#but even in that one his eyebrows have a sort of > slant to them yknow? like. not mean but like. assured?

[reineydraws]

this ask got me thinking about the body swap au again lol here's a wip for what is eventually going to become a sketch dump post for the au aha. whenever i finish that.

[hairmetal666]

After the Russians, Steve learns three important things about himself:

Robin is the best friend he's ever had; the uncontested other half of his heart. His soulmate, the platonic love of his life, his missing puzzle piece.

He's not in love with Nancy anymore. It's really saying something that hearing those words come out of his mouth is the shock of his life. Once the drugs wear off, though, he realizes they were absolutely true. A surprising win for the Russian truth serum

Her bathroom confession...he sits with it for days. Not--not because she's a lesbian, of course not, but because. Well, Robin knows herself in a way he's never allowed himself to. And he thinks that maybe maybe he likes boys in the same way. That he always has, but never let himself acknowledge it, the way his eyes wanted to catch in the locker room, the drunken, fumbling touches between him and Tommy.

The last one...he's not sure, is the thing. How can he be sure? Like, in his mind, his imagination, he's very into it, but what if it's different in real life? And how can he even find out? He tells, Robin, of course he does, and they go to Indy, right, to a bookstore and she throws a few zines at him and he sneaks some porn (he's definitely into the porn), but that's not--it's not practical experience. And he's not ready to go to one of the bars, for sure, so he doesn't--like what's he supposed to do?

It's around this time in his bisexual spiral that the kids start hanging out with Eddie Munson, that he starts thinking about Eddie Munson. He always noticed the long, dark curls and the bright, brown eyes; the slender cut of his waist; the wry slant of his mouth as he shouted insults at the jocks; the glinting silver of the rings on his fingers--fingers that were long and callused, fingers that could grip around Steve's--

Nope, he's not going there. Even though, a little voice in his head says, he cares for Steve's kids and maybe he's not good at school but he's smart and he's also so pretty, with his pale skin and his big eyes--

No. He doesn't have a crush on Eddie Munson. Absolutely not.

And when he picks up the kids from their little dnd club and sees Munson standing against his van, he doesn't feel an electric zing in his chest, the first stirring of butterflies in his stomach; that would be crazy. They hardly know each other. It goes like this every time, and he's almost able to believe he doesn't care.

Until Eddie trips over the threshold of Family Video, stumbling on an untied bootlace and gangling his way through the front doors. The clatter catches both Robin and Steve's attention.

"Welcome to Family Video," Robin says. Steve stares.

"Uhh." Eddie's eyes flit between them, his face getting redder by the second.

Fuck, he's so cute and Steve's saying--without thinking about it, he's saying--"let me help you find a movie, man."

"Yea--sure, yeah." Eddie's hands are stuffed in the tight pocket of his jeans.

Steve takes a few steps down the closest aisle. "So, what--uh, what are you looking for?"

"Horror? Nothing in particular."

They make their way to the horror section, and it's like some insane, deeply horny demon takes over. He starts grabbing movies off the shelf, no rhyme or reason, doesn't even know what most of them are.

Eddie's staring at him with wide eyes and a raised eyebrow, and Steve just keeps grabbing tapes, is sort of doing a running commentary on titles and tag lines, and he can't stop, why can't he stop? it's like smoke is coming out of his ears. Robin is watching him from the counter with her mouth hanging open, gummy worm dangling down her chin.

"You know," Eddie grabs something from the shelf, "I think I'll just do Friday the 13th again. Can't go wrong."

And he leaves Steve standing there with half the horror section collected in his arms. He stays there while Eddie pays, face burning. It's been--well, a really long time since he's struck out so hard, and he wasn't even really trying.

As Eddie's walking out the door, his sad pile of movies shifts, then tumbles to the floor.

"You have a crush on Eddie Munson." Robin accuses.

"No!" He ducks down to collect the tapes, hoping to hide the crimson of his face.

"You do." She points an accusatory finger in his direction. "I haven't seen you this pathetic since Scoops."

"It's nothing."

"You know," she crouches down with him, "you could just, like. Try to hang out with him."

"After that? Are you kidding? I'm surprised you don't already have a new You Rule/You Suck board going."

"Oh, I do, it's up front." She jumps to her feet. "But still. You should try. And you have an easy in with the kids."

He glares at her in response, starts re-shelving all the dumb movies, and then they get busy, so the topic is dropped. He thinks about it thought. He thinks about it and he--

Instead of waiting in the car for the kids to get done at Hellfire the next time, he goes in.

[shoezuki]

Sampo likes to be vague about where they're going. It's kind of like a game to him, one that only he knows the rules to. Gepard asks, even though he knows it's nearly hopeless; where are we going? Is it a planet, a ship, a living creature? Which galaxy are we in? Is there oceans, deserts, forests? What kind of animals are there, what kind of people will they see?

Even when his questions go unanswered, Sampo's eyes gleam. Sometimes he shuts Gepard up with a kiss, a hand pressed over his heart, or teeth brushing over the column of his neck in a way that makes his breath stutter.

This time, though, Sampo is direct. For once, Gepard doesn't have to ask. Sampo wakes him up with instructions.

"Don't leave the ship," he instructs for the hundredth time as he guides the ship towards a strange, lone rock in the cosmos. The section of space they find themselves in is strange, a sweet, heavy feeling in the air. Their destination is in the midst of an asteroid field, metallic debris and chunks of meteors strewn and suspended about like someone strung them up randomly.

It's a bar, that much is evident. A sort of small, concrete building on a rough landform. It looks industrial, like someone had sliced a building out of a strip mall and deposited it here. There landform it's placed on is a small island, overrun with weathered docks made of scrap metal and decaying wood, anchored to nothing. various ships, dozens of them of all shapes and sizes, cling to the docks or are anchored to the landform itself, with ropes or chains or strange contraptions. For a desolate corner of the universe, it's packed. Yet Gepard doesn't see a single living person in sight.

"Gepard."

Sampo says his name with an uncharacteristic urgency that makes him jump, only then realizing Sampo had docked their ship as well and left them sitting in silence for however long. Sampo stands in front of Gepard now, hands on his hips and a rigid, towering figure. The starlight seeping in and the bright, flashing fluorescent lights on the bar glow from behind him, casting a shadow over his face. "Did you hear me?"

"Don't leave the ship," Gepard parrots, only half awake, with his legs crossed and a blanket draped over him. Sampo's jaw tightens. "Yes, but what else?" Gepard's sheepish silence is met with a low sigh, Sampo pinching the bridge of his nose. "Geppie, I'm being serious here, okay? This is important."

Gepard doesn't understand, but Sampo's tight posture, the pinched slant of his eyebrows, the way his stare feels intent, pointed on Gepard's skin, all makes secondhand unease curdle in his stomach. He bites his tongue and nods his head. Somehow that motion is enough to make Sampo sigh with clear relief, all but collapsing onto the rickety futon beside Gepard.

"Okay, take notes, Gepard. No-- not literally," Sampo adds on when Gepard pulls out his phone, making him blink and put it back down, attention fully on Sampo. "So, you will not leave the ship, under any circumstances. Got it? Never. You could watch the tavern collapse into itself and you still have to stay here. Don't leave and absolutely do not follow me into the tavern.

"But..." Sampo hisses between his teeth, as if pained to say more, "if for some idiotic, stupid reason that only the Aeons know of, you do go inside, there's rules you need to follow." He holds up one finger, intently watching him as if to make sure Gepard was actually paying attention. "First, don't tell anyone your name. Call yourself... the Captain, or something. No one can know your real name. Second, don't eat or drink anything. People will act all kind and hospitable or whatever and try and offer you drinks. Don't take any. Thirdly, do not dance with a single person. Don't dance at all, really. Just stay put somewhere and I'll... I'll find you, alright? Not that I’ll need to, since you won’t go in the Tavern, right? Okay? You got all that?"

Gepard frowns, chewing on his lip. This is the wrong answer, apparently; Sampo makes him jump by grabbing his shoulders, fingers tight where they dig into his arms. "Gepard, please. I'm being serious here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course," Gepard nods rapidly, repeating Sampo's rules in his head like a mantra. It's not the truth, though. Confusion prickles under his skin. "Why... are we even here? Wait, why are you going inside? Won't it be... dangerous for you too, then?"

Sampo's smile is sharp, a dangerous flash of pointed teeth. "I am technically a Masked Fool, y'know? And if we're gonna go through this neighbourhood of the universe, I need to, uh... partake in some revelry with the ladies and gentlemen in the Tavern. It'd be rude to walk through their house and not at least say hi!"

It's not the truth, or at least not the whole of it, but before Gepard can press anymore Sampo rubs his hand over his mouth, his words muffled into his palm. "And I gotta pay the owner of the tavern a visit, make sure he's upholding an old deal of ours."

Distaste, a sort of rancid discomfort makes Gepard stay quiet, simply watching Sampo as he gets up waltzes around the small bedroom on the ship. He hums something, talking to himself in cut off sentences like he often does as he gets his jacket, puts on his shoes. He feels different, though, a different kind of undercurrent below his skin. Sampo double and triple checks that his daggers are sheathed and hidden on him before turning to leave.

"Oooooookay! I'll be back!" He sings out, vanishing through the bedroom door and into the cockpit. He's leaning back into the door in less than a second, something in his eyes that makes Gepard sit straight. "Don't. Leave."

Sampo doesn't turn away until Gepard nods again, wiping around and vanishing like he'd never been there. Gepard hears the sound of the shuttle door opening with an airy hissss, slamming back shut.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, stewing in the silence Sampo left behind. The ship is quiet without Sampo's presence. His absence is always a sort of empty stillness, but now it feels suffocating. Gepard starts pacing, at some point.

Neon signs hang on the industrial cement walls of the bar, flashing images of two beer bottles colliding in cheers, an open sign that pulses blue and white. A massive, pink neon glowed the name 'The Green Chapel,' gaudy and far too bright. It makes his eyes hurt, but they still glow on the back of his eyelids when he tries to block them out.

Gepard doesn't see a single person, constantly walking around and up to the windshield, looking out at the other ships. Not a thing has moved, not another living soul has announced their presence. Gepard feels horrifically alone.

It's completely quiet. He can't hear any music, but there's a constant thump thump thump rattling in his bones, his heart, sending goosebumps rising on his skin. It reminds him of Serval's concerts, the times when he went to see Mechanical Fever perform; that sort of all consuming, booming sound of drums and bass that rattles the air.

He isn't sure how much time passes, but he knows it's far, far too long. It takes hours of worrying, of anxiety and unease making him feel nauseous, before Gepard realizes Sampo never said the tavern was safe for him, either.

It's deceptively easy, to leave the ship. Gepard makes sure he has his gauntlet on, properly dressed in jeans and a dark jacket. The air feels cold as he steps down onto the metal dock the ship is precariously perched on. Gepard doesn't hear a thing until he's standing at the old, weathered door, the fluorescent signs humming electric above him.

Gepard walks into the bar and is instantly engulfed by it, sound exploding around him. The music is electric, rhythmic harsh beats that crackle and surround him. It's massive inside, beyond what should be possible. The lights above pulse, the lights like living beings cutting through the darkness and bathing the crowd of writhing bodies in pink, purple, blues and reds. It's warm, a type of wet humidity in the air that smells of sweat and liquor and something strangely sharp-sweet that makes Gepard wrinkle his nose. He barely gets a chance to even recoil after stepping inside when a hand catches him, fingers on his elbow making him jolt away.

"Oh?" A woman, short in stature with long dark hair that glows blue-purple-pink under the throbbing lights. Her face is obscured by a mask, a pointed face with triangular ears. Gepard can almost make out swirling designs, the dark and light colours indistinguishable under the pulsing lights. He can't see her eyes, but there's a sharp tilt of her head that makes him feel small.

"You're new, aren't you?" She giggles, voice somehow cutting through the pounding music. "You are. I'd have recognized that handsome face if I'd seen it before." Gepard stands far taller than her, but somehow Gepard reels cornered, as if she's towering over him. She leans heavily into his side, a hand brushing over his clothed ribs. "Want to grab a drink? My treat, if you pay me back with a dance."

Gepard shoves her away without much thought. "No, I'd rather not," Gepard grinds out. She doesn't even flinch at his rejection, just stepping back. "I'm just looking for someone--"

"Aw, c'mon! No need to be such a bore. Just one dance won't kill you! Why not have some fun while you're here?"

Gepard bristles, overwhelmed and worried with Sampo's warnings swirling through his head. He narrows his eyes, goes to say something or push past her, but for a split second her mask shifts, the corners of its black eyes crinkling like paper. "Wait," she says, her voice burst of noise, "who are you looking for?"

Gepard catches himself before he can respond, clenching his teeth. Sampo had stressed he not say his own name, but what about Sampo's? He doesn't want to take the risk. "That... is none of your concern. Now, if you'll excuse me." He's uncaring as he shoves past her, gritting his teeth at the overwhelming lights and music, trying to stay out of the dancing crowd and keep towards the wall. He freezes when he feels too many fingers on his back.

“You're with him, aren’t you?” He doesn't know how he recognizes It to be her, her voice now distorted and muffled like she's underwater. Gepard spins on his heels and raises his fists on instinct, heart thumping in his chest--but she's gone. Gepard digs his teeth into his cheek and turns back, squaring his shoulders.

The dancefloor in the middle of the tavern is teeming with people, moving like one unified mass of laughter and cheering and screaming people. Gepard keeps to the wall, walking beside tables and booths filled with people all talking and taking shots, singing and laughing under the music. Many of them wear masks, indiscriminate things of varying sizes and shapes that Gepard can't decipher. Many of them don't wear masks, too, a cheerful gleam over their eyes. Gepard keeps catching glimpses of the bar through the crowd, against the far wall that's lined with shelves choke full of bottles. There's one bartender, technically; the person behind the bar is a humanoid figure in a clean blazer, their head gone with numerous grinning and crying and laughing masks spinning around over their shoulders. Their arms seem incorporeal, not quite real in a way that Gepard swears he sees two arms stretched across the bar collecting change, two more mixing a drink, one more talking with a customer like it's a hand puppet. It hurts his head to watch them move.

He has no idea how he's going to find Sampo in this. He should've asked more questions, especially what he's doing here. He tries to look for blue hair, green eyes, that smile he's come to know so well, but the hazy lights and constant movement makes everything blur together.

Gepard isn't looking where he's going, scanning the crowd and the filled tables and booths. His foot catches on the leg of someone's chair, nearly tripping him if it weren't for the hand that catches him by the shoulder. “Sorry,” Gepard gasps out, standing up. The man in the seat laughs, clapping a hand on his shoulder. His mask is more like a helmet, metal shaped into the face and crown of a king. 

“No problem, my man!” He laughs loudly, throwing an arm over Gepard's shoulders in a sort of side hug, as if they're old friends. “No harm no foul! What's your name, friend? Come to watch the show?”

“Call me Captain.” Gepard blurts out, looking past him. There's numerous tables and chairs before him, all facing the wall that is covered in dozens of TV screens of varying sizes. They all seem to be showing the same thing; a first person perspective of someone seemingly in battle, fighting a gargantuan reptilian beast. They seem to be losing, someone out of the corner of their eye screaming for them. Many people are watching the screens, cheering and clapping despite the grizzly scene of claws raking across the person's chest. Gepard sees some people groan, others celebrating as credits change hands. 

“It's just getting good,” the man pulls at Gepard's attention, motioning for him to sit down. Gepard holds against his tugging. “According to the script, the performer's love interest will watch them perish and go on a rampage to avenge them! Want me to order you a drink, too?” 

Gepard's shaking his head before the man's done talking, watching the way the mask's eyes gleam and blink like melting metal. “No,” he says, glad that the man's grip melts off him like ice as he steps back, “no thank you, I'm--”

He's stepped too far back, colliding with someone dancing. Gepard jumps and spins to see someone with the face of a snake and hair like pine needles hiss at him. His heart leaps in his throat as they vanish into the crowd, looking around to find himself engulfed by the dancers, surrounded. The music is too much, warm bodies pressing around him. He can feel his shirt sticking to his back, his heading hurting from the lights and--

A hand, rough and tight and insistent, clamps down on his forearm. Gepard growls and spins around, raising his gauntlet and punching whoever has grabbed him. His attack is halted midair, their hand encasing his fist. Gepard tries to kick, shove and pull away only to be yanked forward towards them.

Off balance, he falls into their grip, arms around his shoulders and his head shoved down into the crook of their neck. He goes to lash out, heart running rampant in his chest. He only stills, though, when he catches a glimpse of blue hair, feels annoying but familiar buckles digging into his own chest. The mouth by his ear, the chin hooked over his shoulder, makes him relax.

“Gepard!” Sampo's voice is a hissed sound, low and only for him. “What are you doing here?” His tone is harsh, his body tense against Gepard's. Sampo's hands are flurry of panicked motion as he runs them over Gepard's back, his arms, his shoulders, his head. “Are you okay? You aren’t hurt? Has anyone tried to-- Why are you here? Seriously, I wasn't joking when I said you needed to stay put! This place isn't safe. This stupid, sorry excuse for a Tavern--”

“I'm sorry,” Gepard interjects, grabbing one of Sampo's hands in his own, the other light on Sampo's waist. He rubs his thumb over the back of Sampo's hand. “I know, I know what you said. But you were gone… a long time. I was concerned and decided to look for you.” 

Sampo is quiet, simply standing pressed against Gepard. He feels the tension slowly leave his body, feels his shoulders drop as he lets out a sigh. He says nothing for a moment, intertwining his fingers with Gepard’s, his other hand on his shoulder as he starts to guide Gepard into a slow, swaying motion. He just goes along with it, let’s Sampo lead him into a slow dance that is wildly out of place with the music, the ecstatic crowd around them. Sampo is humming something soft and distantly familiar, his cheek pressed to Gepard’s.

The music is still constant, loud and vibrant, but Sampo’s presence makes it feel… diluted. Faraway and almost muffled, like there’s a bubble between them and the rest of the bar. Gepard glances around and notices it’s the same with the crowd, too; dozens of people around them, lost in their own worlds, now give them a wide berth, a few feet kept between the two of them and everyone else at all times. No one turns to look at them, Gepard doesn’t feel any eyes on him or note any quick glances towards them, as if looking at Sampo will burn their eyes.

“No need to apologize,” Sampo speaks up suddenly. Gepard turns to look at his face, but Sampo holds him chest to chest, keeping his chin over Gepard’s collar. His blue hair is vibrant in the light, his skin almost sparkling. “I shoulda just… brought you with me from the start, probably. Well I’d rather not bring you here at all but…” He sighs, clicks his tongue, leans into Gepard. “Duty calls! Or something like that.”

“Are you done here?” Gepard whispers. Sampo shouldn’t be able to hear him over the surging, vibrant air, but somehow Gepard knows he does. “With whatever it is you need to do here, I mean.” Sampo’s immediate response is a groaning sound deep in his throat, his forehead knocking against Gepard’s collarbone. “No, no. I still… ugh, this place sucks. Just give me a minute, please? And I’ll…”

“Okay.” Sampo leans into him so heavily and fully, like he’s trying to meld himself with Gepard’s flesh, into his skin. Gepard takes his weight without question, content to hold them both up as Sampo sways them in a slow turning waltz. Gepard’s head doesn’t hurt, anymore. The overstimulation has subsided, but the confusion and concern hasn’t, not fully.

“We’re dancing.”

“Mhm. Well, technically. Sampo Koski a better dancer than whatever this is, I assure you!”

“That’s not what I mean,” Gepard says with an amused snort, knocking his temple against Sampo’s head lightly. “I mean that… you said no dancing. With anyone.”

Sampo’s laugh rumbles Gepard’s chest, through his ribs and straight into his heart. “C’mon, Geppie! If you just don’t wanna dance, say so! I promise I’ll pretend it won’t break my weak, frail heart.”

“And you said no names. But you’ve said mine in here many times now.”

There’s a hesitation, one Gepard feels in Sampo’s stuttering step, his hand clenching so slightly around Gepard’s. “It’s… I’m just that exceptional, I suppose,” he says after a strained pause. 

Gepard wants to ask. It is a need, a rising feeling that rises from his stomach to his throat. He wants to ask about the people, the masks, the way Sampo’s touch and his presence makes people keep their distance but makes his head feel clear. Gepard has never, really, been curious like his sisters, but Sampo makes curiosity envelop him; Gepard wants to know everything about Sampo, the good and the bad. The things Sampo won’t tell him. But not here, in this strange Tavern with these strange people.

“I’m sorry,” Sampo whispers out, and Gepard feels like he’s apologizing for more than it seems, “but I need to… connect with some old Fools.” Sampo lifts his head and cranes his neck back, scanning over and past the crowd. Gepard tries to get a look at his face but Sampo turns his head each time, the lights and shadows obstructing his expression. All Gepard gets is shimmering, smooth skin like porcelain and a glimpse of green eyes glowing in an indescribable colour. 

“I can leave back to the ship,” Gepard says, “just… promise you won’t be long.” 

“Sorry, darling, but, uh…” He clicks his tongue, jerks his chin towards where Gepard came, where the door should be. But Gepard sees nothing but chairs and tables, a tall, harsh wall decorated with paintings and photos and screens that make his mind spin. “You’ll have to wait to leave with me, so I can show you the way out. But I’d rather you don’t meet the Tavernkeeper…” He chews on his lip, humming in thought as he searches for… something. 

“Aha!” Sampo suddenly jerks, jumping and yanking Gepard along with him. “Found him! C’mon, Geppie! You can hang out with my old friend while I, uh, go say my hellos.” 

