#complaining about rust again

[maddiem4]

Learning to program in Rust is so masochistic that I feel like maybe I should just get horny about it. At least then there'd be some enjoyment within the suffering. I just don't know if I'm enough of a masochist to pull that off.

I do wish my screen resolution wasn't fucked, so I could do a Twitch stream and show people what I'm talking about. Just get really vicious about it with apologists. I want to say "that didn't make me safer, it was just arbitrary bullshit" as a repeating mantra in an endless parade of specific cases until it becomes a meme.

On the bright side, I found a community crate to do the obscure and non-core task of... <checks notes>... creating and automatically deleting a temporary directory! So I don't have to reinvent that wheel, which was only one of a hundred idiot side quests while working on something that probably should have been a 150 Python script. But on the other hand, that should not have been a difficult wheel to invent, which is why I tried my hand at it before looking for community crates. I'm trying to learn, after all!

I keep waiting for fluency to make this language good, and it keeps leading to posts like this. Most of the issue is the way that the standard library is developed, rather than the core language itself, but one does find oneself unavoidably confronting the batshit opinions of the standard library every five minutes to use the language, so I'm happy to conflate the two for complaint purposes. I don't actually know that there's any amount of familiarity that will make Rust not suck. There's always a next "you gotta be kidding me" just around the riverbend.

[pandapetals]

The Edge of Safety

Living in Lowtown meant crime happened all the time. After your sister gets taken, you turn to Patch for help to find her.

patch/logan howlett x fem!reader - takes place in madripoor, no y/n used, no reader description but reader does have a sister named emily, violence, blood, death, killing, very action packed, some sexual tension, patch is an asshole, angst, reader is a lowkey badass, kid and sweetheart nickname used

a/n: okay this one is an essay of an author’s note but listen….I honestly haven’t stopped thinking about Patch since deadpool and wolverine soooo I did some research on Patch’s character, read some comics and googled it. Then like a vision this idea came to me so i was like okay gonna write it after i finish other stuff but nope, ended up writing nonstop so. Not complaining (okay maybe my fingers are) but yeah, hopefully this is accurate. i did take some creative liberties because patch is still logan just in a “disguise”---if you can call an eye patch a disguise. lol

word count: 21k

divider credit: @enchanthings

The acrid stench of sweat and cheap cologne filled the cramped convenience store, mingling with the faint buzz of flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you gripped your sister’s hand, pulling her close. The rough concrete floor felt cold even through your shoes, grounding you in the grim reality of the moment.

 Lowtown was no stranger to crime—muggings, drug deals, the occasional gang scuffle—but you’d always managed to keep your head down and avoid it until now.

“Don’t make me ask again!” The man’s voice was rough, edged with a brittle desperation that set your nerves on edge. His eyes darted around the room, wild and unfocused, like he was looking for an excuse to pull the trigger. The barrel of his gun swung in a lazy arc, cutting through the air as he fixed his gaze on the store owner. With a sneer, he herded everyone to the front of the store, shoving people together like cattle pressed up against the cold metal shelves.

His eyes fell on you and your sister, and something dark flickered in his expression—a hint of menace that made your stomach drop. You tightened your grip on her hand, feeling the tremor in her fingers as she clung to you. Her wide, fearful eyes darted around the store, seeking a way out, but there was none.

The store owner, a grizzled man with leathery skin and a face set in a permanent scowl, barely blinked. He watched the gunman with an almost bored expression like he’d seen this kind of thing too many times to muster any real fear. The gunman’s jaw clenched his impatience mounting. “You heard me,” he barked, voice cracking as he waved the gun in your direction as if you were somehow responsible for the old man’s slow compliance. He stabbed the air with the muzzle, the barrel now pointed squarely at your chest. “Open the register, or I swear I’ll blow her head off!”

Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs. The gun was only inches away, the metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. You could feel your sister shaking beside you, her small fingers squeezing yours so tight it was almost painful. 

You took a step back, instinctively trying to shield her with your body, but the movement only drew the gunman’s attention. His eyes narrowed, zeroing in on you, a twisted grin stretching across his lips.

“I said, hurry up!” The man’s voice was splintered, the wild edge creeping further in. There was something unhinged in his eyes—a flicker of mania that made your skin crawl. This wasn’t just a man looking for a quick score. This was a man on the verge of losing control, and you were all trapped in his orbit.

The store owner finally sighed, his shoulders slumping as if he was annoyed. He shuffled over to the register, his gnarled fingers moving with an infuriating slowness as he popped it open. The old, rusted drawer creaked, and he began peeling off crumpled bills one by one, as though he had all the time in the world.

A low growl escaped the gunman’s throat, his patience wearing dangerously thin. “Faster, old man—”

Suddenly, the air exploded with movement. The gunman lurched forward, his arm swinging as he reached for your sister, his fingers digging into her arm with a brutal yank that tore her from your side. The world seemed to splinter at that moment, her terrified scream slicing through the heavy silence like a knife. Time slowed, the sounds around you muffled as adrenaline flooded your veins.

Without thinking, you lunged after her, instincts overtaking reason. You swung wildly, aiming for anything you could reach—a fist, an arm, something to get him off her. But he was faster, or maybe just more desperate, and in one fluid motion, he spun around and cracked the butt of the gun against your head.

Pain flared, white-hot and blinding, and the world tilted. Your vision blurred, your knees buckling as darkness closed in at the edges of your sight. The last thing you heard before everything went black was your sister’s panicked cries, growing fainter, slipping away into the shadows as you fell into oblivion.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You awoke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of medical equipment. Your head throbbed like someone was pounding nails into your skull. The sterile white of the hospital room pressed in on you from all sides. Panic spiked through your veins as the memories rushed back—the robber with greasy hair, the gun, your sister’s terrified face.

“She’s gone!” The words tore from your throat, raw and ragged. You struggled to sit up, but a firm hand pushed you back down.

“Easy now, hon,” a nurse said, her voice soothing but firm. She was a broad-shouldered woman with lines etched deep around her eyes. “You’re safe. Just breathe, okay? You're in the hospital. You took a nasty blow.”

“My sister—” You fought against the dizziness threatening to drag you under again. “Where is she? Did they find her?”

The nurse’s expression tightened, sympathy clouding her eyes as she glanced away, studying the dull linoleum as if it held an answer. “No one knows where she is yet, sweetheart. The police are looking.”

You shook your head, frustration tightening in your chest. “The police won’t help,” you spat, your voice cracking. “This town is rotten—crime’s everywhere, and the cops don’t do a damn thing.”

“I know,” the nurse began, her voice gentle but uncertain, “but—”

“No, you don’t understand!” The words erupted from you, raw and desperate. Your throat burned with the effort to keep from breaking down. “I have to find her. She’s all I have left. My only family.” The last words came out like a plea.

The nurse hesitated before her eyes softened. She leaned in closer, her tone shifting, becoming almost conspiratorial. “Listen,” she whispered, her gaze flicking to the doorway and back again, “there’s someone who might be able to help you.” Her voice dipped lower, barely audible over the hum of the machines.

You blinked, struggling to steady your breath. “Who?” you managed, your voice thin and rough.

“A man they call Patch,” she said as if the name itself carried weight. It slipped from her lips like a secret traded in the dark. “He’s... not with the police. More of a vigilante, some say. Others call him a mercenary. Word is, he deals with the kind of trouble that the law won’t touch. The kind that hides in the shadows.” She glanced at the door again, then took a step back, as if wary of saying too much. “If you’re serious about finding your sister, he might be your best shot.”

The name hung in the air between you, heavy with promise and risk. A flicker of hope sparked, but doubt quickly smothered it. Who was this Patch? And would he care about some girl from Lowtown?

You pushed the thought aside. You couldn’t afford to be picky. “Where can I find him?” you asked, forcing the words past the knot in your throat.

The nurse’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “It won’t be easy,” she warned, her gaze steady. “Patch isn’t exactly the friendly type. He’s got a reputation for being... rough around the edges. Dangerous, even.”

“I don’t care,” you said, your jaw setting with grim determination. “Just tell me where.”

She sighed, folding her arms across her chest as if trying to shield herself from the weight of what she was about to say. “He usually hangs out at a place called The Lucky Dragon,” she said. “It’s a casino in Hightown. You can’t miss it—big neon sign, a dragon wrapped around a roulette wheel. Classy place, for all the wrong reasons. Just…” Her voice softened, almost pleading. “Be careful. Hightown’s not like here. It’s meaner. More secrets. And Patch—well, if you get on his bad side, don’t expect him to show mercy.”

Her words settled over you, cold and unyielding. There was a flicker of a warning laced within them. The kind that whispered, if you were willing to walk through the fire, there was still a chance.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, though your voice shook a little. “I just need to find her.”

The nurse gave a slow nod as if deciding whether or not to believe you. “Then good luck, hon,” she murmured. “Oh, and—Patch isn’t in the habit of doing favors. You’d better be ready to give him a reason to care.”

You swallowed hard, pushing down the fear and doubt that threatened to surface. It didn’t matter. None of it did. There was only one thing you had to do now—find Patch, and hope that somewhere in that smoke-filled casino, amid the clatter of dice and the murmur of broken dreams, lay a path that would lead you back to your sister.

The image of your sister—small, terrified, yanked out of your reach—burned itself into your mind. It was like a fever that spread through your limbs, propelling you off the hospital bed. The dull throb in your skull was nothing compared to the hollow ache in your chest, a void that swallowed every other sensation. You had to move. You had to do something.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

Outside, the city loomed like a beast under a blanket of murky night. Neon lights buzzed, reflecting off the rain-slicked pavement as if mocking your urgency. You stumbled into the street, your legs feeling weak. Everything seemed to cling to you, as you raised a hand to hail a cab.

The first few drove past without even slowing, and panic tightened its grip around your throat. Finally, one screeched to a halt, and you threw yourself into the backseat.

“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. His eyes widened a little when he took in your bruised face, blood-stained clothes, and the hospital bracelet still dangling from your wrist.

“The Lucky Dragon,” you said, voice hoarse. “In Hightown.”

The driver’s eyebrows lifted. “You sure, lady? That’s not exactly a place for—”

“Just go,” you snapped, too drained to care about his judgment. You slumped back in the seat, your hands balled into fists on your lap as the cab sped off, the engine’s low rumble vibrating through your bones. The city blurred past outside the window—crumbling brick, flickering signs, and the occasional flash of blue and red from a distant police cruiser. It was a cruel world you’d stepped back into, and every second that ticked by seemed to deepen the chasm between you and your sister.

As the cab climbed the steep hill toward Hightown, the landscape began to shift. The streets became wider, the grime less visible under the garish glow of high-rise billboards and polished storefronts. The Lucky Dragon stood near the end of the strip, towering above the other buildings like a gaudy temple. A giant neon dragon wrapped around a roulette wheel glared down at you, its ruby eyes glinting like a predator’s in the darkness.

You tossed a handful of crumpled bills at the driver and stepped out, feeling the weight of stares from passersby almost immediately. Your clothes were wrinkled from sweat with bits of dried blood splattered on them making you look completely out of place. 

The cold air bit your cheeks, and you could feel the eyes crawling over you: casino patrons in tailored suits and glittering dresses, eyeing you with a mix of suspicion and contempt. A few whispered, nudging each other as you walked by. You kept your chin up, though it felt like every step was sinking you deeper into quicksand. You didn’t belong here, and everyone knew it.

The casino doors hissed open, releasing a wall of sound that crashed over you—laughter, the ringing of slot machines, the clink of glasses, and the low murmur of conversations spoken in secret. The Lucky Dragon’s interior was drenched in crimson and gold, a haze of smoke curling beneath the chandeliers. You drifted in, feeling small beneath the vaulted ceiling, and glanced around, searching for a face that meant nothing to you. How were you even supposed to know who to look for? The nurse had given you a name, but nothing more—no description, no sign to point you in the right direction.

The poker tables caught your eye. Figures hunched over cards, some grinning like foxes, others steely-faced, staring down their opponents. Then you saw him. It was as if the world sharpened, everything else fading into the background.

He sat at the farthest table, a tall, brooding figure in a crisp white suit that made him stand out against the dark wood and dim lighting. His hair was dark, almost black styled into two high tufts. An eye patch covered his left eye, leaving the other to gleam with a harsh intensity as he studied his cards. There was a casual elegance in the way he leaned back in his chair, a hand resting on his chin, but the lines of his body spoke of coiled strength, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

You hesitated, your legs suddenly heavy as you took a step forward. What were you even going to say? You didn’t have a plan, just desperation driving you forward but the thought of your sister—lost, afraid—pushed you into motion. You could feel the weight of judgmental eyes again as you approached the table, but you didn’t care. Not anymore.

“Are you Patch?” The question came out stronger than you’d expected, even though your heart hammered against your ribs.

The man didn’t look up right away. He flipped a card over with a lazy flick of his wrist, then let out a low, dismissive chuckle. “Depends on who’s asking.” His voice was deep, rough around the edges like gravel. 

Finally, he raised his gaze to meet yours, and you felt the full force of that single, piercing eye lock onto you, taking you in from head to toe—the blood-stained clothes, the bruises, the desperation etched into every line of your face.

He arched a brow, an almost amused smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “You lost, sweetheart? 'Cause you sure as hell don’t look like you belong here.”

You swallowed hard, steeling yourself against the urge to wilt under that gaze. “I need your help,” you said, fighting to keep the tremor out of your voice. “Someone took my sister. I was told you’re the kind of guy who could help.”

His expression didn’t change, but the air around him seemed to shift, growing colder, and heavier. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and for a moment, you thought you saw something flash in his eye—something dark and dangerous, like a knife unsheathed. 

“Kid,” he said slowly, “do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”

“I don’t care,” you replied, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find my sister.”

Patch’s gaze held yours, unyielding, for what felt like an eternity. His single eye was cold, appraising—like he was stripping you down to the bones, searching for the truth behind your words. You could feel a bead of sweat forming on the back of your neck, your skin prickling under the weight of his silence. His stillness was unnerving, like the calm before a storm, and the longer he just sat there, the more your frustration flared.

Finally, you couldn’t take it. You shifted your weight and crossed your arms as if bracing yourself. “Look, mister,” you snapped, your voice cracking from the strain of holding back tears. “The police aren’t going to do shit. Lowtown’s a goddamn warzone, and you know it.” You took a step closer, your fingers tightening into fists at your sides. “While you sit here, lounging around in a fancy suit, playing cards, and sipping drinks, people like me are getting robbed, beaten, and killed.”

Patch’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in that eye—a spark, a shadow, gone too quickly to read. He leaned back in his chair, casually swirling the remnants of his drink as if your outburst had barely registered. “And what makes you think you’re any different?” His voice was low, edged with a hint of boredom. “Another desperate girl with a sob story, wandering in from Lowtown, hoping someone else will clean up her mess.”

His words cut deep, stoking a fury that flared hot in your chest. “This isn’t just some ‘sob story,’” you spat back, your voice rising despite the stares from nearby tables. “My sister is out there—taken by some lowlife who had a gun in her face. I can’t just—” Your breath hitched, and you forced yourself to push through it. “I can’t just sit around hoping she’ll magically come home. I have to do something.”

Patch’s gaze sharpened, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. He set his glass down, the dull clink resonating like a judge’s gavel. “And you think coming here, shaking like a leaf, is doing something?” There was a bitter edge in his tone as if he was testing you, pushing to see how far you’d go before you broke.

You took a steadying breath, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks. “You think I wanted to walk in here like this?” you shot back, gesturing to the dirty clothes clinging to your skin. “I came because I don’t have any other choice. I was unconscious in a hospital bed while some bastard dragged her away. So yeah, I’m desperate. But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to give up.”

For a heartbeat, the silence stretched between you. The murmurs of the casino faded to a dull roar in your ears as you locked eyes with Patch, refusing to look away even though every instinct told you to. His expression remained inscrutable, but there was a shift—a subtle change in the air between you, like the first stirrings of a breeze before a storm breaks.

Slowly, Patch’s lips curved into a humorless smirk. He tapped a finger against the poker table as if coming to some unspoken decision. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But guts don’t count for much if you don’t know what you’re doing. The kind of people who snatch girls off the street don’t just give them back because someone asked nicely.”

“Then tell me what I need to do,” you said, swallowing hard. “Or are you just going to sit there?”

Patch’s smirk faded, replaced by a cold, calculating look. He stood up slowly, the chair scraping against the floor, and took a step toward you. The scent of smoke and whiskey clung to him like a second skin. He was close enough now that you could see the faint scars trailing along his knuckles, the signs of countless fights hard-won. “I don’t take on charity cases,” he said quietly, his breath warm against your cheek. “You want my help, you’ve got to prove you’re worth my time.”

“How?” you asked, your voice trembling but resolute.

He held your gaze a moment longer, then jerked his head toward the back of the casino, where the neon lights barely reached and the air was thick with shadows. “There’s a back room here where debts get settled,” he said. “People who owe money and don’t pay. There’s a guy inside—a dealer who owes the house more than he’ll ever be able to repay. Find out what he knows. If you can handle that, then maybe—maybe—I’ll think about helping you find your sister.”

Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and began to walk away, the white of his suit disappearing into the crowd like a ghost fading into the night. You took a shaky breath, glancing toward the shadowed hallway he’d indicated.

How the hell were you supposed to make some guy talk? You didn’t have the kind of presence Patch had—the kind that could silence a room with just a look. He was the sort of man who wore danger like a second skin, and you’d bet he could get a confession out of someone without saying a word, just by staring them down with that single, unnerving eye. 

You? You were just a woman caught between terror and adrenaline, your whole body trembling as you tried to keep your breaths even. The absurdity of everything pressed down on you like a weight, threatening to crush you. 

You sighed, your breath shuddering out of you as you glanced toward the darkened hallway Patch had pointed to. The back room where debts got settled—the very idea sent a chill crawling up your spine. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been in shady places before, growing up in Lowtown, but this was different. This was Hightown’s version of shady, where the rich got away with sins even the criminals in Lowtown wouldn’t touch.

The image of your sister flashed in your mind again—her wide, frightened eyes as the gunman dragged her away. A hollow ache twisted in your chest, and you straightened up, forcing your limbs to stop trembling. You didn’t know how to do this, but you were about to learn. There was no other choice. There never had been.

You slipped through the crowd, weaving past tables and drunken gamblers. The din of the casino grew muffled as you approached the dimly lit hallway. The red and gold of the main room faded, replaced by shadowed walls and the stale scent of sweat and cigar smoke. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses died down to a murmur like the world had turned down its volume, leaving just the thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy door loomed, the kind you could tell wasn’t meant for guests. You hesitated in front of it, feeling the weight of the moment pressing on you. How were you supposed to do this? What were you supposed to say? You didn't have Patch’s cool composure or his casual air of authority. All you had was your desperation and that gnawing emptiness inside you—fuel that burned hotter than your fear.

You shoved the door open and stepped inside.

The room was cramped and dimly lit by a single dangling bulb, casting harsh shadows across stained walls. A poker table sat in the center, scattered with crumpled cards and empty whiskey glasses. In one of the worn-out chairs slouched a man in a rumpled suit, his fingers drumming nervously on the table's edge. His eyes flicked to you as you entered, his expression shifting from bored indifference to wary curiosity.

“You’re not one of them,” he said, his voice gravelly, squinting as if he was trying to place where you’d come from. “What do you want?”

You took a breath, forcing yourself to step further into the room, your sneakers silent on the gritty floor. “I need information,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though it wavered at the edges. “About a girl. She was taken recently. You know anything about that?”

The man’s gaze darted toward the door, then back to you. A thin, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, sweetheart,” he sneered, reaching for the cigarette resting on the ashtray in front of him. “I don’t know anything about any girls, and even if I did, why the hell would I tell you?”

His tone was dismissive, the kind of tone that told you he thought you were harmless, a nuisance to be shrugged off. It stung, but it was also exactly what you needed—because he didn’t see you as a threat.

You took a step closer, letting the harsh overhead light catch the bruises on your face, the hospital bracelet still dangling from your wrist. “Because if you don’t,” you said, your voice hardening, “the next person who walks through that door won’t be as nice.” You leaned in just enough that he’d have to catch the seriousness in your eyes. “It’ll be Patch.”

The name dropped like a stone, and you could see the reaction ripple across his face. It was slight—a tightening of the jaw, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes—but it was there. He looked you up and down again as if reevaluating what kind of game he’d walked into. “Patch sent you?” he scoffed, but there was less conviction.

You nodded, playing up your calm, letting it stretch out like you had all the time in the world. “He sent me to ask nicely,” you said, “but I’m sure he’d be happy to finish this conversation his way if you’d prefer.”

The man’s cigarette wavered between his fingers, his gaze sliding to the door as though expecting Patch to walk through it any second. You didn’t have to know what kind of history lay between them to see that he was rattled, that the mere mention of the name had carved a crack in his defenses.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face as he exhaled slowly. “Alright,” he muttered, stubbing it out in the ashtray. “What’s the girl’s name?”

You swallowed, relief flooding through you even as you kept your expression neutral. “Her name is Emily,” you said, your voice steady now. “And I need to know where they took her.”

The man’s eyes darted away, his fingers tapping anxiously on the table again. “Look, I don’t know much,” he said, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “But I heard some guys talking a few nights ago—something about a shipment coming through the docks. They mentioned girls, and... well, it didn’t sound like they were there by choice.”

