home, you were ambushed. You put up a fight, of course, knowing all the while it was futile. The men had descended on you like thieves in the night and none of them were gentle.

Shoved into a chair and fastened to the table, you were read your rights, but by their tones, you had none. Five hours had passed since your less than legal arrest. The clock slipped past midnight a while ago. There was no telling when you would be reported missing, if at all.

Your closest friends knew you vanished from time to time. It was that good for nothing guy you dated, whisking you away to god knows where, they often jeered. Envy was ugly.

He was on your mind. He would notice your absence. Especially the empty space left in his bed.

The detective slapped a file in front of you, but the loud smack that echoed through the room did little to rouse you at this ungodly hour. He was middle-aged and the lines of his face were hard, furrowed. You wondered about the kind of people often in your current position. Gangsters, killers, and the like. You had done nothing to warrant the same treatment.

“Am I being charged with a crime?” you asked, poised and calm as you had been trained. You tossed the idea of trying to speak to them in their native tongue the moment you were booked. Your Mandarin was rudimentary and would likely get you into more trouble. “You have no right to hold me here, chained up like a criminal.”

He shot back, “You are at the center of a government investigation.”

Those words alone should have sent your heart somewhere to the pit of your stomach, but you knew better. All your life, you had been a law abiding citizen. But they treated you like you were wickedness personified.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” you replied, head held high. You dared not give them an inch. You couldn’t afford it.

He glanced at you over the rim of his glasses, eyes scathing. His reply was bitter, dripping with disdain, “Your lover has done plenty.”

You didn’t argue. It was abundantly clear you had no rights in this damned metal box. Lover; the word lingered in your mind a second or two. Yes, he was your lover. No man had loved you like him and no man ever would again.

Was he in love with you? Not even God knew the answer to that.

The detective finally took the seat across from you, in an attempt of appearing more diplomatic. His shouting and intimidation had gone nowhere.

“Tell me about your relationship with Jackson Wang.”

Your eyes fluttered. Just hearing his name made your heart spin. The boy owned you - mind, body and soul. Lacing your fingers together in front of you, you lied, “I don’t have one.”

The detective snorted. Then, he withdrew a photo from the file and placed it before you.

There you were in black and white, centered in a scope that for all you knew could have belonged to a sniper’s rifle, caught up in Jackson’s arms as he kissed you with abandon. Passion flowed freely from every inch of the photograph. It belonged on display in a gallery for twisted, ill-fated lovers.

You could still remember that day in the picture clearly, how it felt when he pushed you up against the window. The glass was frigid on your back, but did nothing to rival the heat of his body against yours.

Jackson always felt as if he carried the entirety of Hell inside him.

You lifted your gaze from the image at last and murmured, “A moment of weakness… a long time ago.”

The detective didn’t believe you for a second. He rifled through more pages in the file and fanned them out in front of you. “Phone records. Travel logs. Looks like you live in a constant moment of weakness,” he sneered. There was no doubt he resented having to share the same oxygen as you; a woman that willingly slept with the devil himself.

“I do,” you retorted, almost regretting the words when they left your tongue.

The detective raised his voice angrily, “Jackson Wang is singlehandedly running the underworld of Shanghai and is a major player in the open rebellion against the People’s Republic.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. One day you knew you would be confronted with what he was, what he had done. There were nights you lay awake, wondering if you slept in the arms of a murderer.

The detective tapped his finger on the table and the noise brought back your attention. His face was severe, red from stifling his rage. To him, you were a valuable pawn, but a pawn nonetheless. His ass was on the line. Perhaps you were the one and only chance he would get at piercing Jackson’s armor.

“I have no information to give,” you answered quietly. “I know nothing of that. Nothing.”

He had gathered that. From the months they had you under surveillance, you were never seen near any of Jackson’s businesses or his known safe houses. He went to great lengths to keep you at a distance from his work.

“Given the nature of his crimes and how viciously he runs his underlings, what would happen if we were to… leak that you were in here, singing like a canary?”

The first threat of the night. You knew it wouldn’t be the last.

You scoffed. He knows I would never betray him. It didn’t matter what Jackson did, you were loyal. Jackson had the ability to inspire loyalty in those close to him. He tolerated many, many things, but disloyalty was not one of them.

The detective lifted a brow, thinking your silence meant he had found an edge. “Have you seen what he does to his enemies?”

Your expression didn’t change. No, he made sure I never saw.

Jackson was ruthless when he took his pleasure from your body. Even more merciless when he buried his head between your thighs. You could only imagine how intensely he ran his underworld.

“Do you know nothing of what he is?” the detective exclaimed, incredulous.

He never wanted me to know, your thoughts wavered.

The world didn’t exist when you were with Jackson. Together, it was just you and him, and everyone else be damned. Every moment spent with him was a lifetime unto itself.

A spontaneous trip to Maldives. An impromptu midnight ride on his yacht in the harbor of Hong Kong. A weekend in South Korea spent locked away in a riverside cottage with only the birds to witness your sins.

Jackson had money. There was no denying that. But so did you. You had made a fortune in your line of work and from then on, no one could buy your attention or affection. Jackson was different. He didn’t shower you with designer clothes or heavy diamonds. He paid attention. Learned your interests and kept you on your toes. He understood you to be like some beautiful mystery in need of solving.

You bit your lip, tears pricking your eyes. You wanted Jackson, wanted to be safe in his arms, hidden against his chest. You loved him. God, you loved him with every fiber of your being. He had taught you how to live again. He showed you there was still a soul somewhere inside you.

Even if his own had been burned out of him.

Clearing your throat and pushing back your emotions, you asserted, “For your own safety, don’t show me anything and don’t leak that you have me in here against my will.”

The man before you bristled with wrath, jaw clenching. “For my own safety?”

You frowned. It was not your intention to anger him. You just needed to keep buying time.

The detective stood abruptly, knocking over his chair and shouting, “Is Jackson going to come for his whore?”

You winced, more so at the screeching sound of his chair scraping the ground than the unsavory words. You weren’t surprised that was how they saw you.

They had probably sent women to seduce Jackson before. Find a crack in his walls to exploit. They must have waited years for him to finally have someone he could love, someone to ultimately break him.

The detective began circling the room, like a vulture spiraling around its next meal. You weren’t afraid. There were laws in place for situations like these. At least, you hoped they still applied to you.

I have to get out, you thought. You steadied your breathing and remembered what you had been taught.

Being held captive was something you had rehearsed many times. Jackson tried to chase you off once. He didn’t want you to live in a constant state of danger because of what he was. Then, Jackson realized he had been waiting his whole life to find you - the person who completed him. And that’s when he started preparing you.

In fact, rehearsing being in police custody was one of your favorite roleplays.

You remembered being led into a tiny room, no larger than a closet. Bound to the only chair, Jackson had stormed in and treated you like a traitor. But you knew how soft he was for you, and how bad of a liar he was, and had seen through the ruse all too quickly.

Nevertheless, he wanted you to be ready for whatever the dirty cops would throw at you should the day come you were in their clutches.

“Baby, had I known you were going to tie me to a chair, I would have worn something a little more seductive,” you teased, licking your lips.

With your hands overlapped and cuffed behind your back, your shoulders were pressed to the top of the chair rather uncomfortably. Jackson skulked before you, not uttering a word. His face was shadowed, dark and menacing. All it did was turn you on.

With heat in your eyes, rather than look demure or nervous, you spread your legs.

Jackson let his gaze fall to your parted thighs, clad in black pantyhose. He had bought you the red bottom heels you were wearing and fuck, if they didn’t make your legs look longer. Without a word, he bent down before you, taking your ankle in hand and slipping off the shoe.

You watched in surprise as he tossed both shoes to the wall where they clattered loudly. No distractions, you mused, wanting to giggle.

Jackson saw your little smirk and fought a grin. You weren’t fooled by him in the least. He stalked across the room, coming to stand behind you with a hand gliding up your arm.

You shivered when his fingers found your neck.

“We have ways of making you talk, sweetheart,” he whispered darkly.

“Mm,” you hummed, breathing heavier as his hands stroked your jaw and throat. With every pass of the rough strokes of his palms, they moved further south. You sucked in a gulp of air when his fingers grasped the buttons of your blouse.

Glancing down, you watched him unfasten one button. Then another and another.

“What do you want me to say?” you asked softly, pulsing with adrenaline.

Jackson traced the pads of his fingers down the lines of your cleavage, which he already knew quite intimately, and grinned at the sight of your blood red bra. Also a gift he had bought for you. Perhaps you wore the matching panties beneath your skirt.

It went without saying that red was his color.

You shuddered when you felt his breath hot on your neck, lips brushing your ear. Your hair stood on end. Electricity prickled across your skin. His touches on your breasts were maddening, drawing senseless patterns that only served to stir a fire between your legs.

“I want you to say,” he replied venomously in your ear. “That you’re going to give me everything I want.”

You gulped, shifting in the chair. That voice was lethal, drawing you into a heady fog that almost made you forget the purpose of this roleplay in the first place. And his hands cupping your clothed breasts were even worse. Jackson had godlike hands. Long fingers. Bulging veins. Your mouth watered.

“I’m waiting,” he taunted, taking a patch of flesh on your neck between his teeth.

You quickly asked, “What is it that you want?”

Jackson squeezed your mounds, tugging down the cups of your crimson bra to expose your nipples, pinching them between his deft fingers. With how badly you squirmed on top of the chair, it was safe to say his hands alone were doing a number on you.

“Jack…,” you started, about to tap out. You needed him to soothe the ache he had created.

Jackson caressed your nipples with his thumbs, smirking at the way your chest rose and fell for breath. “Where is the money?” he growled, trying to sound vicious.

You shook your head in defiance. “I never cared about the money.”

Jackson flicked his tongue over the blemish he had made on your neck, one of his hands leaving your chest to wrap around your throat. His next question sounded more like an accusation, “Are you saying you don’t trade him your body for money?”

You snickered. “I give him my body because I love what he does with it,” you purred, snapping your jaws as if you were going to bite him in retaliation.

“Good girl,” Jackson said with a chuckle, thoroughly pleased with you.

You smiled victoriously. Whenever he said those two little words, you melted into his hands. The man could play your body like an instrument. He could draw the devil out of you like poison to dance with his own.

Jackson pressed a single chaste kiss to your temple. Then his thumb and forefinger gripped your neck, suddenly pressing to your blood flow. Your vision clouded and thrummed. The room began to fade. When you felt a hand dip between your legs and settle on your clothed sex, you knew you had passed the test and would get your reward.

You found yourself back in the present, crossing your legs beneath the steel table. It did you no good to think of Jackson and the power he had over your body. Always leaving you satisfied, shaking and screaming. He took pride in making a complete and utter mess of you, ruining you for anyone else.

The detective resumed his threats, but his voice faded into static. He offered to toss you in a cell and throw away the key. But in your mind, you were back in Jackson’s bed, naked save for his dress shirt as he told you what to expect.

“They’ll try to scare you into talking,” he said levelly, sporting only a towel around his waist after a hot shower. “If you flinch, they’ll escalate. Find your happy place and don’t give them an inch. Never let them know you’re afraid.”

You nodded, distracted by the fiery tattoo that covered the full expanse of his back. Jackson was a perpetual distraction.

“Then, they’ll switch it up. Offer you a deal. They may give you full immunity if you give me up,” Jackson continued, focusing on your face to see your reaction.

You rose to your knees, shuffling to the edge of the bed and grabbing him by the hips. Pulling him close, you pressed a kiss to his lips and crooned, “Ride or die, babe.”

Jackson rewarded you with another kiss, but pulled back the moment you tried to slip him your tongue. His expression turned grim. “Then, they might turn off the camera. Might start threatening you with pain.”

You shook your head. Being with him made you brave. “I’m not afraid of pain.”

Jackson cupped your cheek, stroking his thumb over your soft skin, and whispered, “I won’t be there to protect you, but I promise on my life… something bad will happen to them when they least expect it.”

“Just get me back to you, back to where I belong,” you told him impatiently, carding your fingers into his damp hair and teasing your tongue over his bottom lip before kissing him again. At the time, you wanted him to hush this line of conversation, wanted him to focus on the precious time spent together.

What you didn’t know was that the noose had been tightening and Jackson was setting things in motion.

For a moment, he indulged you, sucked eagerly at your tongue in his mouth and kneaded your hips in his broad hands.

Finally, he stopped you, cradling your face and staring intently into your eyes. “You need to know this,” he whispered in hushed tones. “The cops are dirty. Corrupt, every last one of them.”

You nodded your understanding and made sure never to forget it.

The door opened and you snapped out of your reverie, the detective joined by another officer that had been one of the men to participate in your violent arrest. He strode in forcefully, a phone you swiftly recognized as your own held in his hand. The device was hooked to a number of wires and receivers.

“Here, talk to your bitch,” he snapped harshly.

The officer grabbed a handful of your hair and shoved the phone to your ear.

You groaned at the stiff tug on your head and answered confusedly, “...Hello?”

“Baby,” was all Jackson said.

“I’m fine,” you spoke like a well-rehearsed robot, looking up to make eye contact with the man holding your hair in his fist. “They are treating me very well.”

The officer shouted loud enough for your lover to hear, “She’s being a very cooperative cunt, Mr. Wang.”

You bristled, practically feeling Jackson’s wrath through the phone.

“Baby girl, rest assured,” he hissed under his breath and you had never heard his voice devolve into such a growl. “They are all dead men.”

You flashed your teeth in a grin at the man gripping you so roughly and sang, “Yes, Daddy.”

The line clicked dead.

“Damn it,” the officer groaned, releasing you none too gently.

The door swung inward again, causing the man beside you to jump. Whoever had just entered was clearly a superior, because the others bowed deeply.

“Out,” said the stranger with little to no patience, dressed in a crisp charcoal suit.

You watched the two shuffle through the door, metaphorical tails tucked between their legs. It was a relief to be free of them. Though you now had a new enemy to confront.

The interrogator spoke your name in greeting, offered a warm and somewhat reassuring smile, and introduced himself, “I’m Park Jinyoung.”

“Korean,” you mulled in surprise. “What are you doing in Shanghai, Mr. Park?”

He looked barely Jackson’s age, but you already respected him more than the others because of his kind manners. He wasn’t here to play any violent games with you.

“I was about to ask you the same question, Mrs. Wang,” he retorted, pointing at the ring on your left hand.

“I’m not his wife,” you were quick to correct, overlapping your hands to hide the piece of jewelry. It was the most precious thing you owned. You sighed in relief when they hadn’t removed it during your arrest process.