The crowd parts seamlessly like water, heads turned away from them as Sampo pulls Gepard along. Gepard keeps his head down, focusing onto the point of contact where Sampo holds his hand tightly, his grip protective and unwavering. He doesn’t look back at Gepard once. 

A series of pool tables and poker tables envelop the corner, on a raised floor almost like a stage. Gepard glimpses poker chips, cards and credits and roulette wheels all in motion as Sampo guides him through it all to the far corner. A booth catches Gepard’s attention as they approach it, the seats filled with lifesized, off-white porcelain dolls, carved into various mechanical poses. Each has cards and chips in front of them, as if someone had set up a poker scene. The one, moving person sitting at the table makes his eyebrows raise. 

“Gio--” Gepard says, clamping his mouth shut before saying his full name. The man’s head snaps up, the familiar mask meeting Gepard’s gaze. The black, indestructible eyes of his mask are dark and depthless. He holds himself upright and proper, gloved fingers clasping his own hand of cards. He tilts his head towards Sampo as they stop right in front of his booth.

“Ayo, Gio! Long time no see!” Sampo laughs, his tone sarcastic and light. He wraps an arm around Gepard’s shoulders, as if unwilling to let go of him in any way. “I didn’t take you for the kind to haunt around this Tavern, but I knew I felt you here! What have you been up to, you old Fool?”

“Brother Sampo, delightful to see you, as always.” His voice is a low, lulling tone, despite how he has to raise his voice to be heard over the constant din of music. He glances down at his cards, tapping the table before looking up again. “I’m simply passing through and staying here a moment before moving on. It’s, frankly, much more strange seeing you here. Business as usual?” 

“Business as usual,” Sampo hums and nods, tilting his head in a harsh, jerking motion. “Sorry to, uh, interrupt your game, but I have a favour to ask you.”

“A favour?” There’s a pointed, sharp interest in his tone. Gepard stares at the smooth, two-toned design of his mask, suddenly jumping when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. He looks to the mannequins, staring at them and challenging them to move again. “I don’t mind dealing in favours, especially with you, Sampo. I assume it has to do with…”

Gepard looks back at him, noticing the weight of Giovanni’s attention now on him. Sampo’s grip is tight, fingers digging into his shoulder. “Captain,” Gepard blurts out, “you can call me the Captain.” Sampo’s grip relaxes. The lips of Giovanni’s mask almost seem to lift. “Ah, the Captain, yes. It’s a pleasant surprise to see you here, Captain. Have you been well?”

“I’m doing well, G-Giovanni. It’s good to see you, too.”

“We’re on our honeymoon,” Sampo coos, making Gepard’s face heat up. Sampo gives him the opportunity to protest, but Gepard bites his tongue instead and lets Sampo squirm. “Uh-uhm, yeah! I’m showing him all the sights! The best places in the universe! Not this Tavern, though. This is an unfortunate pit stop I couldn’t avoid. You get it, Gio.” Giovanni just nods in response, lifting his hand and pointing to a mannequin across the table from him. He says a word that is static in Gepard’s ears, and the mannequin has vanished, a seat open.

“Gep,” Sampo whispers in his ear, pulling his attention. Gepard tries to look at his face--Sampo ducks away, just enough to cast shadows over his face. “You don’t mind keeping Giovanni some company here for a minute, do you? I’ll be back before you know it! Oh, don’t play poker with him, though.”

Gepard can’t help but tense, looking to Giovanni with narrowed eyes. “Why?”

“Because he’s a dirty cheater.”

“You shouldn’t project your own failings on me, Sampo Koski,” he says as he shuffles. The chips and the cards have shifted when Gepard wasn’t looking, Giovanni’s winnings now significantly lighter. “Would you like me to deal you in, Captain?”

“I’m okay, thank you.” He peels himself away from Sampo, sliding into the booth across from Giovanni. The music is instantly louder, now away from Sampo. “I won’t be staying long, after all.” Gepard says it with a pointed look in Sampo’s direction, making him snort. Sampo is looking away, only the portrait of his face visible. The little of his smile Gepard can glimpse looks stiff, plastic. “Thanks, Gio! I’ll be back before you know it, Captain.” 

He turns on his heels but hesitates. Gepard frowns, goes to ask if he’s okay, only for Sampo to move and surge towards him. He’s quick, the lights making him a blurred movement. Gepard feels Sampo’s lips on his cheek, strangely cold and smooth against his skin. It makes his chest swell regardless.

“See ya!” Sampo spins around and marches off, the dancing crowd parting for him. Gepard watches him all the way, seeking him out when he loses sight of Sampo. He can see the bar in the back from here, the inhuman bartender behind it. Gepard sees a familiar head pause by the barstools, the bartender going rigid like a statue. They move, turn towards Sampo, leaving all their customers who were begging for their attention abandoned without a care. The masks spin, shivering, settling on a massive mask with its expression twisted in something resembling fear. Sampo gestures, shrugs, makes wide, clipped motions with his hands as he says something that makes the bartender recoil. Sampo opens a door Gepard swears wasn’t there before, making the bartender go inside before following them in.

“How has Belobog been?”

Gepard turns back to Giovanni. The lights are overwhelming once more, the music piercing through his flesh, to his very core. It’s hard to focus on the other man, who’s looking down at his poker hand intently. “It’s… yes, Belobog is doing well. Nothing out of the ordinary since you’ve left.” It’s a lie, one Gepard doesn’t feel bad about. If Sampo hadn’t mentioned what had happened to his friend, Gepard definitely wouldn’t be the one to bear both their chests open. “You’ve… been well? You said you aren’t here for long. You’re traveling, I assume?”

“I’m not one to stay idle for long,” he hums, putting chips into the center of the table. The mannequins keep moving out of the corner of Gepard’s eyes, making him jump and stare at their still figures. They’re only animated, fully formed people when he isn’t looking at them, seeing people holding their cards and matching Giovanni’s bet, only to go still once more. Their faces are painted on with what looks like makeup, lipstick spread over their doll-like lips messily. 

“I am, frankly, surprised to see you away from your city, Captain.” Gepard looks back to him, watching as he collects his winnings from the mannequins. The sound of his chips clattering together sounds like bells. “Not to say I’m not glad. There is a lot of joy to be found in leaving home, seeing new things. I’m sure Sampo has treated you to some entertaining sights.”

“Honestly,” Gepard sighs, sinking into his chair just a bit, “I never thought I’d leave, either. I could never leave permanently, or travel forever like you do. But it’s been… phenomenal.”

“I’m happy for you.” Giovanni’s tone is the same, level and collected, but Gepard can tell he’s genuine. “Sampo Koski is well versed in… elation, after all. I wouldn’t have expected you to have found each other like this, moreso I’m shocked that that old Fool can settle, but I truly wish the best for both of you.”

He doesn’t really know what to do with this turn of conversation, covering his warm, blushing face with a hand. He laughs into his palm, watching talking mannequins just barely out of his focus. “Ah… thank you? It’s… we… yeah. Yeah.” He pauses a moment, the entirety of Giovanni’s words registering and making him frown. “What do you mean by that?”

Giovanni hesitates while shuffling, the cards in his hands slipping to the table. He huffs, dragging them back together in a clean stack. His movements are smooth, practiced as he shuffles, with unnecessary flourishes as he fans the cards, cascading them between his hands. It reminds Gepard of Sampo, the times they spent playing poker between the two of them, later with Seele once Gepard actually got the hang of it. Sampo is far, far more flashy with it, though.

“You have questions.”

Gepard does. Many of them, listless and disorganized in the confines of his skull. None of them are meant for Giovanni, though. “Are these actually people, or mannequins?”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Giovanni says with a chuckle, dealing out cards. They glide across the table, settling perfectly in front of the mannequins. “Frankly, it is… unimaginable to me that Sampo would bring anyone here, let alone you.”

Gepard crosses his arms, sitting straight. “Why is that?”

“This place is… well, you see how it is.” Gepard doesn’t look away from Giovanni as he gestures out and around them. “Sampo has some… previous agreements that make him come here, but I know he would never set foot in this place if he could avoid it. But him bringing you to any Tavern? He has pulled risks in the past, but I thought he’d be more… careful.”

“I came in here of my own accord,” Gepard bites back, not hiding his defensiveness. “It’s my fault I’m even here. Sampo told me to stay away, but I came in myself.”

“Because you wanted in on the fun?” Giovanni says, “or because Sampo wouldn’t tell you why he’s here?” 

“I came in here to make sure he was okay.”

“You truly don’t need to worry about him in any Tavern,” he laughs, clicks his tongue, shakes his head like he’s talking to a child. “I think you know that, too. Sampo isn’t in danger here.”

“You’ve called him old,” Gepard blurts out, digging his fingers into his thighs. It bothers him, for some reason, this strange and unimportant thing. Giovanni seems to expect this, maybe knew he’d planted that niggling worry into his head, tapping his fingers on the table. “Yes, I did.”

“Why.”

“I’m sure Sampo has been careful with you, considering you will return to your planet.” The tap tap tap tap of his fingers on the tabletop send a hammer swinging against his skull. “But Sampo and I are old, especially for Masked Fools. We tend to get too involved in our performances, especially tragedies. Fools don't live as long as us. We have been around this universe… many times. And time isn’t kind in every galaxy.”

“You’re not answering, Giovanni.” He grinds his teeth. He has the rising feeling that Giovanni is taking delight in this, and it makes his hackles raise. “Tell me. What do you mean.”

“How old do you think he is?”

“Gio--”

“You’re probably right,” he interjects, pulling more chips to himself. One of the out of view mannequins shuffles the cards, and it grates on Gepard’s skin. “In your assumption, I mean. He isn’t technically much older than you, but he’s been around longer. 

“An example,” he hums, taps his chin, holding Gepard’s gaze. “I have an old business partner in the Klimt Republic. About five years ago, I left and journeyed across the galaxies to meet with merchants, business associates, sponsor the Interastral Tournament Festival, etcetera.” He leans forward, over his own cards and chips and towards Gepard. “I visited him, about a week ago. For him, 30 years had passed. He’d retired and his daughter was managing his business.”

Gepard doesn’t say a word, just watches the tight, careful way Giovanni raises his cards and throws them down on the table. Two aces stare up at them, vibrating on the table like they are going to take flight. Gepard hadn’t noticed the chips all collecting into the middle of the table, Giovanni chuckling lowly as he drags them towards himself.

“I don’t mean to alarm you,” he says without raising his head; Gepard doesn’t entirely believe him. “As I said, Sampo is careful when he wants to be. And knowledgeable, too. He knows the universe better than most do. If you haven’t noted any temporal discrepancies when messaging people, then there’s no harm, no foul.”

“Your name isn’t Giovanni.” Gepard’s words bubble over, not-quite questions that press between his teeth. His head hurts, his brain feeling too large in his skull. Giovanni shakes his head. “No, it is not.”

“Sampo Koski… isn’t his name, is it?”

Giovanni laughs, a full body cackle that sounds shrill and strange from the other man. Gepard grits his teeth, narrowing his eyes at the pulsing lights that taunt him from above. “Believe it or not, Captain,” Giovanni sighs, rubbing nonexistent tears from the eyes of his mask. He pauses to collect the credits the mannequins had bet, folding it neatly. “But it is. Out of every name he’s taken, it’s the truest.”

The cards have vanished, the chips gone, the mannequins nowhere to be found. It’s as if it had never existed, that Giovanni had been alone. Gepard stares down at the bare, worn table before looking back to Giovanni as he stands up, straightens his suit. “Sampo Koski is an exception.” 

He almost wants to ask what in the Aeons he means by that, but Giovanni is making a shocked noise in the back of his throat before he can. He looks down and raises his arm, peeling back his sleeve and looking at his bare wrist. “Ah! Apologies, Captain, but I’m afraid the time has slipped from me. I best be going. Please give Sampo my farewells, and tell him I’m sorry.”

His eyebrows raise, going to stand himself. “Sorry? For wh--”

Giovanni doesn’t say a word, spinning on his heels and straight into the wall. Gepard’s mouth hangs open on his unfinished words when he watches the wall seem to crumble in on itself, revealing a door out into a bright, golden cityscape. It unfurls behind Giovanni and returns to normal in an instant. Gepard bursts to his feet then, hands flat on the table as he gapes at where the other man had once been. He stares a moment, before slowly sitting back down, his stomach in his throat.

He doesn’t know what to do, if he should do anything besides sit there. The bar is overwhelming now without someone or something to focus on, a headache clawing up the back of his spine and digging in behind his eyes. Gepard sinks into the seat, avoiding looking at the writhing crowd of laughing and dancing people. He finds himself looking back to the bar constantly, as if Sampo is waiting for him there. But he isn’t. The bar remains unmanned, numerous customers having climbed over the counter to help themselves now, standing on barstools and sending glass bottles clattering to the floor. 

His anxious silence is interrupted quickly; “you look like you need some company!”

“No,” Gepard said instantly, looking up at the man leaning heavily on the table. He’s young, a thin but tall man practically holding himself up against the table. He isn’t wearing a mask, his grin still wide like the artificial smiles he’s seen on numerous predatory masks on other dancers. His eyes are fixated on him in a way that makes Gepard’s skin crawl.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that!” The man coos, falling forward onto the table and leaning on his elbows, his chin in his palm. “Why’re you all alone in the corner like this? You should be having fun, dancing, drinking! No need to be all standoffish. I bet I can get you smiling in no time. What’s your name, friend?”

“I’m not your friend,” Gepard growls, standing up, “and I definitely don’t need you accosting me. Goodbye.” He really shouldn’t leave, should stay so that Sampo can find him easily, but the man keeps leaning closer and closer and Gepard feels like a cornered animal. He glances away, ignoring the man’s whined protest, squinting against his headache as he scans the crowd. He steps away, figuring he can just sit at the bar by the drunk, cackling patrons and wait for Sampo there.

He barely takes a step before a hand circles his wrist, fingers feeling cold like a chain, tight against his skin. Gepard bristles, his lip curled as he turns towards the grinning Fool. “Let. Go.”

“Why?” He giggles, pouts, tugs on Gepard’s hand. “Letting go is no fun! You know, you’d be happier if you just danced with me, let me buy you a drink. Why not have a good time, let loose, have some fun?”

Gepard responds by trying to rip his hand out of the man’s grip, but he falls forward with the movement, so close it’s suffocating. His breath smells of liquor as he laughs, eyes shining and too bright. “Ooooh you wanna slow dance instead? Why not just say so? I still haven’t caught your name, though. How ‘bout we trade? You can call me--”

“I don’t want to know,” Gepard growls out, lip curled. He flexes his fingers, feeling the cold swirl around his gauntlet as he clenches his fist and holds it back to strike. “Let go of me right now, or you’ll regret it.”

“How rude.” His smile is sharp, voice like a hiss. “Dance with me, and I’ll forgive you.”

Gepard gave in to the hot anger crawling up his throat, hoping that this wouldn’t cause Sampo too much trouble. “No. Don’t say I didn’t warn--”

He lungs forward as if to tackle him into the other crowded tables behind them. Gepard goes to meet him with his fist but doesn’t get the chance. There’s a surge of movement, a flash of red and purple and blue and the cackling, growling huff of indistinguishable words.that crackle in his ears. A clawed hand on his sternum pushes him back, the man flailing and shoved back like a marionette wrenched by its strings. The man yelps, something cracking as he’s shoved back onto the table and his head collides with the wood. Sampo towers over him as he yanks the man up by his shirt. 

“He said no.” Sampo’s voice is a fierce, screeching sound. The fog in the air almost dissolves, the music and the lights secondary to Sampo’s presence. The people nearest have all gone inhumanely still, heads craned in their direction as they pause in their card games or conversations or dancing. Gepard finds himself stunned still, too. 

“W-wait!” The man gasps, sounding choked on his own words. He goes to grab at Sampo’s arm but jerks away as if afraid to even touch him, struggling to kick back and away from him. “I-It’s-- I didn’t--”

“Did you not hear him the first time? Or the second?” Sampo grits out his words between his teeth, a sort of dangerous, humourous tone in his voice; a warning. “What makes you think you could grab him like that? Huh? Tell me.”

The man is shaking, eyes wide and manic as he breathes heavily, frantically. “I-I-I don’t--” He gulps, glancing around and behind Sampo as if for someone to save him. Not a single person makes a move, says a word, does anything but gawk with a sort of stunned, scrutinizing stare. His eyes landed on Gepard for only a second before Sampo shook him, saying something low that Gepard didn’t hear. “I-I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please, I thought-- I didn’t know that he’s y-your toy already. Please don’t--”

“Toy?” Sampo’s laughter is something shrill and echoing; crunching glass between teeth, violin chords snapping, the echoing ringing of bells, a bellowing horn. It makes Gepard wince slightly, but the people around recoil and groan in pain, hands over their ears as they lurch back. The man in Sampo’s grip looks like he’s going to be sick. 

“You are,” Sampo hums, his tight grip on the man’s shirt shaking, “are the worst kind of Fool. The kind who find their sick fun in messing with others? Toying with people and stringing them along. Is that right?” He accentuates his words with a chuckle, shaking the man slightly. Gepard is lost on what to do--until he sees Sampo reach for his dagger. “Is this really Elation, to you? Is there really any joy in making other people suffer, using them? You should thank Aha for not caring how you get your sick thrills, because I won’t--”

Sampo!” Gepard grabs his hand, his fingers a shackle around Sampo’s wrist and his other hand harsh on his shoulder. Sampo tenses and goes to twist towards him, giving Gepard the faintest flash of his face. His eyes are not just green, but swirling with specks of colour like confetti and glowing beyond what should be possible. His skin is too smooth, discoloured and unblemished and sparkling in a way that is entirely alien to Gepard. He sees his eyes widen, something sparking under his irises, before Sampo ducks his head away again. He’s rigid under Gepard’s grip. 

“Sampo,” Gepard gulps, pulling back on Sampo’s arm, peeling at his grip around the hilt of his dagger. The man still held in Sampo’s grip whimpers and begs but Gepard ignores it. “That’s enough. Just put him down and we can leave and never come back, okay?”

“But--”

“I’m alright,” Gepard interrupts, already knowing the words caught on Sampo’s tongue, “this wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. I’m fine. I’d be better if we’d leave, though.” 

A muscle in Sampo’s jaw tenses. Gepard just watches him and ignores the weight of the attention on their backs. He watches as the tense, frigid line of Sampo’s shoulders slowly melts and softens. Gepard loosens his grips as Sampo sighs. He lets go of the men, unceremoniously dropping him and letting him fall back onto the table. He sucks in a panicked breath, not looking at either Sampo or Gepard as he scrambles frantically off the table, giving Sampo a wide berth as he bolts. 

The music is dulled, a faint pulse in the air. The entire Tavern feels different, tense like everyone was waiting for Sampo to snap again, to attack anyone. Gepard ignores it all, ignores the way masked faces follow him as he takes Sampo’s dagger from his hand, runs a hand across his back. “You’re done with what you needed to do?”

Sampo’s response was a delayed nod. “Yeah. Yeah. Sorry for the wait.” Gepard just shakes his head, Sampo watching Gepard out of the corner of his eye as Gepard holsters his dagger, intertwines their fingers. “Okay, good. If you can show me the way out, then?” He squeezes Sampo’s hand; it takes a moment for Sampo to squeeze back.

“Okay,” he sucks in a breath, exhaling harshly and shaking his head, “okay! Let’s get out of here!” Gepard is all too glad to be pulled along by Sampo, his grip a reassurance as Sampo takes him through the room. Heads swivel in mechanical unison to follow them, people once again parting for Sampo as he tugs Gepard through the dancefloor, moving in a strange pattern until they escape the crowd, a familiar door in front of them. Sampo doesn’t look back at him once, but hesitates a moment.

He spins around, towards the back of the bar. “Hey!” He yells out. Gepard follows his line of sight to the bar; the inhuman bartender stands behind it once more, but they hold themself… strangely, now. Their numerous arms shiver and shake as they messily prepare drinks, and at the sound of Sampo’s yell they jump and recede into themself, the crying mask gyrating. 

“Don’t forget our deal, my friend!” Sampo bellows out, one hand by his mouth. His teeth are just a bit too sharp when he smirks. “Or I’ll take matters into my own hands!” The bartender puts their dozens of hands over their mask before ducking behind the bar, Sampo’s laughter seeming to make the liquor bottles shake on the shelves. 

Gepard doesn’t get a chance to ask, though, confusion bubbling up his chest. Sampo doesn’t look at him, just squeezes his hand again before turning and shoving the front door open.

It’s quiet outside, just as it had been before. Leaving the Tavern is an instant relief; the hot, too-sweet weight of the air had been suffocating. Gepard can’t help but breathe in deeply and let out a sigh, even as Sampo still drags him towards their ship. 

Gepard enters the cockpit and collapses into the passenger chair, knocking his head back against the wall. Sampo’s movements are a relaxing sound, his presence enough to calm him down. Gepard just focuses on the scuffling sound of Sampo’s footsteps, the mechanical whirring of the engine coming to life, the thruming of the propellers lifting them from the dock and the clattering, rhythmic sound of the wings as Sampo guides them through the stars. The faint, dull ache in his head fades as time passes, as they get farther and farther away from that damned bar.

