#i think some corners are a little scuffed but its alright. i hope

[sketchingdemonss]

clay sylvie i made for the anniversary!! unfortunately im quite late but still,, !!

[ghosts-cant-sleep]

last night i dreamt we did our laundry together

re2 leon kennedy x male! reader warnings: yearning. notes: n/a.

fem dni.

Morning dew clung to the windows, a hazy, young dawn hanging as a heavy blue blanket over the slowly waking city.

A still morning, just as good as any other. Silence only broken by the scuffing of shoes echoing from the other side of the break room door, the buzzing of the fridge, the slow turning of the fan, it's blades creaking.

[Name]'s nails tapped against the flimsy paper of his coffee cup, it's heat warming his palms, held snug between both hands, fingers interlocked. Coffee had stained the outside of the cup, the outline of a long drop stretching down the length. He was never great at keeping his hands still.

He had tried to whipe similar spills he'd caused on the one he'd brought in for Leon, but to little avail. He could0 only hope the fact it was free coffee would make up for its messiness. That, and the handful of a few different creamers he'd brought-- he wasn't exactly sure how Leon took his coffee.

He kept his gaze glued to his own cup, all too aware of his own body as he sat in the flimsy metal chairs, the slightest shift of his elbows causing the table to shift and wobbling-- the damn old thing-- how the fabric of his slacks clung to his legs, his shoes digging into the back of his heel.

Every thought that passed through his head neared either destructive, or delusional-- the in-between was negligible, and in the past few months, he hasn't thought of much else besides the man infront of him.

He didn't like the word *crush.* It felt childish-- immature. He was a man, not some school boy fauning on the playground. Unfortunately, there was no better word to describe what he felt, try as he might to find one.

Even worse than that was the way his own mind toyed with him because of it.

In fleeting moments, he swore those butterflies in his stomach, the rapid beating of his heart, the genuine want to come into work for more than just his paycheck, were all mutual. What else could it all mean? The lingering gazes, the routine 'good night's' and 'mornings' they exchanged, the little grazes of Leon's palm right between his shoulder blades as he moved past, knees brushing whenever they sat just a little to close to eachother at roll call. God, what else could it mean?

Then, the next minute, [Name]'s world seemed to dull around him the moment any womans name rolled off Leon's toungue. Dread would wrap its heavy hands around his throat and squeeze till every word died in mouth.

He never entertained the idea of a confession either. He'd built up something good with Leon, made himself a friend in an utterly imposing city, and a great one at that. It'd be selfish of him to throw it all out for something as trivial as this.

He often didn't trust himself enough to keep that promise most days. On late nights, especially. The two of them in the station, wasting away the night while they were supposed to be working. His teeth dug into his toungue much harsher those days.

"Hey," Leon's voice cuts through his thoughts, a rush of nerves and anxiety swiftly bunching in his gut in painful, tight knots.

[Name]'s eyes snap to Leon's, breath stilling. He worries he'd somehow given himself away. Was he thinking out loud, staring without realizing, or was there an undeniable want in his eyes he could never hide?

He takes in every inch of Leon's face, his expression, the slight twitch of his muscles beneath the skin of cheeks, the ones he were hardly aware of. A crease between his brows, bunched together, a tense pursing of his lips, the corners of his mouth twitching into a frown.

"You alright there?" Leon finally asks, head tipping to the side, blonde hair sweeping over his brow. From beneath the table, his foot nudges against [Name]'s.

"Yeah," [Name] breathes out all too quickly, the heat of embarrassment washing over his skin, his clothes feeling all the more unbearable. "Just a long night is all," he tries to laugh it off, bringing a coffee-warmed hand to the circles under his eyes, trying to rub them from his face, maybe give Leon something more pleasant to look at.

Leon's unconvinced. He usually is. This would all be much less nerve-wracking if he'd just been a smidge dumber.

"Right." Still, as he always does, he nods, face shifting into that smile of his. The overall softening of his features, lips tilting up, the edges of his top teeth peaking out as his lips part. This time around, his grin doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, you know I'm always here if you need anything."

"Yeah," [Name] pulls his gaze back down to his hands, leaning further back into his seat.

Leon was a hard man not to like, and this was just another example. Relentlessly compassionate and kind. Always there to stick his neck out for everyone and anyone. Just talking to him made everything feel so much lighter. [Name] wasn't even half the man Leon was, and it was nearly that reason alone [Name] knew Leon would always deserve much more than him.

"What was it?"

[Name]'s attention is swiftly brought back to Leon. "What was what?"

"Y'know... What was keeping you up?"

"Oh." You, god it was you-- it's always *fucking* you. A gwaing ache eating him from the inside out, cracking open his ribs and making a home in the deepest parts of his being. Arm wrapped around a pillow, face burried into the fabric, pretending he could hear a heart beating beneath the casing. Burring himself under layers of thick blankets, manufacturing a warm embrace. His own hand ran it's fingers up and down the side of his ribs, trying to imagine what it'd feel like if it wasn't his own touch for once. "Nothing really. Just uh, stayed up thinking, I guess."

"About what?

"Just, uh, paper work, and stuff... I dunno, really. You know how late nights can get," he weakly laughs. Every word that slipped from his tongue felt like an awkward caricature of what a normal person should sound like. "When I did manage to get to sleep-- it was really only for a few minutes, really. Felt more like a nap, really, but I feel like you can't really call them naps at night. I still ended up staying awake for most of the night, so. Uhm, but you were in my dream, actually."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. It was about you-- or, I guess not *about* you. It's just, you were in it, like us-- you and me, I guess. So, it was kind of about us."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"... Well, don't leave me hanging here. What happened?"

"I mean, I don't really know how to explain it," he mutters with a soft breath. He pulls a nerves breath from the tension-thick air around them, stuffy and near suffocating. He takes a hasty sip of his coffee, burning the tip of his tongue, holding back a wince. It was all an attempt to stall, to give himself a chance to get a damn grip. "We were in my house, like, my childhood house, back in my hometown. We were in my parents' room, but the furniture was all different-- like switched around, y'know? And we were just... sitting on the bed, folding some laundry."

"Folding laundry?" he repeats with a small laugh.

"Yeah," [Name] attempted to echo the sound, voice cracking at the end. "Folding laundry. There was some song playing, but it wasn't really coming from anywhere. I didn't really recognize it, and to tell you the truth, I don't even remember what it sounded like, but we were both singing along. It wasn't all that bad."

It felt remarkably real in the moment. He woke up nearly believing he'd fallen asleep in a pile of freshly washed clothes. He'd smelt the detergent, the warm of the clothes on his hands, the dip in the bed from Leon's weight in front of him.

But, he'd woken up to the dreery ceiling of his apartment, blankets half off his bed, yet still sweating.

"Doesn't sound all that bad," Leon concedes after a tentative sip of his coffee. "Not sure how happy I'd be after dreaming about chores. Can't say I enjoy doing laundry all that much.

"Yeah, I mean, me neither." His body moves without much thought behind it, mirroring Leon's as if second nature.

Nobody liked chores, laundry least of all, but some company made it feel all the better. He'd like it, [Name] thinks, at least. Something about the thought of standing by the sink, hands scrubbed away as dried food with a flimsy sponge, even if Leon just sat by the counter, talking about anything and everything. He could do that for hours. Shoving dirty uniforms into the washing machine, filling out tax forms, picking up around the apartment, arguing over identical paint swatches. Maybe they'd have a dastardly little creature running around, wreaking havoc; maybe a cat, maybe a kid. Existing with him.

It was stupid dream, one he'd do well to forget about as soon as he could

"... Anything else?"

"... Yeah, actually. You were wearing those bright-ass white shoes. Somehow, they looked even goofier than usual. So, pretty accurate a things considered."

[bitchassbucky]

Ｂｏｔｈｅｒ

📎Word Count: 2.2k

📎Warning/s: smut! minors DNI. mean!fuckboy!bucky x f!reader. unprotected sex. little to no foreplay, because, well, he just wants to get his dick wet. denied orgasm :( no aftercare too lol he’s an asshole in this one. messy facial! some heckin’ words.

📎A/N: jesus fuckiNG CHRIST okay this is one of my longer fics, i’m trying to get back into writing long fics again so, bear with me. fuckboy!bucky playlist to accompany you while reading this <3 

📎reblogs, likes, and comments are all welcomed! shower me with validation pls

📎Masterlist || Ask || AFTERDARK

The bass line and the drumbeat made your heart pump in sync. The room reeked of cheap drinks and expensive perfume—sweaty patrons swirling, mingling around, keeping their drinks cold, their hearts warm.

Chatter peaked when the band finished the song, a round of applause rising the frontman’s ego. The spotlight shone brightly on him, the stage lights hitting his back, lighting up his silhouette with pinks and purples.

He beams with adrenaline. All perfect smiles.

Slinging his stickered guitar to the side, he speaks into the mic, “thank you all for coming. We’ve been The Commandos. Goodnight!” The frontman flashes his million-dollar, megawatt smile and bows, earning another applause from the audience.

The rest of the band slinked out the back, bowing, giving out air-kisses and waves. Another band piles onto the stage, waving hello to the gathering crowd.

You sigh, the bottom of your shoes sticking to the dirty floor of the bar. The overhead lights of the bar a bright yellow contrast to the stage’s red hue. The beer in your hand condensing, the tips of your fingers damp in the process. The warmth of the place piling on your impatience.

Pushing yourself off the bar, you make your way to the back, one thing echoing in your mind. Familiar faces crowd your vision, sending a polite smile their way.

A door stands in front of you, the wood stained with stickers and posters and autographs. You knock twice before turning the knob.

“Where’s Bucky?” You say, leaning against the door frame. The door slowly swings open.

A blonde man, what’s-his-face, looks at you and puts down a pair of drumsticks, “‘Dunno what to tell ya, but he’s not here.”

Your roll your eyes, sending him a mirthless smile, “yeah, obviously. I was hoping if you could tell him to meet me tonight.”

Steve—you suddenly remembered his name—eyed you head to foot, a smirk plastered on his face, “Sounds important. Why don’t you hang out with us while waiting for him?”

A chuckle escapes your lips, “no, thanks. I’ll meet him outside.”

Steve makes a face, quirking a light brow to the rest of the group. All of them sharing the same look, “alright. Suit yourself.”

The clock ticks just ten minutes after 11, your patience growing thin as a needle. A gaggle of drunk patrons stumbles out the door when you spot him—leather jacket, distressed, ripped pants.

“Where’s my ring?” Without missing a beat.

Bucky’s lips quirk into a smirk, “whoa, baby, we fucked once,” he made you come thrice, “and you’re asking for a ring already?”

A shiver runs up your spine, whether it’s from disgust or something else, it wasn’t clear, “you know what I meant. I left my ring on your nightstand.”

“Deliberately, or…”

Your hands curl up in frustration, your left shin itching, “c’mon. Do you have it or not?” 

His intentionally undone boots scuffed against the floor as he stalks closer to you, his perfume invading your olfactory senses. Oh, he smells good. 

“D’you wanna find out?” His voice dropping a couple of octaves, whispering into the shell of your ear. His thick arms caging you against the bar and the wall. Fuck, he smells really good.

A feeble attempt to make room goes unnoticed, your breath hitching in your throat, “If you don’t have it on you, I’d gladly receive it through the mail.”

Bucky licks his tinged lips, a vein in his temple ticking—the lighting reflecting in his blue eyes, “why would I mail it to you when you can pick it up from my place?”

A rational voice in your head echoes, fighting with your impulse. The closeness of both of your bodies radiating warmth and electricity.

“Fine.” You relented, impulsivity is what got you there in the first place.

The drive to the place shouldn’t take too long, the little shit deliberately took the long way to his place. 

While you sit on the passenger side of his car, he keeps sending you amused glances. As if he couldn’t believe you’d willingly go with him tonight. Well, technically, it really wasn’t part of your plan.

“You wanna get burgers first?” He offers, lowering the music coming from the car’s stereo.

“I wanna get my ring back, Bucky.” You say, reminding him—and yourself—of what your agenda for tonight is.

He dismisses you, as per usual. And pulls over a drive-through of a local burger place, ordering himself a meal.

Instead of getting back out on the highway, he parks the car, rolls down the window, and eats.

“Jesus- fuck, Bucky!” You exclaimed in frustration, “look, if you want to waste my time, then-”

“Then, what?”

“Then go fuck yourself.” You left in a huff, swinging your legs and slamming the car door shut. Hoping that he’d go deaf in one ear.

Making sure that you’re well visible and in a brightly-lit place, you pull out your phone to book an Uber. Only to find Bucky making his way to you for the second time tonight.

“Hey!” Didn’t even used your name to call you, great work!

“I do have it, it’s really back in my place. By the lamp on the bedside table.” The truth lingers out on the night air, waiting for you to acknowledge it.

You meet Bucky’s statement with a wary squint, he meets your rightful doubt with a smile.

“No more stopovers.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bucky’s place is a liminal space for you. 

The familiar shadows and corners welcome you, the surfaces on where your bare skin sat hissed at you. You stood by the doorway, not wanting to prolong the journey.

“Hey, c’mon, it’s just me. Sit down.” Exactly, it is him.

You shake your head, leaning by the wall like a stranger, “I’m good. You’re not gonna take long anyway.”

But instead of retrieving your jewelry, his form retreats to the kitchen. A few seconds pass and you hear the crack and hiss of a beer bottle being opened.

“Y’know, I think I’ll just get it myself.” You toe off your shoes, placing them by the door. Your jacket still hanging off your shoulders.

You passed by Bucky, walking towards a love seat, two beers on one hand, “hurry up, then. Got a drink for ya.”

Hazy images play by memory the last time you were here, his damn cologne seeping into your nostrils.

Your head hanging by the edge of the bed as he laps your cunt like a man starved.

The headboard supporting your balance as you bounce up and down his thick cock.

Carpeting that gave your knees burn as he fucked you from behind.

Like an etch-a-sketch, you shake your head to get rid of the scenes that made themselves known.

A shining glint from the bedside table catches your eye, you swipe the ring and stashed it down your jacket pocket.

Coming out of the room with your ring, your slight smile falters as you saw Bucky lounging shirtless. As rightfully so, this is his home anyway.

You steeled yourself despite the heat that’s making its way up to your neck, “uh, I already got it. Thanks, Bucky.”

He shoots you a look—a lingering one. Like a predator about to pounce on prey. His stare chasing the goosebumps under your clothes.

“You sure you wanna go? It’s–” he glances at his phone for the time, “–past midnight.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can.” The setup.

“How about I take care of you for a change?” The trap.

And then just as sudden as your arrival, you find yourself pressed up against the wall. The agenda of the night has already been forgotten.

Bucky’s mouth finds its temporary home on your jaw, moving down your neck. His large hands already clawing their way under your shirt, the suddenness of the moment stirring the heat in your belly.

Rushed hands and panted breaths meet feverish lips.

The moment his tongue slipped into your mouth was the moment where you lost all inhibitions. Your hands fly to his nape, tugging his hair, effectively making him moan into your mouth.

“You know me so well.” He purrs against your lips. Hitching your legs up his hips as he presses you harder against the drywall.

“Lots of people know you so well.” You bite back, knowing for a fact that he sees others behind your back.

“True,” he’s murmuring against your pulse point and you sigh, “you’re my favorite though.”

Your jacket clutters against the floor of his bedroom, along with his pants and your shirt. A yellow stream of light emits from the living room.

Bucky tosses you on the bed, sending the pillows crashing on the floor. Though the room is darkened with curtains, your eyes adjust enough to see him as he pulls your ankles towards him.

His abs are chiseled like a Greek god, his skin tanned, decorated with tattoos. His left nipple adorns a stainless steel piercing. Like the last time, he grabs your hand, trailing it along his torso, letting you feel his deep v-lines.

A lewd moan escapes your lips as you cup his hardening cock through his boxers. Thick and heavy, a perfect fit.

“You like it?” Bucky taunts, jutting his hips against your hand. You squeeze him lightly, earning you a deep groan from the man above you.

His hand suddenly tightens around your throat, pulling your head towards him, “I asked you a question.”

Giving him a small nod and a meek yeah seemed to have sufficed until he flips you on your stomach and forces your face down the bed.

Your skirt joins the growing pile of clothes on the floor. Your panties do too.

“You’re so wet for me, aren’t ya?” Bucky taunts, one thick finger swiping the wetness between your folds. Spreading it around as preparation. A muffled confirmation made him chuckle as he pinches your clit with intention.

Taking his leaking cock out of his boxers, he swipes the bead of precum from his angry-red tip. He takes his sweet, sweet time before even thinking about pushing into your pussy.

Bucky drags the head of his cock up and down your fold, earning a needy moan from you—coating his entire length with your wetness.

After seemingly an eternity on your side, the sheets already imprinted their impression on the side of your cheek. Bucky finally, fucking finally, pushes into you. A short, white-hot burn shoots through your nerves, making you whimper.

His hand stays on the back of your neck, pushing you further down the bed as he moves. Your pussy lips gripping his dick like a vice, “so fucking tight. God.”

Bucky’s chest swelled up with pride as he notices your fingers digging into his sheets, “no one can fuck you this good.”

The bed squeaks with both of your weight shifting as he reaches around you, his fingers working around your bud. The pressure of his upper body makes you gasp with every thrust of his hips.

He continues to work you—his fingers circling tightly on your throbbing clit, his cock nudging the soft, spongy spot in you. Your toes curl with red heat as your orgasm begins to burn up your legs.

“I’m gonna-- ‘m so close,” your pleas fell on deaf ears as Bucky chases his own high. His balls slapping against your skin, his hips stuttering as his cock pulsates inside your velvet walls.

He curses, grabbing your shoulder and flipping you upside, kneeling before you. His hand pumping his dick continuously as it twitches—the veins even more prominent.

“Open your mouth, I’m gonna cum in it.” Bucky orders and you obey. Your fingers finding their way to your abandoned bundle of nerves—your climax threatening to fade away.

Thick ropes of cum shoot over your mouth, painting your lips and chin white as he misses.

“God, fuck, look at your mess.” Bucky sighs, he’s already tucked back into his boxers and handing you a shirt—presumably to clean yourself up.

“You got your ring? Anything else?” The annoyance in his tone is evident. The clock ticks half past midnight.

You dangle your purse in front of him as a gesture, the wind picks up and your shoes are loose on your feet.

“Alright, well, you could wait for your ride here, I guess.” Bucky dropped the act the moment he got his dick in you.

“Yeah, he’s just around the corner. Thanks for the, uh, ring.”

He hums, looking at his phone. His thumbs dancing over the keyboard, “Try not to bother my friends again when you wanna reach me.”

You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh or to smack the phone out of his hands, “yeah. Tried calling you but I’m pretty sure you blocked my number.”

A curt laugh echoes out from him, “‘m sorry. Out of habit. You know how it is.”

