#i just feel like i should have tentacles sometimes and like if i flex a certain way i should be able to coil something.

[kuromi-hoemie]

the more i think about it the more convinced i am i was some kind of bird in a past life. i won't elaborate, but this pleases me.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

(Un)Wanted: Part 2

Read on Ao3 

(Un)Wanted Masterlist

A child that sees demons in every dark corner is not a child that is wanted.

A child that cries and freezes and mumbles of terrible things is not a child that is wanted.

A child that jumps and startles and hisses is not a child that is wanted.

Unwanted things are purged from the Earth.

So Virgil runs.

In other words: Virgil is an outcast, ostracized and shunned for how he was born, forced to flee an angry mob only to stumble right into a fae garden.

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Warnings: Implied/Referenced torture, child abuse, and self-harm, nothing super explicit. Sympathetic Deceit and Remus. Panic attacks, anxiety attacks.

Word Count: 10,227

Mortals have always been fascinating creatures for Patton.

They have so many…quaint little ideas about what they can do about things and such interesting ways of thinking about it. Some of them believe that they float in this strange grey area, using that to defend choices that harm or hurt other people. Some of them believe they were sent here with a purpose and they must fulfill it. Some of them don’t think at all.

 It’s fascinating, but then…when your life is confined to a mere century, Patton supposes everything must seem so…heavy.

 A shriek interrupts his thinking and he barely has time to step aside before a blast of magic swirls past him.

“Watch where you’re pointing that thing!” He puts his hands on his hips. “Now, who threw that?”

 He rolls his eyes fondly when the prince and the duke point at each other.

 “Kiddos, not that I don’t appreciate your enthusiasm,” he says, creating a quick shield between them and the portal so anymore, um, ‘misfires’ don’t accidentally get through, “but do you even know what you’re doing?”

 “You ask as if they ever know what they’re doing,” L mutters.

 “Oh, please,” the prince huffs, “I am always in complete control.”

“Falsehood.”

 “That’s right,” the duke grins, “sometimes it’s my turn.”

 “We are not making the mortal live at the bottom of the lake!” The prince smacks his forehead with his hand. “The furniture would be absolutely positively destroyed!”

 “And mortals cannot breathe underwater.”

 “That too!”

 “Ugh, you guys are so boring,” the duke huffs, “that’s the point! Then no one else would be able to get him! Plus,” he adds with a grin, “we could have so much more fun.”

 “I find it highly unlikely that the mortal’s definition of ‘fun’ and your definition have significant overlap,” L says.

 “Well, then we’ll just have to change that.” The duke claps. “The bottom of the lake it is!”

 “It is not!”

 “Is too!”

 Patton and L quickly step back as the twins start squabbling again. L shakes his head disparagingly as the prince summons a sword. “We aren’t going to let them do this, are we?”

 “No,” Patton agrees, “but they’ve got a point.”

 “Well, the prince does make an effort to sharpen his blade on a regular schedule.” When Patton opens his mouth to clarify, L continues. “But I do not believe we have a grasp of how to create a residence for a mortal either.”

 “I know.” Patton absentmindedly rubs his wrists, still feeling the aftershocks of the visions pushed into their bond.

 It hurt. It had burned in a way that nothing ever had for a long time. And for a fae, that can be a very long time indeed.

 Dropping his work to clutch at his chest, hunched over from the weight of what he’d felt had been agony on its own, and he’d dashed out to find the others, needing to know what hurts, what happened, please, tell me so I can fix it, only to find none of them, fearing the worst. Having to walk into the garden to see the others already huddled around a mortal—a mortal, the duke wrapped around them with everything but the tentacles. Having to be the one to say no, his own heart tearing to pieces with every word he utters, the feeling of the mortal trembling in his hold, the tension and fear brimming off of their skin, almost burning Patton’s hands. Feeling the horrible sick rush of terror when the other animals bumbled into the forest.

 Hearing just what they thought of V.

 After that, well…Patton hadn’t cared much about the rules anymore.

 And honestly, considering who it was that pushed the visions in the first place, Patton’s not sure he ever stood much of a chance.

 But one of the things about breaking the rules is that, well, there are no rules. There are no guidelines now, no strict set of things to follow. And when it comes to mortals, that can be almost as dangerous.

 “Look out!”

 “Wait, shit—“

 “Pat!”

 Patton blinks and suddenly the others are tackling him out of the way of another errant magic blast. As his brain desperately tries to connect the path from standing to being on the floor, L scowls.

 “You two need to stop,” he says sternly, “we only have a few minutes before V comes through and if he sees this, it’s likely he will not wish to remain.”

 “Sorry,” the prince murmurs, helping everyone up, “and sorry to you too, Duke.”

 “Eh,” the duke says, brushing himself off, “we’ve done worse.”

 “Yes,” L mumbles, “yes, you have.”

 “L,” Patton says once everyone’s righted themselves, “did you manage to get a good grasp of the place?”

 L nods. “It seems to be the small village in the northwest corner of the forest. The population is around two hundred. It is…unlikely that the land holds any significant powers.”

 “Hmph,” the prince grumbles, lifting his hand obediently, “such a lack of creativity.”

 In front of them, a village forms. Several houses line a small street, each with a slightly different size and shape. Behind them are ramshackle sheds, worn fences, and in the middle, a slightly larger building. Patton isn’t sure what the mortals use this one for, but it is considerably…shinier than the others.

 “I suppose it is quite…” L struggles for the right word. “…plain.”

 “That’s one way of putting it,” the duke sniffs, “where are you supposed to do anything?”

 “Now, kiddos,” Patton says, “this isn’t about what we want, it’s about what V wants.”

 “And you think he wants something blander than a piece of dead wood?”

 “Hey!” The duke smacks the prince upside the head. “Dead wood is great, thank you very much.”

 “I said blander than a piece of dead wood, you bumbling buffoon.”

 “It’s what he’s used to,” Patton says quickly before they can dissolve into another squabble, “it’s better to go slow, right?”

 “We have already seen that V can be overwhelmed very easily,” L agrees, “it might be best to…start blander.”

 “Fine.”

 And not a moment too soon, it seems, because the portal begins to glow. Patton turns around to see V step through, followed closely by J.

 “Glad you made it, kiddo,” Patton smiles, “we’ve been waiting for you!”

 His eyes widen and his chest clenches when V’s body seizes with terror and he freezes, still halfway out of the portal. J nudges him gently and V whimpers, wrapping his arms tightly around himself and baring his teeth in a snarl.

 “Hey, hey, kiddo,” Patton murmurs quickly, starting towards him, only to freeze when V shrinks back, “okay, okay, I’m stopping. I’m right here, okay? I’m not gonna get any closer.”

 He crouches down, keeping his hands raised, feeling the others adopt similar positions of surrender. V’s gaze is still fixed on the houses, his body seemingly torn between wanting to turn and flee and never wanting to move again. Patton’s heart clenches when V’s breaths start to get faster and faster, the air whining in protest as it whips in and out of his lungs.

 “V,” J murmurs, “V, listen to me.”

 V’s head barely jerks.

 “Come on, little one, just listen to me, you can close your eyes if you have to.”

 Patton watches, a strange cocktail of relief and envy as J bends closer, whispering into V’s ear too low for the rest of them to possibly hear, one of his hands hovering just over V’s opposite shoulder. V’s eyes squeeze shut and slowly, slowly, he relaxes, his chin dropping to his chest. J continues to murmur soft words until finally V draws in a deep, slow breath and his arms finally loosen their death grip.

 J looks at V with such a look of concern that it makes Patton wince in sympathy, only soothed when V gives him a tight nod. J straightens, still hovering protectively around V, and turns his attention to the others, the soft look of worry quickly morphing into stone.

 “Explain.”

 “We attempted to recreate the village,” L says, “in order to…not overwhelm V so quickly.”

 J glances down at V then back up. “Yes, and I can see that worked out stunningly.”

 “I don’t understand.” L looks back and forth between the village and the still-shaken V. “If…if the environment is familiar, it should elicit feelings of comfort.”

 “Oh, no,” Patton murmurs, closing his eyes for a moment, “I messed up.”

 “Don’t worry,” the prince says quickly, “it’s okay, we’ll—we’ll figure it out.”

 “I think I understand.” Patton opens his eyes and looks up at V. “You thought this was a trick, didn’t you? That we’d pretended to take you in and then…brought you back.”

 The very idea coils hot and heavy in his gut, settling there like a horrible sickly weight. It only draws itself deeper when V nods, his mouth drawn tight.

 “What?” The prince’s cry shakes Patton’s core. “Why would—“

 Patton holds up a hand, cutting him off, even though he can feel the anguish of the others burning through the bond. Even J isn’t immune; the hand on V’s shoulder flexes in the glove and he steps a little closer.

 “And even if we didn’t,” Patton says brokenly, “even if we didn’t you—these…the only feelings you have about this place aren’t good ones.”

 V lowers his head in shame, his fingers flexing in the fabric of his tunic. The urge to run and wrap him up in a tight embrace makes Patton’s limbs tremble.

 “Get rid of it.”

 “What?”

 “Get rid of it,” Patton murmurs firmly to the prince, “bring us back to the field.”

 “N-no!”

 Patton’s eyes widen in surprise, and judging by J’s confused head tilt, he’s not the only one. Yet there V is, staring at him with a fierce look of determination, fire burning in his gaze despite the way he’s still curled around himself.

 “…’no,’ kiddo?”

 Patton knows he’s made another mistake the instant V’s eyes widen again. “W-wait, I didn’t mean—you don’t—that was a s-suggestion, not a—I didn’t mean to—I don’t want—“

 V’s hands shoot to his hair, tangling in the strands and pulling.

 “I didn’t mean to tell you what to do,” he manages finally, “please don’t be angry.”

  Oh, kiddo…

 “V,” Patton calls softly, “kiddo, we’re not angry.”

 He smiles kindly when V peeks out at him from a little gap in his fingers. “Y-you’re not?”

 “No, V, we’re not angry.” Patton places one hand flat against his chest. “You have my word.”

 It seems to do the trick, though not nearly as well as he would’ve liked. V’s hands slowly inch away from his face, twisting themselves back into his tunic. Patton smiles encouragingly.

 “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he assures, “I’m just a little curious why you didn’t want the village gone. If it’s…if it’s bothering you, then…”

 Patton shrugs. “Wouldn’t it be better?”

 “But you already…made it,” V mumbles, “so…”

 The prince huffs. “Please. It took barely a moment. I do hope you don’t think so lowly of my skills, sweetheart.”

 The corner of V’s mouth tugs up and oh, it’s the best thing Patton’s seen all day!

 “It’s no trouble,” the prince assures, “plus…I must confess I am not a fan. I mean honestly, the utter lack of craftsmanship, it’s truly astonishing.”

 “The point of this,” L says, making V look at him, “was to create somewhere you would feel more comfortable. This place—“ he gestures around— “was not exactly designed for mortals.”

 “But we shouldn’t have tried to anticipate what you want,” Patton adds, “and so there’s nothing wrong with getting rid of the village.”

 “Y-you mean this one…right?”

 “Well,” the duke mutters darkly. Patton can’t find it in his heart to scold him more than half-heartedly.

 “P-please don’t,” V stammers, “I…”

 “We won’t,” Patton assures, far more concerned about making V feel comfortable than any sort of retribution—however rightly deserved—for the denizens of the village.

 “Even if the duke does have a point, little mouse.”

 Patton glances exasperatedly at J, only to be met with an expression of innocent bewilderment. He raises an eyebrow. J simply shrugs. Patton’s gaze gets caught by V, still shifting a little and sending quick glances at the village.

  More pressing matters.

 “V,” he murmurs, smiling again when V’s gaze jumps to his, “is it alright if I come a little closer?”

 J’s brow quirks as V stiffens.

 “It’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

 V doesn't move, still wrapping his arms tightly around himself.

 “I’m sorry I scared you, that we scared you with this,” he continues, looking behind him to see agreeing nods from the others. He looks back to see V’s gaze losing a little of its frenzied edge. He smiles and gives a little wave. “Hey there.”

 V doesn’t wave back or smile, but he doesn’t flinch either. Patton takes that as a good sign.

 “You’re allowed to say no, V,” he assures, “that’s okay too.”

 Nothing. Patton’s gaze flicks to J and J nods.

 “What about this,” Patton says softly, “why don’t I move real slow, just a little, just so you can see how it feels, and then we go from there?”

 V nods.

 “I’m stepping a little closer, okay?” V lets him move a step closer. He crouches down again, keeping his hands in sight, still a good few feet away. “How are you doing, kiddo?”

 Patton laughs when V’s able to convey his annoyance with the question with a subtle change of expression. “Okay, so, bad question. Can I…” He hesitates. “Can come a little closer? Is that okay?”

 V nods carefully. “Y-you can—“ He cuts himself off.

 “Say it,” Patton coaxes, “go on, V, you can say it.”

 “You can…come all the way over,” V mumbles, “i-if you want.”

 Patton fights down the urge to jump up and race over, instead confining himself to a small smile.

 “Okay. I’m going to stand up and walk over to you. I’ll go slow so I won’t scare you. Okay?” V nods. “Okay. I’m going to stand up now.”

 He keeps his hands raised and slowly stands up, keeping himself slightly hunched over to make himself seem like less of a threat. To his dismay, but not his surprise, it isn’t very effective. Even hunched over, Patton still looms quite large, his shadow blocking the light from the forest. When he notices V flinching, he stops, letting him get used to the fact that he’s standing now.

 “Easy, easy, it’s okay.” He keeps up the constant litany of reassurances until he reaches V, carefully positioning himself so that V can look at him, just him, and not the village. It seems to do the trick, interrupting whatever feedback loop kept darting V’s gaze around the buildings, instead directing it at the various patched on Patton’s cloak.

 “You’re doing great, kiddo,” Patton murmurs, “thank you for letting me come over.”

 V shuffles again, sniffing and dropping his head. A moment later his shoulders shake and Patton can’t help the wounded noise that escapes his throat. J isn’t much better off, sliding neatly behind V to prevent anything from getting through the portal, even though they both know nothing will touch this one ever again.

 “Sweetheart,” Patton says softly, “oh, sweetie, are…is this still too much?”

 “S-sorry.”

 “Don’t apologize, sweetie, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

 “And please,” L calls, “do not be ashamed of crying. It is the mortal way of handling anything overwhelming, you need not feel embarrassed about dealing with it in a healthy way.”

 “Told you,” J murmurs.

 “Can I touch you, sweetie,” Patton asks softly, “can I touch you?”

 V nods shakily and Patton reaches out, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Here you are. Shh, you’re okay.” He moves his hand from her shoulder to his cheeks, wiping away a tear as it rolls down. “I’m here, it’s okay.”

 V hiccups a sob, barely stifled. Each one settles like a dead weight in his chest as V’s chin drives deeper and deeper into his chest.

 “You’re going to hurt yourself,” Patton says, gently cupping V’s chin in his hand and raising it, only to be dismayed to see his eyes glazed over and each breath sending him hurtling towards another panic attack. He takes his hands and places them on either side of V’s face, turning his head so he makes eye contact with him. “Hey, hey. Look at me, kiddo. Breathe.”

 The forest is quiet.

 “Shh, that’s it, just breathe for me.” He slides his hands down from V’s face to his neck, giving him a little less restriction.

 “Good job,” he murmurs, smiling at V as he begins to go limp. “Come here.”

 He coaxes V into his arms, letting his head fall against his collar as he shifts back to support his weight. He’s so…there. Not just in his body, a physical weight, but there’s such a layer of feeling that surrounds him that it presses down on Patton like another weight. He relaxes into Patton’s grip as he guides V to rest comfortably against him. He rubs V’s arms when he shivers, frowning at how cold he is. Steadying V with his hands and glancing up at J, he balances V against him before pulling away enough to shrug off his cloak, hushing him when V lets out a tiny whine. “Shh, kiddo, I’m not going anywhere. He’ll keep you upright.”

 He wriggles out of his cloak and drapes it carefully over V’s shoulders, smiling as it draws a sigh out of him and he shrinks under it. Wrapping his arms back around V, Patton lays his chin on top of V’s head and concentrates, trying to feel around for the sources of the fear and pull them away. V tucks his head against Patton’s collarbone. A damp patch grows on Patton’s shirt as he rocks V gently back and forth, shushing his cries.

 “Shh, don’t worry kiddo, we’re here for you,” he murmurs, “it’s okay.”

 He closes his eyes. Concentrates.

  There.

 “What are these,” he whispers, mostly to himself but to V as well, “these awful little things that are buzzing around you?”

 They really are awful. They’re these fuzzy little black things that hurt if you stare at them too long, always vibrating, strobing at horrible frequencies that create a sort of whine in the back of your ears. On their own, they really aren’t so bad, at least when he can catch one of them by itself, but V…

 V has thousands.

 Thousands of horrible black whiny clouds buzzing around his head, around his whole body, swallowing him in a storm. Patton’s seen them before, not nearly to this quantity mind you, but he has seen them, flitting about behind mortals. Wretched little beasties.

 “Are these…fears?” He freezes one in place, watching as it squirms in place. “Worries?”

  Concentrate.

 The cloud whines and dissolves. V’s breath catches.

 “There’s no need for these,” Patton murmurs, catching another one and dissolving it, “you have no use for them.”

 One by one he catches them, and one by one he makes them stop hurting V. They don’t want to go; they cling to each other, to V, to him in protest, yowling about whatever they want V to be so desperately afraid of, and it never makes Patton bat an eye. They’re hurting V, that’s all that matters. And Patton doesn’t like seeing V hurt.

 With each one he vanishes, V grows lighter and lighter in his arms, his sobs trailing off until his breath evens, only hitching ever so slightly. When he’s finished, V pulls away, looking up at him with wide eyes.

 “W-what did you do?”

 Patton smiles, gently giving V a squeeze. “Just cleaned you up a bit, kiddo.”

 “H-how?”

 “I can sense emotions and feelings,” Patton explains, “it’s kinda my job.”

 “…you’re the Heart.”

 “I am, good job.” He bumps his forehead lightly against V’s. “That means I can sense things that you feel and…help you along.”

 V chews on his lip. “…but I’m still scared.”

 “Oh, kiddo, I can’t fix that sort of thing. Well, I can, but that’s…invasive,” Patton says, “and I’d run the risk of hurting you more. No, no, I didn’t do anything like that. I’m not trying to take your feelings away. I just…”

 He brushes a thumb tenderly across V’s cheek.

 “…dusted you off a little.”

 The fluffy little bubble of relief that drifts along the path his thumb leaves is enough to make his whole chest glow.

 “Feel better?”

 “Yeah,” V mumbles, “um…thank you.”

 Patton kisses his forehead. “Of course, kiddo. Now…can we talk about what just happened?”

 V tenses.

 “You can say no,” J reminds.

 “…no, please?”

 Patton nods. “Okay. Can I then ask you something?”

 V nods, shifting a little in Patton’s grip. Patton opens his arms a little, enough for V to know if he wants to pull away he can, if he doesn’t, he needn’t. V takes a step back, wrapping his arms around himself.

 “We wanted to make the village for you so that you would have somewhere you wanted to stay,” he says softly, “and it’s okay that we got it wrong. Could you tell us what you do want?”

 “I’d be happy to make it,” the prince calls from over his shoulder—right, he’d somehow forgotten the others were still here— “just say the word.”

 “Me too!”

 “You guys,” V mumbles, “are the weirdest fucking fae I’ve ever heard of.”

 Patton giggles. “Thanks, kiddo. That’s an honor.”

 “…is it?”

 Patton softens, waiting for V to look at him to smile kindly. “It isn’t bad to be different or weird, sweetie.”

 “…oh.”

 “So,” the prince calls cheerfully, “what will it be? Castle? Tower? Cavernous ballrooms?”

 “Prince,” L chides lightly.

 “Take your time,” Patton soothes when V’s eyes blink vacantly, “you take all the time you need kiddo, to tell us what you want.”

 And oh, the unsure look on V’s face breaks his heart all over again. He looks so lost, like he’s been confronted with something he can’t hope to understand.

 “It’s alright if you don’t know,” he says softly, “it’s a lot to ask. But if it would be easier, you can tell us what you don’t want.”

 “…I don’t want to go back,” V mumbles, “please don’t make me go back.”

 “We won’t,” Patton promises, “we won’t.”

 Sure enough, by the time he’s stepped aside and turned around, the village is gone.

 The prince waves his hand again, dimming the natural light of the forest to something more tolerable for mortal eyes. Patton smiles. He does prefer their forest to any manufactured illusions, the prince or the duke make, if simply because it feels so alive.

 V seems to relax a little bit too; when Patton looks back, V’s shoulders aren’t pressed up against his ears anymore, his gaze tracing the little sparks of light that flit between the flowering trees. One of them flickers closer, darting past his face quickly, only for him to tentatively try and reach for it.

 “…what is this?”

 “It’s the forest, V,” Patton says softly, “this is where we live.”

 “How is it so…” V seems to struggle for the word he wants. “…alive?”

 “Magic,” the prince says with a wink. “No, really. That’s…that’s it.”

 “But it’s so…so…” V mutters in frustration. “I hate words.”

 “You’re not the only one, little mouse,” J murmurs, his hand still lingering on V’s shoulder, “words can be…difficult. You don’t have to use them if you don’t want to.”

 “That being said,” Patton says quickly, “you don’t have to be afraid to say things, kiddo. We won’t get mad.”

 V nods hesitantly. “Wait, so you all live here?”

 “Yep.”

 “H-how does that work? Do you, like…have separate…trees?”

 The duke immediately perks up. “I told you guys we should make treehouses!”

 “You have a treehouse,” L sighs, “that doesn’t mean the rest of us want one.”

 “Why not? It’s so much easier to defend!”

 “Only when we can’t fly.”

 “You guys can fly?” Patton hears V mumble to J. “What is going on?”

 “The others are getting excited again,” he hears J murmur back, “but I’m sure if you’d like to just ask Pat, we’d be happy to tell you.”

 Patton gives L a look that says ‘try not to let them destroy everything, please,’ and turns back to V, gently asking if he’d repeat his question.

 “We have different…rooms,” he decides on eventually, “even though they’re not as simple as your mortal conception of them. It’s more like…like…”

 Patton huffs, putting his hands on his hips. “Wow, words really are hard.”

 “Here here,” V mumbles.

 “Let me try,” J says softly, “it’s as if you have a picture, yes? And the picture is drawn over several sheets of paper. You can only view the complete picture by stacking all of them on top of each other, but you can take each piece of paper separately.”

 Patton blinks at him. V does too. J rolls his eyes. “Perhaps L would be able to explain it better. And quickly,” he says, glancing over Patton’s shoulder, it looks like they’re about to start fighting again.”

 “Guys!” Patton chooses to ignore the duke tucking a rather large weapon behind his back. “How do we explain how our rooms work?”

 L adjusts his glasses and holds out his hand. “V? Will you come here, please?”

 V hesitates.

 “I won’t hurt you,” L assures, “I won’t even touch you if you don’t want. I simply think this will be the best way to explain it.”

 “You’re not—you won’t—you won’t just take me there, will you?”

 L smiles at V’s nervous question. “You have my word I won’t.”

 V crosses the forest slowly, stopping just in front of L’s outstretched hand. Slowly, L raises his hand to face his palm toward V. “Can you hold your hand up to mine, please?”

 “W-what’re you going to do to me?”

 “Not a thing,” L says softly, “I’m going to explain how the rooms work by cycling through different layers of reality by aligning our hands.”

 Patton watches V slowly raise his hand to match L’s, smiling at how he presses his palm to L’s firmly.

 “Now,” L says, “just hold it still for me?” V nods. “Good. Reality as you understand it is one layer. It is one of the multiple worlds that exist in the same space. In this forest, we can move between them.”

 “How?”

 “Each one of us—“ L gestures to the other fae— “are linked with one of the layers. By drawing on that power, we can move between them.”

 L turns his hand slightly, his index finger pressing up against V’s middle finger. “This would be a different layer.”

 He turns it again, replacing his index finger with his thumb. “And this, another.”

 “S-so,” V murmurs, squinting at their hands, “which one is this?”

 “It’s not quite as…linear as this example,” L says, “there isn’t a set ‘right’ layer, nor must you travel through the other layers to get to the one you want.”

 “But then—“

 “Go on,” L encourages when V cuts himself off, “then…?”

 V swallows, his voice so low Patton has to strain to hear it. “Then how do I know which one’s the right one?”

 J tenses beside Patton at the uncertainty in V’s voice.

 “There isn’t a universal ‘right’ one, V, and there won’t be,” L says, quickly shushing V when he seems to react poorly to such a revelation, “but you don’t have to think of it that way.”

 Judging by the defiant hunch of V’s shoulders, he isn’t pleased by this answer. L seems to realize that and takes a tiny step closer.

 “V? Can you do something else for me?”

 V nods.

 “Interlace your fingers with mine.”

 V raises his head, confused, but does as L asks.

 “This,” L murmurs, indicating their hands, “is the layer we’re currently in. Your layer. The mortal layer. This is the one that will be most comfortable for you. You can go to the other layers, but it won’t always be as comfortable. That doesn’t mean you can’t go,” he assures quickly, “but if it helps, this one is the ‘right’ one, so to speak.”

 V stares at their clasped hands, giving L’s hand an experimental squeeze. L squeezes back.

 “C-can I see your rooms?”

 “Of course,” L says, “but perhaps not today, hm? This has already been a lot for you, hasn’t it?”

 V nods nervously. “S-sorry.”

 “Don’t fret,” L soothes, giving V’s hand one last squeeze, “we’re not angry. It’s perfectly understandable.”

 “Absolutely.” Patton glances around. Hmm…what’s the best way to do this? “Are you hungry, V?”

 Another nervous nod.

 “What kind of food do you like?”

 “Maybe not that question,” J murmurs when V seems to stutter again.

 L gently gets V’s attention. “When was the last time you ate?” When V can’t answer, he continues. “Your system won’t take well to eating large quantities of food right now, in that case. It would be better if you ate something small, easy on yourself, and then work up to larger meals, does that sound alright?”

 “Why don’t we do this, then,” Patton suggests when V nods, “J, you and the duke and I will start on the food. L, Prince, why don’t you help V make his room?”

 L gently takes V’s hand again, leading him toward the prince. The prince gives them a nod before speaking softly to V. Patton sinks into his room, only to lean on the nearest surface and sigh heavily.

 “Why are we not killing them?”

 “By all means,” J huffs, “do knock over absolutely everything, Duke.”

 “They starved him, they tortured him, they made him afraid of everything,” the duke growls, “they made him dependent on the sense of right and wrong.”

 “Yes, and right now you’re currently about to be dependent on your ability to not knock over everything.”

 “Pat agrees with me,” the duke defends, “don’t you Pat?”

 Patton busies himself with making a simple bread. Easy, like L said, nothing that will cause V’s system to freak out. He keeps his mouth closed because he knows if he opens it, he won’t be able to stop himself going feral either.

 “Of course I agree,” he says quietly after the bread’s almost done, “but I want to take care of V more than I want to raze that village to the ground.”

 “But—!”

 “Patton’s right,” J interrupts, “V wants everything to stop. If we go out and do that, it could make him even worse.”

 “Or it could make him better!”

 “We can’t afford to take that risk,” Patton says, kneading the bread with perhaps slightly more force than necessary, “especially not with a mortal.”

 The duke grumbles. “I don’t like this.”

 “I know.” Patton dusts his hands off. “Neither do we.”

 “If it’s any consolation,” J says, smirking, “I think it’s the first time V’s had anyone be so outraged at the thought of him hurt.”

 “Well,” the duke huffs, “good. I’m not stopping.”

 “I have no intention of asking you to.”

 “Good.”

 “Good.”

 Patton chuckles, rolling his eyes fondly. “Enough, you two.”

 “You need help?” The duke grins. “Get it? Knead?”

 “No, I dough-n’t,” Patton replies as J groans, “I’m all good here, kiddo. Thanks for asking though.”

 J eyes the small loaf of bread and the few fruits next to it. “Is that really all we’re going to give him?”

 “I’m going to make sure the food is available, but…” Patton sighs. “L’s right. You know he is. Too much and…”

 J fiddles with his gloves. “I don’t like this.”

 “Join the fucking club,” the duke huffs, draping himself over J’s shoulders. “We gotta wait here until Princey and L’re done with him, right?”

Patton nods.

 “Great. Help me think of more ways to fuck up the assholes who did this to V.”

 “Duke!”

 Luckily for everyone, not a few moments later, a door appears to Patton’s left along with three quick knocks.

 “Come in?”

 The door opens, revealing L and the prince, leading V into Patton’s ‘room.’ V looks around, spotting the duke still draped over J.

 “Oh, they do that all the time,” the prince says, “you’ll get used to it.”

 “You say as if you don’t do it as well, bro,” the duke sings.

 “Did you get everything set up, V?” Patton asks quietly, ignoring the others.

 V nods. “Thank you.”

 Patton tilts his head. “For what?”

 “F-for…” V stammers, his eyes widening. L quickly gets his attention.

 “You’re welcome,” he says softly, “we’re happy to help.” He gives Patton a look that says he’ll explain later.

 Patton pushes it aside, reaching for the food and setting it carefully in front of V. To his surprise, V doesn’t reach out for it right away, instead eyeing it warily.

 “Wrap it up, Pat,” the prince says, clapping Patton on the shoulder, “so V can take it with him.”

 “Wait, what?” Patton stares at him in confusion. “Where’re we going?”

 “You expect us to welcome this little darling into our forest and not give him the grand tour?” The prince holds an offended hand to his chest. “How dare you.”

 Patton’s about to open his mouth to argue that V should be resting, that’s the whole point of this, but something in the prince’s gaze tells him to leave it. So Patton carefully packs the food into a small bag, before handing it to V. And he can’t deny it sends a rush of warmth through him when V’s shoulders slump and he holds the bag securely.

 “So,” the prince says, sweeping across back to V’s side, “shall we begin? Duke, Pat, if you please.”

 L gives him a nod, quickly joining J and starting a hushed conversation. Patton simply shrugs and follows the duke and the prince out the door. He quickly realizes it’s not the only one; there are five doors in the forest near a small house. It’s very basic, nothing more than four walls and a roof with a simple door. That must be the place they made for V. Glancing at his own door as it closes behind him, he notes that each one is a different color. Pale blue for his own, a rich gold for J’s, bright red for the prince, deep green for the duke, dark blue for L. V seems more at ease now that he’s back in the forest. Pat smiles. Good, it’s good to see V already getting used to being here.

 J was right, the garden really did want him.

 He also realizes the prince has been very clever about their little party as they make their way around the forest, from the clearing, to the lake, back to the garden. The prince and the duke provide wonderfully distracting arguments and Patton is well-prepared to ask all the dumb questions so V has all the information he needs. Plus, it’s nice for him to stay close to V while the prince and the duke dash around in an effort to be so overly ridiculous there’s low amounts of pressure to take them seriously.

 At one point, they actually get V to laugh.