Your stomach twisted, a knot of dread tightening as his words sank in. “What else?” you pressed. “What do you know about the men involved?”

He shook his head, glancing nervously toward the door again. “That’s all I’ve got,” he said. “Just some lowlife dealers from the docks. If Patch wants more than that, he’s gonna have to dig for it himself.”

You turned to leave, but before you reached the door, the man spoke again, his voice barely audible. “If you’re smart, you’ll walk away now,” he murmured a note of pity in his tone. “People who go looking for the kind of trouble you’re in don’t usually come back.”

You didn’t respond. There was no point because you would do whatever it took to get your sister back even if it meant crossing lines you never thought you’d cross.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You wandered the casino, weaving through the smoke and noise, scanning every shadowed corner and poker table for a glimpse of that white suit. It was like he’d disappeared into thin air. Your pulse quickened with each passing second, dread tightening its grip on your lungs. What if Patch had already left? What if he’d sent you into that back room as some kind of test and then walked out, leaving you here alone?

“Excuse me, ma’am?” A voice cut through the din, and you felt your stomach drop.

You turned slowly, your heart thudding in your chest. A security guard stood a few feet away, arms folded over his broad chest. He gave you a once-over, his eyes narrowing as he took in your disheveled hair, the bruises darkening your cheek, and the smear of dried blood on the sleeve of your jacket.

You swallowed, forcing a shaky smile and trying to smooth down your hair. “Me?” you said, aiming for innocence, though your voice betrayed a tremor. “Is there a problem?”

The guard’s gaze hardened. “You don’t exactly look like a regular customer,” he said, his tone flat, the words edged with suspicion. “And you shouldn’t be wandering back here.” He took a step forward, making it clear that you were not welcome in this part of the casino. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

Panic flared hot and fast in your chest. You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could get a word out, another voice broke in, smooth and cold as steel.

“She’s with me.”

The guard stiffened and stepped back as Patch emerged from the crowd, his white suit pristine, his expression as calm and dangerous as before. He didn’t even spare the guard a glance as he brushed past him, catching your arm with a firm grip and steering you away.

The guard hesitated, clearly unsure whether to question Patch’s authority, but in the end, he simply nodded and stepped aside, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer before he turned away.

Patch’s fingers tightened slightly on your arm as he guided you through the casino, weaving between the slot machines and roulette tables until the noise faded into a low hum behind you. He led you down a narrow hallway lined with plush crimson carpeting, the lights dimmer here, the atmosphere more intimate, as if you were walking deeper into the belly of the beast.

Finally, he steered you into a small, secluded alcove near a back exit. The muffled sounds of the casino were barely a whisper now, and the only light came from a single wall sconce casting long shadows across Patch’s face. He released your arm and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded you with that unblinking, solitary gaze.

"Well?” he said, arching a brow. “Did you get anything, or did I just save you from getting thrown out for nothing?”

You took a breath, steadying yourself as the adrenaline still coursed through your veins. “The guy I talked to,” you began, your voice stronger than you expected, “he said something about the docks. A shipment coming in. Girls, and… it didn’t sound like they were there by choice.” The words tasted bitter as they left your mouth, and you could feel the knot of dread tightening in your stomach. “He mentioned dealers. Low-level guys, but he didn’t have any names.”

Patch’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in his eye—something hardening as if your words had confirmed something he already suspected. “The docks,” he echoed, his voice low. “That’s a rough place to start, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Does that mean you’ll help me?” The question escaped before you could stop it, and you hated the raw edge of hope that colored your voice. “You said I had to prove myself.”

Patch’s gaze locked onto yours, sharp and measuring. He didn’t speak for a long moment, and you wondered if he was about to tell you to walk away, that this was as far as your desperation would carry you. But then he gave a slow nod, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Alright, kid,” he said, his tone carrying both a promise and a threat. “I’ll help you. But you gotta follow my lead. No questions, no hesitation.”

You nodded quickly, the relief rushing through you like a wave. “I understand. I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said, your voice firm despite the uncertainty gnawing at your gut.

“Good,” he replied, his gaze flicking toward the dimly lit hallway you’d come from. “We start at the docks tonight. If this lead turns out to be a dead end, then you better start praying your sister’s got a hell of a lot more luck than you.”

Patch turned, already heading for the back exit, and you hurried after him, determination burning in your chest. For the first time since you’d woken up in that hospital bed, you felt like you were finally moving forward. Toward answers, toward your sister, and deeper into a darkness you didn’t understand yet.

“You should probably get some fresh clothes,” Patch muttered, not bothering to look back as he strode ahead. His long strides ate up the distance, and you had to hurry to keep pace, your sneakers slapping against the tile. 

“Yeah, well,” you quipped, a touch of dry humor creeping into your voice as you picked up the pace, “I don’t exactly have a lot of money lying around, and my apartment’s in Lowtown, so unless you know a cheap boutique nearby…”

Patch slowed just enough to glance over his shoulder, his eye narrowing. “Watch the attitude, kid,” he growled, his voice low and edged with a warning. “I’m already going out of my way for you. Don’t push it.”

You huffed, struggling to keep up as he picked up the pace again, his white suit cutting a path through the dim casino lighting like a shark through water. “I’m just saying,” you muttered, “it’s not like I have a lot of options. I did just wake up in a hospital bed.”

Patch stopped abruptly, turning to face you with a look that was half annoyance, half something else—curiosity, maybe. “You don’t have any options,” he said flatly, “which is exactly why you’re stuck with me.” He ran a hand through his dark hair as if trying to brush away the frustration clinging to his voice. “Come on,” he added, a resigned sigh escaping his lips. “I know a place.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “A place?”

“Yeah,” he replied, already moving again. “My place.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and you couldn’t help the flicker of surprise that crossed your face. Patch had struck you as the type to drop you off at some dingy motel, toss a few bucks your way, and call it a night. But his place? You weren’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

“Wow,” you said, with a hint of a smirk you didn’t quite feel. “Didn’t know you were so generous.”

Patch shot you a sidelong glance as he pushed open a back door, leading you out into a narrow alley where the neon lights from the casino cast strange shadows on the wet pavement. “Don’t get used to it,” he said. “I’m not running a charity. I just don’t want you drawing attention while we’re out there.” He paused, then gave you a once-over, his gaze lingering on the bruises darkening your skin. “Besides,” he added dryly, “you look like you crawled out of a dumpster.”

You snorted despite yourself, falling in step beside him as he led you down the alley. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”

He grunted in response, guiding you toward a sleek, black motorcycle parked near the mouth of the alley. “You think you can hold on without falling off?” he asked, tossing you a helmet.

You caught the helmet awkwardly, feeling a little thrill of apprehension run through you. “Guess we’re about to find out,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. You climbed onto the back of the bike, wrapping your arms around Patch’s waist a little too tightly.

“Relax,” he muttered as he revved the engine. “You’re gonna crush my ribs.”

“Just making sure I don’t fall off,” you shot back, loosening your grip a fraction.

The motorcycle roared to life, and Patch sped off, weaving through the city streets with practiced ease. The wind tore at your hair, and the city blurred around you in streaks of neon and shadows. The ride didn’t last long—ten minutes, maybe fifteen—but it felt longer with the weight of everything pressing down on you. The docks. The men you were about to face. Your sister’s terrified eyes. You shoved it all down, focusing on the feel of the road beneath you and the solid presence of Patch in front of you.

He pulled into an underground parking garage beneath a sleek high-rise on the edge of Hightown, the kind of place that whispered money and power. Definitely not the kind of place you would’ve pictured Patch calling home. You dismounted and handed him the helmet, your eyes drifting up to the polished glass and steel above you.

“Seriously?” you asked, a brow arched. “This is where you live?”

Patch shot you a look that bordered on amused irritation. “I like my privacy,” he said simply, leading the way to an elevator tucked into the corner of the garage. He punched in a code, and the doors slid open, revealing a mirrored interior that seemed too pristine for someone like him.

You stepped inside, feeling out of place amid the gleaming metal and polished surfaces. “This definitely beats Lowtown,” you muttered under your breath.

Patch gave a noncommittal grunt as the elevator ascended, his eye fixed on the glowing numbers. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he said as the doors slid open on the top floor. “You’re here to change, not to move in.”

The elevator opened directly into his apartment, a spacious loft with an open layout and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of the city stretching out below like a sea of lights. It was surprisingly clean—minimalist, with a few leather couches, a glass coffee table, and a sleek kitchen in the corner. It didn’t seem like a place anyone actually lived in. More like a picture in a magazine, or a safehouse for someone who moved around a lot.

“Bedrooms down the hall,” he said, jerking his head toward a narrow corridor. “There should be some clothes in the closet that’ll fit you.”

You hesitated, glancing around. “You just… keep women’s clothes lying around?”

Patch’s expression remained impassive, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve had company before,” he said dryly, then turned away to rummage through a cabinet near the kitchen. “Go get dressed. We’re burning time.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You hurried down the hall and found the bedroom—spare and uncluttered like the rest of the place. There was a walk-in closet filled mostly with men’s clothing, but you found a few items that looked like they might fit—a pair of black jeans, a faded gray t-shirt, and a leather jacket that was slightly too big. You changed quickly, tossing your clothes onto the bed and taking a moment to look at yourself in the mirror. You still looked a little rough around the edges, but at least you didn’t feel like a walking mess anymore.

When you emerged, Patch was leaning against the kitchen counter, a half-empty glass of whiskey sitting on it. He gave you a quick once-over, then nodded. “Better,” he said, pushing off the counter. “Now let’s go.”

You fell in step beside him as he led you back toward the elevator, the weight of the night settling back onto your shoulders. You were dressed, you were ready, but the uncertainty still gnawed at you. The stakes hadn’t changed. Your sister was still out there, and you were about to walk straight into the kind of trouble most people wouldn’t even dare to think about.

Patch glanced at you as the elevator doors closed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Try not to get yourself killed, kid,” he said, his tone laced with a mixture of sarcasm and something almost resembling concern.

You shot him a sideways look. “I’ll try my best,” you replied, your voice steady with a resolve you hadn’t felt in a long time. “Just make sure you don’t get in my way.”

His smirk deepened as the elevator descended, the faintest hint of approval in his gaze. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving the docks shrouded in a deep, restless darkness. As Patch’s motorcycle rumbled to a halt, you slid off the back, the chill of the night seeping into your bones. The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea, mixed with diesel fumes and the faint, distant clatter of metal on metal. Every shadow seemed to twist and stretch, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched from all sides.

Patch cut the engine and swung a leg over the bike, his movements fluid and controlled. “Could you calm down?” he muttered, shooting you a sideways glare. “I can’t hear a damn thing with your heartbeat pounding like a drum.”

You stared at him, your brows knitting together. “You can hear my—”

He just gave a curt nod, already turning away as if the matter was of no consequence. “Here’s the plan, kid,” he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You stay here. I go in, see what I can find out. If things get ugly, you get the hell out of here. Got it?”

Your jaw tightened at the implication. “Then why am I here? What am I supposed to do? Just sit here while you play hero?”

Patch’s eye flicked back to you, a glint of annoyance—or was it amusement?—in that sharp gaze. “You can either stay here and let me handle this, or you can come in and get yourself killed. Your call.” Without waiting for your response, he started toward the darkened warehouses at the edge of the docks, his steps silent on the cracked asphalt.

You stood there for a moment, anger flaring in your chest. There was no way you were just going to sit back while he did all the dirty work. He might’ve been right about you being out of your depth, but that didn’t mean you weren’t willing to dive in. You glanced around, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, then quietly trailed after him, keeping a safe distance. If he noticed, he didn’t let on.

Patch moved like a predator, his silhouette blending into the night as he slipped between shipping containers and rusted machinery. You followed as quietly as you could, your breath catching in your throat each time a loose pebble crunched underfoot or a metal chain swayed in the wind.

Up ahead, Patch stopped near a cluster of abandoned crates. You crept closer, just in time to see him crouch beside the door of a warehouse, his body tensed like a spring. He pressed an ear to the corrugated metal, listening. For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of distant waves lapping against the docks. Then, with a sudden SNIKT, three gleaming blades sprang from his knuckles, each one catching the faint glint of moonlight.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight but it was short-lived.

Before you could fully process it, the warehouse door burst open, slamming against the wall with a metallic clang. Three men spilled out, their footsteps heavy, voices raised in harsh, hurried whispers that cut through the still night air. 

Patch moved before they even noticed him—a blur of muscle and precision, springing forward like a coiled viper. His fist shot out, striking the first man square in the throat. There was a sickening crunch, a dark spray of blood, and the man staggered back, eyes bulging as he choked on a gurgled gasp. He collapsed in a heap, his body going limp on the cold concrete.

The other two froze, their faces draining of color, eyes widening as they processed what had just happened. You pressed yourself against the steel container, the chill seeping through your clothes as you struggled to stay hidden. Your heart pounded so loudly you could almost feel it in your throat, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the scene unfolding before you.

Patch didn’t give them a chance to recover. He spun, fluid and lethal, his focus shifting to the man who’d just drawn a knife. The man lunged, but Patch sidestepped effortlessly, his movements smooth and economical. In a flash, he caught the man’s wrist, twisting it with brutal efficiency. The sickening snap of bone echoed through the night, followed by a strangled scream that sent a shiver down your spine. Patch barely hesitated, driving his fist into the man’s temple with a fierce, controlled strike. The man crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around him.

The third man, panic etched into every line of his face, fumbled for a gun at his waistband, his fingers clumsy in his desperation. You saw his hand close around the weapon, saw him raise it, aiming squarely at Patch’s unguarded back.

Before you could even think, instinct took over. You darted out from behind the container, your hand grasping a rusted metal pipe lying discarded on the ground. Without hesitation, you swung it with every ounce of strength you had. The pipe connected with a dull, sickening crack against the gunman’s shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. The gun slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground.

Patch reacted instantly. He pivoted, claws slicing through the air. In one swift motion, he drove them into the man’s chest, his strike precise and merciless. The man’s eyes went wide, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as his body jerked, then fell slack. Patch withdrew his claws, letting the man crumple to the ground in a lifeless heap.

For a moment, the silence was absolute. You stood there, breathless, the weight of the pipe still in your hands as you stared at the bodies sprawled on the ground. Your pulse was a thunderstorm in your ears, your hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline that coursed through you.

Patch turned toward you, his eye narrowing, the tension between you crackling like static. “You were supposed to stay put,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

“And you have knives coming out of your hands,” you shot back, your voice trembling with adrenaline and disbelief. “I wasn’t about to let you get shot.”

He stared at you for a long beat, his gaze sharp and unyielding, as if he were assessing whether you were brave, reckless, or just plain stupid. Maybe a bit of all three. “Don’t make a habit of saving my life, kid,” he said finally, his tone edged with a reluctant sort of approval. “I’m not in the business of owing favors.”

Before you could think of a response, he jerked his head toward the warehouse. “Come on,” he said, his voice losing some of its sharpness but not its urgency. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

You followed him inside, the metal pipe still gripped tightly in your hand like a talisman against the darkness. The warehouse was cold and dimly lit by a few flickering overhead lights. As your eyes adjusted, you saw rows of metal cages lining the walls, each one filled with frightened girls. Some were sobbing quietly, others stared blankly into the distance, their faces pale and hollow. Your stomach twisted at the sight, and you had to swallow back the bile rising in your throat.

Patch was already moving down the line, his gaze hard as he scanned each cage. “Look for your sister,” he said, his voice flat and steady. “Quickly.”

You moved down the line, your eyes scanning each girl’s face, desperation clawing at your chest. But as you reached the last cage, a sick realization settled in. She wasn’t here. None of these girls were Emily.

Patch came up beside you, his gaze shifting from the empty cages to your face, reading the despair etched there. “She’s not here, is she?” he asked quietly, though there was a certainty in his tone as if he’d already known the answer.

You shook your head, dropping the pipe, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “No,” you whispered, the word tasting bitter and hollow. “She’s not.”

Patch let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. “Then this was only the start,” he said, his tone hardening again, as though he was steeling himself for the battles still ahead. “The guy at the casino gave us a lead, but it’s not the end of the line. We’re going to have to dig deeper.”

Your gaze drifted back to the girls still trapped in the cages, their hollow eyes pleading silently for rescue. “What about them?” you asked, your voice cracking. “We can’t just leave them here.”

For a moment, Patch’s expression softened—just a flicker of something almost human in the harsh lines of his face. “Stand back,” he said, his tone gruff as if trying to mask that brief flash of empathy.

You obeyed, retreating a few steps as Patch’s claws slid out with that familiar, metallic SNIKT. He moved down the row of cages in one swift motion, slashing through the padlocks like they were made of paper. The harsh sound of metal being cleaved filled the warehouse, and then the doors swung open one by one. The girls hesitated, their limbs trembling, but as the realization that they were free sank in, they began to stumble out, some leaning on each other for support.

Patch pulled a cell phone from his pocket, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said gruffly as if the person on the other end was already expecting his call. “Got a situation down at the docks. Girls in cages—trafficking operation. Send someone to clean it up.” He paused, glancing over at you before adding, “And make it quick. We’re not sticking around.”

He hung up and turned back to you, his expression returning to its usual gruffness. “We’ve done all we can here. Let’s move.” He gestured toward the exit, already heading for the door.

You hesitated for a moment, watching as the girls huddled together, some whispering frantic prayers of relief. You wanted to stay, to make sure they were alright. But you knew that finding your sister meant pushing forward, following Patch down whatever dark road lay ahead.

You followed him out into the night, stealing a glance at his profile—the way his jaw was set, the hard lines etched into his face. He wasn’t just a man with claws. There was something else there, simmering beneath the surface—something raw and wounded like he understood exactly what it was like to lose someone.

Patch glanced back at you, his lone eye narrowing slightly as if he could read the turmoil simmering just beneath your surface. “They’ll be alright,” he said, his voice gruff but softer than before, almost as if he was trying to reassure you. But there was also a distance behind his tone that suggested he was more used to dealing with facts than offering comfort.

You shrugged, quickening your pace to fall in step beside him, the frustration bubbling up and out before you could bite it back. “How can you be so sure?” you snapped, your voice cracking from a mix of exhaustion and desperation. “We didn’t even do anything but cut them loose. What if someone else shows up before your people get here? What if they just get taken again?” The questions spilled out of you, each one sharper than the last. “And my sister—” You said, sucking in a breath. “How are we going to find her with no leads?”

Patch stopped walking, and you nearly collided with him. He turned to face you fully, his expression hard, but not unsympathetic. For a moment, you thought he was going to snap at you for doubting him. Instead, he took a slow breath and looked at you in a way that made you feel like he was seeing past your words, straight into your doubts and fears.

“You don’t think I ask myself the same thing every day?” His voice was low, gravelly, but there was a crack in the armor, a flicker of something almost vulnerable in the way he spoke. “How many people I’ve helped just end up right back where they started?” He shook his head, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. “The difference is, I don’t let it stop me from trying.” He let out a breath, his gaze flicking briefly to the dark waters of the bay. “Sometimes, you just do what you can and hope it’s enough.”

The words landed heavily, and you found yourself searching his face for some deeper understanding. The hard lines, the unshaven jaw, the haunted look in that lone eye—all of it told you this wasn’t the first time he’d been up against impossible odds. He looked like a man who had seen the worst the world had to offer and was still fighting against it, even if he didn’t believe in winning anymore. There was a kind of comfort in that, knowing you weren’t the only one feeling helpless.

You took a breath, your voice quieter now. “But we still don’t know where she is,” you said, hating the desperation that crept into your tone. “And if we don’t have any leads, then—”

“We do have a lead,” Patch interrupted, his tone firm but not dismissive. He started walking again. “It’s just a small one.”

You frowned, hurrying to keep up with him. “What lead?” you asked, trying not to sound too skeptical.

“The convenience store,” he said, casting a sidelong glance at you. “Where you and your sister were before she was taken. I assume this wasn’t the first time there’s been trouble there. Lowtown’s full of secrets—it doesn’t take much for a place like that to hear things, see things. Somebody might’ve seen something, or maybe the owner knows more than he’s letting on.”

Your stomach tightened at the thought of going back there. The memory of that night was still raw—your sister’s terrified scream, the flash of the gun, the feeling of helplessness that had wrapped around your throat like a noose. “You think he’ll talk?” you asked, your voice coming out smaller than you’d intended. “The owner… he didn’t exactly seem like the helpful type.”

Patch’s mouth curved into a sardonic half-smile. “People talk when they have a reason to,” he said. “And if he doesn’t want to…” He tapped his knuckles against the claws sheathed inside his hand, the faintest snikt sound slipping through. “Well, let’s just say I have ways of encouraging them.”

You rolled your eyes at the display, though you felt a small spark of relief. “So your plan is to scare him into talking?” you asked, forcing some of your earlier skepticism back into your voice. “What if that just makes him clam up more?”

Patch gave a short, dry chuckle. “Then we improvise,” he said simply as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Most people can’t handle pressure the way you might think.” He glanced down at you, his expression softening for a moment. “Besides, you might be surprised what they’ll say if they think they’re helping you.”

There was a beat of silence, and then you shook your head. “Why would you care if someone helps me or not?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could fully think it through. “You don’t even know me.”