“Right.” And an awkward beat falls over the both of you.

A black car pulls up by the street and you silently thank the stars. By the time you turn around to at least do the right thing and bid Bucky goodnight, you find yourself facing a closed door.

[kashimos-hajime]

sawdust and plastic | g.t.

summary: you learn two things from your first real fight with goro. 1) he apologizes through cooking. 2) he hates it when they argue.

WARNINGS: spoilers for the gimme danger main job, swearing, slight angst, theye just communicating pairing: goro takemura x fem!street-kid!v word count: 2.2k

a/n: written with a fem!street-kid v who used to be a corpo kid. also dont yell at me but i rearranged v's apartment so the couch goes on all 3 sides bc comfortable :^) crossposted on ao3! enjoy :) 

part of the tales of a two-bit thief series

Sitting down on the couch, you kick up your feet for the first time in what you feel like has been ages. From Jackson Plains to reconnaissance on the Arasaka warehouse, you haven’t eaten shit besides the yakitori Takemura had ordered at that booth which already felt like ages ago. It’d been good—better than the trash you’ve eaten as a kid so you don’t really get picky—but you can’t help but recall the disgust on Takemura’s face when he had taken a single bite.

“Sawdust and plastic.”

You snort, running hands over your face and tilting your head back. Stupid fucking Japanese man with an endearing sense of dry-humour and… zero tolerance for your cheeky smiles. 

Then he had to go ahead and bring up Jack.

His words, cold, callous, echo in your skull like a goddamn radio and you squeeze your eyes tight, raking your hands down your face and melting into the couch. No matter how much you wanna stop it, you can’t help hearing it over and over and over.

Grabbing the remote, you’re about to switch on a channel in hopes you catch something that cna take your mind off everything when there’s a knock on your door.

For a moment, you truly debate telling them to fuck off but then, there is a pause.

“V.”

Eyes widening, your body goes rigid at the sound of his voice.

“V, let me in before I look anymore foolish.”

In the back of your head, you tempt the idea of just leaving him out there, pretending like you’ve fallen asleep, but then you get up anyway against your better judgement. You drag your feet over the floor, picking up old takeout boxes you haven’t had time to clean up and tossing clothes into a hamper to make your apartment look more like an organized mess than the dumpster fire you know Takemura will scold you for.

When you reach the door, you let him in without a word and you note the bags he holds on, hoisting them over to your living room counter.

“What’s this?” you question wearily. “Goro, I’m not hungry.”

“I realized I must apologize for my harsh words.” Beginning to pull out the groceries, you walk over and peer inside the bag, frowning. All the stuff inside is cheap synth shit, nothing you haven’t eaten before, but you’re still confused as to what’s going on since you don’t exactly have a kitchen in your place, but then out of one of the thicker bags, Takemura pulls out a big box.

“For saying them?”

“Yes." He sets the box down before continuing with groceries. “Earlier, I told you if I had time and resources, I would cook onigiri.”

“With cod, or grilled salmon. Or umeboshi plums, because they were Saburo’s favourite,” you finish and he sends you a look that could’ve been a smile if his lips had curved more and his eyes meant it. “I remember.” Helping him with the big box, you cut it open and find a rice cooker within. Eyeing the contraption with an arched eyebrow, you can’t help but ask: “Where’d you find this stuff?”

“It was difficult. I had to lower my standards.” 

“Lowering standards,” you echo dryly, unable to help your empty smile. “Yeah. We do that a lot in grand ole NC.” He doesn’t seem amused by you even trying to help as you sit down on the couch, twist to watch him work. “Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”

“I am cooking to apologize. It would not be honourable for you to help me,” he replies shortly and you nod to yourself, turning back around to watch the news. Nothing about a break-in with the floats, nothing at all indicating… anything.

For some reason, it makes you uneasy. The last time you snuck into an Arasaka building, everything went to shit and it made its mark. The lack of visible ripples makes you feel like nothing’s happened at all. Like it’s all been a fever dream, and you and Takemura didn’t sit on that roof for hours, watching the cat, just… talking.

Jesus, you need to get laid.

“Still don’t know why you bother cooking,” you say. Takemura noticeably stiffens and even though you don’t see it, you can almost feel the way he manipulates the air he stands in. He has that power—pure corpo power—and you clench your jaw. “Why waste time on someone so lazy as me?”

“V—"

“Nah, my bad. Arrogant. Hell, you probably see all the takeout around here and think I’m taking some easy route to food.” The bitterness is enough to puncture holes in steel as you stare blankly at the screen. “After all, I dirty my hands for money,” you quote. Your chest tightens as you hear his voice echo in yours, the way he had said it so coldly. Stomach turning, you shake your head. “Not in the name of some fucking principles.”

There’s a silence on his end and you close your eyes, swallowing through the bruising in your throat, a telltale sign you’re holding back tears. Just the mention of Jackie makes you want to spiral and you take a deep breath, trying not to react.

For the first time, you think Johnny might be right.

“Damn right, I am,” a voice says and you open your eyes, gaze fluttering to the side to see Johnny lounging against your couch. You turn around to see Takemura’s moved to the bathroom, probably to clean rice… however the fuck you make onigiri. You don’t know. You’re too tired to care about food, or feelings, or anything. “Never can trust a corpo. They all want one thing.”

“I don’t need to remind you that I was a corpo kid, do I?”

“Not anymore. It’s about principles.” Johnny’s tone is wry and you scowl at him. “What? If there’s one thing you might be able to relate to is that you both have ‘em. His might be wrong as shit, but…”

“Yeah, whatever.” 

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re gonna forgive him. This guy’s got you wrong, V. You don’t waste time on people like that.”

“I don’t have time to stay angry with him,” you argue. “The fact is, I’m dying and he’s gonna be the only one who can save me.” Johnny sits up straight, leaning on his knees and you sigh, shaking your head. Resting your arm along the back of the couch, you fit your hand to your face, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Fuck.”

“Stop. Don’t do it, V. It’s not worth it,” Johnny warns, standing up and you wrench your gaze up as you shift your feet on the floor and lean forward, burying your face in your hands. “I can feel everything you are feeling, and if I have to deal with your indecisive debates on whether or not it’s worth it to become attached to this corp piece of shit, I’ll kill myself.”

“You’re already dead, Johnny.”

“Let me live a little.” He stands and edges around you as if he were real and you rest your chin in your palms, watching as his holographic imagine crosses you before glitching back into view again across the table. He sits down. “The truth is, you’re gonna have a hell of a problem.”

“I know.”

“So, stop.” Johnny says it like it’s so easy and you chew on your cheek as the faucet turns off and you turn around to see Takemura begin to leave your bathroom. His pale eyes catch yours and you turn around only to see your brain tumour’s gone and left you alone. It’s eerily quiet in your head and you stand, clearing your throat.

Takemura slips the clean rice into the rice cooker before closing it and you cross your arms below your breasts, squeezing yourself tightly. You feel bare in your clothes despite wearing your scuffed jacket. He regards you warily, and then he sighs, gesturing to the couch—a silent ask.

 You nod, stepping back and letting him take where you were sitting earlier. You retreat across from him, where Johnny was sitting and he glances around your apartment. You wonder if he’s judging even more of you, but then he looks into his hands, swallowing visibly. 

“V—"

“You’re not the only one with principles. Just because I kill for money don't mean I'd do anything for it,” you begin coldly, leaning back and studying him. “And nothing about my life has been easy. When I said you did what you had to do to keep food on the table, that wasn’t me judging you. That was me getting it, alright, Goro?” His eyes meet yours and you arch an eyebrow, scoffing. “Not my problem if you don’t believe me. Yeah, I oppose corps, because they ruined my life, and so many other people’s lives no one can count 'em, but that doesn't mean you're any better than me. You don’t get to make assumptions about me. You never get to make assumptions about Jackie.That is all I have to say.”

He nods, accepting your harsh tone and you bite your tongue, trying not to burn down the bridge anymore than you need to as you prop a foot up against the table. Takemura doesn't say anything for a hot moment and you think you've wasted your time. Your knee jiggles. He doesn't even look at you.

Then: “I must again say that we are both still grieving. We ache to lash out. That is why I said what I said, and why, I presume, you say what you say.” He steeples his fingers and regards you with those eyes, gorgeous in their own right. “I understand what I said was callous. You have been nothing but understanding to my own loss.”

“No shit.”

“And I understand Mr. Welles was your friend.”

“He was like my brother,” you correct icily. “He’s been there for me since the beginning, I—I can’t forgive you saying something like that about him so easily, Goro.”

He dips his head. “I understand. It is why I cook for you. It is how I best express myself." The corner of his mouth tugs up faintly in a mirthless facsimile of a smile before he exhales sharply through his nose, looking at you again. "I confess I have not had time recently to cook, but I will do my best.” Johnny’s link comes to life at the mention and your own stomach squirms silently. “We are in this together, V. I do not wish for you to be angry at me.”

“Don’t do it, V. Don’t take it.”

“Fuck off, Johnny. I’m starving.” Aloud, you say: “I’ll be angry for a while. Just… let me sleep on it and we'll see from there.” He nods and you let your arms fall to your sides as you sit up. “It’s been a long few days, so I just… I just want to not think about anything for a while, you know?”

“I understand.”

He says that a lot, you notice. 

“Thank you for apologizing, at least,” you continue grudgingly. “Thanks.” You stand and gesture vaguely around the place. “Make yourself at home. I’m… I’m going to shower and scrub this grime off.” Dried blood, sweat, dirt, et cetera. He nods and stands as well, returning to the tiny cooking station he’s made for himself. You head to your closet, managing to pick out a clean shirt that’s a bit big and a jacket you ripped off a 6th Street goon a few weeks back. You just picked it up from the cleaners.

Heading for the bathroom, you set your crap on the toilet cover before poking your head out. Spotting Takemura sitting in front of the table, carefully sharpening a knife, you wait until he’s noticed you staring and he prompts you silently to ask.

“How’d you even know where I live, anyway?” 

He turns his gaze back on the blade.

“Ms. Olszewski marked it in my map, should the need arise.”

“This was a need?” you ask, curiously sardonic. Takemura doesn’t smile back and again, you get that impression he either doesn’t know how or he doesn’t do it often enough to remember. For some reason, that makes you sad. "Could've left it well enough alone. You know that."

“Oh, come on, V,” Johnny murmurs in your ear. “Don’t wax poetics on this guy.”

You ignore him.

“I do not enjoy the thought of a rift between you and I,” admits Takemura. He sets down the knife and sighs, eyes flitting to you briefly. Your hand wraps around the doorframe and you press your lips into a faint frown. "I... I have grown used to you."

You nod despite the words punching into your chest. “I don’t like it when we fight either.” At least, that you don’t have to fight twice to figure out. Your expression eases and your shoulders drop. “I’ll just hop in. Help yourself to whatever you can find. Really.” He accepts your offer with another nod and you close the door. It locks and you press your back against the metal, tipping your head back.

“For the love of—“

“Shut it, Johnny. Just… just give me a second.”

And on one of the rare occassions that he listens to you, Silverhand says nothing about how your heart doesn’t feel like wrought iron anymore.

[chickenmcstucky]

FIRST OFF YOUR REVAMP OF YOUR BLOG?!?! *chef’s kiss* 😭😭😭 second... 👉👈 if you’re able to do requests 👉👈 can I request 40s!bucky advancing with reader on a date? Maybe before he gets shipped out? 👉👈 you can do whatever you want with it! Thank you for reading this AND I CAN’T WAIT FOR WHATS TO COME FROM YOU

ROSEEEEEEE you are my heart omg <3 seriously none of this would be happening without you. I did a little headcanon-style thing for this, I hope that’s okay and that you like it!! Also this got really long, its basically a full length fic in bullet point form lol

So because I love a soft, sweet Bucky, it starts like this -

You were on a first date with some guy your mother had set you up with, seeing as his mother and your mother were friendly

At first you were excited, you’d never really talked to him much but he was handsome and you thought maybe it could go somewhere

All your girlfriends were always going on dates and having a good time, while you usually preferred to stay in with a good book, and to be honest you’d never gotten as much interest from fellas as them but that was alright, you were happy as you were

So there you were, out on the first date with Freddie Jameson, and from the start it was...less than great

He picked you up late, didn’t even compliment your dress, did none of the things your girlfriends were always gushing over guys for doing

On your way to the cinema, he was absolutely talking your ear off about some stupid argument he had with some guys down at the docks where he did the books

You couldn’t get a word in edgewise, but honestly you didn’t wanna talk anyways because this guy was just not who you expected or wanted...some big macho guy obsessed with his reputation and single-minded to the point of barely paying attention to you? No thanks. You knew your worth

You were determined to push through the date, hopeful to a fault, so when you arrived to the cinema and he let you pick the film, you were surprised, but picked the new sci-fi film The Invisible Woman

From the way Freddie scoffed at this, and grudgingly bought the tickets, acting like it was an inconvenience, you should’ve known things would only get worse, but on into the theater you went

When Freddie realized the story revolved around a woman - one getting comedic revenge on her boss, no less - he gave you some choice words about how you were forcing this new-age mess on him, how he didn’t really wanna take you out anyways but had been “kind” enough to give you a chance, this that and the other thing until you were in tears and your face was so hot you were sure the temperature in the theater had raised a few degrees

When someone in the theater finally spoke up, it wasn’t even to defend you, but to tell you two to take it the heck outside and stop interrupting

Freddie stomped right out, and with your only other option being to cower in the theater, alone, for the rest of the film, you left too

By the time you made it outside, Freddie was long gone, and you barely managed to slink around the corner to the back alley before the tears started falling in earnest

Just your luck to finally go on a date, and get left in the lurch and embarrassed in front of a whole theater of strangers

As you stood against the brick wall in the darkness of the warm night, you tried to calm yourself down enough to catch the streetcar back home so you could sulk in the privacy of your own room

Suddenly you heard two male voices and your head jerked up because you really didn’t need more humiliation - or worse, danger - right now

But when you saw the two men come around the corner, you relaxed seeing it was none other than Bucky Barnes and little Steve Rogers, and you knew they wouldn’t cause you trouble, Bucky was an Army man after all, just back from basic training

You’d never really interacted with them except as children, knowing Steve could be a real spitfire and Bucky a sweet flirt, but they were good men without poor reputations relating to ladies

Still, you rather hoped they’d just pass on by you without noticing, because really, you’d had enough for the night

Just your luck, though, Steve noticed - he must’ve known how it felt to be sulking, defeated, in an alleyway and sensed your struggle

As you made eye contact with him, you saw him nudge Bucky, who had yet to notice, and gesture towards you, the two of them still a fair distance from you

They immediately turned course and walked right towards you, as you just stood there blinking like a deer in headlights, unsure how to act and stuck between embarrassment for your state and hope that maybe you could at least ask them to accompany you to the streetcar stop so you didn’t have to go alone in the dark

“Uh, you alright there?” Steve spoke first as they came to a stop in front of you, scuffing his foot against the dusty pavement as Bucky took in your appearance, you feeling his eyes run over you from head to toe

You sniffled, unsure what to say and not wanting to reveal to them the humiliation you’d suffered - though you knew Freddie had been a real jerk, it was your pride that would suffer the more people knew what had happened

Then a smooth, sweet voice broke the silence, “did something happen, doll? What’s a nice dame like you doing alone in some back alley at night, huh?”

Something about the softness in his voice enveloped you in safety, and you couldn’t help but blurt the truth, “oh, it’s just awful, I was meant to be on a date with Freddie Jameson and he was so coarse and he just humiliated me in front of everyone and then just left,” your voice broke on the last word as the tears threatened again

When you raised your head back up, you saw a cold look of anger come over both mens’ faces, “that Freddie ain’t nothing but a jerk,” Bucky harrumphed, and Steve nodded ferociously, a look of determination coming over his face

“Somebody oughta teach him a lesson, that ain’t no way to treat a dame,” Steve growled, and before you or Bucky could protest, he stalked off, presumably in search of Freddie; you never forgot how once in grade school he’d punched a boy for pulling your hair, he hadn’t changed at all of course

You couldn’t help but laugh, knowing he’d show up tomorrow with a split lip and a black eye, but endeared by his passion in defending you

At your own giggle, Bucky’s handsome face broke out in a soft smile, as you shared a moment of reprieve from your upset

“I’m real sorry, doll, you didn’t deserve to be treated like that - Freddie don’t know what he’s missin, alright?” he spoke gently, and you couldn’t help but believe he meant it, seeing something in his eyes that gave you sweet pause

“I guess I know that, it’s just - I never - finally a date and it goes like this,” you scoffed, shrugging

“You never had a date before, doll?” you were surprised to see some genuine shock on his face

“Well, not never, I mean, just nothin serious now that I’m out of school and all, I guess…” you trailed off - here you were admitting to one of the handsomest GIs around that you didn’t have dates every Friday night like the other girls

“Well, we’re gonna have to fix that,” Bucky’s head tilted up, as if daring you to protest, a confident expression on his young face

“Oh, can’t I just go home, Bucky? I don’t wanna see Freddie again,” you kept the whine out of your voice, but just barely, thinking he was gonna find Steve and Freddie and force Freddie to finish your date

“I, uh, I meant - well, how bout I accompany you home, pretty girl like you shouldn’t have to walk around alone,” he insisted, but the slight pinkness on his face confused you, soon realizing perhaps you’d misunderstood his statement

Relief washed over you, though the sting of Freddie’s actions was still fresh, you were glad to not have to journey home alone; explaining to your mother why you were home so early was going to be bad enough as it was

“Gee, Bucky, that’s so kind of you,” you smiled, and he offered you the crook of his arm

“You’re over at Sycamore, right?” he inquired, and you realized perhaps he had paid you more attention over the years than you’d noticed, as you nodded yes

Gently, you wrapped your arm around his elbow, the soft fabric of his handsome uniform rubbing against your bare skin, and with your manicured fingers pressed against his forearm, something so right seemed to click into place, an unfamiliar yet not unwelcome feeling

As he walked you down the avenue, you were at first quiet, still unsure how to start a conversation with someone who had found you in such a state and who was being so kind

But Bucky, ever the ladies’ man, kept the conversation going, and as he talked about the upcoming Stark expo after he saw your eyes draw to the colorful advertisement for it on the front of the ice cream parlor

you were struck by the fact that you and Bucky really shared similar interests - innovation, sci-fi, adventure...soon you found yourself enthusiastically talking to him about all your favorite adventure books and how you hoped to see Stark himself present at the expo when it opened next month

Before you knew it, you were in front of your family’s apartment building; you hadn’t even realized Bucky had skipped the streetcar and walked you all the way home

You were struck by how much you wished the walk was longer, or that you could linger outside, but you already felt like Bucky had done enough for you and you knew you should go inside and face the music, get it over with

You slowly pulled your arm from its perch on Bucky’s, but before you could pull away fully, he caught your soft hand in his larger one as he gazed into your eyes

“Well, guess you’re home safe now, doll, it was real nice talking to ya,” he laughed a little, but he didn’t release his grasp on your hand

“That was the most fun I’ve had in a long while,” you laughed at yourself, “tonight wasn’t so bad after all,” you smiled at him and squeezed his hand, his reticence to leave giving you courage as you flirted

“Thank you again, Bucky, you really didn’t have to do this but I’m so grateful,” the earnestness in your voice shocked even you; he had really saved you from taking the streetcar alone, and had chased your upset mood right away with his boyish passion in your conversation

“My pleasure, honey. Listen, I know you might not wanna after such a bad experience, but hows about I take you on a proper date sometime? I’d really like to get to know you more, and besides, someone oughta show you what Freddie failed at,” your heart thumped at the offer and the prospect of someone like him wanting you

You were still scared though, what if it was just pity that had led him to talk you home and ask you out? What if the date went just as badly, and it turned out you were the problem, and not Freddie?