Jinyoung approached and withdrew a key from his pocket, unfastening your cuffs. You caught a glimpse of the gun strapped to his hip and decided not to cross him. Once you were free, he sat down comfortably across from you, unfastening the button of his coat.

You murmured a small thank you and studied him carefully. He was a far different entity than the corrupt detectives.

“I apologize for the unsavory care that has been given to you in here,” Jinyoung said, seemingly genuine. “From what I understand, this is hour five for you.”

You nodded. “Spent the first hour being read my rights. The only word out of my mouth was lawyer. Then, no lawyer in sight, hour two they left me in here to sweat,” you told him as you rubbed your aching wrists. “I didn’t sweat.”

Jinyoung bobbed his head as you spoke, as if he was well aware of all that, adding, “And as I saw, he has already been in contact.”

You sighed. “Not long enough to get a trace.”

Given the officer’s reaction when Jackson hung up, you gathered that much.

Jinyoung smiled. He was almost amused. Opening his notebook to a blank page, he tapped his pen and said, “We both know they won’t get anything from you. You’re not going to crack.”

You tilted your head. “Are you interested in finding a way to break me, Mr. Park?”

Jinyoung was a master tactician, highly respected for his intellect. He had been watching from behind the tinted glass. Your behavior with him was a stark contrast than with the detectives. You had been trained. You were more at ease with him. Jinyoung realized he didn’t put any fear in you. And that was an advantage for him.

Jackson’s words echoed in your mind, “If someone comes in from the outside, a different agency or a different country, he or she will be the real deal. They will have been hunting me for a long time and will see you as a key to finally bringing me down.”

Jinyoung’s delayed response cut through your thoughts, “I’m more interested in how someone like you became involved in this. Level with me. How did you meet the one and only Jackson Wang?”

You shrugged. “Why do you care? It won’t help you find him.”

Jinyoung uncapped his pen, ready to write, and pressed, “Some girls are drawn to men like him. Men with violent, dangerous power.”

“I never knew about his powers,” you shot back vehemently. Was he implying you were insane for loving someone like Jackson?

“I’ve spent the greater portion of my professional career in a cat and mouse game with him,” Jinyoung confessed, trying to smooth your feathers. “Help me get to know him better.”

“You’re the mouse,” you smarted.

Jinyoung glanced up through hair straying into his eyes. With a smirk, he scribbled something at the top of his blank page and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”

You exhaled loudly.

The last of Jackson’s warnings rang in your ear. “If they’re the real deal, buy time. Get a feel for them. Figure out what it is they’re after and how they want to use you. And then, whatever you do, don’t give it to them.”

Glancing down at your nails, noticing one or two had broken in your scuffle during your shady, back alley arrest, you began, “I met him at some ritzy, overpriced hotel. It had been a shit day. Another board meeting of senior partners where no one gave a damn what I had to say. As long as our stocks came out unscathed, they didn’t care if the rest of the world was about to go to hell…”

You had been sitting at the bar, manicured nails drumming on the black marble. The bartender kept a steady flow of red wine coming your way and you sipped your glass in an attempt to clear your head of all its moral conscience.

It was a wonder you had lasted this long and you pondered how much longer you could keep going. You never imagined selling your soul to a corporation, playing with people’s lives. It had all just been numbers and math, at which you excelled, and then the corruption steadily seeped into you.

“Another crisis, Luke,” you told the bartender.

He tossed a cloth over his shoulder and retorted, “Another Tuesday, madame.”

You chortled and put the glass to your lips. “That’s the truth if I ever heard it,” you mumbled bitterly.

You saw the numbers. Numbers were your expertise. The market would crash. Much, much worse than before. Hard-working people would lose their retirements, their livelihoods. Some would never recover. Meanwhile, you and your bosses would roll in cash and the government would cut the banks a giant check to fix the disaster they had created.

Looking at your hands, you marveled how clean they looked for being so stained and filthy.

Luke glanced at the television overhead, where you had asked him to switch to the financial channel. The bell was chiming. The market had closed, deep in the red. No surprise there.

You glared at the screen. They had no idea what was coming tomorrow morning. People worked hard, but greed worked harder.

Luke turned to you, pointing at the coverage, and inquired curiously, “That kind of crisis?”

You tipped your glass toward him for more wine and nodded. “Now is the time to pull out.”

“My pull out game has never been good,” Luke quipped after topping off your drink.

You nearly spat your wine with laughter and your stomach ached. Fuck’s sake, when was the last time you laughed?

“Dammit, Luke. How am I supposed to cut in now?”

You angled to the man who had been seated a few stools down from you.

Luke held up his hands in defense, smirking with satisfaction.

The first thing you noticed about Jackson Wang was his smile. It was warm, undeniably playful, yet something about it put you at ease. Most men in your field had smiles that warned of danger or bad intentions.

Your eyes met and Jackson could see right off the bat you were unimpressed. It had been a rough day and you were in no mood to flirt. So Jackson decided to finesse, which luckily was his specialty.

Turning back to your wine and tasting it on your tongue, you tried not to steal another glance or two at the handsome man at the bar.

“Should I unload my portfolio?” Jackson asked, wanting your attention.

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye and feigned disinterest, “What’s your pleasure?”

He cocked his head and joked, “I’m surprisingly vanilla.”

You rolled your eyes and deadpanned, “In stocks.”

Jackson recognized that icy tone of a woman who did not have a single fuck to give him and knew he would need to melt you a little. You had caught his eye at the bar, but beautiful women were a commodity in his line of work.

At first he dismissed your glowing skin beneath the bar lights and your big beautiful eyes glistening with unshed tears. You almost hooked him with that tight black dress and the way it hugged your every curve. And your legs, hot damn, keeping his eyes off of those had been even harder.

Then, he heard you speak. You talked with intellect and eloquence, and he was ready to hire you to narrate the rest of his life. He realized you may have some intelligence in that pretty head of yours and that snared his attention.

Because Jackson had learned long ago he was very, very easily bored. And the vapid nonsense that came out of the mouths of the girls he tended to attract with his money just didn’t cut it for him anymore.

The pursuit was on.

“Mostly gold, some silver. A few auto brands,” he replied, attempting to sound humble.

You answered expertly, “Gold and silver will bounce back in the long run. They always do. Some auto manufacturers may not survive, but just the American ones are at risk. And more than likely Uncle Sam will bail them out like last time.”

Jackson winced, but it was for effect. “Bye-bye, Cadillac.”

You chuckled.

Jackson sobered a little, frowning at the television. “Another crash, huh?”

“You didn’t hear it from me,” you whispered under your breath, sipping your wine and knowing every time you opened your mouth, you jeopardized your entire company.

In the morning, when the opening bell rang, your firm would unload all of its dirty, worthless stock to unsuspecting buyers, and the market would collapse like clockwork.

Numbers didn’t lie.

“I trust your expertise,” Jackson flirted, voice like silk.

You gave him a sideways glance, not convinced. More than likely he was just trying to get into your pants. “Most men get turned off when I speak with expertise in my field,” you said, running a hand through your hair.

Jackson shook his head and retorted, “I’m not most men.”

You giggled; how predictable. “That’s what they all say.”

But you knew now that he was right.

As the conversation went on, Jackson moved closer and closer. By the time he sat at your side, his presence was a welcome one. After another glass of wine, you started leaning into him.

You talked about everything. Topics shifted from the market to the weather to international travel and finally to your favorite subject, good food. You were never one for small talk. In fact, you hated it. But Jackson spoke like he could match your rhythm.

He didn’t shy away from more complicated discussions. He didn’t bat an eye when you challenged his opinions. He could keep up with a little verbal sparring and seemed to enjoy it as much as you did. And he never tried to dumb you down like so many men before him.

Finally, after you didn’t back away when he moved dangerously close to you, Jackson cut to the chase and teased, “Don’t act like you’re not feeling me.”

You laughed, but there was no weight behind it.

Jackson shuffled closer and murmured, “I see you.”

You blinked up at him innocently. “What do you see?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “I can’t explain it, but I could try if you wanted me to.”

It had been a long time since you indulged a man to sweet talk you or romance you or even get you into bed with him. You had given up on the opposite sex not long after you began ascending the ladder at work and learned the vast majority of them were threatened by your success.

Jackson was not the least bit intimidated by you. At this point, he was a goddamn unicorn.

“Explain it to me,” you whispered slyly, realizing his lips were mere inches from yours.

Jackson moved even closer and whispered for your ears only, “You’re gravity. You’re a magnet. I can’t stop getting closer.”

You lowered your head, hiding the heat quickly rising behind your cheeks.

Jackson slipped his fingers beneath your chin and tilted you back up to meet his unwavering eyes.

It was the first time he touched you.

“I want you,” he said, a low rumble of a growl in his throat.

Your eyes flickered, faltering under how intensely he looked at you. You wanted desperately to hide how badly his words and voice affected you, and you sneered, “Does that line work?” You had to keep him on his toes in this little dance. You weren’t ready to surrender yet.

Jackson wasn’t going to let you have the upper hand anymore. He knew you were what he wanted and he was coming in for the kill. “You tell me,” he spoke, more aggressive. “You’re the first woman to hear that from me.”

You pouted when his fingers slipped from your chin, satisfied he had made his point. “You’re smooth,” came your reply, a little hesitant from the tension. “I’ll give you that.”

Jackson slouched comfortably on his bar stool and said, “I’ve flashed the watch, the rings. Most girls get very friendly once they’ve seen sparkly rocks.”

You clicked your tongue and snorted. “If you only knew how much money I make.”

Jackson tried another approach. “So I can’t buy your affections?”

With a shake of your head, you crooned, “Sadly, not for sale.”

“Fine,” Jackson said, noncommittal and rather abrupt.

You panicked. It sounded like he was about to throw in the towel. Your heart began to beat a little faster against your ribs.

Jackson gulped what was left of his drink and set the glass back down loudly on the bar. Adjusting his tie, Jackson rose to his feet and peered down at you, whispering, “Tell me you’re not feeling me and I’ll go. And you’ll never have to see me again.”

That was not a welcome thought.

At your silence, Jackson pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and handed it to Luke. “Mine and the lady’s tabs, pal,” he said, driving the last nail into the coffin.

You reached out and grabbed his sleeve without hesitation, gazing up at him with naive eyes. You had no idea then what you were getting yourself into.

“Don’t…,” you whispered bashfully, cheeks flushing again.

Jackson moved back to your side, a victorious smile on his face.

You saw his grin and chuckled, realizing you’d been beaten in the game.

Jackson cupped your cheek and leaned in with confidence, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Your lashes fluttered. He smelled good, ridiculously good. You wanted to bury your face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in.

Jackson resisted the urge to slip his hands in your hair and kiss you like he really wanted. Your skin was soft; so soft he wanted to trace his lips over every inch of you and write his name with his tongue across your body.

You managed to hold onto some semblance of self-control throughout the elevator ride. The tension was thick. The air was heavy. No words passed between either of you. And you stood at opposite corners of the elevator.

Jackson led you down the hallway, your hand tucked inside his. The moment he stopped at door 309, the two of you were on each other.

“You’ve got some nerve getting me turned on like this,” you teased, panting softly.

Jackson’s lips were on your neck, his arms around your waist. He crushed you between his body and the wall, and you couldn’t be happier. After that comment, he pulled back to look into your eyes and smirked, nipping at your lips.

You took his face in your hands and smashed your lips on his. It went without saying that you really liked kissing Jackson. It was all you wanted to do for the foreseeable future. He tasted of liquor and really bad choices.

Jackson wedged a knee between your thighs and made room for his hips to fit between. You moaned into his mouth, tempted to lock your ankles behind his back, but rather conflicted about it. Were you going to hook up with him? Your first thought was an emphatic yes.

Your hands roamed over his shoulders and back, feeling taut muscles underneath his expensive suit. He was hard like iron, thick thighs bracing you against the wall. His hands wandered too, exploring your body, finally able to touch those curves.

Despite his hold on you and your tongue down his throat, Jackson managed to pull the keycard from his back pocket and swipe it over the panel. You heard the familiar beep of the hotel door unlocking, followed by Jackson pushing it open.

Mumbling against his mouth, you grabbed his wrist and pulled, blurting, “We can’t.”

“What…,” Jackson exclaimed, his lips red. “Why?”

“Because,” you huffed, letting your head fall back against the wall in defeat. “If I go in there, we’re gonna fuck.”

The words alone made a certain something twitch in his pants. Jackson fought a chuckle and gave you a glance over. You were already disheveled and breathless, and he hadn’t even touched you yet. “Is that so?” he taunted, expression full of boyish energy.

“Yeah,” you exhaled, still at war with yourself. Then, you leaned into his chest and collided your lips back to his.

Jackson smiled against your mouth, tightening his arm around your waist and meeting the rush of your kisses. He took them to mean you changed your mind and swiped the key card again.

Hearing the chime of the door, you grabbed the lapel of his suit with both hands and broke away. “No, we can’t.”

Jackson laughed, amused by you. “Okay. Okay,” he relented.

“Sorry, but…,” you trailed, still trapped in his arms. “I’ve never fucked anyone I just met.”

“Me neither,” he replied softly.

You cocked a brow. No one gave a damn if men had sex with every human that passed their sight. For that reason, you were inclined to believe him.

Jackson pulled the door closed and pressed the sweetest of kisses to your lips. When he stopped, your eyes fluttered open and you peered up at him.

“Gravity,” was all he said, chuckling to himself.

Yeah, you felt it, too.

Running your fingers into his hair and tugging gently, you ordered, “Keep kissing me.”

Jackson didn’t need to be told twice.

The rushed, hurried kisses were over. Now that the two of you weren’t sprinting to the bedroom, you could focus on how your tongues danced in each other’s mouths. Jackson stroked a hand down your thigh and hooked your leg over his hip, needing to be as close as humanly possible to you.

When his lips moved back to your neck, you rolled your eyes and the catch in your breath almost sent him to his knees.

“Can I take you to breakfast in the morning?” he asked between kisses.

“Yes,” you replied, fingers pressed to his shoulders.

Jackson proceeded to suck a mark of possession beneath your ear. “And dinner tomorrow evening?”

You were out of your mind, insane with lust and desire. Sweat was beginning to gather beneath your dress, courtesy of the fire burning inside him. “Absolutely.”

Jackson licked the bruise he was making, tasting your skin. “How about the day after that?”

You groaned in frustration. He was making it fucking impossible. “And the day after that. Just don’t stop kissing me,” you whined, bringing his face back to yours for another kiss.