 They’re at the lake; it’s one of Patton’s favorite places in the forest. The prince has control of the area around the lake and the surface of the lake, the duke has free rein below. Sometimes, Patton will sit on one of the big lily pads and just let one of the duke’s creatures push him around. The surface of the lake is like a giant mirror, almost glass-like, with a few delicate ripples on its veneer. The prince, of course, has a small violet bird perched on his shoulder, a fawn nuzzling his hand. The duke, by contrast, doesn’t hesitate before diving into the lake, sending sparkling showers of water droplets every which way before re-emerging, grinning, held aloft by something Patton couldn’t hope to describe.

 There isn’t a doubt that V’s adorable little awestruck expression is the best thing Patton’s seen in a while. The way his fingers loosen their death grip on his bag of food, reaching out almost involuntarily to let the fawn sniff his hand, trying to hide to subtle hitch in his breath when a little pink tongue darts out and licks his fingers.

 “She likes you,” the prince says quietly, smiling at the fawn as it tries to get closer to V.

 “Is that why she licked me?”

 “I think so.”

 A second later, there’s a massive arc of water as something huge heaves its way onto the shore.

 “Duke!” The prince snaps away the water as quickly as he can. “Keep your slimy pets where they belong!”

 “Don’t be mean,” the duke says, patting the head of the massive tentacled beast with its head flopped onto the shore, “he’s just saying hi!”

 Patton looks at V, who…isn’t afraid of the massive head now lying beside him. Instead, he looks almost…curious?

 As the prince and the duke continue to bicker, V slowly reaches out his hand toward the creature. The creature inclines its head, letting V stroke along the strange bumps. Then it huffs loudly, spraying all of them with a viscous green goo.

 “Ah!” The prince cries out in horror as he’s splattered. “Duke!”

 The duke is too busy laughing to answer. Patton sighs, taking off his glasses to snap away the gunk. He puts them back on his face to chide the duke when he sees V.

 V’s laughing.

 It’s a quiet laugh, more of a slight hum than anything else, but V’s smiling and it sounds warm and rumbly and amazing and Patton can’t help muffling his happy noise at seeing V laugh. The prince seems to have the same reaction, stopping midway through his tirade and smiling softly at V.

 The duke promptly falls off the back of the creature in shock. Then his head pops back above water and he grins.

 “That means he likes you!”

 “I like him too,” V mumbles, still smiling as he examines the gunk on his hands, “…not so much this.”

 “Everyone’s got their opinions,” the duke shrugs, getting out of the water and shaking himself off like a dog, much to V’s amusement and the prince’s dismay, “but we should probably get you cleaned up, hmm?”

 “I-if—“ V’s gaze darts around to Patton— “is that okay?”

 “Of course it’s okay, V,” Patton smiles, “why don’t we go back to your room?”

 The prince leads them back, stopping once they’re in front of V’s four walls. He taps V’s less gooey shoulder gently. “Do you remember what L and I said about your room?”

 V nods hesitantly.

 “Would you like any help?”

 V glances around at them and Patton smiles encouragingly.

 “N-no.”

 The prince smiles and gives his shoulder a gentle pat. “Okay. That’s perfectly okay. If you change your mind, which is also okay, just knock on whoever’s door you want, okay? We’ll know it’s you and we’ll come.”

 “…thank you.”

 “Of course, V.” The prince deliberately turns around, snagging the duke by his shoulder and taking Patton’s hand. Patton gives V one last wave over his shoulder before the prince pulls him back through his door.

 L and J look up when they enter, standing from their seats. J’s hands are still worrying themselves a little and L adjusts his tie.

 “What did you tell him?” The prince’s tone makes Patton’s ‘paying attention’ glasses snap on real quick.

 “Not everything,” L says, “I was waiting for you.”

 “Can someone tell me what’s going on, please?” The duke nods enthusiastically.

 The prince and L exchange a glance before the prince gestures to L. L motions for them to take a seat.

 “I’m sure it will not come as a surprise to you that the…mortals who were unkind to V controlled his access to food and water very rigorously,” L begins, “nor will it shock you to learn that V is not used to any modicum of privacy.”

 It doesn’t, that doesn’t mean it’s any easier to hear.

 “We—“ L gestures between himself and the prince— “did our best to assure him that his room is his own space; none of us will enter it without permission and he reserves the right to send us out at any point he wishes.”

 The prince nods sharply. “And that he’s always allowed to say ‘no’ to things if we ask him.”

 J raises an eyebrow. “Please tell me you gave him access to food.”

 “Of course we did!” L nods in agreement. “He’s got a small garden and a tiny cupboard that connects to the pantry.”

 “So I can refill it from here?”

 “Or he can refill it himself.”

 Patton nods in approval.

 “That’s also what happens to his clothes,” L says, motioning to the other part of Patton’s space, “they’ll get deposited here when he wants them cleaned. We gave him some other clothes too.”

 “I’m sure you explained all this to him too, right?”

 L and the prince exchange a soft smile. “He asked for some of it,” L says, still smiling, “or at least brought up his concerns.”

 Patton claps happily. “Oh, good for him!”

 “Yes,” the prince murmurs, quickly sobering them with his low tone, “especially considering…”

 “Right.” L takes a deep breath. “Surely you know this will not be as easy as simply giving him these things and expecting everything to work out.”

 Patton tilts his head to the side. “It…it won’t?”

 “No,” J says smoothly, “it won’t. It will take time. Mortals can be…remarkably hard to alter once they’ve been so used to something.”

 A horrible sick feeling settles in Patton’s stomach again. He knows mortals are fragile, he knows that V has been hurt very, very badly, but the thought of it staying that way? When he doesn’t need to?

“He doesn’t know that yet,” J says patiently when Patton expresses as much, “and it’s going to take time for him to realize that. You said it yourself, we can’t just go in and fix everything. We need to let V do that himself.”

 “At the very least,” L adds, “we’ve been trying to give him the tools to start.”

 A soft thump makes them turn. Patton spots a small heap of dirty cloth on a nearby surface. He walks over and picks it up, fingering the worn stitches and the holes in the fabric.

 The duke peers over his shoulder. “It’s V’s clothes.”

 “He must be having a wash,” the prince says, “good. You absolutely drenched him.”

 “That wasn’t me! It was Oliver!”

 “What did you give him to wash with,” Patton interrupts. The prince shrugs.

 “Modified version of the basins we use. Plenty of water, hot and cold, soap, things to clean with. Towels. Drains by itself too, right into the garden.”

 “We gave him a proper room,” L assures, “a proper bed, a proper space.”

 “You should’ve seen him,” the prince mumbles, “I never thought I’d see someone get so worried about being told they were allowed their own space. Especially a mortal, all the ones I’ve known have been so obsessed with taking.”

 “You remember why, though.” As L speaks, the prince’s face darkens. Patton glances worriedly between them.

 “What?”

 L sighs. “It appears that…the mortals somehow convinced V that they were doing him…favors.”

 Patton barely has time to blink before the duke is feral again. He reaches out and wraps his arms around the writhing mass of tentacles, joined quickly by the prince and J, muttering softly to the duke until the tentacles retreat.

 L adjusts his glasses. “Quite.”

 “That’s why he freaked out when Pat asked what he was thanking him for,” the duke growls, “the sick fucks probably made him be specific too.”

 “Our priority,” L interrupts before the duke can convince the rest of them to go feral too—honestly, Patton’s already halfway there— “is to help V feel safe.”

 Patton nods, only partly listening as L keeps talking, turning the tunic over in his hands. It’s worn, very worn, and so thin that Patton can feel his fingers grind together when he rubs the fabric between them. Is this all V had? For how long? It looks so old…

 Wait. Is that…

 Patton lifts the tunic a little, rubbing at a dark stain. His eyes widen. J catches sight of it.

 “That better be blood.”

 At the mention of the word ‘blood,’ L stops. Slowly, he walks over, holding out his hand. Wordlessly, Patton hands it over. L takes it in his hands and if Patton looks very, very closely, his hands tremble.

 L takes a deep breath and hands the tunic back to Patton.

 “We cannot push,” he repeats with practiced calm, “we must make V feel safe first. And that means we must trust him.”

 Patton doesn’t like it. None of them do. But they know L is right.

 “And…with any luck,” L adds, “a good sleep and a regular meal should start helping him some more.”

 It should.

 It doesn’t.

 For a while, almost nothing changes. V still holds his food in a bag when Patton gives it to him. His eyes still dart around wildly whenever he goes on a walk with the prince or the duke. He still prefers to hide away in his room, coming out when they request, denying them access with a tinge of fear.

 His clothes still come back with stains.

 Patton would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried. This isn’t how mortals should be, they should be sleeping, they should be eating. But V seems to doggedly stay the same, still as tired and fearful as the day he stumbled into the garden. When Patton confronts L about it, L says that if he didn’t know any better, he’d say V wasn’t sleeping.

 Patton doesn’t want to push, doesn’t want to shatter this tenuous bond, not now, not ever. But he’s worried.

 There’s always a faint buzz in Patton’s chest that tells him where V is. He tries not to pay attention to it, give the kiddo his privacy, make sure he feels like he can come to Patton when he wants to, not when Patton wants him to. He takes care to watch how he talks around V, moves around V, is as gentle as he can be. The faint buzz seems to settle a little better whenever V’s around him.

 Then one day it spikes. Horribly.

 Patton doubles over, pressing a hand hard to his own chest as the whine sharpens, pushes, threatens to snatch his breath away. Instantly, he looks for it, trying to find it, comfort it, come on, kiddo, tell me what’s wrong—

  V.

 Where’s V?

 Patton rushes out of his door, only to see V’s door wide open. With trembling footsteps, he slowly approaches, his heart in his throat, one hand still pressed firmly to his chest.

 “V?” He calls softly, over and over, not wanting to intrude, but getting no response. “V, kiddo?”

 He hesitates at the threshold. This is V’s space. They promised. He closes his eyes. Concentrates.

 The pain isn’t coming from here.

 He opens his eyes and focuses. There.

 It’s one of those horrid little black clouds, buzzing away from a path leading deeper into the forest. Patton follows the noise until he’s wading through the clouds, pushing them out of the way, swatting the ones he can, until he sees V.

 His heart aches as he takes in the absolute swarm threatening to choke the poor thing, curled up as he is at the base of a big tree. Patton gets a little closer, then crouches down and carefully, oh so carefully, pushes.

 “V?”

 V’s head jerks up, his eyes as wide as a startled fawn’s, his head jerking around until his gaze lands on Patton. Patton holds up his hands, smiling softly.

 “Hey, kiddo,” Patton murmurs, still pushing at the swarm, “it’s okay. You just look at me, okay? That’s all you gotta do, just look at me.”

 V looks. The swarm rushes in, trying to get between Patton and V but Patton focuses, the few clouds that come in between them disappearing into quick plumes of smoke. With each one that vanishes, the others seem wary, leaving V free to stare at Patton.

 “Good,” Patton murmurs, “you’re doing really good, kiddo. Can you take a deep breath for me? In…and out…in…and out…good job, kiddo, just like that.”

 The whine in Patton’s chest starts to die down, the rest of him aching to reach out and take V in his arms. The poor thing looks so scared…

 “P-Pat?”

 “Yeah, V,” Patton says instantly, “I’m right here, you want me closer?”

 V reaches out a trembling hand and Patton doesn’t hesitate.

 V clings to his cloak like a lifeline, still curled up in a ball, just his one hand sticking out. Patton lets V tug him close, huddling around him at the base of the tree, softly murmuring to him.

 “Shh, shh, kiddo,” he says, trying to center his shield to keep the worst of the swarm out, “you’re doing so good, you just keep breathing for me, okay?”

 It takes a long time. Much longer than Patton would like. But eventually, when the last of the whining has faded to a confused buzz, V’s hand relaxes, the fabric still all bunched up from the force of his grip.

 “S-sorry,” he mumbles.

 “You don’t have to apologize, kiddo,” Patton soothes immediately, “you did the right thing.”

 V looks up at him, eyes wide and rimmed red. “…I did?”

 Patton smiles. “You did. You did so well, you breathed, you asked for what you wanted. You did so well, kiddo.”

 And oh does it hurt to see how much just that one little piece of praise means to V, and how little he must’ve received.

 Patton knows he’s not supposed to push. But then V reaches for him again with trembling hands and he can’t help himself.

 “Come here, sweetie,” he murmurs, pulling V into a gentle hug, “there you go…you just breathe for me, okay? You don’t have to talk, you don’t have to worry, you don’t even have to think if you don’t want to. You just breathe…”

 As he rocks V gently back and forth, he runs his hand down V’s head, across his shoulders, down to his back. V hisses and tenses when Patton’s hand touches something.

 “…V?”

 “Don’t be mad,” V stammers instantly, pulling away, “d-don’t be mad.”

 Patton raises his hands. “I’m not mad, kiddo, I promise. I’m not mad and I’m not going to hurt you.”

 The whine sharpens again as V tugs the tunic tightly around himself. Patton watches, concern written plainly across his features. He waits. Waits. Waits. Until…

 “…I need help,” V whispers, his head almost buried in his arms, “please.”

 “Of course,” Patton coos instantly, “of course, V, I’ll help you, what do you need?”

 “C-can we go to m-my room?”

 “Yes, sweetheart, we can go to your room. Do you feel up to walking?”

 V clutches himself tighter. “…in a minute.”

 “Take your time, kiddo, I’m not going anywhere.”

 In a moment, V lets his head fall back against the tree and takes a deep breath. In another, he pushes himself to his feet. A few more and they’re standing outside V’s door.

 “You can change your mind, kiddo,” Patton says gently when V hesitates, “I won’t be mad.”

 For a moment, he thinks V’s going to say no, Patton can leave, please, then he clenches his jaw and reaches out to take Patton’s hand. He grips it firmly and lets V pull him into the house.

 “…can you shut the door?”

 Patton does as bid, having a quick glance around, making a note to commend the prince and L for their job. It’s a very simple house, but it’s cozy. He refocuses on V, who has his back to him, clutching the sides of his tunic.

 V’s shoulders shake. “…it hurts, Pat.”

 “Where,” Patton murmurs, “where does it hurt?”

 “My…my back.”

 “Your back, kiddo? Can I come look?” V nods, bowing his head. “Thank you, V.”

 Patton walks over slowly, making his footsteps loud and obvious, so that he won’t surprise V. “Can I touch you, kiddo?”

 “…please don’t hurt me.”

 “I won’t, sweetie,” Patton murmurs, “I promise. Can I lift up the back of your tunic?”

 “Y-yeah.”

 “Thank you.” Taking the material gently in hand, Patton starts to lift it up slowly.

 “W-wait!”

 Patton freezes. V’s breaths grow ragged, clutching himself tighter.

 “I can leave if you—“

 “No!”

 V breathes. Breathes. Patton’s heart stays in his throat, holding still, trying to project as much safety as he can. It takes a few more heart-wrenching seconds before V shudders.

 “O-okay. You can lift it up now.”

 “Thank you,” Patton murmurs, starting to move again. He manages to tuck the end of the tunic around V’s collar, exposing his back.

 And the scars.

 Patton knew some whipped other mortals, knew that cruel mortals used their horsewhips liberally, but never had he seen the end result. Certainly not like this. Gruesome comets streak across V’s back of red and silvered white. The skin wheezes and stretches as he breathes. Some looked old. Some still wept, crying sluggish and lumpy tears of blood.

 “S-sorry,” he hears V mumble, “I’m sorry.”

 “V,” Patton says quietly, “V, I need you to listen to me for a moment.”

 V nods.

 “You don’t have to apologize,” Patton says firmly, “not for this. Never for this. This is not your fault, it will never be your fault. And I will never be angry at you for it.”

 V’s back shudders with the weight of Patton’s words. Then his hands slowly drop to his sides. Patton lets out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding.

 “I can’t reach them,” V mumbles, “I…I need help.”

 “Thank you for letting me help,” Patton says, lifting his hand and letting it glow, “these won’t take a moment to heal, you won’t be able to—“

 “No, don’t!” Patton pauses as V cries out. “Don’t heal them, please, not completely, I need—I need to have them.”

 Patton’s blood runs cold. “Why do you need to have them, V?”

 “I—I—“

 Patton glances around, spotting a stool. “Here,” he murmurs, summoning it quickly, “sit down, honey, you’re shaking.”

 V sits, hunching over, bearing his back for all to see, the scars wincing horribly as he does so. Patton stays close, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, just so V knows he’s there, that nothing will startle him.

 “You don’t have to explain in detail if you don’t want,” Patton assures, “but…I would like to know why you don’t want them healed all the way.”

 V mumbles something. Patton squeezes his shoulder.

 “I can’t quite hear you, is it okay if I come a little closer?” At V’s nod, Patton crouches next to his head. “Thank you. Can you say it again for me?”

 “If…if I don’t have them,” V whispers, “it’s like—it’s like it didn’t happen. It’s like I’m—I’m crazy, I’m wrong, I don’t—I can’t—“

 Oh. Patton swallows. “You need them to remember,” he says softly, “to remind yourself that you survived.”

 V nods.

 “Oh, sweetie, thank you for telling me. I won’t make them go away, I promise. Would you like to at least make them stop hurting you?”

 V nods again. “I…I can’t sleep. They hurt.”

 Patton, who had stood up and begun lightly running his hand to close the wounds, frowns. “What about sleeping on your stomach or your side?”

 V shakes his head quickly. “Can’t. It’s bad. I can’t—can’t do anything then.”

 Right. Being on his stomach would put him in such a vulnerable position…and if he doesn’t want to…

 “V,” Patton says, gently stroking an unmarred patch of skin with his thumb as he works, “do you not feel safe enough to sleep here?”

 V’s back tenses under his hand and Patton rubs a soothing circle into it.

 “It’s okay if you don’t, kiddo,” he says softly, “I’m not angry, I’m just curious.”

 “…sorry.”

 “Don’t apologize, sweetie, you haven’t done anything wrong. This is still new to you, you’re still coming to terms with the fact that you’re safe now, you’re somewhere else, away from them.”

 “B-but…” V shudders again. “Y-you’ve been so nice and you haven’t hurt me at all but I can’t help feeling like—like—“

 “…it’s only a matter of time?”

 “…yeah.”

 Patton hums, thinking as he finishes. He takes a damp towel and softly asks V if he can clean him off a little. As he rubs the soft towel in soothing motions, he says, “I can’t make all your fears go away, kiddo, nor can I tell you you shouldn’t be afraid. It’s okay that you’re afraid, really. We’ll be here to help you.”

 “Y-you will?”

 Patton gives him one last pat before he gently lowers the tunic and lays the towel aside. He walks around to the front and crouches, tucking a hand under V’s chin and gently encouraging him to make eye contact.

 “Yes, V,” he promises, “we’ll be here.”

 V’s gaze, so horribly unsure and scared, has just the smallest bit of hope in it, and that’s enough for Patton. He smiles, only grinning wider when V hesitantly smiles back.

 “You also don’t have to sleep here,” Patton says, “you can sleep anywhere you like.”

 An adorable wrinkle forms between V’s brows. “Really?”

 “Yeah, kiddo.” Patton gestures around. “We made this so you could have your own space, but it’s okay if you don’t feel like sleeping here. It’s okay if you never want to sleep here.”

 He reaches up and gently rubs at V’s chest, right over his heart.

 “You sleep wherever you feel safest, okay, kiddo?”

 “Okay.”

 Patton smiles. “Good. Good job, kiddo, you did so well. I’m so proud of you.”

 He stands, guiding V’s chin up too until he can lean down and lightly kiss his forehead. “Do you want anything else?”

 “N-no,” V mumbles, “I’m good. Thank you.”

 “Always.”

 Patton leaves V’s room, carefully shutting the door behind him, before opening the door to his own and going inside. As he goes, he finds the latest bloody tunic and washes it personally.

 Slowly, he dips the fabric into the water, scrubbing persistently at the stain. No more. No more. Never again. Never again.

 No one will touch V again. Nothing will ever make those wounds on his back bleed. Not on his watch.

 “Pat?”

 “In here,” Patton calls, hanging up the tunic and going to meet the others. L stands in the corner, J by his side. The prince swings around quickly when he enters, pulling up the duke by his shoulder. “Thank you for coming so quick.”

 “Of course,” L says instantly, “it was important.”

 Patton tells them what he’s learned, leaving out any parts that V confessed to him personally. He won’t tell V’s story for him, just tells the others about things he learns to take care of him. As to be expected, they’re not happy about it.

 “What else can we do,” the prince cries, “to make him feel safe? Are we not—are we not doing enough?”

 “We’re doing all that we can,” L says, even as he nervously adjusts his tie, “but…it will take time. The fact that V feels comfortable enough to tell us this already speaks volumes. We must…simply continue being patient.”

 “But if he’s not sleeping,” the duke argues, then—

 “L is right,” Patton says, even as the duke grumbles, “we just have to…be patient.”

 J reaches out, taking one of their hands in one of his. He squeezes, draws them closer. They wrap their arms around each other, buzzing gently. Patton knocks his head lightly against the duke’s and rests his head on J’s shoulder.

 They knew this wasn’t going to be easy. He’s not sure they realized just how hard it would be. But they’ll figure it out. They will. For V.

 As it turns out, maybe they’ve made more progress than they thought.

 The prince sends out a call the next morning, saying V’s not in his room. The duke tears off around the forest, J heads for the garden. L makes for the lake, Patton stays behind in case he comes back. But just as he’s grabbing a sack of food to give to V just in case they find him, he hears something soft in the pile of clean, dry clothes. He frowns, walking over, only to see—

 Patton’s breath catches in his throat and he smiles so wide his cheeks ache.

 V is curled up in the warm pile, clinging to one of J’s cloaks and one of Patton’s shirts draped around his shoulders. For the first time since Patton’s seen him, his face is slack, free of any stress or tension. He looks young, peaceful.

 It’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

 Yeah, he thinks as he lets the others know he’s found V, everything’s okay, we’ll figure it out.

[nikkywrites]

Fool, King of Sea (Ocean's Heart Side Story)

Summary: Amphitrite has never seen a divine fool enough face constant rejection for a domain they do not seem to like. Poseidon is, though, the greatest fool she's ever met. And Calypso is a great friend, when she's not being irritating.

*****

One thing that is of short supply in the ocean is good fun.

It can be made, of course, games built around redirecting ships to wrong ports, seeing who can sneak unaided by divinity into captain's quarters, who can race from Crete to Corinth the quickest. Games that are not made for one.

Calypso is good fun when she wants to play, is a challenge Amphitrite loves to play with. They toss their wins back and forth, banter in barbs they only laugh at. Calypso is a great companion, when she is around.

But there are times when she is not.

Alone, Amphitrite gets bored all too quickly, aimlessly searching through the water. She'll rest with her creatures some days, care for them like the pets they all are, but some days she wants excitement and no one is around to deliver.

Then comes something rarer than excitement -- a divine looking to be king.

It is obvious at a glance that this man does not belong. He is tall with thin hips and too much rage boiling in his bones. He must be some sort of new, thinking he can demand ocean to let him rule. It chooses who it will.

Watching this godling try to force himself upon her home is amusing. It remains cold, rejecting and rejecting him. What a fool, to keep trying.

He slinks away eventually, face pinched and muscles coiled tight. There's a rage boiling in his blood, rage the water rejected without hesitation. Amphitrite laughs at his retreat. It is little wonder her domain does not want him. He is entirely too hot for the cold waters. He will boil her home to steam or it will shatter him.

Ah. Well, it was nice while it lasted. Divines did not handle rejection. He would not face the humiliation again, however amusing it would have been to watch. She feels Calypso's call below, from the deep that is more home to her than Amphitrite, the deep that even she finds too chilling. She watches the point of shore the young god had been standing on and turns to go find Calypso. The call is purposefully untraced and it is a call to find her before she rises to air.

The young god's defilement of her home slips from her mind.

-----

Calypso can look awfully disappointed when she wishes to, can arrange her features in a way that niggles even at her. There is something about the arch of her brow and the curve of her frown and the angle of her eyes that stabs at Amphitrite in a way it shouldn't. It is a look of too much divinity towards something that cannot bear it, but Amphitrite can bear Calypso's divinity just fine. It is a trick.

"What?" she asks eventually, a bite to her words that would make a mortal faint.

Calypso turns her gaze elsewhere, to the seaweed curled up beside them, curled above in a little bubble as the water outside churns them away somewhere else. She stares at the weaving. "Nothing," she says in a too-friendly, too-simple tone.

Amphitrite narrows her eyes. Calypso has her ways of haggling for everything she wishes, from whoever she wishes it from. She recalls the moment she'd learned how Calypso had earned her tentacle-swarmed form. Calypso has never hungered for something she did not get and that nettles at her.

It was not fair.

"Don't play your games with me," Amphitrite warns. "I do not hold patience for them today."

Calypso lifts a cool shoulder. The move is infuriating. "Alright."

The silence burns.

Nothing should be burning under the water, in the deep cold of the sea. There is not allowed any warmth. Certainly not heat.

Amphitrite's glare burns hotter. "You are playing," she says.

Calypso's gaze slides over. Her body language is all relaxation and distance. She is at ease but there is something in her expression, something churning in her mind. "How so?"

That was the question. Then, the answer comes.

"You are trying to nettle me," she says, feeling the answer is right but not knowing why. What reason could there be for Calypso to want her angry?

"Maybe you shouldn't be so easily nettled, then."

Amphitrite's lip curls at the accusation. "What ill is in you today?" she asks. "You're being sour."

Calypso seems to consider the words, rubbing her lips together, She shrugs. "I am not sure." Her eyes flick over nothing. "A passing mood, I think. I want to stir trouble but it's too dreary a day for mortals to be out."

She snorts delicately. "Right. Warning, next time. I warn you."

Calypso's smile looks empty. There is nothing wrong with its shape but it looks false. "Sure. Apologies for wounding your ego."

"As if."

The smile shifts, looks more real, more like a smile that belongs on Calypso's face. "You may barb me back," she says, "if that would ease the sting of your pride."

Remaining bits of Amphitrite's anger fall away. She laughs and Calypso joins in.

"Shall we travel for a mortal?" Amphitrite offers. She is all too aware of these moods of Calypso's, times where she is reaching for something that does not quite exist. She had murmured the word chaos once, describing it.

With all the things she represents, all she is and the price of it -- Amphitrite does not think it worth it. There is an emptiness to Calypso sometimes, like the bottomless abyss that leads to the Underworld, that only knows to soundlessly call. That wrongness. It must be her price, for being the face of too many things.

In her rare moments of softness, Amphitrite worries over how it will cause her trouble one day.

"No, this is fine."

Fine. Because nothing can please her now.

It's her curse. The burden of being all the ocean is.

Amphitrite is grateful that the burden is not hers. The deep is enough for her, the cold and the creatures. She could not imagine more.

The seaweed begins to part. They both gain a sense of being in a different section of ocean, placed anew by a combination of both their powers ordered to drift them away.

Amphitrite looks over at Calypso. Her eyes are terrifying, sometimes. They look as if they can see through all. Laying secrets to the sun.

"You should take a mortal," she suggests. "I know how highly you think of them, but having one is quite fun."

Calypso's eyes churn. She gazes out at the water. "Mortals bear much misfortune by our hands," she says. "I see no reason one needs to bear the misfortune of me."

Amphitrite sighs. "Ready, then?" One day, she would convince Calypso to get a mortal. She didn't understand Calypso's protection over them. She spoke for them when opportunity drifted by, but when she wears her other shape, she swallows them like a fish. No remorse. No guilt. No regret. How can she advocate for them so and have their blood dripping in her soul?

It was not right. Many things weren't with her. It was why she was so fun.

"Am I ever not?"

Amphitrite grins. "Go, then."

They race, power folded under their skin, to find the place they had started at.

-----

The god fool returns.

Amphitrite does not seek his appearance, but the backsplash of his untethered divinity beating against the water reaches her. She comes not from the boredom, this time, but the fun she knows will be there.

The god -- Poseidon, the ocean hisses at her as she travels, one of Cronus' rebelling children -- is just as entertaining as she remembers.

He thrusts his sad excuse of divinity over top the water, steps his foot into the splash of shore, growls his place like it is something he can demand. "I am Poseidon," he says, putting too much force in each syllable, "god of the sea."

Amphitrite's laugh is a soft thing her domain swallows. How foolish.

"I will," he speaks with bared teeth like a roaring beast, "be king of you."

Her laugh bursts. The waves splash with it.

Poseidon -- the fool king -- pulls his head back like he's insulted and a tantruming child. "I am son of Cronus and Rhea," he tells her, unknowing she is there. "You will obey my will."

Amphitrite rises. "I think it will not," she informs him, lips pulled in an effortless grin. To him, it probably appears smug and demeaning. It's not her fault he's made it so easy to humiliate him. "The ocean listens not to those it does not care to. You're best finding a domain somewhere else, little god."

He glares at her. It should be some degree of terrifying, since he aided in the capture and downfall of the Titans, of Cronus, but he is unclaimed and she is in her home.

His glare is about as scary as a baby jellyfish.

"I will be king of the sea," he says.

She sighs. "We have many monarchs already. What need is there for you to be another?" Her eyes rake over him, judging. "This is not where you belong. Go tie yourself somewhere you fit."

His lips lift into a sneer. "I will take this for my domain whatever I must do."

Amphitrite lifts her brows and starts to sink under. "Your lost time, little god." She goes back to her depths. What impudence in that one. The world would not bend to his wiles just because he ended an era of tyranny. He would have to come across a place to store his divinity somewhere else. The ocean would not bend to him. Others have tried.

None succeeded. Becoming patron of the sea is as easy as being accepted by it. If you are not, you will never be.

Simple as that.

-----

"Fool," she scoffs at a whale, running her hand over its flesh. "Why must all new gods think themselves kings of things already claimed? There are plenty of other things they could tie their divinity to."

The whale echoes a call. Amphitrite rubs it soothingly.

"I know." She flicks her gaze to where the fool had been. "Impudence. May the Primordials never let his name be known."

Her hand flexes.

"It is undeserved."

-----

Poseidon is apparently stubborn, alongside his foolishness. Perhaps when this doesn't pan out, he will be god of screeching fools. It suits him much better than the sea and was unclaimed, waiting for him.

He's also screaming for her.

She crests with impatience, shooting him a look packed with all the cold of her domain. He has the sense (not a complete fool then) to fumble some of his confidence. "I told you the ocean would not be yours," she says, "and yet you returned."

"It must be mine," he replies. His eyes dart to the sky, something uneasy flashing across his face. "There is no choice."

She scoffs. "Hardly. There are a thousand unclaimed things you can leer your power over with hardly any struggle at all."

"I will take the sea or have nothing."

Amphitrite tips her chin up. "Enjoy the emptiness then, little god. Try not to let chaos swallow you. She loves the unclaimed."

"I am not unclaimed," he frowns at her. "I choose the ocean."

"Yet it has not chosen you. Take the rejection and find something else."

His lips part. His teeth are flat and unsuited for the blood of ocean living. "I will be patron of the sea no matter what it takes."

"Find a way for it to take you, then. Be a fool. It's amusing."

He strikes at her with divinity her ocean diverts for her. It has little patience for this imposter and his greed, is fed up with his demands. "I am no fool."

"You're demanding gifts like a petulant child." She looks down her nose at him, haughtily lifts her chin to look elsewhere. "I thought you fought in the war."

His chin flies up, features hardening. "I did."

Her lips curve up. "So where is your power? Tell me, great one, what domain is yours?"