Patch looked away, his gaze settling on the lights shimmering on the bay. “Maybe I see something familiar,” he said quietly, his voice rough around the edges. “Someone who doesn’t know when to back down, who’s got too much fire for her own good.” He shrugged, the motion almost dismissive. “Or maybe I’m just a sucker for a lost cause. Take your pick.”

Something about the way he said it—the hint of a confession buried in his gruff tone—made your throat tighten. You didn’t know if you believed him, but you could tell he meant it, at least on some level.

You fell into step beside him, a new determination building in your chest. “Alright,” you said, your voice steadier than before. “Let’s go back to the store. But if we don’t find anything there…” You trailed off, the unspoken fear still lingering between you.

Patch glanced at you, his eye glinting in the dim light. “If we don’t find anything,” he said, his voice low and steady, “then we keep looking. We dig until there’s nothing left to dig.” He paused, his gaze locking onto yours with a kind of fierce intensity. “And I won't stop, sweetheart. Not until we find her.”

​​You felt a tiny flicker of hope catch in your chest. It was a fragile thing, barely more than a spark. But it was enough to keep you moving, enough to help you push back the darkness that seemed to cling to the edges of everything. There were still shadows, countless unknowns waiting for you in the dark. But now, you had someone walking with you who understood the weight of desperation and the need to fight, even when the odds seemed impossible.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The early morning sky had just begun to soften to a pale, grayish-blue creeping over Lowtown like a faded bruise. The convenience store loomed ahead, its cracked neon sign buzzing faintly, casting an uneven glow over the peeling paint and grimy windows. As you climbed off Patch’s motorcycle, the knot in your stomach twisted tighter, a dull ache spreading through your chest. You hadn’t slept, and the weariness settled over you like a heavy fog, making every step feel like wading through quicksand.

Patch swung his leg off the bike and glanced at you, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can go in alone,” he said, his tone more a suggestion than an order, though his eyes flicked warily toward the store.

“No, it’s fine.” The words came out harsher than you intended, and you pushed past him, crossing the street before he could respond. The truth was, you didn’t want to sit back and let him do all the talking. This was your fight, and you needed to feel like you were doing something—anything—to get closer to finding your sister.

The bell above the door jangled as you stepped inside, the familiar scent of stale coffee and cheap cleaning products hitting you all at once. The store looked the same as it had the night your sister was taken—dimly lit, cluttered shelves, a few bored customers milling about, and behind the counter, the same old man with his scowling expression and deep-set eyes. 

He glanced up as you approached, his gaze flicking briefly to Patch before settling on you. Recognition flashed in his eyes, and he immediately stiffened, his scowl deepening.

“Back again?” he grunted, his tone dripping with irritation. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you so soon. Look, if this is about that night, I already talked to the cops—”

“This isn’t about the cops,” you interrupted, your voice cold. “This is about my sister.”

The store owner’s mouth tightened into a thin line, his fingers drumming against the counter. “I already told the police everything I know,” he said with a shrug. “Not that they cared much. It’s Lowtown. Crime happens.”

“Yeah, well,” Patch cut in, his voice a low growl, “you’re going to have to do better than that.” He leaned in, letting just a hint of menace creep into his posture. “You’re going to tell us exactly what you saw that night, old man.”

The owner bristled, his eyes darting nervously to the gleaming claws sheathed inside Patch’s fists as if sensing their presence even though they hadn’t made an appearance. “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” he muttered, his gaze shifting away. “I’m just trying to run a business here. I didn’t see anything more than I already told the cops.”

A wave of frustration surged through you, hot and sharp. You didn’t have time for this—didn’t have time for vague answers and excuses. Before you could think, you stepped forward and grabbed the front of the old man’s shirt, yanking him toward you across the counter. “Stop lying!” you snapped, your voice trembling with a raw edge. “This isn’t just some robbery we’re talking about—my sister was taken! If you know anything, you better tell us now.”

The owner’s eyes widened, shock flickering across his face as he took in the desperation in your expression. “Hey, hey—calm down,” he stammered, his hands coming up defensively. “I don’t know anything, I swear!” His gaze darted nervously to Patch, who stood back with a raised brow, clearly surprised but not intervening. “The guy that night—he’s just some lowlife who’s robbed me a few times. That’s it! The police don’t even bother arresting him anymore—they say he’s small-time. He usually hangs out at this old abandoned building a few blocks from here.”

You tightened your grip on his collar, leaning in closer. “Where?” you demanded, your voice a low, dangerous whisper.

The owner swallowed hard, his face pale under the flickering fluorescent lights. “It’s an old warehouse on Canal Street,” he said quickly. “Just a few blocks west. The place has been falling apart for years—nobody else goes near it. That’s all I know, I swear.”

You released him, letting out a shaky breath as you stepped back. The owner stumbled slightly, his hand flying up to straighten his collar, his eyes still wide and wary. “You better not be lying,” you said, your tone cold. “Because if you are—”

“He’s not,” Patch interrupted, his voice calm but edged with finality. He gave the old man a hard look before turning to you. “Let’s go.”

You nodded, your pulse still racing from the adrenaline, the anger. As you turned to leave, the store owner’s voice trembled after you, “Good luck, kid,” he said, almost reluctantly. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. That guy… he’s trouble.”

Outside, you took a deep breath, trying to shake off the intensity of the moment. You hadn’t even realized how tightly wound you were until now. Patch glanced at you, his expression unreadable as he pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it. He took a long drag, the smoke curling around him as he studied you.

“Didn’t know you had that in you, sweetheart,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of approval. “You might just make it out of this alive after all.”

You shot him a look, not quite sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. “I’m not doing this for your approval,” you said, still feeling the heat of anger simmering in your veins. “I’m doing it for her.”

Patch blew out a cloud of smoke, a half-smirk curling on his lips. “I know,” he said simply, then nodded toward the street. “Come on. We’ve got a warehouse to check out.”

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The roar of the motorcycle faded as Patch brought it to a stop near the crumbling entrance of the old warehouse on Canal Street. The place looked like it hadn’t seen upkeep in decades—rusted metal siding, cracked windows covered in grime, and a faded sign that had long since lost any meaning. Despite the early morning light breaking over the horizon, the shadows clung to the corners, refusing to let go.

Patch scanned the building, his keen gaze narrowing, his head tilting slightly as if tuning into a frequency only he could hear. He took a slow breath, nostrils flaring, and you knew he was using that heightened sense of his to pick up anything unusual—sounds, scents, even the faintest movement.

After a moment, he exhaled, frustration curling his lips into a scowl. “It’s quiet,” he said, his tone flat. “Too quiet. I don’t hear a damn thing in there. If anyone’s here, they’re either dead or—.”

“Or maybe they’re hiding,” you argued, your voice trembling slightly despite your effort to sound resolute. “Or maybe Emily’s in there—” You cut yourself off, refusing to say the rest. You didn’t want to give voice to your fears, the idea that if she was here, she could already be—no. You weren’t going to think like that.

Patch gave you a hard look, the concern in his gaze surfacing just enough for you to catch it. “You need to stay out here,” he said, his voice low and firm. “If something goes down, you’ll be in the way.”

But you were already moving, your feet carrying you toward the warehouse entrance before you could give yourself time to hesitate. “I’m not staying out here,” you snapped. “I didn’t come this far to wait around while you do all the work.”

Patch reached for your arm, his fingers closing around your wrist in a firm grip. “You think you’re ready for whatever’s in there?” His voice was almost a growl, frustration lacing every word. “You’re running on fumes, kid. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You yanked your arm free, anger sparking hot in your chest. “I don’t care what you hear or don’t hear Patch,” you shot back, your voice rising. “I’m going in there. Whether you like it or not.” You turned and pushed through the door, the rusted metal creaking as it swung open.

The air inside was musty, thick with dust and the lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke. Rows of abandoned crates and broken-down machinery loomed in the gloom. You took a cautious step forward, your senses on high alert. The silence pressed in around you, heavy and suffocating, but it did little to quell the desperate hope burning in your chest. Emily could be here, you told yourself. She has to be.

As you ventured deeper into the warehouse, you heard a faint shuffle, the quiet scrape of a shoe against the concrete floor. You froze, squinting through the dim light until your eyes locked on a figure crouched behind a stack of crates. It was a man, the same one you remembered from the convenience store—greasy hair, ratty clothes, and a face you’d never forget. 

Rage flared white-hot inside you, burning away the exhaustion and fear. Before you knew it, you were moving—your feet pounding the ground, the world narrowing to just you and him. “Where is she?” you shouted, your voice echoing off the warehouse walls as you closed the distance. “Where’s my sister?!”

The man scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with recognition and panic as you lunged at him. He tried to swing a fist at you, but you ducked and slammed your shoulder into his chest, knocking him backward. You grabbed him by the collar, slamming him against a nearby metal beam. The impact sent a hollow clang reverberating through the building.

“Where is she?!” you screamed again, your grip tightening as you pulled back a fist and drove it into his jaw. The pain in your knuckles barely registered over the adrenaline surging through your veins. “Tell me where you took her!”

The man grunted, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he tried to shove you off. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he spat, his voice trembling. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” You struck him again, your fist connecting with his ribs this time. He let out a choked groan, his knees buckling as he struggled to stay upright. “I saw you! You took her from the store! What did you do with her?!”

You were about to hit him again when a strong hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you back. “Enough,” Patch’s voice rumbled behind you, deep and commanding. He yanked you away from the man, spinning you around to face him. “You’re not going to get anything out of him like this,” he said, his tone calmer but edged with warning. “Let me handle it.”

You shook your head, the rage still burning hot in your chest. “No!” You struggled against Patch’s grip. “I was handling it just fine. He knows something—I know he does!”

The man coughed, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. “Alright, alright!” he croaked, his eyes darting between you and Patch, desperation etched into every line of his face. “I took her, okay? But I swear I don’t know where she is now!”

Patch let go of you and took a step toward the man, his expression darkening. “Start talking,” he growled, the claws sliding out of his knuckles with a menacing SNIKT.

The guy’s face went pale as he eyed the claws, swallowing hard. “Okay, okay!” he stammered, raising his hands in surrender. “I sold her! That’s what we do—grab girls and sell them off to whoever’s buying! She was taken to some place up north—private buyer, big money!” His breath hitched as he glanced nervously at you, then back at Patch. “That’s all I know, I swear! They don’t tell us where they take the girls after the sale, just that it’s out of town, upstate!”

Your heart sank, the anger in your chest twisting into something darker, colder. “You sold her,” you whispered, the words tasting like bile. “You sold my sister.”

The man opened his mouth to speak, but Patch stepped forward, the glint of his claws catching the dim light. “You’re going to give me the name of the buyer,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Or you won’t be leaving this place in one piece.”

The man’s eyes darted frantically around the room as if searching for an escape that didn’t exist. “I—I don’t know his real name!” he cried. “They just called him ‘The Collector.’ That’s it! I swear! He deals in... special requests. High-profile stuff. If you want more than that, you’re gonna have to talk to someone higher up the chain.”

Patch held the man’s gaze for a moment longer, then retracted the claws with a snikt and turned to you. “Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “We’ve got what we need.”

You hesitated, a storm of anger and helplessness roiling inside you. A part of you wanted to drag every last bit of information out of the man, to beat the truth out of him until he confessed something useful—anything that would bring you closer to finding Emily. “We can’t just let him go,” you said, your voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “He’s a criminal. He sold my sister.”

You took a step closer to the guy, your hands curling into fists at your sides. The man flinched, shrinking back against the metal beam, his eyes darting toward the door as if planning an escape. But you were ready to lunge if he even tried.

Patch stepped in front of you, blocking your path to the man. “What do you want me to do, kid?” he said, his tone flat and calm, but with an edge that hinted at something darker. “Kill him? Beat him to a pulp?” He glanced over his shoulder at the man, who was trembling now, his eyes wide and pleading. “Or maybe you think turning him in will make the cops give a damn?”

The truth in his words hit you like a slap. You knew how things worked in Lowtown. The police wouldn’t waste their time on some street-level thug, even if he had been part of something bigger. People like him slip through the cracks all the time. That was just the way it was. But the thought of letting him walk away, after everything he’d done, twisted your insides into a knot.

You swallowed hard, taking a step back. “I just don’t want him to get away with it,” you whispered, the fire in your voice fading to something more fragile. “He deserves to pay.”

Patch held your gaze for a moment, then turned back to the man. “Yeah, he does,” he agreed, his voice cold as ice. Before the guy could even react, Patch’s fist lashed out, striking him squarely across the jaw. There was a sharp crack, and the man slumped to the ground, unconscious, his body hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Patch flexed his fingers, the claws sliding out then back into place with a faint snikt as he turned to you. “There,” he said. “He’s not going anywhere now.” He nudged the man’s limp form with the toe of his boot, then glanced up at you, his expression unreadable. “But we’re not sticking around, either.”

You took a shaky breath, staring down at the unconscious man. It wasn’t enough—it would never be enough—but it would have to do for now. “What now?” you asked, the adrenaline ebbing and leaving you feeling drained, almost hollow.

Patch rubbed a hand across his jaw, then lit up a cigar, taking a long drag before speaking. “Now,” he said, exhaling a plume of smoke, “we regroup. We’ve got a name—The Collector—and we know he’s the kind of scumbag who deals in ‘special requests.’ That’s more than we had before.” He glanced over at you, his gaze lingering on the bruise forming on your knuckles, the scrapes on your face. “But you’re running on empty. You need to rest and clean yourself up. We’ll go back to my place.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him that you didn’t need rest, that there wasn’t time. But the exhaustion hit you all at once, like a weight settling on your shoulders. Your hands were still trembling from the adrenaline, your head spinning slightly from the lack of sleep. You hated to admit it, but he was right. You weren’t going to be any help if you collapsed before you even found another lead.

“Fine,” you muttered, the word tasting like defeat. “But just for a little while. Then we’re going after this Collector.”

Patch gave a small nod, his mouth curling into something that was almost a smirk. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not planning on sitting around,” he said as he started toward the exit, the early morning light spilling into the warehouse. “I’ll reach out to some contacts, and see what I can dig up while you get cleaned up. We’re just getting started.”

As you followed him out, you couldn’t help but glance back at the man sprawled on the floor, his breathing shallow and uneven. You still felt a simmering rage in your chest, but at least now you were moving forward. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The motorcycle ride back to Patch’s place felt longer than before, every bump and turn jarring your already frayed nerves. When you finally arrived, you climbed off the bike, wincing as your muscles protested. Patch led you back up to the sleek high-rise apartment. 

Inside, he gestured toward the bathroom down the hall. “There’s a first aid kit under the sink,” he said. “Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll be making some calls.” He pulled out his phone, already scrolling through contacts as he lit another cigar.

You nodded and headed to the bathroom, pausing when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked like hell—hair tangled, dirt smudged across your face, dried blood on your knuckles. You almost didn’t recognize the person staring back at you. You didn’t feel like the same person you’d been yesterday. 

As you scrubbed the grime from your skin, letting the hot water beat against your sore muscles, you could hear Patch’s voice rumbling down the hall. His tone was low and gravelly, clipped in a way that spoke of urgency and frustration. 

“Yeah, The Collector,” he was saying. “He’s back in the market. Upstate, from what I hear. Need you to dig up any recent sightings, transactions… anything that’ll give me a trail.” There was a brief pause, and you could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose as he listened. “Yeah, I owe you one. Just get it done.”

The water scalded, but you welcomed the sting—it was better than feeling numb. You wrapped a towel around yourself and padded softly into the bedroom. You noticed Patch by his closet, rifling through a stack of clothes. He must have heard you, because he glanced over his shoulder, his gaze trailing over you sending a shiver down your spine.

“Anything?” you asked, your voice husky from fatigue, though there was a thread of hope laced in the question.

He pulled out a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, handing them to you. “Got a few leads,” he said, watching you with that sharp, assessing eye. “The Collector’s keeping a low profile, but he’s been spotted at a private estate upstate—real exclusive, where the rich and dirty go to do business no one else should see.”

You took the clothes from his grasp, your fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm and rough like he was someone who had been through hell and dragged himself back. “I don’t think I’ve said this yet,” you murmured, averting your gaze as you pulled the shirt over your head. “But… thank you.”

Patch arched an eyebrow, a slow smirk curving his lips as he leaned casually against the wall, arms crossing over his chest. “Don’t get all soft on me now, sweetheart,” he drawled, his tone edged with amusement. “You’re making me blush.”

You shot him a glare, though it lacked any real bite. “I’m serious, Patch. You didn’t have to help me. Most people would’ve just told me to get lost.”

His gaze softened, just a fraction, and for a heartbeat, you thought you saw something flicker in his eye. “You’re not most people,” he said quietly, then his mouth twitched into a half-smirk again. “Besides, I’ve got a soft spot for troublemakers.”

“Must be why you’re helping me,” you shot back, tossing the jeans and towel on the nightstand. “You just can’t resist a little chaos.” You meant for it to sound teasing, but there was an unspoken tension humming between the two of you, thickening the air. It lingered there, a spark that could easily ignite, but Patch was already turning away, the moment slipping back into the shadows.

“Get some rest,” he said, his tone gruff again as he nodded toward his bed in the center of the room. “I’ve still got a few calls to make. I’ll wake you when I’ve got something solid.” He glanced back at you, his gaze briefly dipping to where the hem of the shirt you wore brushed against your thighs. 

You settled onto his bed reluctantly, exhaustion tugging at your limbs. As much as you wanted to stay awake, to keep pushing forward, the weight of the day was catching up with you. The pillows were firm and smelled faintly of leather and cigar smoke, and despite the situation, it was surprisingly comforting. You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The nightmare hit you like a punch to the gut. One moment, you were sinking into sleep, and the next, you were back in that convenience store—hearing Emily’s screams, seeing her being dragged away. The scene replayed in sharp, agonizing detail, but this time, you weren’t paralyzed. You fought, struggled, reached for her, but every time you got close, she slipped away, her face twisted in terror as the darkness swallowed her whole.

You woke with a gasp, your heart pounding violently against your ribcage, your skin slick with sweat. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights filtering in through the window. You struggled to catch your breath, your fingers digging into the sheets beneath you as you tried to shake off the remnants of the dream.

“Bad one?” Patch’s voice was low, coming from the other side of the room. You hadn’t noticed him there, sitting in an armchair, one leg propped up on the coffee table. His gaze was steady, and even in the dim light, you could see the concern etched in the hard lines of his face.

You nodded, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. “Just… couldn’t stop seeing her,” you whispered, hating the vulnerability that crept into your voice. “I keep thinking, what if we’re too late? What if she’s already—”

“Don’t go there,” Patch interrupted, his tone firm. He got up from the chair and crossed the room in a few strides, crouching down beside you. “Fear’s a poison, kid. It’ll eat you alive if you let it.” His hand rested on your shoulder, a steadying weight, and when you looked into his eye, you saw something raw, something familiar—a shared understanding of pain.

“Is that how you deal with it?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Just… shut it down? Pretend you’re not scared?”

Patch’s jaw tightened slightly, and he looked away for a moment as if considering how much to reveal. “I’m not afraid of dying,” he said quietly. “Been through that more times than I can count.” He hesitated, then continued, his voice rough. “But losing people… watching them slip away and not being able to do a damn thing about it—that’s a different kind of fear.”

His words settled over you, heavy and cold. “How do you deal with it?” you asked, unable to keep the desperation from leaking into your tone.

Patch’s gaze flicked back to you, his hand still resting on your shoulder. “You don’t,” he said simply. “Not completely. But you keep moving, keep fighting. Because giving up isn’t an option. Not if you’ve got something worth fighting for.” His grip tightened just slightly, the roughness of his skin grounding you in the present. 

The air between you seemed to crackle, the unspoken understanding deepening the tension that had been building since you’d met. His touch lingered, warmer than you’d expected, the lines on his face softer, as if he’d let you see a glimpse of the man behind the mask.

You found yourself leaning just a little closer, your breath mingling with his. “I’m not used to someone sticking around,” you admitted, your voice hushed.

Patch’s mouth twitched, that smirk returning, but his eye remained steady, serious. “Well, don’t get used to it,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “I’m just here to see you don’t get yourself killed before we find your sister.”

“Is that all?” you murmured, the corner of your mouth curling up as you felt the familiar spark of challenge in your chest.

His gaze held yours for a long moment, something unspoken passing between you that felt like the edge of a blade, sharp and dangerous. “For now,” he replied, standing up and stepping back, the distance between you stretching out once more. “Get some more sleep. You’re going to need it.”

You nodded, lying back down, but this time, it was different. The darkness wasn’t as suffocating, the fear not as overwhelming. You weren’t sure if it was because of Patch’s words or the warmth of his touch that still lingered on your shoulder. Nonetheless, you drifted off again. 

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

“Wake up, kid.” Patch’s voice rumbled above you, and his hand shook your shoulder with just enough force to rattle you out of sleep.

You groaned, the heaviness of exhaustion clinging to your limbs as you blinked against the dim light of the apartment. “Five more minutes…” you muttered, your voice thick with sleep.

“Sorry, sweetheart. We don’t have five more minutes,” he said dryly, stepping back and crossing his arms as he waited for you to sit up. “The Collector’s making a move. Got word he’s doing a deal in Hightown tonight. We’re running out of time.”