You blinked your eyes rapidly, dismayed to find you weren’t in Jackson’s arms, but still caged inside the grey room. Grasping the ring on your left hand, you spun it around - a nervous tick, but it was vaguely comforting. The ring had been a gift on your first anniversary. Inscribed along the inside of the band were the words, never stop kissing me.

It was the closest Jackson had ever come to confessing his love for you. Slipping the ring on your finger, the finger generally reserved for wedding vows, Jackson had said, “So every man knows you’re spoken for.”

Jinyoung let his gaze fall from your face to your hands, noting how you turned the gold band around your finger to soothe yourself. It was human nature, to cling to something sentimental when under duress.

You noticed where his eyes had fallen and quickly covered your hand. His expression was one of scrutiny and belied interest, and you deflected, “Alright, I told you how we met. Makeout session included. Tell me what you hope to get from that.”

Jinyoung replied without hesitation, “I want to catch him. I want to put him away forever.”

A bitter taste filled your mouth. “I will never help you do that.”

“You already are.”

You blinked.

Jinyoung leaned back in his chair, at ease when he explained, “I can keep you here indefinitely. We wait for him to crawl out of his hole.”

You shook your head vehemently. “He won’t.”

“He won’t trade his life for yours,” Jinyoung questioned, seemingly shocked.

“He…,” you paused with indecision. “I don’t know.”

The cold, hard truth was, you didn’t. There was a part of Jackson’s life he never shared with you. The life that was centered around his powers.

But you knew Jackson took great pride in what he had built. He came from nothing, was told his whole life he would never amount to anything, and he had destroyed all the odds stacked against him. He not only beat the game, he changed it forever.

“You’re in here, ready to give up everything for him,” Jinyoung’s voice faded into the background.

“Am I?” you questioned, lost in your memories.

The first time Jackson made love to you, he revealed himself to you and said something that was burned into your mind forever. The two of you were naked, exposed and vulnerable to the other. So many little nothings had been spoken while endless promises and vows were written into each other’s skin.

Then, in a moment of stillness, Jackson cradled your face and drowned himself in your eyes. He called your name and you stared up at him, hinged on his every word.

“Do you know what they say,” he breathed, chest heaving. “About playing with fire?”

“Are you going to burn me?” you asked him innocently.

“I burn everything I touch,” Jackson told you, filling with sadness. “And only I survive.”

“I’ll be your Phoenix then,” you whispered, bringing your fingers to rake teasingly down his back over the tattoo of the immortal firebird inked into his skin.

Jackson smiled and shifted on top of you to take you again. “You are the closest I will ever get to heaven…”

And you watched in disbelief as the dark brown of his irises turned to scorching red.

Jinyoung called your name. He knew you were somewhere far away in your head.

You blinked through oncoming tears.

“Do you know what he is? Do you have any idea what he’s done? Do you even know what they call him?”

You heard the rumors and read the headlines, just like everyone else. He wasn’t the only one; these men with strange powers. Some said they were harbingers of the end times.

“The Phoenix,” you interjected.

Jinyoung frowned in contempt.

“Because he burns everything and everyone in his path,” you finally confessed. Whatever gets in his way.

“One day, he’ll raze cities to the ground.” Jinyoung’s tongue was a razor. “Did you think you wouldn’t get burned?”

I asked for it, you admitted to yourself. I fell in love with the villain.

Reaching down to pick up the photo still on the table of you swept up in Jackson’s arms, you sighed in acceptance of fate, “Moth to the flame.”

Somewhere out in the night, as Shanghai finally drifted to sleep, Jackson sat in the backseat of his tinted car, gripping the phone so tight he was sure it would snap at any minute.

There would be hell to pay for those that had taken you. Jackson already identified each of them. But in the meantime, he could only sit and think. Getting revenge was easy. Getting you back was considerably harder.

He had to stay ahead of the game. They took you for a purpose. You wouldn’t roll on him, Jackson was sure of that. You would never give them the satisfaction. But they would try to use you as leverage and Jackson couldn’t risk everything he had built. It would make the entire city fall down on top of him.

If he tried to rescue you, then the whole world would know he had a weakness and you would never be safe again for as long as you lived. If he didn’t, then the corrupt cops could put you in the hands of enemies that were much worse to make a bloody example of you.

Jackson grit his teeth. He knew this day would come, when he would finally have to confront his feelings for you. He swore to never let his heart out of its cage, but it had escaped and fled to the palm of your hand. There was a reason he never told you he loved you.

He couldn’t admit it to himself. Love was meant only for humans.

“What do I fucking do?” he cried out in his mother tongue, wringing his hands before hiding his face behind them. He needed you in his arms, needed to hold you again.

But he would lose everything.

The phone chimed and Jackson opened the text.

Call it off. Or she drowns first.

Jackson shook with rage and opened his hand, irises turning crimson as flames appeared on his palm. Then, he closed his fist, snuffing them out.

next chapter →

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[yellowocaballero]

He’s Just Not That Into You: Web!Jon and Martin ficlet

Another ficlet written in the same universe as The Convention on Chronographer Lane/The Monster at the End of This Book. As before, you don’t need to have read that to read this. These ficlets are being written as character studies so I get a good handle on the uniqueness of the characters in this AU before I actually write something longer. Which is why they’re...like this. 

Very slight content warning for internalized fatphobia and Jon being interpreted as being a creep again. Reverse content warning for Martin’s tasty pasta. 

EDIT 2/4/2021: With the release of Sucker’s Bet, which this story was a kind of pilot study for, this story is no longer canon. However, you can still consider it a 15 page summary of that entire story. I’m sad I couldn’t keep the ‘join my spider cult’ thing but we all make sacrifices. 

Martin was in the middle of making a delicious pot of pasta when Jonathan Sims crawled in through his kitchen window.

Martin stared at Jonathan Sims, too out of it to even be surprised. Jon halted halfway through his entrance, sitting on the windowsill with one leg swung over it to rest on his floor, one leg on the fire escape above. Martin was on the sixth floor of his flat complex.

“Hullo,” Jon said, as if he was not in his window, “have you reconsidered my offer of -”

Martin threw his spoon at Jon, hitting him squarely on the forehead. Jon cursed, shocked into leaning backwards, and he accidentally topped off the window and onto the fire escape. He landed on the metal grid with a loud crash and a rattle, and the muffled sounds of his cursing echoed through the flat.

After a second to grab a new spoon and turn down the heat on the pot, Martin walked over to the window and wiggled it down again. He looked Jon dead in the eyes as he locked it, before going back to his pasta.

It was good. He should add some pesto and herbs next time.

Martin was in the middle of making a delicious pot of pasta when Jonathan Sims crawled in through his kitchen window. 

Martin stared at Jonathan Sims, too out of it to even be surprised. Jon halted halfway through his entrance, sitting on the windowsill with one leg swung over it to rest on his floor, one leg on the fire escape above. Martin was on the sixth floor of his flat complex. 

“Hullo,” Jon said, as if he was not in his window, “have you reconsidered my offer of -”

Martin threw his spoon at Jon, hitting him squarely on the forehead. Jon cursed, shocked into leaning backwards, and he accidentally topped off the window and onto the fire escape. He landed on the metal grid with a loud crash and a rattle, and the muffled sounds of his cursing echoed through the flat. 

After a second to grab a new spoon and turn down the heat on the pot, Martin walked over to the window and wiggled it down again. He looked Jon dead in the eyes as he locked it, before going back to his pasta. 

It was good. He should add some pesto and herbs next time. 

***

Martin had never really bothered to learn how to cook, but now that he was unemployed he had plenty of time. 

Now that he was unemployed, he had plenty of time for lots of things. He was finally taking up knitting again. Lots of seasons of Jane the Virgin to catch up on. His severance package from the Institute had been pretty good, not to mention the check Rosie had slipped him with a wink that she had worryingly called ‘Hazard Pay’, but this was London and even Martin could only make the money stretch so far. He spent eight hours of his day looking for jobs, touting his five year experience as a librarian and six month experience as an Archival assistant. But there was only so far you could go without a degree, and the market was shit, and really wouldn’t it just be so much easier to list a master’s in library science from some huge, anonymous university…

But Martin had the feeling that line of thought was what had put him on Jon’s radar in the first place. 

***

A week later Martin was halfway through a comforting Gilmore Girls rewatch when he heard a knock on his door. He had been fastidiously avoiding answering knocks on the door ever since Jon had pulled his first Jehovah’s Witness impression, but he had ordered a replacement washing machine part and it was arriving that day. He put his knitting down and got up, peering through the eyehole - hair not nearly long enough to be Jon, great - and opened the door. 

“Hullo,” the man said in a thick Cockney accent, not looking up from his clipboard, “I got a package here for Mr. Blackwood?”

“Yes, that’s me.” Martin held out his hands to take the little screen and sign for the package. After a second of clumsy fumbling, the man passed the package and the screen over, and Martin boredly scribbled his name. “Thanks, mate -”

But the man was gone, and Martin had realized belatedly that the man had slipped past Martin to enter his flat. He easily slid the cap off, letting his tightly curled hair cascade down to his shoulders, and propped his hands on his hips as he spun in a circle, admiring Martin’s extraordinarily boring and cramped flat. 

“Really love what you’ve done with the place!” Jonathan Sims said loudly. “Your sense of interior design is really impeccable, Martin, truly. A man’s home is his castle! Oh, is that vintage chintz? So cute.”

“Get out of my house.”

“Look at this ceramic kitten!” Jon was already in front of his mantle, carefully scrutinizing his little row of ceramic figures. They were fifty pence at the charity shops and Martin found them precious and charming, okay? “Your place has so much personality. My flat has personality too, but I’m afraid that personality just screams a propensity towards arson, so it’s much less impressive. How old is that couch, from the 70s? Very grandmother. Is it inherited?”

Yes. “No,” Martin said, resisting the urge to throttle the man as he dumped his washing machine part on the end table, “and please get out of my flat. I’ve said explicitly I don’t want you where I live -”

“Really, Martin, I’m hardly a vampire,” Jon said, having the gall to look offended as he cradled a little meowing ceramic kitten in his hand. “If I needed permission to enter dwellings I’d never go anywhere.” He paused a beat, something seeming to occur to him. “But I get a lot of permission from many different people of a variety of genders to enter their homes for sex, which I am very good at.” He paused again. “I really am very thirsty. I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a spot of tea…?”

Because Martin was British, he made the tea. But he resented every second of it. 

Jon hadn’t started stalking him immediately after he and his weirdo friends had murdered Martin’s boss, but it was pretty close. He had probably thought a week was enough time to emotionally recover from the ordeal of finding out that your boss’ boss was an immortal apocalypse cultist or whatever and that your boss was actually just a plant from a different and somehow creepier apocalypse cult inserted into your workplace to assassinate his boss. He had probably thought that a week was enough time to emotionally recover from the fact that Jonathan Sims - prickly, rude, pretentious Head Archivist with a heart of gold - was an elaborate fabrication, and that the man whom Martin had been falling for had never truly existed at all. 

A week had not been enough time. 

He didn’t even know Jon’s real name. 

“So what is your real name, anyway?” They were, unfortunately, sitting at Martin’s rinky-dink kitchen table, complete with little pock-marked burn scars in the wood and a wobbly leg. Martin had a magazine rolled up and jammed under the leg, which he was uncomfortably aware of as Jon lounged in his hard little wooden chair as if it was a thousand dollar gaming chair. The fake UPS uniform helped make him look like something other than a movie star, but it was hard to disguise the sharp and haughty features and the cold grey eyes. He had kept the ceramic cat, placing it in front of him with its little plainative face turned towards Martin. 

“What makes you think it’s not Jonathan Sims?” Jon asked archly, sipping at his PG Tips out of a chipped black mug. He made a faint face. “Sorry, is there cream for this? I hate black tea.”

“You always take your tea black,” Martin said automatically. Jon stared at him until he got it. “Of course. Right.” 

By the time he got back to the table with the sugar and cream Jon was going through his mail, with absolutely no shame whatsoever. “Bill, bill, overdue bill. You’re hurting for money, aren’t you? You know, I might know someone who’s hiring -”

“If you’re about to say a giant spider that’s going to lay eggs in my stomach and then burst out of my skin and transform me into a spider person, I have to pass.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Jon blatantly lied. “I just don’t think you’re hearing me out. Has anybody ever told you that you’re very unwilling to listen to new ideas?”

“When the new idea is joining a spider cult, then yes. Actually, no, because nobody’s ever asked me that before I met you.”

Jon didn’t seem to pick up on Martin’s extraordinarily pained expression, or maybe he just didn’t care. He leaned in instead, easily dropping a grotesque amount of sugar cubes into his tea. “Just consider it. Let the idea percolate in your mind. There’s a lot of benefits. No more worrying about money. No more putting in all that work to manipulate people. It’d be as easy as breathing for you. Anybody you want to like you likes you, and anybody you hate has their life ruined in days.” Something glinted with light in Jon’s grey eyes, like a spotlight shining off a raincloud. “Anybody you want to fall in love with you does so instantly. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“All for the low, low price of selling my soul to a giant spider god,” Martin said sarcastically. Jon nodded fastidiously, as if it really was a low price. “Seriously, Jon? I have no interest in any of this. I don’t even know why you’ve singled me out to stalk. I don’t - I don’t like manipulating people, it’s not some kind of hobby -”

“Liar. You love manipulating people.” Jon sipped his tea, as if bored. “Honestly, Martin, we’re all friends here. I won’t judge. You don’t need to virtue signal. We both love manipulating people, getting what we want, putting on personas. We like to control how people see us, no matter what that perception is. You believe that ends justify the means, I believe that good means result in good ends. We’ve very similar.” Something strange entered Jon’s expression, almost entirely hidden by the tea, and for the first time Martin wondered if this was an expression Jon hadn’t meant for him to see. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who is exactly like me. We should work together. You’re so well suited for the Mother. You’d be a treasured son. Valued, celebrated, loved. Everything you always wanted, you can have.”

Silence stretched between them. Martin let Jon think that he was thinking it over, staring into his own cup of Earl Grey and letting the slowly wafting steam fog up his glasses. Jon sipped his tea again, still posed casually yet attractively. In a brief yet stupid spurt of nostalgia Martin found himself missing the man he thought Jonathan Sims had been. 

Stupid. Loving Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist, had been as real as crushing on a love interest in a dating sim. Instead, Martin leaned in, and Jon leaned in to match him. Martin locked eyes with him, as sincerely as he possibly could. No lies, no artifice. “Stop projecting your insecurity about your own bad decisions on me,” Martin enunciated clearly, and Jon’s eyes widened in shock. “and get out of my house.”