Sampo is the one to break the silence, his words making Gepard snap his eyes open; “I’ll take you straight back to Belobog. It won’t be long. Jarilo-IV isn’t technically that far from here and so I’ll make it quick--”

“What?” Gepard sits up quickly, snapping his head towards Sampo. The passenger seats are situated behind the pilot’s, leaving Gepard to just stare at the back to Sampo’s head. Stars and debris and various celestial bodies pass by them in streaks of colour, their movement a blur through the cosmos. Sampo doesn’t look back at him, doesn’t look at him at all as he speaks. Gepard desperately wants him to look at him. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, Gepard! You don’t… you don’t need to say anything! I’ll take you home as soon as I can and--”

“No.” Gepard bursts to his feet, marches to Sampo. The other man jumps when Gepard slams his hands down on the back of his chair, forcing him to spin around and face him. Sampo’s face is… back to what Gepard is used to. No signs of needle-point teeth or confetti eyes. But he still doesn’t meet Gepard’s gaze. “What in Qlipoth’s name are you saying, Sampo?”

“I-it’s-- you don’t need to worry, Geppie! I get it, okay? I get it. No need to say anything, I’ll… I’ll just take you back and be on my way--”

“What makes you think I want to leave you?” Gepard barks out, his voice a harsh noise. He grips either armrest tightly, leaning into Sampo’s space. Sampo cranes his head to avoid looking at him, making Gepard make a strangled, groaning noise in the back of his throat. “After everything, you think I want to return home now?”

“Yes! Obviously,” Sampo scoffs, finally meeting Gepard’s eyes. His expression is pinched. “C’mon, Geppie. That… that was too much, admit it. I put you through that, and now you want nothing to do with me.”

“You cannot. Decide that for me,” Gepard growls out, narrowing his eyes. “You can’t just decide for me, Sampo. It’s not your choice to make if I want to be here, with you, or not. And I do. There’s nowhere else I want to be.” Sampo’s eyes flash with something Gepard doesn’t quite catch, but his expression hardens again. Gepard claps a hand over Sampo’s mouth before he can say a word, his protests muffled against Gepard’s palm. “No! I’m talking now, so listen. I have no clue what happened in there, what that place was, what that place did to you. I’m frankly, confused, and concerned, and will absolutely ask you a lot of questions later. But that doesn’t make me want to leave you. And when I do go back to Belobog, you are coming with me, got it?”

Sampo is silent, completely still. Gepard doesn’t look away, doesn’t back down as Sampo traces his gaze over Gepard’s face, catching on his eyes. His eyes shine again, just the slightest bit. Gepard gives him just a moment before he breaks the silence again. “Do you understand me, Sampo? I’m not going anywhere.”

He feels him exhale against his palm, letting Sampo peel his hand off of his face with his mismatched fingers, holding his hand gently, reverent. “Are you sure?” 

Gepard doesn’t hesitate: “Of course I am.” He stands back up, Sampo’s grip on his hand lingering a moment like he’s afraid to let go. Gepard just watches as Sampo looks away, his mouth a thin line, his brow furrowing and relaxing like he’s trying not to argue. Eventually he sighs and let’s Gepard go, his relief tangible in the air.

“Besides,” Gepard says with a slight grin, crossing his arms, “you still need to take me to the giant space turtle.” Sampo laughs, glad for the escape Gepard is providing him. His smile is still a bit strained, Sampo’s vulnerability still seeping through the cracks, but he doesn’t seem so… frantic anymore. “Of course, of course! How could I forget.”

He hums, spinning around to the control panels. Gepard still has no idea what Sampo is doing as he runs his fingers over screens, but he feels the ship slowing, halting a moment before shifting directions through the vacuum of space. Gepard collapses back in his seat as they set off once more. 

“I do have one question, though.” Sampo tenses, making Gepard quick to finish his thought. “Are all Masked Fools’ Taverns… like that?” Sampo’s laughter is a cackle, his head thrown back. It’s soothing, comforting, familiar. Gepard’s smile is uncontrollable as Sampo looks back over his shoulder and smirks at him. 

“I promise you, they are not,” he snorts. He hums a moment, rolling his shoulders. “Some of ‘em are just as unhinged as that, yes. That’s one of the worst, though. All a bunch of old fashioned Fools! None of them know how to really have fun, I assure you. Some other Taverns, though… they can be a lot of fun.”

“We should visit one. A good one.” Gepard tacks on quickly when Sampo wrinkles his nose at him, clearly teasing by the way he rolls his eyes. “Of course. Some of ‘em make some amazing cocktails! Ones you can have, by the way. Maybe in Epsilon, but… well, no, actually. Epsilon tends to have some half decent Fools in it, but they’d still try and, uh, bamboozle you.”

“Sounds like fun,” Gepard says drily, pointedly rolling his eyes when Sampo wrinkles his nose at him. Sampo continues on with a hum, looking up at the softly passing stars. “Uh… where could I… oh! I could take you to Avalon!”

“Is that a Tavern?”

“Yep! The tavernkeeper isn’t actually a Masked Fool. She owns it though, I think she won the place in a game of blackjack? I don’t know, that’s what her husband told me. I met the Queen through him, actually. He’s some former knight or whatever--the most populated planet in that galaxy has some sort of monarchy thing going on, I dunno. But he’s a clutz and I stole from him at one point. He carries a lot of credits on him at all times. But then he just gave it to me and invited me to dinner! I thought he was coming on to me and considering how much cash he had… but uh, anyways. I haven’t seen the Queen in ages! Last I saw her she said she was gonna take over the galaxy system her Tavern is in, and uh, honestly I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“She’s a Queen?”

“Well… I dunno. We all just called her that. She’s scary so no one questions it-- in a good way! A good kind of scary, I promise.”

“I’m not doubting you,” Gepard chuckles, “I’m just… it’s nice, hearing about people you know, places you’ve been. Before, I mean.”

“Before Jarilo?” He says it with a scoff, but Gepard can hear the fond tone in his voice. It makes his chest warm, a sort of contentment settling in his bones. Sampo likes to complain about it, the constant cold, the standoffish people in Belobog, the loss of his criminal history, but Gepard knows better. He sees it in the way he asks about Serval, questions if Gepard has heard how Natasha is doing, how his city is holding up in his absence. It’s obvious in the way Sampo’s ramblings have started to center around Belobog and the Underworld. 

Sampo still pretends that he won't return, sometimes. That there's nothing left for him, that Gepard's planet doesn't have any reason for him to stay. Gepard knows it's not true, even now. Especially now. Because Gepard will always be there, wanting him. No matter how long Sampo has wandered the universe or what he's done before, who he was before.

“You know,” Gepard whispers, a secret. “Giovanni said something. Interesting things.”

“Giovanni.” Sampo hisses his name like a curse, slamming his fist on the control panels. The ship lurches to the side just slightly before Sampo corrects it. “That bastard! I can't believe he just left you there! Oh, if Gio thinks he'll get any favours out of Sampo Koski--”

“He said you're old,” Gepard continues, “well, kind of. That you've been around a long time. That time is… Strange, throughout the universe.” He pauses to watch Sampo, to see how he forces himself to relax, shuffling In his chair. “...and that you're old.”

“Don't worry.” Sampo's voice is a hushed tone. his expression as he looks back at Gepard isn't quite apologetic, Isn't quite sad. “I've been careful! Planned the routes out perfectly. Time won't escape you back in Belobog.” 

It isn't what Gepard means. They both know it. That Gepard wants to know Sampo, to peel him back and see who he is, what more there is to him. Sampo is infinite, varied; Gepard feels like he could spool through what makes him him forever. He wonders, sometimes, if he can know him fully, if even Sampo knows the entirety of himself. He wonders, and finds it doesn't change how he feels. 

“I love you,” Gepard says, because it's forcing its way out of him, from the depths of him. Because it's true. Sampo's smile is blinding, his ears starting to burn red. “Love you too, you softy.” 

He hums, thinking a moment. “...what else did Gio say?”

“That he's surprised you could settle down with me, I think?”

“I'm going to murder him next I see him.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

[higanbana-writer]

Hidden Gaze

Prompt: Soulmate AU where one of your eyes is the same color as your soulmate’s. Pairing: Kyōjurō x Gn!Upper Moon!Reader Part: 1, 2, 3 (coming soon)

“Congratulations on your healthy baby boy!”

The midwife beamed as she placed the crying newborn into Ruka’s waiting arms. She gently cradled her son and despite being clearly exhausted from having just given birth, her eyes shone brightly with pure, unadulterated love and joy as she gazed down at him. Shinjurō, whom had been kneeling by her side during the entire ordeal, now softly wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

“He’s ours...” He murmured, looking at their son with a mixture of pride and awe.

Ruka smiled, leaning down to place a light kiss on her firstborn’s forehead. “Welcome to the world, Kyōjurō.”

Perhaps her actions helped to calm him, as his crying began to subside. His eyes, which had been squinted shut up until that point, began to open.

It should have been another heartwarming occasion for the parents to witness their son’s first look at the world, but what Ruka and Shinjuro saw when his eyes fully opened sent chills down their spines.

Now, it was obvious to anybody who looked at Kyōjurō that, even as a baby, he completely resembled his father. He had a head full of bright yellow hair and forked black eyebrows that even slanted downwards, just like Shinjurō's. So naturally, his eyes would be just like his father’s, right?

It was. Well, sort of. His right eye was a brilliant gold and red, as it should be. His left eye, on the other hand… The iris was a vibrant hue of [color], which, in itself would have been no problem since something called heterochromia existed. No, the problem lay in the fact that the kanji for Upper Moon was etched into that eye.

The warm, loving atmosphere that once filled the room had all but vanished now as Ruka and Shinjurō stared down at their son in horror. Noticing the change in the air, the midwife stopped whatever she had been doing and began heading over to them in concern. “Is something wrong?” She asked, hands reaching out to take the infant.

Shinjurō immediately blocked her, turning his shaken gaze onto her now. “Please leave the room.” It was a simple request, but his tone left no room for argument.

The midwife hesitated for a long moment before slowly nodding. “Very well. I shall be right outside if you need me.”

He watched her leave, making sure she properly shut the door behind her before instantly focusing back on his wife and child.

“His soulmate-“ Ruka stopped, unable to bring herself to finish her sentence.

“…I know.” His grip on her shoulder tightened as he stared into his child’s mismatched eyes. “He’ll have to hide that eye until he meets them.”

Fate must have been playing a cruel trick on them. A baby, born into a family of Flame Hashiras and destined to become a Flame Hashira himself in the future, having an Upper Moon demon as a soulmate. Shinjurō could only imagine the kinds of accusations that would be thrown at Kyōjurō if anybody saw his eye.

Traitor. Demon spy. A fake Hashira.

And as horrible as this was, they both knew; there was nothing they could do to change their son’s soulmate bond.

A single tear rolled down Ruka’s cheek as she felt for her son, knowing the hardships that lay ahead of him. Not only would he have to hide his eye from his peers, but he would also have to one day face his soulmate, a creature that was supposed to humanity’s sworn enemy and someone he was meant to kill.

Shinjurō pressed his face into his wife’s hair, unable to bear looking at their child any longer. “Everything will be alright.” He whispered in reassurance, though it instead sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.

Kyōjurō, blissfully unaware of his parents’ distress, let out a soft coo as he snuggled up against Ruka.

---

Seven centuries.

You had been alive for over seven centuries. That was a long time to stay alive for. And during all those years, not once had there ever been an indication that you had a soulmate somewhere out in the vast world. So why was it that after a whole seven centuries, your soulmate suddenly popped into existence??

It had been like any normal night for you: eating people, hunting down demon slayers, and looking for any clues about the blue spider lily. It’d been completely normal up until the point when you happened to catch a glimpse of your reflection and saw that your left eye had become a completely different color. No, we’re not talking about the ‘getting a bit red because your eyes are strained’ kind of different color. It went from being [color] to suddenly being two shades of red and gold.

But the most important thing was, your eye no longer had the Upper Moon kanji in them. The very thing that had been bestowed upon you by Muzan was now gone.

You panicked. You knew what had happened and spent the entire week trying to think of ways to regain your left eye back. Nothing you tried work, obviously.

Why now? Why had your soulmate decided to show up after seven centuries?? You had been perfectly content working under Muzan as an Upper Moon before they decided to be born. Well, if there was one thing you were grateful for, it’d be the fact that you still had your other eye which showed your rank. Better to be known as Rank Three, rather than to be just as a Upper Moon.

You absolutely dreaded the next time you would have to face Muzan. This rarely happened to a demon, but the last time it did – and that demon happened to be a Lower Moon – Muzan killed them. Maybe he had been in a bad mood or maybe he simply didn’t like the concept of soulmates. Well, whatever the reason was, you just prayed that the same fate wouldn’t befall you.

Thankfully, when Muzan finally saw you with your ‘new’ eye, he didn’t behead you. Yay for that! He simply gave it a disdainful look before addressing other matters. Somehow though, that disdain of his bothered you a lot more than the thought of getting killed.

After all, you were Upper Moon Three for a reason. You were powerful and dutifully carried out everything he asked of you. When you did well, he praised you. So naturally, you did your best to always meet his expectations and more. For him to show contempt towards you for something you couldn’t even control was simply unbearable. You wanted to be praised again. You had to please your master.

Following that incident, you tried your best to track down your soulmate. Once the two of you met, both of your eyes would go back to the way they originally looked. Then, you’d kill them for putting you through such a thing. You prided yourself in being a demon and demons didn’t need soulmates. Demons were perfect creatures all on their own.

Yet, even after two decades had passed, you hadn’t been able to find your soulmate. But over the course of the years, you’d learn to grow fond of your soulmate’s eye. At first, it had been a source of shame for you. An Upper Moon without their proper title? Preposterous! However, the more you had looked at it, the more you began to realize how beautiful it was. The vivid gold that wrapped around the red reminded you of a flame. A warm and inviting flame.

At some point, you realized that you’d actually begun to look forward to meeting your soulmate. What were they like? Perhaps they’d be cheerful and affectionate. Or perhaps they would be more on the mellow side. Well, whatever they were like, you were certain that they couldn’t be anybody bad. After all, such a gentle looking eye could only belong to somebody with a noble soul – somebody unlike you, whom had killed a countless number of people to get to where you were now.

Did your soulmate wonder about you, too? Did they like your eye, or were they repulsed by it? Were they even aware of the meaning behind the kanji etched into them?

You let out a despondent sigh, only to look up at your surrounds with a start. Oh, you’d gotten so absorbed in your thoughts that you failed to notice where you were going. Heaving another sigh, this time one of annoyance, you glanced at the buildings around you.

Having taken on your human form, you were currently in the heart of a bustling city, looking for somebody to prey on. However, it was taking you longer than usual as you were feeling rather picky tonight.

Maybe you would try another street – see if there was someone suitable there. Weaving through the crowd of people, you made your way to the edge of the street and towards an alleyway, planning to take a shortcut through it. But before you could enter the alley, a flash of orange caught your attention from the corner of your eye. You turned to look and saw a man with hair the color of fire walking past. Under the white and yellow haori he wore, you were able to catch a glimpse of a Demon Slayer uniform.

He was clearly a demon slayer, so why did you feel the need to stop him before he disappeared into the crowd? You hadn’t been in a fighting mood when the night began and certainly weren’t right now. But something about him seemed to be calling to you, begging you to reach out before it was too late.

So that’s exactly what you did. Before you had any time to process what you were doing, you had grabbed onto the back of his haori.

“Wait!” The words left your lips in a desperate plea.

The man stiffened upon hearing your voice and when he turned around, his hand was on the hilt of his katana. Except, you didn’t see it. All you saw was his eye and those exact same colors you’d seen numerous times in your own reflection. His left eye was covered by an eyepatch, but you knew exactly what was hidden behind it.

As you looked at him, warmth spread throughout you and suddenly it was like the piece to your heart that you didn’t even know had been missing, had been fitted in at last. From the way he stared back at you with widened eyes, hand dropping away from his weapon, you could tell he felt it too. And in that moment, it felt like it was just the two of you there, the busy street fading out into nothing more than a dull buzz.

You didn't know how long the two of you were standing there and gazing at each other, but you were the first to break out of your stupor. Though you weren’t sure how to feel about him being a demon slayer, the one thing you were sure about was that you no longer held the desire to kill him. Instead, you wanted to get to know him, to bond with him, to fall in love, and to spend eternity with him.

Tentatively, you smiled at him.

“Hi there, soulmate.”

[somewherebetweendisorder]

Good Morning

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

Warnings: fluff and badly written smut, oral (f receiving), Eddie cums in his pants