The mention of The Collector jolted you awake, your pulse quickening. You rubbed a hand over your face, forcing yourself to focus. “Tonight?” you echoed, pushing yourself up off the bed. “How’d you find that out?”

Patch’s smirk was a little too smug for your liking. “I’ve got my ways,” he replied, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. “Turns out, a lot of people are willing to talk when you give them the right incentive.” He leaned back against the wall, his gaze trailing over you as if assessing whether you were ready for what was coming next. “Or when you’ve got claws that can slice through steel.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for the jeans on the nightstand. “Guess you didn’t need my help for that, then.”

His smirk deepened, the corner of his mouth curling up. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m just not big on watching you sleep while I do all the work.”

You shot him a glare as you pulled on your jacket. “Don’t act like I’ve been sitting around doing nothing. I’m the one who got us that lead on Canal Street, remember?”

He gave a casual shrug, but his expression softened—just a touch. “Fair point,” he conceded. “But if you’re coming with me tonight, you’d better be ready for things to get ugly.” He tilted his head, eyeing you up and down like he was measuring whether you could handle whatever lay ahead. “The Collector’s not your average street thug. He’s a heavy hitter with connections. If he’s making a deal, it’s gonna be big and dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid of a little danger.” There was a challenge in your voice, a fire that hadn’t been there before. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or sheer desperation, but it felt like the only thing keeping you upright.

Patch’s gaze held yours, a glint of approval flashing in his eye. “You’ve really got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said. “Just try not to let them spill out tonight.” He turned and headed toward the door, his voice drifting back to you. “The deal’s happening in one of the private clubs in Hightown. Real swanky place where the rich get their hands dirty without staining their clothes.”

You followed him, your pulse quickening with each step. “And what’s our plan? We’re just gonna walk in and ask politely where my sister is?” you asked, trying to match his casual tone, though there was a sharp edge beneath it.

Patch’s chuckle was low and rough, almost a growl. “Not exactly. We’ll blend in as much as we can,” he said, glancing over at you with a faint smirk. “I can pass for someone with money to burn. You, on the other hand, might need a bit of work.” He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking over your current attire.

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him. “What, you’re saying I don’t look the part?” you shot back, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “I think I can fake a little high-class attitude.”

Patch tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “You’ve got plenty of attitude, that’s for sure,” he remarked, his tone dripping with teasing. “But attitude’s not gonna get you past the doorman. You need to look like you belong there. Right now, you look more like you belong in a street fight than in a place with crystal chandeliers.”

You crossed your arms, your brow lifting in defiance. “Then I guess you’d better help me, Patch,” you said, your voice laced with sarcasm. “You seem to know a lot about dressing up.”

He shook his head, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Fine, kid. I’ll see what I can dig up.” He gestured for you to follow him back down the hallway. “But if anyone asks, you’re my date for the night. Try not to embarrass me.”

Your laughter was sharp, filled with tension. “Oh, don’t worry,” you replied as you walked behind him. “I’d hate to ruin your reputation.”

Half an hour later, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror in Patch’s apartment, barely recognizing the person staring back at you. The dress he’d found was sleek and black which hugged your figure in a way that made you feel both exposed and powerful. Your hair was pulled back in a loose twist, a few tendrils framing your face to help hide the bruises. You hadn’t worn anything this fancy in… well, maybe ever. You couldn’t decide if you liked it or if it made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

“Not bad,” Patch said, leaning casually in the doorway, his arms crossed as he looked you over. “You clean up pretty well, kid.”

You turned to face him, a slow smirk curling on your lips. “You almost sound impressed,” you said, lifting an eyebrow. “Didn’t think I could pull off the high-class look?”

He shrugged, but the gleam in his eye betrayed his amusement. “Just wasn’t sure you knew how to wear anything that didn’t involve bloodstains.”

You took a step closer, your gaze locked on his. “Guess I like to keep you on your toes,” you replied, your voice low.

He didn’t move away, his expression unreadable as he stared back at you. For a moment, the air thickened between you, and you found yourself acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, the way his jaw tightened just slightly as if resisting the urge to say something. But then, just as quickly, he turned and gestured toward the door.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice back to its usual gruffness. “We’ve got a date with The Collector.”

You followed him out of the apartment, your nerves buzzing beneath your skin. The thought of walking into a club filled with dangerous people didn’t exactly thrill you, but if it got you one step closer to Emily, then it was a risk you had to take.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The club in Hightown was an entirely different world. It oozed luxury—plush velvet drapes, glittering chandeliers, and people dressed in expensive clothes that screamed wealth and power. The low thrum of jazz music hung in the air, mingling with the scent of perfume and cigar smoke. As you and Patch approached the entrance, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself,” he murmured near your ear. “We’re supposed to blend in, remember?”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Is this where I swoon and cling to your arm?” you whispered back, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“If you want to sell it, yeah,” he replied, his tone half-teasing, half-serious. “And if anyone asks, I’m taking you on a private tour of the club. Just follow my lead.”

You took a deep breath, letting the warmth of his touch steady you as you stepped inside. Your gaze swept over the room, searching for anything or anyone that looked out of place. But everyone here seemed to belong—except you.

Patch’s grip on your waist tightened slightly as you entered, his body tensing ever so subtly. “The deal’s happening in one of the private rooms upstairs,” he murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “We need to get up there without drawing attention.”

Your heart hammered in your chest as you took in the sight of the staircase leading to the upper levels. The plush carpet, the gold-trimmed railings, the way the lights seemed dimmer up there—it all felt like a line you weren’t sure you could cross. A rush of panic tightened your chest. This was a different kind of danger than what you’d faced so far. Up until now, you’d been chasing shadows, following vague leads, but here… here you’d be walking straight into the heart of it.

“How are we going to get up there?” you asked, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. Your eyes flicked to the hulking security guard posted at the base of the stairs, his arms folded over a chest that looked like it could stop a freight train. “I don’t think saying you’re giving a private tour is going to cut it.”

Patch’s mouth quirked into a half-smile, his gaze sliding over to the guard and then back to you. “Good thing I just came up with a better plan than that,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. He pulled you snugly against his side. “Just follow my lead, sweetheart,” he added, his breath warm against your ear. “And try not to blush.”

You barely had time to react before he steered you toward the staircase, his grip on you firm but gentle. You glanced up at him, narrowing your eyes. “So what’s the plan?” you whispered through gritted teeth, trying not to stiffen at the way his hand rested against your hip. “Charm our way past him?”

“Something like that,” Patch replied, his voice laced with amusement. “Just play along, act like you can’t get enough of me.”

“I’ll try to contain myself,” you shot back, matching his smirk.

As you approached the guard, you plastered a flirtatious smile on your face, leaning a little closer to Patch as if you were hanging on his every word. The guard’s gaze flicked to you, then to Patch, his expression shifting to one of suspicion.

“Upstairs is off-limits,” the guard said, his voice a low rumble. “Private event.”

Patch didn’t miss a beat, flashing a grin that was somehow both casual and threatening. “Come on, big guy,” he said, his tone smooth. “I’m just showing my girl here a good time. She’s never been to a place like this before.” He tightened his hold on your waist, his fingers brushing the exposed skin just above your hip. “Figured I’d give her a taste of the finer things.”

You caught the guard’s gaze, widening your eyes just a bit, adding a hint of breathlessness to your tone. “He’s right,” you said, forcing a giggle that felt foreign coming from your lips. “I’ve heard about the view from upstairs… I’d hate to miss out.” You leaned into Patch as though seeking his warmth, hoping the performance was convincing enough.

The guard’s eyes narrowed, flicking over you with a mix of skepticism and something darker. He seemed to hesitate, his gaze drifting to Patch as if weighing the consequences of letting you through.

“Look,” Patch said, his voice dropping an octave, adding a dangerous edge. “I’d hate to cause a scene, but if you’re going to make this difficult, I can always take my business elsewhere.” His hand shifted to your lower back, his thumb brushing in a way that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

The guard grunted, his jaw tightening. “Fine,” he said reluctantly, stepping aside. “But if anyone asks, you didn’t come up this way. Got it?”

“Crystal clear,” Patch replied, giving the guard a curt nod. As soon as you started up the stairs, his grip on you relaxed slightly, though his arm remained draped around you.

When you reached the first landing, you pulled away, shooting him a glare. “You enjoyed that way too much,” you whispered, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

Patch’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Maybe I just like seeing you squirm,” he teased, his gaze flicking down to your flushed cheeks. “You played the part well, though. Almost had me convinced.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your skin still buzzed where his hand had been. “I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve had to sweet-talk your way into someplace you’re not supposed to be.”

His smirk widened. “You’d be surprised.”

Before you could come up with a retort, the distant sound of raised voices drifted down the hallway to your left. You stiffened, instinctively reaching for Patch’s arm. He noticed the change in your posture, his expression hardening in an instant.

“That’s coming from one of the private rooms,” he murmured, his gaze darting down the corridor. “Could be our guy.” Without waiting for your response, he took your hand and guided you forward, moving quietly toward the source of the commotion.

The closer you got, the more you could make out—a gruff voice barking orders, someone else protesting in a panicked tone. As you reached the door, which was slightly ajar, you caught a glimpse of a man in an expensive suit, gesturing animatedly while another figure, partially obscured by shadows, sat calmly at a table, watching with an air of detached amusement.

Patch glanced at you, his eye gleaming with intensity. “Stay behind me,” he whispered. “And if things get ugly, don’t try to play the hero.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, Patch had already nudged the door open with his shoulder, striding into the room as if he owned the place. You followed a step behind, your pulse racing as the room fell silent and all eyes turned toward you.

The man at the table—a thin, elegant figure with cold eyes—raised an eyebrow, a slow, serpentine smile spreading across his face. “Well, well,” he drawled, his voice as smooth as silk. “What do we have here? I wasn’t expecting company.”

Patch’s smirk was all teeth, dangerous and casual. “Just thought I’d drop by,” he said, his tone deceptively light. “Heard you were doing a little business tonight. Figured I’d see if you had something I might be interested in.”

The Collector’s gaze flicked from Patch to you, lingering just a bit too long for your comfort. “And who’s this lovely creature?” he asked, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. “I wasn’t aware you brought dates to negotiations.”

Patch’s grip on your waist tightened slightly. “She’s not for sale if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, his voice low and edged with a warning. “But you might have something—or someone—I’m looking for.”

The Collector’s smile faltered, and for a moment, his gaze turned calculating. “I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for,” he said slowly. “And how much you’re willing to pay.”

The air in the room seemed to thicken, the tension vibrating like a live wire. You could feel the Collector’s eyes boring into you, as though he was trying to peel away your façade and see what you were really after.

You swallowed hard, keeping your expression composed as you glanced up at Patch, hoping he had a plan. There was a moment of hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze that made your stomach twist.

“I heard you have girls for sale,” Patch said, his voice calm but edged with danger. He made sure to keep a measured distance between himself and the Collector, his tone deceptively casual. “And I’m looking to buy one. Willing to pay quite a lot.”

The Collector's lips curved into a slow, mocking smile as he shook his head. “I don’t know where you heard that,” he replied, his voice a smooth purr. Rising from his chair, he placed his ringed fingers on the table and leaned forward. “But that’s not the kind of business I’m in.”

His gaze found yours, his eyes cold and piercing. You felt a shiver wash over your entire body like an icy hand sliding down your spine. The way he looked at you was invasive, stripping away your bravado layer by layer. Patch’s hand on your waist tightened ever so slightly, a warning to stay calm.

“I guess I misheard, then,” Patch said, his tone even, but you could sense the tension beneath it, like a taut wire ready to snap.

The Collector’s smirk widened as he straightened, folding his hands behind his back. “Is that why you brought her here?” he asked, raising a brow as his eyes raked slowly over your figure. “To distract me? She’s a pretty little thing, I’ll give you that. But you must think me a fool, Patch.” He chuckled a low, contemptuous sound. “You think I don’t know who you are?”

Patch’s jaw clenched, but before he could respond, you felt a surge of anger rise in your chest, hot and raw. You weren’t about to stand there and let this bastard talk circles around you, not when Emily could be here��could be just behind one of those doors.

You stepped forward, pulling away from Patch’s grasp, and leveled your gaze at the Collector. “Stop pretending you don’t know,” you said, your voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Where’s my sister?” You took another step, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “I know you’re the one who took her. Just tell me where she is!”

The Collector's smile didn’t falter, but a glint of amusement danced in his eyes as if he found your outburst entertaining. “Your sister?” he repeated, his tone dripping with false innocence. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. You see, I conduct legitimate business here. But I suppose if you were willing to make it worth my while, I could—”

The door to the private room swung open, cutting off his words. Two of the Collector’s men strode in, dragging a small group of girls with them. Your breath caught in your throat, the world narrowing to a pinpoint as you scanned their faces.

And then you saw her.

Emily.

She was hunched over, her hair tangled and her clothes dirty, but there was no mistaking the familiar curve of her cheek, the frightened wideness of her eyes. She looked up, her gaze finding yours, and her expression crumpled into a mix of relief and terror. “Sis?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“Emily!” you cried, starting to move toward her, but one of the men stepped in front of you, blocking your path.

Patch's claws shot out with a sharp snikt, his voice turning into a low growl. “Move,” he said to the guard, his tone like gravel grinding together. “Or I start decorating this room with your blood.”

The guard hesitated, glancing back at the Collector, who simply raised a hand, signaling him to stand down. “Ah, there she is,” the Collector said with a sigh as if he were showing off a piece of fine art. “You know, Patch, I really didn’t want this to get messy. But since you’ve found what you’re looking for, I’m afraid we have a little problem.”

Patch stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you. “The only problem here,” he said, his voice low and deadly, “is how many pieces I’m going to leave you in.”

The Collector’s smile faded, and he took a step back. “You think you can just walk out of here with her?” he said, gesturing to his men. “I don’t think so.” His tone sharpened. “Get them.”

Before you could blink, the room erupted into chaos. The guards lunged forward, and Patch was already in motion, his claws slashing through the air in a deadly arc. The first guard barely had time to react before Patch’s fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. The second guard swung a baton, aiming for Patch’s head, but Patch ducked, his claws slicing across the man’s chest in one swift motion.

You ran to Emily, pulling her behind you as you backed toward the door. “We’re getting out of here,” you whispered fiercely, your hands trembling as you gripped her arm. “Just stay close.”

As you turned, one of the guards grabbed you by the shoulder, yanking you back. You lashed out instinctively, throwing an elbow into his ribs, but his grip didn’t loosen. Emily screamed, and in that split second, you saw Patch’s eyes flash with a wild, feral rage as he barreled toward the guard, knocking him away from you with a force that sent the man crashing into the wall.

“Go!” Patch shouted, shoving you and Emily toward the door as he whirled around to face the Collector. “Get her out of here!”

You hesitated for a heartbeat, your gaze flicking between Patch and the exit. There was something in his eyes—a promise, or maybe a threat—that made it clear he wasn’t leaving until this was finished.

“Come on, Em,” you said, pulling your sister toward the exit. “We have to go. Now.”

As you stumbled into the hallway, you glanced back one last time. Patch was still there, standing between you and the Collector, his claws gleaming in the dim light, a snarl on his lips. Whatever happened next, you knew he wouldn’t let anyone get to you or Emily without going through him first.

You ran, Emily’s hand clutched tightly in yours, your heart pounding with a mixture of relief and fear. You had her—you finally had her. But you also knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You hurtled down the stairs, pulling Emily along behind you, weaving through the throng of well-dressed patrons who barely glanced your way. Panic thrummed in your veins, making each step feel like a jolt of electricity. Your grip on Emily’s wrist was tight, almost desperate, as you fought to keep her on her feet. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and every few steps she stumbled, but you didn’t slow down. You couldn’t.

The club's entrance loomed ahead, and you shoved past the last of the guests, bursting through the doors and out onto the street. The night air hit you like a slap, a mix of humid heat and the lingering scent of car exhaust. You glanced wildly around, searching for anything that looked like an escape. 

There was no doubt in your mind that he had eyes all over Hightown. Staying in one place too long was as good as signing your own death warrant.

Emily stumbled, nearly dragging you down with her. “Em, we have to go,” you urged, your voice strained as you pulled her back to her feet. “I know you’re hurt, but we can’t stop now.”

She looked up at you through the tangled mess of her hair, her face pale and drawn, dark circles underlining her wide, fearful eyes. “I know,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I’m trying.” You could see the exhaustion settling over her, her limbs heavy and sluggish from whatever she had endured.

You spotted a taxi at the curb and practically hauled Emily toward it, banging on the window. “Please, we need a ride!” you shouted, your voice pitched with desperation.

The driver’s eyes flicked over you and Emily—her dirty clothes, your frantic expression. He shook his head quickly, his gaze hardening. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said, his voice muffled behind the glass. “Go find someone else.”

“Please!” you begged, yanking open the door, only for the driver to slam it shut again. “Just drive us out of here! I can pay—”

“I said no!” the driver barked, throwing the car into gear and peeling away from the curb, leaving you standing there with Emily slumped against your side.

“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath, your eyes scanning the streets for another option. This was Hightown though, and here, you and Emily stuck out like a sore thumb—two bedraggled figures in a sea of polished suits and cocktail dresses. Even now, people were starting to notice you, their curious stares prickling the back of your neck. 

You wrapped an arm around Emily’s waist and started moving, half-dragging her along as you navigated through the winding streets. “Come on, Em,” you whispered, forcing strength into your voice. “Just a little further.”

Your pace was frantic, your steps uneven as you guided Emily down narrow alleys and across cobblestone squares. More than once, you heard voices behind you—shouts, the click of heels on the pavement, the low rumble of an engine as a black car turned a corner. Each time, you forced yourself to keep moving, ignoring the burn in your legs and the way Emily’s weight seemed to grow heavier with each step.

You turned another corner and spotted a familiar building in the distance, the sleek high-rise where Patch’s apartment was located. It wasn’t much, but it was somewhere safe, somewhere out of sight. “We’ll go to Patch’s,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Just… we just need to get there.”

Emily nodded weakly, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she clung to you. “Okay… okay,” she mumbled, though you weren’t sure how much longer she could hold out.

When you finally stumbled into the underground parking garage of the high-rise, you were both out of breath, your dress sticking to your skin with sweat. You dragged Emily toward the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly as if that would make it arrive faster. The doors finally slid open, and you hurried inside, practically collapsing against the wall as you hit the button for the top floor.

The elevator ascended with a dull hum, the minutes stretching out painfully, each one feeling like a lifetime. When the doors opened to Patch’s apartment, you half-carried Emily down the hallway, her head lolling against your shoulder until you set her down on the couch. Her eyes were already closing as exhaustion overtook her. 

“Just rest for a minute,” you whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I’ll get you some water, and then get you cleaned up.”

You turned toward the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers for anything you could use to clean up Emily—cloths, bandages, a bottle of antiseptic. By the time you returned to the couch, Emily had already passed out, her breaths coming slow and even, her small body curled into itself like she was trying to disappear. You dipped the cloth in warm water and gently wiped the dirt and sweat from her face, your heart aching at how fragile she looked.

The elevator doors slowly open, and you jumped to your feet, the cloth slipping from your hand. Patch strode in, his white suit spattered with blood—some of it fresh and still glistening in the overhead light. He moved with a noticeable limp, his jaw set in a grim line, but there was a wild energy about him, a rawness that hadn’t yet settled. It was like he’d just walked off a battlefield and wasn’t entirely convinced he’d left it behind.

“Patch?” you breathed, your pulse quickening as the elevator doors shut behind him. “Are you… okay?”

He glanced at you, then at Emily on the couch, and for a fleeting moment, his expression softened, a quiet tenderness flashing in his eyes. But it disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual gruffness. “I’ve had worse,” he replied, his voice rough around the edges. He rolled his shoulder, testing for injuries, and you watched in awe as the faint cuts and bruises on his skin began to fade, healing right before your eyes.

You stepped around the couch, taking a hesitant step closer to him, your gaze locked on the bloodstain spreading across his pant leg. “How…?” you began your voice barely above a whisper, your breath catching in your throat. “Apparently, there’s more to you than I thought.”

Patch met your gaze, a flicker of something raw and unguarded passing across his face. “I don’t go spilling all my secrets, sweetheart,” he said, his tone casual, though there was a faint vulnerability beneath it. “Healing factor. Fast one. Comes in handy.” His lips curled into a sardonic half-smile like he was letting you in on a joke only he understood.

You blinked, trying to process what he’d just said. “And here I was willing to risk my life for you,” you teased, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “All this time, you could just… heal?”

Patch took a step toward you, wincing slightly as his weight shifted onto his injured leg. “Healing’s not instant,” he muttered, his tone dropping lower. “And the son of a bitch got me pretty good.” He paused, his gaze flicking to Emily. “Enough about me. Is the kid okay?”

“She’ll be fine,” you replied, but your eyes were still on his leg. The blood was soaking through the fabric, a dark, spreading stain that told you he wasn’t healing as quickly as he usually did. “Sit down,” you said, your voice firmer than before. “Let me take a look at that.”

Patch started to protest, shaking his head. “I told you, I’ll be fine. It’s already healing—”

“Yeah, but it’s being slow about it,” you cut him off, your gaze hardening with a determination that left no room for argument. “You said it yourself—he got you good. Now, sit down and let me help.”