He did, eventually. Maybe that was one of a million surprising things about Jonathan Sims, or whatever his real name was: Martin could always get him to do what he wanted eventually. 

***

Martin did not spend time thinking about Jonathan Sims, mostly because he had the feeling that this was what Jonathan Sims wanted. 

Instead, he frantically piled more and more projects and work into his free time. Ever since he was seventeen, Martin had always held down at least three jobs. His life was a never-ending rotation of a six am to three pm shift at Papa John’s, then a three pm to ten pm shift at Panera, and then stumbling home to stuff a ready meal in the microwave before doing it all over again only to work his third weekend job on the weekends. It had gotten to the point where he had paid the unemployed downstairs neighbor living on disability cheques to feed and occasionally take care of Mum because he hadn’t had time to do it himself. Martin could have have just dropped a job and scraped by on two so he could take care of Mum himself, but - well, it wasn’t hurting anybody. His neighbor had needed the cheques, right?

In comparison, the Institute had been an absolute dream. Work from nine to five, every day, then come home and crash. There had been benefits, insurance. It probably said something that even after discovering that both of his bosses had been cultists to Lovecraftian horrors who wanted to end the world or whatever, it was still the best job he ever had. He even missed it, sometimes - missed listening to Sasha and Tim joke around, missed the repetitive work, missed harmlessly and shallowly crushing on his persnickety boss who sometimes flashed a smile at him that made his heart melt. 

Fucker had known exactly what he was doing. 

That was what got Martin, even now. What had been the point? Jon had been there to infiltrate Elias’ plans for a Head Archivist, or so Sasha had confusingly explained after the fact. The skeptic, pissy act was to show himself off as an ideal candidate: willfully ignorant, psychologically vulnerable, and utterly isolated from everyone. What was the point of...of...seducing Martin?

The thought made Martin want to die. Imagine living a life where you woke up in the morning and thought to yourself, ‘Today I’m going to seduce the ugly, fat, high school dropout in my extensive long con to save/destroy the world’. It was like he was a movie star in a heist film or something, only cruel and pointless. 

Was it just to make fun of him? Martin had thought it was. But as he...interacted with Jon more and more, he got the sense that his fascination with Martin was genuine. He genuinely saw something of himself in Martin. 

Unless that was a lie too, and he just needed something from Martin. Unless Jon knew that Martin knew that he was conning him, and that there was another reason -

Martin had the terrible sense that Jon lived his life like this, always guessing and second guessing and triple guessing. It sounded...very tiring. 

He didn’t know how to explain any of this to Tim. They got together every so often for drinks - actually, Tim texted him asking to hang out, playing it all cool as if he went out and got drinks with tons of buddies all the time but was doing Martin a favor. Martin had the sense that he was hiding a deep and pervasive loneliness, but these days whenever Martin went down too deep a spiral of teasing out motivations he felt like Jon, so he quickly cut it out. 

“What’s there to get?” Tim said, throwing back his pint. “He’s an asshole who pretended to be our friend for months, and he turned out to be a total creep who leads a spider cult. You know, as happens sometimes!”

Sometimes Martin got the sense that Tim was a little bitter about what happened at the Archives. He didn’t really have a good thread on why yet, but he had the sense it was because Tim had ‘adopted’ Jon as his friend very intensely and that made him react badly to the perceived betrayal - no! No psychoanalyzing! Not today! 

“It do be like that sometimes,” Martin said wisely, peeling away the label at his shitty beer. The bar was crowded, noisy, and dim, and it was hard to hear Tim over the noise. “I don’t know, though. If that was all there was to it, he wouldn’t be showing up at my house all the time…”

“Wait, what?”

Martin explained in short order, trying not to feel embarrassed about it. Tim seemed to grow increasingly furious, and Martin found himself trailing off uncertainly near the end. 

“He’s doing the same thing to Sasha,” Tim said lowly. “Fucking freak.”

“Wait, what? He’s been bothering Sasha?” Jesus, that really was creepy. Come to think of it, Martin hadn’t seen Sasha around lately - she used to come get drinks with them right after they all got fired, but the last three invites she had begged off and said that she was ‘dealing with a lot right now’ and that she was ‘really swamped’. Martin was pretty sure that she was also unemployed, so he didn’t really know what she was swamped with, but it wasn’t any of his business. Maybe she was depressed. “Like, is he also trying to recruit her into the spider cult, or…?”

Weirdly, Martin felt a weird pang of disappointment at that. He had thought that what he and Jon had was special. 

Ha ha. As if. 

“I don’t know!” Tim cried, frustrated. He was gripping his pint glass tightly, as if he wished he was wrapping his fingers around Jon’s very slim and attractive neck instead. “First he keeps bothering Sasha, and now he keeps breaking into your house and flirting with you -”

“What!” Martin squeaked. “He’s not -”

“He’s a predator,” Tim said finally, as if he was a judge delivering a verdict. “Fucking freak. Martin, next time he drops by, I want you to call me immediately. I’ll kick his ass for you.”

“I’m a grown man, I can kick his ass by myself,” Martin said lamely, fully aware that he had never kicked an ass in his life and never would. 

“Don’t let that bully intimidate you,” Tim lectured, like the overbearing big brother Martin had always kind of secretly wanted. “He’s just a grifter, spider cult or not. Seriously, Martin, next time he bothers you call me. I have more than a few things I want to say to the bastard.”

It was heartwarming, almost. “You haven’t seen him since he killed Elias, right?”

Tim looked away, scowling. “Nope. Dunno why, if he’s hassling you two. I’m the only one with some serious questions I need to ask him, and he hasn’t even - whatever.” He looked back at Martin, forcing a great big smile. “Really, if he wants a hottie, why isn’t he knocking on my door, right? Like, come on, I’m single and ready to -”

“How’s the job hunt going, Tim!”

“I’m trying to get back into publishing, what do you think! Kill me!”

Martin liked Tim. If you had asked him four months ago if they were really friends, he would have smiled and deflected, because he was pretty sure that Tim was just that friendly to everybody. Martin always felt insecure with friendly and nice people, because he never knew if they were being friendly to him because they liked him and considered him a friend, or if they were just like that with everyone. 

But they still got drinks when they didn’t have to, and the expression of tight and barely controlled rage that flashed through his face when he thought that Sasha and Martin were in danger from Jon was real. Maybe they really were friends. 

Maybe there was something deeply buried and long since repressed in Tim that was destroying him slowly from the inside. Maybe Martin and Sasha had that too, that rot: the way Sasha would carelessly invade privacy to hack inside people’s private files without even thinking about it, the way that Martin would almost instinctively balance impression management with playing down to expectations with always dissecting people in a ruthless search for a weak point without even thinking about it. 

Maybe they were all bad people, every one of them. It felt sometimes as if Martin had a corrupt and diseased heart, that infected parts of his body with a sick necrosis. He hurt people when he didn’t want to; he said things he didn’t mean. There was something rotten and evil in Martin, and sometimes it felt as if he couldn’t help but pass it along from person to person.

Man hands on misery to man, Phillip Larkin said, it deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, and don’t have any kids yourself. 

Well, Martin had the second part down. He was still working on the first. 

***

But Martin was right to worry, because when he woke up at seven the next morning to shamble into his living room, he flipped the light switch to see Jonathan Sims sitting on his grandma couch flipping through his meager collection of books. 

“You don’t read very much, do you?” Jon said.

“How did you get into my house.”

“Told the landlord I was the exterminator and needed to get in to spray for bugs.” Jon tossed the book on the battered coffee table - 1984 - and reclined on the sofa. “You really do have quite a bit of spiders, though. Want me to take care of that? Do you want more spiders? I can get you as many spiders as you like.”

The way he sat was purposeful, the way one of his black boots with a low heel was propped on the coffee table, the way his dark and closely cut trousers were slightly splayed, his tight black turtleneck highlighting his figure was slightly hidden by a fine white silk jacket. The small part of Martin’s mind that used to work at a dry-cleaners inanely wondered how difficult that jacket was to keep clean. Most of Martin’s mind was occupied realizing that Tim was right, and that Jon was flirting with him. 

“What do I have to say to get you to leave my house,” Martin said, instead of asking why, why, why, why. He knew why - spider cult purposes - but why -

“Lots of poetry collections, though,” Jon said, and Martin knew that he had caught him looking. He had a little half-smile: half encouraging, half shy. “You have great taste. I’m a Yeats fan too.”

Sure. “Name one Yeats poem.”

“The Stolen Child,” Jon said instantly.

Martin narrowed his eyes. “What do you like about it?”

Jon was silent. 

“Thought so.” Martin pointed at his door. “Out.”

There it was, a brief explosion, so quick that Martin might have thought he imagined it: grinding teeth, sloping eyebrows, a scowl. A flash of irritation: here one second, gone the next. “I like your poetry, though,” Jon attacked, a different angle. “Your imagery is very vivid.”

What the fuck. “You went through my diary?” Martin screeched. 

“Yes?” Jon looked slightly flummoxed. “I was doing research. People like it when you display interest in their hobbies.”

“I am making coffee,” Martin said, voice strangled, “and I am making breakfast. And if you refuse to leave, you are not saying a single word until I’ve had caffeine.”

And then Martin refused to acknowledge Jon any more. Martin quickly realized that Jon hated this very much, used to being the center of attention wherever he was, and it was an extremely effective method of making him throw himself into a kitchen chair and sulk as the coffee pot sputtered out a cup. Martin focused himself on heating up the pan and cracking a few eggs into a bowl, whisking it absentmindedly as he clenched his mobile. 

He should call Tim. He had never known Jon to get violent, but that didn’t mean anything. The guy was...he was…

He glanced back at Jon, who had his arms crossed and was frowning down at the stained wood of the kitchen table. He didn’t seem to know Martin was looking, and it occurred to Martin for the first time that this might be the authentic Jon: tired and frustrated and uncertain what he was doing wrong. 

The eggs sizzled on the frying pan, and Martin pushed them around with a spatula. “What do you like on your eggs?”

Jon looked up, surprised, before rearranging his expression into something cool and distant. “Surprise me.”

Martin served them cheesy with herbs, just for that. When Jon took a bite he looked surprised, as if he had been expecting something spiteful and received only something good in exchange. 

When he put a cup of Early Grey in front of him, with sugar congealing on the bottom and rosy brown from the cream, he looked surprised again too.

“You’re excellent at reading people,” Jon said, carefully directly after Martin had a sip of his coffee. “Mother would -”

“Do you want to make a bargain?” Martin asked. 

That caught Jon’s attention. He smiled winningly, leaning in, hair carefully arranged to fall over one shoulder in a painfully attractive way. “I could be convinced.”

“If you knock on my door at a reasonable hour, then I will let you in and we can talk or whatever. I’ll make us tea. I don’t care.”

Jon’s grin only widened, and when Martin felt a foot brush his leg he had to fight the urge to jump a foot in the air. “What’ll I do in exchange?”

“You let up on the sales pitch,” Martin said severely, and physically moved his chair further away from Jon. “And you stop lying to me. And for christ’s sake, stop pretending you’re into me.”

 Jon blinked, expression falling in shock. 

He scrambled to paste something back on, but it was as if he couldn’t decide. Martin saw him half-cycle through different expressions, different appearances: abashed, eager, flirtatious. It was as if he was frantically guessing which Jon would work best to convince Martin to do what he wanted, but he just couldn’t decide. 

Finally, he weakly asked, “What makes you think I’m not into you?”

Martin couldn’t help it: he scoffed bitterly. “Guess someone like you was never asked out as a joke in secondary. Nobody would honestly find me attractive. Everything you do is calculated, Jon, and I’m not vain enough to think the flirting is an exception. It’s obvious.”

“I’m not obvious,” Jon said, physically fighting to keep his expression from twisting into anger. It was...obvious. He eventually forced his expression into something wide-eyed and sincere, reaching out a hand to place on Martin’s arm. It was warm, but it settled oddly on Martin’s skin. Something about it didn’t feel like a human arm. “That’s just your low-self esteem talking, love. When I look at you, I see -”

“A sucker?”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed his. His hand was still on Martin’s arm. Martin didn’t know why he hadn’t shaken it off. “I see someone very kind,” Jon said, almost lamely. “I like that in a man.”

“Yeah, sure.” Martin shook his hand off - disgusted with Jon, disgusted with himself. Someone like Jon - attractive, confident, smooth - could never understand how it felt. He didn’t know why he expected him to. “I don’t know why you aren’t leaving me or Sasha alone, or why you’re trying to recruit us both into your spider cult -”

“I’m trying to recruit Sasha into my vigilante superhero team, actually.”

“Whatever. Point is, if I can’t get rid of you, I don’t want our conversations to be exhausting. These...games you’re always playing,” Martin waved his hand demonstratively as he chugged coffee with the other, “are tiring. Maybe - maybe you and I are similar, Jon. But the difference between us is that I find these games tiring. I don’t like doing it. I - what I want is a relationship where there’s no games. Where I can just be me and the other person can just be them. Don’t you want that too?”

Jon stared at him, eyes wide, almost shocked, almost hesitant, almost hopeful. 

Finally, he said, “I only trust three people.”

“I’m not asking you to trust me,” Martin, who trusted nobody, said exasperatedly. What did it say, that the leader of the spider cult trusted more people than Martin did? “I’m just asking you not to lie to me.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Jon said, before pausing a beat. “I’d trust you if you joined my spider cult.”

“You’re shit out of luck, then. And you’re not going to convince me.” Martin took another sip of his coffee, hiding his trembling hands. “Because you can’t lie to me, Jon. Face it: I’m almost as good as you are.” He smiled wryly. “As good as someone can get without supernatural powers, anyway.”

Jon stared at him, just stared, and Martin let the moment linger in silence as he cut into his eggs. Finally, he said, “You’ll tolerate my presence if I agree to drop the act.”

“Yep.”

“I’m not sure how to drop the act,” Jon admitted, somewhat embarrassed, as if he was admitting to not knowing how to tie his shoes.

Martin rolled his eyes. “Do your best. You must have been normal at one point.”

“When I was normal,” Jon said, “nobody tolerated me at all.”

The shocking honesty made Martin almost gag on his coffee. Jon’s eyes widened again, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just said, as if he had never meant to say it. As if nobody had ever heard it at all. 

“Now that we’re actually getting somewhere,” Martin said, tactfully not touching that barrel of worms - er, spiders - with a two meter pole. “Can you please tell me your real name? Unless it was, like, wiped from your mind by your spider mom? Is this like one of those cult things were they rename you for indoctrination purposes?” Something terrible occurred to him. “Is every guy in your cult named John and every woman named Annabelle? It was just a fake name you gave to Elias, right? Right?”