A/N: I do plan on editing this and hopefully making it less cringe later but we'll see if I get to that

~~~

Eddie in a sweater has you melting for a sleepy sort of domesticity with the man before you. The sweater is yours, a dark mossy green, and it fits him nicely, snug across his shoulders. His hair is swept up into a low bun, bangs kissing his eyebrows, hands moving out of habit to start a pot of coffee for the morning. He hasn't seen you yet, sure you're still asleep where he left you in bed, hoping to make you breakfast before you wake. He hums to himself softly, something familiar.

He pauses, hums the same part, pulls a face when it doesn't sound quite right before starting over again. Sensing you, he looks up, finds you leaning against the doorframe, his tee shirt slipping off your shoulder, revealing the lovebites he left behind the night before. A smile brightens his face, explodes in his eyes, the birth of a star, happy as though he hasn't seen you in ages. He realizes his surprise is ruined, a frown crinkling the corners of his eyes, but he brushes it off quickly.

"Hi, baby. Good morning."

Voice still thick with sleep, eyes hazy, he crosses to you, arms linking behind your back, tugging you close. "Hi."

Your smile is sunny, brighter than the dewy light spilling through the slanted blinds, pooling on the thin, worn carpet, providing hot spots for Cleopatra to bask in. He smiles back, diving in to smack wet, little kisses across your neck, reveling in your breathy gasp, taking it as encouragement to keep going.

Of course, it's a plea to keep going, just like when you finger the loose baby hairs at the back of his neck, urging him closer, lips caressing the shell of his ear, whispering his name the way you do.

"Eddieeeee."

It's somewhere between a whine and a moan, a desperate cry to be closer, have more of him. You'd crawl inside of him if you could. The thought, honest as it is, is so bizarre and bordering disturbing it has you huffing a laugh into his skin, tickling the sensitive flesh, distracting him.

"What's so funny?"

You shake your head, hair soft as it strokes his cheek, catching his attention. One of his hands comes up to finger the strands, curling them around his fingers, tugging gently, eyes on yours, waiting for an explanation.

"I'd crawl inside of you." He blinks at the words, not a hint of judgment in the earthy depths, processing.

"Like a parasite? Awww, that's so cute, baby girl."

"What? No, I mean, I guess it could be like that. But I mean how you just look so soft and warm and kissable and- I want to bite your face off and cuddle."

Eddie tries to keep a straight face to his credit, but your eyes are so serious, imploring, lips twisted into a little pout and he can't help but laugh, the sound deep and throaty, laced with the remaining edge of his morning voice. "I mean, fuck gorgeous, I'd be so down for that."

"Stop laughing at me. I'm serious."

"I'm not laughing at you! You're just cute, 's all."

The huff dancing past your lips ruffles his bangs, fans his face, has him leaning in for a kiss, despite your feigned struggle to pull away. "Don't even pull that with me. You know you love me."

You do, irrevocably. Up on tiptoes to meet his lips, hot and heady, his tongue swiping a bold line across the seam of your lips. The coffee maker beeps, dragging you both back down to earth, smiling like fools.

"You're a weird one, Y/N."

Rather than argue you cup his cheeks in your hands, studying his eyes, the honeyed brown, molten chocolate, and flecks of something darker. He smiles, cheeks squished together before you lick a bold, sticky stripe from his jaw to his temple.

"Damn right, Munson. You knew that from the jump. Now hurry up with the coffee so we can go back to bed."

You dance away to lean against the dinette, inching back onto the table until your feet dangle above the floor. It's cold against your legs, Eddie's shirt doing little to cover you.

"Someone woke up bossy this morning." He steps close, between your thighs, cupping the back of your head as he leans in for another kiss, his other hand dropping to squeeze the doughy flesh of your hip, dragging you right to the edge of the table.

"I wake up bossy every morning," you gasp, right against his lips which tip up into a smile.

"Mm. That's true."

Then there isn't much room for talking, his tongue licking into your mouth, a bit too wet, but entirely welcome, hot and sticky. His fingers are slowly creeping under the hem of his shirt, pushing it up your body, revealing an expanse of soft flesh. He's leaning forward, encouraging you back against the table, lips eager, mapping a hungry trail across your jaw, down your neck. He lingers here, teeth sinking into the tender column of flesh, eager to leave yet another sweet reminder.

You moan as his fingers brush over your nipple, back arching off the table enough to allow him to pull your shirt over your head. Eddie's hips buck into you at the sound, painfully hard in his pajamas, pressing right against where you want him most. Where you need him most. The swell of sensations has your eyes fluttering closed, fingers curling into his hair, releasing it from the confines of the hair tie.

"Eddie," you breathe, opening your eyes, meeting his gaze as his tongue flicks out over your nipple, the bud stiffening under the wet heat of his tongue. He places open-mouth kisses across your chest, laving away at your skin, spurred on by your breathy praise.

You're nearly unaware of his strong fingers tugging your underwear down your legs, distracted by the scorching trail of his lips down the valley of your breasts, across the sensitive skin of your stomach, placing a reverent kiss first on one hip, then the other.

He's on his knees, dark eyes blown with lust, appreciating the view before he dives in. Something in your eyes must give you away because he's leaning forward to place a sweet kiss right against your clit, and then there's nothing sweet left. He moves against you, eager and wet, until your fingers are knotting in his hair, voice pitching high in a whine, back arching off the table.

You ride out your orgasm against his face, nose prodding deliciously at your clit until you're tugging him up by his hair, intent on kissing him. The taste of yourself on his tongue is intoxicating, thigh slotting between his legs as he ruts against you. You know when he cums, a shudder rolling up his spine, arms stiffening around you, a low growl falling past his lips.

You stay like that, his body heavy atop yours, coming back down to earth second by second, his nose pressed into your neck, your fingers drawing lazy patterns across his back beneath the sweater.

"I think the coffee's done," he finally mumbles into your skin, his smile evident in his voice.

"Oh? Is it? I hadn't noticed."

His lips find yours once more, one last saccharine, searing kiss before he pushes himself up, once again trying to prepare breakfast. You follow him up, curling your arms around his chest, forehead pressed to his back.

"Good morning, Eds."

[kendrene]

crudely compliment appearance - jillian and mother superion :)

Afternoon training sessions have become an unexpected form of entertainment within the OCS. The late afternoon slot, after the flagstones in the courtyard have gone from boiling hot to merely warm, and slanting sunlight paints across the stained glass of the cathedral in sparks of orange-gold.

It’s at that time, as the day fades first to memory then dream, that Mother Superion calls the new recruits to the training mats one by one and wipes the floor with them for a good hour and a half. 

“I didn’t think someone that old could move so quickly.” Today, Ava sits astride the banister ringing the upper cloister, back pressed against a marble column. She’s still flushed from their own training, the messy braid she gathered her hair in to keep it out of the way slowly coming undone. Beatrice tries hard not to stare. “How old is Supes exactly, by the way? Like sixty?” 

Mary makes a disgusted sound deep in her throat.

“What?” Ava raises an eyebrow. The sun is pretty much gone, dipped behind the outer buildings, but a stray reflection crowns her head in fire. Beatrice’s focus drifts from the discussion again. To Ava. To the miracle of having her back by their side. Her side. Until the words Ava adds next. “She’s ancient, right? She gives off that vibe.”

“I don’t think I should ask—” Mary starts.

“You most definitely should not.” Beatrice interjects. She can sort of tell where this is going, and for once hopes to be wrong. 

“—but what vibe do you mean, Ava?” 

“Y’know, the old-dude-in-the-Bible vibe. What’s his face? Methuser-something.”

It’s such a burden to always be right.

“Methuselah.” Beatrice enunciates slowly. She plants both elbows on the banister, leaning in the space left between Ava and Mary. “And I can guarantee Mother Superion isn’t 969.”

“Have you seen her birth certificate or something?”

“Ava—”

“I’m just asking, okay?” Ava throws her hands up, placatingly. “I mean, she’s old, but also hot, kind of? It’s hard to put an actual age on her, really.”

“Please—” Mary is cut off by a yelp and a crash. The three of them look down in unison to see that one of the recruits is sprawling, weaponless, in the middle of a pile of upturned equipment. Camila, who’s overseeing training with Superion for the day, helps the girl up. “— do not say that ever again.” Mary continues. 

“Oh? Are you afraid of the truth?” 

“Both of you shut up and look.” Down below someone new is stepping on the mat, a stave clutched nervously in her hands. “It’s Yasmine’s turn.” 

“Five euros she lasts less than three minutes.” Ava immediately says.

“Ten euros she lasts at least five.” Mary snipes back.

Beatrice shakes her head. “You should be ashamed. Twenty euros and I say she actually disarms Mother Superion.”

“Unlikely.”

“Impossible.”

Beatrice crosses her arms.

“You ought to support your Sisters in times of— wow.” 

Mother Superion does something with her cane that even Beatrice’s eyes can’t follow, and Yasmine stumbles back, unbalanced. Trips on her own feet, ending up much the same way of the previous recruit, except that Yasmine, somehow, has kept a hold of her weapon. 

“You were saying?” Ava, smug as ever, sticks her tongue out.

“She’s still armed.” Yasmine is picking herself up, using the staff like the cane Superion carries with her everyday but has no need of anymore. “It doesn’t count.”

“Fine.” Ava nods. “Looks like they’re going for round two, anyway. Care to add pizza to our little bet?” 

“Double cheese and mushroom from the Italian place in town.” Beatrice says absently. Mother Superion has picked two other girls from the ranks and they’ve surrounded her, circling to find the right opening and strike. “I’m sure Cam will let you borrow the money if you buy her pizza, too.”

“Bold of you to assume that I’ll lose.”

“Bolder of you to assume that you won’t.”

Banter quickly dies off in the face of what next goes on at their feet. It all becomes a blur. Strike, riposte, repeat. The only noise that can be heard is the clak-clak-clak of the staffs clashing as the girls seek to score a first hit. Superion seems able to block everything they can think of throwing at her. 

“Oh,” Someone breathes out a little shakily next to Beatrice’s ear. “I’d totally hit that.”

Jillian Salvius has become, much like the late afternoon spectacles, a permanent fixture in these parts. Most days there’s something that needs mending, some new piece of tech Jillian wants them to try to help them in the coming war. Beatrice always thought it strange so much of it is personally delivered, and Jillian’s (probably unintentional) confession puts the situation under a brighter, blinding light.

“You’d what?” Ava’s voice rings out over the courtyard and training grinds to a halt. Everyone is staring up.

Dusk has extended its cold, blue hand on them all, but even in the fading light Beatrice can tell the tips of Jillian’s ears are heated red. 

“Isn’t that what you young people say?" She shifts on the balls of her feet, awkward, leaning away from Superion's hawk-like line of sight. "I’m trying to stay on top of idiomatic shifts in—” 

“Yeah,” Ava will remark sometimes later, after Mother Superion appeared among them and told Jillian to stay while the rest of them scattered like leaves in a storm. “I bet she’s trying to stay on top of someone alright…”

[prosperdemeter2]

Have a little something this Friday

As I recover from COVID. It's the elusive Daniel Lives!AU:

“Evan.” She scolded, her voice traveling expertly over the din of the emergency room and yet interrupting no one. That was a talent Eddie didn’t have yet. He wasn’t sure if he ever would. “Don’t tell me you’re here because you got hurt again.” 

Again. 

Eddie filed that away for later. Maybe they were close with Evan not because he was the bartender at their favorite restaurant but because he was a frequent flier. But he didn’t look like a patient. The pocket of his jeans even had a little visitor’s ID badge pinned to it, his name written in neat, slanted handwriting. “No.” Evan shook his head with a crooked smile, rubbed his thumb over the pink splotch above his eye when he caught sight of Eddie a mere step behind her. “I’m visiting Maddie for lunch.” 

Hen relaxed. Eddie didn’t think he knew her well enough to know the difference in how she carried herself and yet he recognized it all the same. The slump of her shoulders, the set of her hips. “Just Maddie today? Not Doctor Kendal?” She said the name like it didn’t taste good in her mouth and Evan caught it with an uneasy glance over his shoulder and a roll of his own eyes. 

“Just Maddie.” Evan coughed and shifted his feet. “My sister,” he provided for Eddie’s benefit. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” Eddie waved from by his hip. “Brother’s a doctor, sister is a…?” 

“Nurse.” 

“Nurse.” Eddie nodded in thanks. “Decided not to go into the family business?” 

“Could you imagine?” Evan laughed and ducked his head. “I’d be, like, the worst medical professional ever. No bedside manner.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short.” Hen scolded like it was second nature. “You’re a bar manager at twenty-seven. Most people don’t get there until they’re in their forties.” 

Evan shrugged off the praise. “I thought you guys didn’t go past the doors. Like that’s your rule.” 

Hen rolled her eyes at him. “It’s not a rule.” It sort of was a rule. It wasn’t enforced or anything, but a suggestion turned into a superstition from Bobby’s lips. Don’t go past the doors, he had told Eddie on his first call. Our job stops right here. And then they’d go on another call, do it all over again until it breathed of routine. But sometimes they ran out of equipment before they got back to the station and the hospitals kept extra supplies on hand for them to stock up whenever they needed it. “We need to stock up. Bobby’s outside if you want to say hey.” 

Evan shrugged but made no motion to leave, and the motion of his shoulders knocked his quarter-zip just slightly off center from where it sat on his frame, unveiling a small scar at the base of his neck and the corner of a tattoo. “I have to swing upstairs,” he explained for his reasoning of why he wasn’t leaving the hospital anytime soon. 

“Everything okay?” Eddie asked, frowning with his eyebrows. 

Most people didn’t choose to hang around at a hospital. Granted, most people didn’t also know firefighters by name and rank. Most people, he was beginning to suspect, weren’t Evan Buckley. “Dan works upstairs.” Evan provided with a small, blushing smile. 

It looked good on him. 

Maybe Eddie was biased, because he was pretty sure everything looked good on him. He was more than a little pathetic but, really, it wasn’t like he didn’t have eyes. Still, Evan’s answer didn’t exactly provide Eddie with anything other than a nervous suspicion on just who Dan was. A boyfriend? The brother? A pet dog? The codename of a deadly disease? Really, it could be anything. “Don’t let him hear you call him that.” Hen warned wryly. 

Evan rolled his eyes. “What’s he going to do? Whine about it?” 

“Loudly.” Hen agreed. “But, hey, it’s your ears he’s whining to. Not mine.” 

“Your brother doesn’t work in the ER too?” Eddie asked curiously, hoping for some context of the conversation within a conversation happening. 

“Fuck, no.” Evan scoffed and then flushed at the look from a passing nurse. “Sorry.” He mumbled and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Dan doesn’t have the stomach for that. He works upstairs in oncology.” 

“Cancer,” Eddie hummed. “That’s noble.” 

“Sure.” Evan said with a smile and a bounce on his heels. “He thinks so too.” He had a feeling that was a… sore topic. “How’s Chris doing?” 

Hen blinked. “Chris?” 

It was Eddie’s turn to flush pink. “Uhm,” he cleared his throat. “He’s good.” 

“Everything went okay at his doctor's appointment that earned him two prizes?” 

Hen was staring at the side of Eddie’s face in amazement. He was rapidly becoming aware that he never even told her Christopher’s name. “Yeah, it was just routine. He just had a vaccine he had to get.” Eddie shrugged. “That’s, uhm… I didn’t expect you to remember that.” 

“Why wouldn’t I remember it?” Evan tilted his head with a squint of his eyes. “You and your kid… make quite an impression, dad.” 

The reaction was visceral. Eddie’s stomach twisted, his face was quick to follow suit and Evan’s lips pursed to hide a laugh that tried to bubble out of his throat. “Never again.” Eddie told him with a point.

[sailtomarina]

The Well-Traveled Sage

Hermione x Draco | @hp-yuletide-bliss Day 19: “Oh. Hey. What are you doing here?” | WC 2523 | Rating: M

Hermione pivoted in a slow spiral, beaming at her holiday decorations and patting herself on the back. They’d been up for a couple of weeks now, but she’d gone for a little more effort the day before Christmas for last-minute shoppers that were bound to come scrambling in the door as they usually did.

It wasn’t much, but it was hers: a new and used bookshop she’d dubbed The Well-Traveled Sage. While Hermione did adore new books, there wasn’t quite anything like cracking open an aged tome and inhaling its memories and experiences.

She’d even snagged a delightful older witch by the name of Marina Birchen to spot the kiosk Hermione had built into the front corner of the store overlooking Diagon Alley. Offering coffee, tea, and simple sandwiches, Sage enticed readers and peckish passers-by alike.

Her Christmas decorations had done the same; the numbers from the past month were a testament to that. She’d charmed her wrought-iron sign with multi-coloured lights that caught the eye all the way from the Leaky’s brick entrance. As they drew closer, people were treated to more lights bordering a window display that not only featured those within reading their books and drinking their tea, but added a filter that cast them in a different festive setting each day. Today, it would be one of her childhood favorites, the Isle of Misfit Toys. Those looking in would see patrons dressed up like nutcrackers, plush toys, and elves. Yesterday, it had been an Ice Kingdom with frozen flooring and furniture, each patron seemingly adorned in layers of frost, their hair and eyelashes sparkling white.

Subtle festive instrumentals played in the background upon entering. While Hermione loved carols, it would not do for overly loud music to distract customers from what mattered most. She wanted them to browse uninterrupted, to come up to her with questions that she could easily discuss without having to project her voice over another one of Celestina Warbeck’s hits.

Her extra touch today would be Patronus-like apparitions shaped like her otter playfully rolling and jumping over one another just outside her storefront before tucking tail and running for the door, only to vanish and repeat their performance. So focused was she on admiring her charmwork that she didn’t notice she now had an audience.

“Fancy.”

“Oh!” Hermione spun so quickly at the familiar voice that she found herself slipping on the patch of ice she hadn’t yet gotten to removing.

She braced herself for impact, eyes squeezing shut.

Warm arms wrapped around her and hoisted her back onto her feet. She opened her eyes to stare straight up into the bemused face of Draco Malfoy.

He didn’t let go of her straight away, as she would have expected. They stood there puffing out clouds and noses pink in the chill morning air. Without even thinking, her fingers curled where the rested against his chest in search for heat in the thick wool.

“You alright there, Granger?” he asked, his voice low and lilting in amusement.

It was one thing for her childhood nemesis to save her from falling flat on her arse, but quite another for him to hold onto her and check on her wellbeing. She was tempted to scoff and shove him away for the sheer cheek of hugging her so closely.

Except he smelled really, really good.

She couldn’t stop her eyes from fluttering shut once more and taking a deep inhale.

Pine needles. Cedarwood. Some kind of combination of vanilla and cinnamon.

“How dare you smell so good, Malfoy.” She said it without opening her eyes, still luxuriating in the olfactory embrace.

It was his huff that coaxed them open. One white blond eyebrow arched along with the slanted smile on his lips. “I apologize for offending you so.”

Still the absence of any sort of malice or distaste. If anything, he looked amused.

How odd.

“Right then.” She finally stepped back and he slowly let go, almost as if he were worried she would slip yet again. “Thank you for catching me.”

He eyeballed the ground at their feet. “We should probably get rid of this, don’t you think?”

Without even being asked to, he pulled out his wand and began swirling it around in the familiar strokes of vanishing the instrument of her near-demise. She joined in and, together, they cleared the entire section of cobblestone mere minutes.

“Don’t worry about the rest; cleaners will come by and take care of it before most of the shoppers arrive. I just like to get a head start,” Hermione instructed. She turned to look at him now that their work was complete.

The wizard just had to go and look just as fine as he smelled.

The wool cloak to which she’d clung barely even scratched the surface of his devastating masculinity. Draco Malfoy had grown up.

Gone was the youth of her more recent memories. While he’d never suffered the half-starved look she and the boys had gotten over the year on the run, she distinctly remembered Malfoy’s slender frame and how he looked like he could have been blown over by a gust of wind. He’d looked even worse when she testified for him before the Wizengamot, chained as he was to the chair in the center of the room. She’d been pleasantly surprised at the thank you letter she’d received from him not a month later when he’d been released to one year of house arrest followed by three in service to the Ministry.

Now he towered above her with broad shoulders and a distinctly solid look to him.

“My, you are tall.”

The sound that spilled from his lips was so thoroughly unexpected that it took a moment for Hermione to realize that he was chuckling. It wasn’t that she hadn’t ever heard him laugh in all their years as students, but the delightful sound had certainly never been directed at her in such a warm tone that made her feel a part of the experience rather than its victim.

“It helps that I don’t have a reason to slouch anymore. Also, you are short.”

She must have made some expression of indignation because that chuckle was back in more force and if they hadn’t just cleared all the ice she might have been concerned he’d lose his balance.

“I’ll have you know that I am of average height for the average British woman. You are far above the average for the average British man. What are you even doing here this early in the morning, anyway?”

He raised a brow, whether that was at her vehement defense of her (average) height, or due to her swift transition, she couldn’t say. Perhaps, it was both.

“Well,” he said in a measured pace, “I suppose I’m here aiming to do exactly what a business owner like yourself would hope for on Christmas Eve.”

Before he could continue, she grinned. “Who’d you forget to get a gift for, Malfoy?”

This time, it was his turn to look chagrined. It brought her a strange modicum of comfort in its familiarity to that tone he’d get as a kid when someone didn’t acknowledge his family name. He was still Malfoy, no matter how attractive she now found him.

“I did not forget so much as I was forcefully put into a position of obligatory exchange.”

He almost growled at the explanation, teeth snapping shut and withholding the name of his ire.

“Well, in that case, follow me. You look like you could use a cuppa.”

She spun on her heel, smugly noting that this time there was no chance of her falling, and walked through her door without looking back.

He followed her, of course.

Once he’d been served a cup of Earl Grey, he stared at her rather than sip from the perfectly-brewed beverage. “Hm. Theo was right.”

“What about Theo?” She looked back at him curiously.

Unlike with Malfoy, Hermione had remained in touch with Theo Nott, or, more accurately, she had finally gotten to know him. Because, unlike when they were students and had ignored one another for still unknown reasons, they finally had occasion to speak. Gone were the House divides and meddling peers. There was simply her shop, the books, and a shared passion for literature.

Theo, it turned out, was a man of impeccable and varied tastes.

The first time he’d come around, Hermione had been justifiably suspicious. He’d never given her undue grief, that was for certain, but he certainly had never bothered to stop Malfoy and his cronies from bullying her. On occasion, he’d even joined in on the laughter.

Perhaps the changes in his attitude were signs of her current predicament with Draco Malfoy. Then, like now, she’d been completely thrown off course when the curly-haired swot (because yes, as a swot, herself, she was allowed to call out one of her own) marched up to the check-out desk to demand audience with the “owner of this establishment.”

Once he realized that he was already speaking with her, he tore into Hermione with a ferocity that would have had Madam Pince glowing with pride.

The grievance?

She’d slotted Widdle’s Modern Applications of Ancient Arithmancy next to Wideman’s Ancient Applications of Misunderstood Arithmancy.

Alphabetical organization aside, her error had been in assuming that the two belonged in the same section of Arithmancy—according to Theo, the latter was obviously a Divination text.

Upon further inspection, she’d been forced to agree with him.

Thus began a mutually beneficial friendship based on a shared fascination in far more fields of interest than Hermione would have ever expected from the former Slytherin. She’d always known Theo was intelligent, but he must’ve gone to some lengths to hide the full extent of their commonalities for unknown reasons.