For a moment, he looked like he was going to argue, his jaw tightening, but then he relented with a resigned sigh, limping over to the armchair and lowering himself into it. “Fine, but don’t get any ideas about playing nurse, sweetheart,” he grumbled, but there was a hint of a smile in his eyes as he watched you kneel beside him.

“Just shut up and let me help you,” you shot back, grabbing the first aid kit you’d set aside for Emily and popping it open. “Take off your pants.”

Patch arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “Usually, I get dinner first.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the faint flush that crept up your neck. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, as Patch stood. He slid down his pants revealing a deep cut in his leg. The skin was jagged and raw, already knitting itself back together but slower than you’d expected.

You worked in silence for a moment, cleaning the gash and wrapping a bandage around his leg with steady hands. Patch watched you, his expression unreadable, but his gaze was heavy, almost curious. You could feel the intensity of it, and it made the air seem thicker, more intimate.

“Why is it taking so long?” you asked quietly, your fingers brushing against his skin as you secured the bandage.

He let out a breath, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it before. “Healing takes time,” he said, leaning back in the chair as he studied your face. “Some wounds are deeper than others.” There was a weight to his words that felt like more than just the injury itself.

You glanced up, meeting his gaze, and before you could stop yourself, you reached for the eye patch he always wore. “And this?” you asked, your fingers hesitating just an inch away from the black fabric. “Is it just for show?”

Patch’s expression tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then, with a sigh that seemed to carry years of weariness, he reached up and removed the eye patch himself. Underneath, his eye was perfectly normal—sharp, hazel, and very much intact.

You blinked in surprise, your breath catching. “Why…?”

“Disguise,” he said simply, his voice rougher than usual. “Keeps people guessing, like I told you. Besides…” He gave a wry smile. “Makes it easier to be someone else when you don’t look like yourself.”

“Someone else?” you echoed, your voice softer now. The way he looked at you, so unguarded, made your chest tighten.

“Undercover,” he explained, leaning a little closer. “Madripoor’s a cesspool of crime and corruption, and someone’s got to keep the worst of it from spreading. Not everyone needs to know who I really am.” There was a pause, then his voice dropped to a murmur, “Until now.”

The honesty in his eyes, that raw vulnerability he rarely showed, made the space between you feel impossibly small. You could see the weariness etched into the lines of his face, the scars that healing couldn’t erase. For the first time, you realized that his roughness wasn’t just armor—it was a way of surviving, of keeping the world at arm’s length.

Without thinking, you reached up and cupped his cheek, your thumb grazing the stubble along his jaw. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you said softly, your voice steady even as your pulse quickened. “You’ve done enough for me, for Emily. Let me help you for once.”

Patch’s gaze flickered, a mix of surprise and warmth. His hand came up to cover yours, his touch rough but careful. “I don’t let a lot of people in, kid,” he murmured, his voice like gravel. “But… maybe you’re an exception.”

The words hung in the air between you, thickening the tension until it felt almost suffocating. He leaned in, just a fraction, his breath brushing against your lips. “If I didn’t know any better,” he said, his voice low and rough, “I’d say you’re trying to get me to stick around.”

You smiled, your heart racing as you met his gaze. “Guess I like the idea of you keeping an eye on me.”

Patch chuckled softly, the sound vibrating between you. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he whispered, his lips just inches from yours.

“Guess that’s why you like me,” you replied, closing the distance just a little more.

Before the moment could tip over into something deeper, Patch’s expression shifted, and he pulled back slightly, his tone turning serious. “You can’t stay here,” he said, his voice low and steady. “They’ll come looking, and you need to be gone before that happens.”

“You want me to leave Madripoor?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “Where would we even go?”

Patch rose to his feet, his gaze steady on yours. “Somewhere they won’t think to look,” he replied, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips as though trying to lighten the weight of his words. “Somewhere you and your sister can actually get a fresh start. Away from all this.”

You followed him into the kitchen, the silence stretching between you, filled with things you didn’t know how to say. “I don’t have money or... anywhere to stay,” you murmured, your fingers curling into fists as you tried to keep the fear from creeping into your voice.

“I’ll take care of it,” Patch replied, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he’d already made up his mind. He stopped in front of you, taking a step closer, closing the distance between you until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. His presence was overwhelming, filling up the space between you until there was nothing else. You could feel his breath on your skin, the intensity of his gaze boring into yours, like he was searching for something you hadn’t yet offered him.

You swallowed hard, the tension thickening like a slow, bittersweet ache in your chest. “And what about you?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Are you… coming with us?”

His gaze softened, a mixture of regret and something unspoken passing across his face. “I can’t,” he murmured, his hand lifting to brush lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. His touch was careful and tender, as though he was committing the feel of you to memory. 

“There’s still work to be done here. I killed most of the Collector’s men, but he got away. Even if I did manage to track him down, someone else would just take his place. It’s a never-ending cycle.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “And I can’t just walk away knowing he’s still out there.”

“But it’s safer if you come with us,” you insisted, leaning into his touch, your pulse racing beneath your skin. “It’s safer if we stick together.”

Patch shook his head slowly, a faint, rueful smile touching his lips. “It’s safer for you and your sister if I’m not around,” he said. “You don’t need me making things more dangerous than they already are.” His thumb continued to trace gentle circles against your cheek, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. “You can handle yourself, sweetheart. You’ve proven that.”

The words, meant to be reassuring, only made your chest tighten with something that felt like a loss. You reached up and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, keeping his hand against your skin for a moment longer. “What if I don’t want to handle it alone?” you whispered, the honesty slipping out before you could catch it.

He looked at you then, his hazel eyes searching yours with a depth that made your breath hitch. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said softly. “And you’ll be even stronger for her.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the couch where Emily lay sleeping, and the tenderness in his eyes was almost painful.

You leaned up and pressed a light kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the rough stubble. “Thank you, Patch,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

He closed his eyes briefly, as though savoring the touch, and then pulled back, his expression hardening slightly as he took a step away. “Get some rest,” he said, his tone rougher now, as though putting a barrier back up between you. “You’ll need it for the flight.”

You ended up sharing his bed, the mattress firm beneath you and the covers smelling faintly of leather and cigar smoke. You lay beside Patch, the silence settling over you like a weight. It was strange, being so close to him, feeling the warmth of his body beside you but knowing that this was temporary—just a moment stolen from the chaos of everything else.

You turned slightly to face him, your hand resting on the space between you. “You’re sure you won’t come with us?” you asked quietly, the darkness making it easier to admit how much you wanted him to say yes.

His gaze shifted to meet yours, his expression unreadable. “You know I can’t,” he murmured, his voice strained as if it hurt him to say the words. “This life… it’s not for you. It’s not for her.” He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face, the touch lingering. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t be watching out for you. From a distance.”

You managed a small, bittersweet smile, your chest aching at the thought of leaving him behind. “You’d better,” you whispered, turning your face into the pillow to hide the sting of tears. “Or I’ll come back here and drag you out of Madripoor myself.”

His chuckle was soft, almost tender, as he reached over and squeezed your hand. “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart,” he said, but there was a quiet sadness in his tone that told you he wished things could be different.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

A few hours later, Patch drove the three of you to the airport in the dead of night. The roads were mostly empty, the city still and quiet, as though it was holding its breath. Emily dozed in the back seat, exhausted from everything she’d been through, while you stared out the window at the passing lights, your heart heavy.

When he pulled up to the curb outside the terminal, Patch cut the engine and turned to you, his face partially shadowed in the dim light. “I’ve already arranged for your tickets,” he said. “The flight will take you far enough away from here that the Collector won’t be able to reach you. You’ll be safe.”

You nodded, struggling to find the right words, knowing that nothing you said would be enough. “Thank you,” you managed, your voice breaking slightly. “For saving her. For… everything.”

Patch reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped free. “You’re tougher than you look, kid,” he murmured. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

You leaned into his hand, the warmth of his touch grounding you. “And what about you?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Will you be okay?”

His mouth twitched into a small, sad smile. “I’ve been through worse,” he said, though his eyes betrayed a loneliness that ran deeper than words could express. “And I’ve survived. So will you.”

You nodded, and then before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned forward and kissed him—a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of goodbyes and promises left unspoken. He didn’t pull away, but when you finally did, there was a look in his eyes that told you he’d carry the memory of this moment with him, wherever he went.

“Go,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Before I change my mind and drag you back with me.”

You gave him one last, bittersweet smile, then turned and helped Emily out of the car. As you walked toward the terminal, you glanced back over your shoulder, half-expecting him to follow.

Yet, Patch stayed in the car, watching you go, a lone figure against the darkness of Madripoor. Even though you knew you were doing the right thing, it felt like leaving a piece of yourself behind.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

“You’ll be fine!” you called out, laughter bubbling up in your voice as you watched Emily wave to you from the passenger seat of her friend’s car.

“I’ll text you when I get there!” she yelled back, her voice bright and carefree in a way that still felt fragile to you. You smiled and nodded, giving her one last wave as the car pulled away, the taillights disappearing down the street.

As soon as she was out of sight, you let out a long sigh, the tension easing from your shoulders just a bit. Even after nearly two years of being away from Madripoor, that gnawing feeling of worry hadn’t left you. It was a constant presence, a shadow that followed you around no matter how much time had passed. You still slept with one eye open, double-checked every lock, and scanned the street whenever you stepped outside.

Letting Emily live a normal life again had taken everything in you. She deserved to go to college, to have friends, to be young and reckless without always looking over her shoulder. You’d even taken up martial arts classes just to convince yourself that you could protect her if the past ever tried to catch up. But every time she left your sight, that familiar knot of fear tightened in your chest.

“Surprised you let her go,” a familiar, gruff voice rumbled from behind you.

You spun around, already feeling the sting of tears prickling at your eyes as if your body knew before your mind did. 

There he was—standing just a few feet away, his broad figure unmistakable even after all this time. He was different from the last time you’d seen him. Gone was the bloodstained white suit and eye patch. Instead, he wore a plain white shirt and jeans with a leather jacket slung casually over his shoulders, his hazel eyes, both of them, piercing and clear.

“Patch?” you whispered, your breath catching in your throat as disbelief crashed over you. For a moment, you wondered if you were hallucinating, if your constant vigilance had finally taken its toll and made you see things that weren’t there.

He nodded, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his lips, that familiar hint of mischief in his gaze. “Told you that was just a disguise, sweetheart,” he said, his voice softer than you remembered. “Call me Logan.”

A strangled laugh escaped you, and before you knew it, you were moving, closing the distance between you in a few hurried steps. You threw your arms around him, the leather of his jacket cool against your cheek as you buried your face in his chest. He stiffened for a moment, as if surprised, then wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly. It was like something inside you finally unclenched, a pressure you hadn’t even realized was there releasing all at once.

“You’re real,” you breathed against his chest, your voice trembling. “You’re actually here.”

“Last time I checked,” he murmured, his tone carrying that familiar edge of sarcasm. But there was a warmth in the way he spoke, a tenderness in the way his hand rested on the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. “Figured it was about time I came to see you. Make sure you’re not getting into too much trouble.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, blinking away the tears that blurred your vision. “I thought… I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly.

His smile softened, and he reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “You know me, kid. I don’t stay away forever,” he said, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that made your heart twist. “Besides, I made a promise, didn’t I? To keep an eye on you.”

You let out a shaky breath, your hands still resting against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. “Two years is a long time,” you whispered. “I didn’t know if… if you made it.”

“Had a few close calls,” he admitted, a shadow passing over his features before he pushed it away. “But I’m here now.” His gaze grew more intense, his hand still warm against your cheek. “And so are you. Stronger than when I left. I can see it.”

You managed a small, bittersweet smile, remembering all the nights you’d spent wondering where he was, if he was alive if he ever thought about you. “I tried to be,” you said. “For her. For myself.”

“And you did good,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “Better than good.”

The words settled over you like a balm, soothing old wounds. You reached up and placed your hand over his, leaning into his touch. “Why now?” you asked quietly. “What made you come here?”

Logan’s gaze flickered, and he let out a breath that seemed to carry years of unspoken thoughts. “I finished what I started in Madripoor…and because I couldn’t stay away any longer,” he confessed, his thumb tracing slow, tender circles on your skin. “I thought… maybe I owed you more than just disappearing.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the honesty in his tone. “So… you’re staying?” you asked, hope threading through your voice despite yourself.

Logan hesitated, a faint smile touching his lips. “We’ll see,” he said. “For now, I’m here. And if you’ll have me… maybe I’ll stick around.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded, a soft laugh escaping you as more tears finally spilled over. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” you whispered, reaching up to swipe at your damp cheeks.

His grin widened the familiar glint in his eyes making him look younger, almost carefree. “Yeah, well… I guess that’s why you like me,” he teased.

You laughed and leaned your forehead against his, feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin. “Maybe,” you whispered. 

For the first time in a long while, that gnawing feeling of fear seemed to ebb, replaced by something softer. You stood there in his arms, the world feeling a little less dangerous and you let yourself believe that maybe the future didn’t seem so bleak anymore.

[earthtooz]

how would you write wriothesley needing reassurance?

x : TO LOVE A GOOD THING :*+ﾟ

in which: wriothesley thinks he loves you more than you love him.

warnings: 1.4k words, reverse hurt/comfort with angst, wrio being insecure sorry, gn!hot-headed!reader, reader gets into a fight, wrio patches you up.

a/n: thank u @sixosix for helping me out during my my hard times. this fic was already half written before I got this ask but then it was like the stars aligned and anon came to save a fic that might have never made it out of the drafts. anyways, idk if the writing is good, but i came, i saw, i conquered. enjoy!

Wriothesley thinks he loves you more than you love him.

If he voiced these thoughts to you, you’d shut him down without another breath. He can almost picture it now, the way your nose would scrunch as a precursor to all the statements you will make rejecting his. He can hear all the things you’d say, insisting ‘that’s just not true!’, and then he’ll laugh to cover up the way his chest will swell with pure adoration. 

But it is true. 

Loving you is easier than breathing. The heart that sits in his chest beats harder for you than the circulation of oxygen in his lungs, but he breathes because it keeps him alive. If he’s alive, then he gets to see you, the best thing that’s happened to him his entire, unfortunate life. 

He thinks he loves you more than you love him because you once told him your favourite flowers were glaze lilies. However, when you complained that they only bloomed during the night, Wriothesley knew that he would wrestle the sun just so the moon could shine a little longer. 

He thinks he loves you more than you love him because you linger in the crevices of his mind. Down in the Fortress of Meropide, the days may pass excruciatingly slow sometimes and the only cure for him is yearning for the one he loves most. Perhaps if he wishes hard enough, you’ll burst through those doors with a declaration of a new discovery and sit on his desk, avoiding the paperwork. 

Most times, his wishful thinking doesn’t work out. On the rare occasion it does, Wriothesley will be fortunate enough to end the work day with your palms on his cheeks, gently motivating him to finish what’s left. 

You’ll peel stickers off his body, ignorant of the fact that he saves them up just for an excuse to feel your hands on him, then he’ll kiss you in thanks, eyes fluttering closed. Near you, he can finally let his guard down, let the gauntlets and coat fall as he sinks into you. 

Wriothesley already feels bad whenever you come down to a place so unforgiving and confronting. He tries to brighten up the place sometimes, but metal can only shine so much before it rusts again. 

Is it pathetic to want to better yourself for another person? Or is it love?

Wriothesley thinks he loves you more than you love him, and he’s perfectly fine to continue living with that fact. As long as he’s the one you return to every night, he’ll be fine to live with whatever burdens you press onto him.

He just didn’t expect that one of said ‘burdens’ would result with you, Sigewinne’s infirmary, and your face littered with cuts and bruises. 

“You should have seen the other guy,” is your poor attempt at humour as your lover frets everywhere, pacing back and forth as the small nurse tends to you. His heavy boots resounding against metal floors.

“Seriously, Y/n, what were you thinking?” The warden clearly isn’t amused by your joke, the only thing keeping him back from completely lecturing you is Sigewinne and that stun gun of hers. 

A small yelp slips past your lips when she applies some balm on your sore knuckles and Wriothesley winces, as if feeling your pain. “They were talking bad about you, Wriothesley, what did you want me to do?”

“Nothing!”

Sigewinne gives him a look. He immediately shuts his mouth. “I can’t do that,” you insist.

“You can, and you should’ve. I can defend my own honour. Besides, you didn’t need to lower yourself to the level of crooks just to prove a point.”

“But-”

“-The guys you beat up were just admitted here. Normally after receiving a life’s sentence, the first name that’s slandered is mine as an outlet for anger. This is normal, Y/n, they’ll continue on to realise that the Fortress of Meropide is not their standard prison and reform. You, however, might have just set back their progress.”

Your head drops, a little in shame, but mostly because you don’t have anything to say in retaliation. Silence envelops the dim space, none of you brave enough to break the tension that came from Wriothesley’s scolding. With a few final words from Sigewinne about what medicine to apply, when, and what not to do, she leaves the room quite hurriedly, as if eager to let you and Wriothesley talk about it alone.

Immediately, he crosses the room to where you sit, closing in on your personal space. 

“The things they were saying about you were unforgivable. Meropide’s great duke may forgive, but I won’t.” 

“Nothing is as unforgivable as you getting hurt.” Care laces his voice this time when he talks to you. 

“You won’t throw me in prison for this, right?” You ask with a bashful smile, one that sends him reeling.

“Not prison, no,” he coughs. “However, I can’t not reprimand you.”

“Fine. I guess this just means that I love you more.”

He knows you’re kidding, that you’re only trying to make him feel better because the grin on your face is nothing short of mischievous. Part of him falters, cracks like an earthquake splitting the land apart and pulling him under. To stabilise himself, his rough palms find purchase on both sides of your jaw and his forehead is pressed flushed to yours.

(You don’t love him more, how can you love someone as ragged as him?)

“Impossible,” he murmurs against your mouth. 

“Really, let these bruises be a reminder,” you chuckle. His thumb ghosts over a bruise on your cheek and his heart aches at the way you wince, even if just slightly. If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be here, sat on a hospital bed with wounds he inadvertently caused.

You wouldn’t be here, in a dingy, dreary Fortress that you’re only obligated to visit because of him.

(Oh, but he hopes you never leave. The day you go and never come back is the day Wriothesley will turn all of Teyvat upside down just to search for you. Where is his place if not by your side?)

There’s a warm poke to his cheek that’s quickly followed by a damp residual. Wriothesley quickly realises that you wiped a tear away, and he curses the following few that spill. You shouldn’t waste your efforts on him: a man half-coherent, and wholly undeserving of you.

“Love, oh, love,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the bruised area. “Why did you do this?” 

“I already told you,” you hum. “Because I love you.”

“I’m not worth it.”

Your hand stills. “What do you mean by that?”

“This happened because of me,” there’s pain in Wriothesley’s voice when it cracks. “You didn’t need to harm yourself for me, I’m more of a burden than you think, Y/n, nothing good will come out of loving me too much.”

For a second, everything stills. The beating of his heart, your breathing, the dull humming of the fortress’ mechanics, it all becomes silenced. The world only kicks up again when you speak.

“How could you say that about yourself?” You reprimand, shaking his face lightly. “A ‘burden’? Are you hearing yourself right now, Wriothesley? You’re not making any sense right now!”

There’s a passionate look in your eyes. One he doesn’t think a man like him deserves.

“I do not love you for ‘good things’ to come out of them, I love you because you are the good thing, and I will do anything for you to remain the way you are.”

Oh, he might cry again. Are there tears in the corners of his eyes? How can he help it when you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him?

“Don’t write me off as some poor soul whose subjected to your love,” you whisper, but he hangs on to every word you say. “Your love is not a burden I bear, but rather, the most fortunate thing I’ve ever had the luxury of cherishing.”

Unable to hold himself back any longer, Wriothesley presses his lips to yours in an all-consuming kiss. He drinks up all of your praise and lets it settle in his gut to bloom, untethering himself from the chains that rubbed his wrists raw. You love him, you love him more than he thought possible. 

How lucky he is that you pull him closer, selfishly taking all of him.

© EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[amjustagirl]

Chapter 2

pairing: hoshina soshiro x f!reader

genre: romance, angst

wc: 2.7k

summary: you've loved soshiro since you were seven. he will always place his duty above you.

chapt 1 / chapt 2 / chapt 3 / chapt 4 / chapt 5

The first step in your mission to reclaim your heart back from Hoshina Soshiro is to ignore his texts. 

// omg my blade got chipped in a fight //  // daikaiju with a ridiculously hard shell //  // so annoying!! //  // hmph!!! // // fix it for meeeeee //

<kindly send me your request through official channels please, vice captain hoshina>

// !?!?!??!?!// // u still have indigestion???//

You really should’ve foreseen his sheer stubbornness though, considering the mountain of rejection he had to claw through to get to where he is. He springs a surprise visit on you, breaking into your lab without warning. 

“Did you seriously ask me to fill in an official form for upgrades?” he demands, miffed. 

“Record keeping purposes”, you lie through your teeth. “My boss is on my back.” 

“Your boss?!” he repeats incredulously. “Aren’t you the head of your department?” 