Jon - whoever he was - stared at Martin, completely and utterly dumbfounded. 

Then he laughed, long and hard, hoarse and wheezing and breathy, and Martin knew that this, at least, was real. 

***

Martin: I think I’ve taken care of the Jon thing

Martin: Probably

Martin: The guy’s kinda hopeless

Tim: ya sash said that hes cool

Tim: apparently shes a vigilante now? or smth? Idk

Martin: Yeah that seems about right

Martin: At least she’s living her best life?

Tim: ya good for her honestly

Tim: ….so does Spider-Man KNOW how to use all eight of those arms ifyaknowwhatimean

Martin: WE! ARE! JUST! FRIENDS!

***

“ - so then after my father passed tragically of brain cancer, I was raised by my emotionally distant and disaffected Gran. I think she’s the one who taught me that if I ever want anything in life, I have to secure it for myself. I’ve been very independent ever since I was a child, and although my social skills have always been naturally lacking I’ve worked to compensate for that by studying the art of social interaction. I guess you could call it somewhat of a special interest of mine, I like to sit in coffeeshops with my sister Annabelle and study passerby -”

“Uh huh.”

“Did you know forty percent of Britons own pets? I think it reveals interesting things about the human psychology. The domestication of dogs has always been fascinating, of course. Did you know that all dogs are descended directly from the grey wolf? There were other wolf species at the time, but they’ve long since gone extinct.”

“Wow.”

“I know! The evolution of what we today determine as dog breeds were only created in the Victorian era. I’m sure Jonah would have had some thoughts on that, if I hadn’t fed him to my mother. Actually, few people know this, but our modern conceptualization of the wolf pack hierarchy has been thoroughly debunked. Alphas and omegas only exist in captive populations. Tell that to the werewolves, huh! Actually, I organize the weekly Avatar poker games - you can come if you’re interested, great way to make some money - and I actually did tell that to the werewolves, and they were not very happy with me -”

“Jon? I can’t hear the movie.”

“Right, right.” Jon passed Martin the popcorn. “So what’s this one about?”

Martin scooped up a handful of the popcorn without shame, feeding it in a steady stream into his mouth. “About a guy who gets turned into a fly.”

“That’s fun,” Jon said warmly. “I turned a guy into a fly once. He got stuck in a spider-web immediately and everything, it was quite entertaining.” At Martin’s horrified look, he quickly followed it up with, “Gerry had found out that he was illegally evicting tenants who were undergoing cancer treatment, asking for rent before it was due and physically intimidating the tenants and everything. He also stole one thousand dollars worth of goods from Whole Foods and everything, which is quite funny if you think about it -”

“How does someone steal a thousand dollars with of stuff from Whole Foods? It’s a grocery store.”

“I know, right!” Jon threw up his hands, accidentally sending some pieces of popcorn flying. “The rich are the true parasites, Martin! I’m speaking as an insect person!”

“Word.” 

Martin ate more popcorn, and noticed Jon carefully brush his crossed legs against Martin’s knee. 

Well, he was trying. He’d stop pretending to like Martin eventually. 

They’d get there. ;

[ellewritesathing]

Is It Love?

Summary: Demons don’t fall in love, do they? Especially not with pretty baristas that haven’t any interest in them ... right?

Word-count: 2.3k+

Masterlist

A/N: kinda crazy to think that Infernal is finished for now?? but you guys really love my fluffy clay boi so here’s some straight up fluff that is so sweet you might get a toothache tbh

Demons didn’t fall in love. Depending on who you ask, they didn’t feel emotions at all, but Caliban knew that wasn’t true. Demons felt everything so intensely that they became bored of it. They were volatile, oscillating between highs and lows at the blink of an eye. Demons were Molotov cocktails of emotion, just waiting for something to ignite them. 

And then you fucked everything up. 

No, you said, you wouldn’t go out with him because you had a strict policy against dating bad boys that had been in place since your first year of college. As if you knew anything about how bad he was. He took the rejection and his coffee with a smile, before walking out the door and stealing the first BMW he could find. 

Was it cliche? Yes. 

Did it make some very satisfying groans as the metal wrapped around a tree? Also yes. 

At the time, he didn’t know why it bothered him so much that you’d said no to him. You were human. You weren’t even his type - just a pretty barista at the only cafe he could find that made his coffee strong enough without burning it. Maybe it was because the coffee only tasted right when you made it and he was just projecting. 

Maybe he was just full of shit.

Other than giving you his order, he didn’t say anything else to you for weeks. He was a demon but he wasn’t a prick after all. But one night, he was there later than usual, lost in the pages of his latest book, when you set a large to-go cup on his table. 

“Sorry, angel,” you said with a smile. It didn’t quite reach your tired eyes. “We’re closing now but here’s one to keep you warm out there.” 

“I must have lost track of time,” Caliban said as he closed the book and started to dig the wallet out of his jeans. 

“Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell my manager if you don’t,” you said, waving him off. Caliban tilted his head to the side and parted his lips to say something clever he had yet to come up with when you beat him to it. “You’re here all the time, Caliban. I think if we used punch cards you would’ve qualified for a free coffee a while ago.” 

“Well,” Caliban said. He had a funny feeling in his chest, and the worst part was that it didn’t make him feel like committing acts of vandalism. Well, that wasn’t entirely true; almost anything made him feel like vandalism. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” This time your smile did reach your eyes and you laughed to yourself before adding, “Literally, I guess.” 

The next time Caliban went to pick up his order, a little handmade punch card was waiting on top of his coffee for him, your handwriting scrawled over the top. Ten ridiculously overpriced cups of coffee later, and it was you and him alone in the coffee shop. He’d waited until the end of your shift, trying to get as close to that chance encounter of last week as he could. 

He held the punchcard between his index and middle finger as he flashed you a devilish smile. Catching your eye, he lowered the card to the counter and slid it across to you. “So what do I win?” 

“A free cup of closing shift coffee,” you said, turning to the machine and dipping your head to the side as you thought about something. “That you can drink here while I clean up, if you want.”

“A conversation with a pretty girl and a cup of coffee or the chilling walk back to my motorcycle.” Caliban pretended to think about it. “Whatever will I choose?”

You laughed from behind the counter and rolled your eyes. “Settle down there, James Dean.” 

Instead of trying to say something witty, Caliban obediently pulled a chair up to the counter. He watched as you worked, not minding the attention he gave you as you did. Hands quick and nimble, relying more on muscle memory than active thought to work the machine. 

Over one very strong, very black coffee, he learned that you’d never left Greendale but you were working at the coffee shop to save enough money to leave one day. You learned that he’d been all over, and your face lit up whenever he answered your questions the way you’d hoped. As you cleaned the machines and he swept the floor, he told you about his favorite books and you told him about yours. You talked about music and the best hypothetical name for an indie band that only wrote songs about caffeinated drinks. 

(The Transient Coffee Beans was your best pick, The Bland Bastards was his.)

The tightening in his chest when you locked up the store made him want to set something on fire. He didn’t like these feelings - they were insufferably human - and he needed to do something explosive to get rid of them, or at least that’s what he told himself when you turned to give him another smile. You let him walk you to your car, cursing the cold but refusing to use the jacket he offered you. 

“No, no, no, no, no,” you groaned, kneeling next to your car. You felt around the deflated-looking tire and pulled out your dust-covered hands after a few minutes. Looking ready to cry, you turned and sat on the parking lot floor, back against the tire and head tilted up to the night sky. 

Caliban didn’t know what to say. Demons weren’t known for their empathetic listening skills, and it wasn’t like he’d ever tried to comfort anyone before. “Do you have a spare tire?” he asked when his horrible feelings started eating at his stomach in the silence. 

“This is my spare tire.” Weeks, maybe months, of seeing you working with the most high-strung customers and borderline incompetent trainees and Caliban had never heard your voice sound so strained. You took a deep breath and looked over at him. “You don’t have to stay here, you know. I can take care of myself.” 

“I don’t doubt that,” Caliban said, shooting you a smile that was very carefully lazy and mischievous. It made you laugh. It made him feel gut-punched. “If you want, my motorcycle’s right around the corner. I could take you home and you could fix all this out in the morning light.” 

Your eyes narrowed slightly in a way he’d never seen in the coffee shop. He tried not to seem affected. “What’s in it for you?” 

Caliban shrugged, looking around. “Another fifteen minutes with you.” 

You thought about it for a second before shaking your head and holding your hands up to him to pull you up. You weren’t even a breath away now. “Don’t crash into anything or I’m going to start spitting in your coffee.” 

“Deal.”

You absolutely obliterated Caliban with questions before you’d even take the helmet from him. Nervousness was a cute look on you, as was the slightly lopsided helmet on your head. Caliban’s fingers lingered slightly under your chin after tightening the strap for you, but all you did was smile before climbing on the seat behind him. 

Your arms wrapped hesitantly around his waist, but your grip tightened as soon as he pulled off. Every time he sped up or took a turn, Caliban felt your arms snug around him. It was a dangerous line to drive between reckless enough to keep you close and so reckless that you’d let go and never come back. 

It was pathetic. 

At one of the lights, Caliban stole a moment to look down at your hands. His shirt was wrinkled into bunches around your deathly tight fingers. You consciously relaxed them and sighed behind him, resting your head on his shoulder for a moment. It made his heart skip a beat. 

Like he was in a goddamned schoolboy fantasy. 

You were shaky as you climbed off the bike, clumsily getting to your feet and fiddling with the strap under your chin. Caliban didn’t say a word as you handed the helmet back to him; he was too busy staring at your helmet hair. The word ‘adorable’ came to mind, as did ‘arson’ and ‘absinthe’. 

“Well, thanks, James Dean,” you exhaled when he took the helmet from you, hands touching on the underside. “I might get flat tires more often.” 

“I do have a name, you know,” Caliban said with a not so carefully crafted smile. 

“I know. Quintuple shot espresso, no flavor shots or cream and, for the love of Mary, don’t ask if he’s sure,” you said, with a not so carefully crafted smile of your own. “At least, that’s what I tell the trainees.” 

“Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?” 

You laughed and rolled your eyes as you started taking steps back to your apartment building. “I’ll see you around, Caliban.” 

Demons didn’t fall in love, that’s what everyone in Hell always said. But Caliban had left that life of torment and punishment behind for the mundane life of making art and committing crime. Any sort of thrill to dust off the familiar rush of adrenaline and ignite some sort of emotion. 

And then you fucked everything up. 

Okay, you said one day as you set his coffee in front of him, here was the deal: you’d go out with him, he’d pick you up at seven but if he was even a minute late then the whole thing was off. He said he understood, thanked you for the coffee, and jumped off the first bridge he could find (sure to teleport before crashing into the river below). 

He knew full well why the jumps and petty crime didn’t make him feel better. For one, they were shit coping mechanisms, but, more importantly, the feelings he had for you couldn’t be extinguished like a kitchen fire. 

His feelings were gasoline and you were a raging fire. 

They burnt bright and hot when you held his hand. Red-hot and violent when you kissed him. Sickeningly electric when your fingers traced his scars and told him he was beautiful. If demons didn’t fall in love, then what the fuck was happening to him? 

What was happening when you held him at night when he couldn’t sleep? (Butterflies. Or a heart attack, more likely). What was happening when you hid your face away every time he asked to paint you? (Stubbornness. He painted you anyway). What was happening when you drank a cup of coffee he made you and tried not to spit it up so as not to hurt his feelings? (Laughter. Also a promise to never, ever make another cup of coffee again). 

And what, if you excuse his language, the absolute fuck was happening to him now that you were away, visiting your family for a few days? 

He’d never been this restless in Hell. 

In Hell, he’d build a sandcastle just to smash it to bits if he got riled up. He’d find some poor soul to torment. He would never, ever cut the sleeves off his shirts just to burn the leftover scraps. He wouldn’t spend hours molding the perfect pottery piece just to break it back down to a lump of clay. And he sure as anything would never, ever drink this much coffee and eat this much takeout. 

It was embarrassing. It was unsightly. It was so very human.

And yet none of the dumb yet legal things he did got his mind off missing you - the only solace he got was the nightly video-chat you shared. He was absolutely disgusting. No better than the foolish lovers that washed up on his shores, joined at the wrists and praying for eternity. 

Not that he was thinking about eternity. 

Not that he was thinking about much of anything when he heard the door click open and a duffel bag drag across the floor of your joint apartment. 

Caliban tossed the book to the side as he threw his legs over the sides of the couch. You were complaining as you made your way to him - could he believe the amount of traffic at this time of day? Jesus, he’d think it was the Second Coming with all the fleeing out of the city - but Caliban didn’t care. Messy hair, wrinkled clothes, snarky upper lip; you were perfect. 

And you were home. 

He wrapped his arms around your waist and twirled you around the tiny apartment, accidentally knocking the table that marked the entryway in the process. Your arms tightened around his neck as you pressed a kiss to his temple before turning to check that it was only the keys that landed on the floor in his frantic need to be held. 

“Woah, calm down, James Dean,” you laughed when he eased you back down to your feet. “I wasn’t even gone for a full week.” You ran a hand through his matted curls and Caliban could swear he’d never felt more at peace. “Miss me that much, huh?” 

“Hard to find a decent cup of coffee when you’re not around,” Caliban mumbled, lips grazing yours as he leaned his forehead on yours. 

You rolled your eyes at his dramatics but didn’t pull away. Instead, you moved your hands to either side of his neck and pulled him closer. “I missed you too,” you admitted after giving him the kiss he’d spent days thinking about. You took his hand in yours and led him to the kitchen. “Let’s make you that cup of coffee before the world ends.” 

No, Caliban thought to himself as he watched your tired hands work a machine of a job you’d long-ago quit, demons didn’t fall in love. 

Luckily for him, when he was with you, he was something else entirely.

Tag List:  @caliban-is-my-girl  @t-a-i-l-o-r-m-a-d-e​  @music-movies  @miss--moose​  @marrypuffsstuff​  @harryscarolinaa​  @igorsbby​  @foji2000​  @mschfavngz​  @artaxerxesthegreat​  @thxmagic​  @luquincy  @strawberriesandknives​  @xealia​  @hotmessindisguise​  @olivia-west-allen  @sweetrogers​  @reheated-coffee​  @shelby-x​  @perseny-blog​  @millie-753​  @luneerius​  @shizzybarnaclee​  @lettherebelovex​

[eluminium]

Arson with Extra Steps

Guess who got inspired and made a fic where their stick OC commits murder arson? Me, i did.