Might Malfoy intrigue her in a different way?

“He told me I’d find what I needed here. With you.”

He stared unblinking at her, grey eyes bright in curiosity. Hermione willed herself not to look away.

What did that even mean, that he’d find whatever he needed from her? What was Theo up to?

Drawing herself up as tall as her stature would allow, Hermione endeavored to discover just that.

“What is it that you’re looking for?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Surely you have some idea already? This is a bookstore, with books.” Circe, did she sound as annoying as she felt? Damn, Theo, and his mysterious intentions.

“Well, I already have a lot of books, an entire library of them, in fact.”

Ah, yes, she knew of the Malfoy Library. It was legendary among booksellers and readers alike. Untold numbers of priceless volumes supposedly filled its shelves and most would give an organ, or perhaps their first-born child, to spend even fifteen minutes in the esteemed collection.

“But you’re not shopping for yourself, are you? Isn’t this a last-minute gift? What if they want books?”

He nodded slowly, still staring down at her, his expression unreadable. “That’s true,” he mused, “though I would think they’d be more delighted in a first edition.”

Now she was annoyed.

“Alright, Malfoy, spill. Who is it? Maybe if I know them I can help pinpoint where we can start looking.”

He hesitated for a moment, which only served to burn her curiosity even brighter.

“It’s for Millicent Bulstrode.”

Hermione’s first instinct was disappointment. His gifttee was a witch. Then, she was forced to confront that feeling. Why was she disappointed? Surely she hadn’t hoped his reasoning some ploy to capture her attentions…had she?

Her second instinct was a direct result of the witch’s name. Millicent. Bulstrode. Another former bully, but, thanks to Theo, another connection that was quickly becoming frightening in its fast familiarity. The signs had been there all along with Hermione’s unfortunate introduction sans Millicent’s knowledge to their love for cats. Not only did they hold fast to their feline companions, but they were coincidentally both active writers in the Gilderoy Lockhart Fanfic Forums.

Oh, how they’d squealed in filthy glee once they learned each others’ handles and gushed on about how much they loved the others’ works. Sure, the genuine article of man was a hankerchief stain on humanity and currently waxing poetic to anyone who would listen to him in St. Mungo’s. But! His works, lies, yes, thoroughly exaggerated, yes, but ripe with opportunity for elaboration and extrapolation and whatever other ‘e’ word (dare she say it?) they could concoct together.

“I’m afraid to ask now.”

Malfoy looked at her warily, almost leaning backwards from the look on her face. She didn’t have a mirror anywhere nearby, but she suspected she looked some combination of gleeful and debauched.

“Mills, huh? I know just what she’ll like.”

They had, in fact, talked about inspirational material earlier that week.

The sound that emerged from Malfoy’s throat when she turned down the Poetry aisle and stopped in front of one specific shelf defied description.

Sod it.

It came somewhat close to the pathetic noise he’d made when he’d been righteously scratched by Buckbeak all those years ago. She peeked furtively through the corner of her eye, but didn’t see any blood. So, emotional distress, it was.

“I, uh, still don’t see why Theo sent me here. We do have poetry in our library…” his voice trailed off as he brought his face close to one particular shelf, eyes nearly bugging out of his head. “This cover shouldn’t be displayed openly.”

He gestured towards a copy of Kim Adinnizio’s “What Is This Thing Called Love?” Hermione thought the teal sepia photo cover tasteful.

“What? Do you have something against women in knickers?” Face hidden, the woman lingered in a bedroom next to a reclining man, the implications clear. It really was modest considering the contents.

“No, but,” his face bloomed as he continued to look on, “I don’t think I can look Millie in the face and give this to her.”

“Oh, now you have to buy this, along with this one, and this one, ooh! This, as well.”

He looked comical holding a tower of books. She didn’t bother telling him she normally made sure patrons had baskets with feather-light charms; she found she liked seeing the way his arms naturally bulged beneath his sleeves.

“Well, if you’re certain…” Malfoy craned his neck to peek at the spines.

“There’s a healthy mixture of poets there that will have Mills crowing with pleasure for the veritable future. Trust me, she’ll love it.”

His attention back on her, she warmed at the way his hooded gaze dropped to her lips, then scanned boldly down her figure before flicking back up to her eyes.

“I take it that if you know her preferences, that you share some of them?”

Oh, Theo. You damnable, lovable darling.

“Witches never tell.”

He cocked his head and stepped closer. “What if I ask very nicely? Perhaps, over a bottle of my finest in the company of an exceedingly rare book collection?”

Well, there went her knickers.

“Let me ring you up. I get off at 6.”

And maybe, just maybe, she’d get off again Christmas morning.

Cross-posted on Tumblr and AO3.

I wrote this on the plane between WA and NY in a fit of inspiration and ended up finishing it up while we waited in Newark Airport waiting for our ride that was stuck in the Holland Tunnel for about 2 hours due to an earlier collision. Who knew I had it in me to write with so many distractions! There was a woman yelling into her phone about her dastardly family staying at the Waldorf and where the hell was her private jet, and then there as an elderly lady who had mistakenly called two different car services and trying to figure out how to cancel the second after the first found her wearing a sign with her name. Chaos!

I’ll be on vacation for the next week so my updates will likely be spotty, but DO enjoy yourself this holiday :) I’ll still try to update whenever I can!

[daintyduck99]

 maybe they pick up on a project or work on a crazy idea they had when they were little (ex; writing a song together)  and Peterpatterlina

It's strange, seeing them in her room now.

Her childhood bedroom hasn't changed much, but for all of the ways that they have…she has to admit that it's sort of cute, how Luke and Reggie have retained their curiosity. She smiles as they dart around the room like eager puppies, trying to take in everything anew all at once.

Reggie slows, then stops, to stare at her corkboard. He reaches out to ghost his fingers over their miniature faces, beaming and bright and smushed cheek-to-cheek.

"I still have a copy of this one, too."

Luke comes to look, draping himself over Reggie’s shoulder. "Wasn't that—"

"I'm surprised you haven't asked about the box," Julie blurts, biting her lip as they turn.

Anything to avoid bringing up their kindergarten wedding. Their "romance," put into practice as soon as they learned the word. Their parents had laughed about it: their innocence, their ambition.

It's a dream that she foolishly never outgrew. Even when it became obvious that the two of them don't need her.

Even now, after a few years of sullen, self-imposed exile to a university on the other side of the country.

One chance encounter and she'd immediately melted, mindlessly agreeing when they asked if they could tag along.

It should be awkward, but they're so…

So…

Luke chuckles, disrupting her reverie.

"Nah. You'd wish you left us at the grocery store. We're not seventeen anymore—we won't pester you about it if it's private, Jules. Cross our hearts."

"We," Reggie scoffs, dodging as Luke goes to ruffle his hair and snaring him in a headlock, instead. He flashes Julie a grin. "I was classier than that, right, Julie?"

Luke breaks free, and Reggie's not fast enough to save his hair this time. He squawks as Luke thoroughly musses it.

"Please. You used to make snow angels on her bed, babe."

"Yeah, because I'm nice, and she let me!"

Ridiculous. They're ridiculous.

It sends her heart into her throat.

"Julie?"

She swallows. "Sorry. Just…remembering."

And…she's got them on the verge of tears, too. She exhales, summoning a smile.

"But you're both right. We're not teenagers anymore, so. I'll let you see…some of the stuff in my dreambox."

Reggie quirks his eyebrow expectantly, and she laughs a little in spite of herself.

"And yes, you were very classy. Happy?"

He lifts his chin with a smug little smile.

A whumpf steals their attention, and they twist to see that Luke has already plopped the box down on her bed.

He raises his hands as Julie narrows her eyes. "I wasn't gonna open it!"

"Oh—" She nudges him out of the way. "Shoo. Both of you, wait on the couch."

She carefully sifts through the contents of her box. There are dreams missing, waiting in a shoebox in her luggage, but she'll unpack those later. Now…

Now she's finding fragments of her younger self, corners of her heart that she hasn't explored in quite some time.

She lifts a napkin from the box with shaking hands.

"Guys…"

Their eyes get bright and wide with awe as she presents it to them. Reggie's lips part.

"Is that?"

"Yeah," Luke says softly. "Our vows."

It's obvious that they all wrote on them, too, even if they didn't finish. Her loopy letters, Reggie's slanted scrawl, and Luke's chicken scratch are all there.

Luke cocks his head, and she and Reggie share a smile, because that can only mean one thing…

He hears a song.

"Luke, you can't be serious," she protests, but it comes out way too fond. "We were five when we wrote that, it can't be good."

He shrugs. "Maybe. But the passion is there. And the melody—"

He looks at Reggie. They have a brief conversation with their eyes before Luke looks back at her, all open and sincere.

"The melody has always been there, too."

"We should finish it," Reggie adds.

Julie's knees threaten to give out. Her heart beats wildly in her throat.

"No, no, I should…I need to apologize. I don't…whatever this is, I don't deserve it. I ran, and ghosted you, and I'm so sorry. It didn't even…I've been so childish when I should have just said something…"

Gentle hands haul her out of the floor. She doesn't know when she sank, or when she started crying, but they bundle her between them, and she lets them hold her.

Reggie rubs her shoulder. "You know, we should've said something, too, instead of waiting, hoping, making you miserable."

"Yeah. We're sorry, too. And Julie," Luke murmurs, brushing tears and curls from her face, voice thick with emotion, "you deserve the world. Whatever you want."

She lets out a watery laugh. "Even you?"

Reggie sweeps away the rest of her tears.

"That melody isn't complete without you, sweetheart. It works best with you in it."

"Luke always did love three part harmonies," she teases before he can say something that'll start her crying again.

He snorts but doesn't deny it.

"So what'll it be, boss?"

She closes her eyes. It's almost surreal.

It feels like no time has passed at all since she last spoke to them, and yet…

"I don't think…we can finish it. But we can work on it. Maybe…see where it goes?"

She's met with identical smiles when she dares to open her eyes once more.

And when their private ceremony finally happens, it doesn't feel like an ending, but a brand new beginning…

The latest movement in a life-long song.

But they have a callback to the start, of course, in the form of their original vows.

[smbiotics]

Here's a little teaser taste of something I'm writing. Just for the record, it is set in Boruto's timeline-ish, but I take very very little from canon. I take some major liberties, sort of crafting the characters into what I think they actually would be like, not what they become canonically. Enjoy!

Naruto is unsurprised to find Sasuke loitering just past the treeline, invisible to all except those looking for him. He looks skittish, but then he always has been within the walls of Konoha for as long as Naruto has known him, and despite being the village’s current Hokage Naruto can’t bring himself to blame him.

“When I asked you to come over, I sort of expected you to come through the front door,” Naruto announces brashly as he appears just behind Sasuke. Either the Uchiha sensed his approach or he is very good at concealing his initial reaction, because Sasuke doesn’t even flinch.

“You’re a dumbass if you thought I’d stroll into your house like a guest.”

Naruto smiles to himself as he heads for the back of his house. Sasuke, despite himself, follows a couple paces behind him. “Aren’t you one?”

“Obviously, you want something. Some mindless mission you think is within my expertise, I assume. Any excuse to get me away from this forsaken village before it becomes overrun with Chunin candidates and the resultant crowds.” Sasuke slants a pointed look at Naruto as they slow to a stop between two support beams on the covered patio. “So, no. Not exactly a guest.”

Naruto feels words souring in his mouth. He had thought they were having witty banter, something like what they had as kids, but Sasuke has approached this as if it is a business transaction. “Sasuke, I don’t have a mission for you.”

“What, so you invited me over to chat?” Sasuke sneers disdainfully, and Naruto has had enough years of interacting with him to see the uncertainty influencing the reaction. Naruto has sort of pulled the rug out from under his friend, and now he feels wrong-footed.

In his most conversational tone, to smooth over the fight Sasuke is trying to pick, Naruto shrugs, shoving his hands in his pocket. “Nah, not exactly. I kind of hoped we could… talk.”

A look of pure, unfettered panic blooms on Sasuke’s face, and Naruto realizes his mistake just seconds too late. It has been years—nearing 15 now—but Naruto knows what “talk” would make Sasuke look at him like that.

“Wait,” Naruto hurries to say, voice soft and hands in front of him as if to calm a spooked stray. “Not—not that. We don’t have to talk about that, unless—unless you want to.”

Sasuke shakes his head once, firmly, and relaxes somewhat, but it seems even just the barest acknowledgement of the event is enough to keep him on edge, and Naruto knows this won’t fare terribly well for the conversation they actually need to have.

“I—I’m worried about Sanadei, actually.”

Sasuke’s eyebrow drops down in consternation. “Talk to Sakura, then.”

“No, I mean,” Naruto pauses, then takes a steadying breath. “I’m worried about how Sakura is, erm. Is treating him. Sarada, too.”

A long, tense silence lasts between them, and Naruto decides to expand upon his concern, since Sasuke doesn’t seem to have anything to say on the matter.

“Yoretsu tells me,” He begins gingerly, “That Sanadei has been forbidden from seeing him until the day of the exams, and that it may extend well past that if, um, Sanadei’s performance isn’t up to her ‘expectations.’” Naruto leans heavily against the beam behind him, tired suddenly. “That he has been expected to train and practice most hours of the day barring meal times, under strict schedules under Sakura’s direct supervision. I asked Sakura about it yesterday, actually, and she told me it was none of my business.”

Sasuke stares at the ground by Naruto’s feet. “You called me over here to complain about Sanadei’s training schedule?”

“No, it’s—” Naruto sighs heavily, frustrated that he can’t seem to articulate precisely what his issue is. “Sasuke. I think it’s bordering on abuse. I heard that—that Sakura has cut lunch meals out of Sanadei’s schedule, too. And Sarada—she torched Yoretsu’s garden a couple of days ago. Sakura told me that he deserved it. I’m worried about where her headspace is, worried that something may be wrong, and I just want to do anything I can to do right by your children.”

“The Sakura we know today is a ruthless beast I have unwittingly created, listening to no reason,” Sasuke says roughly, looking a little sick. “From neglect. From her—her desperation to make me love her. She has never been able to accept how I am, how I feel for her, and she has turned our children into pawns to gain my favor.”

“You have to say something,” Naruto beseeches. “Sasuke, she is Sanadei’s tormentor, Sarada’s enabler. She won’t listen to me.”

Sasuke barks out a harsh noise that vaguely resembles a laugh. “She won’t listen to me either. Do you think I like how she treats them? Better yet, do you think—do you think I even wanted to marry her? She—she takes what she wants, doesn’t take no for a fucking answer.” He stares at Naruto with his one visible eye that speaks louder than any other two eyes could ever accomplish. He had always spoken primarily with his eyes. “She’s delusional, Naruto. She thinks that if she turns my children into unstoppable weapons that I—”

“Have you even tried?” Naruto interrupts on a hiss, tired of the excuses and the words and the frank lack of action. “Have you ever actually sat Sakura down and talked to her once in your whole life? Because I seem to recall your “hints” when we were kids and she was throwing herself all over you. You did your whole cold-shoulder routine, but I don’t remember you ever actually talking to her like she’s a human being.”

A fire blazes in the abyssal umber of Sasuke’s sole visible eye. “I shouldn’t have to spell everything out to her.”

“But maybe you do!” Naruto advances just so and Sasuke frantically retreats as if burned, back bumping the support beam behind him. Slowing to a halt, Naruto places his hands upon his hips with a sigh. He had always been a wounded animal, despite Naruto’s best efforts to nurse him back to health. “Sasuke, I don’t say any of this just because of Yoretsu, because of how it affects him. I care about Sanadei and Sarada. They’re both good kids—I love them. And if you would stay in the village long enough to have a single conversation with either of them, I think you’d know why I’m pushing this so hard.” He looks up at Sasuke through his lashes, takes in his defensive stance, wishes this weren’t so difficult. “I wouldn’t normally criticize or give unwarranted advice on anyone’s parenting style. But this is… it’s an unhealthy environment. And I think if Sakura weren’t in such a—such a manic state, I think she would agree. She would be horrified, Sasuke. She needs your help.” Then, feeling dirty and manipulative but calling his last-ditch effort, Naruto tacks on a soft, “Sasuke. I need your help.”

Something in Sasuke seems to release, because the invisible shield seems to melt away. In a broken whisper, Sasuke says haltingly, “I don’t stay away because I want to.” Then, possibly because he isn’t satisfied with how open-ended the statement is, he continues thickly, “It’s—painful. Being there. I didn’t want—Naruto, she insisted on raising a family in a graveyard.”

Naruto wonders faintly what it is about Sakura that seems to destroy any of Sasuke’s natural stubbornness. He feels a pang of grief for his oldest friend. “Please, Sasuke.”

Sasuke shuts his eyes, looking so pained that Naruto wishes he didn’t have to ask this of him. But then, as if steeling himself, Sasuke stands to his full height and redons his metaphorical Uchiha mask of indifference. “I’ll try,” is all he says before disappearing without a sound.

[waugh-bao]

I think one issue is the Stones are trying to treat it as simply a new album rather than a new album after a big and significant loss. And obviously no one wants an album launch to be a downer, but it seems like they would recognize that they get asked about Charlie frequently and do something to address it. It doesn't have to be an album of mournful music, but I wish they would sometimes try and be proactive rather than reactive. I know Mick isn't a 'live in the past' sort of person, but even just taking the time to talk about how it was different without Charlie and they miss him and are excited for people to hear him on those two songs would go a long way. Make it as positive as possible. Instead it is like 'answer one question about Charlie and then they just rush on to talk about Steve.' At the same time, typing that out makes me feel like I'm saying they need to demonstrate their grief more and I don't mean that...but maybe there is a tiny part of me that does want that, to know that they really do miss him even though I know they did love him? Its complicated I guess.

Its different now. Its not going to be the Beggar's Banquet launch or even the Bigger Bang launch. They are in a different place. Mick is 80. Maybe they don't want to talk about age and that but they can't act as if everything is still just great and everything is like it has always been. The fact that they are talking about their collaborators and guest artists...I don't think the old Stones would do that. They were enough, they don't need other headliners.

Obviously we are looking at things through a definite Charlie slant because he's our guy. But I think all Stones fans know the band is different now. I don't need everything to be 100% Charlie-centric but there has to be something beyond "oh yeah that guy who was our foundation for 60 years is gone now but oh well, moving on" I really, really hate to think of them doing it again if something happened to Ronnie. Would Mick do it if something happened to Keith?

I think as much as, or more, than wanting a ‘demonstration of grief’, it’s a matter of respect. They spent 60 years working so hard to make the world see what an amazing drummer and wonderful human being Charlie was, made a point to have him as the centerpiece of the No Filter and 60th Anniversary Tour shows, and always do something for his birthday, death date, etc. (What’s been said in interviews has been a little less consistently great since he passed, but they’re human, and obviously there are a lot of complicated emotions to work through, including anger). Now it just feels as though they’ve entirely dropped the ball, or are even trying to shove any mention of his aside, like he’s some ‘disloyal’ band member who quit instead of a person who loved them but had no choice in leaving.

Oh, totally. They know, though they would never admit it, that a Stones album with a ton of collaborators and guest/fill-in artists is almost never a great Stones album. Dirty Work (1986) is the archetypal example of that. And I think you’re right, a lot of what makes this feel so discomforting is that they’re treating it like every other album launch, when the unspoken assumption underlying it is that this is the last album launch. They don’t have 18 more years to fool around. Like the bit in the press conference where Fallon asked them how fast the album was done, Ronnie said “very”, and Mick explained that they’d been “lazy” about it up to a point, but for reasons he couldn’t remember, suddenly decided to set themselves a deadline to finish. Everyone knows that’s BS and that some arbitrary deadline wasn’t what kicked them in the ass to get this done, nor does it give a sufficient response for why everything recorded before 2019 was binned.

It’s a bad look, and I think even more eyebrows would be raised if they replaced Ronnie too. As far as Mick and Keith, I wish I could say I knew 100% he wouldn’t make that choice, but I don’t. You’d like to hope Mick has the humanity, or the common sense, to see how bad that would be/look, but with the right record exec in his ear and the promise that he wouldn’t have to retire, I wouldn’t entirely rule it out. And if they do stop if Ronnie or Keith is unable to go on, the lovely implication of such a choice is that Charlie wasn’t worth stopping for, but one of them is. They opened up a Pandora’s box continuing on as they did after No Filter.

[tiredassmage]

heehoohee, my time iS COME, @eorzeashan​ tagged me for FFXIV ocs but in SWTOR (no apology needed, I do love me some tags, lol) and... conveniently, I have a head start, of sorts, on this because I have already transplanted several of my XIV ocs into SWTOR, lol.

Also the amount of times I’ve threatened to government assign my friends WoLs a SWTOR class bc I’m nothing if glutton about this silly space dress up simulator, I mean rpg is... Well, it’s worked on one of them as far as actually bringing them over, hehehe.

Long post with pictures incoming because I LOVE showing off my pixel idiots.

Astor is my XIV main, on Sage since Endwalker dropped and I fell in loovvveeee, and previously a White Mage and then Astrologian from ARR-SHB and SHB-EW, respectively. Also I made him look way more fierce than average in this screen akdfnalkdsfs (I’ve been major slacking on XIV), don’t let that determined slanted eyebrow fool you, he’s a fucking softie who lets his unicorn eat his flowerbeds with no more repercussions than the 500th disappointed father sigh she’s heard in the last week.

And I take him everywhere. Astor isn’t exclusively a XIV character, but rather an OC that’s stuck with me out of high school for something like... six years, I think? Going on seven? Astor’s always been a mage and, particularly, a healer of notable prowess; he adapted rather readily to being a Jedi Consular. I’d love to say badumtsss, he’s a Jedi Sage, but I did try it originally and just couldn’t jive with it, so “Astserses” (his SWTOR counterpart) is a Shadow/Sentinel. Because I’m a little a lot into the saberstaff that can be swapped for dual wielding sabers aesthetic and also trying to beat the Gemini Captain and that hell room of droids on Iokath was a BITCH when I was a baby Shadow who probably didn’t understand half of what would have helped me along.

Also because I’m a big scaredy cat for some reason about doing group content on SWTOR when I have done on-level extremes for XIV with no problem I don’t know, okay? I’m here for the silly space opera adventures, not to overly invest in learning job mechanics again, I think.

Next be Shay! Who’s a DRK/DRG/RPR in XIV and my original Sith Inquisitor in XIV! Shay’s entire arc as a character revolves around coming from a family that never really gave him the time of day; he spends a lot of his time avoiding relationships with others because of a series of heartbreaks and betrayals that mold him into a snappy, lone-wolf kind of bastard. The one thing he prided himself on was combat prowess. Even accompanying Airi (@fatewalker-phoenix fame) in their adventures as the Warriors of Light, Shay never really applies the title to himself; he’s the help. The get your hands bloody muscle, so she didn’t have to. I’ve toyed also with the idea of doing a Sith Warrior run for him bc the whole light/dark destiny dynamic is also incredibly his alley, but the raw power and rags to riches run of Inquisitor better suits his story. IIRC I just mirrored his Marauder into Sentinel.

He’s kind of overdramatic about being an angry bastard nobody should trust, tbh, so like... the drama of Inquisitor. I might yet have to revisit the Warrior thoughts though. He’d be interesting to pair with Vette.