You realized your silence after his question had stretched out an uncomfortable amount as you saw his sheepish look, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck nervously

Before he got the wrong idea, you finally found your voice, “I’d like that,” you said simply, shyness overcoming you once again

“Next Friday then, is it alright if I come pick you up? Say, around 7? We’ll have a real nice time, I’ll make sure, you deserve it doll,” Bucky was speaking so fast you couldn’t get a word in, but his charming nervousness was too cute

“Friday at seven,” you nodded, as he gave your hand one last squeeze before letting go of it

The whole week you were on edge, teetering between nerves and excitement at the prospect of your date, you were still so surprised at your luck that such a bad night could turn out so well, and that the handsome Bucky Barnes was so similar to you

Of course, in the back of your mind you knew he’d surely be shipping out soon, but all your girlfriends were dealing with that too, and you pushed the thought away, wanting to just enjoy the time you had

True to his word, Bucky knocked on your door right at 7, your father answering the door as you were still in your room finishing getting ready with your mother

You heard their voices down the hallway as Bucky introduced himself respectfully to your father; he really did seem like such a gentleman

Your mother put the finishing touches on your updo and sent you out to the living room to face your date

As you came into the room, your eyes went straight to Bucky, looking so dapper in his uniform - you loved that all the boys yet to ship out were required to wear their dress uniform while they were out, it was just so romantic

You saw a small bouquet of flowers in his hand and smiled shyly as you crossed over to him, taking the bouquet from his offering hands and thanking him kindly for the gesture

You went to hand the bouquet to your mother to put in a vase, but Bucky reached out and grabbed a single bloom first, tucking it into your pinned hair

“You look beautiful tonight,” he complimented you; you thought your mother might faint from excitement but you just looked down at your feet, a small smile gracing your face

“Thank you, Bucky, you’re very kind. Shall we?” you gestured towards the door and he led you towards it, his hand at the small of your back as your parents looked on

In contrast to his talkativeness from the previous week, Bucky was quiet at first as he walked you towards the main avenue, but it was a comfortable silence

“Oh!” he exclaimed suddenly, as though just then realizing where he was and what he was doing, “Jeez, look at me, said I’d take you on a proper date and I ain’t even held your hand,” he shook his head at himself and offered you his calloused hand, which you took gratefully

You found his sudden nervousness endearing, but it was soon gone as comfortable conversation began to flow; he asked about your week and didn’t seem to mind when you talked about your trip to the hair salon and the new dress your mother was having made for you, instead he was hanging on your every word like you were a new adventure book

To him, you truly were a new adventure, he’d talk about anything you wanted as long as he got to be with you

You talked with him about anything and everything as you made your way to your destination, him even joking to you about Steve’s rather unsuccessful attempt to defend your honor to Freddie, but you realized he never actually told you where you were going

“So,” you lilted at him, “where does a fella like you take a girl like me on a ‘proper date’ then?” you queried him, laughter in your voice because this was truly so fun, you’d be happy to just walk around talking all night

“Oh, I can’t tell ya just yet, sweetheart, it’s a surprise,” he winked at you and your knees went weak

Soon, though, you arrived at a cinema, not the same one as your disastrous date with Freddie thankfully

As Bucky walked you up to the ticket booth, you were excited to see what he’d choose

“Two tickets for the special showing, please,” he said to the boy in the booth as he handed over the dollar

Of course, he was expected to pay, but the way he was so confident in asking for the tickets and had the money ready made you feel like he was so glad to do it, honored, even

Bucky took the two tickets and steered you into the theater, but not before you saw the sign for the special event posted just at the door, they were projecting a special film about space onto the ceiling of the cinema - one of those planetarium experiences!

You couldn’t contain yourself, “Oh Bucky, wow! “A Journey through the Stars,” you read from the poster, “oh wow,” you repeated

“I hoped you’d like it,” Bucky said shyly, “let’s go on in, I want to get you a good seat”

The whole film, you were just enraptured by the narrator talking about cosmos and black holes, whole new solar systems

But Bucky was barely paying attention, his gaze drifting to your awed face

Sometimes you felt his eyes on you and you’d glance over, shy, but he’d look away just quick enough that you couldn’t be sure he was looking at you

As you walked out of the theater, he gently put his arm around you, and you reached up and grabbed his hand to keep it there; you felt so at home with him

“Bucky that was amazing, thank you!” you gushed as he led you down the street

“I’m real glad you liked it, doll,” he answered, “how about an ice cream?”

You were happy for the chance to extend the evening, not ready to leave his company

He took you to the same parlor you’d passed the previous week, even holding the door for you and helping you up onto a stool at the counter

“Oh, there are so many choices, I’m not even sure what I want,” you laughed, your eyes scanning the flavors on the blackboard on the wall

“Well, pick your top two, and I’ll get one and you get the other, and we can share!” he babbled, “I mean, if you want, that is…” he trailed off, but you just smiled

You picked classic vanilla, and cookies and cream to be adventurous, and he ordered for the both of you

You laughed and talked the rest of the evening, until finally the old man who ran the shop had to shoo you out so he could close

A little embarrassed at how you’d let the time get away from you, you hesitated on the sidewalk before Bucky offered you his arm again, and you took it, confidently this time

It being fairly late, he took you home via the streetcar this time, wanting to get you home at an appropriate hour so as to stay in your father’s good graces

It was still friday, though, no matter how late, so the car was rather crowded; he led you to the side of the car and grasped the bar running the length of the ceiling with one hand, wrapping your arms around his waist with his other hand so you didn’t have to reach up; once you were secured, he gently wrapped his free arm around your shoulders

Taking his lead, you rested your head in the crook of his neck as the car took you to your stop

The two of you were quiet, basking in the sweet comfort of each other; you kept thinking how right this all felt, and it seemed like something like hope had taken hold in your heart

The car lurched to a halt at your stop and Bucky’s arm tightened around you, keeping you steady, before he guided you onto the street and up the block to your building

You stood in the same place as a week ago, yet so much had changed; it was just one date, but there was a spark between you glowing bright

Slowly, Bucky took your hand, and you stepped closer to him as his thumb rubbed against your hand

“I guess it’s time to say goodnight then,” he spoke, regret coloring his tone

“I had a wonderful time, Bucky, thank you. First dates don’t seem so scary now,” you laughed, “thanks for doing this for me.”

“Happy to, but doll, I didn’t just take you out because of what happened. I just wanted to be with you, get to know you. I sure am glad we found you in that alley, I barely know you but...you’re changing my life, honey”

The adoration and conviction in his voice choked you up, no one had ever made you feel so seen, so wanted

“Oh Bucky, I feel it too, it’s so -” you shook your head, unsure how to vocalize the soaring feeling in your heart

“It feels like...coming home,” he whispered to you, his forehead leaning against yours in a lover’s confession

Instead of replying, you coasted on the wave of feeling that took over you, and kissed him softly, the taste of the ice cream still on his lips

Both your eyes fluttered shut as the simple kiss drove all other thought from your heads

He pulled away first, raising his hand to caress your cheek as he smiled softly, his eyes tearing away from your lips to meet your own sweet gaze

“So,” his kind cockiness returning, “next Friday?” he asked, his head tilting jauntily as he winked at you

“Next Friday,” you returned, your heart swelling

With a final kiss to your knuckles, he opened the door into your building for you, tipping his hat

You finally had a reason to be happy for Friday nights, a handsome fella to offer you his arm

And Bucky had a home to return to; no matter where the Army took him, he had the home you made for him in your heart

[odelschwanky]

Come See Me (Shinji Hirako x Reader)

*This is a speed write I'm super proud of. I'm not normally the type to get things done fast, because I always want it to be perfect, but I wrote this all in one day! I hope everyone enjoys it. And feel free to request different characters!*

Word Count: 1967

"Shinji!"

The factory warehouse was strangely empty, and you didn't know where everyone had gone. You looked for them at all the places they frequent here in Karakura town. Maybe they were in gigais, out on the town. Or maybe they went... somewhere else?

"Shinji!" You called again, slumping down in an old, rickety chair. The light streamed in from the tall window overhead, illuminating the dancing dust particles in its wake. The rest of the place was dark. The chair was one of the only pieces of furniture in the warehouse, besides the hundreds of boxes.

It creaked under your weight and you sighed. You hadn't seen the Vizards for a while, so you decided to pay them a visit. You were on your lunch break actually. You checked your watch. You still had a half-hour before you had to be back at your desk. "Why isn't he here?" You scratch the back of your head and frown.

"Hey doll, why are you so down?"

A grin graced your face as you leaped up and hugged the wiry blond man. His arms encased you gently and he rubbed your back.

Shinji was the first person you met, strangely enough, when you moved to Karakura town. It was late and you were moving the last of your boxes into your new apartment. A hollow was actually anchored to the building.

***

"Hello?" you called. You gripped your late brother's pocket knife close to your chest as you walked up the stairs to your new place. Your shoes scuffed the stone and your hand was warm and sweaty on the freezing cold doorknob.

The main room was deserted, save for the few boxes in the middle of the floor. The cobwebs still plagued the corners of the ceiling, since you hadn't cleaned them up yet. You heard a slight gurgling noise, faintly coming from the bathroom. That was funny... since you hadn't called to have the water turned on yet.

The wood creaked under your feet and you winced. You were a lot louder than the thing in your bathroom. You reckoned it was probably a mouse or something. With the rest of the apartment was in such a despaired state, that wouldn't be such a far fetched idea.

The hallway to the back of the apartment split into left and right with the balcony door in the middle. You took a deep breath before opening the bathroom door.

"Oh!"

It was hard to get a good look at the beast because it was dark, hidden in the shadows like a seventy-pound bat.

You screamed as it rushed at you. It seemed to laugh, loudly, unapologetically. Suddenly the balcony door burst open behind you from a gust of wind and before you knew it, you were scooped into the hands of the large and furry something. Your head spun as it whisked you down into the street below. Just when it came to you to open your eyes, you jammed the knife into its body and it let out a wailing growl.

You fell to the snowy ground in a heap of aching limbs. Your coat wasn't enough to protect you from the chill you got when you looked at the monster in the eye. You had seen hollows before. Ever since you were a little girl you could see them, but never this big, and never this close.

"Well, well. You're not welcome here, not at all."

It was simple and swift. A blond-haired man in an orange dress shirt came down with a single swipe and sliced the hollow in half with a sword. You were left trembling and cold, covered in snow and dirty wet slush from the road.

"Are you alright? You took a nasty fall." He towered over you, outstretching a hand down to you.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm okay," you say, letting him help you to your feet. "You can see hollows too?"

"Sure can. Come on, let's get you inside."

He helped you up to your apartment.

"What's your name?" You ask, turning to him before you go in.

"The name's Shinji. Shinji Hirako." The way he talked was slow and deliberate, soothing, sultry, confident.

You smile softly and take his hand appreciatively. "Thank you, Shinji."

"Not a problem for me, love." He gave you a toothy grin that you found quite charming. "I think we'll be seeing some more of each other."

Things went from there. He would come to visit every now and again, then you two started going out. You didn't understand that he wasn't a human at first, and you finally figured it out one day when he came to pick you up for a date and he had to pop a candy in his mouth before anybody else could see him. Then he explained to you the whole business about being a Vizard. You surprised, sure, but you weren't scared. He was part hollow, but that didn't have to be a bad thing. He saved your life, and you slowly found yourself falling in love with him.

***

"I just really missed you," you said, breathing in the scent of him. His blunt cut brushed against your ears and he held you in the embrace. You didn't know how much you missed him until you saw him. Your voice broke a little. "I missed you a lot."

"Come on, (y/n). You don't gotta cry. I'm here now."

You hadn't seen each other in a few weeks. It's not a long time when you think about it objectively, but when you're talking about the person you love... it feels like forever.

You and Shinji sat down and talked for a few minutes. Everyone else was on their way back from town, and you wanted to stay to see them... but you just really wanted some time alone with him.

"Are you doing anything tonight?" You ask, lighting the occasional cigarette that you smoked with Shinji. That was probably the worst thing he had done to you, this loose and casual habit of smoking every now and again.

"Yeah. This guy, Ichigo. We think he's one of us. I gotta talk to him before he gets tangled up with some bad news. Things get complicated, you know?"

You sigh. "So that means you won't have time to stay over tonight?"

"Ah, don't make me feel guilty. If I can find this Ichigo guy and talk to him like Hiyori wants me to, then I'll come over and see you. Is that okay?"

You nod. You could be satisfied with that. There were certain things that came with being involved with supernatural beings, and your "boyfriend" being unavailable most days was the least of your problems. You were okay now that you at least have gotten to see him.

"Okay, well I have to go. I can't be late back to work."

"Alright, bye doll." Shinji grabbed hold of your neck and brought you toward him in a deep kiss. You sunk into it willingly, putting both your hands on either of his cheeks. This made you all warm and tingly inside, making up for the lost days in a matter of seconds.

"I hope that Ichigo guy doesn't take too much time," you say. Shinji's eyebrow raised and maybe he knew what you were getting at. You had more than enough bedroom for him tonight, and by hell, he'd better come and use it. You squeeze Shinji's hand. "Stay safe, you hear?"

"You more than me, love."

***

You squinted at your keys in the dark. Fumbling them into the lock haphazardly, you nearly fall into your apartment. Something about today, being at your desk for hours exhausted you. You made an egg sandwich for dinner, brushed your teeth, and took a long hot bath, probably your favorite routine out of all the ones you had made for yourself. It wasn't until you were brushing your hair, wrapped in a towel, that a slight knock on your door shook you out of your daydreams.

You hurriedly scramble in your bedroom, which you had recently tidied up, looking for something to wear. You finally decided a T-shirt you had cropped a long time ago and some pajama pants would do.

You open the door slightly, trying to look in the peephole, but it was too dark outside to see.

"It's me."

You couldn't keep yourself from smiling as you opened the door and wrapped your arms around Shinji for the second time today. You wrapped your legs around him as well, gripping his torso with your thighs. "You're choking me, doll." You could hear a hint of laughter in his voice. "I don't care," you said happily.

He walked you inside with ease, wearing you like a necklace. Carrying you was never a problem for him. He shut the front door behind him and turned off all the lights on the way to your bedroom.

"I'm exhausted, can we just watch a movie?" You say, finally coming down from his shoulders.

"You don't have to ask, y' know. We can always do whatever you want."

That was music to your ears. Shinji was so sweet and thoughtful even though he acted so aloof and cocky. He cared about you and it was the most precious thing you thought about.

After he undressed and put his hair back, he turned off the lights and fell into bed with you.

"Kisses," you whine, pressing your lips on his.

"You just want a little attention, huh?" Shinji's voice grew dominant and strong.

That's just what you wanted: attention from the man you loved.

Shinji plants kiss after kiss on your lips, letting his hands skim over you in no particular pattern. It wasn't rushed, but smooth and natural. It just felt so right.

Your hands find their way to his hair, which you played with gently, keeping his bangs out of his face, swipe after swipe. His body was hot against yours, making you ache and want more. Curse your stupid job. If you weren't so tired, you'd let him do whatever he wanted with you.

His long fingers tipped your chin up, exposing your neck. He went into it assertively, leaving smooches, love bites, and a wet trail of tongue up to your ears. You moaned and held him tighter. "You sound so needy, (y/n). If you don't watch it, I'm gonna get you tomorrow."

He said this, putting his fingers to your lips to hush you. Now that was an idea you could get behind. "Who says I don't want you to?" You fire back with a smirk and giggle. Shinji pets your hair, laughing deviously. If he had it in his mind to have you right now, you'd let him. You couldn't wait for tomorrow.

You burrowed into the blankets and snuggled your way under his arm, draping your legs on him. You just couldn't get your fill. Being close was never enough, and you always felt like you had to be closer to your love.

"Shinji?"

He looked down at you, moving some of the blankets so he could see your face. "Yeah?"

"I love you. And I want to be with you forever and ever."

He laughed, holding you closer to him. The cold room mixed with his warm touch was absolutely calming. "You're so gushy..."

You continued watching the movie until your eyes grew heavy. Your grip tightened on Shinji as you start drifting off to sleep.

"I love ya, (y/n)."

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Man in his Castle

Warnings: noncon sex. Let’s not be fools here. You know what I write.

This is dark!Charles Blackwood and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A co-ed discovers that money is still king.

Note: Charles is fun because he’s already horrible. I know my summary sucks but I hope you all enjoy this. It takes place in the 1960s so keep that in mind and enjoy! But let me know what you think in reblog or reply and slap a like on there <3

There were more than a dozen girls squeezed into the windowless classroom in the basement of Victory Hall. The book club had grown quite a bit since your first week on campus. The Brownies, you called yourself. An ironic play upon a lifetime of ridicule.

Every Friday night you met in some abandoned room bartered off the registrar and set to discussing your most recent read. Sheila was the leader; bolder than you as she fostered your sprout of an idea. She was cooler, calmer, and by all means, more radical. And she was a senior.

The flock of freshmen looked up to her and the few other older girls in the group. She had brought along with her, Linda and Patty; the former with her stiff turtlenecks and the latter her faded beret. These were the types your mother had warned you against. Peddling their liberalism in the name of Kennedy and Kruschev.

That week, your group had chosen Miller’s famed play, The Crucible; still relevant despite a decade past. Though the red scare had faded to orange, there was still a breath of suspicion in the air. As people marched in the streets and sat-in at diners and cafes, the old breed was growing nervous. The world was about to change, with or without them.

You sat amid the circle with your worn copy against your knee. You took turns reading the lines and pausing to discuss the intricate and yet overt allusions made by the playwright. The furor of the blacklist which still lingered in the air. A paranoia much broader than years before. No longer just the Reds, but all who spoke of equality and freedom; no longer exclusive to a single group. The same tensions which kept you in the basement with the dingy old desks.