His face flushes. She thinks that if she was on land, he'd tackle her. He's apparently not fool enough to dive in the water for her. Unfortunate. It would have been a fun sight. "What is your domain?" he redirects.

"I am Amphitrite," she tells him. Defeat causes his eyes to darken. He recognizes the name. "I am goddess of the deep and the creatures that dwell there."

"A sea patron," he clarifies, lip thrusted out.

One corner of her lip rises without consent. "Yes."

He wrinkles his nose at her reply, staring petulantly at the sand under his bare feet. He drags the ball of his foot against the sand. "So you mock me," he grumbles. "I am just searching for what you have."

Amphitrite laughs. "I belong to the sea," she says, waves lapping against the deep gills slashed on her throat, curling over her collarbones. She looks like her creatures, like a thing of the ocean. It is of no question that she belongs. It is of every question that he does. "You do not. It is as simple as that."

"That will change."

"And I will enjoy your attempt," she promises.

-----

Calypso frowns at her. "You are encouraging him," she accuses.

"What?" Amphitrite lifts her brows and doesn't let her movement to sit beside Calypso lag with the shock. She settles on the sea floor easily, a jellyfish coming to drift by her shoulder. She wraps one of its stinging tendrils around her finger. "I am doing no such thing."

"You are toying with him like a mortal." Calypso continues on unfettered. Little is capable of doing that, if anything is. Amphitrite has not seen anything that is. "Like you're planning on taking him."

Amphitrite shoots a cold look at the other goddess. What accusations. "It is harmless fun."

"He is a god with power yet unknown. It is not wise to taunt what may yet be stronger than you."

"He is a fool," Amphitrite waves her hand. It will not matter. He is determined to take the sea and he will not. He does not fit and does not have the making to force himself to. He seems bound to be a sea god and she thinks he is foolish enough to try until time's end. He may be a strong god, but unclaimed, she will always be more powerful. Such is how divinity works.

Calypso expels a short breath out her nose. "As are you."

"When are you ever wise?" she bites out, cutting the words into blades with her teeth. "You lurk in parts of the sea not yours. You claim to love the sailors you eat. What wisdom is that?"

"Lack of wisdom does not make me a fool," she replies, unbothered by Amphitrite's harshness. "And I am sea patron just as you are. There is no place not fitting me."

"I am queen of the deep." It is hers by her divinity.

Calypso flicks her gaze over. Her face is composed, unflushed, and she looks bored by the conversation. “You never go that deep. No one does. It borders the land of the dead. Do not try to lay your claim over things you do not want.” Her eyes slide away and her mouth purses with a slight twist. Anger? Disgust? Annoyance? “And where I dwell goes deeper than the deep. It is the abyss and you are not goddess of that.”

“It’s the principle of it.”

Calypso laughs. “As if you care for principle. We are both gods of something already claimed. Let details flutter where they must. They are not worth bickering for.”

Amphitrite clicks her tongue. Her sharp fingers dig into her flesh. “Yet bicker you do.”

“You are the one trying to claim what is not yours.”

Amphitrite’s face pinches. “You are irritating, today.” She pushes up, gliding away. “I do not wish to be in your presence.”

She feels Calypso lay back. “As you wish,” she says. “Do think before you flirt with the god. He is trouble.”

Amphitrite snorts as she calls a stream to carry her away. She was not flirting with the fool. She was toying with him. Laughing at his idiocy. In what domain was that flirting?

She was not looking for a husband. She was content with how things were. And even if she wasn’t — she doesn’t wish to wed a fool.

That would be foolish of her.

-----

“Amphitrite,” he calls her by name. She has felt his presence at shore for hours, but did not rise to tease him. Calypso’s words turn in her mind.

She was not looking to court this god. But did it appear that way? Despite the accusation, Calypso was clever. She had sharp eyes.

She would not speak untruths like that, but her honesty can grate. Who was she, to tell Amphitrite what her claim was? Did their domain blessing her with a second form fill her head over capacity? Amphitrite could make her own choices. She did not need a goddess, friend or not, telling her what her intentions were.

She did not need others telling her what she was.

She crests over the waves with her blood pounding hot in her veins. It makes her heart glow, a ruddy red that pierces through her translucent skin, pulsing with the beat of her heart. “Fool,” she spits out.

Poseidon lifts his brows. Something like concern passes over his face. It vanishes just as fast. “I require assistance,” he says. It looks like the words are difficult to say. They should be.

She barks a laugh. He flinches at the sound, like she’d flung a spear of divinity at his head. She throws her head back. She pulls in a breath with a grin that stretches her cheeks. “How does your pride taste?” she asks.

She’s being cruel, she knows, but Calypso thinks she was flirting. She thinks that there was enjoyment here. She wants to control Amphitrite? To tell her the reason she is doing things?

Let her see that she’s wrong. Let her see how her pride tastes when she takes it in her teeth and swallows it whole. Let her realize that sharp eyes and a clever head did not make her all-knowing.

The fool widens his stance, squares his shoulders in a vain attempt to look powerful. His divinity is but a babe in his chest, young and fluttering. “What?”

“You’re eating your pride.” She tilts her head. “Not all of it, apparently, but some. I asked how it tasted.”

“You—” he stabs a finger at her face. “You are rude.”

She chuckles, subdued. “And? What reason is there to be kind?” She rises to her feet and steps closer to the god, the ocean still thinly under her feet, tugging at her ankles. She tilts her head and looks up at him. “You are not anything to fear, little god. Not as you are now.” She steps closer.

The water bids her return. She ignores it. She is not flirting. She is not making an enemy, she is making a point.

Let Calypso see this.

“Anyways, you called me here. It is a blessing that I answered. Are you willing to let rudeness send me back without getting what you were hoping for, whatever it is?”

“No.” His hand makes to reach for her but freezes. His fingers twitch. He lowers his arm. “I— forgive me,” he grits, jaw tight with tension. Is he angry with her? Good.

She hums, not denying or accepting the apology. “What did you call me for?”

“Assistance.”

Amphitrite scoffs. “Of course. You have already said. What assistance do you seek?”

“I,” he takes a breath, “I wish to know how I could become a god of the sea.”

She stares at him, waiting for the joke, the laugh.

It does not come. Right. He is not like Calypso with her sharp humor that is often not humorous at all. He is being serious.

Truly, how did he expect to be a god worth fearing if he has to ask how to gain power?

She sighs, pressing the tips of cold nails to her cheek. “I’ve already told you.” She bends her fingers and presses the bend of them to her cheek. “The ocean must take you in turn. It is not a decision yours alone.”

“How do I… get it to take me, then?”

She considers his question.

“Please it or find a patron to take you instead. It will work as well as the domain taking you itself.”

His eyes spark and his hand lifts again.

“No.” She steps back in the surf. The water rushes in around her. “It takes much strength to take another god and farm their divinity. I have no reason to take that burden for you. Find another.”

“You are the only one I have met,” he explains, an undercurrent chopping his words too close together.

One corner of her lip pulls to the side. “Meet another, then. I will not do your dirty work for you.”

His eyes flash up at the sky as a boom rattles through the air. “I do not have time for that,” he tells her gently, eyes flicking between gray clouds and rust-green eyes.

She looks at the sky and shrugs. A storm. Why does that make him flinch? “That is not my bother.”

She turns on her heel. The ocean welcomes her back, tugging her close. It splashes Poseidon’s feet when he takes two strides after her. His fingers brush her shoulder. “What price would it take?”

Amphitrite rolls her shoulder out of his reach. “Pardon?”

“For you to take me.” She turns to look at him. “What price would you accept?”

She purses her lips. “We would have to wed,” she warns. “We would bound unlike any other.”

His breath shakes. The set of his brow stiffens. “What would it take?” he repeats.

Amphitrite taps her fingers against her mouth. He is desperate enough for this? To bind himself to her for the rest of eternity? “It will not be able to be undone,” she says. “And I do not see you with anything worth paying that price.”

He looks at her, beseeching. “There is no time.”

“So you have said.” What a broken record he was. No time, he must be a sea patron. On and on. Why did she think him entertaining?

Because he humiliated himself and seemed blind to it? It was amusing to watch, at first, before he dredged her in, trying to make a prisoner of a settled goddess. For her to take him in a way that gives him hold over the sea, her own weakens. She loses while he gains.

What could he have to make that trade — that loss — worth it? She did not like him as a god or a man. She liked her domain and her creatures.

It was not worth it, to humor him and his fear.

He drops to his knees. The damp sand caves under the blow. He lowers his head to her. “Please,” he asks. “I will do whatever you require. Anything you ask. I need to be made king of the sea.”

Amphitrite settles, folding her legs beneath her. The water surges and recedes around her collarbone. She takes in a considering breath. He was a son of Cronus, a brother of Zeus. There were tales that they were building a place for gods and something like that would surely be quite powerful. If she aids in his endeavor to be the sea’s face there, perhaps she will be face, too. It could not hurt to have an ally among a leader god, a— what did Calypso tell her that one time? A throned god? There were to be twelve, she thinks and they were to be honored by mortals as no god has before. “Convince me.” She tilts her head and weighs his every twitch in her mind.

Desperate gods are not all that different from desperate mortals. Not if the god is a fool, which this one has proven to be.

He will sacrifice more than he is comfortable to pay if she makes him squirm enough. He will offer enough that the deal goes in her favor.

Amphitrite has always been good at making others uncomfortable.

-----

Calypso’s divinity is an easy thing to bear, when they are in the deep, where Amphitrite is most powerful. When they are closer to shore, it twinges something in her. It makes itself a burden difficult to shake.

Calypso’s fury is a tame thing. Her acts of wrath are not sunken ships and slain sailors. Those are calculated, are not done on whim, is not something she does out of anger.

The only thing her anger does is temper her words into silver blades. She is most eloquent when she is furious.

“You are a fool to be told,” she says, dismissing greeting. The cold bite in her voice sinks into Amphitrite’s chest. Her eyes — do not look furious. She does not look angry at all. Not like Amphitrite expected when she settled her deal with the Olympian and took back to her water.

She looks sad.

The cold thing Calypso placed in her chest pulses. “What do you mean?” She lifts her chin, trying to look unaffected. She does not want to have this conversation so close to the surface, where Calypso’s divinity slips in through her gills as easily as water.

It is too distracting. Too— too easy to succumb to, especially if it with sadness that Calypso confronts her and not anger.

“You struck a deal with the Olympian.” Her eyes drift lower, focused on the joint of her collarbone, the little divot where Calypso’s divinity always rests. “It was not a wise deal to strike.”

Amphitrite waves off the words with a scoff. “However do you mean? I know how to bargain things in my favor.”

Calypso purses her lips out. Her eyes lift. They are sadder, now, and Amphitrite glares to keep them from pulling her in. Calypso’s reasoning was always wise but not always wisest. There were other perspectives that occasionally offered wiser things. This was one of those times. Calypso did not know the deal she struck. How could she? Amphitrite shielded both of their words from sinking in the water and Calypso was not near enough to wriggle around it. “Do you.”

She does not say it like a question.

“Yes,” she affirms anyways, her eyes reshaping into a frosty glare.

Calypso’s brow lifts. “Right.” Her eyes sink towards the ocean floor.

Amphitrite propels herself back. She speaks with a lifted lip. “Do not patronize me,” she warns. “I know what I’ve done.”

Their eyes reconnect. Calypso’s gaze is like an anchor, dragging her down. “I doubt that,” she whispers. “I really do.”

“You don’t know,” Amphitrite says, a steep edge to her words. She doesn’t know. She can’t. But that gaze, that sadness — she clearly thinks she knows something. But what?

“For your sake, I hope I don’t.” She bows her head and does nothing as Amphitrite pushes herself forwards and sinks back to her domain. The water pulses with Calypso’s sorrow. It coats Amphitrite’s teeth until the cold of the deep freezes it out and even then, it lingers.

-----

“You are a fool to be told.”

“You struck a deal with the Olympian.”

“It was not a wise deal to strike.”

Calypso’s words have bad habit of festering in Amphitrite’s mind. She tries to brush them off, to leave them to float at the surface, but they sink right alongside her, anchored with steel to her throat. It is a chained collar of worry.

“Do you.”

“I doubt that.”

Patronization that is actually worry. Amphitrite has never known Calypso to needlessly worry.

The words she speaks are always anchored with truth. Weight. Her words never float because there is reason behind each syllable.

Her nails dig into her palms, seeping the water in divinity that will only be hers alone for precious little time. Was Calypso right to be concerned?

An eel skims over her shoulder, curling around to brush against her arm. Amphitrite strokes it with the hand not bloodied in divinity. “What do you think?” she asks. She lifts her other palm and stares at the dull gold. “Was it a mistake?”

The eel swims away.

Amphitrite’s ankle twitches. “What help,” she says. She closes her fingers over her palms, shoulder jolting with the pressure.

What help indeed. What mistake did Calypso see in the deal she made? What flaw was she being blind to?

The dark curls around her. The deep embraces her in its chill and its emptiness. No matter how poor a deal she made, it will still be here whenever she needs it. Her domain will not disappear because she’s abandoning it. It will not abandon her in equal turn.

That is not what it wishes to do.

It chose Amphitrite as a queen and it has little choice but to respect her decisions. If she wishes to deal herself to an Olympian, to bend herself in the way that bends her domain — then it has little option but to obey. Their queen has commanded.

It may be her last order.

-----

"Little king," Amphitrite greets, tilting her chin.

Poseidon’s eyes glint. He looks pleased in a way that worries her, now. Before, she had thought it was just satisfaction at getting what he had spent sun-turns cajoling for.

Had he played her? Had she stepped into his trap? Was he wise enough to set one?

Was she foolish enough to fall for it?

The concern must be showing on her face, because Poseidon’s mouth twists into a grin. Easy and proud, like a king’s.

She was making him king.

He was getting everything he’d asked for. What was he sacrificing to her, to even the field? A few promises a wise man could eventually wriggle his way out from? Some words that could be torn apart?

Words unsworn on the Styx?

Her chin dips as she swallows. Her eyes do not leave her future spouse. The companion she’s going to swear her future and her divinity to.

Calypso had her reason to worry, did she not?

No. Yes.

Poseidon may not be the fool she thought. That much is becoming true. But she is no less wise. The deal may be skewed, but it is not one-sided. It is not unfair.

Amphitrite would never swear herself to anything that could be turned upon her. She does not make a habit of underestimating an enemy enough that she bares her belly to them, that she leaves herself entirely at their mercy.

Poseidon thought her a fool, and struck his bargain on that option. Amphitrite thought him a fool, and struck a deal that could work even if he turned out to be wise.

She does not nest all of her creatures in the same section of sea.

-----

It is not painful.

It feels like it should be. Ripping one’s divinity from their blood should be an excruciating thing. But it is painless.

Her divinity slips from her body like her blood had earlier, when she cut her palm in her heightened emotional state.

It is simple, in other words. So very simple.

Her creatures lurk around them both in the ceremony, netted above them like an elaborate trap. As if either of them could decide to switch their mind now.

Deals have been made. Divinity should not turn back on their blatant word.

“Careful with your words, little god,” she warns, tilting her head as she examines him. He is nice looking, she supposes, though she doesn’t think him nice enough to warrant wedding him. But there are worse looking things she could tie herself to.

As if that was consolation, but it was nice. Her heirs, at least, would have chances to become more.

He lifts his chin at her before tucking it back into place. He is taller, technically, though Amphitrite keeps her feet off the floor so their eyes are level. The sea feels far more frigid than usual.

Is it her domain, mourning what she used to be? Is it mourning her choice to make this god it so obviously rejected its king?

Is it her almost-wedded, already controlling what is all around him?

No. Her domain would not grant him his gifts until it was due.

The vows, too, feel as if they should stick in her throat or come out bubbling in electrified acid. But they, too, are easy. They slip out like the fine silk donning them both, silks dyed matching shades of blue.

The color suits her well. It offsets her hair. It does not suit him. It is not ill-suiting, but it does not suit him as well as the color of the domain he’s to control should. The color should, when worn, appear as if it is the only color that would do him justice. It should be the only thing that fits the divinity humming under his skin.

On him, it is just a color.

A nice color and nothing more.

It was not what it should be. He was a false king. His divinity was not made to churn the tides and her domain was not made to crash under his order. She was not made to be bound like this and he was not made to be bound to her.

After, when her divinity is raw in her chest, glowing heart pulsing weakly behind glass ribs, she takes his hand. “I hope you find this worth it,” she says, looking at him through her lashes.

He squeezes her hand and pulls his back. “Of course it was,” he replies.

She wonders if he can feel the strings wrapped around his joints. If he can feel the pull over him she has knotted in his chest. He made her swear to him the rights of her divinity, the capability of making ocean obey his command.

She made him swear his devotion to her will.

Can he feel that? Does he know the depth of that vow? That they were more than words and that as her divinity is bound to him, his is bound to her similarly?

It was, as Calypso said, an unfair deal. But it was unfair for them both. Painful like stabs and broken bone. Like horse and cow. Weak comparability.

They were both losers. That was unquestionable.

It was silly of Calypso, though, to think that Amphitrite did not know what she was doing.

She was no stranger to making deals.

-----

“So it is done.” Calypso is lying on the floor, observing the sharp points of nails she isn’t bothering to blunt. She doesn’t like to bother with shedding all the features of the predator she is, especially right after she’s taken a ship to sate her appetite.

Amphitrite never bothers to look mortal. It is not the form that is natural, like it is (more or less) for most of the divine. She is queen of the sea and she looks the part. She is of the sea and one could tell at a glance. “Yes,” she replies, digging up sand with her fingers.

Hers are sharper, technically, as Calypso’s aren’t really nails. They’re more akin to the suckers that line her arms when she is Kraken, just lengthened and enlarged to fit the rough anatomy of human fingers. If she gets them in something, there is no getting them out.

They are dangerous in a different way.

“Have the effects settled yet?” Calypso lifts her chin and the movement allows Amphitrite to see the thick bob of a swallow. As if she was uncertain. Concerned.

Amphitrite thought they were done with that. The deal is done. Calypso does not know better.

“What effects?” she asks, though her bones throb with the fragility of her lessened divinity. She’s been weak, since she wed the fool king, but it is strengthening slowly. She will be back to normal. It may take some decades to be back completely, but that is nothing to her.

Calypso’s breath bubbles up. “Of gifting away your divinity.” She tilts her head and slides her gaze over. “How fares your hold on your domain?”

“It is fine,” Amphitrite defends instantly. She pauses. Is it? Usually, she is approached and surrounded by the wildlife she rules over but that has been absent. It is an effect of her weak divinity. When that is back, so will they.

The sailor goddess hums, noncommittal. “I would be wary of each irregularity.”

“There has been none.”

Calypso’s eyes roam the empty water around them. It looks casual enough, but this is Calypso. She is making a show of looking, turning her head when there is no need. “Right,” she says. “Still. Do not say I did not try to warn you of the danger you enrolled for.”

“It was not dangerous.”

That, Calypso does not answer.

-----

Poseidon is building them a castle. He is insisting upon it. “What kind of rulers would we be,” he says, his hands clasped around her arms too tightly, “if we did not have a throne?”

Amphitrite pries her way out of his grip. “No rulers at all,” she replies. She looks at the construction, at the rising architecture of gems and coral. It is a beautiful thing, already, not even half built, but she is beginning to be aware of the dangers Calypso spoke of.

Her divinity is tied to her husband and he is, in turn, binding it to this castle. To the throne that will be hers. He has not admitted as such, but her divinity hums in the desire, the attempt. She would point it out, would fight, but there is little point to. She cannot undo what is done. She will have to live with her vow and attempt to find some other way out.

“It is beautiful,” she tells him, because he wants to hear it and it will do no harm to be on his good side.

He beams, watching the construction with pride. “Is it not?”

No, her domain whispers in her ear, monotone and sad at once. It does not have emotion like the living, but she can feel its mourning all the same. When it had accepted her as a patron, it was not for this. It is not.

Her domain sympathizes, in the only way it can. It does not offer help. It could, she believes, shatter their deal if it wished, but. The ocean takes after its namesake. Oceanus does not care for what happens in his home and body and neither does the ocean. They are, in fact, one in the same.

Amphitrite holds her eyes shut a moment. “You can go to Olympus,” she tells him.

His head whips over, a fight brimming on his tongue.

“That construction is more important for you to oversee. I can handle this.”

He squints.

She laughs, tilting her head mischievously. “Do you not trust me, husband dear?”

His mouth parts and he bites the words back with a click. “No,” he says. But, all the same, he turns to join his brothers in the making of a place for gods.

She smiles at his retreat. It looks like silver.

The new husband is so hungry for recognition, he’ll want to spend his days on the throne that matters. There was no glory in being a sea king, if you were searching for masses of mortal worship. The ocean would not provide that.

So she had the mercy of knowing he would not be a constant fixture at her side. She could pretend everything was sparkling, in his absence. That her throne was hers alone.

Despite the horror it took to get it — she’s liking the idea of a palace. Of a throne. Of the comfort of knowing her place in mortal’s mind is secure. She can lounge, now, and still be remembered just the same.

Tension leaks from her shoulders.

She thinks she could learn to like this. She did, after all, gain more than she gave.

What was a little divinity, in the end, for a palace and memory steadfast?

-----

Calypso is… displeased is the kind way to put it but neither of them are kind. She is appalled in a wrathful, furious way. That still feels too kind. Calypso feels more Kraken than goddess.

“Pardon?” she asks, sharp teeth snapping around the word.

“You heard me,” Amphitrite says, leaning back against a wall of her new palace, rubies studded around her in a bloody halo. “Do not feign deafness.”

Calypso laughs. There’s a wildness in the gesture, a feral sort of energy to it that raises Amphitrite’s guard. “I must be going so,” she says. “Because surely I did not hear you right.”

“You did,” Amphitrite confirms.

Calypso looks at her like. Like she’d just admitted to relinquish her divinity for a mortal child. Like the very idea is too wild even for them. “What ill poisoned your mind?” she asks. Her arms gesture around to the glimmering castle. “This was not worth the price. It is a thing. You could have done this yourself if you wished.”

Amphitrite watches the outburst languidly. She has never seen Calypso so active. Even when they are racing and she is enjoying herself, there is a relaxed sort of grace to her movements, a backing of calm that permeates through anything else. Even when she is worked up, there is still sense about her. Amphitrite cannot find any now. “You wouldn’t understand. Not with your mind pried shut.”

“He fooled you.”

“He did no such thing. I am aware of the deal I made.”

Calypso scoffs. “Then you are the foolish one. You may not understand the gravity yet, but this choice will grow to haunt you.”

“Sure it will.” Amphitrite looks down her nose. “I fail, though, for the record, to see how this,” she wiggles her fingers outward, gesturing to the palace, “could ever be something I’d regret.”

Calypso’s mouth parts. She bites her words back with a tense jaw. “I suppose we will just see then,” she says, voice back to its typical distanced tone.

Amphitrite nods. “We will.”

Calypso nods back. She does not look pleased, still and that is not entirely a surprise. She is so rarely pleased, when things do not go the way she thinks is best. But she is not entirely displeased, either, which is an accomplishment alone, even if a miniscule one. She eyes the walls of coral and gems, mouth twisting down as she takes in the opulence of it.

It is about the reaction Amphitrite expected. Calypso’s tastes are simple and this is anything except. But that was fine. The palace was not for Calypso nor would she reside there. So it did not matter if she liked it. It was to Amphitrite’s taste and it was to be home.

A place easy to pin. There were perks to having a place to settle and Amphitrite fully intends to take advantage of them. Having mortals on hand was one. She’d always wanted to keep one long term. Her chance for that had come.

Calypso’s eyes drift back to Amphitrite. There is something in her gaze that tries to tug at Amphitrite’s divinity. It has weight that Amphitrite has never felt, not when she is this deep, in the heart of her domain. She swallows it down.

“So we will,” Calypso repeats.

Amphitrite knows she is right. This castle is to be a kind of prison for them both, her and her new husband. There was no worry in that. Calypso did not know details and she was assuming the worst. It was a sweet thought. Her fault for not believing in Amphitrite’s cruelness, however. She knew how to deal herself sweetness from a bitter fool.

Still, to be a good sport, she nods.

Time will prove one of them wrong.

*****

This is still all drippingmoon's fault. Hope you liked what I created.

Tags: @caffeinewitchcraft @super-writer-gal @drippingmoon @blindthewind @notwritinganyflufftoday @mel-writes-with-her-dragons

[peel-a-potato-with-a-potato]

So I binge read Invincible

What a trip of a story. Gotta say, I’m really hoping Amazon doesn’t screw it up, but what I’ve seen of the show so far seems to be a good update. The comic came out in 2003 after all, so there’s some parts that don’t hold up well 18 years later.

The ending wasn’t to my taste, but it was mostly satisfying. Spoilers if you keep reading beyond here.

The comic makes gratuitous use of time skipping, usually because of Mark being very vincible (yes, bad joke, don’t care), at several points. The worst ones for me were the 3 or 4 months he spent with his father and brother healing from a stomach wound and the 5 year skip after the “reboot”.

And oh boy do I have thoughts on that reboot. Some mysterious entity we are never given any further information on traps him in a cave and sends him back to being 17 with no powers on Earth. He proceeds to do everything in the most efficient way he can before giving up to be with his family. And then he’s back, but 5 years after he left. Was he really in the past or was that entity just messing with his mind? And did it really take him 5 years to process those few weeks? Or did he get brought back to the wrong time? Was that thing vengeful and wanted to rob him of what he wanted for disobeying it? And after that little section is over, we never hear about that thing again.

And then there’s the deaths of Oliver and Nolan. Both were mostly well done, Oliver died in battle (sure he would have wanted it that way), and Nolan died with his favorite son present. Or least favorite, it’s hard to tell at some points. And both were well used catalysts into propelling the story. Oliver’s death convinced Mark he had to act against Thragg. Nolan’s death put Mark in control of the new Viltrum Empire, and in direct opposition to Robot. I refuse to call him Rex. Rex Splode deserved better than that.

Through the whole series, I didn’t trust Robot. From the beginning, I had a bad feeling about him, and when he was revealed to be a human, Rudy, that pretty much cemented it for me. A genius who relies entirely on logic, even when they have an emotional attachment to someone? Yeah, if that doesn’t scream trouble, I don’t know what does. Putting his brain in a jar and leaving Immortal in charge seemed like the best option.

But that also brings up the question of why he left Immortal in charge at all. Having been brought to the future by two people working for Immortal just so he could get his death, don’t you think Mark would have remembered that? Would have known the pain he would cause his friend? Or was there really no better option? It does provide continuity, answers why Immortal was in charge, and I guess prevents a paradox, which is all probably why it was done. Mark doing that knowing what would happen though, it’s probably the most Viltrumite thing he does in the series, cold and devoid of human emotion. Mark does have a habit of disagreeing with his allies at times, and sometimes that leads to what feels like betrayal.

Even Allen got the short end of that stick, with the Viltrum Empire spreading peace at the end, Allen’s coalition fell apart. And Mark makes some good commentary there that definitely applies to Earth today. But wouldn’t you think he’d want to help Allen change the COP to make it better for those planets being exploited? That seemed to be his thing, but instead he just left them to figure it out.

Going back to immortality for a bit, let’s talk about Eve. She gets severely wounded and suddenly she becomes a god just long enough to patch herself back up. This is used a couple times, first on Eve alone, and then on herself and Mark. The first time she gives herself bigger breasts (yup, it’s a guy writing the series) and the second time Mark asks “Did you make me stronger?” while he flexes. Given that Eve was carrying their child at the time, it makes sense why he wouldn’t leave her power to kick in to replace her lost leg, but it ends up making death feel a bit cheap, the way Marvel and DC do by killing off their heroes and bringing them back. It’s really made worse when Eve dies of old age and is suddenly in her 20′s again. “Guess I’m immortal” my ass. If she’s just going to keep doing that, eventually she will outlive Mark’s thousands of years and she’ll be just as lonely as Immortal. Feels like they didn’t think the ramifications of that one through. I do enjoy the fact that Eve is always, and I do mean always, the one initiating their intimate moments though. A woman taking charge of her sexuality is nice to see.

And then there’s Marky. Poor Marky. Left alone on Earth with an adoptive human father while Mark ignored him because of his rage at Marky’s mother. Debbie steps in to help, and it’s clear Mark still has some contact with his son, but he’s definitely not going to have the support his father did growing up, even if he is the new Invincible. Why on earth would this poor half abandoned child take the name of the father that clearly doesn’t want to take much interest in him? I get it’s a carrying on the family legacy kind of thing, but it gives me weird vibes.

For all my griping though, I have to mention Cecil. Almost a perfect foil to Mark’s black and white thinking. Cecil only sees in shades of grey. No matter where someone’s actions put them in Mark’s eyes, Cecil always sees them as a force to be used to his own ends. Cecil’s need to protect people and his search for peace align so perfectly with Mark’s but because of his way of looking at the world and lack of superpowers, he contrasts so perfectly with the hero of the story. I disagree with Rudy that Cecil would have been okay dying to get the world brought about by Rudy, but I’m not really sure how to put those thoughts into words just yet.

But the ending in general, while neatly wrapping up most of the plot threads (looking at you tentacle entity from the reboot storyline), feels a bit too much like a happily ever after. Now that’s personal taste, but honestly, if they’d just ended it with Mark taking over and saying he was going to leave Earth with the Viltrumites on his mission to help the universe, I’d have been a lot happier leaving the rest up to the imagination. Instead, we get flashes of this race of near gods forcefully bringing peace to the universe and we end with another vaguely satisfying callback.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved the series and I’m honestly tempted to read it again to get a better idea of the callbacks and setups we see. The perspective on some things might be different now too, and that’s always interesting. I’m very much of the opinion that if you love something, you should be critical of it. And there’s a lot in Invincible that seems like doing something just to make the story work. I can’t tell if that’s just because of the medium or if it actually makes sense given that Mark is an alien, so maybe I would need to read it again to figure that out.

[wri0thesley]

Semi-angsty scenario (however much hurt you feel willing to put in) of Prosciutto surviving the train fight, albeit quite injured, at home with his s/o when the new passione finds him and wants him (for like information or to recruit him again? idk)

recovering - prosciutto x reader (1.7k)

SFW. reader is gender neutral.

warnings for: hospitals, injury, self-hate, death idealation. 

Things do not change overnight; not really. 

Oh, for Prosciutto, they changed in the course of an hour, or maybe less. For your boyfriend, it had been a case of waking up that morning with two legs and two arms and two eyes, a heart that beat sound and fast, a charming smile and a teasing voice and the knowledge of his own finesse - and having almost none of those things by the time midnight struck. 

Prosciutto’s physicality changes overnight. The doctors do what they can for him (you, on pulled tight tenterhooks by his bedside, listening to the beep of monitors with your heart in your mouth in case of a flatline), but the battle and the train have taken much from him. His brain does not change at all. 

He spends two months in the hospital, wrapped in bandages and needles and monitors. You both count the tiles on the ceiling, over and over. You bring him grapes and magazines, but not flowers (and absolutely not cigarettes, though his hand fastens about your wrist and he begs - the doctors say his lungs may never function the same way again). The nurses speak to you;

“Oh, he must have been so handsome,” they say, pity lacing their tone, as they pat your shoulder. As they ask you about children, and the engagement ring on your finger, and you know that they’re thinking that you should get away now, before you’re railroaded into taking care of him (as if you wouldn’t, as if taking care of him is a punishment--). 