Theo is my Rogue/Machinist I really need to get the hell out of HW afterstory already, but HW is SO LONG for me, anYWAY. The most recent of my transitions, Theo StarWar edition is a Smuggler currently on Mercenary because I really wanted 2 guns, but didn’t care for gunslinger and I seriously Cannot keep playing Operatives/Scoundrels, I just. I so would. I absolutely would. But stars, I need to do this variety thing.

Theo is the kind of character that lives rent-free in my walls. He’s chaotic. He’s “back at it again at the Krispy Kreme” energy. Smuggler is literally perfect. Deceptively, Theo was also rather smart. He spent several years studying various magical techniques after an injury blinded him in his left eye. One of his favorite ways to be a Nuisance is to switch fluently and without batting an eye between Lominsan Rogue’s Guild-speak to discussing aetheric relations in nearly perfect scholarly lingo. He’s just as likely to talk circles around his enemies as knife them.

Kres as his SWTOR counterpart is maybe a bit more blunt and slightly more impatient about the whole ordeal, but he would, in fact, still claim he could charm the horns off a Krayt Dragon. And I’d about believe him.

Which just leaves my bunboy Bas of my semi-main XIV characters that I haven’t actually taken over to SWTOR, but I also haven’t done a lot with XIV Bas to begin with. He’s primarily a SAM/RPR, but I think I picked up BRD on him, too bc I prefer ranged DPS in XIV. (Ironically I tend to prefer melee in SWTOR, it seems.) His story, in brief, is a former Dalmascan who was conscripted into the Imperial forces and eventually staged a bloody escape and prison break of several other prisoners he’d been held with before he made his way to Eorzea with somewhat disgraced and lost Garlean soldier Peregrine (again @fatewalker-phoenix​ fame) in-tow whom he’d eventually form an unexpected and odd, hard to describe friendship, almost mentor-ish relationship with.

Both of them suffer from identity crises, tbh. My strongest arguments would probably be Guardian Jedi Knight or an Operative Bounty Hunter. (I need a full on blade wielding tech class, SWTOR. Gimme.) Probably stronger favoring for Jedi Knight because of the whole crisis of place and purpose and destiny thing, but Bas did fashion himself as something of a Bounty Hunter between the prison break and falling in as an adventurer in Eorzea, so. It’d fit maybe aesthetics-wise, but less certain about the story part.

[nutteu]

frame the picture pretty [Chapter IV]

-

[AO3 Chapter I] [AO3 Chapter II] [AO3 Chapter III] [AO3 Chapter IV] [Glossaries]

Corpse, on the different voices Sykkuno held, on the scars and marks on his body, on the echoes of his past. Or, alternatively: Sykkuno charmed a lot of people, and got enamored by a few in turn. “Where’s the shame in taking what you want, Corpse?”

-

There were blueprints scattered all over the big table in the workshop. Dream was sitting with his chair tipped dangerously close to the floor. Corpse thought, maybe the guy had a masochistic streak because he kept doing that even if Toast had snapped at him approximately three times since they had moved their discussion here. He was talking to Ash about the newest weapon upgrades Sykkuno had sent over two weeks ago—apparently, the recoil was too much on his shoulders even if the damage output was more than enough to make even an alpha stagger.

They were installing a proximity sensor, one that will notify the base with some sort of warning alarm each time there was someone close in the perimeter they would set. Sykkuno explained that the downfall would be the gathering for the materials, and the fact that it could make everyone jittery since people could just be passing by and the alarm would still blare, loudly.

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Toast raised his eyebrows. “Eventually, people will know not to cross or scavenge too close to our base. It’s the threat and intimidation that is necessary.”

Sykkuno’s hand stopped scribbling on his notes, and looked up with a look in his eyes that stirred Corpse’s alpha. Here was the thing about Sykkuno that he had noticed over the time: he had too many different sides, and nearly all of them went unnoticed unless someone paid close attention to him. Corpse did. He was painfully aware of how he noticed every single little thing about Sykkuno, and while not many people knew what he was looking for, they noticed that he was looking. This had become an issue not only in their base, but also other places that had witnessed their interactions. They said, how it was so easy to tame the beast with gentle words and pretty smiles hidden beneath delicate fingers. When the whispers became too careless that even Sykkuno could hear it, he smiled ever so softly and Corpse smiled under his mask for the danger that was unbeknownst to them; so close to their throat it nearly touched it, so fluid and controlled that they wouldn’t even have the time to blink before their throats were cut open with those very same delicate fingers they had called out with mockery in their tones.

He wasn’t blind nor was he deaf. Living so long under his line of work, honing his instincts and skills to perfection, it had always been in Corpse’s nature to perceive everything faster, deeper, and acted accordingly in turn. He wouldn’t have his head attached to his shoulder for so long if he was careless, if he underestimated even one person that had ever crossed his way. It was only a matter of time to notice all the different voices Sykkuno used, all the different meanings in the downturned slant of his brown eyes that looked so forgiving, so harmless.

Sykkuno was anything but harmless. He was compassionate to a fault to people he cared for, but he was selective and almost obsessive in testing and turning people’s mind out for the sake of choosing the right person to take under his wing. Ash said, once bitten twice shy. She had never given a full disclosure of the event that led to this particular behavior, but it had something to do with his old clan, and his old work. Corpse had an inkling of them, but it was never clear enough to actually understand things in complete perspective.

“I was also a pawn, once upon a time,” was the only thing Sykkuno was willing to say about this matter. Corpse wisely shut his lips and put them on the skin above his collar bones instead as they lay side by side.

He wasn’t afraid of sharing what he had with people, but never without intentions. It might sound like he was insincere, but Sykkuno looked at Ash like she was the one who built the sky for him, and hugged Ludwig like he wanted nothing but keep him there until everything painful in this world was gone. He always meant well to people he decided to help, but it was always within his calculation and careful consideration. In this Island, where people didn’t have to wait for the radiation to kill them before they killed each other, it was more than needed in every step someone took. It was exhausting, and in several instances Sykkuno still slipped and let his bleeding heart showed its face, but Corpse understood the necessity.

Although mainly known for his stutters and gentle words, there were several different cadences to his voice. Sykkuno’s choice of words had always been so polite, painfully so. Corpse hadn’t heard him cursed even once. Rae was the one with the most intent on making Sykkuno curse. Maybe it was the fact that he seemed to be always considerate in expressing his opinion, maybe it was the way his voice became smaller at the trail when he was unsure, maybe it was the way his inflection made him sound like he was always hesitant. But Rae wanted to see what was hidden beneath his close lipped smile. The appeal of discovering something different was her main drive.

“It’s just like—“ She stopped, seemed to think it over, and then laughed heartily. “Do you remember convenient stores? Managers on pizza places? Or the customer service on the other line that is so hard to reach? He sounds like that. Like he’s talking to a customer. It’s nice and polite and calming and everything, because it is the intention: to pacify. I love Sykkuno and I will kill an army for him, but that voice frustrates me.”

It frustrated Corpse too, but it made him realize just how open, how trusting Sykkuno was to him because he had heard what Rae wanted all this time. Sykkuno was just too careful in letting people read what he meant between the lines, the lilt of his tones. Rae, of course, would find out later after she spent her years in J10, so close to Sykkuno’s heart, but Corpse knew this all since the first time Ash and Sykkuno took him in.

It also made him realize that Sykkuno had a type. Not exactly in a romantic nature as it was the choice of people he enjoyed their presence with, enough to let some of his other cadences to slip through his lips. Toast, was one of those people.

“A threat?” It wasn’t a question as much as a statement that he had thought over, just without the rose gold filter of warm hue and quite evening spent in silence. It was cold and downright unfeeling. “Why don’t we make it shoot on sight then? I can install some additional weapons on several vantage points.”

Toast, to his credit, didn’t even blink. It bothered Corpse that Toast seemed to be expecting certain sides of Sykkuno to show up, and wasn’t surprised in the slightest to all the differences he was presented with compared to the ones people usually saw. Almost like Toast was familiar with them, almost like he knew them already.

“It can also backfire and shoot people that we actually meant to let through,” he pointed out, inching closer to Sykkuno’s side. “We’re trying to warn people, not making an enemy out of every border.”

It was only now, when Sykkuno stood up to his full height without slouching, that Corpse was made even more aware of Toast’s and his height difference and their dynamic status. Kind, easily flustered Sykkuno was still an alpha made of experiences and prices he paid for his survival. On the other end of the table, Dream was watching the exchange with bated breath.

“That’s not a problem,” Sykkuno said, not even a hint of stutter. “You wouldn’t leave your base completely empty, would you Toast? The guards would have the control over the security system; keep them on their toes to know when to activate the kill on sight and when to let it be on warning alarm.”

Corpse moved along to his other side, not missing the slight glance from Toast before his attention was absorbed by Sykkuno again. The alpha’s posture was lax, but there was something in the coil of his shoulders, in the thrum of his fingers as they caressed the pen he was holding between his fingers. Corpse entertained the morbid imagination of Sykkuno stabbing Toast’s eye with it just to drive a point. Maybe he had the slightest fixation on stabbing Toast’s eye that he projected it to nearly every situation. Wasn’t exactly his fault that Toast grated his nerves. Toast held himself with an air of control and the sense that he knew what everyone didn’t, and judging by the way he acted around Sykkuno, Corpse was certain that he actually knew something. It would be the day hell froze over when Corpse willingly asked for it, however.

“What’s the difference in having no security system, then, if we still have to be the one holding the trigger?” he taunted.

Sykkuno tilted his head. The movement was curious and child-like, at odd end with his words. “The difference is the threat it imposes. You want the threat and intimidation, don’t you? People will not only know not to scavenge near your base lest they’ll be found out, they will also know the risk of being killed if they’re not careful. That even if you leave your base empty, there’s still going to be danger inside.”

“He’s crazy,” Dream whispered to Ash, who smiled thinly and nodded. She was used to this kind of Sykkuno—nearly all of them were. “I kind of like it,” he said again.

Sykkuno suddenly turned to him and smiled, a little bit bashful and red around the cheeks. “Thank you for the, uh, compliment, Dream.”

Maybe it was the juxtaposing turn of event and the whiplash from how fast Sykkuno shifted his gears that finally tipped Dream’s chair and sent him sprawling on the ground. Ash laughed and made no move to help him. Sykkuno’s eyes widened and he squeaked out a, “Dream! Oh my God, are you okay?”

“He’s okay,” Toast said, waving his hand as if waving the concern away. “He’s just stupid.”

“Hey, t-that’s not nice,” Sykkuno protested with a small frown.

Toast, true to his fashion, smiled with all teeth and slanted eyes. “What’s not nice, is your way of dealing with trespassers and intruders, Sykkuno.”

Sykkuno put down his pen, traced the blueprint of the security system with slow movement. “Isn’t that the point? Threats and intimidation don’t come hand in hand with kindness. The price of one’s life is always involved in the process.”

It was too intimate, Corpse thought, even if his voice was still cold and distant. He touched Sykkuno’s wrist, and wrapped his fingers around it when he looked at him. “No guns,” he decided for them. “Put out the words that it will shoot on sight. Toast already has enough reputation for the back-up of credibility.”

Sykkuno nodded, giving him a small smile and leaned into him as if they were alone. As if Toast wasn’t standing on his other side and giving them an assessing look. “Alright, we’ll get to it as soon as we have the materials. We can build it over here and give it to them to install. Is it alright with you, Toast?”

“I don’t think my voice is going to be considered in this matter at this point,” he shrugged, looking almost like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh or put Sykkuno under a microscope for intense scrutiny. “Do it your way, as long as the security system is working.”

“We’ll know firsthand if it’s not,” Ash piped up. She was right—everything Sykkuno made, they all tested it first.

Corpse and Rae tested his weapons, sometimes Ash joined along with them. While both the ex-mercs had numerous experiences with weapons, Ash had a knack for details. She also followed in Sykkuno’s footsteps of being absolutely merciless and cold at the strangest time. She wasn’t as well versed as Rae and Corpse, wasn’t as fluid and her movements weren’t as lethal; she hadn’t honed her body into the weapon itself, but she had no inhibition when something important was on the line and never bothered with moral in her cold efficiency.

Along with that, she tested the base and security system with Ludwig. He liked to joke around about his locksmith capabilities, but he could actually break into a base without anyone’s notice most of the time. It came with the price of corny jokes about unlocking people's heart, and Sykkuno would be the first one to cover his mouth and laughed like it was the best thing after pumpkin patches. Ludwig, strong, level-headed Ludwig with too much mercy and penchant to brighten the mood in the room, was fast on his track on nestling himself in Sykkuno's soft spot, as well as everyone else's. It seemed that his jokes held a truth in them as well— all the best jokes did. Jack worked on finer details of the system—whether it would be compatible, whether the system was too obvious for outsiders, whether that one clan was willing to let the opportunity of having one of the best security system in the land slip through their hands just because they were greedy, stubborn bastards who didn’t want to compromise. His accent and the way he slipped in threats under his jovial nature were what made him the right choice to handle over their allies and partners when it really came to business.

It was also a reminder that while Sykkuno always met them in person to give his offers of trades, he would only continue to talk in person with several chosen ones. The rest, Jack handled it as soon as Sykkuno was finished. Case on point, their current situation of handling Toast’s security system.

“We’ll have the materials ready by the end of this month,” Toast said. “That aside, my offer of staying at our base while you finish this still stands. Just humor me and say that you’ll think about it, Sykkuno.”

Sykkuno, even if his wrist was still in Corpse’s firm grip, their shoulders pressed close, still threw a shy smile at Toast and said, “I will think about it.”

There was also this thing about Sykkuno: he was always aware of what he was doing, even if he didn’t always know the result and consequences of his actions. But no one did, to be fair. There were always blind spots that couldn’t be seen by oneself; no matter how self-sufficient they were in covering it, no matter how hard they were bracing for the impact.

So Corpse knew that this wasn’t just Sykkuno being bashful or nice, this wasn’t some friendly conversation in-between business. This was Sykkuno knowing exactly the dance he was playing with Toast, and actively feeding the detached interest and curiosity Toast held over him. This was their version of circling around each other in a subtle imitation of an Alpha Challenge; the teasing smiles and mind games that they both seemed to enjoy. Toast didn’t look at Sykkuno the way those filthy, wretched bastards did, but he still had a clear desire to pick Sykkuno apart and analyze every single nook and cranny of his mind. For all his status as a beta, for the way he was so easy and pacifying in his every day’s interaction, Toast still stood his ground to whoever sat across him, calculating the risks and running through outcomes of certain decision in his head. In that regard, he was similar to Sykkuno. And in other regards, he was an alpha of his own caliber.

It made Corpse’s blood boil for a lot of different reasons. The exhilaration of seeing two people who knew their worth sizing each other up, ready to tear at each other’s throat. The excitement of seeing a side of Sykkuno that wasn’t all smiles and flowery fields in this radiation polluted Island. It all mingled with a desire to hold Sykkuno by his nape and bare his throat for everyone else to see, to know that it was Corpse whom he had allowed to be so close to his arteries, who had the right to put his scent and his hands on Sykkuno; the desire residing deep in his marrow to show Toast that he would obliterate him to pieces before he could even think about taming Sykkuno and his wild sides.

It still surprised Corpse of how much restraint he had to exert over himself in not keeping Sykkuno by his side and instead letting him have whatever he wanted to nurture with Toast. Unfortunately for him, even if he cut Toast down, it wouldn’t be the end of it. Toast wasn’t the only one who held Sykkuno’s attention and interest, wasn’t the only one who looked at Sykkuno and had the honor of having him returning the gaze steadily without hints of fluster and blushes.

Corpse unconsciously tightened his hold, and Sykkuno immediately turned to him. One of his hands came up to caress the side of Corpse’s jaw, eyes full of concern and mirth. “Are you okay?” he asked, inching closer and slotting into the edges of their bodies.

From the other side, Toast sighed and walked to where Dream was still sprawling on the floor. Apparently, he decided that the best place to watch the banter was from down there. Ash was comfortably talking about several ways to deal with the recoil of the new guns, and pointing out which muscle to train for so he would be ready if there were something similar in the future upgrades. She also, for some reason, told Dream to try shooting it at someone’s neck to see the spread of the bullet got into their nerves.

“By my prediction, it can actually go into someone’s eye and blind them if they happened to survive the initial impact!” she said, inappropriately excited for the topic. “Although the drawback is quite harsh on the body, it’s worth the exercise and mastery for the sight alone.”

“Noted,” Dream replied, also inappropriately responsive for such topic. “I’ll get to it when we’re back. It takes so long to make the bullets, though. Toast only allows me such little portion of magazines!”

“I’ll let you have more once you’re not toppling over from shooting it,” Toast replied with a flat face. “We're going, lovebirds over there won’t be finished soon. Let’s scram before they start eyefucking or something.”

Dream chuckled and hopped onto his feet. “They already are though? Like, all the time.”

Toast gathered his things, looking nonplussed and exasperated. “It’s almost disgusting if it’s not so inevitable. Maybe even more so because of it.”

Dream stole a glance at Corpse and Sykkuno, who were still whispering things to each other, bodies so close it almost felt dirty to intrude. Corpse was well aware of their attention, heard all of their words spoken as if they weren’t in the room together, but he had a hand on Sykkuno’s hip and Sykkuno was telling him about the progress of his newest plants. He sounded so endeared and Corpse could give zero fucks about them all as long as Sykkuno kept his hands on Corpse’s face, framing it so soft and warm.

“Awh, come on, look at them,” Dream said, gesturing to the two alphas on the other end of the workshop table. “They just have a really good chemistry!”

“No,” Toast said, despite him also looking on with an unreadable gaze in his eyes. “An issue is what they have. And they have loads, by the look of it.”

“I’ll show you out,” Ash cut in, grinning like she hadn’t seen something this entertaining in a while. It was probably not the closeness and the deliberate choice the alphas made to be so wrapped around each other’s presence. It was more of the way other people reacted to it that brought mirth to her eyes.

“They’re gone,” Corpse said in a low voice.

Sykkuno rubbed his thumb ever so softly on the edge of Corpse’s mask, and didn’t nod. “I’m aware,” he answered simply, his eyes never straying far from Corpse’s eyes, his face, like there was something incredibly magnetic there.

“Of course you are,” he laughed. “Including the way you were shamelessly flirting with Toast just a moment ago.”

The older man laughed along at that. “He’s—uh, how do I say it, um, he- he's an interesting one,” he admitted. “Very clever and unpredictable. He’s a great ally amongst all the partnerships.”

Corpse ground his thumb on the cradle of Sykkuno’s hip bone, and the alpha closed his eyes, lay his head on his shoulder with stuttered breath. “Make sure that an ally is all he is for.”

They could hear the rumble of Toast’s and Dream’s car outside, Ash’s loud goodbyes and Rae’s expletives because Toast probably taunted her on his way out. Corpse held Sykkuno close, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat and the whir of his mind under the floppy mop of hair. He would kill for this, he thought, feeling the warmth of closeness and undeniable trust put upon his hand. He would defy everything just to understand what exactly Sykkuno was to him.

“Sometimes I forgot that you’re so young still,” Sykkuno whispered. “So hot headed beneath the calm temperament, so arrogant under your certainty, still so full of blood lust despite wanting peace so bad that you’re willing to side over to some strangers in unknown land.”

Corpse stilled at that. It was rare that Sykkuno ever spoke those kinds of words to him, in the tone that revealed how much he adored Corpse, in the inflection that whispered a gentle mockery for something he held dear. This was an alpha in his arms; older, more experienced even if not as strong. He was very much capable of killing Corpse in this moment simply because he knew all of his tells, his movements, his strong suits and weaknesses, his thoughts and secrets. Sykkuno didn’t know everything, but he knew enough to bring Corpse down if he ever wanted to. Corpse would give a good fight and bring Sykkuno along with him to the deepest layer of hell if he ever did that, and they both knew it.

“I want to break your pretty neck every single time you talk like you wanted them to put their fingers on your skin,” he then said, facing the implicit challenge in Sykkuno’s words head on, proving the very thing he was stating. “On the other hand, I also want to stand aside and let you have your little games so I can see, so they can see. You’re not an innocent little rabbit inside, are you?”

No matter how soft he was to the touch, how pliant he was under his hands, this was still a predator in hiding. Sykkuno liked a certain number of people and let them see him simply because it felt good to be seen as what he was.

“I don’t know, am I?” he replied just as calm.

Corpse smiled against his temple, and decided that if Sykkuno ever issued a serious challenge to him, his pretty neck was the first thing he’d put his hands on. Choke him until he was gasping for air, leaving imprints of bruises and proofs that he could stand by Sykkuno's side, see him for who he really was, and still had the privilege of holding him by the end of the night.

As Ludwig entered the workshop, didn’t bat an eyelash at their position, and reported about some findings in the security system prototypes Sykkuno gave him last week, Corpse pulled him in for the last time and whispered, “Maybe you are.”

Sykkuno’s tinkling laugh followed him until he was outside; bright and knowing, something beautiful and a threat under the same breath.

-

For all the different sides that Sykkuno presented, and how freely he showed it to people at times, it was still hard to comprehend how people kept eating from Sykkuno’s hand and thought that he was something so pure and good.

“It’s like, Hades and Persephone, d’you know that mythology, Corpse?” Jack said one night.

Sykkuno was resting early because he had decided to learn how to fly a minicopter and promptly crashed and burned over the nearest bay. It almost gave them all a collective heart attack, though the alpha himself was busy laughing over how his body was pushing out of the water like a dolphin. He got a burn on his arm, and a lot of bruises all over his body. Corpse was about ready to murder someone before Sykkuno put a hand on his face and smiled like he didn’t just almost died if they didn’t crash over a body of water.

Ray C., a nomad that Corpse recognized only because he had seen him in the gambling house, was the one who taught him. He was badly bruised, but otherwise didn’t suffer from serious injury. He was a doctor, and had promptly taken care of Sykkuno’s burn and their minor injuries. He talked with calm, pleasant voice as he assured Sykkuno that it was okay, he didn’t need Sykkuno to replace the minicopter. He was well aware of the risk of them crashing, the main reason why he fly them near the bay. At least the water would absorb the impact better than solid ground. They were thankful that he happened to be a doctor, and a good pilot to boot, so he could minimize the accident by leaning to the front seat and steer them away from towers and into the water instead when it was clear that the copter had no choice but to crash.