You couldn’t help but smile at the group of girls. When you’d arrived on campus, you were certain you’d be the same loner as before. Solitary nights spent barricaded in your dorm only to lose yourself in the crowd of the lecture hall. 

But Sheila had changed that. She was in your elective Lit class, filling a void in her audit so that she could graduate on time. You had lost yourself in a discussion of Marx and the mounting tensions with the East; not that they ever really subsided. 

Then she invited you to meet Linda and Patty for a drink. Your lack of ID didn’t keep you from the chance to make friends as she knew the doorman by name. That was when you mentioned the club. It was just you and your friend, Elsie. Not really a club, more so a pair of girls with nothing better to do. But Sheila liked it and the next week, she had six new girls to add to your duo.

Now, you were a full blown corps. The three seniors and at least fifteen freshmen, a few in between to fill out the circle. 

Sheila snapped her book shut and declared the end of the night as she checked her watch. 

“We’ll finish next week,” She chimed. “Granted we don’t devolve so easily again.”

The girls giggled and began to pack up. You stood and shoved your book into your leather bag. Sheila stood with Linda at the back of the circle and Patty offered a goodbye to each girl as they left. Most did so in pairs or trios. Safety in numbers.

Your dorm wasn’t far and so you would keep a brisk pace with your keys in hand. You turned and Sheila called to you before you could reach the door. You spun back and neared her and Linda.

“Hey, you need a walking partner?” She asked. “Me and Linda are head down the The Cask. We’ll be headed past yours.”

“If you’re headed that way,” You accepted eagerly.

You helped rearrange the chairs and desk with the three seniors. Patty left on her own as Sheila locked the door. You walked on her right as Linda kept to her left and made your way out of the depths of Victory Hall. The night was cool but not bitter. You pulled your collar up as you passed between the carefully trimmed hedges.

“You sure you don’t want to come for a drink?” Linda asked. “Seeing as Patty ditched us.”

“Oh, you know she has that boy waiting for her,” Sheila countered.

“Um, no, I have an early morning,” You replied. “But thanks.”

“What about next weekend?” Sheila asked.

“Next weekend?” You wondered.

“Wanna come to a party?”

“A… a senior party?” You glanced over at her as you tucked your hands in your pockets.

“Oh, no, it’s not on campus,” She trilled. “But I think you’d like it.”

“Off-campus?” You said surprised. “Really?”

“A bit of an older crowd but…” She lowered her voice, “Of a similar mind as us.”

Your eyes widened. You blinked at her and she laughed.

“Oh calm down, they’re no interlopers, merely open-minded,” She assured you. “You have to realize that this little club, that’s a children’s game. If you’re serious, these are the people you need to rub shoulders with.”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty seedy downtown and the last time--”

“Downtown?” She scoffed. “Oh, this is different from that hole in the wall.”

“Where--”

“Uptown, actually,” She preened. “You know, we do have allies with money. They hide among the enemy until we can truly act.”

“I don’t know. That sounds--”

“You worry too much. It’s not illegal to meet people who think like you do,” She said. “Otherwise us Brownies would be akin to the mob.”

You laughed at yourself and watched your scuffed shoes on the sidewalk. “I guess you’re right. Um, what kind of party is it, exactly?”

“Wear something nice,” She picked a thread from your jacket. “Fancy dress hides a humble heart.”

You nodded and gripped the strap of your bag. “Sure, why not?” You shrugged.

“I’ll see you in Lit,” She stopped just outside your gate. “I’ll give you the details then. You should ask Elsie to come with you.”

“Alright,” You breathed. “Yeah, I’ll ask her.”

“Have a good night,” She sang and Linda echoed her. 

“You, too.” You smiled.

You turned and unlocked your gate as their heels continued down the pavement. You let yourself inside and listened until there was silence. You were happy to have friends, happier that you were so much alike, but the thought of a party had your stomach aflutter.

🏰

You found your only formal dress. Rather, your most formal dress. A long-sleeved black number that flared at the knee. You wore the simple silver chain your mother gifted you for your high school graduation and a pair of kitten heels. You hugged yourself with a red shawl and grabbed your purse.

Elsie waited just outside your dorm room. She looked as nervous as you felt. The lack of details gave both of you the jitters. You were two shy girls who found each other among the sea of students. You took comfort in knowing you weren’t the only one in over your head.

And Sheila would be there too. She could help you maneuver your way through this maze of etiquette and idealism.

You took a bus as far as you could but at the last stop, you were still three blocks away from the place. Blackwood Manor. Sheila’s loopy cursive marked it on the corner of paper. The house on the hill, she said, can’t miss it.

The gates towered over you as you approached. Tinted lanterns lit the walkway and you pressed the button over the small speaker box. A dull voice greeted you from the other side.

“Um, hello,” Elsie squeezed your arm as you bent to speak into the box. “We’re here for the party.”

“Par-ty?” The voice said.

“We’re friends of, uh, Sheila.” You replied nervously.

“Ah, yes, Miss Sheila.” The crackle died and the gate clicked. 

You looked to Elsie and a man in grey neared from the other side. He pulled open the gate and removed his cap as he waited for you to enter. A car drove up, its bright headlights washed over you, as you walked up the drive and the gates man spoke with its occupants.

At the front door, you met with a man with grey hair and the same even tone that rose from the speaker. He took your shawl and Elsie’s coat and directed you to the next room. You detached Elsie from your arm and gave her a look. She smiled tensely and smoothed the front of her dress.

The sparkle of the chandelier drew your eyes first. The light refracted from the crystals and illuminated the large room. Men in suits stood around with drinks in hand and chattered. You heard the next guests enter behind you and stepped out of their way.

You spotted Sheila in the far corner, a broad pair of shoulders left her barely visible. There were several other girls you recognized; Linda. Darla and Colleen, two other Brownies, and even a couple girls from your Lit class. Every women in the room was barely that; they were all bright-eyed co-eds amid a conclave of stiff-lipped men.

You felt a chill crawl up your spine but resisted the shiver. You were just anxious about all these strangers. It was natural to be a little nervous.

Elsie followed you across the room and smiled at Sheila over the shoulder of the man she spoke to. She waved you over and the man turned to look at you. His blue eyes flicked from you to Elsie and back again. His expression was placid as he buttoned his jacket.

“Charles, these are my friends,” She introduced you and Elsie, “And this is Charles Blackwood, our host.”

He seemed to recall himself and shook your hand and then Elsie’s. His grip was firm and his expression unbreakable. He was entirely unimpressed by you and your plain black dress.

“You have a beautiful house,” You offered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so… grand.”

“It was my grandfather’s,” He said tersely as his eyes explored the room. “Sheila, if you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Gerald.”

“Of course,” She kissed his cheek and his lip curled before he walked away. “Sorry about him,” Sheila turned to you. “He’s a bit antsy, you know? Always is on nights like these.”

“I never…” You looked at Elsie as her eyes bounced around in wonder, “I never would think anyone who lived like this would you know, agree with us.”

“Oh, but we already know money isn’t everything,” She said. “You know, these men, they know that and they want to use their money for good. They want to make sure that students like us make it through college and go on to speak our truth to the world.”

She stopped a man passing by and took a wine glass from his tray. She offered you it and grabbed another for Elsie and herself. She batted her lashes at the waiter and returned her attention to you.

“Which is why you should loosen up and talk to some of these men,” She advised. “They are much preferable to the boys on campus and much more powerful. My second year, I had my tuition paid in full by one of Charles’ friends.”

“Wow,” Elsie gasped. “Really?”

“Consider it a grant,” Sheila explained. “Spread the wealth, right?”

“I suppose…” You uttered.

“Oh, there’s Patty,” Sheila perked up. “I knew she’d be the last one here. Pardon me a moment.”

“Alright,” You turned and watched her go as she waved over the heads to her friend. 

You brought the glass to your lips and the alcohol burned your nostrils. Your stomach turned and you lowered the flute. Elsie drank deeply as you glanced around. A man with thick silver hair and a sharp aquiline nose stared at you from across the room.

You fidgeted and slipped behind Elsie to set your glass down.

“You should take it easy,” You warned her as she gulped down the wine. 

🏰

The man with silver hair introduced himself as Harry. You weren’t fond of him as he talked of his new car and something about a cottage up north. You were confused. Sheila intimated that these people were like you; maybe not communists are heart, but left-leaning at least. They surely didn’t sound like it.

You glanced around for the umpteenth time and frowned. You didn’t see Sheila or Linda or Patty. Elsie was with a man in a striped suit, Darla and Colleen sipped from glasses as they listened to a pair of men banter, and you were stuck in the corner with this grey-haired boor.

You excused yourself, claiming to need the powder room, and walked along the wall as you searched the room. The seniors were gone. And something else caught your eye. The men drank from their stout tumblers and the women, more aptly girls, all held champagne flute. Yours was still on the table, untouched.

You neared Elsie and excused your interruption as you turned her away from her companion. You lowered your voice.

“Have you seen Sheila?” You asked.

She shook her head and wobbled. She giggled as she steadied herself with your arm. “Nope!”

“How much of that have you had?” You took her glass from her.

“This is only my…. Third,” She counted on her fingers.

“Well, I think three is enough,” You said. “Why don’t you come to the restroom with me? Splash some water on your face?”

“No, no,” She shrugged you off. “I’m talking to Gerald.” She turned back and smiled at the balding man. “He has a fellowship.”

“Elsie,” You drew her back. “Something’s… wrong.”

“What do you mean?” She hiccuped. “It’s all quite fine, isn’t it?”

“Just…” You peeked over your shoulder. “Wait here for me, okay? Don’t go anywhere else.”

She rolled her eyes and you sighed. You left her reluctantly and stopped a waiter as you neared the main archway. You asked him where the restroom was and ducked into the hallway. You passed by the foot of the staircase towards the next and paused. 

You peered around the wall and pulled back. You slipped off your heels and looked back at the room that swirled with voices. You tiptoed to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. You searched for a mechanism but there was only the intricately wrought handle. 

You went back to the stairs and listened to the buzz from the front room. You climbed a step at a time as your ears perked up at every creak and crack. You wondered what had happened to Sheila and the others. It was unlike them to leave early. And why was the door locked?

You found a window and carefully turned the latch. You shifted it up and cringed as the wood loudly rubbed together. You stuck your head out and stared down at the grass below. There was a tree not far from you, a few windows away.

“Can I help you?” The voice frightened you and you hit your head on the window as you reeled back. You turned to your host, Charles, as he leaned against the bannister.

“I was… looking for Sheila.” You lied.

“Oh, outside?” He wondered with a smirk.

“Well, no, I just needed a breath of fresh air so I thought…” Your voice trailed off as he stood straight.

“The party’s downstairs,” He said evenly. “I’m sure you just missed her.”

You stared at him. His eyes sparkled with mischief. Your heart dropped and your heels threatened to slip from your sweaty hand.

“She’s gone,” You said. His lips curved again and he chuckled. “What’s going on here?”

He inched forward as he pushed back his jacket and shoved a hand in his pocket.

“She did her job. Delivered what she promised.” He said coolly. “Can you blame her for cutting out?”

“What--” You backed up until you were against the window ledge. “I don’t understand.”

“You tried the front door, didn’t you?” 

You blinked and your shoes fell from your grasp.

“You think you can get to that tree? Even if you moved a few windows to the left?” He got closer. “Or maybe… you think you can get past me.”

Your lips parted as his features hardened. His brow twitched as he held your gaze. He didn’t look away as he knelt and grabbed your shoe. He took your foot and shoved the kitten heel on. He did the other and stood.

“Let’s go back to the party,” He growled. “It’s only just getting started.”

🏰

You stood against the wall as the room spun. Your chest was filled with doom as you looked around at the girls in their sheath dresses and chunky heels. Many shared the same glazed look as Elsie. They swayed just a little, giggled airily, and their eyelashes drooped. They were barely awake on their feet.

The man who answered the door stood beside you. He squinted at you every now and then. Charles had told him to keep an eye on you. You watched the host of the event disappear through another doorway. You thought of the invisible lock and the tree just a few windows down.

It was that crushing sense of defeat when you knew loss was imminent but unavoidable. So you watched it slowly creep forward until finally you had to submit. You shivered and shook your head at yourself. Sheila had done this. Ensnared all these girls in whatever sick game this was.

Time dragged. You watched the servers offer their tainted champagne and the girls all too ignorant to realize that something was amiss. Your eyes stung and you gripped your purse tight. Whatever was planned, it couldn’t be good.

The clinking of metal on glass silenced the room. Your eyes were drawn with every other to the other side. The men exchanged knowing looks. The girls were confused but not suspicious. They looked to Charles as he relinquished the glass and knife to a server. He grinned at his rapt audience.

“Shall we commence with our evening?” He asked; the men nodded and mumbled in agreement. The girls frowned and wavered on their feet. “Very well. Girls…”

He waved an arm to his left and the waiters, now free of their trays, dispersed to herd the girls to the other side of the room. You were led along with them and stood in the row of drunken co-eds. For a moment, you wished you had drank the wine. That you could be as oblivious as the rest.

The girl at the head of the line was ushered forward to stand beside Charles. Her red hair hung in ringlets and her cheeks were rosy with alcohol. He asked her her name and she slurred “Carrie.” He repeated it for all to hear and shouted a number. Ten thousand.

A man raised his hand and Charles called eleven thousand. Another gestured and the number went up again. Again. Again. Carrie was visibly confused as she tried to keep up. She couldn’t. She was sold for twenty-five thousand and ushered into the arms of her buyer.

Elsie was next. She could barely stand as she struggled to keep her eyes open. Eighteen thousand for the mousy-haired girl. Colleen went for about the same and Darla was in tears as she was bartered for an even twenty. 

You were near the end of the line. You marched up to the front and bit down as you stared at the bourgeois bastards. Harry was the first to bid for you. Your stomach flipped. Then another man you hadn’t even spoken to. You could see only his hand as he reached above the crowd. 

The bids bounced back and forth, Harry cursed as he wondered who was so determined to have you. You sold for forty thousand to the faceless man. You were shown out the side door by a waiter as the last girl was brought up to stand by Charles. 

You stood alone in a long dining room with a large table and more than a dozen chairs. You turned as the doors slid closed and faced the grey-haired man who had greeted you in his monotone at the door. You thought he was the help. You grimaced at him.

“You?” You sputtered.

“No,” He said blandly. “Not me.”

“Then…” You couldn’t finish as you were certain you knew the answer.

You swallowed and spun away from him. You gripped the back of a chair and placed your purse on the table. The furor from the other room reached a peak and then began to dwindle. The grey-haired man glanced at the doors.

“I must attend to the coats,” He announced. “Do not stray. He will be mad.”

You sighed as he slipped through the door. A hand kept them from closing and you watched the doorman rush away. Charles stepped through and shut the doors. He took a breath as he turned to you. He fixed his lapels as he stopped across the table from you. 

“What?” You hissed as he stared at you.

“No… thanks?” He asked.

“Thanks?” You narrowed your eyes. “For what?”

“Don’t tell me you wanted to fuck one of those old men?”

You blanched at his language and your lip curled in revulsion. He laughed.

“Don’t worry. I only need… a maid.” He smirked.

“A maid?” You wondered.

“Cooking. Cleaning.” He tapped two fingers on the table as he spoke. “They ever write about that in your books?”

Your eyes were glossy as you gulped. You were furious, frightened, and frustrated.

“You girls think you know it all,” He scoffed. “There’s a lot they don’t put in books.”

“No, there are horror stories,” You assured him. “Of repulsive monsters and their nasty ways.”

He chuckled and rounded the table. He stopped just beside you as his hand closed over your purse. He slowly lifted the strap from your shoulders and batted your hand away before you could stop him.

“Trust me,” He said as he flipped it open and looked inside. “There is no monster like me.”

🏰

You were shown to a room with a barred window. It didn’t matter as it was in the basement and so narrow that you couldn’t hope to fit through it. The door was locked but even so, there was a man without. You could see his shadow under the door and hear him cough every now and again.

You didn’t sleep much. There was a blanket on the floor beside some dusty boxes. You sat against the wall and dozed in spurts. The night replayed in your head on a loop. Then all those moments you’d spent with Sheila. How she had lied so easily. Was she even a student? 

Didn’t matter now. The sun rose slowly through the small window and the door opened shortly after. You were given a black dress, stockings, and a pair of black shoes. Nothing else. You were taken to a shower hidden in the cellar; the water was cold and you washed quickly in the closet-like restroom.

You dressed and contemplated turning your underwear inside out. They were too worn to re-use. You left them with the rest of your clothes and emerged in your uniform. The man in black who had spent his night outside your door was mute. You weren’t sure entirely if by choice.

Your first task was to clean the main room, still dirtied from the party. The grey-haired man, Albert, told you so and recited your list of chores. The kitchen would be next and then you were to sweep the upstairs corridors and check every room in case it needed dusting or new linens.

It took you hours to tidy up after the previous nights’ guests. When the glasses were cleaned, you stacked them in the cupboards and wiped the counters. Alone, you went to the back door. It was locked too. The windows on this floor only opened two inches. You cursed.

You climbed the stairs with a broom and pan and set to the endless tedium of sweeping every corner. That took another hour, if not more. You emptied the pan downstairs in the bin and returned with a duster. 

You knocked on each door before you entered. Most were pristine and required only a touch up. When you reached the end of the next hallway, your rap was answered as the door opened from the other side. 

Charles wore only an undershirt and pants as he looked you up and down. He waved you in wordlessly. You entered and set to dusting the mantle and all its ornaments. He moved around behind you and stopped in a doorway just left of the bed.

“I expect you to do more than dust in here,” He said. “Grab some fresh linen when you get the chance.”

He slipped through the door but left it open an inch. You huffed and continued on lazily. Call it spite or your fleeting mind. You tried the window. It opened but there was no way down. You closed it and turned away.

You went to find the sheets and when you had discovered the trove of pressed and folded cotton, you returned to the room. You could hear the soft ripple of water through the small doorway. You set the sheets down at the foot of the bed. You cleared the wrinkled clothing from the chair and dropped them in the hamper.

“Girl,” Charles’ deep timbre called sternly. “Girl.”

Your cheek twitched. He knew your name. You sneered and quickly wiped it away as you neared the door. You pushed it open hesitantly as you peered through.

“Towel,” He demanded.

He sat in the deep tub, his dark hair damp and his broad chest bare above the water. You tore your eyes away and grabbed the towel from its rack. As you faced him, he stood and the water dripped down his body shamelessly. You unfolded the towel and held it up so that you could not see all of him.

“Well,” He waved you closer and snatched it from you. 

He stepped out onto the bathmat and fanned the towel around his body. You looked away quickly and a soft chuckle escaped him as he secured the towel at his waist. He passed you, his wet arm touched your sleeve and he neared the mirror as he admired his freshly shaved face.

“Did you make the bed?” He asked.

You shook your head and turned to return to the bedroom.