He was fucked. Yep, every way to Sunday, fucked beyond belief. The rotting wood of the wall dug into his back, the sound of oncoming steps echoed in his bloodied ears, and the wetness of his face wasn't just the torrent of blood running from his forehead.

"Come on out little piggie, let's not drag out the inevitable hm?"

His already faulty grip quivered harder. He checked the ammo once again, praying to whatever god was listening that a new cartridge had magically appeared in her long-dead pistol. To his disappointment, there was nothing. He had nothing. His eyes became as big as dinner plates when the realization dawned on him. 

He was the prey. Weak, defenseless, and cornered. And there was no chance to run, he wouldn't even make it to the nearest window before the predator caught him. Because this wasn't just your average run of the mill criminal.

This was a beast, known to the world as The Conductor. A ruthless creature who hunted down anyone and anything in her way, not caring of age or gender. But the brute wasn't known as The Conductor to law enforcement, they used a simpler yet just as terrifying name. Elg.

"Pig, I don't have time for these games. You should fear the consequences of pissing me off more than the consequences of showing yourself."

His fist flew into his mouth to muffle the hiss escaping from his vocal cords. No fucking way was he going to pop out of his hiding place like a fucking Jack in the Box, nuh-uh. If he could delay the beast's rampage by any means necessary, he'd do it. Although...the thought of what The Conductor could do to him did send violent shivers throughout his veins. His teeth clamped down hard on his lip, the attempt to negate his whimpering surprisingly successful. 

But a sudden critical smell caused an ice-cool feeling to flow in place of the shivers. Oh god...

"Well, I hoped we'd get a less...firey end to this little chase of ours. But what did I expect? You cops are all the same, spineless and cowardly. Can never face the consequences of your actions."

Gasoline. 

The stench of the highly flammable substance invaded his nose, causing the adrenalin in his veins to double. No...No no no no! She wasn't...She wasn't gonna set fire to this entire building just to make sure he died, right?

"Of course she fucking would you absolute idio-" 

He barely had time to cover his blabbermouth before a rough hand had grabbed his collar.

"Found you."

The smash into the floor wasn't kind to his back or his head for that matter. The moon's glare coming in from the old dancing hall's central glass ceiling felt like fire on his skin, and the gasoline now coating his body wasn't making it better. But that didn't matter at the moment. His diluted stare could only focus on the sharp object pointing straight at his throat. The end of Elg's infamous umbrella. 

"Seems like that stupid mouth of yours became the end of you, how fitting."

Not a single muscle moved, not a single breath outed. This was it, his end. At least it would be better than burning to dea-

"Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you pig!"

The chill of the umbrella's point against his chin clashed sharply with the intense heat around it. Fully loaded for a blast, at her command. Yet instead of a quick death by stabbing or laser, all that he felt was a soft but deadly force moving his head up, his gaze to meet hers.

"There we go...much better."

His entire body froze like a deer in the headlights, a fear he'd never known crawling along his back. Her crystal blue eyes were calm, yet held a kind of glint only seen by the fiercest animals on earth. A huge malignant grin hung over her face, showing off the sharp bared teeth she was famous for. The mint green bowtie around her neck glowed in the moonlight, the citrine in the middle almost blinding him, yet nothing looked more intimidating than the big angry scar on her face. 

"Y'know, I was thinking of taking you as a hostage. Christmas is coming, and maybe I'd show some tiny mercy to your family, in exchange for some cash of course. But nope, you decided to play cat and mouse with me instead. How...wasteful"

The sharp and gleeful tones coming out of her mouth cut him into his very core. He...He could have lived? If he didn't make hard? But...He was supposed to be smart, be brave for not complying with her demands! Yet, it was all for naught? No, he can't die like this...He's gotta have a response, to regain that sense of pride he cruelly lost.

"Kill m-me then, stop stalling" he spat out shakily, his effort to sound brave failing.

A short silence...followed by bubbling laughter.

"Aren't you a feisty one? Thinking you can make demands in this situation..."

The grin on her face somehow grew even larger between the giggles.

"I know the perfect death for you"

All the bravery and resistance poured out of his system as the metal of two handcuffs chilled his skin. His own handcuffs...handcuffing him to the floor in between the old floorboards. He felt his body flail, his foot continuously slamming against the floor in a desperate panic. His voice peaked itself with the sobs and screaming flooding out of his bloodied lips. He desperately locked his gaze with The Conductor one last time as her hand pulled the lever by the window, begging her to rethink her choice. The glass panels flipped up and the cold winds kissed her blond locks. The Umbrella had already made it safely to the ground. 

With her hand firmly around the empty gasoline container, the chill of night brushing her back, and a single lit lighter in her other hand, the look in her eyes settled his fate.

"Tell the Devil I'm coming for him next."

FHOOSH!

[iknowiknowiknowtheend]

been a while since I’ve done one o these (mostly cuz it’s been sitting in my drafts as I’ve been busy,,,) *crackles knickles*

niki is a lovely lady with a bakery, she’s always been close with eret and tubbo and was like their older sister while they were all growing up.

drista is here. she floats around all cool and stuff.

making a full list of sigil people-

schlatt: fire sigils on his hands

sapnap: fire sigil on his right wrist

fundy: water sigil on the back of his neck

carson: water sigil on his back

minx: earth (more specifically metal) sigil on her upper arms

tommy: earth (plants n shit) sigil on his fore arms

drista: air sigil on her right ankle

philza: air sigil on his back

-this concludes the sigil list-

rat exists in this au because the thought of bad having this huge ass dog akin to like a hell hound or something that he calls rat is hilarious.

uh charlie the slime man can melt- he can melt from stress and can be melted like a popsicle when it’s too hot. he can also be melted into a container for easy travel lmaooo

there is a bubble language- Charlie and Cooper speak the bubble language.

bad is the oldest character in the comic.

bad was originally born a demon for,, some reason??? and as he’s a good lad he gets promoted to angel status, and while he’s probably the only born demon to turn angel he was an example to demons that they could be good.

minx is the second oldest, but isn’t really anywhere close to how old bad is. however she existed before bad got to being an angel.

demons pop into existence as young adults. they’re called baby demons for lols but they aren’t actual babies. demons grow, and their range for that is like coming into existence as looking like 17 or 19 and they don’t grow past looking in their mid thirties. they’ll all stop growing at different rates though, like minx stopped when she looked around 25. demon’s horns never stop growing, though.

omg the amount of retconning I’m doing rn—

okay so Dream starts out with schlatt. Dream goes into the deep dark forest because he’s a wanted criminal and he needs a place to hide a bit, he remembers the tale of this ram man who lives in said forest and Dream, with nothing better to do decides to go look for him.

blah blah blah Dream finds him, hijinks ensue (arson included), schlatt and Dream are now travel partners. during their travels they stumble upon a pair, two people about the same height, one lavender haired lady with horns and one kinda scrawny guy with brown hair. schlatt and the lady start screaming at each other and to Dreams dismay at what’s happening between his friend and some random woman, he awkwardly walks over to the guy the horned lady was with and starts talking to him.

Dream learns that he’s talking to some swordsman named George and that lady who’s screaming at his ram friend is a demon named Minx. they have a delightful conversation as their respective travel partners argue and attempt to stab each other in the middle of a pub.

eventually the demon and the ram sort out at least a bit of their issues(with minimal violence) and they all decide to combine into one weird ass party and go on their merry way.

one swordsman, one criminal who’s a little too familiar with an axe, one easily aggravated demon lady, and one firey ram man with seemingly unexplainable power.

although as they go on they realize schlatt’s dealings were an effect channeled from where schlatt had been in the forest and had not been powers he really possessed.

hehe his powers came from his magic treehouse and then it got burnt.

the dream-schlatt-minx-george group lasts a day or two before it becomes the dream-schlatt-minx-george-fundy-wilbur group.

schlatt & co essentially we’re just wandering aimlessly then fundy and wilbur showed up like “yeah we’re going back to our home village” and then schlatt n co were like “cool- we’re going with you” and that was that.

sapnap can and will scoop up anyone into his arms and carry them around. he often carries both kacey and karl at the same time. he’s carrying the whole team.

god fucking dammit I typed AN ENTIRE THING ON TECHNO AND WILBUR AND IT CRASHED AND DIDNT SAVE I AM FUMING.

grrrrrrr I’ll type it all again just watch me, bitch.

techno and wilbur were street kids- they beat the shit out of other orphans because haha funny and then one day wilbur decided to team up with this other kid so they could kick malnourished ass as a team. Wilbur came up to techno like “now I’m real smart, and your really violent- why don’t we team up and become kings amongst these common fools?” And techno was like “aight”

it,,, kinda worked?

they did better— but that got them off ‘beating people up and stealing their food’ to street fighting, and that’s where the tweens are and those things are brutal—

so their plan hadn’t gone as well as they hoped but they’d stuck together anyway because they’d enjoyed each other’s company and eventually considered themselves brothers.

they were like 9 at the time,,,

oh and then everything was on fire.

at that point phil comes across them when he finds his way into this BURNT ASS VILLAGE ands like “oh look, children. yeah they look terrible why not get myself some sons”

and then they aren’t that much of orphans anymore.

and then after about a year of living with Phil as their super rad adopted dad, they go into the forest as they always did, this time go a little further into the dense trees,,,, and they eventually make their way back home with wilbur holding the small hand of like a toddler fox boy who’s a bit feral.

and then there were three :)

something about the gongoozler.

quackity.

just quackity. :)

[aescapisms]

coffee breath - b.barnes

pairing: bucky x reader warnings: language, little angst word count: 1.6k a/n: written for @sunmoonandbucky ‘s  #1.5kconstellationswritingchallenge, based on this song 

pick your poison                                                    

The sound of a mug setting down on the counter top made you reach out for the gun underneath your pillow before you can even open your eyes. 

"Easy there, doll. It's me." You lowered your hands and smiled because you know that voice. The smell of coffee surrounded the apartment and you knew, he was here. 

You opened your eyes slowly as you took in the new apartment that you were in, and true enough, he was there standing behind the counter waiting for the coffee pot. 

You walked up to him, as he poured coffee into the mugs that he had set on the counter. 

"You woke up late. Long night?" He asked as you wrapped your hands around his waist and pressed your head on his back. 

His metal arm caressed your arm, it was cold but made you feel warm at the same time. 

"You know damn well that it was a long night." You muttered, and he chuckled. And somehow everything felt normal. 

"Could you please pass me the cinnamon?" He asked, and you rolled your eyes as you let him go. 

"You know Bucky, I'm trying so hard to not hate you but--" Bucky interrupted you with a kiss. 

"Just shut up and drink your coffee." He says, and you did. 

Bucky sat down at the edge of his bed looking at the picture that he took of you. He remembered the apartment. How the morning coffee smelled across the room. 

"Hey Barnes. We're needed in the conference room." Steve muttered as he knocked on his door. Bucky quickly hid the photograph inside his journal and tucked it away in his shelf. No one knew who you were. What the two of you shared was a short-lived romance but it made him feel like a person again. Like the Bucky before all the shit with HYDRA happened. Putting on his best face, he decided to step outside and follow Steve to where he was needed. 

"There's been a string of fires in New York the past few days." Natasha started off, as she began clicking the remote to show the sites of attack. 

"Those are abandoned buildings, are you sure it's not just because the buildings were old?" Clint asked

"Yeah, why are we called in for that?" 

Bucky was confused as well. Helping people is what they're meant to do but he thought it would be more of on a city scale level. The police already hate them for their 'vigilante' acts what more if they assist on an arson? 

"What's the connection between the places?" Steve asked, Bucky can see that he doesn't share the same sentiments. 

Steve has always craved to fight for justice. Even when he was a skinny little kid who would probably scare people away with his coughs and not with his fists. The arsonists committed a crime, those were the facts and Steve is ready to reel that bastard in. 

"That's the thing. There's really no connection to the places, they're all so random." 

"So how do you know that they're connected?" 

"Because in every place there's a note inside a box strong enough to withstand fire."

Natasha clicked the remote again and the note showed up on the screen. 

"hello avengers" 

It was late at night and the rain was pouring down hard. 

Bucky left for a mission and you've been worried sick because by now he would've already sent you a message. A blank message for 'I'm alive and in the middle of a fight' or a full on message when he could. It was supposed to be sent every hour that he leaves for a mission. And it's been three hours and there was nothing. 

You can't help but think of the worst possible scenario possible so you decided to make coffee with cinnamon. Just how Bucky likes it. 

Another hour passed when Bucky stumbled into your apartment. Bruised up and bleeding.  "Hey doll." were the only words that he managed to get out before collapsing on the sofa. 

When Bucky woke up, Y/N stitched him up, but turns out that their relationship took a blow. And that night Bucky's nightmares came true. 

The news sites called the arsonist, Blaze. Which was a lousy name but it's the same people who called Thanos' snap the Blip. 

"Barnes, you're up." Tony said as he entered the kitchen.

"I thought it was Clint today?" Bucky answered as he stirred his black coffee.

"You're needed in the conference room, it's about Blaze." 

"What about Blaze?" 

"Blaze, targeted an abandoned cafe. This time they left a note for you." 

It's been a long time since a prayer crossed Bucky's lips, but the moment he read the note he muttered a quick prayer because he knows who Blaze was. 

The thunder rumbled, as the raindrops fell on the window pane. 

"Don't sit up quickly. I just stitched you up." Your soft voice sounded like music to Bucky's ears. 

He reached for your hand to kiss it and you just gave him a sad smile. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to message you. Jamming signals were all over the place." 

But it wasn't the problem. 

"Bucky, don't you think it's time to quit?" 

He sat up and looked at you, confused. "What do you mean? Quit what? Quit us?" 

"No," you took a deep breath, "Don't you think it's time to quit the Avengers?" 

He was furious. And you knew that, but you were tired of watching him leave not knowing if he would come back alive. 

"I mean, Bucky... everyone knows your story. You've been in war for far too long. You've been brainwashed, hunted down, and even dusted off. The world--" 

"Is what? Better off without me? Is that what you're going to say?" 

"No, you know that's not what i was going to say. Bucky, all i'm saying is--"

"THEN WHAT?"

"Bucky you've got nothing else to prove. The world already forgave you, you should forgive yourself." 

"You talk too much." Bucky said as he grabbed his jacket and placed it over his shoulder.

"Bucky I am tired. You're always leaving."

"Do you think it's easy for me as well? Y/N, it's so fucking hard to leave you knowing the horrors that this city offers. Once people know that i'm seeing you it automatically puts a target on your back. I can't focus on missions because I'm worried about you."