Corpse didn’t have any problem with the guy—still didn’t, actually. But he also couldn’t stop himself from sitting next to Sykkuno as Ray treated his wounds. This was another person that Sykkuno spoke in different cadence to; a steady, almost detached inflection that always made Ray laughed whenever he suggested something outrageous or something that was so out of ordinary with the nice, flowery Sykkuno.

“Hey everyone, I’m Ray,” he said when they first met in the compound near the bay. It was his current camp, and Sykkuno and Corpse happened to have a business there. Rae was tagging along since Sykkuno had spread the news that she was under J10’s protection and was a part of the clan. It was easier now that people didn’t see her as a separate entity, was no longer in Scarra’s as his most known killing machine. They forgot that Sykkuno only said that Rae was theirs, but said nothing about her violent tendencies when it came to battles and disputes.

Maybe it was his calm, composed demeanor; maybe it was the slope of his broad shoulders and his charming smiles. Whatever it was, Sykkuno turned to look at him with an equally calm lines on his face and said, “Syanne, hit him with a rock.”

Syanne, because she was thoroughly charmed and only thought that Sykkuno was joking along, hit Ray with a rock on his arm. Sykkuno spluttered and said, “Oh my God! You actually did it?! I don’t know her—I don’t know her! Jesus—” but there was something else in his eyes, and the fact that he didn’t stutter out an apology was enough to raise suspicion to people who paid attention. Ray, strangely enough, let it happen with no more than a small chuckle as he rubbed over his arm.

Afterwards, every time they went there, Sykkuno would stand by Corpse’s side, talking amiably with the people there as he waited. Ray would come to him without fail, greeting him with the charming smile that fit so well on his kind face. Corpse would palm the knife hidden beneath his waistband and Rae would look at him like she was daring him to do something. He didn’t, for some reason. But then again, why would he? This wasn’t something new, and it was pretty entertaining to see distant affection and equal part contempt in Sykkuno’s face each time he talked to Ray, each time they moved closer together because Sykkuno wanted to see his equipment, wanted to know where else he had explored, wanted Ray to try lifting this and that, wanted him to teach Sykkuno how to fly the minicopter and didn’t feel an ounce of remorse as they crashed.

He only offered to replace the minicopter out of formality, Corpse realized. And the whole time they listened to the conversation between Ray and Sykkuno in the copter through the comm, there wasn’t the slightest softness like the way he handled Toast. It was detached, despite him continuously waiting for Ray to venture to him. He didn’t know exactly why, whether there was a history to them, but he knew that Sykkuno wasn’t out for Ray’s blood. He just enjoyed the possible danger that he presented, and Ray rolling with the punches and still came back to talk about mundane things such as whether Sykkuno actually wanted him to fire a shot over the random people they saw on the ground from the copter.

He looked at Jack and nodded. Ludwig was more versed with stories and literature, but Corpse wasn’t a complete imbecile in mythologies and historical references. He didn’t exactly remember all of them; no one did in this Island. But there were still traces of literature left and sometimes he had to learn them to understand certain codes and plans.

“Yeah,” he said, and threw some more twigs into the fire.

“People have always perceived Hades as this untouchable old god. But how can they not? Hades was the god of the soul realm, likened to a grim reaper, and his name is still used to refer to hell as well,” Jack explained. He munched on his food for a moment, trying his words out in his mind. “The widely known version of the myth is that Hades kidnapped Persephone and took her into the underworld where she essentially developed a Stockholm syndrome and ruled with him ‘til the end of time.”

He nodded, he was familiar with that part. He still didn’t know where Jack was heading with all this. But Jack rarely ever said something without a meaning to it when he had gone out of his way to explain in details. He jested around and was never short of jokes supply, but there was a reason why Sykkuno trusted him in the management department.

“That’s a version of it anyway, but there are others, y’know?” he said. “The one where Persephone was the one who travelled to the underworld all by herself and proven her worth to rule by his side. I think this one makes more sense, simply because Hades wasn’t exactly a problematic god. He was literally stuck in the underworld for many millennia and only came out when he was called for the meeting of the gods—makes more sense if Persephone was the daring one instead of him, don’t you think? Mostly because it was in her nature to seek out adventures and chaos. Her name means bringer of destruction, that’s an obvious clue if I’ve ever seen one.”

Corpse nodded again, this time because he understood what Jack was trying to say. He told Rae to come back inside because her eyes were drooping. She stubbornly refused until Jack was done, so Corpse motioned for Jack to continue with his tale.

“In that sense, people often forgot that Persephone was not some weak, damsel in distress that couldn’t do anything in the face of danger. Names always mean something in the mythology, and hers was bestowed by Zeus himself. She lived up to that name, regardless of the version of the story,” Jack said and smiled when Rae nodded over. “Go to sleep, Rae.”

“Shut the fuck up and get to the part where Sykkuno is this flowery spring goddess with a knack for disasters,” she snapped, irritated after being told twice. It wasn’t like she wasn’t able to stay awake all night, or days for that matter. But she was nearing her heat cycle and her body was trying to get as much rest and food as possible. There was a big nest built from all of their stolen clothes in the room she shared with Ash.

Jack laughed out loud at that, spraying bits of his food. Corpse calmly scooted over so he wouldn’t get in the line of fire. “Alright, alright,” he acquiesced. “What I’m trying to say is, people are so wrapped up around their perception of Sykkuno as the first version of Persephone, that they only entertain the possibility of the second one as a mere flitting thought. It’s easier to believe in things you wanted to see instead of unfamiliar territories that bring a sense of threat to yourself, after all.”

And people would never let themselves be controlled the way they did under Sykkuno’s clever ministration if they truly believed in the possibilities. Toast and Scarra were the prime example of people who did. Even Ray C. from the nomadic camp, despite as equally enamored as Sykkuno was to him, still held Sykkuno in a certain regards that weren’t the same as people usually had.

“In a way, Sykkuno has never really hid himself as much as he’s just withholding his different sides, don’t you think?” Jack continued. “You never lay all of your cards at once on the table. It keeps people guessing, and people have a knack of underestimating their opponent’s cards when they’re sure they have the better ones. It’s good, it shows that he’s a player that knows what he’s doing instead of gambling without calculations.”

Rae hummed along some tunes in her head and lay back on the grass. There weren’t any stars out tonight, maybe it would rain soon. The air felt heavy and humid; Corpse wanted to get inside and lie next to Sykkuno and asked him to shed his shirt, let him see the bruises and the wounds. Let him touch them one by one as the tune of Rae’s hums got stuck in his head the way everything about Sykkuno did.

“Yeah,” she said. “He certainly isn’t all that tight about keeping his demeanor in check once you know where to look for. Still pretty hard to goad him to spill things over, though. Like pulling teeth, and even that’s easier! I would know.”

“Of course you would,” Corpse teased. It was alright; it was a teasing well received after they had warmed up to each other instead of wallowing in their shared past with blood and numerous life on their hands.

Rae reached over to punch him not so lightly on the shin, and Corpse winced. Omegas and their unbridled strength near the heat was still something of a wonder to see. He had heard the tales, but never saw it in person. He hoped he never will—for an omega to be in such predicament right before their most vulnerable state wasn’t something to be excited about.

“Corpse will be Hades, then?” Rae asked, turning her head to Jack and ignoring Corpse choking on his drink. “He even got the kidnapping part right! He keeps hogging Sykkuno’s attention for himself, this greedy bitch.”

Again, she punched Corpse on the same place, and he resigned himself to future days filled with bruises on his legs for the duration of her pre-heat. Corpse wisely kept his mouth shut regarding the kidnapping accusation.

“Well,” Jack shrugged, but his smile was gentle, understanding. “I was hoping for the second version because the first one is far too weird for my taste, even if they’re mythology and mythology has a requirement of fucked-up stories—“

“And a lot of fucking,” Rae added.

“And a lot of fucking,” Jack amended, “but at least Sykkuno is consenting to all the ‘kidnapping’, if the happy smiles and complete lack of regards of other matters are to be trusted. But they did end up as equal partners, ruling the underworld side by side. I mean, it’s not exactly a happy ending, and Persephone was involved in the classic story of an affair with Zeus, but I think it’s enough for people in Hades’ and Persephone’s caliber, no?”

Corpse didn’t answer the rhetoric, thinking over his last sentences. There truly was no happy ending in this post-apocalyptic world. Even if the fights and the war stopped, human nature would ensure that they would start all over again. The nature would take control and wipe them all when they were done, and then evolution would bring out the worst of the competition again, and again. The bees truly were the best choice for evolution rather than these despicable creatures that called themselves human.

Still, he thought as they went inside and he trod over to where Sykkuno was, it was also in their nature to find their happiness—even if it wasn’t always about making the world a better place. Corpse too, wanted to find his. He looked at Sykkuno’s sleeping face, the awkward angle of his injured arm, the exhausted lines that were so prominent when he was low on guard. He wasn’t disillusioned enough to hope for something good. But, trying his hardest to stay alive, to keep Sykkuno by his side was probably the closest thing to it. They all paid the prices of hopes and wishes, Corpse did too. He didn’t think he mind doing it again for this man, no matter how much mysteries that lay undetected under Sykkuno’s skin, no matter how dangerous it was to put his gamble on something so unpredictable and precarious.

But Sykkuno looked at him with eyes still clouded with sleep, beckoning him to come closer with a small tilt of his lips, and he was so warm as Corpse held him carefully in his arms. It was almost inevitable, as Toast had said, to put his hand in Sykkuno’s, and believed.

Sykkuno was a warm weight on his lap, not quite wanting to go back to sleep, but was too limp and exhausted to sit upright. Corpse hummed the tune Rae had sung under her breath, the timbre going lower than hers, and gently coaxed Sykkuno to lift his shirt over his head. Sykkuno complied with a small snuffling sound, eyes closed and breath steady.

The burn was left without bandages to dry over the night. There were small cuts and abrasion all over his skin from the impact of the fall, as well as the turbulence in the minicopter. Corpse carefully touched them, and noticed the alpha healing had taken over. Some of the cuts were closing off already, and the edges of the burn were drier than the center.

“That was a dangerous stunt,” he said in low voice. “It was a good thing that Ray was with you.”

Sykkuno hummed and nodded lightly. “It was. He’s a good pilot.”

Corpse moved his fingers over the long healed scars on various part of Sykkuno’s body, fingers pressing on the protruding scar that felt soft to the touch on his sternum. “Tell me about Ray.”

“Hmm?” Sykkuno looked up then smiled like he was sharing a secret with Corpse. “He pissed me off.”

Corpse muffled his laugh on his shoulder, and traced another jagged tissue on his back. There were freckles and uneven bumps there, and Corpse touched them all with the rough surface of his palm. “Not enough to stab his eye?”

Sykkuno’s smile was something pretty and knowing. “That’s just you and Toast.”

“True,” he admitted, and rubbed Sykkuno’s naked back in a slow motion. The heat felt nice under his touch. “What is it about Ray?”

“He’s very nice,” Sykkuno started, and honest to God giggled like a little girl. “It’s genuine, too. He thinks I’m interesting and gave me seeds to plant when we came over to his camp. He’s gentle, and is probably… probably the most non-aggressive alpha I have ever encountered this far. He’s, um, very pretty too and has great smiles, didn’t- didn’t you notice Corpse?”

“I did,” he replied easily. “You’re pissed at him because he’s too nice?”

Sykkuno laughed and shook his head. “My alpha doesn’t like him. I think Ray’s alpha is too encompassing to ever truly consider anyone an enemy. He doesn’t look out for a fight, but it’s hard to back down from dominance so subtle and strong like that. My alpha doesn’t want to submit to him.”

Corpse took his time in in counting each of Sykkuno’s ribs; feeling another scar on the space of the second and the third, where the tip of a knife would touch his heart once it pierced flesh. He understood what Sykkuno was saying. Sometimes, one’s dynamic nature was hard to understand even to the holder. It was even harder to synchronize the mind and the instincts.

“But what pissed me off the most, is the fact that he’s not afraid, never held back either in showing what he wants from me,” he continued. “It’s also—“ he smiled, and the blush and giggles were back in full force. It was almost disgusting and disconcerting if Corpse wasn’t so endeared. “It’s also the thing I like about him the most.”

That was a jab on him, Corpse could feel it. Still, he asked, “What are you trying to say?”

Sykkuno took his hand, and put it back on the scar on his rib, eyes alight with something that Corpse recognized as his alpha. He would break Corpse’s wrist if he tried to deflect this one. Or tried to. He definitely wouldn’t let it happen—his instincts were far too acute to even keep up with his thoughts. Sykkuno would end up with more than broken arms if he actually attempted to do it.

“There are boundaries that need to be understood and respected, Corpse,” he said, so close his breath was warm on Corpse’s skin. “But there are times when you have to understand that unless you’re fiercer than the competition, then you won’t ever have what you wanted.”

“There is no certain term in what I want or I don’t want,” he said. “It’s far too complicated with you to settle on black and white.”

They weren’t explicitly talking about the two of them, but Corpse wouldn’t beat around the bush. He wasn’t one for games of chase unless it was a literal sense where he’s hounding his targets. Sykkuno gave him an appreciative look, and he knew he was starting on the right track.

“There’s so much that you want, and there are as much obstacles to them. I- I understand that it’s hard for desires and wishes in our lives, but if you knew that you could, then where’s the shame in taking what you want, Corpse?”

His eyes were sharp as he stared at Sykkuno, challenging his words, daring him to stumble and stutter over them; take them back and pulling them a hundred steps backwards. Sykkuno met his eyes in equal show of taunt and certainty that he could present his heart on a platter if only Corpse would wrap his fingers around it, marring his fingers with blood and feeling the beat of it inside his grip.

“Where is this from?” he asked, tentatively but decisive.

Sykkuno’s eyes softened. Corpse felt like he had just conquered a challenge, and submitting under an inevitable defeat. “The second in command of C7, eight years ago. He was a sweet guy, but I killed his clan leader in a cold blood. I can understand the betrayal he felt. He was the one who taught me how to bake pumpkin pies, actually.”

He wanted to push, to do exactly what Sykkuno had just told him to do. But he also knew that it wasn’t the time. Not yet.

“How did you escape?” he continued, moving his fingers to the other side of the rib, catching Sykkuno’s nipple and watched in fascination as he shuddered and bit his lip. Not yet.

“The head of the guards was the one who planned the coup d’état,” Sykkuno said, but they knew it wasn’t the complete story. “He fancied me, too. He got me out in time and took me to his acquaintance’s place. I was healed there, until he came back two days later to tell me that he had taken over the border, to ask whether I wanted to stay and be his second in command.”

“He asked you to bond with him,” Corpse read between the lines. Sykkuno crinkled a smile and nodded.

“I refused and he got scared that I was going to tell,” he said. “It says a lot about his capability as a leader, honestly. In a business like that, you can’t freak out over such matters. No one is going to go and appease his fragile ego and dominance. I was only a handler, too. There was someone else for the job, he got killed and it was a perfect cover wasn’t it?”

Corpse nodded, it really was. “He couldn’t get over his fear and tried to kill you.”

“I wasn’t the one who killed him,” Sykkuno assured him, as if it mattered altogether. Maybe in the whole story, it was. “My associate did. C7 had a new ruler, then. The head of the guards were blamed in the assassination attempt, my killed associate was the proof. It was a perfect tale.”

Associate, and more than one. He worked under a structured organization—his previous clan? Which clan?

(Not yet.)

He spent his time tracing over the other scars, but in the end, he settled with a simple request that they both knew had been in his mind since the first time Corpse started his habit of scenting Sykkuno.

There were no words exchanged as he leaned down to nose around the scent gland on the junction of the neck and Sykkuno’s right shoulder. Sykkuno put his hands on his sides, caressing them gently as Corpse opened his mouth and sunk his sharp canines over the flesh. His grip tightened, but he didn’t scream, didn’t let out a sound. Suddenly, the scent of blood filled the room; from the open wound on Sykkuno’s neck, from the lower lip he had bitten so hard he drew blood. The note of blood from Sykkuno’s natural scent mingled with it.

Corpse licked the blood, and kept his lips there. Sykkuno’s hands resumed their gentle caress, a smile he hid on the crook of Corpse’s neck. He felt settled, anew. Like there was finally a puzzle piece that fell into the right place; a breath that he didn’t know was taken away from his lungs.

Where’s the shame in taking what you want?

He thought, he still didn’t know what exactly he wanted. Not completely, but in this, he was certain. In the warmth of Sykkuno’s body on his lap, in the blood across his tongue that tasted like salvation, in the fear that he was standing at the mouth of the beast with all his weapons left at his feet. In the presence of both their alphas circling, slinking, tangled together with their fangs bared; always ready to claw each other heart’s out, always ready to bite and rip into flesh at moment’s notice.

In the inevitable, undeniable truth that Sykkuno let him so close he could feel the phantom of the beat of his heart on Corpse’s lips. He’d let him take it, too, if he dared. And the jaw of the beast would close up around him, crushing him into a mess of tangled feelings and blood. He would stay there for the rest of the afterlife. Like Persephone, travelling south to the depth of hell and put her own throne next to Hades, wearing a crown crafted from thorns and bones; forever ruling the underworld and keeping what she wanted close. Close enough to embrace, close enough to destroy.

He pulled Sykkuno to lie down on the bed, careful over his healing burn. As Sykkuno smiled at him with danger and reverence on his lips, Corpse took a moment to remember this night and everything that had come with a price for this. A watershed moment that was kept at bay for far too long.

There was no Hades, no Persephone between Corpse and Sykkuno; the lines too blurry to ever make out a definite shape. But Corpse could have his heart, and stay long enough until the world crush them under the undefeatable force of the nature; could rule over a kingdom built from souls and unknown tales, and feel content with Sykkuno’s sharp edges and soft smiles.

He held Sykkuno close, and closed his eyes; took Sykkuno’s hand in his, and let himself fall into the welcomed warmth of the chaos.

-

[amoirsetpacis]

★ --;; The note isn't helpful.

He's so quickly grown spoiled, Vash thinks, to the quiet comfort and intimacy of waking up with secondary warmth beneath the sheets pressed against his own. Even on the rare days in which he does wake up alone, there is always a sense of movement somewhere in the house. Signs of life and the sounds of morning shuffling. An impossible daydream given gentle form.

So waking up without any of those things sends a jolt through him regardless. It takes a few moments for it to register, blearily blinking himself awake and lying still one moment before bolting upright in the next. Familiar scrawl catches his eye on the nightstand though, helps to calm the sudden speed of his heart.

Its vagueness does little to assuage the anxiety that still stubbornly clings to his tingling nerves, though. Instead it just leaves Vash's eyebrows furrowed long after he's read it; there's a bad feeling he can't shake, no matter how hard he tries to think himself out of it. If it was that pressing, then surely Wolfwood would have woken him up? They've been working so hard on being open and honest with one another-- the step back leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

It blooms as their usual morning routine ticks past in solitude. Even stopping by the café as he finally sets out leaves Vash with nothing; there's a manager there to open, only to ask him if he's seen Wolfwood. It finally gets him to pull out his phone. He'd have felt it or heard it if he'd received anything, but even with that knowledge it doesn't help how the sight of no new notifications worms its way into the slowly growing tangle that sits in his gut.

[ text ] hey, where are you? [ text ] not like you to be late [ text ] manager had to ask me where you were and i told them you had some business paperwork stuff to deal with [ text ] don't know if they bought it or not [ text ] message when you can please ):

The rest of the morning passes by in a blur; nagging worry leaves Vash on auto-pilot as he makes his way into Cotes, only to be thrust head first into making arrangements and assorting deliveries and being sent out to make some of his own. His feet aren't idle for any more than a few moments at a time-- so, of course, his hands aren't either.

There's the briefest of moments in which Vash slows, is nigh on forced to do so with the rush of breath pushed from his lungs and the feeling of potential energy fizzled dry long after its chance at become kinetic. It is the single time in which he does so; stillness leaves his mind to wander, and even after getting a less-than-satisfactory answer in the form of a brief apology text with the promise to explain everything later he's wont to keep glancing at his phone, so he works straight through whatever break he might have taken even if he gets scolded for it.

He regrets it though, later, upon realizing that he had actually missed a call at some point; constantly just missing each other, like some sort of cosmic game of tag. No voicemail giving any sort of explanation, which only serves to make him antsy again. The fact that it goes straight to dial tone when he makes his next attempt makes it worse, and by the time he's finally leaving the ward to head home he finds himself back in the bad habit of chewing at the cuticle of his thumb.

Over a century and a half of doing so has often shown Vash that following his gut on any sort of manner is usually the right thing to do, no matter how badly he sometimes wished it wasn't. This is one of those times-- hoping beyond hope that it's just irrational anxiety, even though so much of him tells him it's not. Some part of him must know that it's not.

The house is dark when he gets home.

Sunlight still filters in through the large windows, slanting across the living room and the kitchen in great swathes as it always does in the late afternoon and early evening. But there's still no sound in the house.

Okay, he thinks. He'd sent a message to Meryl earlier to let him know if she saw Wolfwood at all or if he dropped by because he wasn't answering his phone-- she'd given him an affirmative that she would, but hadn't sent anything past that. No news. He'd tried messaging Livio as well, only to be left unread, and a twin dial tone to the one he'd heard from Wolfwood's phone after trying to call. Both of their younger counterparts too-- nothing. The wedge forces itself deeper into Vash's stomach; not even the soft brrt of the black cat sitting on the porch railing as it had lifted its head with his approach did any sort of good. He'd only patted its head absentmindedly as he'd gone inside, impossibly large green eyes blinking up at him.

Feet pad quietly up the stairs to the second floor, delusion telling him that it's possible Wolfwood had just fallen asleep upstairs. That there was no reason for that seed to continue sprouting beneath his ribs, that even the lack of soft snores meant nothing.

The Punisher's gone.

A nagging voice in the back of his head still berates Vash for worrying so much. It had been far from uncommon back home for one of them to go traipsing off on their own, at least briefly. ... Though, it had taken quite a while for him to realize exactly why he'd felt so relieved at their eventual rejoinings. To realize that there had always been some modicum of worry in the moments, too, because it was impossible for there not to be, even if he knew Wolfwood could handle himself just fine.