A department consisting only of three overworked blade specialists servicing the entirety of Japan’s Defense Force and private security forces, but he has a point. “Well, the auditors might run their checks, and how am I supposed to justify spending budget on reckless improvements that a certain vice captain demands -” 

He slings an arm over your shoulder and a crackle of electricity zips up your spine. “C’mon, don’t be silly -” 

You shrug him off, waiting nothing better than to run for the toilets to fan away the heat spreading up the column of your neck to the apples of your cheek. “Fine”, you acquiesce. “I’ll get to it - just, stop bugging me -” 

He smirks, content at getting his way. “Great, now we can grab lunch. Food here’s so much better than on base -” 

That, you can fend off. “Can’t”, you say. “Lunch with colleagues. And no, you can’t join, Hana-chan wants to cry about her ex, and you’ll make her uncomfortable if you’re there.”

He goggles at you. “Since when do you have friends besides me?” 

“Always, you rude shit”, you say, though really, you’ve just been putting in more effort in being more social at work. “Now, get out.” 

At last, he leaves, so you can reset your heart to its factory settings. You fix his katanas and send it back via courier, when previously you might have delivered it to the base yourself as an excuse to see him again.

The next step is to find something else to preoccupy you. 

You sign up for pottery lessons on Sunday afternoons, which clashes directly with when Soshiro gets the majority of his time off. You aim to slaughter two birds with a single stroke, an excuse to avoid him coupled with a hobby for you that has nothing to do with him. 

It comes naturally to you, since you’re accustomed to using your hands and handling heat to create things, even if it’s usually steel, not soft clay. But it’s different when you do it for fun, for yourself. Blades can be beautiful, but your focus when hammering at them has always been its function, not form, so it’s a welcome change to just create things for its beauty. 

You make cups and bowls for your colleagues (now friends), a set of sake cups for your parents in a rust-red glaze. Your proudest creation is a tea set that you keep for yourself, displayed on the windowsill to remind you of a summer sky when it’s grey. 

Even Yamamoto-san gets a little gift since you now consider him a friend, a stone pot for a plant  he complained of having outgrown its home. He reciprocates next month with a plant for you, who he says needs a home. This you struggle with, not being born with a green thumb. You studiously research plant-rearing tips and plunk the monstera you are gifted with by your prized tea set, but it truly thrives when you bring another potted plant home. Pothos, at first, because they’re too-determined to live. Bird’s fern, for it’s graceful leaves. When you’re more confident, you top it off with azaleas, for colour, hydrangeas to match your tea set.   

(not violets, never violets)

“Huh”, you stare at the jungle on your balcony “Even plants need friends, I guess.” 

It’s still little too soon to put yourself out there on the dating apps and start searching in the radioactive waste pool of the Tokyo dating scene when your heart is still tethered to Hoshina Soshiro. Any willpower you have to stay away is shaken when you hear that Soshiro’s been assigned a numbers weapon, especially after hearing whispers in the lab that testing has been going terribly. You ask permission to be on base to watch one testing session yourself as a weapons technician. The Numbers Weapon 10 has a mind of its own, and it keeps clashing with Soshiro, causing their test results to be abysmally low. 

“Will he be safe?” you question Okonogi-san, the overworked third base operations leader. 

“If he doesn’t get his numbers up with the weapon, I doubt he’ll be allowed to wear it out on the field”, she shrugs. 

You slip away before he’s released from testing grounds. 

// did u srsly come to base //  // and not say hi!?!??! //  // i haven’t seen ur face in forever // 

<super bz, sorry!!> 

It’s the truth. Despite your pledge to carve out more space to live a life that yours, you make an exception, burning hours on a new weapon to match the volatile Numbers weapon that by all reports, only wants to be worn by Soshiro. Anyone who knows anything about Soshiro knows of his preference for twin blades, ‘cos it makes me look cool’, he jokes, so no one will anticipate a single katana as a backup weapon. 

// ty for the katana //  // it’s q cool //  // ok, v v cool //  // wld be cooler if you dropped by to say hi //  // free this weekend? //

You take a train all the way back to Osaka to visit your parents instead, lest he take it upon himself to commit larceny by breaking into your apartment. You don’t put it past him, since he has the combination to your front lock - his birthday, that’s another thing you need to change. 

“How’s Yamamoto-san?” your mother asks, none too subtly. 

You know your parents are proud of both you and your older brother for following the family’s traditions, and you’re lucky they’re progressive enough to encourage it even in you, but they’re of the age where they’re starting to long for grandchildren. Your older brother’s wedding scheduled for next year should distract them for now, but they’ll soon look to replicate their success with you. 

“He’s pretty nice, but I don’t think he’s the one”, you reply.

Your mother’s lips purse. “Are you still hung up on that Hoshino boy?” 

You’re stung into silence, your mother’s directness catching you off-guard. She tsks at you, pouring you tea that’s bitter from being steeped too long. 

“I’m not - that’s not -” 

Her gaze is sharper than any blade you’ve ever made. “Don’t insult me by lying.” 

“Ka-san. It’s hard but I’m trying to get over it- gods, it’s so embarrassing to say this aloud in front of my own mother -”

She sniffs imperiously. “Try harder.”

“Will do”, you reply dryly. “I’ll just walk into the nearest combini and pick up the first guy they have sitting on the shelf, shall I?” 

She raps your knuckles with her chopsticks. “Don’t be insolent”, she clucks. “Hoshina Soshiro -” 

“I know, ‘ka-san”, you interrupt, the wound still raw under its scabbing. “You don’t have to say it.” 

“Hm.” 

It’s too difficult to meet your mother’s eyes, so you’re glad when she bustles off to the kitchen. A plate is shoved under your nose, oranges, painstakingly peeled, apples, perfectly sliced. 

“There’ll be mangoes if you come back next week”, your mother says. 

“That’ll be nice”, you smile. 

The next step is the hardest, the part you fear the most. 

Soshiro insists on seeing you. There’s no excuse he accepts, not after forty two calls and unread messages. Initially you toyed with changing the combination on your front door to keep him out, but you’re certain he’ll stand outside and cause a ruckus until you let him in.

He’s waiting in your apartment when you return from class. “Okairie”, he grounds out, jaw set. “It’s nice to see you again.” 

There’s no point running. He’ll catch up with you within seconds anyway. 

You drop your bag of groceries on the kitchen counter. “It’s nice to see you too”, you reply, skirting around his palpable annoyance. “Are you staying for dinner? I can make curry rice - ”

“I wanna know why you’ve been ignoring me.”

You plaster on a smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about”, you hedge. “I mean, I’ve been busy at work, you’ve been busy at work - I’ve been picking up new hobbies -”

“Which I’d know, if you talked to me in the past three months -” 

“I’ve really been too busy, haven’t had the chance -” 

“Nonsense”, he scoffs. “Don’t think I don’t know that you dropped by base without saying hi -” 

“Pretty sure you were too busy tussling with that new combat suit  -” 

“You didn’t even bother to lunch with me the last time I came to your office -” 

“I was busy working on your weapon, which I don’t hear you complaining about -” 

You stop short when he takes you by your shoulders. You smell coffee and steel, a scent that just so Soshiro, that it makes your heart forget to beat. He’s close, far too close that you can see the dying sun-gold illuminating the violet iris of his eyes. You squeak as he tips your chin up, calloused fingers so painfully gentle as he meets your gaze. “Are you sure we’re okay?”, he asks softly. “Did I do something wrong?” 

Other than torturing your heart by being within your vicinity? 

Shaking your head, you take a large step back. “All good”, you splutter, ears on fire. 

He doesn’t give you a chance to hide, shouldering into your space. “Somehow I don’t believe you”, he pinches your cheek. “Spill it. Stop lyin’.” 

The pieces of your heart are stitched together with fragile threads, but his presence makes your heart slam itself against your ribcage over and over again. You are powerless from stopping it from falling apart again. 

“You can eat my entire tub of chestnut ice cream -” 

“Stop tryin’ to distract me.” He leans in, almost nose to nose with you, the curve of his mouth so dangerously close to your lips that your heart chooses this precise moment to combust. “Tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it.” 

Courage has never been your strong suit, but you owe it to Soshrio to be brave enough to be honest that it’s not him, never him that made you run and hide. It’s your traitorous heart at blame. Plus, you figure, when he turns you down, perhaps it’ll finally deprive your heart of any lingering hopes it harbours, so you can finally, finally reclaim ownership of your heart. 

Your lungs claw for air. 

“It’s not anything you did”, you whisper. “I just wanted more than what you probably ever thought to give.” 

His brows pinch together in confusion. 

“It’s just - I know you’re busy doing big things in the Defense Force and you probably never have time in between killing a million kaijus to consider anything outside of work, and I know that you’ve never given any indication that you see me more than just a friend, cos really, I know where I stand -” 

“You’re rambling.” He shakes you. “You’re not making any sense.” 

You close your eyes. 

(plunge a knife into your chest, carve it out whilst it's still beating, still bleeding)

“I like you, Soshiro-kun”, you say. “Not just as a friend, in case that wasn’t clear enough.” 

“Oh.”

It’s a simple word with exactly one syllable, but it does the job. He stares at you, slack jawed. His reaction twists the knife deeper into your belly. You clutch the counter for balance, prevent yourself from doubling over, spilling your guts on your kitchen floor. “I didn’t wanna ruin our friendship so I’ve just been kinda distant. I needed - I needed space. Just to get over it. I’m sorry if I worried you.” 

He still doesn’t respond. 

“Soshiro -” 

He looks up and you read only pity in his gaze. “I’m sorry -”

Your hurt pride will not allow you to let him see you fall apart. “Can we attack that tub of ice cream now”, you interrupt. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore.” 

“Right”, he says after a long pause, face carefully blank. “Ice cream.” 

You spend the rest of the evening eating ice cream and decidedly avoiding his gaze while chattering away about everything and nothing at all, papering over any awkwardness in a desperate attempt to pretend you don’t care that you’ve just killed any chance you’ve had at keeping your friendship intact. He’s almost silent save for some mmhms and grunts to indicate he’s still listening, so unlike his usual talkative replate with a joke in hand. You too, cannot put up with this charade anymore, so you feign tiredness, just to cut this ordeal short. 

“Stay safe”, you remind him. “Don’t get eaten by a kaiju.” 

“Yeah”, he replies. 

He doesn’t say seeya later, as he usually does. You’re unsurprised by that. 

Your phone remains empty of any new messages from him. 

In the initial aftermath, you drown yourself in work to overcompensate for your wandering mind and wishful heart. All tweaks to his weaponry are done purely through official channels, as you previously requested. He doesn’t even text you a thanks when you stay up working on changes to his blades. Not that you’ve ever felt entitled to his gratitude. It’s just your job - one that you’ve decided to take up because your seven year old self lost her heart to him, but really, that’s on you, not him. 

There are no spontaneous lunchtime visits, not even when you make updates to his brother’s tech. He doesn’t drop by your apartment the next time he’s off-duty, nor he does ask you to accompany him to another overpriced dessert cafe, not even when the gingko trees in Tokyo turn yellow, marking the season for every store to have a mont blanc special which you know he’d be weak for. 

This is good, you tell yourself. 

It hurts less than you expected. Of course it splits open your stitched-closed wounds to hear him say in your face what you already knew, that Hoshina Soshiro will never love you, not in this lifetime or the next. You allow yourself a few lonely nights to wallow in self-pity, spend a weekend facedown on your bed, stifling your screams into your pillow.  You might have lost your footing momentarily, slipped down a ravine of despair, but with a few weeks’ grace, you start to claw your way out of the ravine of despair. 

You will find your footing, find a way to get over him, live a life without Hoshina Soshiro by your side. 

You will. You will. 

It will become easier. You find contentment sitting on your balcony by yourself as the evenings grow cooler, leaves catching in the breeze, a meal you cooked for yourself on your lap. You throw yourself headfirst into pottery classes, where all you focus on is the feel of soft clay melting into your hands. Between work, your hobbies and weekend visits home, you don’t give yourself time to think about anything or anyone else anymore. 

Weeks pass. 

You catch a glimpse of him on the office TV as you clock in for work. Though you almost always turn it off right away, lest your heart believe it can find its way back to him, you make an exception today when the TV starts to blare about some daikaiju appearing, one after another across Japan, the third division  deploying to a location not too far away from you. 

 <stay safe>

 <don’t be eaten by a kaiju>

 <eat ‘em for brekkie instead>

The building starts to shake. 

You put your phone away. Your co-workers surround the screen, yelling about evacuations and contingencies. You start to head down towards the forge, determined to save as much of your handiwork as you can. Soshiro and the rest of the swordsmen in the Defense Force will need whatever you can save. 

a/n: manga spoilers from the next chapt onwards, read at your own risk! also, am off riding in mongolia til the 20th - next chapter out after - pls lmk what you guys think in the meantime ;)

[komorim]

itoshi sae that takes pictures of his meals routinely after you expressed your worry of him not eating enough. his manager is beyond relieved after he sees that the footballer is now gaining some weight.

itoshi sae who doesn’t mind being affectionate with you in public- who cares if there is a teenage boy gawking at you two while taking a picture for his twitter account that would surely be on headlines tomorrow? not sae.

itoshi sae that gets a bit cranky when you don’t reply to his messages within an hour. itoshi sae that even more cranky when you call off your nightly calls one day (it ended up with all of his teammates getting insults left and right for every minuscule mistake- his manager calls you that afternoon and begs you to not do that again).

itoshi sae who takes screenshots of your messages and saves the pictures you send him. his favourites are the ones during calls: where it is perfectly candid and his screenshots notifies you.

“what? it’s not like you’re naked or taking a shit.”

itoshi sae who proudly flaunts his relationship with you while wearing your matching couple necklace during matches. he kisses it to dedicate a score to you, and his teammates can’t help but wonder who you are (and what you have done to itoshi sae).

itoshi sae who isn’t embarrassed of his obvious softness towards you. in fact, he once almost completely murdered the opponent’s goalkeeper for throwing the ball straight at his chest, breaking the necklace.

“you glorified octopus, can’t aim for your life of you huh? even a country bumpkin has the common sense to avoid an opponent’s midfielder you-“

you were informed of the commotion by his manager the day after that (he keeps in contact with you very often, knowing that you do a better job keeping sae in check than him).

you tell sae to just not wear the necklace during matches. to which sae quips back, clearly offended:

“are you on his side? he broke our necklace?? you know, like an idiot???”

itoshi sae who still frowns at the little rust at the end of the necklace, where his manager got a professional to fix for him- vowing to score a goal at the goalkeeper’s face next time. (he now brings up the university’s goalkeeping ability every moment he gets during interviews).

-🐨 (im back againnnn ^^)

i most definitely did not expect more from you, but i can’t exactly say i’m complaining (i love you for this). i hope this means you saw my post and hopefully you also liked my hcs! now…undramatic drumroll…some more from me as well!

‣ itoshi sae hcs ⋮ part one !!

cw // none this time as well

itoshi sae who, because he doesn’t care about the media, ends up in a lot of trouble with his manager regarding how he acts. his manager has a headache he whenever he thinks about how to clean up sae’s messes, and he no doubt is somewhat too intimidated by the football player to confront him about it. so instead, resorts to seeking you out for help.

when you talk to sae about the matter, he isn’t exactly happy about it as he genuinely doesn’t see why people should care about his character when they’re supposed to be focusing on his playing abilities. however, he begrudgingly promises you to act better in public the next time. only because it was you that asked (he can’t find it in himself to say no to you, albeit he regrets agreeing to some dumb shit you ask of him sometimes).

itoshi sae who never gives his interviewers an easy time, almost always failing to cooperate with the questions asked. however, when one host on a talk show asks about you, a small smile tugs on his lips instinctually and he can’t help the shine in his eyes as he talks about you, the love of his life.

itoshi sae who puts you as his top priority, being able to drop almost everything in order to come to your aid. sae is the type to always support you no matter what. the exact definition of “even if the whole world turns against you, i’ll always be by your side.”

itoshi sae who is definitely an actions over words kind of boyfriend who’ll never really give you sweet nothings. he’s probably the type to call you a dumbass for not wearing more on a cold day as he drapes his jacket over your shoulders with a concerned expression (tsundere but doesn’t know it).

itoshi sae whose facial expression is always the same, barely ever changing. however, he doesn’t know it, but the tips of his ears always turn a bit pink and gives him and his feelings away whenever you compliment him. he loves how you’re always so proud of him, especially as your opinion is one that’s greatly important to him.

itoshi sae who saves all the paparazzi photos of the two of you together. even if they get annoying sometimes, following him everywhere, he has to admit that they take really high quality photos of you both.

itoshi sae is the probably type to either pick you up and spin you around or hug you tightly by the waist as he gives you a kiss after a big game. he’s not always this fond of being affectionate in public, but after a tense game, he’s a bit high off the adrenaline and acts before thinking. not that he cares if others see how much he loves you though.

itoshi sae isn’t the type to really get butterflies near you or when the both of you are together. though he does feel warm and loved with you. the emptiness in him that leaving home at a young age caused was filled by you. the lonely feeling that was gained after he and rin broke up was replaced by happiness that was gained from being with you. you gave him a sense of belonging that he hadn’t felt in a while.

itoshi sae is the type to have a slow burn kind of love life. he is the type to develop feelings for you over time. when he finally couldn’t help but admit that he has fallen for you, he determines that you’re the one (but before that he was most likely in denial for the longest time; like come on, just admit that you’re in love, it won’t kill you). he wasn’t going to love another; you already took up so much of his heart that he couldn’t love anyone else even if he tried. not in this life, not in the next, and not in forever.

do not copy or repost my works. likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated.

[beloveds-embrace]

Fluff? I have a fluff idea for duchess!reader.

Maybe Reader knows how to play an instrument, was taught when she was younger because ladies who have pretty, artistic hobbies are more valuable, so she plays something dainty and pretty sounding (maybe violin or flute (I am biased to flute bc it's what I play)), but because playing it is tied to so many bad memories of the past (struct teachers, perfection never being enough for family etc), she hates playing it.

However, even if she hates playing it, she could never get rid of the instrument itself. Maybe one day, when she has nothing to do, and perhaps reminiscing on a past love of music and filled with the love she has now, she picks it back up and decides to try it again. Skills like that don't leave.

After working through some warm ups and shaking off the rust, Reader plays a sonata (basically solos but with multiple movements, usually very pretty) or something. The boys overhear and are naturally starstruck.

Anyways, there's my idea ^-^

That’s so cute! (and a lil sad)

I specifically love the little part about her now being filled with love because just. Just imagine that 😭 something that had been ruined for you through past experience, yet you’ve been given so much love you are willing to pick it up again, to wash away the past clinging to it and instead drape it in something new and loving.

Yeah.

The boys absolutely adore each and every piece/sonata you play, though. They never push, never force, but they always do their best to be there when you decide to play: silent support and admiration, always and forever held in the force of your orbit.

Not like they’d ever complain, heavens no. Though you do get called songbird more often by them from then on <3

[bitterbutblue]

jane doe toxic? <3

bam yang gang ☆ jane doe x fem!reader

~ As you were leaving, you said to me "You always want far too much If even for a moment, I look away from you It’s like my mind ignites into flames." I hold back the tears about to flow Struggling to suppress the words I longed to share With just a single "Yes, I’m sorry" I closed the chapter on the days we spent together - bibi, bam yang gang ~

─�� ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

She grips tightly at the door, bag in hand and your sobs by her side.

"Don't make this harder than it should be."

Her voice is cold enough for you to cease your sobs for just a second because how is she so cruel about all this? Was your love just a fucking joke to her? Was your pain just a simple toy she finds herself able to throw around for fun? Something she can toss aside when she's sick of it?

"Why?"

"You know I can't do this."

"Why the fuck not?"

"God- FUCK!"

Her sudden outburst had you flinching slightly. Her cheeks reddened from anger as her tail swishes, irritated, from this whole dispute. She had always appeared so loving and caring, always looking out for you and always putting you before herself so why this? Why now? Why now with the ring stored away in your bottom drawer in your bedside table does she suddenly want to pack and leave?

"You're too much. You're so much, all the fucking time."

"Oh bullshit!" You cry, throwing the nearest thing, which just so happened to be a box of tissues, at her. She just lets it hit her chest defeatedly, watching you pick up random items like couch cushions or plastic figures from the shelves and hurling it at her and she lets each item hit her. She lets you take our your frustrations on her until you've run out of items and you just sink into the ground. You let yourself melt into the ground, becoming like a statue frozen in time- a memory forever engrained into Jane's memory. You stay in that state, perhaps not physically, but for a long time after.

"I've never fucking asked you for anything, Jane." You say through gritted teeth, your anger now growing. It's like a starving beast, willing to take anything as a excuse to fuel itself. Eating up even crumbs or specks of words to fuel this hatred to block out the searing pain, to block out the way she carves your heart out. Not even methodically- just messily. She does it with a rusted dagger, blunt.

"You ask me all the time-"

"I JUST WANT YOU TO LOVE ME."

Silence rings throughout the apartment again as Jane's eyes darken, yous see the way her throat bobbed as she takes a deep breath in. She looks away.

The fucking coward looks away.

"Well I can't give you that."

"Why the hell not?"

"You- you ask-"

"Don't you fucking say I ask too much of you." You're seething now "Tell me, when have I ever asked you to love me more? I love the way you love me, I never complain about you not loving me in love or not- not loving in the conventional way."