“Wait,” He stopped you. “That’s ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir’.”

“No, sir,” You said bitterly. 

“Then you better get to it,” He rebuffed.

You swept through and moved the new sheets to the chair before you stripped the mattress. He leaned in the doorway as he watched you. You could feel him as you moved around the bed and stretched the cotton over the corners. You spread out the top sheet and replaced the quilt over top. You changed the pillowcases and fluffed them. 

Done, you bundled up the old bedding in your arm. He went to the bed and dragged his fingers along the quilt. He grasped the blankets and tore them from the mattress. 

“Tuck in the edges,” He said. “Now, fix your mistake.”

“Yes,” You gritted. “Sir.”

You dropped the old sheets in the chair once more and set to redoing your work. He stood at the foot of the bed and when you slipped past him, you felt a brush across your ass. You ignored it, content to think it was natural friction, and carried on. You could feel the heat of his gaze upon you and as you faced him, it was confirmed.

“Very nice,” He commented. “You learn… quickly.”

“Quicker than the others?” You asked. “Huh? How many have you bought? What did you do to them?”

“Oh, you’re mistaken,” He said. “I’m not a buyer, I’m a seller… but well, I decided to indulge myself last night.”

Your mouth was dry. You turned and grabbed the linen again. As you backed up, you were stopped by a figure behind you. His arm stretched out around you and he held his towel out. Slowly, he released it and it flapped to the floor.

“You don’t learn that quick though,” He mused as his hand settled on your shoulder. “You think I would spend that much money on a maid.” His fingers crawled along your neck. He gripped your jaw as he pressed himself against you. You felt the prod of his arousal through your skirt. “But it was fun to watch you try.”

“Why me?” You breathed as he gripped your arms and pulled them away from the laundry. The bundle fell to the chair and drooped down onto the floor.

“Because you’re the first to figure it out,” He answered. 

“Please,” You begged weakly as he pulled your arms back and rolled his hips so that he poked you.

“Get on the chair.” He ordered.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stood staring at the yellow wallpaper with its golden lilies. You turned slightly and he caught you. 

“No, don’t turn around.” His voice sent a shiver through you.

Your lip trembled and you lifted a knee, then the other. His hands ran up your arms and around your back. He shoved you so you caught yourself against the back of the chair. You tensed as his hands fell to your hips and over your ass.

He squeezed and stepped between your ankles so that his legs were against the seat. He ran his hands down your thighs and kneaded through the skirt. He reached the hem and slowly raised it an inch at a time. When it was higher than your stockings, your hand flew back to stop him.

He grabbed your wrist and twisted until you cried out.

“If you scream, there’s no one here who will care,” He snarled. “And they certainly won’t help you.”

He pushed your hand away and tore your skirt up over your ass. He slapped you so hard you yelped. You could feel the heat of his palm across your ass even after it was gone. He bunched your skirts around your waist and hummed in approval.

“You look nice in black,” He said, “Better out of it.”

You kept your eyes forward. You couldn’t have looked at him if you wanted. This man, this stranger, was touching you like no one had before. And he meant to do more. Because he owned you.

His hand snaked around your hip and down your pelvis. He tickled the hair there and slid lower. You tried to press your thighs together but your ankles hit his legs. He tutted and leaned against you.

“I’m being nice,” He warned. “I don’t have to be.”

You grabbed his hand and shoved it away. He struck your ass again as he stood straight. He grasped the back of your neck and pushed your head down against the back of the chair. Your fingers clutched at the cushion beside your face as he held you there.

“I told you last night,” He pinched your thigh. “I can be the worst fiend you’ve ever known.”

He pushed his knees up on the chair between yours. His fingers crawled around your hip again and along your pelvis. He pushed two down along your folds. He rubbed your bud with his middle finger as he spread your lips. He flicked and teased until your hips bucked.

“Not so bad…” He purred. “Am I?”

“Stop,” You begged as his grip tightened on your neck. “Why are you doing this?”

“I can’t just let you go,” He said. “That’d be a poor investment. Even you could see that.”

He dipped his finger inside of you and you inhaled sharply. He drew it in and out and added another. Your thighs shook and your fingers bent against the cushion.

“You don’t realize how fucking lucky you got,” He pushed his palm to your clit as he rocked his hand. “Those other men; old men, they’d fuck you for two seconds before they blew. Leave you there, unsatisfied, discarded. The girls never last long.”

He curled his fingers and moved his hand faster.

“The men get bored. Naturally, they’re greedy,” His nose tickled your ear as his breath glossed over your cheek. “Or maybe the girl gets pregnant. No good. Send her away. Don’t care where, just don’t want to hear about her ever again.” 

He nuzzled your hair as your breaths grew laboured. You found it hard to resist the heat that radiated from his touch. You shook as you tried to force the ripples back down.

“So, you keep me happy, girl,” He sneered. “And you might just last.”

You squealed as you came. You were ashamed and astounded. You’d never felt so… much. Never felt anything so deeply. You quivered around his hand and he slowly drew away and wiped his wet fingers on your bunched up skirt.

He reached between your thighs and you felt his length rub against your ass. He teased you and dragged his fingers along your ass. He pressed his tip to your skin and guided it down. He squeezed your neck and you whimpered. He pushed against your entrance and paused.

“You’re not…” He began and thrust inside of you all at once. “Well, it doesn’t really matter.”

Your walls ached as he filled you. The pain was nothing compared to relief that washed over you. You hadn’t realized how much you longed for that feeling. His hand slid from your neck and he gripped your shoulder. His other went to your hip and he rocked his hips.

You grunted as he thrust. You wanted it to end but you also didn’t want him to stop. He was relentless and impatient. You expected little else from the steely man. You quaked as his pelvis slapped against your ass. The noise echoed off the corners of the room, interspersed with his low groans and you pathetic mewls.

He moved your body against his as he plunged deeper and deeper. He sped up, driven by your helpless moans as you clawed at the upholstered chair. You wanted to get away as much as you just wanted to grab onto something steady. You turned your head back and forth as your nerves flared. You shook and gasped as you came again.

“St-st-stop,” You pleaded. “Stop. It’s too--”

He slammed into you so hard you shrieked. He didn’t let up as he crushed you against the back of the chair. He snaked his hand up in front of you and groped your tit as his other arm wrapped around your neck. His thick muscle choked you as he pounded into you and the chair creaked dangerously. You trembled as the ripples washed over you and you skin tingled with the heat of the man behind you.

His thrusts turned sharp and furious. His arm tightened around your neck as he pulled his other hand back. He pushed into as far as he could, holding himself there for just a second each time. His heavy breaths were like hungry growls in your ear.

He pulled out of you suddenly and you felt his knuckles against your ass as they moved frantically. A warmth spurted along your lower back and his hand slowed. 

He sighed and unhooked his arm from around your neck. He climbed off the chair and smacked your ass again. It stung so much you were certain there was already a bruise.

“Clean yourself up.” He demanded as he sat on the bed heavily. “Then take that damn dress off.”

[heli0s-writes]

III. Paralysis*

Summary: “I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around Bucky’s bicep, his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

A/N: 9.8k words. OOF.

Warnings: Language, robots v. monsters violence, Big Time angst and comfort, smutty bits (dry-humping, thigh riding).

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

He leaves around sunset. Hair combed neatly to the side and freshly shaven, Steve’s dashing in a fitted suit and tie. 

In the middle of passing around a basketball, Erik Killmonger, in all his subtlety, whistles, “Looking fresh, white boy!”

Steve smirks, smoothing the front of his jacket, “This monkey suit? I’d rather be in circuitry.”

He’s been laying low since Siegehook, since Bucky’s arm, and since you. But now the story’s changed and he’s gotta get his narrative straight— he’s introducing a new character, changing the players, and guiding the spotlight exactly where it needs to go.

Jimmy Fallon— Kimmel? One of the Jimmies personally flew into Hong Kong for a special taping of his late-night show. Orion racked up eleven kills; it’s another record and the people want what they want.

Fury called the three you of into his office after the network reached out for the umpteenth time. He strategized shrewdly to have Steve on this particular broadcast because it’s not as serious as a news report and not as wordy as an interview. Too many things can go wrong in both: cross-examinations, misquoting, scrutiny after the fact.

Steve works best in front of a live audience. He’ll sit down tonight—broad and tall—smile at the camera and the host, make a few charming quips, and then he’ll let the world know.

James has been hurt. The next breach will overlap his recovery time—don’t worry, everybody, fortunately, there’s a pilot available to step in and fill his place until he’s fully healed. And yes, he’ll be back soon, both in the Jaeger and on the show— I know you miss him, he’s even more popular than me, huh? Broody and quiet, right, ladies? He’s a hit!

Then he’ll laugh and field some questions about his new partner—but keep it vague for both yours and Bucky’s sake.

It didn’t need to be said. You didn’t want to be named, Steve didn’t want to make any assumptions for the future, and Bucky didn’t want to know if anyone thought he couldn’t pilot anymore.

Erik passes and you catch, sidestepping Thor and shooting over his figure which is no easy feat considering his massive height and the way Steve is staring you down. You don’t have to be hooked up to his brain to know what he’s wondering. 

Since the trial run, you’ve been feeling the after-effects of the drift in oscillating waves. Sometimes you catch yourself standing ramrod straight, physically feeling heavier, knowing it’s him.

You okay? We talked about this. Yes, you are. No, you aren’t. It’s complicated. He’s fixes his tie the same time you spot a wrinkle. After-effects.

Erik jumps for a rebound when you miss the next basket, getting it knocked away by Thor’s enormous hand. Steve’s already gone when you look back, but Erik is passing again, and your next shot sinks through the net.

“That’s fuckin’ right!” He knocks his elbow into yours proudly, pushing sleeves over elbows until you can see the patterns of scarification up his arms. Feet back and forth on the scuffed concrete with distracted rhythm, you dribble, thoughts still on Steve.

“Hey,” a voice calls over the sound of the slamming ball. Barnes toes the edge of the makeshift court. A jacket is tucked under his arm, baseball cap atop his dark head. “Come on, it’s Friday night and you’re thinking too much. I wanna show you a place.”

-

He leads with confidence, directing the taxi in practiced Cantonese picked up over the last two years. Then, once disembarked, he peeks back every few minutes on the street to check if you’re still following. Your gait is awkward—steps firm, but lopsided. All off kilter and wound up like a spring.

It’s okay. In Bucky’s experience, food always helps. He’s taking you to his favorite restaurant—hole-in-the-wall Sichuan. He hollers over his shoulder, "You better be prepared for spice!”

-

Red lacquered doors open with a tinkering sound, a tiny overhead bell signaling new arrivals. A hostess steers through a path of similarly varnished tables and decorated chairs when Bucky asks for a quiet corner. Fish tanks of koi gleam green and blue. Chandelier scatters gold and white diamond shapes on a ceiling painted like a cloudy sky.

Hot tea first, and he sips carefully, gaze moving up to the T.V. behind your back when you’re busy flipping through the menu. A few more minutes pass of your furrowed brow sinking deeper and Bucky’s hand slides quickly across the tablecloth, nudging the booklet from your clutch.

“I got this.” And relief washes over your entire body like rain.

-

The appearance of entrees breaks your trance. Mai Gai, Char Siu Bao, Dan Dan noodles, and eggplant in garlic sauce—you’re trying to tell him it’s too much, wondering when he even ordered, but he ignores you. Not his fault you spaced out, he says, catch, and a napkin flies directly into your chest.

It makes you laugh, and Bucky secretly wants to tell you that it wouldn’t kill you to do it more often. Why the hell not, anyway? He’s tired of being upset about something that was largely inevitable. He knew the risk of death when they signed up to be Rangers so on the bright side, at least it’s his arm and not his head. At least it’s his arm and not his co-pilot’s. You’ve proven to be more than capable and proven to be someone he can trust with Steve’s life.

If Bucky had any doubts about whether or not that damned Rogers determination would see them through—they’ve been dispelled now.

The drift was sound. When Steve stepped out from the loading dock, he was lighter like half his weight had been sloughed off. When you followed, helmet pulled from your face, Bucky could see where it landed. Your hips, your shoulders, your jaw, all defiant—even if temporarily—coming down from the high of the handshake. Squared and strong, you looked at Bucky and certainty gleamed from your eyes.

You are Orion’s new pilot. He’s gotta give it up. It could be worse.

Bucky’s fingers shift as he unsnaps chopsticks and grabs spoons, the plates on his left clicking quietly, flexing his pointer when it sticks. Sometimes the prosthetic is a little glitchy because nothing’s perfect, but Stark and Shuri are constantly making updates. They use technology from the spinal clamp to connect his synapses, running tests on its reaction time, sensitivity, and functionality. He can feel pressure, but not pain, and wouldn’t it be nice if it applied elsewhere, too?

He passes your utensils over, wrapped loosely in a napkin. It could be worse.

“Hey Barnes,” you call earnestly, running your fingers over an embossed floral pattern on the paper, “Thanks.”

He’s not looking at you yet, firmly on a mission for soy sauce and chili oil. He makes a well of it in a ceramic dish and stirs with a chopstick, moving it to the center of the table, finding distraction in small tasks.

“...Barnes?”

“It’s Bucky,” he says finally, flicking his eyes to your hopeful face, “You can call me Bucky, alright? Usually that’s just for Steve, but you’ve been in his head—know me now, I guess. So you might as well. Hold your horses—I’ll serve you.”

Speechless, you put your hands in your lap and observe him scoop food, the syllables of his offered nickname tapping like a metronome over your curious tongue.

Bucky, you consider, watching the way he moves. Bucky, with his long hair pulled back and out of his cap. Bucky, his soft and worn hoodie, boots drumming gently against the table leg, eyes discreetly glazed over because he doesn’t think you notice the change in his mood.

Bucky, who made you laugh in the Jaeger hangar—even if he did threaten your life upon the first meeting. Who could have let you rot from boredom and worry, but instead took you into Hong Kong to his favorite restaurant without being asked to. Who could hate you—truly, truly hate you—for taking half his life from him, but instead is piling a mound of fragrant jasmine rice on your plate.

“What?”

“Bucky. I like it. It sounds nice.”

A clipped noise of displeasure, “Okay. Don’t fuckin’ wear it out.”

“Bucky...?” You murmur, sly. “Bu-cky. Buck-y.” The tips of his ears swell pink as you continue, emphatically pressing your lips together, letting your jaw hang open, pronouncing with precision. A bite of a steamed bun and you lick the edge of your mouth, “Bucky…hm…”

He sputters.

“Would you stop? Jesus, you’re annoying just like him— no fucking wonder— the two of you. Just fuckin’ darling.” His words are all run together with how fast his frustrated tongue moves, a healthy flush over his cheeks, spoon clinking on his plate.

It’s cute. Stoic, serious, James—Bucky Barnes– just a boy who can’t take a bit of flirting without lighting up like a candle. It’s fun. You like him, Bucky Barnes.

An unexpected ache overtakes you and suddenly Bucky looks more familiar than he ever has. Something excruciating about the soft crinkles of his brow, the way his generous lips draw back to reveal a sliver of his teeth.

He’s Bucky wiping the sweat from his collar in a dirty alleyway, jeans torn at the knees, bruises budding along his knuckles as he yanks up a troublesome blonde friend. Bucky, young and determined, helping Steve into bed every time he got sick.

Bucky, hovering pallid and broken in the drift, hurt and afraid but you felt his resolute strength in Steve’s head even as he howled in agony. Far off and shuffling in transparent layers until he was little more than a specter, but he was there.

His eyes lift again, raising to point you toward the T.V.

“There’s our boy.”

Our boy. And it keeps hurting.

You twist your torso as Steve steps out from backstage, waving and smiling, impeccably poised. He shakes Jimmy’s hand— silently mouthing thank you and hey because the cheering and yelling is too loud to hear him anyway. You try to stop thinking about Bucky anywhere but corporeal and whole across the tablecloth.

“Hey, Jimmy, how are ya?”

“Good—good, Steve. It’s so great to have you on the show again! Wow, you look great! Specimen.”

Steve chuckles modestly, tucking his chin to his chest, “Thanks, you do too.”

“Alright, no need to flatter me, we’re already in love with you, okay?”

You grin the same time Steve does, but whereas he continues to joke and enthrall two hundred people, you grow restless. Bucky refills your tea and drops a crumble of yellow rock sugar in.

“Relax,” he mutters, “It’s fine. He’s good at this. Eat your food.”

And you know this; you know him. Steve’s good when the questions get too personal and when there’s gaps in the conversation—when the cheering interrupts him or when his jaw ticks before he morphs it into a smile.

He’s good when he breaks the news to a hushed audience, gone eerily quiet like they’ve stepped on consecrated ground. Steve gives them those big blue eyes and the room immediately bursts into applause. Some people are crying. The host is shocked into wordlessness.

You feel relieved, getting what you pleaded for. No cameras. No questions. No pressure. The truth is aired, and Bucky seems pleased, too. You’re about to turn around, offer your full attention, thankful for his company, but then something else happens.

Jimmy blinks his stupor away from the blow of Steve’s confession. He takes a sip from his mug and after a short exchange of, thank you for your transparency, it must have been hard— wow I didn’t think you’d drop a bomb like that on us tonight! I thought I was the one with the ace up my sleeve— ha!

He points off-stage and says, “After that, I think you deserve a nice surprise, Steve. Ready?”

Tall, gorgeous, lightly curled hair cascading down her back—the surprise is a woman. She steps easily in heels, an off-the-shoulder red dress hugging tight to her body. Stunning. She waves to the audience and they go wild. 

Steve shoots up to meet her for a kiss in front of the host desk, shaking his head in disbelief, tangling his fingers in her silky hair. There’s cheering again and the crying keeps on.

“Oh my god— Jimmy! You sly devil!” He’s overjoyed. “Baby— how’d you—I thought you were working.”

“I can always make an exception for my favorite guy.” She showcases perfectly white teeth and the high apples of her rosy cheeks.

It’s Ophelia Reyez, Steve’s model-turned-actress girlfriend of approximately six months. Her recent appearance on the Victoria Secret fashion show blew up the internet and her last Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover sold out in every gas station you went into.

Their first meeting was at a charity event—raising awareness about pollution in the Pacific, discouraging scavengers from harvesting Kaiju parts after battles. A picture of them standing two feet away made its way through social media the next morning her PR team made contact before noon.

So of course, it was decided; it’s a beneficially mutual relationship, after all. Doesn’t matter if he hates it or not—people don’t want to know that pilots live in a metal box and play basketball on Friday nights. They want to see Rangers in a role— monogamous relationships with beautiful people, white picket fence (or gated community) future in the making, and eventually plump-faced babies in strollers.

Steve’s now back in his seat, shifted so Ophelia is sitting in his lap, turned to the side. His hands are locked around her slender waist—an incredibly believable display of public affection. She kisses his cheek, leans her head on his shoulder, beaming brightly. If you were anybody else, you’d believe it; you have before.