“He is,” you say, stubborn - but they give you those same smiles. “He is handsome.” 

He hates how they fluff his pillows, how they speak to him, how they simper. “Like I’m an invalid,” he says, frustrated. You do not remind him that he is an invalid right now; there’s no point in that. Prosciutto is still grappling with being in bed. 

He grapples with the prosthetic leg and arm. He grapples with the glass eye when he’s allowed to remove the adhesive pad (he gives up on that one, eventually; you source an expensive designer eyepatch instead, all embroidered with roses and thorns and glittering semi-precious stones). He grapples with himself, the first time he sees his body full-length in a mirror. 

“Look at me,” he says, lip twisting in disgust. “I should have died instead.”

“Don’t say that,” you say, softly, standing behind him. Your eyes travel the same path as his; the prosthetic leg, all plastics and metal (the shiny skin of where his leg finishes just visible beneath the hospital gown he hates wearing). The jointed arm that he’s still struggling to use. The scars all across his face, the place his hair had to be cut because of how blood was matting it together, the pinprick needle points of all the cannulas and wires he’s had sticking out of him for months. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You say that now,” Prosciutto replies. “But in a few months . . . in a few months, after you’ve had to take care of me, you’ll wish I’d died too.”

-

He tries to refuse help at first. He drops glasses and whiskey bottles and his cutlery and swears and kicks his one good foot into doorways, toppling over because his balance is still not quite right. He shrugs off your attempts to help dress him. He rolls away from you in bed and fiercely shakes off your kisses on scarred shoulderblades. 

“You should leave me,” he says, bitter and angry. “Find someone whole. I’m a fucking liability.”

“I won’t,” you tell him, patiently. “I would stay with you if you were a brain in a jar.”

“Better than this,” he grunts, but in the night his body curls around yours and you kiss away tears from his scarred face that neither of you mention in the early morning light. 

It does not change overnight. Six months after his discharge from the hospital, things have calmed slightly - Prosciutto still drops his silverware sometimes, but instead of swearing and blaming himself, he forces himself to laugh. The house has adapted, too; Prosciutto had tried to avoid them at first (“The period features!” He’d said to you. “I don’t want a fucking stairlift, these stairs haven’t been altered since 1840--), but he’d acquiesced in the end. 

Extra rails, things he can hold onto, antique wingback chairs with new handles he can help himself in and out of more easily. Gadgets to make his grip better, your bedroom relocated into what used to be his study - Prosciutto has always been the kind of man to resist change, but for you he pushes himself. 

And he still cries, of course. You hear him call out for Pesci. You hear him call out for Risotto. He wakes up panting and sweating and cursing Bruno Buccellati’s name (though both of you know what happened to him. Prosciutto has made his peace - he respects Buccellati’s devotion. He’s glad of Diavolo’s deposement. You feel rather less sanctimonious about it, and sometimes the voice in your head is glad that Bruno Buccellati came to a sticky end.). He tells you to leave him and that he’s not worth it and his working hand curls around your waist, pulling you into him, whispering he wishes he’d died instead. 

You live a slightly quieter life. Prosciutto likes luxury, but likes a bargain and hates spending money even more - you two have a nice little savings pot that keeps you in (if not the manner you were accustomed to before) modest fashion. Grateful Dead potters about the house - some of his tentacles are wizened and broken, but he reaches things for Prosciutto that your boyfriend cannot and lays his head on your knee, more desperate for affection now than he ever was before Prosciutto’s injuries. Prosciutto tenses when you lay your hand on Grateful Dead’s head, but shivers when your fingers trace soft patterns, his own head rolling back to enjoy the ghost of your hand on his stand. 

And you are happy. 

You are as happy as you can be. You and Prosciutto muddle along, but he is alive and you are by his side. You kiss him and his good arm goes around your waist, goading you into sitting on his knee. He whispers that he loves you, adores you, that you keep him going - and you whisper the same into his, sighing against his skin, happy that he is with you. 

Until the knock on the door, eight months after his accident. 

-

Giorno Giovanna, in real life, is tiny. He’s a boy - that much is clear. You’d heard he was fifteen (though perhaps he is sixteen now), but you hadn’t been expecting him to look . . . so young. Prosciutto is on edge in front of him, scowl on his handsome face so his overbite and slight buck teeth are more prominent, his knuckles white on the cane by his chair. 

“I don’t understand why you’ve come now,” you say to him, your voice pitching. You can see Prosciutto’s careful veneer falling apart in front of the new Don of Passione. “It’s been months.”

“We were waiting for Signore Prosciutto to recover from his injuries,” Giorno says, all benevolence. Your own heart beats treacherously fast in your chest. You do not trust this golden-haired angel, nor the dark-haired man he’s brought with him with one hand on the table and one hand in the gun in his pants. 

“I won’t be regrowing any of my limbs,” Prosciutto snaps, and you start as you see the gunman’s fingers flex on the handle. You put a hand on your boyfriend’s leg, high enough that it’s leg and not prosthetic, hoping to calm him. 

“We won’t be asking that of you,” Giorno continues, as if - in Diavolo’s reign - Prosciutto’s outburst wouldn’t be enough for him to find a bullet lodged in his brain. 

“I’m not exactly suited for field work in my condition,” Prosciutto says, and you want to shush him and talk for him. You hate this - hate that you can hear the barbed wire in Prosciutto’s voice, that it feels like you’re teetering on a tightrope. If Prosciutto says the wrong thing . . . you two have come so far! You’ve worked so hard! For Prosciutto’s life to come to an end, here, because of a wrong inflection or a rude word when he’s staring the man who killed his team-family-friends in the face and is expected to show deference to him . . .

You can’t bear it. 

“No,” Giorno says. Your throat is dry. You stare at the table in front of you (your old mahogany table was sent to an antiques shop; this one is perfectly sized for Prosciutto’s wheelchair on his worst days) and try and pretend that you aren’t on the edge of a breakdown and that your nerves aren’t fraying with every syllable that comes from Giorno’s mouth. “But . . . we have access to Diavolo’s files, signore, and we know you’d be well-suited for other things.”

“Prosciutto,” you say, aware your voice is small and whiny. You put a hundred things into the whisper of his name. The fear and anxiety and regret - the hope that you’d put the mafia behind you. You’re not stupid. A man like Prosciutto doesn’t get to leave his whole life behind. But you’d thought . . . after everything, you’d thought you were safe.

“Your family,” Giorno continues. “Your good name. Your knowledge of how the syndicate works. We could find a good use for you, signore, if you’ll agree to come work with us.”

(Giorno uses the word ‘agree’. You and Prosciutto both know that is not the case. There is no disagreement when it comes to these things. It is an agreement or an assassin in two weeks from now and a knife at his throat and you, with Prosciutto cradled in your arms as he bleeds out. Men like him do not get miracles twice.)

(He carefully says ‘with’, too. You both know it is ‘for’. ‘Under’. Prosciutto will be a pawn. Again.)

“Yes.” Prosciutto says. He shoots you a brief look that has a hundred apologies written all over it. “I understand, Don.”

They do not give Prosciutto much time to decide - both of them know, with you at his side, he isn’t going to say no. 

And when Prosciutto kisses Giorno’s ring and swears fealty again, he looks at you and you wonder how you were ever so foolish to believe you’d really escape. 

[retrievablememories]

a sudden desire | johnny (m)

title: a sudden desire pairing: johnny x black reader genre: fluff, smut, fantasy/sci-fi summary: when you make an emergency landing on an ice planet, you have no choice but to seek refuge for the night. word count: 5.4k warnings: detailed description of an injury, mentions of violence, tending to wounds, mentions of insecurities, heavy petting, fingering, some dirty talk, unprotected sex—do not try at home!! 🔞 a/n: this exists in the same universe as my other fic, empathy. i’m developing this universe literally as i go, so plz excuse any plot holes, illogical shit, etc. i feel like this might be a bit too similar to another fic i wrote on here, but whatever chile it’s an excuse for some johnny smut so...bone app the teeth

The cold bites into your nose, fingertips, lips—the very bone marrow of your body. All you can do is shudder against the strong, icy wind beating across your skin and cling tighter to the backpack on your shoulders. You flex your fingers on the backpack straps to keep the blood circulating in them, though that doesn’t do much good when they hurt too much to move properly.

“Fuck, it’s freezing,” Ten curses beside you, and you’d agree if your lips didn’t feel frozen shut. Out of all places for your ship to give out, it’s just your luck that it happened on Kankara. Ice planet or not, though, you all made it out only by the skin of your teeth. The raiders who were on your tail would’ve surely taken advantage of the ship’s ruined state—one that they caused—if Laila and Lucas hadn’t taken them out with their gunning skills.

You, Ten, Lucas, and Laila huddle together near the entrance of the repair garage as you watch Johnny transfer the team’s credits to the repairman. Surprisingly, he’s one of the few other humans you’ve encountered in your travels across the galaxy, and it makes you wonder how he ended up here.

You already know there aren’t going to be many credits left after paying to fix the extensive damages the ship sustained, which is even more reason to get it in working order again. Because once it’s running, you can seek more missions—and more bounties.

“What’s the cheapest place around here that we can crash at for a while?” Johnny asks the man once he takes his Unit Pad back. The man scoffs, throwing him a look that’s equal parts sympathetic and amused.

“Not many hovercabs run around here, especially this time of night. The closest and cheapest place you’ll reach on foot is Drakar’s Motel...but it ain’t shit to write home about.” The man gives Johnny the directions. Most of what he says goes in one of your ears and out the other. You’ll be amazed if half of your brain isn’t frozen by the time you get indoors.

Laila sighs at the prospect of shacking up in a strange place. “I wish we could take the smaller craft,” she says, stomping her feet like a child.

“Too bad it got damaged too,” Lucas says, rubbing her shoulders in a futile attempt to warm her up. “These raiders are fuckin’ ruthless, man.”

“I guess it’ll have to do,” Johnny sighs, pocketing his pad and making his way back to the group. He reaches for one of your hands and you uncurl it from your backpack strap to take his. It’s an effort, but you feel better the instant his skin is on yours, so you think it’s worth it.

The snow never stops falling on this planet. It’s a perpetual winter, only much less jolly and welcoming than your typical winter wonderland. There doesn’t seem to be much of anything here. Just scattered buildings, empty streets, snow, and more snow—like a frozen desert. You don’t mind a bit of cold weather every now and then, but this is an extreme you don’t think you could ever get used to.

Kankara’s neighboring moons hang large in the sky, providing ample light to travel by. At least you don’t have to worry too much about whatever’s lurking in the dark.

Thankfully, you don’t have to walk the streets for too long before a bright glow begins manifesting through the ice and snow, as if some holy mirage. The slanted edges of a building come into focus, and it becomes clear that this is the motel’s silhouette.

“Finally!” Ten kicks a mound of snow in front of him and it sprays up around Laila, who promptly blesses him out for dousing her in more cold. As usual, Lucas has to squeeze his way in between them to stop the ensuing mess.

The first thing you notice about the motel is its neon sign. Not all of the letters work, so it looks more like “a a’s ote” than “Drakar’s Motel.” You simply chuckle and roll your eyes at that. If you were the one who had to come out in this cold to fix the letters, you’d leave the shit alone too.

There’s not much to see on the outside of the motel, with white powder covering nearly every inch of its exterior. You have to admit that it looks quite small, though, even from farther away.

When you all get inside, you realize it’s not much better. The temperature in the lobby is only a few degrees higher than the outside, at most. Not brutally cold anymore, but certainly not enough to warm anybody up. The lobby itself is barely bigger than one floor of your ship, and the burning fluorescent lights make you feel like a bug pinned underneath a glass pane, strangely lit up and displayed for all to see.

An extraterrestrial you recognize as a Vykyll sits behind the check-in counter reading a magazine. They’re balancing their chin on one of their tentacles, looking half-asleep and extremely bored with their job...or with life itself. Their nametag reads “Srynei.”

Srynei looks up from their magazine and gives you all a weary expression. “Before you even ask, there are only two one-beds available. The other rooms are either occupied or defunct.”

“One bed?” Lucas echoes, his eyes widening. He looks stuck between incredulity and annoyance.

You and Johnny glance at each other. He shrugs. “Well…it’s not like we have the money to pay for anything better, anyway.” He takes out his Unit Pad to hand to the alien. “Book it for five nights.”

Srynei places their magazine down and takes out a Unit Pad with the motel’s logo on it. “2 rooms for 50 credits a night...you got it.”

“Defunct? What does that mean?” Laila asks, furrowing her eyebrows.

“It means we can’t stay in those rooms, dumbass,” Ten replies, flicking her forehead. She catches his wrist before he can pull away fast enough and twists it, making him yelp in pain.

“I know what it means, watermelon head. I’m asking, why are they defunct?”

“Burst pipes, leaks, shattered windows from the sheer amount of cold...not my problem, though, I just check in the guests.” Srynei rolls their eyes as if they’re exhausted with the absurdity of the entire situation. You can’t imagine how many off-world visitors Kankara gets for the motel to still be in business, but stranger things have happened.

After the transaction is finished, Srynei holds out two room keys and you take them. 102 and 105, which means at least you won’t have to venture back out to use the stairs.

“So who’s sleeping with who?” Laila asks.

“I thought that was obvious,” Lucas snickers, wrapping his arms around her and Ten’s shoulders. He squishes them against his body in a too-tight hug and they both complain for air. “We should all leave these two,” he nods his head in your and Johnny’s direction, “to themselves, shouldn’t we?” It makes sense. The statement is innocent enough, but the sly faces of your three friends reveal their true thoughts.

“Can you not?” You laugh nervously, tossing Lucas the key for room 105. “I’m about ready to hit the sheets, so…” You don’t wait for his response before making your way down the hall, which is a tad narrower than you’re comfortable with. Everyone else will probably end up walking single-file to fit through. “God, this place is a claustrophobic nightmare.”

You fit the key in the lock and try to keep your mind off what Lucas just said. With some success. Okay, not a lot.

You and Johnny have been together for a little over 5 moon cycles now, but it’s safe to say you haven’t done much other than kiss and cuddle—which is mostly fine with you. But sometimes, you wonder how he feels about it and if he’s...content with it? Or maybe even growing tired of it? You feel bad for even thinking like that, because you know he doesn’t care and you shouldn’t either, but…

This isn’t the first time you’ve slept in the same bed together, but now that’s it been brought up, you can’t keep your mind off the subject of doing more. And as if on-cue, it makes your oh-so-familiar self-doubts rise to the surface.

“Are you okay?” Johnny’s voice interrupts your thoughts. His hand clasps over yours, and that’s when you realize you’ve been fumbling with the key in the lock for a good few moments now. He steadies your hand and helps you finally turn the key and unlock the door. “You must be really cold, let’s get you inside.”

“It’s not gonna be much warmer in there...” you say. The other three are already raising hell as they try to squeeze past each other in the small corridor, and you know it’s going to be a long few days.

The room is just as small as you expect it to be—and just as cold. There’s a heating and air conditioning unit by the window, though you doubt even it works judging by the room’s temperature. “Sometimes I feel like we never left Earth. Some of this stuff is so similar…” You wonder if the motel was purposely modeled after its Earth-based counterparts, or if there simply weren’t enough funds to spring for more advanced alien tech.

You don’t know a lot about Kankara, but you’ve heard it mostly described as a vast and cold-hearted place. The latter characteristic is undeniable of the weather, but you don’t know if you can make that kind of snap judgment for the planet’s inhabitants. Living somewhere like this will make anyone’s ambitions and hopes shrink to near nothingness, centering more on survival than basic pleasures.

“Takes getting used to,” Johnny sighs, closing the door and stripping off his two outer jackets as carefully as possible. “It’s like déjà vu.”

“You should get cleaned up,” you say, fiddling with the switches on the HVAC. As you thought, nothing works. That’s lovely.

“You should go first.” Johnny comes over to you and rubs his hands on your arms to try and warm you up.

“No way, I’m not the injured one here. I’d think you need it more than me.”

“Isn’t the first and probably won’t be the last. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Johnny moves your braids to the side and kisses your cheek in what is usually an innocent gesture. Him saying, “Don’t make me beg,” immediately after, though, makes it decidedly less so.

“O-okay,” you squeak, rushing to grab your clothes and head to the bathroom.

The bathroom is plain as hell, but clean, at least. You scrub off as much of the day’s dirt and grime as you can. Thankfully, the water isn’t as cold as the rest of the place, but it still isn’t as warm as you’d prefer.

Johnny takes his turn after you dress and come out. You climb onto the bed and notice that a portion of the window is in view—he must’ve pushed the drapes back. You stare out of the glass, watching the snow fall endlessly and wondering how it never piles higher. It’s as if the planet is in stasis, perpetually frozen on both a physical and time-based level.

Johnny comes out of the shower shirtless and looking not much happier than he was when he got in. His mouth is tucked into that straight line that always makes you laugh. “The hot water only lasted about 2 more minutes before it cut out on me, so that was fun.”

You try not to snort. “That’s tragic, Johnny.”

“Truly a modern tragedy,” he says sarcastically, brushing his wet bangs out of his eyes. He glances at you over his shoulder as he puts his worn clothes away. “Maybe we could take a shower together next time.”

“I’m sure,” you murmur, embarrassed, tucking your knees up close to your chest.

You glance at the wound just below the left side of his ribcage. It’s mostly scar tissue, no thanks to the cauterizing heat of the blaster shot that struck him, but it still looks horrible. And it must feel similarly, with the way he moves around the room being extra careful of it.

“You need to redress it,” you tell him.

“I know,” he sighs, his shoulders slumping at the thought of doing that. Johnny turns back to look at you, a pout on his bow-shaped lips. “Will you help me?”

A small smile crosses your lips. “Okay.” Johnny roots around in his pack for the medical supplies he remembered to pack before you all ditched the ship. He takes out the roll of bandages, AntiBac Gel, and bandage clips and hands them to you before gingerly climbing on the bed, propping a pillow against the headboard to lean on.

“We’re lucky we got away when we did,” you say, spreading the AntiBac over the wound. “Those bastards wouldn’t let up…”

“We definitely would’ve been way worse off without the others,” Johnny agrees. He glances at your hand moving across his skin. “Seeing you fight always reminds me of when we first met, though…all those training sessions we had, I mean.”

“Why?” You grimace slightly at the scarred edges of the wound. Not because you’re disgusted, but because you feel bad at how painful it looks.

“Back then, you were ruthless…and it fascinated me. Even though I’m not a huge fan of violence.” His lips twitch as if he doesn’t mean to smile about it, but he does anyway. “And you’re still the same but it’s...like, different, you know?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” You laugh, unraveling the bandage and beginning to wrap it around his chest.

“I can’t explain it,” he says, looking at you from behind his still-soggy bangs. You glance at him, drinking in the curve of his cheekbones and his chin in the light of the bedside lamp. “It’s just...everything seems a little different when you’re in love with someone.”

Your fingers falter with the bandage for a second, and you hope he doesn’t notice. If he does, he doesn’t acknowledge it. “I suppose I can’t argue with that,” you say. “But...I’m just doing what has to be done. To keep ourselves alive. It gets scary out there, and…” You falter, unsure what to say. Or if you should say what you’re thinking.

“And you can’t live without me?” Johnny says, putting his hand over his heart.

“You literally never get tired, do you?” You grin, finishing the bandage and securing it with the clips.

“I dunno, sometimes. I am just a human, after all.” Johnny brings a hand up to tuck a stray braid back into your scarf. He lies back on the small bed when you’re done, taking your hand in his and kissing it. “Thank you, my queen. How can I ever repay you from saving me from a certain demise?”

“You’re such a clown.” You shake your head, laughing and pulling away from him long enough to put away the makeshift first-aid kit.

After you store the supplies, you climb back onto the bed. It’s barely enough for the both of you, let alone Johnny’s big body, and you find yourself nearly on top of him. You mentally will your palms not to sweat as you sit in such close proximity to him while he’s half-naked. You do enjoy it, though. A lot. You find yourself tracing one of his many old scars—one long line extending across his bicep—with your gaze.

“Didn’t you get that one from the day we escaped the EECA?” you ask quietly.

Johnny glances at it and nods, his lips curling into a slight smile. “Mm...yeah. Remember when Lucas kissed you that day?”

“I don’t want to remember.” Your skin grows hot with the memory, though more out of embarrassment than anything else.

“Did you enjoy it?” His eyes crinkle with laughter.

You give him a skeptical look. “No, not really!? We didn’t know each other that well then, and I don’t like having my personal space invaded.”

Johnny considers that, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth before looking at you. “What about me?” His tone lowers and he inches closer, glancing at your lips.

You raise your eyebrows and place a hand on his chest. “I know you aren’t trying it with a serious wound right now.”

“I’m already halfway hard.” He smirks, adjusting his sleep pants.

Your chest warms straight through, enough to make you forget all about the frigidness of the motel room. You feel both anxious and enthralled. The two emotions create a conflicting dichotomy inside of you, and it makes you uncertain of how to respond. You shove his shoulder, making sure to be careful of his side. “What kind of freak gets off on having their wounds tended to?”

You both laugh, but Johnny grins nervously after a moment, suddenly becoming much more shy than he was a few minutes ago. “You know it’s all just me being silly, right? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I just want you to be comfortable.”

You just hum and look at him, regarding his features, before kissing him very tenderly on the lips. “I know, John.” After you pull away, you continue observing each other, though it doesn’t feel awkward, just—tense. Without a word, you both lean in and kiss again, a little deeper than before. His hand cradles the side of your face and neck, drifting between the two as if he isn’t sure where to settle.

Johnny licks into your mouth and you respond in kind, sliding your arm across his shoulders to pull him a little closer. Your touch is often still tentative with him, especially when you’re more intimate like this, still not quite sure if you’re allowed to have this, if it’s okay to indulge.

Johnny pulls away slightly to rest his forehead on yours, his lips still moving against your mouth when he speaks. “We...really don’t have to if you’re not ready,” he says, sounding slightly winded from the kiss alone.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” you respond. You touch the hem of the bandages where they meet his skin, a little above his abs, and your hand keeps hovering there, unsure if you can touch him that way.

“It doesn’t matter,” he responds, moving closer to kiss you again.

You don’t know how long you sit there simply kissing each other, tasting each other’s lips as if there will never be enough of this—this sweetness shared between you.

After a beat of hesitation, you allow yourself to touch his abdomen, feeling the firm indentations of muscle underneath your hand. He’s impossibly warm even though you’re on an ice planet—it’s like he’s his own personal space heater. His skin is soft under yours, and he smells good enough to drown in forever.

In response to your touches, Johnny’s hand leaves your face and travels to your side, sliding down your waist and lower to your hip. His fingers are close to the inside of your thigh, moving over the fabric of your pajama pants.

Your hand drifts to the waistband of his pants, too, though you hesitate to go further. You realize with a bit of surprise, though, that you very much want this, more than you possibly let yourself believe. There are still many things you’re apprehensive about doing or saying with Johnny, but in this present point in time, you feel positive that you want to feel him in, around, under, over top of you—it doesn’t matter how.

Johnny’s lips separate from yours, and he moves his mouth to the soft skin of your cheek, ear, jaw, neck. Wherever he can reach is fair game at this point. “You can touch me. If you want.” He says this while kissing your neck, letting his voice vibrate across your nerves and seep into the very fibers of your being.

You take up his offer.

You tentatively slide your hand past the waistband. You don’t go underneath his underwear, but that’s fine for you. For the both of you. Instead, you feel him over the fabric, caressing the curve of his hardening cock and teasing the sensitive head with trembling fingers. Johnny moans softly against your neck, sighing and pressing his hips a little closer into your hand.

“Should I let you have all the fun?” he asks, kissing your throat.

“No,” you reply, breathless but still amused, “that wouldn’t be very fair, would it.”

Johnny vocalizes his pleasure and agreement when his fingers slip lower, pressing between your legs and gliding over your clit through the layers of your clothing. Your breath hitches, but you don’t stop stroking his dick, and he grows bolder with his own actions, sliding his hand up and away—only for a second—and then down into your pants, burdened with one less layer and giving you more calculating touches.

He strokes your clit as if he’s never touched anything so gently, and it makes you grip the back of his damp head and pull him closer to you, if at all possible. He answers that need for proximity by coming back up to claim your lips again, your tongues gliding against each other’s in the room’s quiet.

Your fingers are sticky from Johnny’s precum leaking into his underwear and onto your hand, and likewise, you are growing increasingly wetter in his hold.

Johnny moves as if he means to climb on top of you, but he winces and grunts halfway through the motion and you stop, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Are you hurt? I told you this wasn’t a good idea…”

“Stop worrying about me,” he says, though he doesn’t try to move again. “It’s just a little pain...but, um...maybe on the side is better.”

You nod, and you both spend a few awkward seconds shuffling around on the bed so Johnny is spooning you instead, your back to his front. You feel a little disappointed about not being able to see him, but that dissipates when he resumes touching you and kissing your nape. You mean to reach behind you to take care of him, too, but he seems content with gently rocking his hips against your ass, grinding his dick between your cheeks.

“Is this enough for you?” he asks, his voice soft and deep.

“W-what?” You can guess what he means, but being asked takes you off guard.

“Do you like how I’m touching you?” Johnny applies a little more pressure on your clit when he asks this, and you try unsuccessfully to not shudder like a leaf in a windstorm at the sensation. Combined with the sound of his voice, it’s an electrifying kind of feeling. “Or do you want more?”

It seems like every part of your body is throbbing with yes. “I...want more.”

Johnny lays a kiss against your shoulder. You feel him pull your underwear to the side and drag his middle finger against your clit and down to your hole, teasing you as if he doesn’t think he’ll insert it. Your body tenses and you moan. You don’t know if you should press back against his dick or into his hand, and it’s the sweetest, yet hardest, decision you’ve ever had to make.

Johnny finally eases his finger inside of you and makes a sound you can’t quite distinguish. “Is this all for me?”

“W-who else would it be for?” Your words are almost lost to the pillow as you use it to muffle your increasing sounds.

“I’m flattered, really. You shouldn’t have,” he snickers, pumping his finger into you. He makes sure to drag his palm across your clit as he does, carefully but firmly enough to make you pant. He caresses your inner walls until he finds your G spot and then focuses his energies on pleasuring that part of you.

“Shit...Johnny…” You curl your fingers into the fabric of the sheets beneath you.

Johnny slips another finger into you, and the stretch sets your nerves on fire with a more intense bliss. His mouth returns to your skin, kissing and licking and biting you everywhere.

“Johnny, please…” You reach back to grasp his hair, needing something to hold onto. He slips his right hand to your front, grasping one of your breasts through your shirt and running his thumb over the hardened nipple. You two are a tangle of limbs at this point, blurring into each other in the best possible way.

Your abdomen grows tense and your stomach warms as you come closer to your orgasm. You find yourself gripping Johnny’s arm, wanting him deeper inside of you, yet nearly wishing he’d stop for fear of being overwhelmed.

“Are you gonna come? Good. I wanna feel you gush around me,” Johnny whispers into your ear. He slips his right hand past the collar of your shirt, palming your bare breasts and pinching your nipples between his fingers.

You moan brokenly as the cord tethering you to your composure snaps, making you come and clench around Johnny’s fingers. The sound of him fucking you with his hand grows wetter, and you hear Johnny cursing in response.

Just when you think you can’t take anymore of his fingers curling into your spot, he pulls them out and puts them in his mouth, sucking them clean.

“You taste so good.” Johnny sounds drunk with lust—as if him rutting against your ass wasn’t enough of an indicator. You crane your head towards him, grip his chin, and bring his lips down to yours, tasting yourself on his mouth. He kisses you hungrily as soon as your lips meet. You almost have to pry him away to say your next words.

“I want more...” you say quietly against his lips.

Johnny smirks. “How much more?”

“You know what I want.”

“Hm...do I?”

“John…”

“Yes, queen?”

You blow air through your nose in lieu of cackling outright. “Inside me, please.”

Johnny gives you a soft peck before gripping the waistband of your underwear and pushing it down your legs. You help him slide them off the rest of the way, and he does the same for himself. His dick springs up between you, flushed and wet with precum. He grips it and guides it between your thighs, though he doesn’t enter you just yet.

The tip is sticky as it pokes against your thigh and then slides through your lower lips. You shudder at feeling him so close to you, hard and warm and yearning. He rubs against you like that for a few moments, his shaft stimulating your clit and making you leak onto him even more, his dick glistening with it. Johnny grasps your hip and moves your body in tune with his own movements, and you swear you see a tiny explosion of stars every time the vein on his cock rubs your clit.

“You’re killing me,” you sigh, rolling your head against the pillow before quickly stopping. You don’t need the hassle of retying your scarf if it comes off—and God knows it will if you continue.

“I think I’ve tortured us both enough.” Johnny places the tip at your entrance and slowly inches inside. Even that much makes you gasp, and you continue whimpering as he spreads you open with his thick shaft. Johnny’s breaths grow more labored, and he groans long and low when he finally bottoms out.

There’s little room left for words when he starts thrusting, taking it slower than you expected—but you don’t mind. Even though you’re already soaking and pliable from his earlier actions, he takes his time with fucking into you, guiding you along his length and pushing his hips to meet yours in an intimate rhythm. When he brushes against that same sensitive spot with his dick, you feel like your body’s been gripped with an almost painful kind of pleasure. One that holds onto you and refuses to ever let go.

It’s all so overwhelming.

“I love you,” he moans, pushing his cock in and dragging it back out with all the leisure in the world, “so much.” Your mouth falls open, and you want to say something back, anything, but you can’t make the words come out. Instead, you’re taken aback as tears spring to your eyes, choking you and closing your throat off to any sentiment you might want to express.

This isn’t the first time he’s told you that. You both know this well. But within this context, it makes your head spin with a new kind of dizziness. It all feels so good, too good, too much to bear.

You bite his arm to keep yourself silent, though it’s too late, and he feels your tears dripping onto his skin. Johnny handles you as if you’re made of glass, drawing your face towards his as he looks at you and wipes your wet cheeks. You still aren’t comfortable crying in front of him, but he never minds.

“Look at me,” he says. Johnny’s still moving inside you, sliding into you all slick and deep, and it makes you feel nearly too vulnerable to tolerate, as if you’ve been flayed open. But you do it anyway, latching onto his warm eyes. His skin shines from a thin layer of sweat, and it makes his hair stick to his forehead. The lamp light hitting his face makes his eyes look like two never-ending pools of warm honey, and he cups your face and kisses you tenderly when you lock eyes, and it’s all just too much.

“John, holy fuck.” You don’t really mean to say that, of all things, but it can’t be stopped once your orgasm floods through you, only it isn’t the violent and quick kind—it’s more of a slow buildup that finally bursts apart, spreading ecstasy through your whole body. You moan and tremble uncontrollably as Johnny slowly strokes you through your climax, still rubbing your clit and fucking into you deep.

Everything becomes a tiny bit blurrier for you, but you don’t fail to notice his own reactions as he grows closer, his thighs trembling from the effort of keeping his pace even. Finally, Johnny crushes your body against his as if you could melt together, pulling out to cum over your thighs and stomach. He buries his face into your shoulder and groans against you, and it’s a sound you think you’ll want to hear for the rest of your life. He keeps stroking his dick in between your thighs until he’s spent, his chest heaving from the effort of it all.