So much has happened since then, though. So many things taking what had already been there and twisting it into something far more harsh. And the fact that the Punisher is gone, when it had so rarely had any reason to be, sets nerves already on edge spiraling off of it. Sets ice in the pit of his stomach and pushes it through his veins.

Coat tails trailing behind him, the Colt sits heavy in its holster at Vash's thigh as the screen door slams shut behind him. It's not until the same black cat meows at his ankles at the foot of the porch steps that Vash realizes he has no idea where he should go. There's no way to get a hold of anyone that might know what's going on, apparently.

Wolfwood is about to kill me.

Ice already in Vash's veins turns sharp instantaneously; violently puncturing outwards and freezing him in place, rooted where he stands. There had only been the briefest of preambles, of the feeling of Knives reaching out to him, before the words reach him; everything that comes after may as well have been nothing but high pitched ringing in his ears, with how flooded out it instantly becomes.

Wolfwood is about to kill me. That doesn't make any sense. Not with all the progress they'd made-- the whole lot of them. Sure, they didn't get along, but Vash had never once expected them to. Wolfwood is going to kill me. There's not any-- he wouldn't, anyway, he--

What do you mean. What do you mean.

Silence. There is no response save for that great, blank loneliness, quiet and solemn and impassable. The lump in his throat grows, bubbles with a useless scream only to die there. Because there is no other explanation for it other than the inevitable, other than knowing what he would see out there in the desert. How many more times is he going to be forced to swallow this old heartache?

He starts to shake. To feel like he's going to throw up. Like he's not entirely inside of his body as it takes one step, and then another, or when he finds himself on the seat of the only recently repaired starcycle even though he still doesn't really even know how to drive the damn thing because there's no time, walking all the way out to that desert would take too long and he's been a horrible brother and hasn't gone out to that ship buried in the sand because it hurts too much but he should have gone anyway, he should have and even if those wings could sprout of his back they'd be useless, would dissolve and send him spiraling to the earth below before he even got half way there and--

Still-dense vegetation at the edge of the Mistwood does little to cushion his shoulder as it slams against the ground, the back wheel of the bike finally colliding with one of the ancient trees that so densely populate the forest, a turn taken too sharp and too late. Vash isn't even sure how he made it this far on the damn thing; furious honking and screeching of wheels at whatever he'd done had been so drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears and the angry prickling under his skin that it's a wonder he'd even made it outside of city limits. The bike crunches as it's forcefully turned off, the back half in smoking pieces against shattered bark.

His smarting shoulder gives his brain something to focus on, gives him something to force its shaky focus back down to earth, before he's off again at a sprint. Screw the bike. Heads peak out of caves and dwellings lining the canyon wall that connects steadily growing dunes to the edge of the forest, great mounds of sand ushered ever higher by howling winds that had only just recently calmed, as sure footing on shifting ground sends him flying out into the desert proper.

The sight of the Ark sends the dread in his gut roiling, though not for the reasons Vash had quietly feared it would for months now. Some part of him always knew that the outside would sit silent and foreboding, an inescapable testament to what, exactly it was, even if it was nothing more than a replica.

The body that should be inside is gone, but the splatter of blood against the floor is not. It's long, painting parts of stark white walls as well. A testament to the force of the bullet.

There are cigarette butts sitting just outside, littering the sand. A neon sign, brilliant and damning all at once. He even recognizes the brand.

They're not from the island.

Alarm bells blaring with a strange, horrible sort of relief is a combination that leaves Vash even more off-kilter; because even though he knew Wolfwood wouldn't just go and do something like this, not any more, it still gives Vash something solid and real to work with. Another grounding point. Another point of focus. Clarity, where he'd had so little the entire rest of the day.

Not so much as footprints as they are vague smudges in the sand tread off in another direction. More shining signposts, as if to whisper 'Look. Look. Look at the mark of the person who's done this. Anxiety gives way to quiet fury, of the sort that would simmer in his chest with its silent heat. The sun dips lower onto the horizon as Vash follows them.

Shadowed movement of people still sauntering about in the growing evening leave Vash feeling uneasy. Their long shadows almost disappear against sand purpling with the gentle replacement of sun with moon, only losing their hazy edges with the occasional pop of light from a window. Blissful ignorance of the disturbances stepping foot into their little settlement, so different from merchants and desert dwellers drifting through at their leisure.

The shadows condense as the trail reaches its end, as though the darkness they were birthed from takes shape in the figure standing just down the street. Cheerful greetings that have become so commonplace and easy have no place here. Instead the sand crunches quietly beneath Vash's feet as they reach the finish line, eyes hidden behind unneeded yellow rims. It would have been impossible for the small, placating smile on his face as he nods to reach them, anyway.

Besides. They both know just how fake it is.

Vash remembers how the Bride had stung in his throat. It feels like an eternity ago; feels like the liquor that sits between his fingers as he picks it up is more of a poison that had never once left his veins.

"I don't suppose you dragged me all the way out here for a date," he says, staring down into the shot glass.

Soon enough, the Shadow departs from the Ark entirely. He leaves a few cigarette butts in the dirt. He can't wait here forever, Knives' allies will return soon enough, so he'll have to wait for his final target elsewhere. He knows that the elder twin was able to warn the younger somehow, someway. And he knows that warning will lead him right into the Shadow's grasp. Vash the Stampede will be able to follow the trail he left behind.

There, past the hills of silver, is a little settlement full of travelers and merchants. As the sun sinks, people are beginning to retire to their white adobe houses, but some still linger in the streets. Chattering, bartering. A man sits in lamplight and plucks at a kamuz, humming. Some eyes turn towards the shadowy man with the large cross in vague interest, but eventually look away as they busy themselves with packing up for the night.

Leaning against the well right in the center of the city, two shot glasses set on the stone beside him, the Shadow watches the figure cloaked in red enter the town. There is that temptation to take his gun and fire the moment he sees him. It makes his fingers twitch.

It's you.

The one who changed him.

"Hey, Spikey," he says. Teeth dig into the cork of the bottle he's held tight the entire hunt. All for this meeting. It's popped off, spat out, the liquid then poured into both glasses. "Let's have a drink."

—

The massive boar Wolfwood rides is relaxed even as he nudges it with his heels to get it to break from a trot into a gallop through the sand. A few small animals scatter and flee. The sandstorm's finally died down and everything is poking its head back out while the sun begins to set. The air is cooling down.

He finds the SEEDS ship first, one he's been planning on visiting soon under better circumstances but not having the chance to before. The energy is whirring back to life, so he doesn't have to force the doors open. And when he does he's met with the thick smell of smoke; smoke that fogs up the corridors of the ship.

Wolfwood walks inside, his sleeve covering his nose and mouth. He doesn't know where he's going, he just follows his feet until he comes to a stop to a splatter and puddle of blood on the floor. No body, just the aftermath. There is a handgun on the floor with a thick wire around the trigger guard, keeping the trigger locked. To the end, Blondie did his best to protect everyone else.

For his own fraying sanity, he doesn't go find the source of the smoke, but leaves the doors open to air it out. There's no time to linger. He makes a note to make it up to the Typhoon once he comes back, somehow.

With the recent storm and ever-shifting sands, there are no footsteps left to follow, but he instead finds a path along more event ground and begins to follow it towards the hills of silver.

@amoirsetpacis

[aspiring-writer-hidden-voice]

First Kiss: Katsuki Bakugo

A/N: Hey, everyone! SA here with a mini head canon (sorry, I’m still getting used to all of these new terms so hopefully I’m using it right!) that I think you’ll like! This little series is called “First Kiss” that will feature different pairings with the reader (fem!)! As always, please let me know what you think!

F!Reader x Katsuki; pronouns are “She/Her”; Quirk: whatever you want, I honestly couldn’t come up with anything good with this one. Age: All characters are 18+

Warnings: Fluff and language.

“What the hell is your problem?!”

With a sigh, you turned the stove off with a twist of the nob and placed the lid upon the pot you’d been working over as thunderous footfalls approached. Sometimes your big mouth got you into trouble, other times it was your temper that could rival that of the firecracker blonde’s, but today was different; this was all part of your plan as he stomped until coming to a stop beside you with slanted ruby eyes blazing with twin infernos. You kept your outwards face stoic and indifferent in the face of his fury. “Gonna have to be a bit more specific. I’ve been super busy today—”

His open palm met the counter top with a resounding smack, a twitch appearing in both his brow and lip when he heard your monotone voice that was borderline bored. “I’m talking about the ignored texts and shit! Hell, I even tried to call you and it went to voicemail!” The twitches grew as you sighed, nearly his whole face was contorting erratically.

“Like I said, I’ve been busy with things.” It was almost too much for you to take when an audible snap sounded from him as you slipped past him to grab something from the pantry in order to hide the smirk that threatened to lift your lips. “Unlike some people, I’m not as attached to my phone.” A twist of your wrist showcased the lit up screen of a smart watch that showcased all the missed notifications from him that you had ignored, forcing your eyes wide while depositing the spice you’d retrieved on the counter. “Oh, wow, would you look at that! You’d think I was a pro hero with how much you’ve been begging for my attention like a helpless fanboy groveling at my feet!” This time you did let the smirk show when raising a hand to tousle his wild blonde hair before sliding down to pat his cheek. “So sorry, but you’re going to have to be a good boy for a little longer until I’m done with cooking.”

Realization filled his gaze as your tongue appeared from between your lips while you turned back to the stove. “Damnit, you think this is some fucking game?!”

“So a friend stopped by for a visit today.”

“Don’t ignore me!”

The ladle you’d been using to stir the pot paused in its rotary path so that you could use a spare spoon to sample the broth then offered it to him, earning a sputter but he begrudgingly took a small sip once you cocked an eyebrow. “She dumped her boyfriend because he was a bad kisser.”

His expression twisted into one of boredom as he wordlessly snatched the spice you’d grabbed and replaced it with something else. “Pathetic when a man can’t satisfy his partner. That’s one of his fucking number one jobs is to keep them sated.” Another spice was retrieved then added to the mix.

This conversation was going right in the direction where you wanted it to as if he were following an invisible trail you had laid out. You hummed while taking another sip of the soup, relishing at the full bodied flavors that danced across your tongue. He was always better at cooking than you were but you’d wanted to try something new and decided that a hearty beef stew was just what the two of you needed especially if your plan came to fruition. “So you’d agree that its important for a couple to show the other affection?”

“Every pair is different, dumbass, some people don’t need that sort of shit.”

“Which you aren’t because you’re such a cuddle monster that it’s hard for me to get anything done.” Your tease earned a grunt as he appeared behind you, muscular arms wrapping around your waist where they gave you a slight squeeze. “I’m not complaining, of course, I love when you let that guard of yours down just for little ole me when its just the two of us.”

A rough growl sounded as his head fell to rest on your shoulder. “Shut up, dumbass.”

“Aww, is someone blushing? How cute.”

“How many times do I have to fucking say that I’m not cute?!”

Your tongue appeared again as you slipped free of his hold thanks to his outburst that caused both hands to rise towards the ceiling. “So in your definition of a ‘man’, he would have to provide what exactly to the relationship between himself and another?”

“What the hell is this, some game show?” He scoffed, planting himself within one of the nearby barstools on the opposite end of the bar while crossing his arms. You shot him a glare that said “just do it” which earned another huff. The gears were definitely turning in his head as if trying to figure out what your point to this conversation was but it was clear that he wouldn’t find the answer anytime soon as he deftly caught a granola bar that you tossed him. “Like I said, every pair is different because of the people. Each person needs something that the other brings and vice-versa.”

A sense of victory filled you at his words. “Which is why people break up if something isn’t working or fulfilling a need?”

He was across the kitchen so fast you barely had time to register that he’d moved in the first place, hands gripping your shoulders loosely but firmly as he spun you around to face him, red eyes so wide they might just pop out of his skull. “Fucking— I knew something was wrong! Speak up already and stop playing these damn games! Just tell me what I did wrong!”

Brief panic filled you at the distress in his voice and expression. Maybe you’d taken this too far? “Katsuki—”

“Is this because I left my wet towel on the floor? I told you it fell when I wasn’t looking!”

“Hold on—”

“Or that time that I spilled my Bloody Mary on the couch and blamed it on that damn Pikachu?!”

Your brow twitched, temper flaring. “You spilled what on my couch?!”

The blonde cringed at your shout but he didn’t release his hold on you even when you attempted to break it so that you could go investigate. “D-doesn’t matter! I called a professional cleaner and when they said they couldn’t do anything I replaced the damn thing—”

“Katsuki Bakugo, I can’t believe you! I thought I was going crazy when I couldn’t find the remote that was in the pocket inside the armrest! Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for that damn thing?!”

“Shit, I forgot to check before the junk haulers took it away.” His head shook as you fought against his hold. “Can buy you a new one but I want to know what the fucking hell is going on with you today!”

Temper now reaching its peak due to his increasingly tight hold and the new information, you growled lowly under your breath. Plan be damned! “You wanna know so fucking bad? Fine! I want to know why you haven’t mustered up the balls to kiss me yet!”

For a moment silence fell as the two of you were surrounded by the words you’d practically screamed into his face.

That was definitely not how you wanted this all to go but you’d been too upset by the revealing of the incident with your furniture piece to care. Emotion threatened to form a ball in your throat but you swallowed it down with difficultly as tears burned the backs of your eyes. “We’ve been dating almost a whole fucking year, Katsuki. Cuddling and holding hands are nice but I need—”

“Why didn’t you fucking say anything sooner, you dumbass?”

That definitely wasn’t the response that you were expecting and neither was the pivot that caused your back to meet the nearby pantry door that caused your breath to catch. The way he was looking at you now as he collected your wrists to pin them beside your head and body pressing fully against your own made the blood in your veins race but it was the darkening gaze above you that truly rendered you speechless. It was as if he were a wild predator staring down at you with that superior near animalistic hunger shining brightly like an ember within his eyes as he loomed over you. Thrill caused the fine hairs across your body to rise as his head slowly dipped until your noses were brushing, the breath you were in the middle of taking completely abandoning you as his lips seemed to tease yours by impulsing them to part with a feather-like touch before they were completely ensnared.

Roaring flames came to life within your core as his chest rumbled with a growl against your own as his lips devoured yours. There was no hesitation within the searing kiss that may as well separated your soul from your body, his body alternating against firm and sensual presses that made your legs grow weak when one of his bent knees brushed against your clothed core, eliciting a soft whine from you. It was just the opportunity he’d been waiting for and his tongue slipped between the part of your lips to ravage your sweet mouth that had only imagined what this moment would entail. Nothing you’d ever dreamt of could compare as your eyes drifted closed with a flutter when his larger tongue discovered yours hiding in the farthest corner then proceeded to dominate it in a near dance-like way that left your back arching and breathless when he finally released you.

Pride shone brightly within his gaze and radiated off his smirk as your chest worked to replenish the air you’d lost with hooded eyes. “Tch. Judging from that look on your face I literally just stole your soul like some sort of—”

Rising to the balls of your feet you threw every bit of your weight against him, knocking off his center of balance, and silenced him with a press of your lips that rendered his surprised grunt to an exclamation that climbed the musical scales as your gaze bore into his own. No way were you going to give him bragging rights without a fight!

It was like watching a sunrise as red slowly bloomed within his cheeks before slowly spreading to the rest of his visible face as your hands rose to take firm hold of his head to prevent him from moving away. The noises that rose up his throat were prevented from being voiced by your lips that were pressed firmly against his. The hold he’d had on your wrists was thrown off by your sudden action and it gave you the perfect opportunity for your fingers to rise and entangle themselves within his blonde tresses, earning shivers and suppressed moans from the man before you as his eyes threatened to roll when your fingernails lightly scraped against his sensitive scalp. Your hips lightly ground against his own, earning the drop of his jaw and your own groan at the delicious friction that rose, humming in appreciation when his hands that had been in the air grasping at nothing fell to instead knead the flesh of your hips before they drifted around to the mounds that were your backside when you bravely gave his bottom lip a nibble.

The kiss was broken with a unified deep throated growl from the two of you as the burning need for air forced your lips to part but that didn’t mean you weren’t showcasing a victorious smirk when finding him near clinging to you and the counter for support as his glazed eyes met yours. Coiling heat that had settled within your core rose to your chest when you took in the blissful expression he wore while cupping his face and brushing the pads of your thumbs against his flaming cheeks. “Aww, look how cute you are. I almost wanna take a picture just so that I can look at it anytime I want.”

“F-fucking hell, teddy bear, that was—” His head that had bent as if to reclaim your lips rose back upwards, a furious expression crossing his features. “Was that a fucking challenge?! And did you just fucking call me cute?!” The growl that rose up his throat caused your heart to race as he stared down at you. “I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget, you damn dumbass!”

Something told you that the stew may have to be put in the crockpot to be kept warm until later.

[capricioussun]

You guys don't understand though like, ever since Miles hugged him at the end of itsv I immediately thought "there is no way he didn't know that was Miles" like. This concept was built off the thought that his dad does know he’s just sort of...in denial? Like. It's so...insane, his conscious mind just kind of rejects it, but that's his son. You can't convince me he can't tell, when he sees him, when they talk, when "spider-man" hugged him. It's gotta be in there he just can't let himself believe it. It's too much. His 14, 15, 16 year old son, a vigilante, taking on the job left by a grown man, against the likes of Fisk. It's too...fantastical. No, not Miles. Not his son. he's not like Aaron, not living a dangerous double life, he can't be

But then. There's that...moment. Just like when he quietly willed him to get back up. He finds Spider-Man collapsed in an alleyway, breathing shaky, clearly disoriented. His suit's torn in places, there's blood, that's normal for Spider-Man though, a normal sight for a cop, too, but this Spider-Man, he’s younger than the last one, Jeff barely even thinks before striding over, crouching down. Almost instinctively he reaches for the mask's seam but stops, hand hovering as he tries to check in with him. Spider-Man slurs a response, starting to push himself up but wincing at a pain in his left arm. He might have a concussion, maybe a broken arm, Jeff tells him not to move, he’s so scrawny, easy to hoist up comfortably familiar in his arms, and he moves back out to the street quickly.

He’s done this countless times holding him helping civilians, getting people to safety, especially with all the "super" catastrophes that started popping up after the first Spider-Man. It's a blur, other first responders rushing to help civilians, put out fires, usher people to safety. It's automatic, carrying him toward the ambulance, EMTs moving to meet him, and it's not until they have him on the gurney, ignoring slurred protests, until they've secured him in the back and the doors shut and the vehicle pulls away, that distantly, he hopes they don't take his mask off. That's his son.

He’s not done working. Watching after it for only a moment, heart in his throat, when he’s snapped out of it by a question called to him. Was that Spider-Man? No Yes.

It's hours. He does his job, files reports, communicates everything he needs to, and then he’s sent home. All he had was some scrapes and bruises, and a burn on his right elbow. But the whole time he hasn't stopped thinking about it about Miles. His weak question, the night Peter Parker died Dad...do you really hate Spider-Man?, the hug after Fisk, the way he moves, the way he talks. The way he sorta slants when he’s anxious, any times between now and then they've spoken, he’s seen Spider-Man swinging away just as he arrives on scene, the times Miles came home on the weekends hiding scrapes and bruises and a black eye, with weak excuses he’s always been so bad at lying, nothing like Aaron, how worried he's been. Miles is doing well, in a good school, he’s so smart and compassionate and funny he’s a hero, when he lost his temper and they argued because Miles wouldn't tell them how he actually got hurt, and later when he apologized, all he could do was remind Miles they're there for him, no matter what, and Miles told him he knew. Still wouldn't say but they'd hugged and he hoped and prayed it was enough he could help this time, stop it from spiraling this time.

And it all comes down to one moment. Jeff waiting up for him at the table. Told Rio he needed to talk to him alone. If Miles walks through that door fine, it's all in his head, of course he's not Spider-Man please, please don't be spider-man. Or.

He walks through the door, banged up, trying to be purposefully quiet as he closes the door only to freeze when he sees his dad waiting for him. He smiles, that smile where his eyes crinkle up and his eyebrows furrow and he’s looking for any way out as he slowly says "heeeey dad".

It's undeniable now. They both know. And even though he’s had hours to figure this all out and to think of what to say, it's all pushed aside by an anger that surges forward. A sigh, running a hand down his face, When did you think it would be important enough to tell us? Do you have any idea how-

Miles tries, weakly, to stop the spiral, barely inching forward into the room, I wanted to tell you, I just...you're- I didn't want you to-

He’s so upset and hurt and he’s been a vigilante for years, his teenage son, the one he saw holding his brother's, his uncle's body in his dying moments, Miles has been the new Spider-Man the entire time, and he never told them. All that fear and frustration decades of it bubbling to the surface, he doesn't know if he wants to scream or cry but the further he gets into the argument, Miles struggling to defend himself, the more it crumbles in, his son, his 16 year old son cringed away from him in fear, wounds still fresh from the lies protecting him, and it's not anger anymore, his voice breaks and he has to turn away, running a hand over his face and brushing off the memory of a hateful glare that doesn't belong to his son taking a ragged breath.

He turns back, and Mile's eyes glance up to meet his, the making of tears there, maybe reflecting his own, and he closes the distance, pulling Miles against him, taller now but still so scrawny, careful of any sore spots, I told you we would always be here for you. But I can't catch you if I don't know you're gunna fall. Cupping a hand behind his head, cradling him, Alright?

Miles is clinging, far less mindful of his injuries, as he nods against his dad's shoulder. A choked whisper, yeah, alright.

Just spent the last half hour frantically exploring a scenario where Jeff figures out Miles is Spider-Man after carrying him (still masked) to EMTs after he got too roughed up to get up right away during a scuffle with [insert villain here]