“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” you whisper in both awe and annoyance.

“Feeling it, huh?” Bucky speaks plainly around a bite of eggplant when he notices your jaw. That habitual and microscopic signal he’s grown to spot a mile away means Steve’s irritated and pissed off, and now it means that you are, too.

“Yeah,” you admit, shaking your head. You turn back to him, thoroughly bothered, having had enough of the performance.

“Uh-huh. Everyone’s a Fly—even her.”

You sigh at the label. Jaeger Flies, is what he’s saying. Ranger groupies. Derisive titles— and maybe deserved— for men and women who are attracted to pilots solely because they’re pilots. They want the opportunity to be famous or the privilege of being elite.

Even her, Ophelia Reyes. She’ll forever look at Steve Rogers as the Ranger.

Natasha always lamented—usually as she took her earrings off after a date, heels slipping off her pale feet—about another civilian man who worshipped her, and how that would be a dream for most people, to be so adored, so revered, but you always felt her sorrow in the drift mourning a love she couldn’t have.

She wanted the white picket fence. The normal life, normal husband, normal family. Her clean break from the past where monsters could no longer chase her in Decima and nightmares could no longer chase her at night. Behind closed doors, she was all torn open at the seams. And you’d wordlessly tell her shut up because she had a family with you. You loved her too, wasn’t that worth something?

She’d spiral and spiral and nothing was ever enough.

Your stomach twists and it keeps hurting.

-

Bucky pays for dinner. He asks as he pops a mint into his mouth, “Up for dessert?”

“God, Buck.” You groan, and Bucky takes a second to run that through his head again. God, Buck. Another thing like Steve.

“C’mon, I wanna show you another place,” he says thoughtfully, “Hold on to your hat, punk.”

A lighthearted swat to your back and then he’s shoving the ballcap hanging from his chair on your head.

-

The streets are lit with all sorts of colors as you follow him through the market, peering at vendors showcasing an abundance of food and miscellaneous items. You keep telling him you’re too full and can’t eat another fucking bite, but he only commands you to walk it off. The crispiest egg waffles are somewhere down this way, and even though he can’t remember the intersection, it should be close.

Between steps and dodging passerby’s, he relates his own experiences of brief PR relationships. A Russian woman one time, and a Greek woman another time. Cross-cultural because it made the PPDC look good—and it was all about looking good. He loathed it, of course, but he’d bite down a couple of months before their representatives would release those asinine joint statements about “conscious uncoupling” – schedules too busy, still have love for each other in their hearts, though.

“Couldn’t tell you those girls’ middle names. We’d get together just long enough for some media circulation—dates where we’d pretend to be offended when pictures leaked on TMZ.”

“Well,” you muse over a vision of Bucky leaned back on Steve’s mattress, returned late and bored of another paparazzi encounter swarming him in the lobby of some hotel. You know it like a dream—his ankles crossed, shoes shucked off, cracking his neck. Fuckin’ wild, Stevie. This girl. My knees ain’t what they used to be.

“Least you got your dick plenty wet, didn’t ya?”

He makes a noise like an engine backfiring—offended like you’ve pawned off his prized possessions or something.  

“Jesus—you’re an ass.” He slams the bill of the cap down until it hits you in the nose. Another huff, more cursing, and then he’s saying fuck you before speeding off alone. 

You chase cheerily, finding his chestnut head peeking over the crowd with ease because he’s tall and hard to lose in Hong Kong. A few more blocks down with him looking back surreptitiously to make sure you’re not lost, and Bucky ends up being the one who is actually lost.

“Shit. Can’t find the stand,” he grumbles, “Don’t give me that face. These are way better than the ones we passed earlier—fucking all soft in the middle—fresh pandan leaf, alright? You don’t get it.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” you laugh, feeling your cheeks grow tired from the way they’ve been lifted all night.

A stifled, hot breeze of urban downtown mixes with a chilly gust of wind, carrying Bucky’s petulance away though the throng. Blinking, you look around, craning your neck and shuffle to the curb. Stalls with hanging lanterns. Carts lined with pickled mango. Vendors grilling skewers of pork and cleaving roast duck into chunks.

You suddenly dart from him across the busy road and barely avoid a rickshaw balancing two enormous baskets of finger bananas. When you return, you hold up matching green popsicles. One gets shoved into his mouth, other one into yours. Pandan, like he wanted.

“Hey, it’s not bad,” you give it another taste. Lingering coconut, a little bit leafy, but not unpleasant. “Oh shit—cold!”

Bucky licks his lips, stinging red from the ice. You shudder loudly as brainfreeze hits, another chatter of your teeth following when a gust of wind whips through. He shrugs his jacket from his shoulders.

-

He calls you a dumbass after an embarrassing story about the time you skinny-dipped in a pond near The Icebox in the middle of winter. A handsome man, your eager libido, and a handle of whiskey had been involved. You giggle about being bed-ridden for half a week afterwards, but you got his number and a few good nights in his bed.

“Guess you’re not as boring as I thought.”

You whistle, “Sweetheart, I got stories that’ll put some hair on your chest.”

Bucky smacks you on the shoulder. “Ass.”

-

The Shatterdome comes into view much later.

What would have normally been a three-hour excursion, at most, has unintentionally into six and you’re nowhere close to tired—not quite ready for it to end. Bucky is bright with energy, too.

The past hours have been dedicated to recalling old tales. One led to another, threads pulled from the most insignificant of mentions—your old Boston Terrier’s underbite; Bucky accidentally knocking Steve’s bottom lip into his own braces in sixth grade and it swelled up so big he could hardly talk; Natasha, unable to pronounce fucking aluminum out of all the damn words in the world; you, unable to pronounce facetious; and then Bucky, trying his own hand at it and realizing he can’t either.

“Fa—fa-shish-shush? Fascist—tus? Factitious… Ah, shit.”

“Buck,” you gasp through another fit, “Bucky—you have to shut up. Oh—Oh my god—my face hurts.”

“Christ, who fucking made this word up?” He turns the corner toward the living quarters, shaking his head. Just you and him between the rooms and his steps slow at the advent of an inbound goodnight.

Bravely, now that you’re in more secluded space, you offer, “I can tell you more... if you want. Anything. It’s only fair.”

“Yeah,” he says, going quiet and careful. “If you want to.”

So, you take a deep breath, bookended by a nervous grin because other than Steve, the only person who knows anything about you outside a confidential manila folder is dead.

“Well, it might surprise you, since I’m just so goddamn talented—"

“Oh, here we fuckin’ go.”

“Kidding. I wasn’t good at anything,” you elbow him before fishing out your key. “Other than getting into trouble.” Clicks of the cylinder and your vault door squeaks open. “Lots of fighting—I was a small kid. Had nothing but the clothes on my back and just the biggest chip on my shoulder.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

Yeah. It’s funny. Steve’s alleyway fisticuffs might as well have been your own. You tell him as soon as the PPDC started recruiting again, you were in line. Their standards were confusingly specific and the tests they ran didn’t make any sense, but you passed and landed in Kodiak Island under the austere care of Stacker Pentecost. 

Flipping the light on, you invite him inside. “I’d been in and out of foster homes. Barely had a high school degree. Got into… bad work. You know— what do homeless young adults with questionable moral codes do when their 9-5 isn’t paying the bills?” It’s desperate joke to break up the tension but he doesn’t take the bait.

“I’m not judging.”

You plop down on the edge of your table— a spotty metal thing pilfered from a vacated room. He takes the single seat in front of you, moving a dusty glass of water toward the wall, expression only showing attentiveness.

“Well, anyway…” you pause, “I was in the Bay Area after Trespasser— you know, scavenging. But, well, it changes your perspective a little when you’re sneaking through government tape at 3 in morning, stepping over flowers and memorabilia for all the deaths to crouch over a monster’s fucking toenail.” 

“Hell,” a sardonic and self-deprecating grin, “I might have been a degenerate street urchin, but someone’s family got taken from them and here I was—monetizing their tragedy.”

Arching your back for more comfort, you splay your left leg over the surface, “Pentecost always said if I was lucky enough, I’d suffer brain damage or radiation poisoning, but might as well die in a Jaeger than in a ditch like I figured I always would. Son of a bitch had my number.”

Bucky’s lips are pursed lightly, eyes are tracing the path of your laces through bent hooks when you wriggle your boot back and forth. He spreads his hand over your ankle, keeping you still.

You swallow when he squeezes.

“Uh— I met Nat at Kodiak.��� Bucky is warm. You oscillate between ignoring him and focusing on him, clinging to his hold instead of chasing the thought of Natasha too much. “We were… very similar. Childhood, um, troubles and all that.” You give him a pointed look and he makes a small noise of understanding with no intention to press for details, “She became my best friend. She was the first person I had. My only family.”

A nod of mock irritation and he says, “Yeah. Steve was always a part of mine. Sometimes they say they like him more than me. Can’t blame ‘em.”

“It’s the charm. They make it seem effortless, huh?”

“Fucker can’t take a bad picture to save his life.”

You laugh. “A smile like the goddamn sun!”

“One look into those stupid blue eyes and you’re a goner.”

“Criminally pretty.”

“Hah!” Bucky snorts, “Pretty enough for all of us.”

The floodlight on the wall casts darkness in the shape of your head over his shoulder. Lines of wayward hair caress his neck, tapered strands resting on his collarbones, chestnut glowing orange. His irises stipple forest green when it touches the light, smile nostalgic and lovely.  

“Don’t be stupid,” you look at him for another minute longer, “You’re pretty, too, Buck.”

A raise of his brow. Bucky’s mouth opens and closes a few times vacantly. “Thanks,” he mutters finally. Then, bashfully, “So are you.” 

Then, a cautious murmur of your name that you almost miss, and he’s peering up at you, deliberately soft. Bucky’s thumb knead small circles over the stitching of your jeans.

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

You loved her, didn’t you?

The years sweep through, passing over your face in a range of rapid-fire emotions. Bucky watches them change like shadows of a bonfire. Delight, amusement, longing. Anger, despair, grief. Deep and unforgiving because she was your whole world—all you had— and she left too soon.

You inhale and it sounds like a sniffle— exhale, and it sounds like a sob. No going back now; you did promise him anything.

You loved her, didn’t you?

Of course you loved her. Natasha-fucking-goddamn-Romanoff. Yeah, of course you did.

You loved her like a sister. You loved her like a lover. You loved her in reflexive ways, like mother’s intuition, finding your motivation in the need to protect her even though she hardly ever needed protection. You loved her like precious gems. You loved her like she was made from your own rib. You loved her enough to love unreciprocated.

“Well, you spend years living with someone, in their brain, learning everything about them— every decision in and out of their control that led them up to who they ended up being. Their—all their impulses and all the things they think about themselves. How—how they hate themselves sometimes.”

You’d always said you were the stupid one. Too stupid to reflect on the past and too stupid to let it burden your conscience the way she’d let hers. A running gag whenever her hand jammed putting on a lipstick she’d worn a million times and you’d finally have to do it for her.

Cheer up, Nat. You’re too pretty to cry. You’d line her lips, pat in rouge delicately, encouragingly. And then you’d shut up because there was nothing you could tell her. A million reassurances rolled off her back because they only made her feel worse. She clung onto your care like another weapon in her chest because she couldn’t return it even though you told her you wanted nothing from her but happiness. Jesus Christ, Nat, I thought I was the stupid one.

“When you know someone like that, it’s easy, isn’t it? You see them exactly for who they are and suddenly there’s no longer the concept of good or bad. What else could I do but love her? Especially when she thought so little of her damn self—tried everything to be someone else but—Jesus, if you only knew how radiant she was—”

You shut your eyes. “A smile… like the goddamn sun. Ah, fuck—"

And now you’re crying. You haven’t cried about Natasha in almost half a year because it’s something you track like the entrance bay’s war clock. Five months. Ten days. Zero again.

You’re choking back too many words and you don’t even know why you said all of that. You start apologizing, rattling out more, too much again, desperately like a prayer, pitch escalating higher and higher. “She deserved everything. A life that was completely—solely—hers. A life that made her happy— and why— why her?”

Why not me? 

Bucky hears it in the silence. Watches it descend like a funeral shroud, weighing you down until you look as heavy as Steve on his worst days—when he stares at Bucky’s arm, like Bucky can’t see, can’t feel him there. And he knows Steve is thinking, why not me?

Bucky rises to his feet, stepping next to your uselessly dangling leg, resting his left hand on your shoulder and you grasp him, clutching achingly tight, torn to bits. And it’s too much all at once.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around his bicep, then his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

You’re smashed into little pieces, barely keeping your head above water, holding it all in, and no one recognized how you were drowning the entire time.

Solemnly, curiously, he feels like he’s seeing you for the first time but not quite, remnants of familiarity sparks in him—the filmy plastic layer of an old photograph pressing down to reveal something he once knew and finally knows again.

You make helpless noises, staring numbly ahead, tears rolling out like marbles to drop into your lap.

Bucky shakes his head, “I’m fine,” he whispers gently—frustrated—brow furrowed, his fingers rubbing the salt from your chin, “Quit your blubberin’.” He tilts your face up to the light, watching you take a shuddering breath, exhausted from unearthing buried skeletons.

It's wet when he kisses you, supple flesh chapped around the edges from anxious gnawing, swollen hot from weeping. It’s soft and quick, and then he pulls away.

“St—sorry,” he says, mouth pressing into a thin line, lips drawn in and tentatively licked. “Sorry, I don’t know… I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t have.”

Your eyes are sad—big and vulnerable, inflamed red, confused, worried, something else weaving through the damp gaze. Your strong, small fingers are still tight on him, and even though Bucky pulled away and apologized, he rushes forward again.

His free hand curls around your neck, supporting your head. Lips part and close, pressing firmly, expertly, naturally. It feels like he’s kissed you before and missed it— like a kiss he’s been waiting on for a long time.

Banging on your door jerks him away. You careen off the tabletop, smooth the back of your hair, wipe your face and the vault creaks open.

“Marshal,” Bucky greets.

“Rangers…” Fury’s steps are suspicious, phone in his hand aglow. “I thought we had a plan.”

Your heart is beating too fast, the press of Bucky’s plush lips still warm, the scent of his skin still near. You sense it like an imprint, feel it like a brand. The room spins with an onslaught of possible scenarios—all horrendously unclear.

“Care to explain this to me?” The marshal turns his phone toward you, the lit screen displaying a photo of a dark street, illuminated by red and yellow lanterns. A thick crowd is spread around stalls of fruit and knick-knacks.

The headline reads James Barnes Spotted in Hong Kong with Mystery Woman, and the two of you are circled inside a red ring. You’re teetering off the curb of the sidewalk next to a sewer grate. It’s grainy and distorted, but Bucky’s striking features are clear.

“And this one?”

Bucky’s cap on your head, popsicle sticks between your teeth and his.

Steve Rogers on Jimmy! Jimmy Barnes on a Date!

James Barnes Officially Over Penelope Mercouri.

James Barnes’ Injury?

Fury tucks his device back into his coat. “Not that I care what you get up to on your spare time, but we had a tale to tell. It’s hard pushing an agenda when you’re pushing the wrong way.”

“We just got dinner,” you stutter, an upsurge of guilt rising. The speculation, the kiss, the gut-wrenching reflex that feels like a crime. Fury’s calculating now, looking from you to Bucky, assessing the situation with some pity because you truly look pitiful.

“What you got is PR on cleanup. Potts has been trawling Twitter for the last 20 minutes. For someone who doesn’t want to be in the public eye, you’re making a lot of noise.” He points to Bucky’s jacket still over your shoulders.

You tear it off. “It’s not—”

“Oh no—I won’t be losing sleep any over it.” The marshal’s single eye blinks calmly, “She can spin the story, but you become responsible for this.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Ranger, that the spotlight is on you now. And there is nowhere to run.”

And if you didn’t think it could get any worse, footfalls down the hallway reach your ears in a pattern that you recognize immediately. Here he is, stepping into your room like it’s his own, suit jacket over his forearm, shirt halfway untucked and tie pulled loose. His lips drawn together and unreadable.

But you read it: Steve’s seen the pictures, too.

And goddamn, if you didn’t think it could get any worse— the earsplitting alarm announcing sudden movement in the breach startles you all.

“Orion Bravo, report to Bay 08, Level B. Codename Polidori. Category 2 Kaiju.” Shuri’s reedy voice is collected but critical. The thin screen next to your bed blinks on primary colors, wavy lines of activity rising and falling, counting down until emergence. Three hours.

Banner streams down the hall. The ruckus drowns him out.

Fury’s dark skin is ochre beneath the lights, “Category II,” he says, “Should be achievable. Odinsons will be on standby, guarding the Miracle Mile. Maximoffs on the coastline. They’ll come to you if necessary. Shelve your personal troubles, Rangers, we’ll continue this conversation later.”

-

Circuitry. Battle armor. Helmet beneath your arm. Muscle memory cuts down the time to seven minutes until you’re set to board, but you need more. Just a few—you have to tell him—better now than later—better from your mouth than from the drift. So, you blurt, “Bucky kissed me.”

Steve turns.

“We kissed. It—it’s nothing. I just needed to tell you before we get in. Didn’t want to seem like I’m hiding anything—I’m not.” It sounds so stupid, like a child admitting fault for breaking a window with a too-hard throw. It sounds like betrayal.

His helmet is gripped tightly in the crook of his elbow. Steve’s chin juts out incrementally, chewing on the inside of his lip, the air around him gone stagnant until he makes a noise both like a scoff and a hum.

“Sure. Fine. I get it—you’re lonely.” It’s worse than any response you expected to receive. “You know what I mean.”

It must be a testament to the depth of your connection now— you knowing him, him knowing you in all the ways that can make an argument escalate into atomic warfare. Precision strikes and then the two of you walking Ground Zero in its aftermath. 

“Wait—you think I’m lonely?” You block his way out, furious. “What the fuck does that— have you met yourself? Girlfriends who will never see you for who you are. Ophelia Reyez? Katherine Lau?”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“I know exactly what I’m doing—do you? I spent all evening on T.V. for you--”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, Mister Martyr in front of a drooling audience telling white lies and screwing a Victoria’s Secret Angel in some penthouse suite— such sacrifices you’ve made in my honor.”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“What the fuck have you done lately?” Steve snaps, “Other than try to fuck my co-pilot?”

His words hit like a kick in the goddamn teeth. You slam your helmet into his chest and the polycarbonate shells knock together violently.

“I’m your fucking co-pilot,” you snarl, “You wanted me.”

Steve steadies himself, twisting until he’s snarling at you down the bridge of his nose, “Enough. We’re being hailed, I’m not breaking this record because of you, and not for a Category II. Get your shit together.”