Jane is silent as she stares at you. You've stood up now, knees shaky and you feel like you'll fall over any second but you still stand. You still push yourself up to look at her in the eyes.

"Tell me, Jane."

She loves you.

She really does.

But she can't.

They'll find you.

"You always ask me for too much." Is all she says, before she turns. You scream at her, you want to throw yourself at her but you want to punch her at the same time. You yell curses at her, how you wished you had never given her the chance. How you just want her to love you, how you don't even ask for much and she's just being so selfish but she's gone. The door had already closed before you could even tell her a proper goodbye.

Is this the end of your story? This the chapter you close now, the story of you two coming to an end on a Friday night in your apartment with you sobbing on the kitchen floor for the rest of the knight as your favourite melody to share with her becomes a reminder of a cruel ending.

"As you were leaving you turned around and said to me "You always want far too much" No what I’ve always wanted was one thing Just one thing sweet chestnut red bean jelly"

[owlespresso]

the red fruit which ripens

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black grunts his assent.

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

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

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

“Where are you going!?” you hiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah. It’s you.”

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

“What… why are you here?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This house isn’t yours,” he says.

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

That seems to settle him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

You hate working with criminals. Criminals other than yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pull him through.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could say the same for you.”

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

You make a face. He must sense your unease.

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

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

“Reassuring.” you bite out thoughtlessly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know what they say about assumptions.”

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

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

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

“...So, what do you want from me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t be gross. You grimace.

He drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

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

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

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

—

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

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

“It pisses me off.”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“...Thanks.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re not together.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re an omega—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you getting at?”

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

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

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

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

“And your point is?”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t sound thrilled about that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And that is why you make your own.” 

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

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

—

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

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

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

And you hate, hate, hate proving Luocha right.

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

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

“Pretty, aren’t they?” you muse.

“Did you plant them?”

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t,” you gape.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you calmed down?” Blade asks.

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

He draws a shaky breath.

“You don’t understand, do you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lamplight flickers on and off. 

[theres-a-body-here]

Everything is green and submarine

Montgomery Gator x Male!reader

Fluff

"Can ya believe it?!" Monty growled out, his voice rumbling against your legs as he fumed where he lay across your lap.

"Kid picks that rust bucket over me for 'is birthday party," he continued to complain, arms waving wildly as he went on about the situation. His tail swished back and forth in agitation, occasionally thumping against the couch.

His voice was low and irritated, his words practically dripping with disdain towards Freddy. He shifted slightly on your lap, trying to get comfortable despite his bad mood.

The movement caused him to lean more heavily onto you, not even seeming to notice as he continued to complain under his breath.

Despite himself, however, he seemed to relax somewhat under your gentle pats to his head. The metal alligator even let out a low hum of contentment before catching himself and scowling again. "Just… ugh! How could anyone pick him over me?"

"Monty," you start off, speaking softly as you run your fingers through his mohawk. "You can't be everyone's favorite."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he muttered begrudgingly, still gritting his teeth.

It wasn't fair, though; why did Freddy always seem to get all the attention?

Monty huffed quietly, glaring at nothing in particular as he tried to push down his frustration. He didn't want to take it out on you - after all, this wasn't your fault - but sometimes it just felt like nobody appreciated him enough.

And really, if he couldn't vent to you, who else would he vent to?

You were his boyfriend, weren't you?

So many thoughts ran rampant through his head, the sound of his internal fans whirring louder and louder as he struggled to sort through everything.

Wasn't he cool enough? Was he doing something wrong? Why did Freddy always get the spotlight?

All these questions flooded his coding, spinning round and round until suddenly, he felt your lips press against his snout.

"You'll always be my favorite," you whisper, apologetically. "I'm sorry I don't tell you that more often," you add, cupping his face and leaning in for another kiss.

Your words seemed to catch him off-guard, causing the alligator to blink slowly as he stared at you.

Then, hesitantly, he leaned into your next kiss, letting out a low purr. Even if he wasn't the most popular animatronic around, at least he had someone who loved him unconditionally. That much was clear in your gaze, the sincerity shining brightly within your eyes.

He nuzzled your hand gently, unable to help the purring from continuing.

"...Thanks, cher," he murmured, his tone softening.

He couldn't stay angry around you, especially when you looked at him like that.

With a heavy sigh, he sat up properly, leaning forward to wrap his arms around your shoulders and pull you into a hug. "Sorry fer bein' such a brat."

"I wouldn't love you any other way," you chuckled, nuzzling into his metal chest.

A warm feeling filled his core at those words, something pleasant blossoming within his wiring.

He squeezed you tighter for a moment before loosening his grip slightly, resting his chin on top of your head comfortably.

"Love ya too, cher," he replied softly, closing his eyes peacefully.

[shady-tavern]

Preview for "Haunted House" the November Short Story

(warnings ahead for implied/mentioned domestic and child abuse, please be sure to take care of yourselves)

*.*.*

The building looked just like the rumors said it would, haunted and decrepit. Like a prop for a horror movie. 

The tooth of time had clearly found it's favorite chew toy and while you could see attempts at repairing things here and there, it hadn't been enough to combat the building's slow decay or to chase away the strangely unsettling feeling that surrounded this place.

The only upside was that it was so cheap it was ridiculous and after getting away from your old home, leaving a terrible relationship behind, you could not afford to be picky. 

It was just for a little while, you told yourself as you dragged your suitcase up the stairs, your duffle bag so heavy it's strap across your shoulder dug in painfully. 

The stairs had chipped edges and stains you didn't even want an explanation for and the same went for the hallway, the floor there looking like it had sustained some sort of damage over the years and was in dire need of some professional cleaning and renovating.

You'd just stay here long enough until you got back on your feet so you could move on to a home that didn't look like it might carry diseases from forgotten times.

You had read plenty of rumors online about this place, on the site where you had seen the ad for available apartments. People had ripped this building to shreds in the comment section, talking about moaning and screeching at night, at feeling stalked and watched, at things vanishing and reappearing elsewhere.

They talked about bloody footprints left outside in the hallways, a neighbor gone, never to be seen again while all their belongings were left behind. Some also complained that the landlord didn't bother to fix anything unless someone hounded him relentlessly beforehand.

When you had called the man, asking if any apartments were still available, the landlord had been downright ecstatic, reassuring you that you had numerous apartments to choose from, since there were almost no residents. 

It seemed people only came here if they were down on their luck and even the desperate ones didn't stay long.

There also wasn't an elevator, because this building was really damn old and had never gotten any sort of significant overhaul. Those who couldn't take the stairs chose one of the apartments on the first floor.

You reached your apartment and dug out the key your landlord had given you upon arrival. It looked a little bit rusted around the edges, faint scratches covering the surface. It smelled strongly of wet iron despite being dry. 

Unlocking the door, you were braced for mold in the corners and for the smell of damp oldness or something worse, only to pause.

The inside looked surprisingly...fine. Nothing fancy and there were discolorations along the walls where clearly no one had bothered to give it a new coat of paint in a couple of years at the very least, but there was no mold, no rot, no water damage and it didn't smell bad. You had expected far worse, if you were being honest.

The floorboards creaked under your feet as you set down your luggage by the door, but as you cautiously explored your new home you were pleasantly surprised to find that everything worked as intended. Sure the faucet squeaked like it had never gotten oiled and the water rushing through the pipes was loud, but the light bulbs didn't flicker and the little oven and stove in the kitchen worked just fine. 

It was, all in all, not as bad as you had expected.

It didn't take long at all, however, until you felt it. A presence in the air, invisible and unseen and yet you swore someone, something, was there. You stood still, your suitcase and duffle bag just set down in the empty living room and you downright held your breath as you waited.

But nothing happened and so you slowly started to move again, cautiously and stiffly, like you were trying to avoid provoking something bigger and far, far more dangerous than anyone could ever hope to be. It felt like razor sharp teeth were holding your entire apartment between their jaws, debating if you should be crushed or not.

Before long you started to play some music over your phone, trying to combat the oppressive silence.

It worked, to a degree. The presence didn't vanish, but it seemed to...settle, for lack of a better word, like it was listening. It almost felt like having someone in the apartment with you, in another room and neither of you were speaking. Someone who, you knew down to your very core, could shred you like flimsy paper.

It wasn't quite as...bad, after a while. Unsettling and creepy, sure, but you'd rather endure this chilling presence than go back to your ex. Your life would only turn into a guaranteed hell if you did.

Since this place had a small if very old kitchen installed, you left briefly to get some groceries and you bought an air mattress on a discounter a few streets away, along with some blankets and paper plates to tide you over. You had left only with your most important possessions and savings, your life squished into your luggage until nothing else had fit inside anymore.

You ate a cold, quick dinner, eyeing the sinking sun worriedly. In the slowly spreading darkness of the approaching night the creepiness of the whole building grew, like dark paint getting poured over an untouched canvas.

At night things really did get worse. You could hear it, the scratching and moaning outside your apartment, the creaking as doors opened and then slammed closed and you swore you heard something move in the hallway right outside your bedroom door.

You curled up tight under your blankets and you played the music on your phone a little louder and slowly, as the hours passed, the apartment building seemed to settle again, the noise growing softer until you could pretend it was just an annoying neighbor banging around their cabinets and generally being noisy.

Your sleep was fitful and restless as you barely dared to doze off. You were exhausted when your alarm rang and you dragged yourself out of bed, your head aching. You blearily got ready for the job interview you had today and by the time you were good to go you had managed to wake yourself up enough that you felt as ready as you could be.

You took a calming breath and then you felt it again, a little bit of a chill in the air and that presence creeping through your apartment once more. 

You stared at yourself in the spotty mirror left behind by a previous tenant and you told yourself that you hadn't gotten away from one horror only to cower at the feet of another. However, you also weren't foolish enough to think that you could actually chase away whatever lived here. 

This thing had been here before you and it was something...otherworldly. You had no idea if it was a ghost or some kind of eldritch creature or whatever else.

"There's crackers in the cupboard if you want any," you said, putting on a brave facade as you talked to the air around you. "I'd appreciate it if we could get along, if you don't mind. I'll be off to find work now, wish me luck."

It felt like the presence had paused and you felt watched all the way out of the apartment and that sensation only vanished when you walked down the street and around a corner, disappearing from sight.

You were indeed lucky, for the interview went very well and to your relieved surprise, you were hired right away. Not many people moved into this area, however, and you were willing to bet that it had to do with the creepy apartment building that seemed to drench the entire street with it's presence, spine chilling and shiver inducing.

You were very relieved about your success when you returned to your new home, a small, celebratory dinner bought with some of your savings.

As you entered the apartment, that presence was in the air once more, almost anticipatory, lurking above and around you all at once.

"I got lucky," you told your apartment and a small, hesitant smile appeared at your face despite the prickle of unease that tickled at your neck. "You must be my good luck charm."

As you entered the kitchen you saw the empty cracker box in the trash and blinked in surprise. Huh, whatever was here it already had more manners than your rotten ex did.

"Thanks for cleaning up after yourself," you told the apartment and you started to get your dinner ready. You hesitated for a moment, before setting aside an extra serving. "For you, if you like."

By the time you finished eating, the extra food had vanished and you blinked when you saw the paper plate in the trash. You hadn't even heard anything. You cleaned up after yourself, talking to the air about your day, both to combat the unease that still clung to you, that made you feel small and squishy and like prey and because you hadn't really had anyone listen to you for a long while.

Your ex boyfriend had managed to isolate you completely from your friends and family and you were too ashamed to try and reach out to them again. A part of you was also convinced that they wouldn't want to hear from you again, that you had caused them enough grief already.

You fell quiet at that thought and you silently went into the bathroom to wash the stress of the day and night away, the stress of leaving your old life behind, only to immediately decide that there was no way you were going to take a bath without thoroughly cleaning everything.

"Be back in a bit," you told the apartment as you left, heading to the very same store that had just hired you to buy cleaning products. Returning with your small haul, you set to scrubbing every inch of the bathroom and you felt the presence hover over your shoulder all the while.

"I will not risk getting sick," you told the air as you scrubbed the bathtub. "Do you know how long it takes to get rid of foot fungus? I am absolutely not risking that."

Once you were done cleaning to your satisfaction, you were covered in sweat and exhausted and you realized that you'd have to ask the presence to leave. You did not want to bathe while feeling watched.

"Would you mind waiting outside?" you asked the air. "I want to do this in private."

There was a long, heavy second of stillness, as though something around you was thinking and then you felt the presence pull back and you only realized how tense you had been when your breath rushed out of you with relief.

"Thank you," you called with a raised voice, only to jump when you heard scratching down the outside of the bathroom door.

You scrubbed down swiftly only to realize that you hadn't brought a change of clothes.

"Uh, would you mind not looking as I get dressed?" you called out into the hallway and weirdly enough, you got the impression that something was turning away from you. Still there but not paying you any attention.

You scurried down the hall to get dressed and as soon as you called out that you were done, the feeling of something looming over your shoulder was back.

"Want to watch something on my phone with me?" you asked after a long moment of heavy silence that ended up feeling a little awkward and quiet tense.

You settled down on the air mattress and you swore the shadows around you darkened and when, from the corner of your eye, it looked like some sort of large, clawed shadow hand was creeping over the edge of your mattress, you resolutely ignored it, even as your stomach clenched uneasily.

Your exhaustion caught up to you halfway through the third movie and you woke up to moaning and scratching and doors creaking open and banging closed again.

"What's wrong?" you blearily asked the air around you, still hazy with sleep and the noise quieted for a moment, before it felt like something was leaning over you, all darkness and numerous eyes and razor sharp teeth and you didn't dare open your own eyes to look back at it.

It seemed to stare and wait until you fitfully fell asleep again and while you jerked awake a few times throughout the night, the unsettling noise was distant, like a drunk neighbor two doors down acting like a dick.

In the morning you got ready for your first shift and you told the creature, that this place absolutely belonged to more than the landlord, that you'd be gone for a while and you'd bring back dinner.

While you had hoped to find distraction at work, it seemed as though everyone knew you lived in the haunted building and everyone wanted to talk about it. It seemed you couldn't get away from the thing you shared your home with even now.

Where you had been unsettled but not completely frightened before, now you heard more stories about people turning up dead in that building. Most died in very bloody, gruesome ways.

"A man was torn to shreds just last month," an older woman told you as you bagged her purchase and she sighed, "You look after yourself, that's no way to die."

Indeed not, but it wasn't like you could go anywhere else either. Your savings wouldn't allow for anything better and you were not going to go back. In the end, that thing in your new home wasn't worse than your ex. Not yet, at least.

You bought the food you had promised to bring after your shift and you grabbed one of the cheap books set up on the side as well. The kind that your grandpa had referred to as dime novels, smiling in victory whenever he had found something for your grandma, who loved them to bits. The cheesier the better.

You really missed them.

You felt the presence settle around you the moment you set foot onto the property, the apartment building looming ahead and you returned to your dingy little flat, finding it undisturbed. Nothing had vanished and nothing had gotten broken.

You cooked another meal for yourself and whatever monster lived here and you set down the novel beside the extra serving you had plated. 

"In case you get bored," you told it and you looked away for just a moment, but the food and novel were both gone when you glanced back, the paper plate once more neatly put into the trash.

As you ate you thought that your unexpected companion was a bearable houseguest. Sure, it's night time manners were atrocious, but otherwise...it could have been worse.

Especially since you couldn't get rid of it anyway, you might as well figure out how to live with it instead.

*.*.*

If you want to read more, be sure to check out my patreon, my ko-fi or give the masterpost a whirl!

[deadbydangit]

I read your one imagine about sleeping next to the killer, can I request something similar with the ghostface, the knight, and the blight. ☆

I absolutely can. I have so many good ideas for this one that I just thought of. Please enjoy.

Sleeping with them: Ghostface, Knight, Blight

Ghostface

Oh, you think sleeping next to Danny is going to be fun?

Well you're wrong.

First off, this guy is a blanket hog.

It won't matter if you put extra blankets on yourself, he's stealing them.

And he won't even know he's doing it.

He just pulls them on himself.

Then he wakes up cover and sweat and complains about it.

You can mention the issue to him, but he knows there's not much he could do about it.

And it isn't really his fault.

So make sure to hold those blankets tight.

Second, he is super squirmy.

There are two types of people when sleeping: those who sleep peacefully and of those who kick everything around and won't say still.

Danny is definitely the second.

He's a wild sleeper, so don't be surprised when you end up being kicked in the middle of the night.

He doesn't mean to do it. It really isn't his fault.

If you mention it to him in the morning he will apologize.

He also talks in his sleep.

And it's really funny.

It makes absolutely no sense.

"It's Taco day, so I want sprinkles."

"Frogs don't have wings, they aren't people."

Sometimes he'll even be talking about you in his sleep.

Mumbling about how much he loves you.

Like he's having a conversation with someone and bragging about you.

It's really sweet. But if you mention it to him the next morning he won't remember a thing.

Despite all this, he's very cuddly.

Before you both fall asleep, he wants to be the big spoon and hold on to you.

It's his way of protecting you from anything that might harm you.

Even if there's no harm around, he just wants to hold you.

Knight

Sleeping next to Tarhos isn't as bad as sleeping next to Danny.

He isn't squirmy and doesn't kick.

He's very still and silent when he sleeps.

Occasionally, he moves slightly.

But, other than that he stays pretty still.

Overall he's a pretty good sleeping partner.

Well, except, he won't take the helmet off!

Yeah, he sleeps with it on.

And, no, he won't take it off no matter how many times you ask him to.

He claims it's 'a crucial part of his identity'.

It's also very uncomfortable to sleep near him.

Forget about hugging or spooning.

You're going to hit your head and it isn't going to feel good.

That helmet is made of metal.

Do you have any idea how hard that is?

Imagine you're sleeping and you suddenly move, then you hit your head on metal.

That's certainly one way to ruin a good night's sleep.

Oh, and he always wants to hold on to you.

He claims it's his way of protecting you.

'The realm is very dangerous, so let me protect you my love.'

You can tell him how uncomfortable it is, but he won't listen to you.

Again, it's a crucial part of his identity.

And even if you do learn to sleep through hitting your head on metal, that helmet is covered in rust and dried blood.

Now imagine waking up with all that gross dirt, grime, and blood all over you.

All over the bed sheets, all over your clothes, and worst of all, all over your face.

He's used to sleeping and dirty conditions, so it doesn't really phase him.

If you beg enough, he will clean his helmet off at the very least.

On the plus side, he's an early riser so he's usually not there when you wake up.

You have the whole bed to yourself to sleep in.

And he's very careful about not waking you up, he even tucks you in after he's gotten out of bed.

He claims he doesn't do that. But seeing how neat and tidy the tuck is, it's pretty obvious he tucks you back in.

He'll also whisper sweet words to you right before you fall asleep.

All about how amazing you are and how special you are to him.

About how he'll protect you from the world if he has to.

Blight

Arguably, one of the best sleeping partners.

You'd figure his goo would get on everything and anything.

But that isn't the case.

Actually he doesn't need to sleep.

Or, he can't anymore. He isn't really sure which.

You might feel bad for him. But he really doesn't mind not being able to sleep.

Otherwise, he knows he'll be plagued by nightmares.

But that won't stop him from making sure you have a good night's sleep.

Just because he isn't entirely human anymore and doesn't need to sleep, doesn't mean you don't have to.

His bedtime ritual for you is very luxurious and loving.

Being a scientist, he knows a lot about the human body.

He knows your sleep cycle and knows how to best get you asleep.

Routine is key. And he knows that.

Even if you aren't tired, he'll try to get you to relax around the same time every night.

He'll make sure you have plenty of blankets and are warm enough.

He can't really kiss you with his mouth as it is. So he'll make do with petting your hair very softly and soothingly.

Just that is almost enough to put anyone to sleep.

If you can't sleep, he'll first make you some tea to help you relax.

Believe me, he is an expert on making tea.

And, somehow, he never ends up getting goo in it.

If that doesn't work, he'll read you a book.

When he reads his voice is so soft and relaxing you can't help but fall asleep to it.

If none of that works, he will cuddle with you just for a little while.

He doesn't want to get you all gooey and gross.

And he does so out of love.

He just wants to make sure you feel comfortable and loved the whole night.

[mychlapci]

My liege I wanted to submit this during celibacy week but I ended up being so busy aughhhhhh oh well that just means we can make it horny now if it so happens to happen

Been thinking about... domestication... What if, when Minimus returned to Luna-1, being stripped of his rank and armour wasn't enough. What if he cried and protested and begged when Tyrest took the armour, and Tyrest decided Minimus was so unworthy that he doesn't even deserve to exist as he currently is.

When Rodimus and Rung and the rest of the gang end up imprisoned on Luna-1, they meet a strange little turbofox curled up in the corner. Its smaller than what they would expect. It's also very green. Whilst Rodimus is busy yelling about being stuck here, Rung gently approaches the creature, a little curious about why a mechanimal would be imprisoned here, but more because the thing looks so scared. The little kibble-fluff it has shakes and rattles whilst its big ears are pressed back in fear. And yet, when Rung approaches, it doesn't growl or bare its teeth. It just stares, optics wide, afraid.