You both lie there for a few long minutes, simply trying to catch your breath. You still feel the dried tears on your face, though you try your best to ignore them, not wanting to ruin the moment with unwelcome feelings.

Johnny pulls his hand out of your shirt and sits up, though it takes an extra bit of strength on his part. You feel strangely guilty about how much you dislike suddenly being parted from his touch. As if he can sense your unease, Johnny grasps your hand in both of his and gives it a long kiss before going to the bathroom.

You hear the water running. Then, Johnny comes back quickly with a small towel. He climbs onto the bed and helps you into a sitting position.

“I’m sorry it’s not warm.” He smiles sheepishly, dabbing the washcloth against your cheeks as he erases the remnants of the tears.

You give him a small smile in return. “Nothing on this planet is.”

He cleans the mess he left on your lower body before tending to himself. After he’s done, you both pull your clothes back on—because it’s far too cold to sleep without anything on—and Johnny finally finds a shirt.

In the dark of the room, you curl up against each other to keep out the chill. When you wake up in the morning, you know you’ll be greeted to more cold and snow. It’ll still be days before you can return to your ship. Depending on how many credits are left, you might have to swap a few meals for Reserve Paks instead of eating decent food. You can already taste the lukewarm, oatmeal-like consistency of it in your mouth.

Despite that...you still have your friends and teammates. You still have Johnny. Maybe this could be a peculiar form of happiness. Maybe this could be contentment. Something that belongs wholly to you.

You trace a circle on the back of Johnny’s hand, studying his features illuminated by the moonlight spilling through the blinds. You shuffle closer to be level with his ear, and he blinks at you sleepily.

“I love you too.”

[the-apocryphal-one]

Ebb and Flow

Summary: She has always been watching him, hasn’t she? From the moment she met him. Maybe it was inevitable she would start seeing other things. Astarion x Isaniel

Also check it out on AO3 here and ff.net here!

A/N: whelp, here I am. writing fic with my OCs. that never happens. but this cheeky little bastard left me no choice. I fell in love with him so quickly, I had to write how my character did (or is starting to...getting there...feeling feelings...look we're still in EA and I love slow-burn enemies to lovers).

Minor spoilers ahead!

-

A mix of old paranoia and carefully-honed insight tell Isaniel, from the moment she meets him, that Astarion is suspicious. The only reason she even approaches the grass is because the risk of leaving an intellect devourer on the loose is far greater than the risk of exposing her back to a stranger. One is a dangerous beast that could quickly kill her or innocents if left unchecked; the other, she believes, is just an elf she knows to be wary around. He cannot do anything she is not braced for.

She is wrong. He is far stealthier than she’d expected.

-

After she diffuses the situation and they agree to work together, Isaniel subtly flexes her left hand. His dagger had cut into her palm as she’d struggled to pull it away from her throat. It was deep enough to merit healing, and she knows it’ll scar. A lesson.

It’s not an easy thing, to watch your surroundings and look for other survivors and keep someone in your peripheral vision, but she manages.

-

That night, everyone at camp is wary, watching each other, gauging their trustworthiness. They’re all newly acquainted, a collection of cast-off captives with bombs in their heads. It’s simultaneously the most ironclad and the thinnest of bonds. But gradually, one by one, they drift off.

Isaniel tries not to. Decades of learning to embrace Eilistraee and lower her guard around others have vanished tonight. She sits, staring at Astarion across the fire, and he stares back. His eyes are somehow both jeering and flirtatious, the planes and shadows of his face even more beautiful in the firelight. They sit for hours, just watching each other, her quiet declaration that she wouldn’t turn her back on a stranger heavy between them.

But eventually, exhaustion creeps up on her and slips the trance over her head, and then it is morning.

His smugness is unbearable.

-

Isaniel considers herself a practical woman. You can’t not be and survive the Underdark. She will refuse to give up on a cure until her body physically starts to change, but she knows that the second it does, she wants the others to cut her down—the same way she’d cut them down if they began to transform.

So when Astarion asks how she wants him to kill her should she sprout tentacles, she’s not affronted. She sees it as professional courtesy.

After some thought, she decides on a knife. Poison is not gentle, nor quick. Neither is strangulation. A good, clean thrust to the heart or head, though, will be fast and painless. The best result for her and those around her.

His eyes light up with enthusiasm as he discusses her choice, and Isaniel remembers how quietly he’d snuck up on her. This is not just professional courtesy, she realizes. This is a man who intimately knows the art of death, and loves it. And at that realization, the walls that had started to cautiously lower, just a tad, jerk back into place.

When he finishes, she crosses her arms, cocks her head, smiles coolly. “And you? How shall I kill you?”

His teeth flash an almost unnatural white when he grins. “Oh darling, I’d love to see you try.”

-

The night they gain some leads, she finds him stargazing while doing the rounds of the camp. When she pauses to speak with him, it is surprisingly nice. His quip about “taking or leaving” her chin makes her lips twitch, despite herself. And she can’t help but approve of someone who can also appreciate the beauty of the night sky.

Her eyes seek out the moon instinctively. Her hand closes around her sword pendant for a brief moment. Eilistraee, watch over me.

For a brief heartbeat, an echo of a song floats through her mind. It’s the same music that stopped her dead in a marketplace in the Underdark, so beautiful and ethereal and divine it almost brought tears to her eyes. Isaniel would later learn that Eilistraee was always seeking to touch the hearts of the drow, and had been beyond grateful she’d listened. But at the moment, all she had known was that she could not rest until she’d found that music again. Hearing it again now is a promise.

The notes fade, but she doesn’t feel empty like she did that day in the Underdark. Her goddess is with her and loves her, and there is nothing more comforting in the world than that. Even Astarion seems not so bad in that moment, and they bask together in the companionable silence.

But then he wonders aloud what will happen in the future, and the illusion of safety breaks. She briefly mourns its departure; then, she straightens her shoulders and looks back at reality. And reality includes him.

She gives him a taste of his own medicine: “What? Would you miss me?” He laughs, rises, and compliments her. She accepts it, and in doing so deflects. He flirts, invades her personal space. Out of sheer stubbornness, she refuses to step back. To do so would be to admit that he has unnerved her. It’s not just his proximity; it’s this undercurrent of something.

The dance ends; he leaves. The tension drains out of her body.

-

When she emerges from a restless, unsuccessful trance and finds Astarion leaning over her, Isaniel lashes out. Her elbow catches him square in the jaw; he curses and stumbles back, and she almost attacks while he’s off-balance. But she’s a follower of Eilistraee, and somehow, she’s become the leader of their group. Both of those factors give her a responsibility to hear him out. So, she stomps down on those old, false instincts and lets him talk.

It’s almost a relief to find out he’s a vampire. The secret is out, and now she can deal with it. Really, Isaniel feels like a fool for not putting the pieces together. The sun doesn’t burn her eyes anymore, thanks to the tadpole—why shouldn’t a vampire be able to walk in it as well? But she’d just assumed that his red eyes were indicative of drow blood somewhere in his family, the fangs some form of genetic defect.

Astarion asks her to trust him. Incredulously, she counters that he tried to bite her. He retorts that they need each other. And then he begs for a sip of her blood.

Isaniel takes a deep breath. Looking around, she realizes that their brief scuffle woke the others up. She decides to give them the benefit of the doubt and assumes that they only watch because they’re too surprised to actually do anything. But that’s irrelevant right now. She turns her focus inwards and analyzes exactly how much they need Astarion.

He’s the best among them at picking a lock. His speed is blinding. He’s deadly with his daggers. And he moves so silently…

Losing him would be bad, she has to admit. So: keeping him means feeding him. And logically, it makes sense that a vampire would not find animal blood as nourishing. Oh, she knows he’s manipulative, she doubts he’s telling the whole truth with his “I’ve never fed on humans!” spiel—but she does believe him in that, at least.

She certainly can’t half-starve him, but she will not let him eat innocents. So…what other options are there? Letting him feed off their enemies? Plausible; but that is a question for the morning. Because Astarion is ultimately right: it really comes down to whether she can trust him.

Isaniel doesn’t know what surprises her more: that she does trust him, or that the events of this night haven’t cost him all of it.

Well, she trusts him to an extent. She gives him his share of night shifts, she relies on him in battle, and he has easy access to their food. But that’s trusting him not to kill them; keeping him, knowing what he is, requires trusting him to not lose control. It means trusting that if an emergency happens and he needs their blood, he won’t go into a frenzy and drain them dry.

A test, then. If he reverts to a creature of base instinct, if he cannot be reasoned with, if he tries to kill her, she will kill him. Better to discover the extent of his self-restraint now, while she’s alert and prepared to stop him, than later, when circumstances might not be so fortuitous.

So she sends up a quick prayer to Eilistraee, bares her neck, and lies down.

-

He gets caught up in the moment, but her command to stop brings him out of it easily enough. He lets her go, breathless and smiling, thanks her, and stalks off.

Isaniel can’t be angry at him; after all—and this is very hard to admit, even to herself—she almost got caught up in the moment too.

-

Sometimes she would catch him gazing at the sky, during the day, open wonder on his face. Now she knows why.

Isaniel can understand that. With her eyes no longer burning, she can drink in the tableau around her in a new way. There are shades of color she couldn’t quite discern before, and everything seems so much richer in the sun. How many drow have been able to do this? Very few, most likely.

It’s not enough to make her want to keep the parasite—it could never be enough—but it is something she can’t help but appreciate.

-

The day the sickness strikes, Isaniel gives the order to make camp where they stand, long before night falls. They’re all just too exhausted to keep traveling, even to search for a suitable place to rest.

That’s not the only thing they’re too exhausted for, as it turns out. Not one of them can muster the energy to scout for nearby threats, or camouflage, or stand guard. Even Lae’zel’s attempt at a “mercy kill” is sloppy. They’re all so pathetic a kobold could walk into their midst and kill them.

Between talking Lae’zel down and doing her customary rounds of their parody of a camp, Isaniel’s low energy reserves are completely barren. As she crawls into her bedroll, for some reason, her mind turns back to Astarion’s panic.

He’s usually so self-assured. Smiling in the face of anything. Ready with his rapier wit. The complete unraveling of his composure is…alarming.

But before she can think much more on that, a fresh wave of tremors hits her. She squeezes her eyes shut, curls into a ball, and prays.

-

The next morning, Isaniel wakes up with heartache—and fury.

How dare it? How dare that parasite approach her in the guise of her dead husband? How dare it speak with his voice, ignite her skin with his touch, dishonor his memory by wearing his face? The sickness of the previous night is completely forgotten; instead, she shakes with rage as she brushes her hair, checks her equipment, gears up. Her fingers itch to play her lute and vent it all out in jagged, discordant music—but no. Astarion’s pale form is up and about, but the others are still sleeping.

She pauses and subtly studies him. He looks much better now; his movements are fluid again, his step springy. Even his hair somehow seems extra fluffy.

He turns, catches her staring, and winks. She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch, damn them. Definitely back to normal.

At that, the memory of the dream rears its head. Her anger, which had started to simmer down, flares up anew. Isaniel scowls as she struggles with her sword belt, her normally dexterous fingers made clumsy by emotion. Curse that tadpole to the Hells—

“Well hello! Feeling better, are we?”

Astarions voice rings from right next to her, and she jumps. Eilistraee’s sword, how did she not realize he was a vampire sooner? No one can move that silently and swiftly and still be mortal.

“I certainly am,” he continues, without waiting for her answer. “This morning I find myself free of pain and with a new trick. A new power. Last night, the risk of transformation—it all feels like some terrible dream now.”

A dream…

Isaniel doesn’t know why she opens up to him. Maybe it’s because he’s around and she needs to get it off her chest. Maybe it’s because his witty tongue actually does make her chuckle, despite herself. Maybe it’s because he draws her eyes like the moon draws the tide.

Regardless, she ends up spilling the contents of her dream, anger and pain leaking into her voice. Astarion doesn’t really say anything; he just listens, eyes bright with curiosity and intrigue. But just listening is enough; she can feel an invisible weight lifting off her with every word out of her mouth.

When she finishes speaking—with an exhale of relief—he asks if she enjoyed it. Her fists clench at the memory of that intruder’s touch on her skin. “No, it felt invasive. Uncomfortable.”

“We had the same dream, then. The worm’s trying to be…enticing.”

Had he also seen someone he’d loved? But that blank look, the flat voice…there’s more to it than that, she’s sure. Isaniel hesitates, then pushes him to share. He lent her an ear, in his typical flippant fashion, but an ear nonetheless. It’s only fair to return the favor.

The truth of what he really dreamed about surprises her. She finds herself blurting out, “Your old master? That doesn’t sound ‘enticing’.”

“It was not,” he says, voice raw and low. “I—we don’t need to talk about it.”

And—oh.

That flash in his eyes. That pain.

Her throat closes.

It was brief, but she saw it. She would never mistake it.

It’s the pain of someone who has been trapped in darkness for so long they don’t even know light exists. The pain of someone who lived with cruelty every minute of every hour of every day. The pain of someone who does not let themselves feel pain, does not even acknowledge they are in pain, because that would be weakness and wolves would descend on them if they admitted to that.

It was her pain, before Eilistraee.

Isaniel is not good at comforting people. She knows how to talk people into doing what she wants and how to keep their group more or less from killing each other. But put her in a room with a crying woman or a scared child, and she’s just lost. Emotions are messy and difficult to deal with.

But at this moment, she wants, more than anything, to brave them. To let him know he’s not alone.

She can’t think of anything to say, can’t figure out how to put this epiphany into words, so hesitantly, she reaches out a hand—

And he recoils like a snake. Then, he strikes like one, eyes and fangs flashing, venom flying from his mouth as he renounces her pity.

It’s not pity, she wants to say. It’s not pity, because I know how hard it is to survive an environment that wants more than anything to break you. To pity you would belittle your strength. It’s empathy and support.

But she’s so stunned that by the time she’s able to begin, “It’s not pity,” it’s too late; his retreating back is the only thing that hears her.

-

One of Isaniel’s first memories is of her mother killing her pet bat, then slapping her until she stopped crying.

It was as a lesson, of course: that love was something that would only be exploited. The sort of lesson that every drow child learned young. Other lessons included how to think creatively, hurt others, scheme, and be paranoid—Isaniel still remembers carefully pouring poisons and potions into large, hollow glass beads and stringing them into her jewelry.

The lessons that had really struck a chord with her, though, had been how to create. Her family had been artisans, and had held a relatively secure position as employees to a well-off merchant clan. The plotting hadn’t been as intense as among the nobles, but it was still dangerous. After all, there were rival artisans and rival merchant clans to watch out for or destroy, and Isaniel had done her share of participating in that.

But oh, she had truly loved art, beauty, music. Eilistraee used that to reach her, and through it Isaniel came to love Eilistraee in turn. But it took a long time. Secretly seeking information about that music, a flight from the Underdark, and decades of studying the teachings of Eilistraee, testing them, putting them in practice, before the scars the Underdark left on her had begun to heal. Decades in which she found companionship with others of her faith, met her husband, became a mother…lost her husband to the ravages of time…

And now, after such a long time away from the toxic mindset she grew up with, she has come face to face with someone who embraces it. And she is torn.

There is a part of her, one that Eilistraee has grown and nourished, that is appalled in the face of Astarion’s casual cruelty towards others.

There is a part of her, one that Eilistraee has also grown and nourished, that begs her be compassionate and forgiving.

There is a part of her, one that she has abandoned but clings to her like a ghost nonetheless, that screams at her to end the threat before he ends her.

There is a part of her, one that has been with her as long as she can recall, that sees his trauma, and remembers, and empathizes.

Their experiences are not the same. But the darkness is the same.

She does not know what to make of him. She does not know what she should believe or do about him. So she watches, and speaks with him, and tries to understand.

-

Their travels eventually take them to a swamp, and there, they find a Gur. A monster-hunter. That in itself wouldn’t necessarily mean anything, but it’s foolish not to gauge his intentions, considering her company. So, in-between Astarion’s light insults, she inquires.

He says he’s hunting Astarion. Not to kill him, but to capture him.

Ice settles in Isaniel’s belly.

Capture him. And bring him to his “associates” in Baldur’s Gate. Back to Cazador. Back to the bastard who scarred him down to his very marrow. Back to chains and torment.

That’s not going to happen, she thinks vehemently.

Astarion is practically vibrating in place, his red eyes hard and uncompromising, his hands hovering close to his daggers. And yet, he still waits for her order. Out of genuine respect for her authority? Trust that she’ll neutralize the hunter? She’s not sure, but something about it is…a little touching.

She gives the word, and he lunges.

-

The battle with Auntie Ethel is tough, but manageably so. They all stay away from the cliff edges and destroy her illusionary copies as soon as they appear, they put out the fires near Mayrina and keep her out of harms’ way, and while the hag’s spells are powerful, they all somehow manage to avoid the worst of the damage.

But Auntie Ethel is one of those types. The type that likes to taunt and mock with a loud, clear voice that rings across the battlefield. And through some hag witchery, she knows how to hit where it hurts.

“Is there still rat stuck in your teeth, slave?”

She’s not near him, but Isaniel can see Astarion’s flinch—then his strikes resume, much faster and more furious than before. Her own teeth grind with outrage and sympathy, and she redoubles her efforts, and soon the hag is brought down.

She is not feeling quite as sympathetic when, after bidding a crestfallen Mayrina farewell, Astarion blithely remarks that it was a pity the young mother-to-be couldn’t see the funny side in her husband being resurrected as a zombie.

-

And yet, he voiced his approval back when they helped Karlach.

It’s not like that outweighs it. Life isn’t a set of scales. Helping one woman doesn’t balance out being amused at another’s pain. The people Isaniel hurt back in the Underdark wouldn’t care or forget just because she helped someone else now. Words and actions have permanent, tangible impacts.

It’s not like she wants to “fix” Astarion, either. People can’t be “fixed”. They can be broken or damaged by others—but never returned to who they once were. They carry the scars and lesions on their heart, like Isaniel does. With time and support, they hopefully heal, but that’s only if they want to.

It’s more like—and she might be projecting a bit, or biased because of her past—remembering Karlach gives her hope that Cazador didn’t destroy Astarion’s humanity.

-

Maybe it was inevitable.

Isaniel weaves throughout the party, smiles freely, even dances and sings. It’s impossible not to—the tiefling’s joy is infectious, the gentle warmth of the wine is infusing her body, and the moon is full and smiling overhead. All of her problems will still be there tomorrow, but tonight is a night for forgetting, and celebrating, and living.

The back of her neck prickles, again. This time she doesn’t ignore it. This time, she turns, somehow already knowing what she’ll see.

Sure enough, there’s Astarion, lurking on the fringes of the party, a glass of wine in hand, eyes fixed on her. Under the moonlight, his hair is practically glowing, his skin silver-tinted. He looks like some ethereal king of night and winter, standing there silhouetted against the darkness. It’s striking.

Striking. Oh.

She has always been watching him, hasn’t she? From the moment she met him. Maybe it was inevitable she would start seeing other things.

A jostle jars her out of her thoughts; she’d stopped moving right in the midst of the dancers. She mutters an apology to the tiefling couple and hastily clears the floor. Glances up again.

Astarion is still watching her.

Before she consciously decides to do it, her feet take her towards him. She falters when her mind catches up to her body, almost turns and runs. There’s something in his eyes, something in the air, something between them that crackles with intensity and promise.

But it’s too late to run—he’s coming towards her, too. Her heart lodges itself in her throat. Stay strong, she tells herself.

Whether she wants that strength to resist the shifting currents in their relationship or to swim towards them, she does not know.

[artnerd1123]

Among Us: CR3WM8TS

Beneath the Waves ——————————————

It’s not just the humans who do the exploring. Especially when their ships are so easy to poke around in... 

Among Us archive/askblog Fic chapters post

——————————————

at long last!!! we have the introduction of a very special guest! and by that, i mean the one member of the crew who has yet to appear LKSJDF. that’s right, it’s nubnub’s debut! hope y’all enjoy :D

and big big shoutout to @vaaloirr​ for proofreading this for me!!!!!! y’all should check hir out, ze’s rlly rad :>

                                                 ###~###~###

SHIP SYSTEM LOG REPLAY: TIMESTAMP [HR:MIN:SEC]: 01:27:02 AFTER ARRIVAL

System setting: DOCKED [STORAGE AND VENT MONITORING]

Location: SECTOR G Ship Status: DOCKED AT [PLANET 326-OCE-894 - SECTOR G] Course: N/A Systems: 

Supplies: [ONE] CRATES SHORT  

Storage Chutes: CLEAR

Vents: CLEAR

…

Supplies: [ONE] CRATES SHORT  

Storage Chutes: MATERIAL BUILDUP DETECTED  

Vents: CLEAR

…

Supplies: [ONE] CRATES SHORT  

Storage Chutes: CLEAR

Vents: CLEAR

                                                  ###~###~###

Today was a better day. A simple statement, with much behind it. A better day implied much. It needed a reason. Something to set it apart from the others in a positive manner. To those who cared, it all boiled down to the sky’s sudden roaring. That meant whatever was living above the water might be leaving a gift instead of pain.

The first time it happened, everyone had fled to the deep. The sky was not meant to roar. When it did, it could mean many things. None of them were positive. It could mean death- the large beaked horrors that flew about above the waves were merciless with their soft-bodied kind. It could mean fire raining from above- rare, yes, but it had taken one too many of them for their liking. It could mean horrible flashes of light- the huge crackles of terrifying light leaving those too close to the surface charred and twitching. This time, they expected no different. The seas were always one to change. But danger never had. So when the roaring died down to bring a myriad of different noises, different lights cast into the water and towards the sky, no one was sure what to think. Many wanted to move out of the area. There was more reef, sure. Plenty far away from whatever was scuttling around on the coral. Some wanted to wait in the deep, confident the sky’s beasts would finish off beings that tried to live on the surface. An idiotic choice, with them around. And still others… well. They were a curious species, after all. It was only a matter of time before they found out the strangers had something useful.

                                                 ###~###~###

The sky finished roaring not too long ago. The water surrounding the coral island seemed to have settled. But all was not as it appeared. Just out of sight, a quartet of scarlet eyes quietly watched the goings-on of the strange house. They guessed that’s what it was- in the handful of months the strangers had been here, the multicolored figures always seemed to retreat inside. There was all manner of things stored in there. They hadn’t gotten a good look, of course- their curiosity wouldn’t lead them headfirst into danger- but peeks in the windows showed plenty of shiny metals and blinking lights. Not to mention they’d sometimes take the top of their shiny coverings off. It was a shock to see that for the first time. But their rainbow of smooth coverings just made them all the more intriguing. It seemed to factor into their very social fabric! The strangers were fascinating to watch. Fascinating to hear, too. The strangers’ voices carried over in the sea salt breeze, making the creature’s smaller set of ears flick forwards. They had to wait until they heard the right thing to head inside. The sounds these strangers made were in some sort of odd, squeaking tongue. Like the delphiins, if a bit deeper in pitch. It didn’t take too long of observing to realize it was a language. Didn’t take too long for those of their people who remained to try and understand it. The creature was certainly doing their best. It took a lot of work, a lot of watching, and a lot of listening. They were getting the hang of it well enough, so they thought. But observation wasn’t what the hidden swimmer was here for today. They eased a bit closer, their large pink back tentacles holding tight to the side of the coral island. Their back claws scraped lightly against the webbed rock, front paws flexing impatiently. Peeking around the side of the strangers’ house, they spotted plenty of them moving about outside. That might’ve been a problem. The sight of them swarming about large capsules, though, put their mind at ease. Ah, yes. The strangers brought each other containers from far away. They didn’t seem to hunt or farm at all, or sit out in the sun long enough to survive, so they needed sustenance from their brethren. Fair enough. Their first set of eyes trailed wishfully after the multicolored swarm and their capsule. The other set strayed to the place it emerged from. It was some sort of house that flew- they’d heard it roar in and out of the sky plenty of times. They also knew that’s where the capsules were kept. Their mind wandered briefly back to the time- a few weeks after the strangers appeared- that their friends and themself managed to knock one of the capsules into the sea. Oh, how they’d feasted on all the food inside… The months after were just full of finding the best ways to get at them. And, of course, how to recognize which capsules had food, and which ones had more strange metal objects. They’d never have to worry about food again, so long as these strangers were around. Of course, there was still the matter of getting the capsules in the first place. Which was easier said than done. They’d been careful to keep track of what colors they saw as the strangers scurried past. In previous trips, their friends had been able to steal an unused covering to sneak around the ship. They noticed the strangers got rather distressed if they saw more than three of the same color walking around during a drop off. They got nervous if there were two, if the other flying house was absent. They’d all whisper about some “eemposster,” and then the creature and their friends would have to lay low for awhile. The bad thing about a drop off like this is that you didn’t know which suits would be in the house. From the looks of it, the creature would be hard pressed to find an unused color. So, waiting on plan B it is. As worried as the strangers were about those “eemposters,” they didn’t seem to guard their flying house after removing their capsules. They had no reason to, they supposed. They had what they wanted. The creature ducked under the waves, tentacles pulling them along the rocks and coral. Their brown fur and bright teal accents kept them relatively well hidden, though the business of unloading capsules did the job better. They popped the top of their head out once they reached the back of the flying house. One pair of ears flicked forwards, they listened carefully to the strangers’ conversation. One of them- a green one with a star shaped marking- was busy talking with another- a bright blue one with a similar star mark. They were leaders, if their observations were right. The green one was gesturing to the flying house, saying something about ‘crayts’ and ‘dun unlohding.’ The blue one seemed pleased by this. As did the creature. Those words- ‘dun unlohding’- was the all clear they’d been waiting for. Turning their attention to the flying house, the creature approached it carefully. There would be a hatch somewhere they could get in… they just needed to remember where it- aha! There, near the water- a hatch surrounded in yellow and black stripes. They chirped to themself excitedly, suckers glowing in satisfaction.  They darted closer, eyes fixed on their prize. Once they were under the hatch, they carefully reached a pair of tentacles up towards it. They made sure their suckers had a nice grip on the metal before drawing their body up too. They studied the hatch carefully, their remaining tentacles helping anchor them to the metal surface. It was closed tight, a squarish pattern locking the sides together. Fortunately, this flying house seemed a bit old. The doors weren’t as tightly sealed as they usually were. The creature stuck the tips of their claws in the crack, wiggling and scraping at it until they had a good purchase. Grip established, they carefully braced themself against the side. And yanked. The resulting screech of stubbornly moving metal made them cringe, but there was no shout of confusion from back on the island. They squinted as they yanked again, metal groaning in protest. But it gave away soon enough. It always did. They grabbed the edges of the hatch with their tentacles once it was open enough, holding it so they could squeeze inside. These were the times they were glad their body was so malleable. A dark, dirty metal tunnel yawned before them. They chittered again as their claws hit the floor, proud of themself for sneaking in. Of course, their pride faded the second their tentacles let go of the hatch sides. It shut with a rather loud slam. They didn’t manage to clamp their mouth shut before a surprised shriek slipped out. They slapped their front paws over their mouth, curling into an anxious ball. Had anyone heard them??? Was it over??? They sat silent in the dark for a couple minutes. Waiting. Nervous. … when nothing happened, they let the tension leave their body. Ok. It was ok. They’d just. Move a little quicker this time. Turning their back to the hatch, they started crawling up the tunnel. The dark was no problem- they could see just fine. Not to mention the soft teal glow of their suckers and short horns. It made the whole place feel like a sea cave… if a bit stranger to move in. After all, there was no water up here. They reached another hatch soon enough- it was outlined with the same yellow and black stripes, some red squiggles above it like a label. They weren’t even gonna try to decipher what it said. But they knew it was their way in. They were more cautious with this next hatch, squeezing through carefully and slowly easing the sides back together. It still gave a louder thunk than they preferred, but it was leagues quieter than the last time. Hatch troubles taken care of, they let their gaze trail to the room around them. It was a tall one, with plenty of large capsules sitting around. Some of them even sat on top of each other. The thought of all the food inside was already making their mouth water, tongues lolling out of their mouth… … They shook themself out of it. Focus!!! They scolded themself. They still had to find a food capsule. They took a moment to tuck their tentacles into their back- no need to leave them out to hit things in such a cramped space- before slinking towards the nearest capsule. It was large. Too large to get out of the hatch, unfortunately. But they gave it a sniff anyway, hoping there’d be something worth snagging. The scent of iron and copper greeted them. They curled up their lip with an unhappy chirp. No, not that one. They moved on to another one a little closer to the entryway, tail flicking eagerly.

The process of sniffing and poking at capsules continued for longer than the creature would’ve liked. All the food was better hidden for some reason- it was frustrating. Eventually, though, they rooted out a small capsule that smelled absolutely tantalizing. They stood over it gleefully, claws twitching in eagerness. If it wasn’t foolish, they’d rip it open and chow down right this very moment. However, this wasn’t their home. And they didn’t know how long the strangers would stay away. So they grabbed the capsule, digging their claws through the steel outside to gain a hold. Their tentacles slithered out of their back, lifting their body off the ground as they held the capsule protectively. From there, they picked their way across the room and back to the hatch. It was a little harder to get it open this time. Not necessarily because they couldn’t use their front paws- that was fine- but rather they had to use another set of tentacles to do so. As strong as they were, the slimmer ones on their arms had no suckers to help hang on. But they managed in the end. It was a straight shot back down to the other hatch once they were through. They’d figured out the one in the other room, so this? This was a cinch.

The only signals that anything was amiss was a metallic thunk as the hatch closed, and quiet ripples as the creature disappeared under the waves.

                                                ###~###~###

SHIP SYSTEM REALTIME LOG: System setting: DOCKED [STORAGE AND VENT MONITORING]

Location: SECTOR G Ship Status: DOCKED AT [PLANET 326-OCE-894 - SECTOR G] Course: N/A Systems:

Supplies: ERROR - RELOADING…

Storage Chutes: CLEAR

Vents: CLEAR

...

Supplies: ERROR - RELOADING…  

Storage Chutes: BLOCKAGE DETECTED - PLEASE EMPTY

Vents: CLEAR

…

Supplies: [TWO] CRATES SHORT  

Storage Chutes: CLEAR

Vents: CLEAR

[zippers-flowers-and-wine]

so im a bit too nervous for kisses...… can I pet all of the mers hair? getting your hair pet or massaged always feels nice, for me at least (please dont murder me im scared)

They all pause, and you can see Narancia vibrate from where he's being held back, Mista's hand (and a tentacle.. Or two... Maybe 5) being the only thing keeping him from launching himself across the glass once again. Giorno smiles serenely when you give him a questioning look. "Although Narancia may be a favoured member of my cluster, I believe he's gone first quite a few times now, let's have..."

His green eyes flick upwards, gleaming as he eyes someone. "Fugo?"

The lionfish blinks, lifting his non-lethal wrist and bicep fins with a curious trill. Making some sort of high pitched squeal, clearly a beckoning calll, Giorno motions him over.

Eyeing his leader warily, because Giorno was often a bit of a asshole trickster, Fugo glides over. "Yes Giorno?"