You grind your molars when he pushes you aside, stumbling on shaking legs. Your brain feels gnarled—misshapen and bent up in sharp, jagged points—and as much as you want to stomp his goddamn face in, he’s right: you can’t feel this way. You can’t. It’s your first drop in two years with the best pilot by your side—and you’re responsible for his life. The last one proved disastrous, and you cannot risk that again.

Your suit feels heavier with each step. When you climb in after Steve, the rig feels more obstinate. Your head, chest, heart are all swollen with turmoil and hot rage.

He’s next to you, breathing deeply. You mimic, shelving personal troubles like the marshal commanded.

Out of alignment, the automated voice of the system calls, and you push it back further, grabbing the entire shelf and hurling it into the depths. Steve sends you an incisive look. A blame. You take a breath, another, and another. Fuck!

“Orion.” The heads-up display spotlights Bucky’s face in the control room, emotionless. “Focus.”

You inhale one more time, seeking reassurance in his unwavering gaze—necessary peace in the silhouette of his phantom left arm. Bucky. Steve. Natasha. You. There can be no more loss. You cannot let it happen again.

Levels stabilizing.

To your right, Steve makes a noise like he’s shaking something off.

Neural Handshake complete.

Bucky stands behind the glass, watching aircrafts lower their hooks. A nod of his dark head is the last thing you see before Orion is lifted from the hangar.

-

There would be a fucking storm.

You’ve always hated fighting in the rain because Kaiju are enormous, slippery, alien amphibians, and Orion’s left fist slides off more times than you’d like. This one’s much smaller than Orion, which allows it the slight advantage of speed, slicing through the water like a shark, corkscrewing for an extra boost of velocity before emerging with a splash from behind.

A miss when you and Steve weave away, hazarding a minor scratch to the right shoulder before Orion’s shield knocks it back.

Despite the vexing evening and the simmering hurt in the pit of your chest, the drift is steady. So, you take it for what it is, cast the rust off your bones, and the two of you do some fucking damage on this thing.

Banner named it Polidori, after the writer credited with inventing the vampire genre. K-Science sonars detected protruding fangs and petal flaps folded on its back like vestigial wings. So, Polidori, he shrugged, it’s cute.

You discover with swift horror that the flaps are neither vestigial nor cute when Polidori pulls one sliver of leathery skin free with a splat. An atrocious shriek rings over the storm as it struggles with its own body, then another shriek and the left pillar continues to stretch, knobby blunt end of its shoulder blade shooting high, ripping itself full of gaping holes in its endeavor. 

Banner was more accurate than he realized.

“Orion!” Shuri’s voice is sharp, “Bring it down! Do not let it into the air! Use your cannon!”

You’re frozen stuck, eyes squeezed shut at the sight of stretched membrane. A terrified whimper and a puncture of nauseating memory nicks at Steve’s concentration.

No! Levels spike on the HUD screen. Fuck! Steve is caught in the undertow and the rig jams beneath both your feet.

“Orion! You’re out of alignment! Orion!”

She’s here.

Natasha’s bright hair is unfurling all around you. There’s deafening splintering when the incisors of her killer punctures through Decima’s chest and both her legs. Metal grinds against metal, the sound searing itself into your eardrums—your brain—your heart. Wings are beating—wild flaps of rubbery sails against the downpour—muffling screams from Decima’s cockpit.

It’s as real and cruel as the last time you saw it.

Bi Fang, like the bird from Chinese mythology, beaked and blessed with flight to make up for its one leg. Bi Fang the Kaiju was legless, and Natasha was convinced Decima could take it. You had no reason to think otherwise; five previous kills cultivated your confidence. You had her by your side, after all. Two orphans with something to prove, proving it again and again.

Wings and fangs? No legs? Six is an auspicious number. The smirk on her lips blooms fiercely. You’re laughing when Decima hovers above the water. Alright, Tasha. Six drops.

A tremendous splash and you touch ground.

She grins. Six kills.

Polidori has one limb fully flexed, fragmenting pixels bending into the shape of Bi Fang. Natasha is bending, too, lowering her center of gravity. Her elbows are against her ribs, fists set. This is gonna hurt. Come to–

Come to me! To me!

He’s stepping in ink. In water. And then metal is beneath Steve’s feet. There are flashes of rain, lightning, and he recognizes her dead center of the storm. 

Natasha Romanoff, vibrant and joyful through the glass of her helmet. You, next to her, reciprocal smile on your face stuck in hysteria, tears streaming down your cheeks in wide stripes. Steve’s hand is reaching but going nowhere. Echoes overlap of crying and shouting. Yours. Hers. His.

Come to me!

He yells again, but you’ve chased the rabbit too far.

Come to me!

He’s trying his hardest, stretching himself like ropes to bridge the fissure. He feels your fear, your hurt, and for a flash, it eats him whole, spits him out a twisted-up way and his brain screams for Bucky.

Bucky is doing the same through the control room, reaching his will out to Steve, praying their connection still holds despite their distance. He’s yelling for you, too.

“Steve! Get the hell out of it! Steve, you need to get her!”

The ripping of his red left arm loops three times in quick succession before Steve can temper it down. Bucky is howling, crying, sobbing. Steve is breathless, stuck, rattled, steeling his entire body to witness the amputation for another inescapable replay until your frozen body smears across his blurry field of vision. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Bright whites burst behind his eyelids. Flares of panicked emotion. Bucky. Natasha. Him. You. An endless rippling chain of trauma lashing Orion open.

“Come on— Steve! It’s moving! Steve!”

“Buck! I’m— I’m okay! Just— need a second.” Steve scrambles for his sanity, latching on, knowing Bucky’s well— alive and not hurt. Shuri begins urging him to get up faster. Polidori’s moving slow, but it is moving, and it needs to be put down now. She’s calling for the Odinsons—Colossus, be prepared to walk-

The metal under Steve’s feet slides away. Water returns, ink flowering behind it—molasses and murky. His steps are unsteady, chest heaving as he advances through a field of speckled glimmers like fireflies at dusk. Each flicker reflects an agonized shard of your distorted face.

A flit of your voice rushes behind his head. Steve whips around and tries to catch it but no such luck.

Again, to the right, then gone each time he spins. It builds and builds until he feels half-deaf, frantically invoking your name into the ether where it becomes lost in dissonance. Butterfly-winged iridescence scatter and plummet, shrieking, shrieking, shrieking. 

Then, nothing.

He finds you crumpled over on Anchorage’s shore.

Decima reaches sand as a crackling mess of Jaeger parts, chest piece ripped clean off the right side. You clamber out of the rig, hugging Natasha’s mutilated corpse. Your drivesuit is split open down to the hip, the glass of your helmet fractured and splattered with blood from your nose– still dripping.

He shakes his head, attempting to free himself of your scarred clutch. You had been hooked into the rawest fear—linked up when she died— gored and broken with half your brain believing it is also dead. Chills race up his spine and breaks him out in a cold sweat. He feels strangled to his very soul.

Then, seizures take you—the casualties of solo piloting—the neural damage come to collect. Nobody know how many miles you steered Decima alone and truthfully, it should have killed you.

Your eyes roll up to the sky, body convulsing before slamming into the ground like a rag doll, shaky fingers still reaching for your co-pilot. Steve shudders quietly, flinching with each impact. A final wail and everything slackens to a dull vibration. You quiver on the sand, howling and crying for Nat.

Polidori’s right wing casts itself loose, jaw opening wide. Steve’s on a time limit; there are only a few grains left in the hourglass. He croaks your name.

A second of recognition triggers from behind the curtain and it’s miraculously enough for you to see him. It’s enough.

He begs. He begs on his goddamn knees, crawling to you.

Look at me, only at me. Come back to me, please. Please. Please.

Steve gathers you in his arms, both of you trembling and afraid. Your suit heals itself, pieces stitching back together, blood little by little disappearing from your nose. Natasha shimmers away. 

He presses the glass of your helmets together. He needs to get closer.

Steve? S-Ste-Steve—Steve?

You’re still crying. You’re breaking his heart.

Yes. I’m here.

St-Steve, what d-d-do I do?

You’ve got me now. I’m here with you. You understand?

He can see you struggling to escape, consciousness clawing with nails and teeth to return to the present.

Yeah. Y-Yes.

We have to move.

Steve—Steve—everything hurts.

Just for now. Just for a little bit—but I’ll make it better, I promise. Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. Will you hold on to me? Do you trust me?

Y-yes… Yes, yes. I trust you.

The rig lurches back to life beneath his feet. Jittery and creaking with strain, Orion rocks forward with a rumble. The drift stirs once more, noise giving way to silence.

Steve’s vision clears. You’re back in the present, precariously grounding your strength inside his guidance. You raise an unsteady left arm. He powers it up. Energy surges through the cockpit, tremors running up your side as it charges. Your hand splays. Steve’s palm takes aim.

Activating plasma cannon.

The beam pierces Polidori’s shoulder and its roar chases a simultaneous thunderclap.

A crack of lightning flushes the sky purple. Orion’s right arm lifts high above its head and slams back down, the glowing hot edge of its shield cleaving through Polidori’s skull.

-

Bucky’s grip on the control room’s railing feels like it could warp metal. Wilson is on his right, other pilots in a row next to him. All is silent.

Through the relay of Orion’s camera, Polidori’s writhes one final time. A death throe—pathetic trilling drowned by rising water, falling into deep darkness. Overhead, Kaiju clean-up advances, jet engines rumbling behind an ashy horizon. Orion’s shield retreats to its side with a wet, sloppy sound. The handshake pulled through. Steve got to you.

Abruptly, the room vibrates with the shouting of about fifty voices. Sam is banging on the railing, strong fists rocking the entire length of it, roaring with glee. The others are even wilder— shoving each other in triumph.

Bucky tunes it out, waiting for quieter confirmation. He can hear the both of you despite the racket. Steve’s steady pants, cut with throaty relief—this one, Bucky’s familiar with. Your small, weak sobs strangled with tears—this one, he’s quickly learned, but knows now in his bones.

“Twelve drops,” you announce hoarsely. Raw. “B-Buck?”

He grins, dazed comfort rushing over, your voice chasing the torture away.

“Twelve kills, sweetheart,” Bucky says, “You did it.”

-

The raucous celebration in the Shatterdome simmers down around four, sunrise just a couple hours behind the horizon. Unruliness had broken out, triggering a party that lasted from the time Orion got picked up ‘til now, and still there’s chatter in the common room. 

It’s normal; Anchorage celebrated too after most kills—as long as no one died.

You’re freshly showered and changed, barefoot as you patter it back to your room. Voices from other beds are lowered as you pass—friends taking banter back to private spaces, couples pressed up against each other. All standard-issue revelry to commemorate the endurance of life.  

It’s how these things go. Violence on a massive scale, humanity threatened with extinction—the people closest to death feel it the most. When routine becomes monotony, it’s good once in a while to be stimulated again.

Damn near two thousand people in close quarters—Rangers in perfect form, friendships assembled on the foundation of sharing an exceptionally singular purpose. Even Pentecost in all his grave formalities couldn’t ward off human nature. Plenty of pilots hooked up with each other and other staff in Anchorage and no one cared as long as it didn’t muck anything up on the job. At least the marshal could control that; mishandle your personal relationships and you’d be off the docket for your next drop.

Sex is biology. Desire is human.

It’s hard for you to feel human this morning. Exhausted by the fight and the prior evening—awake now for over 24 hours, you broke away from the commons as soon as you arrived, spending an hour simply breathing in the steam, the habit achingly comforting. Your chest still feels tight, heart bloated with invasive flashbacks.

You used to decompress with Natasha. A few drinks, tales from the cockpit, shadowboxing and putting on a show, glad to be in the company of friends— to be back safely with each other. Then you’d scatter with the crowd, meet her in the showers, and help her wash her hair in silence. Nothing but the trickle of shampoo down the drain.

She’d cry, sometimes. Catharsis, mostly. Curled up in your arms, the both of you cozy in pajamas on the floor. Then off to bed where she’d climb under your sheets, falling sleep with her head on your shoulder, your fingers in her hair.

A love unspoken. A home in the shape of a twin-sized bottom bunk. Cramped and narrow. Too brief.

You sigh. Everything hurts.

A few rooms away from yours, Steve’s door is open just enough for a line of orange to escape. You know he’s there, waiting patiently as he has been. You went near catatonic on the way back, lying down in the cockpit, no longer needing to be hooked up. You shed the armor, holed yourself into the corner of Orion’s hull, and said nothing when he sat by your side.

Walking in front of the light, he places himself in the entrance way until he’s looking at you. His face is a gentle blue shadow, resplendent halo glorious behind his head. He’s dressed in soft pants and a t-shirt damp at the collar. A droplet of water runs down his neck.

It emerges like an orchestral arrangement. Leisurely notes creep into your ears—a tune you’ve always known. Plucks of strings, escalating windchimes. It echoes, the trails on his skin, his measured breath, his percussive voice layering and pleating until there are dozens of him.

Look at me. Come to me. I need you.

You feel it all at once. A knotted, chaotic tempest. Hesitation. Confusion. Ache. Bucky. Him. You. Your eyes lock with his. A mistake and a revelation.

Steve holds out a steady hand. You take a step, terrified, pulled into his overwhelming atmosphere like magnets, your bodies humming a secret frequency, purring for each other.

The drift opened everything up, but the battle tore it all out. The both of you are laid bare, everything else fallen away.

Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. You’ve got me now, you understand?

You reach the shadow he casts, eclipsed entirely by his bulk. Steve threads his fingers between yours and with a tug, you surrender your worries to him.

He’s kissing you before the door is entirely shut and latched. He fumbles for the locks, wraps his arms around your waist. A click and a clatter. He moans into your mouth. 

You exhale from deep inside your chest. He inhales like it’s all the oxygen he needs.

Your hands move to one place, his hands to another. Before your bodies can savor it, the both of you have roamed on, reading each other’s minds, knowing what’s next.

More. More. More.

It’s impatient and fast and Steve picks you up with ease. You forget yourself, forget the world outside the room, outside the three-by-three tile area of where he’s got you lifted, legs wrapped tight around his hips. Fingers dive into the back of your pants, squeezing, up your shirt, pawing at your breasts.

His groans blow heat onto your neck. You arch away, giving him more skin to brand kisses onto. He nips at your throat, light, then again, rough. His voice is raw and thick, husky little clouds making their home on your body.

Gentle sucking on your bottom lip follow each kiss. He takes you to bed, dropping himself onto the mattress, you on top of him. He’s been in your head; he knows what you like. Knows where you want him. Your voice is getting higher, sounds quick and shallow.

Steve guides you with one hand on your hip and the other beneath your thigh, soft pajama bottoms pressing against his. He groans each time you rock forward, needy for more contact against his groin.

You’ve been in his head, too. He likes feeling hands in his hair, so you grip his flaxen strands. He likes hearing, so you make a little more noise. He likes seeing his partner helpless because of him, losing all control, falling apart for him.

So you do. 

Pleasure rushes from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, his name burning in your throat. It’s an incredible shock and you’re spellbound, enraptured by him drinking in the parting of your swollen lips. Quickly, he places you on his thigh, enormous and strong, needing a better position to see— to feel you on him. Hungry attention, eager eyes, pleading like a mother tongue.

“Keep coming for me. Just like this— don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

The shamelessness of it—your underwear soaked to your pants. The fever of it—his body like a fire, low, husky begging just from watching lighting up your spine. It’s extraordinary adrenaline— the heightened and profound connection of knowing one another in every way—as if you were made for each other.

Animal instinct liberated from human sentience. Desire pursuing release. Two bodies colliding and igniting.

You can’t stop the next cresting wave, crying out again.

Steve pushes you on his leg repeatedly, back and forth, solid and firm between your thighs even as you shudder and whimper, telling him it’s too much— you’re too sensitive. He kisses your neck, jaw, chin, cheek. He doesn’t stop moving.

“Hold on to me.”

A bead of sweat collects on the dip of your cupid’s bow. He looks at how sweetly your skin shimmers as you shiver, how your pupils are blown wide, how you look so perfect to him. He presses his forehead to yours, looks into your eyes like the way he did in the drift.

You reach for him and rub in quick strokes, fumbling when he rocks you back, gripping when he rocks you forward. Parted lips hover, “One more time for me—ah, please,” he begs, “Before I do.”

But he’s too late and too heated. Steve makes a mess of his sleeping pants, taken over the edge by how you feel without hardly feeling you at all. He buries a groan into your shoulder, riding it out with indelicate thrusts into your palm.

“Oh,” he murmurs, “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.”

He’s blush pink and beautiful when he remembers himself again, rubbing his cheek against yours. He knows what you’re thinking— the realization in the comedown, the leaching fear of what could have been a mistake. But it isn’t, and Steve remains faithful to your body.

“Stay. I’m sorry—for hurting you. I’ll make it better.” Velvet kisses to your lips and you shake your head, apologies no longer necessary.

A whisper of his name like it’s the most radiant word. You cling to him, kissing him, answering only to him.

-

In the afternoon when Steve is still sleeping, you retreat to your room. You pause at the sight of Bucky already on your bed, caught in the bleary focus of his gaze. With lashes soaked wet, his throat constricts around a forceful swallow.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking on the syllable. He pats the space next to him and you come sit, turning your knees until they knock into his.

“Bucky…”

He laughs like you’ve told a joke, like the sound of his own name is a funny thing escaping your mouth. “Hoped I could catch you last night, before—” he laughs again. “—Before bed. Just wanted to—I guess I don’t know what I wanted to do.”

The hurt resurfaces. You find him through the rose-dappled lenses of Steve’s eyes. Those warm summers with two boys running wild, effortlessly devoted to each other. Your heart swells like you’re there, gazing at russet locks flying in the wind. Years and years between them—Bucky’s smile, lopsided and carefree. Steve’s gaze, illuminating Bucky in every memory.

“Bucky,” you say again, so wonderfully soft, he thinks, even as his chest feels stretched to bursting. “You love him.”

He places his temple on your shoulder, face hidden by the long strands of his hair.

“You’ve been in his head. He’s easy to love.”

“Yes,” you agree, touching his bangs, pushing them over his ear, streaking four affectionate lines through, “He is.”

“So are you.”

Bucky turns into your palm, smiling openly, like the truth is the simplest thing in the world.

[xwing-baby]

Chance (Din Djarin x Reader)

Characters: Din Djarin x Reader 

Warnings: lots of blood, injury (not graphic), thinking about death, show level violence, angst!

Word Count: 4k

Summary: Din stopped for a rest on this tiny moon after another successful hunt, but it turns out to be a lot less peaceful than he had hoped for when a body turns up on his doorstep...

Din had just finished a hunt, passed the bounty off to the person who paid for it and was back in his ship, ready to sleep before heading to Navarro the next morning. It had been an easy job, didn’t pay well but that wasn’t new. The Razor Crest stood in a large landing bay, surrounded by many other ships of varying size. It wasn’t the most ideal spot, he usually preferred to be more discreet, but there wasn’t much space anywhere on this tiny moon. He took what he was given. So, he sat up in the cockpit and settled back into his chair to sleep when a massive thud echoed through the ship jolting him awake. 