It takes some coaxing with a few rust sticks and gentle pets, but the turbofox is gradually lured out of its corner. It doesn't seem to want to be held, struggling when Rung tries to pick it up. But Roddy, curious, and desperately trying to find something else distracting other than thinking about being trapped, is immediately like LET ME HOLD and grabs the poor little thing. It yips at first and struggles- but Rodimus' warm frame seems to calm it. The poor little thing must be cold. It curls up whilst held against Roddy's chestplate and doesn't seem to plan to move.

The rest of Luna-1 happens and etc etc etc and they all eventually return to the ship... it's too bad they never found out what happened to Magnus, but the poor bot would be deactivated by now anyway according to Ratchet's predictions.

They've brought the tiny turbofox with them. It's not like they could just leave the thing behind... Rodimus, secretly pretty shaken up by the whole killswitch thing and once again failing his duties to protect his crew, unable to even keep track of one DYING second in command, keeps the little guy with him. The turbofox isn't the friendliest creature, but it seems content enough to be carried around by Rodimus for his warmth. And Rodimus feels a little better with some company and a little creature to hold.

Rodimus brings that thing everywhere. He starts calling it Roddy Jr. and everyone hates the name lmao. He brings it to all his appointments with Rung, holding it close and petting it to ease his nerves.

As the turbofox gets more comfortable on the ship, they start to find that it's still not particularly friendly. It doesn't like to be petted or cooed at or held by most other bots, but it will also never snarl or growl. It will glare and swat at servos that get too close, or even just duck under them, but never bare its sharp denta. Rodimus seems to be the only one with a free pass to hold the thing everywhere. Even so, sometimes it complains and struggles, but eventually lets Roddy carry it.

It's only much later when Ratchet, finally less busy with all the mechs' repairs, insists that Rodimus brings his pet in for a routine checkup too. They've never had a chance to properly check the thing since they found it and who knows what diseases it could be carrying. (Roddy is like hey >:[ at this btw)

But when Ratchet finally gets a good look at the thing... he has some uncomfortable suspicions. Being the only one to have ever seen Minimus' true form, this turbofox looks strangely familiar. And once he finds that it has a tcog, things really seem suspicious. But, as far as he knows, it's never behaved like Magnus or responded to anything that would make them think it was him. Ratchet tries calling it Ultra Magnus, but the turbofox just looks at him quietly. It's strangely polite and docile for a turbofox, just sitting there and letting Ratchet work on it. Something isn't right with this thing, but he doesn't know what.

Ratchet starts asking Rodimus some leading questions about this... but Rodimus just gets really defensive about anything asked about his new little pet. No! How could his little guy be another mech. So what if it has a tcog maybe some mechanimals have cogs. Whatever.

If Ratchet's suspicions are right, he's going to need Chromedome to have a look too. But it doesn't look like Rodimus is going to even entertain that as a suggestion

Rodimus is so desperate to keep this thing with him, to have some company, some kind of comfort, something on this ship that doesn't hate him, that he's not willing to entertain a single suspicious thought about his pet. He's not losing his only companion.

oh yes yes yes that's so fucking good. Rodimus' emotional support turbofox... he refuses to let anyone near it, and honestly, people are a little worried about the blow that taking his new pet could deal to Rodimus' mental health.... no one can help Minimus it seems...

[thesixthplaneteer]

Horrid Awakening

Finished just in time to switch my focus to Novella November is my submission to the WoD Hallozine! The theme being Haunting I knew exactly what I wanted to do. This is something that's been bouncing in my head and now I'm putting it out to the world! Story below break, I hope you enjoy! Thank you to @vampemoqueen for putting this together! Link to Hallozine post Special thanks to @syntheticmortal for all your helpful advice!

You’re a Monster 

A single heavy thump of the heart tore him from torpor. Lungs expanded painfully, muscles tensed, vision blurred. False life was dragging him away from daylight imposed mortis. All that could be done was grit the teeth and allow it to pass. A distant ring played on the eardrums, and a dull ache in the head added to the torture of awakening. Gaining control over the body, he sat up from the overstuffed mattress. The arms felt extended and heavy. The bulk of the body felt like a weighted suit. However he refused to allow himself to complain about the body. He would simply be grateful to be able to move under his own will once again. On unsteady legs he rose from the bed. Left foot, Right foot, left- 

You’re a Monster

His knees buckled and slammed into the hardwood floor. The ache in his skull grew into a painful pressure, pushing against the back of his left eye. The ringing in his ears could no longer be ignored. He refused to allow the body to lie there. He refused to be a bystander in existence. Forcing his will into the muscle and bone he pushed to his hands and knees. Feeling around he found the nightstand. Leaning heavily on it he pulled himself up and came to an unbelievable realization.

Blinking to correct his sight changed nothing. Faded spots, chipped edges, a slight lean from a rot eaten leg. It wasn’t what he remembered. It should be sturdy. The work of an expert craftsman and taken care of like a treasure. Studying the table his sight fell on the simple fluted vase with a single rose. One he knows he placed there himself. The petals were blackened, the bloom bowed down, the leaves shriveled. The sheets on the nearby bed were threadbare. Holes were torn into the blankets. The solid wooden frame is now falling to one side. He refused to believe the beautiful room and furnishings were in such a state over only a single day. Eyes darting back to the rose he looked for answers. It was dry and dead. Yet there was water in the vase, though putrid and vile. Trying to make sense of it exacerbated his condition. Unsteady but unwilling to fall, he pushed away from the nightstand. Lurching toward the bathroom, driven by the need to know his own condition. He needed to see that his precious vessel was safe.

Looking upon the bedroom in its entirety was a grim sight. The wallpaper was peeling away. The floorboards were warped, and flexing under him. The paint on the door was flaking, the door knob patinated, and the hinges rusted. It looked like it would crumble at a touch. The whole room appeared as if it was decaying around him. A white blur shifted in the corner of his eye. He stumbled as he spun quickly to chase the apparition, finding only the reminders of decay that surrounded him. 

Fear built in his chest and sank down to his stomach. He hastily turned back, careening into the door. The frame gave way with a loud crack that felt like splinters in his tortured ears. An icy chill crawled up his spine. The ringing crescendoed and the pain in his head expanded. Clambering to the mirror he supported himself on the sink. The beautiful face was untouched by the plague settling upon the room. However, relief was snatched away before it even settled on him.

You're a Monster

The ringing grew cacophonous. The pain became a burning spike driven inside his mind. He tried to scream, but was drowned out by the ringing. Cold metal pressed into his head. Spinning frantically he fell back into the sink. It ripped free of the wall and shattered. Pieces of the ceramic fixture littered the floor. 

Looming over him was a phantom of hatred. Glaring down at the soul in the body. It held righteous judgment in its hand and was ready to unleash it. Defying the wraith of his past he bared his fangs. No regret, no remorse, no innocence. 

You’re a monster 

The hammer pulled back.

YOU’RE A MONSTER

The hammer slammed forward.

YOU’RE A MONSTER

[sofasoap]

Accidental meet cute

Pairing : Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x F!reader

Summary: What happens when your friend tries to be a cupid behind your back?

Part of Gaz Fest 2023

Warning : M rating. Semi-crack, meet cute. Coarse languages.

A/N: Thank you @glitterypirateduck for organising the writing festival!! * cheering *

Thank you @siilvan and @jynxmirage for listening to my brain storming blabberings :) Based on real life event ( ..80% of it ) see End A/N.

Enjoy!!

Moving away from the crowd as you finish watching one of the bands onstage, in search of some beverages to quench your thirst. 

You were dragged along to the music festival by your friend, which to be honest, you had no interest in attending at all. After being nudged and bribed ( well, thinking back, more like coerced) by your friend and with promises of staying in a caravan instead of roughing it out in a basic tent and possible muddy floor, you gave in.

“Come on! My parents said they can lend us their old caravan, there’s enough space for four of us in there. There's a toilet and a basic shower.” your friend trying hard to sell you the idea. “ Plus, you seriously need to get out and experience the sunlight. You can’t coop up at home all the time, and complain about you never getting a chance to find your ‘soulmate’ “ putting her hands up and doing an air quotation mark, she exasperated. 

Well, that is true. You aren’t the most outgoing person, and it is time to finally do some socialisation, to enjoy life a little bit, and maybe, just that maybe, you can break your record of partnerness life. 

You didn’t quite expect the tricks and plots your friend went to trying to find you a date.

As you were ordering a glass of wine from the mobile bar not far away, your phone started ringing. Frowning as you stare at the unknown number, you hesitated for a few seconds before picking it up. 

“Hello???” 

“Heyyyyy is this uh…what’s her name again??” the speaker on the other side of the phone turned away to call out to someone in the background, and you heard a mumble which sounded like your name as a reply. Is that your friend Emma’s voice???

“OH yes hey hey.” They greeted you again with your name. “I got this number from your friend, and my friend Kyle, who I might add is a very handsome fellow, is quite willing to meet up with you.” A vague muffled protest could be heard in the background, but was quickly shushed by the speaker on the phone. 

You pull your phone away, staring at the screen, utterly confused. What the hell is this about??

“Hey handsome!! Take this!!” 

Kyle looked down at the wrist band a random passerby just threw into his hand, with what seems to be phone numbers written on it.

“If you are interested, ring the number!!”  Ah so he was right. “Wait,” Pulling the girl back, “Interested in what?” 

The girl giggled, “My friend! We are trying to get her out of the dating desert.” Holding up the wristful of bands, “We made a whole lot of these and now giving it out to people, see if we will get some luck. Oh, she doesn’t know about it though.” Kyle cocked an eyebrow, silently questioning the girl’s method without the said person’s consent. 

“OH he is definitely interested, you got a picture of her?” Kyle’s friend perked up beside him,leaning his head onto his shoulder as he wrapped his around around the other. “What a coincidence, we are trying to get our good buddy here,” patting Kyle’s shoulder and in the process nearly spilling the beer in his hand. “Some actions as well. He’s been wayyy too busy with work to brush some rust off his dick.”

Trust his good friend to say something decent. 

The girl just laughed, and took out her phone, scrolling through the photo album and flipped the screen towards Kyle and friend. “There, that’s her, third from the right. What do you think?” 

“Sorry but who the hell is this and how in the hell did you get my number??” You semi yelled into the phone, as the background crowd noise and the band on stage started playing again.

“Your friend Emma! She was giving out numbers to people!” 

OH that bitch… you turned around to look at your two other friends, who are currently holding drinks in their hands, with a stiff smile on their face, looking semi guilty but not sorry at all. 

“Surprise!”  One of your friends laughed nervously as you glared at them, hands up trying to defend themselves. “We just want to help you..”   

“Hello?? Hellooo? You still there?” you turned back to your phone, ignoring your friend’s comment. “ Put Emma on the phone for me, PLEASE.”  You try to sound as polite as possible to the stranger on the phone as you requested for your friend, but a hint of anger still sips through. 

“So, explain yourself.” You growled. 

“Oh, you’ll like him, I promise.” Dodging your anger, Emma quickly put forward her case, “Look, I can see him right in front of me, I chatted to him for a bit, and his friend, who is equally as cute,” she sighed, “ come on, just come over to meet him! He fits all your criteria, plus, he did mention you are his type. So, just pop over to the beer bar on the other side of the main stage, he will meet you there.” 

“I don’t think your friend is that interested in me by the sound of it… ““Relax! She is TOTALLY interested!” Just before you hung up the call you briefly overheard Emma reassuring… Kyle? 

Ah well. Why not? Let’s give it a try. This isn’t much difference to some blind date or meeting up through a dating app right?

And for the second time, you gave in to your friend.

“What did Emma say he looks like??” your friend whispered into your ear, as the three of you looked around the bar area, trying to spot the guy.

 Looking down at her phone, checking the message Emma sent through; “Let see.. Uh, Dark skin, short curly hair..taller than you? Brown eyes.. And.. scar on his cheek on the left? How vague can this woman be…”she mumbled. 

Your eye stopped at this tall dark man standing at the corner of the bar. 

There he is, in a simple white singlet, ¾ blue jeans and matching cream colour shoes and jacket tied around his waist. 

Casual, yet stylish. And wooah boy, the tight fit clothing definitely shows off his lean but well toned muscles beautifully. Is it suddenly getting hotter in here?

“I think that’s him there….” you whispered into your friend’s ear as you pointed to him.”he is the only one that fits all the description…” 

“Let me go scout him out.” Before you can say anything or pull her back, she marched towards the bar, full of purpose. 

She subtly slid into the gap between him and the patron next to him, ordering a drink, while trying to side eye him at same time. 

Her eyes brighten up as she spotted something, and turn towards facing you and your other friend, nodding furiously. 

“OH! Is that the wristband Emma gave you?” you heard your friend speak loudly. Gosh, how much more embarrassment would your friend bring you? You mentally facepalm yourself as your other friend drags you towards the bar. “You must be Kyle! Where is Emma and your friend??”

You can see him getting startled as he jumps slightly, turning around to face her. “Um, they took off about ten minutes ago, saying there was a band that both of them needed to check out…um, who are you?” Waving her hand dismissively, “It doesn’t matter who I am, it matters who SHE is. Come come, come meet my friend, the mysterious lady you are going to try woo tonight.” She stepped forward and half pushed you towards the bar area, “Alright, two of you have fun! We are going to check out the food stalls outside!” 

With that, your friend just left you and Kyle, standing in the middle of the bar, staring at each other awkwardly. Fidgeting with your hand, you decided to break the ice first. “Hey um, So, you are Kyle?”  holding your hand out, you introduced yourself. 

“Kyle, Kyle Garrick, but everyone calls me Gaz,”  you raised your eyebrow, confused. He chuckled, “Inside joke. Don’t worry.” waving towards an empty seat right beside you, “you must be tired walking all the way from the otherside of the festival ground in the mud. Take the seat.” Oh a gentleman, you thought, tick a box. 

“Thanks Ky… Gaz.” After turning around ordering yourself a drink, you start asking him questions. “So.. seen any bands you like?”

Gaz shrugged. “ I’m not familiar with any of them to be honest with you. I got dragged here by my friend because he said I need, ah, more, ahem, companionship.” Gaz quickly took a sip of his beer, hiding his embarrassment of hidden meanings of his words. 

Eyes wide, you perked up, “OH I thought I was the only victim!! My friends, the ones you just met,” waving into the air into nowhere while rolling your eyes. “dragged me here because they said I need to find someone to relieve my sexual frustration.” 

Gaz burst out laughing at your bluntness. “Sounds like we have much in common. Should we form a self-help group to recover from the trauma our friend has bestowed upon us?” Gaz gives you a wink and flashes you a wide smile as he jokingly suggested. 

Very cute smile too. How perfect can this man be? Got humour,physically attractive, a gentleman.. You have to admit, Emma might have helped you to hit a jackpot here. 

“Well, to form a group, we have to start up a member list.” You tilted your head as you whipped out your phone,smirking. “And better set up regular meetings to talk about our problems right?” Using all the flirting energy you haven’t had a chance to use.. At all? You are going all out. 

“So, we should set up a date then?” There’s a mischievous yet excitement in his eyes and bright smile as he takes your phone to enter his own number in there. 

“It’s a date.”  

“You going to shag him tonight?”

“Shut the hell up Emma… and Thanks.” 

Ok. so I said it's based on a true event. and 80% of it's truth. idea came from my receptionist, who excitingly told me about her experience at a country music festival she went to last week. She made up a whole lot of wrist bands with her name and phone number on it, and both her friends and her were handing it out during the festival. she did end up striking a date :) which is happening this week LOL. So.. it works??

tag list :

@deadbranch

@kaplerrr

@homicidal-slvt

@lia0-0

@floral-force

@saltofmercury

@siilvan

@rileyslibrarian

@mistydeyes

@okayyadriana

@a-small-writer-in-a-big-world

@jynxmirage

@nrdmssgs @schr-torta @glitterypirateduck @cumikering

@roosterr

@groguspicklejar

@obsolescent @whydoilikewhump @b1rds3ye @devcica

@caramlizedtomatos

@argella1300 @tiredmetalenthusiast @liyanahelena

[cloverdaisies]

YOU SEEM LIKE TROUBLE TO ME

☆*:.｡. eric sohn imagine. ☆*@: cloverdaisies

𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍’𝚟𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜 ☆*:.｡.

☆*:.｡. ★彡☆*:.｡. ☆*:.｡. ☆*:.｡.★彡 .｡.:*☆☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆

☆*:.｡. description: should’ve known he was a bad guy, maybe all the red flags would be a good sign? are you really gonna let eric sohn take you on a test drive?

carwashboy!eric x fem!reader!suggestive themes!

☆*:.｡. member: eric x you

channel: @deoboyznet

a/n: very short drabble from a while ago! sumn about eric sohn being a sleaze in the best way possible has me floored !! 🧍‍♀️leave me alone crying over this concept !! i’m so sorry eric stans in advance, all in love <3

☆*:.｡. ★彡☆*:.｡. ☆*:.｡. ☆*:.｡.★彡 .｡.:*☆☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆

“you can’t be serious” you sighed as your water went out once again. watching as the garden hose you’d tediously dragged around from the back of your house pathetically spat out its last drops.

there was a car wash no further than a mile out and it seemed to be the only option since you had an interview the next day and your car looked as if it had been driven three times through quicksand.

music blared from the small station, the metal shack rusting in a dirty bronze colour, with an unmissable billboard that read “a beautiful spot for amazing car repair” above the place that was practically falling apart.

you drove in, spotting a crimson haired man presented in a white tank covered in black soot, wrench in hand seemingly working on another car out in the scorching heat.

“hey, my waters gone out. I was hoping I could get a wash and polish.” you walked up to the man who was crouched in front of the tire of another car.

he looked up at you briefly, his skin glazed over shining under the unforgiving sunlight, he dropped the wrench and stood to look at the absolute disaster state your car was in.

“jesus, where’s this girl been?” he ripped the orange gloves off his hands and walked you into the garage space.

“listen it rained a lot before the draught.” you spoke with a serious tone, watching as he chuckled and kissed his top row of teeth with his tongue.

“yeah, just park over there, 10 minutes darling.” he wrote out a bill of $5, cutting the price by almost half of what it was supposed to be.

“hey, is this for the polish too?” you asked looking at the receipt with a confused frown.

“yeah, dolls like you don’t pay full price.” his mischievous grin, stank of trouble but you couldn’t complain since you’d gotten a pretty good deal.

you drove into the station, flicking through your phone whilst you waited for him to wander over with a few sponges and cloths hanging out from the pocket of his work bottoms.

he began to hose down the car, his hair somehow getting wet in the process hanging down in strands over his forehead. his jaw sharpened as you noticed his side profile, and the little smile he broke as he noticed you checking out his toned biceps was more than enough to say he was entertaining himself.

as soon as you thought he was finished, he swung open your door and whipped open a handheld hoover to clean the dashboard and seats.

“do you mind?” he asked pointing towards the gearstick, the compartment beneath clearly needing a swift clean. unbuckling your seatbelt about to move out of the way for him, your eyes almost bulged out of your skull as he leaned over you slightly, hand rested on top of the car as he reached over you. he hadn’t left much to the imagination since his shirt stuck to his abdomen, showing off his toned physique. and… and.. his scent… a manly musk, coated in the sweetest smelling aftershave.

trying your best not to externally yell, he smirked as he reached back and smirked at you, catching your eye contact for just a second.

it was almost like a 2000s college movie, where the frat boys hosted one of those cliché sexy car washes, the feelings in your stomach churning as the red flags waved in front of your eyes.

“what’s your name gorgeous?” he asked still leant against the side of the car, smiling down at you promiscuously.

“y/n” you replied, the smart side of you wanting to slap you silly.

“well y/n, let me know if, you know, anything else needs a clean.” he passed you a crumpled piece of paper with a number scribbled on it in pencil beneath his name eric sohn.

☆*:.｡..:*☆☆*:.｡..｡.:*☆☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆:*☆

[xsezzie]

Ollo, have some Boothill hcs! -I imagine his ears are insanely ticklish, since they're one of his last human bits, like do anything and he'll squeal -gets revenge instantly and somewhat brutally aka goes for the death spot first -his nibbling is an unfair power, due to his shark teeth -complains about how they just HAD to go and provoke him (sometimes just by existing, usually by being in a bad mood) -he only really teases if they've truly pissed him off, or he'll usually comment about how his ticklish spots aren't programmed the same -finds it funny that it's so hard to get revenge on him, especially if he turns off his touch sensors (he seems like he'd be friends with the astral express, and march and the trailblazer found out he could just not be ticklish the hard way) -swears while laughing, his newfound cursing censors make it 100x worse -"FUHUHUN" "YOUHUHU BIHIHISCUIT" -his touch sensors aren't easily tickled with regular human hands (he's still metal afterall) but scrubbing away rust with a brush may just kill him -death spot is his stomach if you have the tools for it, otherwise good luck doing more than just tracing and making him giggle (again w the astral express crew, they probably had cleaning supplies hanging around and decided it would be nice to surprise Boothill with a bath) sincerely, orange juice cereal anon <3

Orange juice cereal anon (love the name) thank you for these lovely HCs in my inbox 🤭

I love how you took into consideration his body and how human things won’t be very effective, it’s fun to imagine new scenarios hehe

Imagine working on him while he’s awake and he’s just complaining it tickles all the time 😭❤️