Even under Fugo's piercingly scrutinizing stare, Giorno's facial features hardly even twitch, although a small flex of his tail may have given him away. Dude would be wicked good at poker if he ever got into that kinda stuff. "Lean down will you? I believe our dear asker wants to give us something."

Fugo purses his lips, squinting so hard that the stripes beneath his eyes scrunch up. It's clear he wants answers, and judging by the way Giorno drifts backwards, the pod's head isn't going to give him any. Sensing that, Fugo glances back at you, scanning your face with a sharp eye but ultimately sighing and doing as asked. You do your best to stay blank, though it's really hard with the most unstable mer staring at you so intently even as he leans within range.

"What is it that you wanted t-"

Willing yourself not to chicken out, and also hoping he doesn't nip at you for surprising him, you shove your hand into his thick hair, making him choke in his words.

Not giving him a chance to pull away, you scratch your nails lightly against his scalp, watching his shoulders droop along with his poisonous dorsal fins and he subtly pushes back into your hands. Your nails are gentle on his scalp, applying barely there pressure in random spots until Fugo shivers under your attention, so you pull back a bit, concerned. He doesn't let you move too far, looping his arms around your waist to pull you against his chest which makes him rest some of his weight against you.

You yip his name, still worried but a subtle vibration that ripples up and down your chest makes you pause. He's... He's purring. You peek up at him, carefully resting a hand back onto his head. Fugo clicks, nuzzling his face into your neck and shivering again. Right, so shivers are actually a good thing. Okay, good to know. Feeling a little braver as you internally awe at him, you reach back up to take in the texture of his hair. It's a little coarse, which is to be expected since he lived in saltwater, but you didn't expect it to have a wavy underside.

Gliding up to his three, hanging bangs, you lightly rake your nails across the skin between them. Its seems to please him, making him almost more boneless than he already was.

Eyeing his ears, you take a breath nd gently scratch behind one. Fugo jolts, purrs becoming nearly thunderous as the fins flare out to give you more room to work. You drag a nail across the thin membrane stretching between the spines, tracing said spines up near the tip as feather light as possible and that seems to break him.

He makes an unintelligible noise, one that's garbled and slurred and he yanks away from you to slink further into the water. Fugo is red from head to toe... Er..? Tail fin? Caudal fin? Whatever, he's blushing brightly, and so are you, and wow all this affection is intense huh?

When you finally get the courage to actually look at him, you find that Fugo looks a little dumbstruck. His eyes are unfocused, staring dazedly at you with a sort of quiet reverence, and he looks really fidgety; rubbing his knuckles, flaring his spines and twitching in his spot. Giorno drifts back into your line of sight, opening his arms and you gawk a little when Fugo happily nuzzles into the somewhat smaller lionfish. Spotting your surprised look, the blond chuckles."Yes, I probably should have mentioned this."

Bruno slithers forth, waving off the young leader. "I've got this, you go bring him down." Giorno nods, turning back to purr and coo at a blissed out Fugo. You can't help the small bubble of worry that blisters up into your throat, choking you with a small amount of guilt.

Like some kind of psychic, Bruno hums, "You're probably wondering what's wrong with him, right?" You nod, skin itching with the need for answers. Bruno reaches out, smoothing a hand across your tensed shoulder as he purrs. "He's fine, just... Hmm? I believe a proper comparison would be to say he's in a sort of "subspace" at the moment." You immediately turn red, unnoticed by Bruno who is turned around to watch their blond leader gently smother Fugo, who is eating the affection up. "Giorno apparently forgot to warn you about that part of our species."

He retreats into himself for a moment, thinking with a hand on your shoulder and the other pressing into a loose fist.

"Alright, it seems like we may have to have a small lesson in cluster bonding." You parrot the last two words back at him, confused. "Yes, cluster bonding." Bruno flicks his body, pulling himself up to rest on the glass. His posture is rather stiff, upright, with his chest subtly puffed out and his hands folded onto his lap. "Touch is a big thing for merfolk, much bigger than it is for humans. In fact, what humans may perceive as harassment, uncomfortably personal contact, or even just a general invasion of one's comfort zone is usually something different for merfolk."

He hums, taking breath before humming. "You see, every touch a mer gives out has meaning. Sometimes it's very straightforward, like if a male wanted to... Inform a female that he was sexually available, he'd initiate some sort of sexual contact." When you stare at him with most deadpan look ever, he demonstrats by resting his weight on one arm, and grinding his hips upwards. Oh... Oh my god.

Satisfied you now know what he means, Bruno resumes, "More subtle things, like shoulder, arm and hand touches are considered friendly, under general contexts and situations." You have a somewhat nagging feeling you know where this is headed. Bruno easily takes note, nodding.

"It seems you understand where I'm going with this." He seems amused by your now permanently flushed face, his lips quirked to the side as his small, triangular pelvic fins flutter. "Head, neck and fin contact is something generally reserved for cluster, or even podmates, although it's not uncommon for merfolk to allow people outside of their pods to do so. It sends us into a highly vulnerable blissed out state, as you can see with Fugo." He tilts his head over his shoulder, guiding your attention to said merman.

It seems as if he's mostly recovered, still leaning against Giorno with Mista wrapped around his shoulder. He looks relaxed, although he is still purring hard enough for the water around him to ripples consistently. "I do know, however, that some humans consider it very similar to having sex. That's why I must ask..." You look back at the eel, freezing when you realize that those guarded blue eyes are mere inches from your own.

"Do you still want to follow through with your request?"

[intruality-overlord]

Why Are We (Best) Friends?

Warnings: excessive swearing, alcoholism, mentions of drugs, drug use, suggestive humor, implied sexual content (no smut), some gore descriptions. Generally, Remus stuff.

Taglist: @blogging-time @veraisnotfine @littlestr @jessibbb @broken-pens @hi-its-tutty @idkanameatall @moxiety--sanders101 @theyluna-womoon

Let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist! Updates every Wednesday/Thursday. *yeets fluff for thy soul’s consumption*

Chapter Six: Ducks

Bubble Bath

August 14th, 2018.

“Five? Normally you’re sated by three,” Patton said incredulously.

Sloshing water over the tub’s edge, their knees knocked together. Patton and Remus’s bones had become saturated with warm water, and the bubbles were seeping in now too.

“I got worked up badly.”

“But five!—“ Patton’s rasping voice broke into a cough. Remus reached out on impulse to touch his throat as if to soothe. It at least brought comfort as Patton pressed into the heat of his palm. The action encouraged Remus to curl his fingers, but he didn’t dare apply any pressure. Turning relaxed and pliable, the full, bowling ball weight of Patton’s head fell trustingly in his grip. Even his eyes slipped closed, the little puppy.

(Poor, touch starved thing, taking every morsel of affection so hungrily like it could cure years of neglect.)

“I’m sorry,” he sincerely said, “I shouldn’t of— I, I never should have asked this of you.” Gaze settling on the froth of bubbles steadily dissolving in the water, his hand fell away.

Only for Patton to catch it. He brought Remus’s hand to his lips, kissing the back like a gentleman. He shook his head fondly. “I know I can say no. Stop worrying.”

“Yeah, but still, Moonshine. I should restrain myself more—”

Sparing his tender throat, Patton abandoned his voice in favour of booping Remus’s nose. That shut him up. He choked on a surprised laugh, tossing his head back. Wanting to giggle himself, Patton just smiled at him while his stomach clenched. When Remus stopped laughing, he winced and rubbed the back of his neck.

Patton tugged Remus forward by his hand still clasped in his, and positioned him with his back to his chest. Deft hands delicately came to hold Remus’s neck, just beneath his jaw. His thumbs threaded into the baby hairs at his nape. (The brief thought of being strangled to death, his body left floating in the bathtub framed as a tragic, accidental drowning crossed his mind. Remus had the compulsion to blurt it out, yet ground his teeth.) Tilting his head just so… Click-ck! And the other way… Cra-a-ack. Air trapped between the segments popped like thunder. Shivers ran through him, soothing the kink in his neck, but consequently triggering a different kink (one he didn’t even know he had until right then). “God, I didn’t realise I needed that,” he sighed appreciatively.

Migrating, Patton settled one hand on Remus’s ribs flexing from the aftershocks of his boisterous, rumbling laughter. Patton could feel Remus’s scurrying rabbit heart. De-dum, de-dum— de-de-de-dum, dum. De-dum. Remus’s rabbit heart hopped beneath his palm. Loud, rough, and wild, it nudged at Patton affectionately. His heart had always beaten a little faster, a little harder. A little more passionate than it should, leading it to stumble and hiccup occasionally. Every beat, his heart plucked his muscles like the strings of a viola, each pizzicato note a jolt singing through his body. In contrast, the base of his lungs took short yet deep breaths. Wisps of curly, deep cinnamon seasoned, caramel chest hair grasped and coiled around Patton’s fingertips.

Then, trying to coax out another laugh, Patton ruffled his hair.

And white powder clinging on got displaced from Remus’s fringe, sprinkling the water and suds.

Patton gasped, “That’s why!” (The “I should’ve known” went unsaid.) Being so used to seeing that streak of silver, Patton had forgotten entirely how and why it was there in the first place.

…

“I tried to distract myself but the two weren’t a good combination.”

Trust

February 7th, 2019.

Glue splattered on Patton’s face as soon as he popped up in Remus’s room. (Well, he thought it was something else first, but quickly noticed it was stone cold, so no.) Fucking perfect. Patton had just walked in on the funeral of a monstrous glob of red and white paper mache of intimidating stature. It had a fresh, gaping, fist sized hole in it, dripping like a miscellaneous orifice.

Mindlessly munching on a pencil, Remus stood back to scrutinise his work. That wouldn’t do. Remus summoned his Morningstar over his shoulder. “How do you like this, katoptronophile?!” Remus cackled. His morningstar ploughed through the mache mound vaguely where a head would be in one swift(ish) swing. More pulp splattered Patton’s face.

“Really, Remouse?” He whined exasperatedly. Only just noticing him, Remus chirped, “Patton! Could you help me hide the body? I don’t have enough stomach acid to dissolve the whole corpse. Wait—” Remus spat out his chew toy of a pencil, carving “ass” into the remaining mulch puddle like a signature. “Hope Double Dee won’t be too heartbroken,” he muttered thoughtfully, “Eh, whatever.”

“Dear lord, you’re high as a kite.”

“High as a kite? Kites can’t go to space!” Remus babbled, doing a little theatrical twirl. “Think of what kind of aliens you can find in space! Do you think any of them have tentacles?!” Losing his balance, he stumbled into Patton slumping on his shoulder. Unbothered, Patton patiently waited for Remus to right himself whenever he wanted.

“Did you get stuck into the cookie jar again?” Patton asked casually as he wiped and flicked off various substances from his face and glasses. Doing a double take, that red better not be blood. Using blood sweat and tears isn’t ethical, they’ve talked about this!

“What? No! Of course not! Now, Puppy, why have you got a rabbit on your head and haven’t even introduced me yet?! Who’s this little handsome little fella? He looks like a George,” and Remus dissolved into a fountain of cooing while he ran his fingers through Patton’s hair. (Patton tried not to fucking moan at how good his nails felt scraping against his scalp.)

“Oh, the shrooms…” Patton sighed, “His name is Harold. Harold George—“

“The third! I remember now! How could I forget you? You’re so soft.”

Indulging Remus was Patton’s favourite hobby.

“God, you’re so soft I wanna strangle you and skin you so I can have your soft fur all to myself,” Remus ranted and Patton tried not to show fear. It wasn’t that hard, really... Mostly because he was trying even harder to choke down a begging whimper scrambling onto his tongue. Remus grabbed chunks of his hair in each fist tugging lightly. Patton reminded himself that they weren’t impulses Remus would act on and that he had these thoughts constantly just didn’t tend to share them. “But I won’t cause you’re just too cute, my little mammal brethren.”

Patton wasn’t as cute as his bunny, he thought, but he’d take the compliment.

“Hey do you want some?” Remus offered his pencil to “Harold.”

…

“Fine, suit yourself.” And he ate the rest like a carrot.

Shoulders slacking, Patton huffed fondly.

“I kind of wish you were like this— open— more…” Patton smoothed down Remus’s wrinkled clothes. “I hope you know you don’t need to filter everything you say,” he continued as he fixed his mussed hair with practiced hands. “It doesn’t change anything. You’re my best friend. I’ll never stop loving you, all of you. I don’t love you in spite of your so-called flaws, I love those parts of you just as much as the rest of you.”

That’s what true love means, whatever form it shall take.

Patton made a mental note to tell him that again once he came down. (Sometime, eventually…)

Remus wrapped him in a bear hug, squeezing just tight enough that he felt his ribs flex, but not painfully. “Whoa,” Remus said when he pulled back, eyes wide, “You should keep your skin on, bones and muscle isn’t a good look for you.”

“Silly Snow Bunny.”

Butterfly Kisses

April 16th, 2019.

“You know, once Thomas asked us all to say “I love you” to each other.”

Remus looked up from his sketchbook that rested on Patton’s arm looped around him. It was a typical day bundled in cat and kraken onesies respectively.

“…yeah?” He encouraged him to continue. How Patton’s pitch dropped made Remus draw suspenseful suspicions. Taking a sip of his rum, Patton prepared himself for potential embarrassment. He tapped his glass, listening to the quiet ringing it sang.

“I… I told them all that I loved them. So much. And I really meant it,” Patton said, earnestness framing his words. “I told them that I would give them all butterfly kisses,” Patton chuckled at his own stupid, emotional-ness, “which they ignored, of course.”

Remus leaned backwards into Patton’s chest, trading comfort in the currency of body heat. Peach pink lips mulling over heavy words came into view as Remus tipped his head back. He rested his head on his collarbone, and Patton’s breath rustled his hair. He listened intently— Listened closer to these next heavy words than Patton’s previous ramblings. “But—” Patton swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing, “But Logan could hardly get out the words, Roman was really reluctant, and Virgil refused to say it entirely.”

“Well, I love you,” Remus said, no hesitation.

Patton was star struck.

“R-really?”

“You’re my best friend. Of course I do,” Remus said like it was a no brainer— Since it was.

Voice muffled in his next sip, Patton softly said, “You’re my best friend, too.” He was smiling so much, and ended up biting the glass he hid behind. Mustn’t giggle and disturb the lake of quaint quiet with ripples.

“Butterfly kisses are the ones with the eyelashes, right?”

“Uh-m, yea— huh?”

In Patton’s lap, he craned his neck over his shoulder rather than swiveling around. Leaning in, warm huffs of air skating across their skin, he fluttered his eyelashes against Patton’s cheek. His nose prodded lightly at Patton’s jaw. Specks of white powder dusted onto his cheek from Remus’s fringe, which he quickly wiped off.

Patton became still and quiet as dawn. Dawn when the moon hasn’t said goodbye, and the birds haven’t said good morning yet.

“Teacup?” Remus murmured worriedly. Did he overstep a line (drawn in chalk and scrubbed away by time)? No, no— “Thomas must remember that icecream he ate yesterday, should I fetch some from the kitchen?” Remus attempted to quickly mend.

“No…” Pin drop silence squeezed between their synced inhale and exhale.

“No, jus…” Patton drifted off, setting down his half empty glass. (In second thoughts, he hoped he hadn’t drunk enough to fray or lose this memory.) His newly empty arm draped around Remus’s torso, and Remus tugged his arms close like a well worn winter coat.

“Stay…”

Next Chapter:

[nomolosk]

Snapshots (AU Yeah August 2020)

read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25655623/chapters/62626303

Day 8- Secret Dating

Marinette had no idea what she was doing or even what was going on. One moment she was convinced that she’d gravely offended Gabriel Agreste, who had rudely fallen on top of her while she was sleeping the night before, and the next she’s feeling disoriented and confused because the man she thought was Gabriel Agreste actually turned out to be his son, Adrien Agreste. 

Marinette really felt like that was something she should have known. Why didn’t she know that before? Adrien was a public figure! His face was all over billboards on a regular basis! He featured in every Gabriel magazine, and his ads were in most other magazines as well. She should have been able to recognize him, or even remember that Gabriel had a son, and she should have noticed that the man last night looked too young to be Gabriel himself. She remembered all of that as soon as the man introduced himself properly, so why hadn’t she remembered it before?

On top of that confusion, was the fact that not only was he not offended by last night’s mistake, he was the same hot model from the cafe! Marinette knew she was scatterbrained sometimes, but surely even she couldn’t forget something like that!

Something was definitely rotten in the state of Denmark. Or Paris, at any rate. And it was probably due to some kind of akuma. This one, though, was apparently very subtle. Marinette continued to make small talk with this unfairly hot and inexplicably interested model while she tried to sort out what was going on and how she really felt. The manipulation of her own emotions wasn’t entirely out of the picture if there was an akuma involved. Then someone else called his name and annoyance and distaste flitted over his face before he smoothed out his expression into something polite.

The woman who’d called his name was probably another model, someone he worked with- she was tall and beautiful and projected an air of, not just confidence, but possessiveness. She latched onto Adrien’s arm as if she was a cat, and he was a scratching post. Marinette’s eyes flicked to his face again, but while his expression didn’t waver, he was looking anywhere but her- which in itself was a huge warning sign. He was clearly used to this behavior and as clearly wished it wasn’t happening.

“Adrien! Fancy meeting you here!” The brunette simpered, completely ignoring Marinette.

“It should hardly be a surprise to you, Lila,” Adrien answered calmly. “I’m sure you overheard Nathalie giving me my schedule for today after last night’s photoshoot.”

Marinette raised an eyebrow at the emphasis on ‘overheard,’ turning slightly away from them to rearrange some of the jewelry on the table, trying to decide which piece would best suit the woman. She had warm coloring, so gold or brass toned, maybe copper… Marinette suppressed a smile as Lila sputtered a bit.

“You know I’m just concerned about your health, Adrien,” Lila finally cooed at him. Marinette could practically hear her pout. “Your father works you awfully hard, and I almost never see you outside of work.”

“If you’re so concerned about it, perhaps you should be a little more cooperative during our photoshoots so they don’t drag on for forever.”

The woman named Lila laughed, “But Adrien, you know your father relies on me to make sure all our pictures together are just to die for!”

By this time Marinette had finished straightening, and had picked out something she thought would suit the woman. There was currently a mania for ocean-themed jewelry, and an eight-stranded gold chain bracelet with an octopus charm would suit Lila. She picked it up and turned back to them, just in time to see Adrien looking pointedly away from Lila as the woman in question tried to plaster herself to his side, with her face tilted up in what was probably supposed to be an inviting way.

Marinette blinked at this blatant display, but she’d already decided to interfere, so she spoke up anyway. Ironically, Lila’s current position made the octopus charm even more fitting for her. Marinette could practically see the invisible tentacles she was trying to wind around her fellow model.

“This bracelet would suit you, Madame,” Marinette said, in her best salesperson tone. “The delicate gold chains compliment without overwhelming, and the charm in the shape of an octopus is the latest trend.” She draped the bracelet over a stand she’d made herself and held it out for her to see. 

Lila looked at Marinette blankly, as if surprised to find her standing there. Her mouth opened a little, and she actually allowed an inch of space to open up between herself and her prey. Marinette noticed but tried not to show her satisfaction. She was conscious of Adrien turning his head to look at her, too, but she didn’t take her focus off the woman in front of her.

“Oh! Ah…” Lila’s posture and expression both softened, conveying apology. “I’m so sorry. How rude of me to ignore you like that.” One hand flew to her chest, presumably in embarrassment, but Marinette had seen that maneuver too many times before to believe it. She was simply trying to draw attention to her ‘assets.’ “I just saw my Adrien here, and everything else vanished! You know how it is when you’re in love,” Lila simpered, throwing an adoring look towards Adrien.

Adrien snorted. “We are not dating,” he said firmly, making eye contact with Marinette and gesturing between himself and Lila.

“Well… not officially,” Lila in a lowered tone, with a coy look and a wink.

“Not officially, and not at all,” Adrien clarified. “Not even a little bit.”

“That’s right!” Lila said brightly, smiling and winking again. “Not dating officially, or at all!” 

Yet, despite agreeing with Adrien, she tried to cozy up to him again. Adrien leaned away from her.

Marinette narrowed her eyes. This could be a clever plot to throw sand in the eyes of the paparazzi, but she hardly counted as paparazzi, and it was hard not to notice the thinly veiled disgust in Adrien’s eyes. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” she heard herself say. “I know all about that.”

----

For the second time in two days, Adrien was surprised to the point of being stunned by this woman. Most people, when confronted by Lila’s well practiced acting and lies, rolled over and believed every little thing out of her mouth. That was why he was so determined to make it clear to Miss Dupain-Cheng that there was nothing between him and Lila. Yet Lila, of course, had managed to make his firm declaration sound like nothing more than a cover up. She was trying to imply they were dating in secret, and he had been just about to deny that categorically when the woman he had a real interest in took charge of the conversation.

“Oh, don’t worry. I know all about that,” she said with a sweet smile. “I was trying to be discreet earlier, but now that you’ve shown you recognize me, I can be more open. Right, Adrien?”

Adrien quickly nodded, even though he had no idea what this woman was planning, and turned to see Lila’s reaction.

“Recognize you?” Lila asked in some hesitation. Adrien had to give her credit for acting. Anyone else would have put scorn in that question, trying to put this interloper in her place, but Lila didn’t know what she was up against, and was playing it safe with a sweeter tone.

“Of course!” MDC said (at some point he should really learn her first name). “Adrien talks about you all the time- you know, how professional you are at photoshoots, and how you play along like you really do like him. We’re both grateful, you know. In fact, why don’t I make you a gift of this bracelet? It’s the least I can do after you’ve selflessly taken so much of the heat off him.”

Adrien felt like proposing on the spot. He watched this woman whom he barely knew, whose night he had ruined, wrap the thin bracelet in tissue paper and produce a small velvet bag with her initials embroidered on it. She folded the tissue and put it inside the bag, drawing it shut, and then held it out to Lila with a kind smile. And all the while, Lila stood there, dumbfounded, with nothing to say for once. It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever done for him.

When MDC held out the little pouch, Lila reached for it, inadvertently releasing his arm. Adrien flexed it subtly to shake off her touch.

“Well… thank you. Although... I’m not really sure what I’m thanking you for,” Lila said, actually sounding genuine for once in her surprise. MDC raised her eyebrows.

“You, covering for Adrien and me, of course,” she replied, with the warmest of smiles.

Lila choked. Then she whipped her head around to glare at Adrien. Adrien called on all his experience and produced the warmest of smiles, though he felt another little zing of surprise himself. But he was more than happy to roll with it. 

“You really are the best of friends,” he said, digging deep into his minimal store of fond memories for inspiration. “M and I…” he trailed off as he floundered for something to say to support the story she was building.

Once again MDC came to his rescue. “It’s so comforting to know Adrien has someone to ward off the opportunistic until my brand gets off the ground and we can go public. Naturally, neither of us want anyone thinking I’m only dating Adrien to get to his father, or his father’s company.”

“Right,” Adrien corroborated, sending MDC an even warmer- and far more genuine- smile. “M’s designs are amazing, and I want her to get the recognition and acclaim she deserves, instead of having people think Father is either using me to get her on his design team, or that she’s using me for the same purpose. Plus, you know how adamant Father is that I remain at least outwardly ‘available’ so my fans will stay happy and keep buying his clothes.”

Lila’s mouth tightened ominously, but once again, M (dang it, he really, really needed to learn her first name- maybe she had business cards around here somewhere?) defused her in the only possible way- she praised her.

“So really, thank you. I just can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. You know, most girls would totally take advantage of a situation like this, but… I know Adrien and I can trust you.” MDC smiled warmly and opened her arms, hugging Lila before she could do anything about it. 

“Think nothing of it,” Lila said breathlessly. Adrien knew her well enough to know that her social instincts were currently at war. She probably wanted to verbally cut M into bite sized chunks, but M was also a person currently offering the praise and adoration she craved. “Of course, I... you know I’d do anything for Adrien.”

“Well, I appreciate you, too,” MDC said, finally stepping back. “We’ll definitely have to get together some time. Oooh, maybe you can join us for dinner some time! It’ll look less suspicious if it’s a group of three, don’t you think? Besides,” M said, with a little wink, “sometimes it’s just as well to have a chaperone, you know?”

Adrien had to hide a huge grin as Lila choked for the second time and started coughing. “Are you okay?” he asked, faking concern. “And oh hey, isn’t that Claudio over there?” 

Adrien knew he was far from Lila’s only target, and the handsome Italian model was the perfect distraction.

“Oh yes, I think it is. Well, I guess I’ll just go over and say hello,” Lila said, once she recovered. “I know we were supposed to have lunch, Adrien, but I don’t think I can pass up the opportunity to speak my native language with someone instead.” She sighed, falling back into her usual persona. “I get so homesick sometimes.”

“You poor thing!” MDC cut in. “Yes, of course, go on! I’m sure Adrien would be only too happy to let you cancel at the last minute.”

“Well, it would look good for my cover, but I guess I’ll just have to make do with my actual girlfriend,” Adrien said, daring to move closer to MDC and reach out to gently touch her arm. She blinked before smiling up at him. Apparently this small display of affection was too much for Lila, though.

“Thank you for the bracelet,” she huffed and marched off, slowing and shifting to a swaying walk as she approached her alternative target. As she did, there was an almost imperceptible shift in the air...

@auyeahaugust

[intim3ate]

Kinktober Day 1 - Hate-Fucking | Feferi/Vriska [Homestuck]

When Feferi strikes up a kismesissitude with Vriska, Vriska realizes that the dream bubbles are both a blessing and a curse.

First fic of Kinktober! I’m on a real Homestuck kick right now and I was in the mood for some femslash, so I chose the hateship I’ve had for a really hella long time.

This one wasn’t commissioned, but I’m doing kinktober commissions all month! Info can be found here. Please check it out!

AO3 Link | Commission Info | Patreon | Leave a Tip?

------

"That was… surprisingly nasty of you."

Those were Vriska's exact words to her all those sweeps ago in the lab, back before she really knew Feferi. Back before they had both died, back before the dream bubbles existed, and back before Feferi had been granted an eternity to mess with her.

If she had known her better back then, Vriska probably never would have been surprised.

Vriska clenches her teeth as she looks down at Feferi kneeling between her legs, one hand on each knee to keep them spread wide open. Annoyingly, she's still fully clothed Vriska has been stripped down to nothing but her underwear. Feferi eyes the fabric disdainfully.

"You're so boring ," she says, curling a finger under the waistband. "Why don't you ever wear anything nice? I mean seriously, boyshorts ?"

"Fuck you, they're comfortable." Vriska bares her fangs at Feferi; she doesn't need this. Not now. She was busy , damn it, and Feferi can be such a pain in the ass when she's pretending to be pouty like this--

The sea dweller stands. The frown on her face looks wrong, like someone painted it on her, but it's something Vriska has become familiar with.

Feferi's happy, bubbly personality is not all there is to her. It's an image she projects, sometimes, when she's not in the presence of someone completely and utterly contemptible. Vriska thinks she should be honoured she should be counted among the few who gets to see the former heiress apparent of Alternia like for what she is, but then she remembers that Eridan is one of the others and feels disgust for herself all over again.

“Is that any way to speak to your Empress?” Feferi asks, mustering up all the condescension in her tone she can. It only falls a little flat.

“Hah. You ain’t Empress,” Vriska scoffs. “Alternia doesn’t exist anymore, remember? So even if you were, that’d just make you Empress of nothing. Noooooooothing.”

Feferi grabs her by the hair, clenching her fist right between Vriska’s horns and tugging hard. Vriska can’t stop herself hissing in pain. She looks up at Feferi, eyes half-scrunched closed in a wince.

“I could rip your throat out with my teeth if I wanted to,” Feferi says matter-of-factly. It's true, Vriska supposes; she looks at Feferi's teeth, glinting and razor-sharp, and thinks about the times the seadweller has bitten her neck trying to suck a mark into it and left scars instead.

"Then why don't you?" Vriska dares. They both know Feferi won't go through with it, but it's the thrill of what she will go through with that matters here.

"Princesses don't play with their food. And besides..." Feferi's eyes narrow and her grin widens, too sharp, too dangerous. "You're so much cuter when you scream!"

She lets go of Vriska's hair and yanks her by the horn instead, the nail of one finger scratching against it. Vriska hisses -- she's always had sensitive horns -- but she doesn't recoil when Feferi pulls her into a fierce, cutting kiss.

Feferi nips Vriska's lips open, just the slightest touch from the tip of her tooth enough to draw blood. Vriska knows better than to fight this, so she opens her mouth willingly, lets Feferi take control here, lets her navigate the treacherous terrain of crooked teeth and long, elegant fangs with her tongue. As if to mock her, Feferi runs that tongue over those fangs, lightly, just enough to say bite down if you dare.

Vrika doesn't dare, not this time, because Feferi has plunged her hand beneath her boyshorts and started teasing at the seam of her nook. Vriska moans into the seadweller's mouth and, encouraged, Feferi pushes against it harder.

"That's what I like to hear," she says when she finally, abruptly pulls away to allow Vriska some air. "Now was that so hard?"

"Fuck you." Vriksa spits in Feferi's face and Feferi slaps her with the back of her hand.

"And here I thought you were finally going to be good for me," Feferi sighs. She slips her finger in between Vriska's folds and scratches at the tip of her tentabulge. It's just starting to slip out, and Feferis face lights up in glee as it tries to curl around her finger. Vriksa hisses again, sucks a sharp breath between her teeth, and cringes away, but Feferi holds her in place with a hand on her horn.

"It's okay, Vriska," she says. "You don't have to fight all the time. I just want to give you what you want!"

Vriska reaches up and clamps her hand around Feferi's wrist. "Fuck you," she says again, but her bulge twitches traitorously into Feferi's hand.

Feferi giggles. "Sea? You do want this, Fishska. No need to be so crabby over it!"

Oh god, there she goes. Vriska hates the fish puns and Feferi knows it. She can see that smug glint in her kismesis's eye (despite the ghostly, milky white), that wicked curl of her lip. But Feferi doesn't give Vriska a chance to respond: she wraps her fingers around the tentacle and strokes it, gently pulling it all the way out from between Vriska's labia. It's every bit as slimy and wet as Vriska dreaded -- stupid body betraying her -- and it secretes more lubricant with every lazy tug Feferi gives it.

"I can not -- nngh, fuck -- believe you're doing the fish pun thing while you're trying to jack me off." And more than that, she can't believe she's getting off to it. But of course she is; Feferi knows how to inspire the best kind of hate in her -- in all the worst ways.

"Oh reel-y?" Feferi lifts all fingers from Vriska's bulge but one, leaving that one to flick at the tip of the tentacle. Vriska bites down a moan and shudders. "Because it seems to me you're taking the bait quite nicely. Like a sucker fish ."

Feferi lets go of Vriska's horn and crashes their lips together again. She scrapes down Vriska's side, drawing a pained moan from her kismesis and swallowing it greedily as she giggles against her lips.

Vriska pulls back and gasps for air. Feferi retaliates by crowding her and forcing another kiss upon her. This time, her hand slips under Vriska's bra to grasp and knead at her breast. She draws another noise out, a moan this time, and Vriska can feel Feferi smile against her lips.

Apparently pleased, Feferi finally pulls back and lets her breathe.