The words, seeing you, echoed inside your mind. Not his girlfriend, not the girl he's dating. Just...seeing. That's how he decided to call your relationship of six months. 

"I make things harder for you, huh." 

"Yes you do." As soon as those words escaped Bucky's mouth he instantly regretted it. "Babe that's not..." But you smiled at him and said "It's okay. A superhero can't be seen dating a normal human after all."

"Babe please..."

But you had already left and the thunder drowned his pleas, while the smell of cinnamon filled the room. 

"Bucky, what does this mean?"  he recalled Natasha asking him a little while ago. The words spelled out, 'coffee, b?' and he immediately thought of you. 

But it can't be you. He had to make sure that it isn't you. So he left without any explanation except the order for everyone to stand down and let him handle this. 

Bucky grabbed his knife as he slowly opened the door. 

The smell of cinnamon surrounded the room, and in the kitchen counter top, there was you. 

"Been trying to get your attention for weeks now, but I keep forgetting that I have to spell things out in order for you to understand it. So hello there lover, did you like my fires?" You smiled as you looked up at im with a coffee mug in your hand and a gun in the other.

The apartment looked the same way it did that night that they broke up. 

"You set all those fires??" 

'They're all abandoned buildings anyway so, no one really cares." You said as you jumped from the counter top. "You want coffee? I added cinnamon, just how you like it. I hated it before, but I quite enjoy it now." 

He can't take cinnamon in his coffee now. 

Cinnamon made him hungry for your lips and even though so many lips have touched his after the two of you broke up, he still craved yours.

Bucky shook his head, "Why did you do that? You're a wanted man now."

"Well, at least I was wanted right?"

That of course was a jab at your previous relationship. Bucky admits that he had his shortcomings in the relationship but he never, not once, did not want you. But he was in no position to argue, he was here on an official business and that's it. You have set fire to all those places and even though no casualties were reported, the city suffered property damages.

"Look, Y/N. I'm going to tell everyone about this."

But you laughed as you made your way towards him making Bucky take a step back. "You're not going to tell anyone about this because if you really were, you would've told them earlier. But you came here alone."

Bucky didn't notice that his back was already up against the wall, "You're still in love with me aren't you?"

And you were right, so fucking right.

"Did you catch Blaze?" Tony asked as soon as Bucky entered the compound.

"No, my hunch was wrong." Bucky muttered. He sensed that everyone was going to ask questions so he just headed straight to his room. 

He looked up at the ceiling with a smile on his face, the taste of cinnamon still lingering on his lips. 

pick your poison  

[doomfisthero]

Magnum Residue

It's taken me a long while to post this, primarily because I wanted to make sure it was necessary. A while back, I saw the music video for "Magnum Bullets" and was so inspired that I had to create my own follow-up to the story. I sent it off to NSP in hopes that they might be interested in a follow-up themselves, but only heard back fairly recently that they couldn't accept unsolicited submissions.

In response, I asked them if there was any way that I could work on the project for them formally, and have yet to receive a reply. While I'm still holding out some measure of hope, I figure it couldn't hurt to share my work informally, at least until something comes of it. I do hope you all enjoy my work - I'm honestly incredibly proud of what I've created here.

I’ve also cross-posted this on AO3 here. 

Time: Immediately after the assassination of Hanley Moors; Location: City of Neoxsoma, outside the Manse

Trine weaved through the shadowed alleyways, getting further away from the Manse. The narrow crevices of Neoxsoma were a prison to all but the most familiar with them, but Trine had run through those cracks for years. Slowly, the alarms of NX Security swarming the blood-stained tower faded away into the starless night. 

There was a flash of regret as the triangle-crested wolf recalled leaving behind their companions. They'd felt such an urge to leave, to be anywhere else, that Stelle and Cube didn't even register to them. But those two would never let themselves be captured anyway; Stelle would tear barehanded through anyone in her way, and Cube would make sure to stay three steps ahead no matter how many arms he still had. 

No, when the police made their way to the penthouse, and passed through the grand doors, they'd find only the fruits of a well-deserved vengeance. The corpses of Moors' guards and hired guns, lifeless amalgams of fur, flesh, feather, and ferrous streaming dried blood onto the spotless floors. And at their head, a lifeless torso with a hole through its chest, the miserable bastard responsible for everything. The one with the bloodiest hands of all. 

Hanley Moors had been a symbol of power and opulence in Neoxsoma since long before Trine and Cube made their way to the city together. In a society where animated metal and mingled flesh was a status symbol, Moors created a new echelon of prestige, forsaking flesh entirely for a powerful, perfect new body and a face of constructed light hovering above. As if to look down upon his acquaintances and remind them with every glance that his power alone was enough to transcend the physical entirely. 

Not that it had mattered. For such a grand display, to perish by an old and ordinary revolver; an undignified death, exposing the hollowness that he'd hidden all along. 

Still, Trine wished that they hadn't dropped Gamble's gun when they'd left. They felt barren without it, even if they could only tuck it into their pocket. The weight in their hand, the solidity of the cool metal against their palm, would have been a welcome feeling right about now. 

But anything would, really. 

After what felt like a night's worth of running between buildings, Trine slowed as the narrow gap emptied out into the street. The mustiness of the alleyways cut out as the brilliant neon streetlights made Trine flinch. 

The buildings lining the street were dark, save for the stray light shining out from a window. It was a waste of neon to provide the back roads with the same extravagance as the city’s major veins. For now, however, the lack of light and life made an ideal escape route. 

Trine forced themself to slow down now that they were out in the open. They slid their hands casually into their pockets and strode down the sidewalk in long steps, moving in the direction of... 

The hideout. Trine stopped and grit their teeth as the image flooded back in. Blood and agony, tangible smells on the air. Cube – dear little brother – bleeding and torn on the floor. Beloved friends strewn lifeless across the room. 

And Gamble...

Gamble...

Trine sank to the ground, their whole body curling painfully inward. Their claws curled around thick handfuls of their jacket. They should have been there, with everyone else. Laying down their life to protect their own would have been so simple. 

But they'd been gone – too busy perusing the back alleys for people seeking Gamble's newfound arson bounty. They'd been the mouth and ears, and Stelle the sword carving a message into any would-be hunters. 

It hadn't done a flicker of good. Not when Moors and his militia stormed into their den and slaughtered everyone where they sat. Even with the prize of Moors' gold back in their hands, there was too much that they could never take back. 

Even with Moors' cold, metallic heart snuffed out, everyone and everything that Trine, Stelle, and Cube had loved died with it. Stelle's family would never accept their daughter back knowing the truth of her gang activities. Cube's missing arm and eye would make his mechanic’s training so much harder, if he wasn't outright dismissed for it. 

And Trine...Trine felt nothing. Nothing but nothing where their heart and friends and family and hopes for the future once rested. It had all been blown away. 

It was a long time before Trine could rise back to their feet and continue onward into the black night. 

#

Time: Two months after the assassination of Hanley Moors; Location: City of Neoxsoma, Residential Structure Vega

Stelle adjusted her scarf and the wide brim of her hat as she descended yet another flight of stairs. There were even fewer residents in this part of the structure than the preceding ones, but it would only take one intruder to throw herself and Cube back into the sights of a firing squad. She continued along the cramped gray hallways through the middle of the structure, curving through intersections at a seeming whim. 

The part of Stelle's mind that once accused her of paranoia no longer made such claims. Moors' blood hadn't even dried before every screen in the city lit up with news of that night’s gold-fueled vendetta. Stelle, Cube, and Trine alike had all been thrown up into the neon along with their lost friend Gamble. 

(She'd only been an arsonist and a thief, but Stelle and the others were terrorists and murderers atop that.) 

Trine had left on their own after firing the bullet that robbed Moors of his life and his gold, leaving the spoils to Stelle and Cube. Once it had become evident in the next few days that seeking them out wasn't an option – not with security and every hunter in city limits after their newfound bounty – the two remaining wolves chose to lie low for a while. Renting a half-decent apartment from one of the mass-produced structures in the residential district had cost mere shavings of a gold bar, once they'd run that money through the proper channels with what influence Stelle still carried. 

As Stelle moved outward toward the structure's shell, she finally stopped in front of one thin, metal door. Once she knew that the hallway was empty, she quietly unlocked the door and slipped inside. 

The lights in the single-room apartment were already on, and its other tenant turned his head as Stelle entered. 

“Hey,” said Cube – so named for the glowing green square on his forehead. He sat on his mattress with his back against the wall, his long legs stretching out onto the coarse beige carpet. “I thought you'd be home later. Is everything okay?” 

Only once Stelle had shut the door and sunken onto her own mattress opposite Cube's did she remove her hat and scarf and allow her fur to breathe. “One of my deliveries was canceled. He said he'd been replaced at the algae refinery and couldn't afford a gift for his partner anymore.” She sighed, sliding her delivery tote off her back. “Pity, I would have earned a bonus for keeping that necklace safe.” 

She dropped a bag from the local deli onto her mattress – dinner for the two of them tonight. 

Cube's prosthetic whirred as the four fingers spun slowly around his rounded 'palm'. “Sounds like we both had a rough day,” he said wearily. “I got stiffed on a repair job for one of the bars downtown. They said the jukebox was too jerky when it switched songs.” He picked at the half-assembled cassette player on his lap. “I spent two hours on it, too.” 

That was the sad reality of holding a job in Neoxsoma; if the person paying you was getting screwed over too, then you could call yourself lucky, because at least you weren't alone. But mostly you got pushed down and left behind. It was rough for anyone, but a freelancer like Cube only had his reputation, and reputations were so much easier to break than to keep standing. 

Suddenly, Cube looked up from his lap. “Hey, Stelle?” He started slowly, rubbing the claws on his right hand together as he thought. “We're not, uh, using the money we took from Moors for anything right now, right? If we're running a little low on cash—” 

“Cube, no,” Stelle cut him off firmly. “We can't raise any suspicions by spending money we shouldn't have. We'll find another way to get by this week.” 

“Who's even gonna know?” Cube shot back. “Nobody dangerous pays attention to anyone from here. We're just vermin in their gutters.” 

He waved his hands at the dull metal walls of their apartment. “And can you blame them, if everyone here lives like this? It's nothing – and we can still barely afford it! They're not going to notice if we spend a little more than usual!” 

Stelle stared him down. She had wondered about this, whether their current situation was tenable. Cube wasn't a fool; even without the exact numbers, he had to know that their shared income was barely keeping up with the costs. A couple weeks of low pay could easily do them in at this rate, and Moors had given them at least several million dollars in gold even with all of the fees paid under the table. They could afford their apartment for well past a lifetime, or a much better, safer home with plenty to spare. 

But Stelle had borne witness to the allure of riches for her entire life, and what it could drive decent people to. She'd left that behind, left them behind. She didn't think she could do it again. 

“We can't risk it. Not until we're certain that everyone has stopped searching for us,” she said, firmly keeping her eyes on Cube. “I'll take on more deliveries if we need them, and you can keep doing your repair jobs.” 

There was a tense moment of silence, and then Cube slapped his mattress and shot to his feet, sending the cassette player clattering to the floor. 

“For what? To stay cooped up in this goddamn metal box?!” Cube shouted, pulling his lips back to reveal his fangs. “I hate it here, Stelle! I want out! I'm sick of acting like we're doing something when we're just hiding! We need to find Tr—” 

“Trine wouldn't want you getting killed looking for them, Cube,” Stelle cut him off. “They would want us to be safe first. They can take care of themselves just fine until then.” 

She hoped. 

“Are you listening to yourself?” Cube growled. “They just left us – they didn't even say goodbye! Does that sound just fine to you? We need to find them!” 

“Not yet, Cube.” 

“Then when?!”

“When you can go outside without feeling once like anyone could be watching you,” Stelle finally snapped back, glaring up at Cube with the most forceful look she could manage. 

It must have been impressive, as Cube flinched back, mouth open but no sound leaving it. Eventually, he gave up and sank back onto his mattress, furiously returning to tampering. 

Stelle welcomed the feeling of regret that replaced her obstinate anger. It wasn't fair to knock Cube down when he'd already been through so much, when his older sibling was still gone without a single sign of life. He was still far too young to have deserved any of it. At least Stelle could have pointed to her high-class parentage and called it an exercise in humility. 

Things had been very different just a few months ago. The kid had been working through his apprenticeship with a local mechanic, and he'd been doing good work. Most days he came back to the den with a tired smile and stories about all the people he'd met and fixed things for that day, surrounded by friends and with Trine the proud big sibling holding him to their side. 

Cube lived off of spreading that joy more than any money he could have brought in. He made what could have been a difficult life so much better. 

Then Moors ripped his eye and his arm from him, and no prosthetics could make up for how far Cube had been set back. Stelle felt bad most days for the lackluster robot arms she'd been able to obtain for him; the first one had been a hefty crab claw, good for throwing thugs around but not so much for refined work, while his current one was a slender but sturdy limb leading to a rounded end with four jointed fingers extending from the ‘wrist’. 

It was certainly more dexterous, especially as Cube mastered moving his fingers along the circumference of his new hand, but even the most lifelike robotic limbs required time to figure out. Coupled with the wolf's ruined left eye – which he'd furiously refused to replace with another prosthetic – it was clear even before Cube went on the run that his education had met a cruel end. 

The rest of the evening passed quietly. The two of them sat on the floor together and ate dinner, and then Cube tucked all of his tools away and crawled onto his mattress with a quiet “good night”. Stelle watched him until she was certain that he'd drifted off, and then she laid down upon her own bedding. 

Her body sank into the mattress, just barely kept off the hard floor underneath, and Stelle turned to face the wall away from Cube – and away from the window that was still pouring the beginnings of twilight into their apartment. Most rooms in this structure didn't have windows at all, and Cube had begged to live somewhere with natural lighting. It had been one of Stelle's few concessions. 

Stelle closed her eyes and let out a quiet sigh. She had been too hard on him, she could accept that now. The past two months had been so very hard for both of them, but at least Stelle had no family to miss, and no need to beg anyone for a little bit of sunlight. 

Tomorrow, they could start looking for someplace else to live. They would still need to be smart about it, but there had to be somewhere in this city that let them hide with a little more comfort. 

And Trine...Stelle still didn't know what they would do about Trine. She could only hope that they'd found sanctuary, if not for herself than certainly for the little brother that they'd left behind. 

Amidst all of the plans, thoughts of comfort, and worries for tomorrow, somehow Stelle found the strength to let go and fall into slumber. 

As the sun slid below the horizon and the night marched into the quiet hours of morning, neither wolf was awake to see a dark shape hanging from the building outside of their window, and neither of them heard the rectangle of glass being slowly, quietly cut open. 