"There's my girl," she coos. Vriska's nose wrinkles in distaste at the tone. As much as Feferi claims she never wants to be like her ancestor, she's sure got the condescension part down pat. It's just another of those little things that Vriska can't stand about her: nobody talks down to Vriska Serket and gets away with it.

Except for Feferi, apparently. The absolute bitch.

Ignorant of Vriska's inner rage (or perhaps encouraged by it), Feferi wraps her fingers around Vriska's bulge again, drawing the blueblood from her thoughts as she instinctively bucks into the touch. She almost slides right out of Feferi's grip, she's so wet, and she hates how easy it is for the former heiress to get this kind of rise out of her.

"Wow, Vriska," she says, apparently giving her a break on the fish puns. "You're so wet ! Maybe I should have fetched us a bucket after all?"

Vriska shudders and moans. "Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuuuuuuuuck yoooooooouuuuuuuu--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Feferi backs up, giggling as she drops down between Vriska's legs again. Her hand never stops moving on Vriska's bulge. "God, you're so pouty today! I was hoping for something a little more aggressive than just a couple of 'fuck you's. If I wanted to be bored out of my school, I would have gone to salmon else."

Okay, that is it . Vriska snarls and lunges forward to snatch a fistful of Feferi's hair in her hand. She yanks on it roughly, pulling the seadweller's face closer to her pulsating tentabulge.

"Will you just can it already?!" she shouts. Feferi's lips break open in a triumphant grin, and Vriska has to ignore it, or she's going to lose whatever grip she still has on her sanity and come right on Feferi's face. Heh, she thinks. That'd shut her up nicely.

Actually…

Vriska moves her hand from Feferi's hair to the base of one of her horns, tilting her head down to make sure she's eye to eye with the slick, writhing tentacle she's still jerking off. Feferi hisses through her teeth and finally, Vriska feels like she's gotten a leg up.

"Yeah, that's right. Pay attention to what you're doing, Peixes; you're starting to get sloppy."

Feferi glares at her, but the look soon cracks into one of approval. She tightens her grip on Vriska's bulge, but the blueblood reaches down to bat her hand away.

"Actually, I changed my mind," she says. "I'd kind of like to get off, and if you're going to do this bad a job, I'd rather do it myself."

"...Is that so?" Feferi asks. She licks her lips as Vriska takes herself in hand and begins to rapidly jerk herself off. As much as Vriska knows it must be driving Feferi crazy to be forced to stop like this, the smile never leaves the former heiress's face. She looks calm, serene, like the ocean after a storm, and that gets to Vriska better than any spoken threat ever could.

Feferi makes good on her silent threat quickly.

She shoves two fingers into Vriksa's nook, and the scream that elicits makes her lips peel back even wider. Vriska's hips buck and thrash wildly as she tries to ride Feferi's fingers. She hadn't even realized how desperately she had wanted -- needed to be filled until she could feel Feferi's fingers flexing inside her. The sensation is overwhelming; Vriska can barely even focus on the hand around her bulge long enough to jerk it, and she almost lets it go, but doesn't, because she's so close now...

It's too much. Vriska finishes with one last cry, and it's all she can do to just barely yank Feferi's head down again to meet her bulge. She tries to keep her grip steady as she coats Feferi's face and drenches her hand in genetic material, and when Vriska finally opens her eyes, she realizes she was successful.

Feferi grimaces as she withdraws her fingers. She looks down at them for a second with what might be disgust and watches as the blue genetic material drips down her arm. She flicks her wrist and whatever residue is left splatters on the floor some distance away.

She turns to look at Vriska and her expression changes from mild distaste to triumph. She sashays over to the blueblood and leans over, placing her sticky palm on Vriska's still-heaving chest. Without saying a word, the two of them make eye contact, and Feferi leans down for a kiss.

Vriska groans. She can taste her own cum on Feferi's lips, and although it doesn't exactly taste good , it sends a thick, heady fog swirling through her brain. I could get used to this , she thinks hazily.

But Feferi pulls away too soon, just like she always does. Vriska opens her eyes and rolls them. "Good call," she says sarcastically. "We almost had a moment there."

Feferi just laughs. It's then that Vriska realizes that Feferi is stripping, ridding herself of her skirt and swimsuit. "You say that like you thought we were done here!"

Vriska sits up straight and drinks in Feferi's body, from her smug grin to her large, dripping tentabulge, already completely unsheathed and writhing in the open air.

She grins and bares her fangs. "Bring it, Peixes."

[suburban-satan]

shit my friends say

So I made a list of all the wild shit my friends say, started in January 2018 and still going. It's one year old I guess? Well, enjoy what I have so far!

2018 -d a d d y w i s e -well there’s chains on the ground so that must mean this was a kinky sex dungeon -GORSH MICKEY NOT MY G SPOT -I can wait until I turn 40 so I can troll Japanese Girls on roblox -what if we all looked like mike wizowski but our heads were the same size as they are now -I wanna give pot to a bird -I take pills without water -daddies cummie wummies are the best cummie wummies -enjoy your nonexistent stomach acid -cum glaze -I hope you choke on MY meat -who hasn’t been on pornhub -(wipes tears away and starts belting despacito) -MY GAY IS BEING TRIGGERED -that omelet looks delouse -is semen a liquid or solid -iTs nOt aQuaNauTs yOu uNculTurEd fOoK -vaginas are scary -what is menstruation -you should change your name to pussy something -my gay has been activated -“have you ever owned a vibrator?” “No” “would you like to rent one” -“do you like glazed or cream filled” -wHaT dOeS cUm sOuNd LiKe -he is on too much fertilizer -sometimes cum is hot I know from experience -if you jerked off at the speed of sound would your dick be on fire -I don’t have a sonic fetish -can your dick ignite because of the heat of your cock -aren’t dicks like cannons -who the fuck draws a glowing peepee on a skeleton -honey Freddy freaker is dancing in the living room -does penis smell like garlic -she don’t swallow in this household -*downloading garrison nudes* -don’t you realize that tentacle porn is just using octopus arms as a dildo -frickle my nipples -Minecraft porn consists of the male genitalia replaced with a stick -OOPSIE WOOPSIE!! Uwu We make a fucky wucky!! A wittle fucko boingo! The code monkeys at our headquarters are working VEWY HAWD to fix this! -“I’m big for an asian” -cockilicous -“His anal glands need milking” -fready flipper -FREADY FAPPER -daddy better make me choke -does Freddy freaker have a mutated alien dick -sonic breaks the sound barrier by beating his meat -the sun looks like it’s gon vore you -bootyhole exploration -is megalovania sex music -i like to drink cock -cum is just genital snot -penis musk -Shid piz and farbt -Bull + shit = sis it don’t add up -Hey don’t tell me at least once in your life you haven’t thought about being gently caressed across the genitalia by the kraken -I swallow boba like i swallow cum -I wuv fungus kun, the way he waps a awond my tosie wosies so tight! He’s gibing me a huggie!!!! Fungus kun gibes my tosies a new color too!!!! Wat a good fungus kun make my doki doki go “ UAU” heeheehee -eating banana with the banana peel -orang juce -father I want cheddar -don’t you just look at someone and think about how long their neck is -breathing is just boneless vaping -get outta here juuling criminal -yall ever succ a dick for juul pods -unironically drawing miss piggy -“Jack don’t let go 😱🤭🤭, jack sweetie 😐👀 if you let go 🙊🙈 you’re weave 🙀🙀 gone 😇😘💅” -I've been watching spooky movies for 5 hour -omg it’s daddy sans undertaker!!! -bröther -I ate my sister -are you'd's't've kidding me? -oh youtube please don't show me the shrek movies rn -My brother is calling me out on the family group chat for eating a bowl of peanut butter -Hamilton is best girl -get outta here you fuckin loyalist -what doesn’t cum have -drink flex seal and you won’t have to worry about a marriage -I feel water. -“Superfood or supergross? Is Sperm good?” -coochie hands gucci bands -just imagine trying to cast a spell and then you get disturbed by a banjo -toto africa is sex music now and everytime they say rain it’s just cum -y'all ever burp in your mouth and exhale it through your nose like a vaper -how dare them make my green senpai an honorable member of society -If you didn’t search big boobs video on google at least once are you really a Gen Z kid????? -laugh pussies -i’m watching the history of japan on pornhub -we have the same name because we are secretly the same person -what if you eat your phone and it’s all in your tummy -why would you ever think i’m not serious all the time you silly dragon but we’re both (my name) so we can be the silly dragon together -why would you wash your face before you go to bed when your tears wash it off for you *wooshing noises* -I want to drive a bus because I like busses -my shoe broke -why does everyone talk about the drugs i’m eating -i’m going to break her because she’s talking about smoking cocaine and I don’t like drugs -(stage whisper) metal heads live among us but we don’t know because they look like normal people -oh bye mr music teacher -the pussy? designer. cucci, if you will. -DID I HEAR S A N S P O R N -"i'm about to nay nay on your dead fucking corpse" -alert alert the toes are coming -you got a fucking problem with my 𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐛𝐬? -imagine using an oven for something designed for a microwave this post was made by the doesnt have much motivation gang -Please take my Minnesotan snow Wait that sounds like Minnesotan cocaine -when you funny scream -"dating the Bill of Rights for fun" is now exactly how I'm going to describe my hyperfixations -the penguin  from fruit loops is a twink (bitch its a toucan) -if white cheese exists is there black cheese -What’s rosum opossum -whale cum -dicko mode -(GETTIN SOME CHRISTMAS SPIRIT UP IN THAT PUSS) -pennies more like penis amirite -It’s Sunday don’t forget to squeeze cheese on the cat -the grinch is dr seuss’s fursona -everyone is gangster until the trees start speaking vietnamese -big chungus is my dad -“if the apocalypse happened what would you do” “eat bees” -I'm tired as fuck but I gotta wait until it's 4:20 to go to bed -mom: you need to be reasonable and wait two hours before having another brownie me, stuffing my mouth full of brownie: br o w n y s -This honey in whole foods is in fucking comic sans -it's more likely that I'll guess someone is gay before I remember the existence of women -im gonna say it again for the people in the back:

i eat bees -Thanos penis, it's actually called a thenis -yort -uwu its the mowst thorstiewst time of the yeaw uwu -It is I Teh gromc -The gronk is here to say eat all the dish soap in the house -the grinch but he's wearing crocs the entire time -answer my question or else i will establish sans porn -You make him doki doki uwaaaaa!!!! -birdbox but all the bird sounds are replaced by cardi b noises -THE GROMPK IS TOO POWERFUL -consume ocean sauce -square up in judge judys court -half consumes ocean sauce -ice juce -frick stick -you guys wanna read undertale fanfiction     -2019- -it might be 2019 but thats not gonna stop me from terrorizing my family's groupchat -(pineapple voice) first date idea: digest eachother -Wait dennys will arrest you for doing illegal things?? -pls purify me -my toes are very succulent today -two succs having flex two succs having sex my muscles my muscles involuntarily checks -f u r r y , N a s h . -Perfect for all occasions! Spill something on your nice shirt, give a messy blowjob, and sphagetti!!! -Do you want cum on your nice shirt??? -it would be nice if i had cum on my shirt -cocc succ machine -I KNOW TONGUE JUTSU -I feel like i’m in a meat prison -hi you obese elephant -plant porn is just flowey porn -We all love the out of the box 4am messages we get -YOU LIKE SNAS PEEPEE

[sian22redux]

Entanglements

by sian22redux

For @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan  ‘s Angsty writing challenge: Star’s Marvel Mayhem

Prompt:  ‘He was acting like our kiss had broken him, and his reaction was breaking me.’

Bucky x reader

Rating: M

Summary:  The fight for love is sometimes harder than the mission.  

How Bucky and Y/N of Private Party came to be together.

Timeline:  After Wakanda of Black Panther end scenes, but assumes IW is over and he’s safe.

Tags:  oral sex-mentioned, het, canon-compliant mayhem, hurt/comfort, angst, angst, angst

Thank you so so much to the heroic @wheelrider for expert beta’ing, even in a fandom that is not hers!!  And to awesome @theycallmebecca for checking it worked!  

—————————————-

The first time it happens, it is just a drunken hookup.

The party at Avengers Tower is star-spangled, loud, and pulsing fun; rare vodka fueled and graced by the hottest DJ in New York.  You’ve left your uniform and new medal of valour in the hospitality suite Miss Potts has thoughtfully laid on.  Donned a slinky black cocktail dress and four-inch heels and walked into the space on Mr Stark’s arm,  blushing at his gushing praise.  

Thank heaven this evening event is more relaxed than the White House’s lavish ballroom. Your knees had knocked so loud you were sure that the President had heard. Visibility is not your thing.  Or speeches.  But your few heartfelt words had tumbled out, applauded by brass and dough-faced senators and Bucky had stood, smiling, looking oh so perfectly edible in a charcoal suit.  He’d winked at you, a shining in his eyes that was almost as bright as in the moment your marksmanship had saved his life.  

 Perhaps you hadn’t imagined his yearning after all.

Tony plies you with whiskey sours, and sometime after the fourth (or fifth?)  Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson coax you out onto the dance floor.  Time for some fun.   Bucky stands and stares and takes it in: Steve’s hilariously sloppy groove, Sam’s easy sway. He’s frowning adorably, critiquing every move until he’s had enough of watching amateurs.  He sets down his beer, absolutely murder struts out onto the dance floor, and with a ‘my turn punk’ rips you from their arms.  The music settles into something smooth and slow (has Steve’s had a hand it that?) but then suddenly Bucky leans in.  Cheek to cheek and hip to hip.  There’s a fire blazing up inside that takes the pair of you by surprise, and when Bucky whispers, voice molasses dark and slow, “Doll, let’s escape,” you go.  

Oh god.  

You wake up so hung over it feels like you need to shave your tongue.  Your dress is nowhere in sight and Bucky is sprawled out on his stomach.  The bedclothes are mostly on the floor, his evening tux makes a trail of black and white against cream carpet and your (only) lacy underthings dangle off the lamp.  

Fuck, what were you thinking?  

Weren’t, obviously.  You’d let the heady abandon of the evening, the crackling electricity between you both mess with your hard-earned self control, but it just can’t be.  This man is your assignment, the one you are set to guard from the tentacles of a wounded, dying global empire that is trying to grab hold.  

Best not to stick around.  You lever upright, stagger to the washroom, run a wet hand through your tangled hair and try not to notice the lurid hickey on your collarbone.  

Your dress is underneath the dresser (?), you slip it on without a sound, but ugh, the shoes are a pain: your feet are swollen from dancing for so long and so you fumble, trying to do up the flimsy straps.  Finally, the prong slots through the tiny hole.  All set.   

Just as you find your purse and reach across the bedside table for your thong, a silver hand shoots out and clasps your wrist.  

Gently.   

But not planning on letting go. 

“Doll, where ya going?”  Bucky cracks one eye open and the corner of his mouth quirks up.  “No one’s on this morning.  Tony promised.”  

“Got a briefing,” you lie, wincing internally, hating yourself for doing it, but this is a one-time thing and you do not plan on speaking of it.   

Again.  

Or ever.  

The disappointment that clouds the lazy sparkle in his eyes is something to avoid.  You hastily turn away, but at the door you pause guiltily for far too long.  At last, you speak to the quiet resignation from the bed.   

“Thank… thank you.”   

Safe. Or almost.  Steve Rogers wakes up early.  He’s showered after an early run, set up in the kitchen; got french toast frying and washed wineglasses in the drain tray.  He’s grinning.  Wide and hopeful just like an excited Labrador.  

“Breakfast will be ready in a jif.”  

You blink in the too=bright space and think, Fuck my life.  

“Captain… uhh.”  

What the ever lovin’ hell should you say??  

Sorry, can’t stay after banging your best friend. Can’t eat cuz I might just puke.  Or better yet…yes I have read DAOD 5019-1 but this does not constitute inappropriate fraternization across the ranks. 

“Not hungry, Corporal?”  Steve shrugs those massive shoulders and flips a tea towel across his arm, peeking at the toast’s browning underside.  “Suit yourself.”   

You do.

But no regrets.  

It had been too wonderful for that.

—————-

The second time it happens, you tell yourself it is just the frantic release of relief.  

It’s been another too-close-for-comfort call.  Six months past cryo in Wakanda and the insanity that was the Infinity War, and you’d think in the aftermath the remnants of Hydra would no longer care.  But they do, and can’t help but see he’s back, and if they can’t control the Asset, they want him gone.  

There is a careful balance between keeping Bucky safely whole and actually giving him a life.

You’re walking up out of the subway into Battery Park’s wintery sun, a hologram cover hiding your M24 because you just can’t saunter past New York’s Sunday shoppers and happy families pushing strollers openly armed to the teeth.  

Bucky’s a block in front, sunglasses on and hood of his dark puffy jacket pulled right up because camouflage is necessary and the stiff southwesterly off the Hudson is cutting through the naked trees.  He’s heading for the SeaGlass carousel where he will stand and smile, hands sunk deep in pockets, remembering the original aquarium he and Steve delighted in another lifetime ago. 

After two months of tracking him on every outing, you know him well. 

James Barnes loves plums and granola bars.  Extra whip at Starbucks and hunting for old comic books.  The Hayden planetarium and giant, hairy, slobbery dogs.  A fresh trim means things are good because Nat can get close to him with shears.  A fringe of days-old stubble means he’s having harder nights.  The triggers are gone, but not the memory of what he’s done.  When he stops, stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk, lips moving and new hand clenched into a fist, you know he’s centering.  Running through a routine in whatever language comes to his head.  

At least he is a better subject than most.  Always watching.  Baseball cap or hood pulled down, changing his route each day, not making it easy on the goons who might dog his steps.   Or you.

It’s part of what makes this detail fun. This day he’s slid into an empty booth at Gigino, near enough the front for light but not so near he hasn’t a good view of the door.  The notebook’s out, bristling with sticky tabs like a multicolour hedgehog.  You are sitting diametrically across, scanning everything around but him, cuz hit men don’t all look like Brock Rumlow after all and folks carrying things in bags make a prickle at your nape.  Your unobstructed view down the gravel walks is good, but somehow, a figure by the Liberty dock sets the hairs rising on your arm.  Hunched. Looking back too often to the restaurant.  Arm akimbo and hiding something.  

You whisper urgently into the comms, hustle out of the doors and fire on the run.  It’s a challenge but not long range, nothing like the shot before, but precision is the thing.   You have no intention of damaging any of the good folk around.  

The subject drops.  Bystanders freak, scattering in all directions, and even as two agents materialize to cluster around Bucky as a precaution, he looks unerringly across at you, recognition and open longing on his face.  

Yeah. Well.  Me too, pal.

You melt away into the shadows, and after the NYPD have it all locked down, you find yourselves thrown together back at the Tower for a hastily convened debrief.

Coulson’s reviewing footage and Fury’s frowning, tapping impatient fingers on the tabletop, talking about the need for better eyes, but you’re having trouble focusing.  

There’s a thirst in Bucky’s eyes that matches the one making your nether regions throb.  God, how good would it be to strip off the Stark body armour underneath his vest.  Press your skin along the length of him and feel every hot, hard inch.  Too good. To be avoided, but beside you the metal hand flexes back and forth.  As if he’s read your mind.

“Soldier?”  Fury’s question drops like a bomb into your awareness.  Neither of you are listening, too aware of each other to focus on mundane things like strategy.    

“Umm, yeah…”  Buck licks his lips and starts again.  “I mean, no, I don’t know any more about that sleeper cell. 

Fury turns to rake you both with his good eye.  After one eternal minute, he shakes his head, looking more bemused than mad.  

“Get outta here.  Both of you.”

You don’t need to be told a second time.  

Buck stalks out into the hall and you follow, thinking how it was too close a call and you are pissed Hydra’s not backing down and goddammit why are the other agents letting these shitballs get so very close and it’s almost like you are vibrating 

Fuck.  Wrong choice of word.  

Your skin is positively alive with how aware of him you are, nerves jangled, sparking white hot arcs of lust, and then he has to make it worse.   He turns and devours you with those ocean eyes as he slams the button for the elevator.

Hard.  

With his prosthetic hand.

The thought of it on you again makes your bones almost liquefy.

“Steve’s off doing PR.”

The few spare words are said with a crooked grin, eyes challenging, and like lightening you are both struck on.  Somehow, your legs are wound about his waist, lips locked, your back up against the cool mirror of the elevator wall, so engrossed you don’t notice when the motion stops.  His metal arm bangs through the apartment and bedroom doors, makes the hinges scream in protest, and then without warning the axis of your world flips over.  You are both horizontal.  On the bed, frantically shedding clothes until his cock sinks into your molten core.  You arch your back with the utter bliss of it, strokes hard and fast and frenzied, rising higher and then, inexplicably, he stills; drags his lips off your nipple to stare intently at your face.  

“Y/N I ain’t gonna last.  I…”  

You open your eyes and catch his gaze.  His eyes are dark and wide and filled with wonder.  As caught off guard as you by the pure fury of the need– but oh you are not going there.  Not thinking about how right this feels, how close and perfectly in tune you are.  Nope. Nuh unh.  This is sex, not making love.  Scratching an itch.  Purely mechanical.    

“Bucky, move!”  

You flip up your hips just so, knowing instinctively what it will do to him, and pull his hip bones closer, tighter, until you’re both grinning and he’s moaning, long and low, shuddering as he spills and you come apart, shining in the afterglow.

This time you deliberately stay the night.  

You curl up into the crook of his flesh arm because you’re weak.  Just can’t pull yourself away.  It’s warm.  And easy. And some part of you wants the peace—for him and you.

When you eventually awaken, stiff and achy, smelling of sweat and musk and the haute perfume of the disguise you never bothered to wash off, the sun hasn’t risen yet. Bucky’s dead to the world, face soft and slack in sleep, so beautiful and vulnerable it almost hurts.

For a moment, breakfasting together flits across your brain, but no.  Way too risky.  Too much like normal couple life.

You slide out from under a heavy bicep and set your feet soundlessly on the chill of the floor, ignoring a lazy snuffle, but, by the time your shrug back on your (ridiculous) Dolce coat, the worry line has settled on his brow again.  

Damn. For a few precious hours, the perennial mark of his mistreatment had erased.  You want to run a finger down it, smooth away the shadowed ridge with a soft caress, but you do not dare.  That is exactly how another bonfire could ignite.

Instead, you gather up your rifle, activate the hologram and tip-toe away.  Like a thief in the night or a spy who’s set a honey trap.  

You text him ‘sweet dreams’ because this is not the bitch you want to be…  

————————-

The third time it happens—well, it’s just pure weakness…

You are, of necessity, an expert at disguise.  Part of a scout-sniper’s training is advanced stalking skills, keeping yourself hidden from a target just five feet away in rough open bush;  you’ve done that and mastered alternate camouflage for  downtown New York.  Four changes of outfit a day if Bucky’s going far.  Rocker grunge in ripped jeans and blue streaked hair.  Finance exec in Burberry trench and heels.  Thank heaven platform sneakers with lace and skirts are a thing; easier to run in those.  

Bucky may not pick you out, doesn’t know exactly where you are, but he knows you’re there.  Today, your hair is brown, next week redhead, after that could be pink: anything but your natural, and naturally noticeable, pale blonde.  It’s like a game—you hiding and him guessing where you might be.  He shows it (and how he’s memorized every conversation that you’ve had) in little actions meant just for you.

One morning, he ‘just happens’ to be forgetful and leaves a cup of mocha/hold-the-whip on the bench where he just sat.  Another scorching afternoon, he buys your favourite Oddfellows miso cherry cup and leaves it safely in the shade of a blue postbox.  Once, he spends two hours stalking every exhibit at the Met’s armory museum because you’d admitted you’ve never been.  (You like old rifles.  What can you say?)  

How can you not fall for this man?  He’s sweet and kind and deadly.  Wants the best thing for everybody if not for himself, and will soon become impossible to resist.  

Scratch that.  Is.  Is impossible to resist.  

Damn his super hearing.  One lunch strolling past Agent Provocateur, he catches your quiet sigh at something flirty but way, waaay out of your snack bracket and, the next thing you know, he’s marching into Victoria’s Secret.  Cruising the racks in exactly your right size.  Leaving the pink bag wedged behind a subway seat.  

Collecting it is just not wasting money, right?  

It goes on like this for weeks, until the day the teasing shit walks into Narcisse, buys chocolate body paint and leads you straight back in the direction of the Tower.

Oh god.  

This necessitates yet another reconnoiter with wardrobe at the safe house.  No one thinks twice about a well-groomed Chanel-suited woman visiting Tony Stark. 

When the morning comes and you crouch, hand poised above the new skimpy scrap of lace, silently agonizing whether to bring or leave, Bucky sits up in bed.  Confused. Dark hair temptingly messy and fingers reaching out.

“Y/N? Where’s the fire.  It’s early yet.”  

Fuck, he makes this so very hard.  Bucky wants something for himself and you want to give it, but this is, if not exactly wrong, so far from right.  

“Ah…” You don’t know what to say.  The sheets are rumpled low about his hips and the comforter sprawls across the floor.  He’d shoved it off.  Kneeling between your legs to plunder you mercilessly with his tongue.

Oh, Christ, Y/N, don’t think of that.

“I want to get in a run.”  The lie comes easily.  You hate running, but he doesn’t know that yet.

“Gonna hafta change those heels,” he chuckles, stretching languidly.  “You’ll need your coffee first.   Steve said he’d put some on first thing.”  

You pretend to relent, smile and plant the softest of kisses on the knotted scars of his shoulder.  

“See you later,” you murmur, intending to go straight on home, but Steve Rogers has other plans.  Ever the gentleman and always up with the birds, he’s made pancakes. And sausage.  And fruit salad with blueberries.

The table is already set for three.

In the awkward silence, he misunderstands why your mouth is open.  

“Syrup or sugar and lemon juice?  Buck’s mom was British.”  

The assumption you don’t understand the condiments is just too much.  Turning him down again would be far too rude.  

You sit, wrinkled disguise and all, and take a bite of bacon, realizing you have slept with the subject eight times over three different nights and you had no clue what his mother’s background was.  

The fact you want to know is somewhat startling.

From down the hall, you hear the whoosh of water beating down and an adorably off-tune whistle.  Your faithless libido says if you’d played your cards just right you’d be in there too. Soaping up his six pack and the dimples in his butt cheeks.  Going yet another round.  

Desperately, you hide your flaming cheeks in a perfectly foamy cappuccino, but Steve isn’t fooled.  

“You know,” he remarks, casually forking up the detritus of an entire fluffy stack.  “Buck never has nightmares when you are here.”

It’s a hard lesson, but one you obviously have to learn.   

Again.  

Never, never underestimate Captain America’s mastery of tactics.  

———————————–

A week, a month, and you fall into a routine. Bucky’s shadow in the day and his teddy bear at night.  A watcher on his six.  Fire when he needs it and softness when he does not. That he’s let down his guard and become intimate with someone shows just how far he’s come. A growing part of you wants to do this, cheer on every little bit of taking back himself; but another part says stop.

You pride yourself on your skill and professional approach.  Dispassionate execution.  It is part of the reason you are so very good.  You do not get distracted.  At all. You’ve got no baggage. No serious exes clutter up your past. You have not spoken to your folks in years (their commune frowns on ‘making war’).

It comes as something of a shock to need your daily dose of Buck.  Sarcastic jokes.  Lips like silk.  Muscles rippling underneath your touch.  

It shouldn’t matter but it does.  The mission is to protect him.  

Even if it means from yourself.  

———————————-

It is the shot, just a few centimeters stray, that settles things in your mind.  

Sure, everyone has rougher days. Aim a little off.  Skin jumpy and so tight it messes with your zen. But not you.  Never you.  Your concentration is absolute.  You just can’t miss and that is exactly why Coulson first brought you in.  Ms. Hill, in charge of Stark’s security, wants the best of the very best and you are it.  

Next to the man you are sworn to protect.

Barton’s grinning and looking at the minor spread on the target sheet, leaning casually on his bow. “What are you thinking of, Y/N?“ he laughs, blue eyes sliding up to your face.  “Sure ain’t your work.”  

Your cheeks flame up.  He doesn’t mean it.  This is Clint never passing up a chance to take the piss but still it gets your brain cells firing.  What were you thinking of?   Slim hips in black tac pants.  A stubbled, chiseled jaw.  Silver fingers cradling the barrel of a gun.

Shit.

Bucky’s standing not ten feet away in the next corral and, fuck, you can’t help yourself.  It’s the first time you’ve seen him all that day and the need flares up; wild and feral and messing with your head.  You want to know how he’s doing.  Ask about his bout with Steve, see if he wants to grab some lunch, make sure he’s eating right because he’s looking a little hollow in the cheeks and…  

Stop.  

You’re shocked and frankly terrified.  Is this love?  Infatuation? A school-girl crush?  Your heart is raw but what is this for him?  A diversion?  Something steady?  You have no idea, you don’t get much time to talk but you know what it shouldn’t be: too serious.  He is still recovering. You’re his rebound and it isn’t healthy.  Buck needs to date casually, get a better sense of himself and Jesus fucking Christ he is your job.

If Coulson or Fury find out, they’re entitled to put you on report.  A black mark on your copybook.   Though that isn’t what’s got you truly rattled.

You have to be a perfect shot.

For him.

His life depends upon it.

When you finally find the courage to rip the bandage off, you learn first hand that bullshit in Russian has an awfully familiar tone.

Bucky’s a solid wall of disagreement, arms crossed over his chest.  “Babe, it doesn’t have to be this way.”

“It does.”  You raise your chin.  “I am here to protect you.  I can’t do that when my focus is…distracted.”  

“It’s not that way for Nat and Clint.”

Really?  You file that new tidbit of gossip away for more analysis, but still have to regretfully shake your head.  “Not the same. They’re a team, trained to work in tandem.  This is different.”

“It’s not.”  

“It is.”

“Not true.”  

His certainty that you’ll relent begins to melt away. “Y/N, don’t do this.  I thought we had something. Were working on it.  Can be something more.”  

“Please.”

He falls silent in the face of your hard bitten stare.  Lost eyes dark and pleading.  More like a kicked puppy than a famous murderbot, but still you hold.    

You can’t.  You wish you could, but no.  

“It has to be this way for me.”  

To blunt the hurt, you stretch up on tip-toe to press a delicate apology to his lips.  

Bucky flinches, acting like your kiss has broken him and his reaction is breaking you.

‘I thought we had something?’

The accusation rings in your ears all the days to come, but even tears don’t put the heart fires out.

——————————-

You do your job.  Break down and reassemble your gun for the soothing repetition.  Keep well away.  Do exactly what you need to do and not one iota more, but watching him all day is torture.  

Both of you are miserable.

You hide it.  Bucky not so much.  His blue eyes lose their spark;  become haggard and bloodshot.  You know you’ve put the dark bags there, but at least they’re there, you tell yourself when another hit gets foiled.

Everybody notices.  On those rare times you have to be in the Tower, Steve remains so professionally polite and clipped it’s just like being shot.  Next to him, no one knows.  You sit, mute and hurting, inconveniently placed beside Pepper and Maria at a SHIELD event, taking in Natasha’s blistering attack on ‘the gold dipped bitch’ who’s hurt her friend.  They know Bucky, too.  How much the silent, morose Soldier is a capitulation; how working through hurt makes it harder for him to keep the last dregs of Hydra programming at bay.  You hate yourself for it. But there really is no other way and now you realize, it’s getting harder.  Your concentration’s worse if anything and it would be kinder to stop torturing you both.    

The sick reality falls like lead into your stomach. 

You can’t be there at all.  

————————-

You never planned to work for SHIELD.  

You’d enlisted at age eighteen because with no formal schooling and no degree, Uncle Sam was the only outfit that would promise you a job. Your long-honed hunting skills were evident in basic; refined in sniper school until you were something of a legend. You’d set your heart on Special Ops, did every extra ribbon and rotation but still were not sent to the front. Women were not then given combat roles. It sucked.  And if your superiors were sympathetic, they still attached you to endless close protection details. Sent you to the AMU competitions.  Ignored your increasingly strident, respectful pleas for reassignment until you’d thrown your resignation papers down and marched straight off the base.

Seemed like just minutes passed before a bland, grey-suited man tapped you on the shoulder.

“Miss Y/N?” said Philip Coulson with a smile. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Nick Fury is the best boss you’ve never officially had, because sometimes your Army cover is somewhat helpful and Phil swiftly arranged for your resignation papers disappear.  

The rest is history.

——————————

“You want to be reassigned.”

“Yes, Sir.”

You will not squirm, but the Director, away from prying ears in his secure coordination room, is fixing you with his patented thousand-metre stare.  “You really want to go back to Fort Bragg and do paperwork?  Get trotted out when they need an affirmative action photo shoot?”

You groan. Ugh. They will and you know it, but anywhere than SHIELD is the objective.  Better a clean break, you think, but Fury’s not done with you yet.  

“I hear the First Daughter had some death threats.  FBI’s asked us if we can spare a gun. We could reassign you to Sparrow’s detail.”  

Oh fuck no.  The President’s petulant and self-absorbed teenager burns through agents faster than she raids Bloomingdales.  

It takes everything in you to do that nod.

Fury’s one visible eyebrow nearly hits the roof.  “You are serious.”

“Sir. I am.”  You’ve called his bluff.  You stand to attention and wait for it.  The serious suggestion you know is coming.  

“Thing is, Y/N, we were going to recommend you for a new assignment,” Fury paces, hands behind his back and shoulders to the view.  “It involves training.  As hard as anything you’ve done.”

Really?  You’re skeptical. You’ve done the Rangers even if they didn’t let you in the field. Toughed it out with the toughest the Army had.  

What he says next, nearly has your jaw upon the floor.

“We want you permanently cross-posted to the Advanced Threat Containment Unit.  Watch Sergeant Barnes full time.  Close in as he transitions to his next new role.”  

Surprise makes you blurt out the first thing in your head.  “You can’t mean on combat missions?!”

“Mhmm.”  

But that means…  “You’re sending Bucky back into the field!”

“Got a problem with that, Corporal?”  

Your mouth is hanging open.  “But you can’t…”

‘I don’t do that anymore’ rings in your ears.

“You’re going to let him…”

Fury looks, not mad, but entirely amused. “Not do assassinations, no. But let him train and participate.” 

“You can’t,” you stubbornly repeat.  He’s stupidly reckless.  Prone to throwing himself headlong into everything. Not completely healed.  “Not ready,” you finish lamely. 

“You disagree with the psych eval?” 

You shuffle your feet.  This is thin ground. SHIELD does not employ folks with fake degrees.   “No, Sir.” 

The Director smiles, as warmly as you’ll get.  Which is to say, about as a warm as a melting icecube.  “Good. Sergeant Barnes needs someone who has his back and Captain Rogers can’t do that leading from the front.”  

So true.   But also why Bucky shouldn’t be out at all.  “Sir, he forgets…”  To care about himself enough.  

“Precisely why I’ve suggested you be assigned.  You are the best markswoman we have got.  Look, I’m not entirely happy with this either, but he can’t sit and knit forever.  Stark says he’s ready.  The -ologists say he’s ready.  And he’s spending his days moping around the compound too much.”  You wince inside, knowing the cause of that.   “Getting some of his own back might even help.”  

It might.  

And someone will try to take Bucky out again.

And he will be focused on everything but himself.

Shit.  

There is no choice.  

You know you can keep him safe.

Fury, the bastard, just stands and cracks his deaths-head grin.

 ———————————

Training with the Avengers is more brutal than anything you’ve done.

Steve’s in charge, and Nat.  Both merciless.  Both focused on honing you into something more than a gun.  It’s brutal and physical but that isn’t the hardest part.

Bucky is there training, too.  

It feels like being a cat on a hot tin roof.  Circling each other.  Carefully.  Two negative terminals on a magnet—repelling as far away as they can get.  

“Corporal.”

“Sergeant.”  

You’ve said no and Bucky is bending over backwards to be polite and perfectly correct.  No physical contact outside sparring.  No first names unless you can help it.  No interaction at all, outside missions, to be honest.  Tony, oblivious (at least you think he is), organizes movie nights and BBQs that you mostly miss.  You follow Buck’s lead, keep yourself more closed than usual.  Socialize with your old SHIELD squad when you can, haunt your room when there is no time.  

It takes a toll.  

You are not, by nature, a recluse but this is how it has to be. You can’t stand the brief flashes of disappointment in Bucky’s eyes, the wariness with which he interacts.  They cut at your resolve. Shred it, until you’re forced to shut out everything but mission goals. 

They come and go.  Days. Weeks.  The strain coils higher, but you tell yourself you are doing it for him: the man whose eyes haunt your waking moments. You become a shell, sapped of life and desiccated, but each shot is crisp and clean.  This makes it right, but not natural. Eventually, you switch roles like understudies in a play.  He is the pro, silent and efficient as he does his job, while you are the damaged one, snapping at every little thing, recklessly taking risks, heedless of your own safety.  

It all seems worthwhile until the day you walk silently up the empty ramp for the Quinjet and find Steve and Sam huddled by the cockpit.

They don’t hear you slide like a shadow into your berth.

“His nightmares are getting worse.”  

Sam whistles low. “Worse? Man, they were bad before.”

Steve slowly shakes his head. “It’s like Wakanda before he went in cryo.  I honestly don’t know how he is even functioning.”    

“Yeah.  But the shit truth is there nothing you or I can do about it.”  Sam sounds resigned.  “Unless he comes clean on what it is that’s eating at him, and you know he won’t do that easily. Dude’s too stubborn.”

“He’s not the only one.”  

Steve, you realize later, says this for you.  His eyes bore like a laser into your forehead when he comes over to sit down, shrugging his five-point harness on.  

“Corporal.” 

“Captain.”  

“You good?”

“Yes, Sir.”

You fiddle unnecessarily with the heat shield on your stock.  Out of the corner of one eye, you can see him frown, loop his fingers into his belt and sigh, but you know he won’t call you out, won’t give away your private business to anyone.  Still, the optimist in him can’t help but hope.  Steve Rogers is really like a giant collie dog that shepherds a whole flock of misfits—he isn’t happy unless everyone’s set right; and you and Buck are waay out on the fringe.  It feels as if the solid, brooding bulk of his suit is willing you to change your mind. But you are stubborn.

(A trait that you and Bucky share, along with snark and an obsession with perfect lattes.) 

While you wait for everyone to load, you keep your head down and bite your lip, worrying about what you’ve heard.  Fuck, if Buck’s not sleeping that makes both of you, and to do this job you need to be on. You’re good.  You’re fine, you can tolerate a little sleep deprivation, but Bucky—that’s not right. Years of cryo and mind-wipes have messed with the circuitry.  He needs sleep to heal, more than most, and you shake your head, knee vibrating like Clint’s bowstring, dreading but anxiously awaiting for him to load.  

You don’t have long to wait.  Nat and Clint clatter past and take the pilot seats, Tony swans through and starts briefing Steve with last-minute intel and then Bucky’s there. Stowing his gun and hiding behind a fall of dark, lank hair.  You’re shocked.  It’s been a week since you saw him last, in the common room, but oh god he is worse. Clearly.  He barely responds when Clint does a system check. Grunts at Steve’s chirpy welcome. Falls into his seat across from you and that’s when it starts.  The sense of failure.  The hurt that the brutal truth is you are making this all worse; doing exactly what you had wanted to avoid.

Bucky’s not safer with you there.  He’s more in danger and the knowledge of it sucks out all the oxygen.

You spend the three-hour trip and first half hour of the ensuing firefight under water, surfacing for precious gulps of air between the mounting pressure in your chest; like your harness is strapped down way too tight.  

You thought that you’d be helping him, but oh, Y/N, you are really not.  

You need to leave.

Entirely.

Goddamn it hurts, but you have no time.  The heinous bastards who have grabbed a SHIELD tracking station have their dander up, are resisting with all they’ve got and you need to be on your game following as Bucky’s cover.  You leap and sight, neutralize another target still feeling like you can’t get air, watching his lithe form duck and roll, mercilessly slamming a terrorist to the ground.  

His face is all dark angles and unhappy shadows.  Lined and smudged, a ghost of the man who’d smiled, run his fingers through your hair, gently nuzzling at your neck  

“Babe, I could stay this way forever.”

The flash of memory is like a sucker punch to the gut.  

You’ve screwed this whole thing up.  

Can’t do your fucking job cuz you gave in and slept with the man who is your mission and now you’re… what?  

Miserable in his company.  Miserable without.

In love.

Fuck.

This is not how things should be.…  

You’re drowning in the unhappiness, but even with a red haze of doomed understanding filtering across your gaze, you can’t not see it.

The motherfucker three hundred yards away taking aim at Bucky’s head 

You need to pot the asshat now–but your view is obstructed by the base’s cell tower and, so, you leap out, aim and squeeze, heedless of your own back.  The concrete behind the man’s dead eyes neatly disintegrates in a spray of elegant debris and your world dissolves in a rain of stabbing hurt, like a whole river of gravel is fired from the sky.  

You fall.  

There’s a roaring in your ears and the breathlessness is getting worse.  Iron and smoke tinge the soup of dust and rock and gas that your lungs don’t want to breathe. Concussion grenade, must be: and, at first, you struggle, but the twisted beam that roofs your little world won’t even shift.  It’s close, pressing on your chest and you will yourself to fight the panic down.  Don’t disturb it.  Don’t make the situation worse.  You want to laugh at that—fuck no—all you do is make situations worse— but the breath in hurts like full-on hell.  

That has to be good, doesn’t it?  It’s when you don’t feel anything you’re going down…

Ok.. just…lie.  Breathe… take inventory. There’s a trickle of blood running from your hair down through your eyes: you can taste it upon your tongue.  Your left hand stings, but your right is just lying here. Numb. Not moving. Broken probably, but that is the least of your concerns.

The pressure of the beam bears down steadily.

And with it your space to get some air.  

“Y/N!”

From somewhere to your left there comes a voice.  Faint and muffled.  As if someone is shouting way way far away and you realize—this is it.  You are going to die.  No ones gonna arrive in time but weirdly you are ok.  Bucky is allright.  You saw him flip and roll away.  That’s good…that’s everything.  You cough on the settling dust and steel and try to take shallower breaths.  Your heart’s too fast and the air’s too thin and you close your eyes.  Float, indistinct at the edges.  Nothing hurts too much right now.  It’s good. You can close your eyes and drift away.  

“Y/N!”

This time the call is muffled but louder: anguished, as if everything in the world is wrong.

A chunk of steel is wrenched away and for the first time a patch of light shines through the dim.  

“Y/N, are you hurt?!”

You blink through the blood that gums your lashes.  Bucky’s there.  Shoulders wedged into the impossibly tiny space, eyes wide with something you are sure you have never seen.

Fear.

You want to ease his mind, but words are a little hard.  “I’m ok,” comes out more wheeze than whisper.

“Hang on, we’re gonna get you out.”  Bucky barks into the comms for Sam, and help, and oxygen.  He turns and gingerly shoves aside the loose jagged chunks of steel to make a little space.  When there’s a hand’span of pavement clear, he dips down on his left, grimacing and flexing up against the beam.  

There’s a slow metallic groan, an endless pause, but eventually it lifts just barely. 

But sadly not enough.  

The fuzzy world is whiting out, dissolving in a ring of sparks.

“Y/N!”  He frees a hand, shakes you roughly and sends a lance of agony through your chest.  “Stay with me, babe, stay with me.  Cavalry is coming.”  

But we don’t have any horses…  

The wry smile on his face is blurry.  You must have whispered this out loud.  He closes his eyes, resets his metal hand down against the pavement.  Flexes up again.  “Aiighhh!”

The monumental effort gains another precious millimeter and the sparkly whiteness starts to fade to the indigo of his vest.

“What? Can’t you hear the hoofbeats?”  Bucky is shaking, sweat beading on his brow but above there is a whoosh and the carbon ion smell of repulsor jets.

“Got it, Barnes!”

“Took you long enough!”  Bucky sags just slightly, protecting you in case something shifts, but mercifully the metal does not move.  

Sam is crouched behind.  You dimly hear his coolly calm instructions. “Barnes, don’t let her move. Pretty sure those ribs are broken.  Can’t risk a pneumothorax.”  Bucky squeezes out, disappears through the gap but is quickly back again, metal fingers softly pressing a cannula to your nose.  The dizziness fades some more.

“Better?”  His Brooklyn accent aches with hopefulness.  

You nod, warily taking a deeper breath, feeling clean, cool air rush in. Fuck its good but lord it hurts.  At least the world does not swim.  Bucky reaches to brush some damp strands from off your brow and Sam passes a pad into the gap.  You hiss as he presses the treated gauze over the worst of the cut.  “Sorry.  Sorry.”

He glances around the narrow space.  You’re basically in a coffin.  Just wide enough for your hips and long enough for your feet.  When you flex your foot, your toes touch something that feels smooth.  A dish? A beam?  The girders of the tower have toppled like a marionette’s arms and legs when the control strings have been cut.  “Gonna take a bit to cut this mess.  Properly, so it doesn’t shift.”

Bucky’s right, but you’re worrying about the waste of time.  “Is it safe? The cell?”

You mean the rogue Hydra group, the reason why you’re here, because if it’s not, Jesus, you are going to thump him hard.  You’re useless pinned.  But if there’s shooting still going on…

“Relax, babe, we got ‘em.  That grenade was their hail mary pass and it’s failed.  Steve and Clint and Nat are mopping up.”

Thank God.  Some of the tension bleeds away, like steam from a radiator.  You shiver, shock starting to set in, and, tenderly, he drapes you with a silver thermal blanket.  It’s better, but now it’s time to wait.  Bright arcs of light shine through the cracks and you know Tony is working as fast as he can, but still it’s hard.  You’ve been strong forever, but the fear you’ve held a bay is now too much with Bucky near.  

A whimper escapes your lips.

“Shushhh, baby,” he croons, leaning near to cup your cheek with a warm hand. “I’m not going anywhere.   It’s all gonna be ok.”  But it really isn’t.  His other one, metal reflecting Tony’s blazing work, keeps stroking your tangled hair.  This close you can see a forest of tiny scrapes and nicks and cuts upon his dusty skin.

And the ever present smudges of tired grey below his eyes.

“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”  You’re stammering.  You’ve been selfish, you see that now. Doing what you thought right and best for him. Totally certain you had to be the one to help and all the time the ache of want has never stopped.  

It doesn’t matter.  You need to be strong for him.  Move on and let someone else have the watch.  

“I can’t do this anymore.”    

You’re not sure what you are speaking of: holding yourself together while he kneels and strokes your face, or staying at his side.  Both make sense.  The sounds of working are getting louder.  “Barnes, I’m almost through,” crackles through the link.  

A cool metal finger strokes your brow.  “Hey, not much longer now.”

You turn your head, catch the light in his worried eyes. “No..us, side by side.”  

There, you’ve said it.  SHIELD med will patch you up. Ship you out to base where you can crumble into dust somewhere on your own.

It’s brutal but better than being an irritant.  Scratching endlessly at the scab of him.  

“Goddammit, Y/N. You don’t have to go.”  

His growl is not hurt but sheer frustration.  There’s a storm in his eyes and in the flat set of his frown.  Bucky wriggles a little closer in, cradles you like the most precious thing in all the world.   “Fuck, it takes this battered brain a while, but, babe, you gotta hear me out.  I get it now.  You’re terrified that serving alongside someone who means too much makes you vulnerable.  Messes with your skills–but it doesn’t have to be that way.  There’s a shakedown sure, for a little while, but Clint and Nat–they manage.  Wanda manages with Viz.  Steve works alongside me and we may not be lovers but our bond is just as strong.” His lips pull into the saddest smile. “I fucking need you. You. Y/N. Not the Corporal with the medals.  I need you everywhere.  At night, when the monsters in my head crowd close and, in the day, when I need a snarky smile.  You are best thing I have had in my life and I can’t let that go.”  

Bucky’s face is almost pressed against your cheek.  It’s that smile, soft and warm, and just for you.  

Fire in the night and a watcher on your six.  

“I’ve tried, Doll, I really have, but it just doesn’t work. I need you, complicated as it is. And I won’t let you give up on us. Not without trying, anyway.”  

His whisper is rough with meaning.  He huffs out a little sigh and presses an achingly gentle kiss across your bloodied lips.

This time his kiss breaks you….

——————–

tags:  @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan  @theycallmebecca @mewsiex @emilyevanston @mycapt-ohcapt  @pegasusdragontiger  @winters-beauty

@badassbaker @heather-lynn @saffreelove @loricameback @nomadicpixel @missfirstavenger @prplprincez @marvel-lucy

[getrealfunky]

the living are flush-red

(part 1)

(crossposted here)

(part 2 of the maria lives verse!)

(cw/tw for this part: trauma mention, gore mention, pregnancy mention (maybe?), body horror (it gets fixed but u know lol))

SUMMARY:

Venom, as much as they can take away and devour, can also give back and mend. Not just for Eddie, but for Maria, too.

If she's willing.

Maria knows how to stay hidden. From most things, anyway: people if she didn’t want them to look at her (even if she used to stick out, hunched into herself just outside of Mrs Chen’s shop), the police, “well-meaning” “Samaritans”, her relatives-- anything and anyone.

She’d thought she’d exercised her flexible visibility well enough, along with her seemingly astute sense of danger. Some people give off a slimy aura, others are warm. But the Life Corporation had slipped past those filters, and lured her in. Because she was hungry for something other than another night out on the streets.

At least she’s not dead. She’ll have nightmares for sure, and she’s been sick since escaping (squeezing stomach cramps, mostly), but hey, at least she’s alive.

Eddie (and Venom) had noticed. That her stomach cramps had, by the slightest of increments, worsened, leading to being winded and curling in on herself on the couch, eyes squeezed shut as she tried to breathe through the lancing pain. Like breathing through contractions, but that was a thought for another time. Not that she wanted to think about it at all. If she did--

Sometimes, there’s the other thought that being out on the streets would be better than sharing space with the two of them and have them seeing her like this. It was Hell, and she’d hesitated, declined and tried looking elsewhere (besides the space between Mrs Chen’s store and the newspaper stand) (even then, she was’t looking too hard; she’s tried that before, and--), but Eddie had insisted that it wasn’t a problem. Had the gall not to say anything about the bills piling up on his kitchen table.

Somehow, it feels worse than the street. At least there, she didn’t feel like a burden -- shower water, clothes, food, taking up space when pain made her inconvenient. But, again, Eddie, good Eddie, had insisted it was fine. Never insisted she’d stay, but that it was fine. Yeah, it’s the nuance; that’s why she stayed.

She feels cleaner, anyhow.

“Eddie,” she starts, eyeing up the coffee table. The overflow of food over plates is mouthwatering to just look at (not that it’s fancy or gourmet or whatever, but by Jesus, it’s a lot -- c’mon, Eddie), but the smell is still rich like-- Maria pushes the thought away.

“C’mon,” he insists, gesturing to sit and eat with one arm while deflecting Venom's probing tentacles (arms? they look too semi-fluid to be called either) (whatever) from stealing from the plates. It doesn’t work; Maria giggles, watching the back-and-forth banter between Venom and Eddie. Wait a minute vs We are hungry.

A gurgling noise disrupts the bickering. Maria slaps a hand over her stomach. “Shhh-- sorry.” Then a squeeze of pain (kidney? stomach? pancreas?) makes her wince. “Ow.”

“You OK?”

“Yeah, just -- hungry.”

Eddie doesn’t look away from her just yet, although Maria starts digging in with fingers and eyes. The unbidden thought that there is a trace of tearing on the inside of her body (when Venom was forced there by circumstance -- either death in oxygenated air or a multitude of never-quite-matching hosts) hangs over her, ghostlike. It’s been a subject of nebulous nightmares: rotting from the inside out, unfixable, necrotized organs becoming thick black fluid and spilling out of her mouth -- that sorta thing. Somehow, no worse than some other nightmares she’s had.

(Why is it that her mind keeps travelling backwards now?)

(Home means comfort. Comfort leads to complacency. Complacency leads to memories, and it's only a matter of time--)

Her stomach crumples in on itself, tilting her forward on the coffee table, hand over stomach, hand pushing a path through plates and bowls and knocking them over as she tries to breathe it out, begging incoherently stop it hurts stop it hurts stop it hurts, flinching away from Eddie's hands when all he's trying to do is help her onto the couch.

“It hurts, Eddie.”

Shivering, cold fingertips, world sideways, but at least Eddie's stroking her hair. It doesn't help, but he's there.

Venom still scares her.

No, not quite. What happened in the Life Corporation scared her, and it was only because Venom was hungry.

And yes, she knows that Venom had taken a bite or two out of Eddie, but they’d fixed that and Eddie’s fine, now. Better than fine, actually. But Eddie was dying.

... Christ. What does that mean for her?

“Maria.”

She yelps, head snapping up from a half-hearted online search for part-time jobs, the paper ads exhausted.

“Sorry.”

“It’s OK.” She closes the tab and turns in her seat to face Venom. Just as well that they’re only noodling, an extension from Eddie, and not full-formed. She’d probably freak out.

“I can fix it--”

Eddie leans forward, effectively cutting Venom off, and it is forward, because ah, there is something wrong with Maria. She is dying. Well, so much for job-seeking. Eddie extends a hand forward, and that could bridge Venom to her, even though she knows nothing will happen unless she says yes, please fix me, I’d like to live for a little bit more, thanks.

Maria hums. Holds Eddie's hand. Hesitates. He only squeezes her hand; it grounds her. Nothing bad is gonna happen to her if they do something. The fear still lurks. The memory still lurks. And Venom might taste that, freshly.

“If you can fix it, then... please fix it.”

It’s slow, completely the opposite of the glass box where the black blob had chased her (escape was impossible, the space too small, but she wasn’t letting that thing eat her if she could help it, if she could stave it off for one second more) and she’s grateful for that. Perish the memory; they're trying to help her.

Eddie, still grasping her palm in his hand, looks like he’s had the wind punched out of him once Venom slips completely under her skin. Must be strange -- to have nobody in your head, then having someone like Venom, then, even if it’s only for a bit, nobody again.

Your head is clearer now.

Well yes, the threat of the unknown isn’t splotching towards her--

And it doesn’t hurt as much, hearing them there. Only a twinge.

Venom talks clinical, and Eddie reaches for her other hand. It hits her that they must look a strange sight, if anyone could look -- seemingly two people holding hands in the middle of an apartment, staring at each other. Perhaps not too strange, but--

Liver. Kidney.

“Oh.” Should she be dead by now? She repeats: “Liver and kidney, they said.” Eddie nods, brow furrowing before relaxing again.

Quiet, as Venom seems to hum and fix internal bitemarks. If that’s what they are.

Not quite.

She can't tell if they’re being factual, or if she's missing out on nuance of tone -- if they regret it (must do, surely, because all current evidence points to that), or if they’re amused by the idea of actual bitemarks on someone’s internal organs. It could be pretty funny, to be fair.

Maybe Eddie understands better.

Kidney, now.

“That's quick.” A slight laugh; relief.

It doesn’t take much more than five minutes, then Venom says they’re done and Maria sighs as they slip back to Eddie. Relief, again; Eddie breathes in harshly, and Maria lets go, flexing her fingers.

“Your hands are sweaty.”

“Your hands are sweaty,” he shoots back, but he’s rubbing his hands on his jeans anyway.

The next time she feels a stomach cramp, it’s only because of how much she's eaten.

[lurkerwithcomputer]

Children of Madness, Part 1:2

Like the one before it, it’s an Oggai survivor fanfic. If you don’t like the Oggai, you probably don’t want this egg salad. Once again, thank you @hamliet for inspiring this. The usual warnings: gore/violence, foul language (Hajime is involved, of course there’s swearing), and anything else about the Oggai that might be triggering. Oh, mentions of bullying and Clockwork Orange references. Long(er) chapter.

Chapter 2: A Tiny Hyena Still Has Teeth

“Hajime-kun, Hajime-kun!”

“What’s up, Natsume?”

“Mayuzumi was bullying us again.”

“I’ll go keep him in line. Wish he’d keep his fuckin’ fun to ghouls, though. Vonny, grahzny bastard.”

She liked when Hajime swore, liked the punch and swagger of it.

“You don’t need to punish him, I threw him out a window and he landed on his ass.”

Hajime’s eyes bugged for a moment, then his face split in a grin. He burst out laughing.

“I -pfff -haha -always liked that about you, Natsume.”

The world cracked and blistered as he said that, and suddenly the Oggai dorm was an endless concrete tunnel, and Hajime’s laughing face was a bleeding void. Fanged, many-eyed tentacles reached out.

She snapped awake, nightmare sweat already drying. Memories seeped in, blood, screaming, the pain of lost limbs and then the falling. She had plunged into stale water, and her limbs had been reborn. She lay on a rough bed of her own clothing, now dry, while a massive vent breathed hot air on her bare back. She stood and wriggled into her clothes, which although dry, still smelled stale and damp. She pocketed her meager equipment: transmitter, spare battery, bandages, and a length of thin rope. As she stood and walked away from her rest, a resolve sparked inside her. I’m coming for you, Hajime-kun.

A cracked concrete stairway stretched upward. Eventually, it ended and a gaping hole began. She stood at the edge, toes gripping the rough surface. The far side of the hole seemed to taunt her, a flat platform of textured steel. I am... was an Oggai. My body can do this. She flexed her legs and jumped. Rubble-strewn abyss rushed under her, until the metal floor slid up to catch her. She landed lightly, crouched. A door marked “MAINTENANCE” in faded yellow stood at the end of a dim hallway. Beyond it, a passage sloped upward. She put one foot in front of the other.

Water rushed beneath the the metal grating she walked on, and carried with it a swampy smell that filled her lungs. Somewhere, machinery rumbled, pumping water and forcing air. Metal rungs embedded in the concrete ascended into shadows, and she was tired, but she smelled outside air, and it pulled her onward.

A massive ...thing... towered above the streets, while she crouched in the shadows of a half-collapsed building. She looked up at the evening skyline, twisted by the creature. Hajime-kun is up there somewhere? ...How will I find him? Her stomach growled and tightened, distracting her. How long since I’ve had even a snack? Or water? She turned to look at the building she hid behind. A shopping mall. Food. Water. Maybe clothing. It would be looting, but then, she was no stranger to stealing. I grew up on stealing.

The inside of the mall was dim and stuffy, and fallen pieces of the ceiling littered the floor. She stepped lightly around broken glass and twisted metal, and crawled under a row of dangling wires, even though she was sure they weren’t still live. The mall was T-shaped, with the food court one way and the hopefully intact shops the other. She looked longingly at the food court, but chose the shops instead. I can take whatever I want from here, but it’s not like it will all fit in my pockets. I need a... loot bag. Her own little joke made her smile. A run-down department store took up half of this end of the mall.

She found the luggage section, slowly searching for a suitable bag. It would have to be small enough for a twelve-year-old, and bright colors would make her stand out. She looked up at the racks of backpacks. Too big. Too colorful... and who put neon pink, sunflower yellow and electric blue together anyway? She found one that fit. It’s light, it’s snug on my shoulders, and it won’t block my kagune... or I won’t poke a hole in the bottom. It was light gray, black and rust brown. It reminded her of one she’d had when she was a child. She walked toward the clothing racks, slowly, and saw a dull navy-blue hoodie. She tried it on. It’s my size, and this cloth... She rubbed the sleeve against her cheek. Feels nice. Water-resistant... maybe. She pulled her Oggai jacket, more of a vest now, really, over it. A floppy cloth hat caught her eye, and her heart twisted a little. Hajime-kun. I’ll take it, just because. Maybe it’ll make me lucky. She padded past the shoe section, and looked down at her bare feet. Should I? The smell of rubber and glue and shoes filled her nose, but she could at least sit down on one of the benches, and rest for a little while.

Memories floated to the surface, of a little girl who lived on the streets. Her shoes quickly outgrown, and at first the pavement had made her skin prickle and ache. After a couple of weeks, her skin had grown thicker, and she had found that agility and light, padded steps might be better after all. Steps that had let her creep down dark alleys unnoticed, had let her climb, catlike, to steal and slip away. Sometimes, when there was no way out, those agile steps had let her dance a violent circle around someone stronger than her. She remembered how the shoes at the orphanage had pinched and hurt. Blisters, always blisters. The Oggai uniform boots were better, but still, her legs had felt heavy, and her steps always a split-second too slow. Would I have been quick enough to reach you, Hajime-kun?

Her stomach cramped, hard this time. Ouch. Food and water. She moved back to the food court. A counter serving deli foods was the closest. The fridges still felt cool to the touch. Maybe the food inside will be okay? She opened it to see racks of sandwiches. Egg salad? I love egg salad. She grabbed a couple and climbed onto the counter to enjoy them, unwrapped them - a mistake. The stench of rancid egg and mayonnaise clogged her nose and invaded her mind. She gagged, crouched on the counter, and leaned over the metal sink. Slowly the urge to vomit faded, and she tossed the sandwiches into the closest trash can. Not that egg salad.

She discovered that preserved foods and anything out of a can was still edible, if cold and not quite appetizing. I think cans might be my new favorite invention in the history of ever. Bottled water wasn’t exactly hard to find, and sports drinks and canned coffee weren’t hard either. She left the food court, with its faint smell of rot, behind her. She turned her steps back towards the shops. If... when I find Hajime-kun, I’m going to need to carry him, and I should wrap him in something. A set of bedsheets provided the answer. As she struggled with fitting them into her backpack, her transmitter dropped from her pocket. The screen was dark, the beeper silent. Still nothing? I know these are waterproof. Are we Oggai just forgotten all over again? Mutsuki-sensei... Still, she didn’t want to just leave it.

She left the ruined mall and wandered towards the monster. Finally,  at a place where a piece of fallen scaffolding extended outward, was a way onto the body of this tower of flesh. The night breeze ruffled her hair, and carried a familiar scent. Hajime-kun. She remembered the bandages in her pocket. Anything for extra grip, I guess. She sat and wrapped her feet and hands. She stood and stepped onto the creature’s back. Despite its stone-like appearance, it was warm and spongy underfoot, and seemed to have a pulse. When she reached a place where it ascended into a vast pillar of lumpy kagune-flesh. As the sky clouded and chilly rain began to drip, she began to climb.           

Next time: Natsume would be a good friend to have in an apocalypse, and Mutsuki might not have forgotten after all.