By the time the cool air from outside flowed into the room and shocked the two awake, the figure would be gone, leaving only a package of their own in their place and a brief message scrawled in red ink on a piece of paper. 

Won't you help us break this wretched city? 

P.S. Security is on their way, you'll want to hurry out of there. 

#

Time: Meanwhile; Location: City of Neoxsoma, outside Tsunokeji Tower

Wherever the privileged went, they had both the blessing and the curse to cast shadows. It wasn't possible to hold so much light in their hands without a looming darkness stretching back behind them. And there was always going to be somebody, even one person, who would be lost in that darkness, unseen and uncared for. 

Nowhere did that ring true more than a city like Neoxsoma. In daytime, the buildings were tall enough to cast their own shadows, drowning everyone below in a shaded sea. In nighttime, their penthouse lights cast synthetic auroras over the skyline, too high to ever be reached; everyone below could only make do with the flickering neon and harsh digital screens supplied as placation. 

Of course, people spoke of climbing up toward the lights at the peaks of metal, glass, and stone, and making a home among them. Many watched the skyline with spiteful eyes, dreaming of the day that somebody would be cast down from on high and perish upon the pavement. But most didn't dare dream, only averting their eyes from the lights and seeking contentment in the shadows far below. 

None of them had any idea of how simple climbing a mountain could really be. 

Trine slid their keycard from their pocket and waved it in front of the card reader. The reader beeped and flashed green, and Trine pushed through the door into the lobby of Tsunokeji Tower. In the dead of night, the high rise was silent and empty, lit only by the soft glow of the light fixtures on the walls – a glow seemingly absorbed by the deep chestnut-stained walls and dark red carpeting. 

On the opposite wall from the residential elevators was the penthouse elevator – no different from the others save for the swirling golden trim – and Trine slid their key into the reader and entered the elevator code. The doors swung open almost immediately, as though the elevator had been waiting for them. 

They stepped inside and pressed the up button, adjusting their hoodie as the elevator closed. Trine was pretty sure the Horans had installed cameras in the elevator, and they needed to keep the glowing purple triangle on their forehead away from electronic eyes. 

Trine fixed their grip on the grocery bags in their hand as the elevator finally slowed down and stopped. The doors opened obediently into the penthouse living room, a vast area with walls painted soft white, and an enormous glass wall on the opposite side that opened into a large personal courtyard. The couches and chairs were decadent, each one a piece of heaven worth thousands. 

The Horans were new money, having risen to wealth through an urban development empire that had built the last few decades of this city. They'd wasted no time snapping up part of the skyline for themselves, so much wasted space that they were far too busy to ever use. 

The thought made Trine's hackles raise and lips curl in disgust. 

They carried their bags into the kitchen area nearby (near spotless from disuse and cleaning) and quietly flipped on the light switch before setting the bags onto the counter – gently, to avoid jostling the fifty-cent pistol buried underneath everything that Trine had picked up from the market. There was also a change of clothes tucked in there, but that wasn't as much of a hazard. 

“What were you doing?” 

Trine stiffened and turned all the way around. A small, skinny oryx stood in the space between the kitchen and the living room, dressed in pajamas made of the softest, likely most expensive silk that one could find in this city. He rubbed his tired eyes, regulated breaths audible in the silence. 

Trine's initial shock faded into a warm and gentle smile. “Hey, Luka. Did I scare you?” They asked softly, kneeling down to meet the young boy at eye level. “Sorry about that. We haven't picked up groceries in so long that I thought I'd run out and get something.” 

“But it's two in the morning,” the oryx whined, stifling a yawn. He winced as his artificial lungs pumped in another breath, cutting it off with a choking sound from his throat. Trine reached out to him, but Luka held out his hands to stop them. “I was waiting for you. I thought you left me...” He said, curling into himself. 

Trine exhaled and reached out again, this time to wrap their arms around their charge and hold them close. “I'm so sorry, little guy. I was just swinging by the store real quick. I thought we could have something special for breakfast tomorrow.” They rested their cheek against the side of Luka's head, and held the child's head and back in one hand each, careful to avoid his straight, pointed horns. 

Luka moaned quietly in Trine's grasp but didn't pull away. “Everyone leaves eventually, you know. I figured you'd gotten tired of me too,” he said, burying his face into the crook of Trine's neck. 

“Hey, that's not true,” Trine murmured. They stroked Luka's back with their fingertips, just the way he liked it. “I'm not going anywhere, I swear. If you hadn't hired me, I'd be homeless right now, you know? You saved me, Luka. So I'm gonna stay right here and look out for you, like I promised. However long you need me.” 

The penthouse was silent, save for the sound of Luka's artificial lungs rising and falling in his chest. Evidently he'd been born with a respiratory defect, and at some point his parents decided it would be simpler to just tear his lungs out and replace them – and everything else below his larynx. Trine couldn't begin to explain how everything connected inside his chest, but it kept him alive. 

It didn't keep the boy's parents around, however. They'd enrolled him in online education, bought him everything he needed to succeed, and then left him behind like a pet. Their only remaining consolation was hiring a caretaker, and they still left most of it to Luka himself. 

The young boy pushed his face into the crook of Trine's neck. “I could need you for a long time, Trine,” he whispered. Such sorrow in his voice, but he never shed a tear. Maybe he never found a point. He gripped the front of Trine's shirt in two small bundles of cloth. 

“Then I'll stay for a long time,” Trine whispered back. Until they found Cube and Stelle and figured out what to do next. Until Luka's wretched excuses for parents returned home, and...

They smothered the burning feeling that oozed into their chest. Tonight had gone on long enough. 

Finally, Trine pulled away and put a smile on their face for Luka. “Now let's get you back to bed. You’ll have to be up early for your online class.” 

Luka's lips pursed, like there was something he wanted to say. Trine waited patiently until the oryx spoke. “Will you sit with me until I fall asleep?” 

Trine brushed the top of Luka's head with a feather's touch. “Of course, little buddy. Always,” they said, taking his hand as they rose back up. Once Luka fell asleep – however long that took – they still had to put away all of their groceries. 

By morning, the story would likely be everywhere, how real estate tycoon and esteemed philanthropist Ingrid Meir had been shot dead in her apartment following a bomb scare and evacuation, killed with a pistol so scratched up inside that any markings on the bullet would be useless. Her fellow point-one-percenters would trade sorrowful stories of her fierce, generous spirit, of the woman who had given so much to help the downtrodden of the city. 

Trine would know better. And although the void in their chest wouldn't be filled by the death of a single socialite, they would remember that Neoxsoma ran deep with rot. And there was always another infestation to cleanse. 

And one day, Trine didn't know when, the void left behind by Gamble and the rest of their family would be full again. It would be. 

So few people understood how simple climbing a mountain truly was. Once you dedicated your entire being to a purpose, once you forsook the notion that there were actions you couldn't take in that pursuit, it left so very little that you couldn't do. 

[jewels2876]

Guilty

A/N: @shield-agent78​ is celebrating 600 followers - congrats hon!  I took her Lawyer AU prompt and am also filling the same square, Lawyer AU, for my @star-spangled-bingo​  - happy reading!

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, mentions of Sam & Bucky, Rumlow, Wanda and Vision

Word Count: 1091

Warnings: mild violence

Steve Rogers gathered the small pile of papers in front of him and gently tapped the bottom against the desk, then the left side, before sliding them into his padfolio. He glanced over at the jury then at the judge before rising. He fastened his coat at the middle button and turned to face the jury.

“Ladies and gentleman,” he started

You sat in the back of the courtroom, pencil in hand, waiting to see what kind of spiel he would spit out. You had been promoted to the news circuit from the bullpen and you made no secret of your fascination with the newest law firm: Wilson, Rogers, and Barnes Esquires. They had been slowly taking on the bullies of your hometown and earning a reputation for being extremely friendly, extremely successful in the courtroom, and for being even more successful with the ladies. As you watched Steve Rogers undo his jacket button and gently place one hand on his hip and the other on the jury box, you understood the last part. Tall, compact, with blond hair and a dazzling smile, he was every inch the man of your dreams. He was wrapping up his closing arguments so you tuned back into his words.

“These men, this company, who claim they’re doing you good have, in fact, been skirting the very letter and spirit of the laws that are supposed to keep them in check. They don’t deserve your support nor your trust, as they continue dumping chemicals into the things you assume are healthy and safe. Please keep in mind your own health as you consider their guilt or innocence.” As he looked around the room, after eyeing the jury, his glance fell on you. His stomach fluttered involuntarily as his smile grew just a touch.

You saw his gaze fall on you and noticed the slight smile, the crinkle of his nose and eyes just slightly. You nodded briefly and offered your own small smile.

*

Two days later, the jury came back with a guilty verdict; the courtroom erupted into chaos as the defense team and several guards held back the defendants and a few men in the audience. The tension was palpable and your pencil flew across your notepad, trying to record every single detail as it played out in front of you.

You felt it before you heard it. The sharp sting of heat and metal grazing your arm. Then you heard a loud bang close by, and the screams of the people around you. Strong arms guiding you gently into a seat and clear blue eyes staring back into yours.

“Are you okay?” Steve Rogers still held you in his arms, moving over you gently to feel for any other signs of injuries. You hissed when he moved back to your left arm. He moved his hand behind him; someone gave him a roll of gauze. He gently rolled your sleeve past the wound and wrapped the gauze, tucking an end in then patting you on the shoulder. “Miss, are you okay?”

Your mouth was dry, but you managed to whisper “I’m okay, I think?”

Steve’s warm smile gave your stomach funny flips. “Can you sit here please, and let someone double-check you? I won’t go far.” You nodded mutely as Steve approached the officers that had stormed the courtroom. You winced as you tried to reach for your notepad.

An EMT approached you with a stern look; her red hair stood out against her pale skin as she knelt down in front of you, doing a quick physical assessment. “Ms. y/ln, I know you want the whole scoop but give yourself a little time, would ya?” You cocked your head at her. “You did a story on me and my partner last month after an arson case. You nicknamed him Vision, after everything he told you had panned out.” Your brain kicked in, recognizing Wanda as the EMT, as she shook her head with a smirk. “He loves it and now he refuses to respond to any other name.” Wanda handed you a styrofoam cup filled with water, which you gulped down.

You licked your lips and took a shaky breath. “Did they arrest whoever shot up the place?” Wanda’s eyes sparkled even though she tried to remain stern. “I’m not really the person to ask.” A long shadow fell over both of you and Wanda straightened then excused herself. 

Steve took the seat next to you. “Wanda’s a friend,” he explained, “and seems to have given you the green light if you want to leave?” Your head shook, wanting to stay and get more for your story. “Can I ask you a couple of questions, Mr. Rogers?”

His chuckle had you holding back a small moan. Every inch of this man was doing something to you. You shook it off trying to remain professional. “Mr. Rogers makes me sound like an old tv character. Please, call me Steve.”

You took a steadying breath. “Ok then, Steve. Can you tell me if they arrested the shooter? Are there ties between the defendants and the shooter?”

Steve smiled. “You are tenacious, aren’t you, MIss y/l/n?” You smirked knowing he had been playing coy. “So Miss y/l/n, how about I answer these questions for you, over dinner perhaps?” His eyes darkened only slightly, but you wondered if his idea of dinner was different than yours.

“No, I’d like to keep this professional, Mr. Rogers,” you answered demurely. “It’s good to know you know who I am. Are you able to answer my questions now?”

His smile widened but his eyes darkened more as he finally took a long look at you. “If I do, will you go to dinner with me another time?”

You paused for a moment. This relationship was supposed to be secret; your presence in the courtroom was something he had asked for not knowing what would happen. If you went to dinner together… You finally answered with a smirk. “I’d be happy to go to dinner with you, but only if I can give my paper the scoop first?”

*

Your editor grinned at the two stories you dropped in her lap three days later. Steve had been true to his word, and the grin on your face should have been for the stories you turned in: MOB TIES TO RUMLOW INC and ROGERS AND Y/L/N ADMIT ENGAGEMENT - but no one else needed to know what really put that smile on your face, did they?

fin

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[whirlybirdwhat]

First Line Meme

Rules: List the first lines of your last 15 stories. See if there are any patterns. Then tag your favorite authors!

tagged by @leviathiane tagging every one of my followers who writes and anyone who sees this post because this was interesting to say the least and very fun

so!! lines.

Princess Vivi of Alabasta had grown up on stories told to her as she sat by her father’s or Igaram’s knee 

Gin has broken into a great many places.

If he had to pinpoint a moment it all began, Sanji would say it was three days before that island, when he had woken up in the middle of the night to a nightmare -(Along on a rock with his hands bleeding out and blood on his face, sticky behind the metal mask that locked him in with all his fears all of them all of them and oh, were those bones he could feel along his sides?) And gone down to the kitchen to fix a snack to calm his nerves.

(I need to make smaller sentences vdhsjba)

Franky can’t remember the first time he saw Nico Robin.

Usopp was minding his own business when he came up on the deck of the Merry, giving a hesitant hello to the sleeping figure on deck.

The sea is a comfort to pirates at all times of the day, but only a fool would not be wary of it.

Chopper’s only ever been sick twice before – Reindeers, even devil fruit reindeers have good constitution after all.

Six months after Gin’s life was changed by a hot meal and cigarette smoke on the Baratie of all places, he’s out on the Grand Line, chasing his dream – to escape from the life Krieg built, and create one better, one that is a true pirate’s life.

Nami doesn’t know this, but she was born on the coldest night of the year, in the eye of a storm.

He didn’t mean to. 

Nami navigates.

The Straw Hat pirates, contrary to popular belief, do have their quiet moments, when all seems still and the sea as calm as it can be out on the Grand Line.

Sanji meets Gin when he is sixteen and the other is freshly seventeen, spending his birthday smoking his heart out in the Baratie’s back alley.

Zoro knows Luffy for six and a half days before he agrees to run off (and search) with him.

When Ace dies in a flurry of fast motions and undeniable cruelty (gun fight – a gang fight, Akainu fire arson why were you born- oh god it burns) Luffy screams at the pain of being alone. 

BONUS - Last Thing I Posted

Chopper’s captain is a selfish monster – this, Chopper knows well, in the way that his Captain has bloody fists and has torn gods with a smile. 

- 

Apparently I like starting with names? Only two of these don’t have names and one is because the next line starts with the name.  Idk. It gives the character and the setting/theme usually when i start?? I like it that way usually because it gives me something to direct myself with when writing and every single one of those writing posts who say dont use names in the first line its cliche can meet me and my keyboard in the backalley of an inkshop

anyway!!! yea!!