Annoyed that he had been disturbed, Din sat up and looked over the dash to see what was going on. Outside the landing bay was lit by golden lamps. There was no visible movement from the front, but Din got up to investigate. A noise like that warranted a check at least.

He slipped down into the hull and opened the back ramp. Still nothing. Din waited for a moment, but decided to turn around when he couldn’t hear anything. Until he heard a growl. It was close too. The bounty hunter stood still and continued to listen. Another growl and a huff, then the sound of something heavy being dragged across the ground. Din stepped off the ramp and turned the corner, his hand waiting by his blaster. There he found a hound standing over a body. The hound spooked when it noticed Din and quickly ran away leaving behind the cloak covered body. 

In the golden light, the cloak glimmered slightly, soaked with blood. Din approached slowly, still cautious and careful that whatever it was under the cloak could jump up at any moment. The cloak shifted slightly and a small barefoot popped out into the light. The foot was covered in dirt, cut and bleeding slightly. 

Din didn’t know whether he should bring the body inside or to leave it. This planet wasn’t necessarily known for it’s violence, a quiet little moon where nobody usually stopped for more than a day. You wouldn’t expect bleeding bodies to be just left around. Boot prints showed a clear track of three people walking from behind another parked ship to the Crest then away again, there was no scuffing in the print telling Din that they had planned this drop, they weren’t in a rush. Whoever had left it here, wanted him to see it. Why else knock on the side of the ship?

Din’s helmet display showed a weak heat signature under the cloak, they were just about alive. If they did wake up and try to fight him they would not be in any way a threat to him in the state they were in. So, Din bent down to get a better look. 

The robe placed over the body had once been white, but deep red now stained it almost entirely. Apart from the foot poking out there were no other signs a human, or human-like being lay underneath. Slowly, Din lifted up the material to get a look at what was underneath when a hand popped out and tugged it back down. Din quickly let go and put his weight back on his back foot to move away. 

“Do you need help?” Din asked quietly. 

“You can’t look at me,” A quiet and slurred reply came after a few seconds of silence, it was a girl’s voice. Whoever they were they were severely injured, but if he couldn’t look at them how was he meant to help them. Din frowned. 

“Can you stand?” He asked. There was no response. He moved closer again, taking note of the slow movement of the cloak up and down indicating the person underneath was breathing, if only just. He would have to move them inside. 

Din looked around, there was no one around. All the parked ships surrounding them were dark. This wasn’t some kind of trap, at least not yet. Carefully Din put his arms under the cloak, maneuvering under the legs he found and the shoulders, they were completely bare and soaked in blood. The girl made no protest, didn’t make a sound at all. Din lifted the body with ease, it was nothing he wasn’t used to, and went back inside the Crest up the rear ramp. 

Once inside he placed the body down, again respecting their wish not to be seen by keeping the cover over them. He then closed the ramp. 

Din wasn’t really sure what to do now. Usually when he brought a body into the Crest they went straight into the carbonite to be transported to the person who had ordered the bounty. He couldn’t do that with this one. He noticed the track of blood now making its way through the groves of the hull floor and went to find the medical box. 

“Hey,” He nudged the top of the cloak, “You need to stop bleeding on my floor,” 

“You can’t see me,” The body under the material said again. Din sighed, this was going to be difficult. 

“If I leave stuff here, can you do it yourself? I will turn away,” 

“Yes,” Came the reply. Din didn’t entirely believe them, as they no doubt been slipping in and out of consciousness since they turned up on the floor next to the Crest, but he did as they requested. He left a bacta spray, bandages, tape and a blade to cut it, right next to the cloak, a small hand popped out to grab it just before Din turned and walked away to the other side of the hull. 

Din wondered who this person could be. As far as he was aware he didn’t know anyone on this moon, and more importantly he hadn’t made an enemy of anyone on this moon. He had only stopped by chance on his way to Navarro. There was no reason why someone would send him this person on purpose. Maybe he had just been lucky. He always did have a habit of getting into situations like this by chance alone. 

He busied himself with cleaning up some kit, having left it in a bit of a mess since the last hunt, all the while keeping an ear out for any trouble from the body. He only heard a whimper as the bacta spray canister sounded. That shit stung like hell but it was the best he had come across at healing nasty wounds fast. The amount of blood the stranger had lost, they would no doubt need it. When Din was finished and there was silence again, Din went back to the stranger under the cloak. 

He found them sitting up against the wall now, the empty bacta canister was tossed on the ground a little way in front of them along with the blade and what was left of the roll of tape. All the bandage was gone. They still had the cloak covering them completely, wrapped tight over their head and under their seat. There was just a tiny crack in the fabric letting the person inside see out. 

Din thought it strange but wondered if they were under some kind of creed similar to his. He would probably do the same if anyone took his armour and left him so vulnerable. 

“Thank you,” The person under the cloak said. Din nodded and took the trash from them, putting it back in the medical kit. Din could feel them watch his every move, which made him a little uncomfortable. He figured this was how most people felt when he watched them. “You’re a Mandalorian?” 

“Yes,” Din answered, “Are you?” 

“I follow your creed but my family left a long time ago. I am not a Mandalorian,”

“What’s your name?”  

“People call me Gold,” She replied cautiously. It was obviously not her real name but Din understood. ”What’s yours,” 

“People call me Mando,” Din replied on a similar line. Very few people knew Din’s name.

“Not very creative,” Gold commented, Din shrugged. He didn’t mind, it allowed him to keep separate from people he met, kept him more anonymous even with the armour. Suddenly she hissed and groaned, her cloaked figure doubling over. 

“Are you alright?” The figure slumped over to the side, suddenly going quiet and completely still. “Dank Ferrik,” He cursed. He immediately went to the girl and tried to work out what to do. 

He needed to see her face, needed to see something to work out what was wrong. His hand hovered over the cloak, unsure if he should pull it back. She said she followed his creed, he would never want someone to do this, but she would die if he couldn’t help her. It was agonising, trying to decide. He wanted to help, if she was Mandalorian wasn’t it kind of duty to look out for his own? But she followed his creed, there was no way he could look at her to help her. Maybe she didn’t follow it so strictly? He didn’t know the girl at all, barely spoken to her for five seconds, why should he even help her!

After a few more seconds of back and forth in his mind, he made his decision. Din peeled back the cloak from Gold’s face and was met immediately by a vulnerable stare, she was very much awake but couldn’t move. 

Wide eyes, tears streaming down her face which turned red as they mixed with the blood on her cheeks. A track of blue ran up her neck, vein like structures ran along her jaw and around her mouth. He had seen something similar before, a reaction to a poison one of his bounties had injected into themselves before when they knew they had been captured. It was slow releasing, and would kill the victim slowly and painfully. It was not a good poison for Din’s bounty to use but if Gold had escaped somewhere they could have used it to kill her even if she got away. Lucky for the girl, Din had an antidote. 

He got up quickly and grabbed the same Medic bag from earlier, rooting through it quickly to find the small vial of antidote. Eventually he found it, scrambled back over to Gold’s helpless body and inserted the needle into an available vein on her neck. Din settled back once he emptied the vile and waited. 

The girl’s eyes blinked rapidly, then shut. The blue track rapidly decreased and Din sighed in relief. She opened her eyes and immediately startled, realising her head was no longer covered she scrambled to pull the fabric over her face again. He was overwhelmed with guilt almost immediately. 

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry I had to take it off,” Din apologized profusely, “You were poisoned,” 

“You should have let me die,” The girl hissed, understandably very angry. “Get away from me,” She suddenly exclaimed. Din did as he was told and immediately stepped back to the opposite width of the ship. “Leave me alone!”

Din stayed silent. He knew nothing he could say could make it any better. He had done the unthinkable, forcing her to break her creed. But he had saved her! Now swimming in a bath of shame and conflict, Din retreated to the cockpit leaving Gold to cry alone. 

Once in the cockpit he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was upset for her, shocked at her anger and angry at himself. If Din was in her position he would never want that! He just wanted to help her. 

He sat in his pilot’s seat and dropped his helmet into his hands. He could hear the girl crying in the hull even through the door and the floor between them. What was he even thinking? 

Din sighed. What could he do to apologise? Yes he had saved her life, but he had then forcibly broken her creed. If she was anything like him, that was one of the only things he kept dear. It was clear she had gone through something awful to end up so beaten and bloody like that, she had just got back her only protection from the world and he had taken from her again. He was an idiot! 

Din wasn’t sure how much time had passed by the time the girl stopped crying. In that time Din had drowned himself in self-pity but eventually brought himself out in the realisation that he could make it up to her by helping her. She was Mandalorian, or very nearly at least. He had a duty to help his own people. 

He remembered when he picked her up, she was completely bare bar the clock over her body. The least he could do was give her some clothes to wear. So, he went back into the hull and searched for his spare clothes. It was completely quiet in the hull, the only way he knew she was still there was the heat signature visible through the all of boxes separating them. Din found out an old tunic and some pants, they were a bit tattered but they were clean at least. He folded them up and slowly stepped around the boxes to see Gold again. 

As he came into her view she instantly tensed up, moving as far back away from him as possible, she was still laid down where Din had left her, curled up in the smallest ball possible with one tiny crack in the fabric to see out of. Guilt panged in his chest once again, he really didn’t mean to upset her like that. Carefully he put the items of clothing on the floor. 

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything more,” He said as he retreated once again giving her space.

The girl didn’t move, the shadow of her eye keeping straight ahead ignoring him entirely. Din didn’t mind, he deserved a whole lot more than silent treatment. And this  was the least he could do, he could survive fine in the same gear he’d been wearing all week. He stepped back behind the separating boxes and sat down. He heard some movement behind the line of cargo, he sighed in relief.

Din kept quiet for a while, working on polishing his arm plates. He hadn’t noticed the blood on them until he sat down here. .

“Why are you helping me? You could have left me to die out there,” Gold spoke up. Din didn’t reply, he wasn’t really sure what to say, he didn’t know the answer himself. “I’ve heard about you,” She said after another beat, “You’re a guild bounty hunter,” 

“I am,” Din replied. 

“You hunted my brother I think,” She continued. Din stopped what he was doing and listened. She wasn’t angry or upset, just stating fact, “He deserved it though I imagine,” 

Din laughed under his breath at her matter of fact nature. Usually people when people found out their family member had been hunted by him they were angry, upset or wanted revenge. Din could not recall ever picking up another Mandalorian, or similar, but he rarely remembered individuals anymore. He was glad she wasn’t angry at him about this too.

“Do you have a blade?” She asked. 

“What do you want it for?” Din asked cautiously, he was not going to give her a weapon if he could help it. 

“Just want to cut this open,” She said. Confused, Din stood up and walked around the barrier to see what exactly she was doing. Gold was now wearing his clothes, having had to roll up the sleeves and the leg of the pants a little to get it to the correct length. She then had a ripped piece of the old cloak over her head. “I can’t really see through this, and seeing as I probably won’t be getting my old stuff back I want to cut a hole in this,” She explained, “My eyes can be visible to others,” She added.

Din wasn’t sure he could trust her and hesitated. He knew what he would do with it, if he was in her position.

“Just something sharp, I will give it straight back. I won’t try and stab you, I promise,” Din passed her the small knife he kept on his belt, then turned his head down to look at the floor so not to see her face again.

“My family isn’t violent like the rest of the Mandalorian,” Gold explained as she ripped the fabric. “Not bounty hunters like you,” Din continued to stare at the floor but listened carefully. “My father fought in the war, then settled here with my mother and had me. My mother was the one who introduced our creed. Until a few weeks ago nobody had seen my face since I was four years old,” Din noted how her voice wobbled at the last sentence. He wanted to press her on it, find out what happened but decided against it. “Perfect, much better. You can turn back now,” 

Din turned back and saw what she had done. A small window was now ripped in the cloth over her head. Only her eyes and the bridge of her nose were visible. She had wiped the blood off her face and the terror had gone from her eyes that he saw earlier. 

“Not as good as the old one, but it will do for now,” She said, adjusting the position a little until it sat perfectly on her head. “I tried to mop up the blood on the floor but I don’t think all of it was mine,” 

“Probably not,” Din said. He couldn’t remember the last time he had properly cleaned the hull floor out. The blood could be anybody’s, it didn’t bother him too much. 

“I’ve got to say while I am not violent, I do wish I had one of those,” The girl pointed to Din’s helmet, “Could have saved me a whole ordeal with those bastard Dacrilites,” 

“Dacrilites?” 

“Crime syndicate from the main planet, moved out here and decided my family was a threat,” She settled back against the wall of the ship again and distracted herself with the scrap of fabric in her hand, “We didn’t have anything to stop them,”  She hung her head and was quiet for a moment, “Maybe they wouldn’t all be dead now,” 

“How come you survived?” Din asked, cringing at his wording. Not the most empathetic way to ask that. 

“I can read, one of the few people in the sector who can really. Not a lot of schools around here,” She shrugged, “I tried to bargain my skills for my families lives but it didn’t work, they just killed them all and made me watch,” Her eyes glazed over, no doubt her mind filled with the images of the day. Din sighed, the galaxy was brutal. “I tried to escape after a few weeks, and I guess that’s how I ended up here,”               

“You don’t remember any of it?” 

“No,” She shrugged, “I mean I can work out what happened from this,” She gestured to the bandages padding out her middle, “But I don’t remember anything until you appeared,” 

It had been an accident then. Pure luck that Din should meet this nearly Mandalorian girl. She had been dumped, in the hopes that anyone who found her dead body would assume it was one of the many ships that stopped there. It was a clever tactic, Din thought. 

“What are you going to do now? I can take you to my next stop if you would like I-,” 

“No, no I need to stay here,” She protested, “Might take a leaf out of my Mandalorian ancestry’s handbook and fight back, start a coup or something,” She laughed. “But, no, I need to stay. I have to bury my family, give them the send off they deserve,” 

Din nodded solemnly. He was a little jealous she had the option to do that. He thought back to his parents, the day he was saved by the Mandalorian. His parents never got the burial they deserved, he would give anything to be able to do that. 

“How about some food first, before you go,” Din proposed, Gold smiled, her eyes crinkling up, and nodded. 

“What’ve you got?” 

Din found out two tins of food. It wasn’t the best, and he wasn’t sure how long it had been the back of his stash for but it was all he had. The least he could give the girl was some food before she headed back home, after everything that had happened. 

They ate together in comfortable silence, both more hungry than they had realised, wolfing down the food. It tasted of nothing at all, kind of dusty, but it was filling and that was all that mattered. When they had finished, Din took the trash and cleared it. By the time he came back Gold was standing up ready to leave. 

“Thanks for the food,” She said, “And uh, you know saving my life. I owe you,” 

Din shook his head, she didn’t owe him anything at all. Gold smiled and stepped off the ramp, waving goodbye. Din waved and shut the ramp behind her. 

That was not much of a rest stop, Din thought to himself as he climbed back up into the cockpit. He had told Greef he would be back in Navarro by now, he needed to do something at the Covert and more importantly needed a new bounty. He was low on supplies and had just given his last clean clothes and food to Gold. He didn’t regret it, it had gone some way in repairing his own guilt on making her break her Creed when she’d only just got it back, but he couldn’t go much further without the promise of credits. 

Din began his usual routine, getting ready to take off when something caught his eye on the ground below. A blaster fired into the air, the shot barely missing the cockpit of the Razer Crest. Then Gold appeared, running as fast as she could between ships quickly followed by a short armoured creature. It appeared Din’s time here wasn’t over just yet. 

He quickly got up and exited the Crest, chasing after the girl and the hunter. He walked through the rows of ships, listening out for any clues to their location. Row after row went by until he found them. The hunter had Gold on her knees, she was trying to fight him off but was quickly overpowered by the hunter until he noticed Din stood in front of them. Din kept his blaster raised at the hunter but they were quick to move Gold in front of his body to protect himself. 

“Mando! As I live and breathe!” The hunter exclaimed with a wicked smile, !What a pleasure, I’m so sorry if we disturbed you. Just a local disagreement,” The hunter pulled her neck tighter, making her choke. “Nothing to worry about,” 

“Let her go,” Din ordered.

“Let her go? Why ever would I do that?” The hunter smiled, “Move along Mando. This isn’t Guild business, move along,” 

Din knew the hunter was right, he shouldn’t get involved. He should never have got involved. But he was involved now, and he was not going to let her story end here to some hunter’s knife. She deserved to be able to bury her family and to have a life. 

“Do you know who she is Mando? Miss Y/n here is one of you! A Mandalorian, but unlike you she ain’t got no morals. We brought ‘em to justice, and she escaped! You understand I’ve got to bring her back to my boss,” The hunter said. Y/n struggled against the creature’s grip. 

“Liar!” She cried, “You murdered my family!” The hunter was quick to bring a knife to her throat making her quiet down immediately. 

“Like I said Mando, move along I’ve got this covered,” 

Then Din had an idea. He still held the tracking fob from his finished hunt on his belt. He could make it look like Gold- Y/n- had actually just escaped from him. If Din could get the hunter to believe he had her first, which he technically did, and that her bounty was for someone else, someone more important than Dacrilites, then he could take her from him and kill the guy while he was at it to save any further trouble. So, Din pulled the tracker out, discreetly pressing the light on. It blinked rapidly, perfectly, as he presented it to the hunter. 

“Let her go, she’s mine. She escaped,” 

“You expect me to believe that Mando? Seriously-,” 

“Hutt ordered it,” Din said simply. The hunter visibly faltered. “He wants her alive, either you give me the girl or you have Hutt’s own team on your ass,” 

The hunter thought about it for a moment. Y/n locked eyes with Din, fear raging in her eyes as she thought she was betrayed. Tears streamed down her face, turning her eyes red. 

“Fine,” The hunter said, shoving Y/n towards Din making her land on her face in the dirt. She landed with a thud and didn’t move, “She’ll get what she deserves,” 

Before the hunter could make another step, Din shot him in the chest. Permanent shock was now written on his dead body as it hit the ground. Almost as soon as the body hit the ground, Y/n scrambled to her feet, retreating backwards away from Din holding the hunter’s knife in her shaking hands out in front of her. 

“D-don’t come any closer,” She cried, “I’m not going anywhere with you. What kind of sick game are you playing? You had your chance to kill me, you let me go!” 

“Hey, calm down it’s not true look,” Din stepped a little closer to her, showing her the fob in his hand. He pressed the button again turning it off. “Old fob, I just needed him to let you go,” 

She watched him carefully, eyes still full of fear, she was shaking but lowered the knife. “You’re not giving me to the Hutts?” She clarified.

“No,” Din replied, “You’re free to go,” 

“You didn’t believe what he said about me?” She asked. Din shrugged. 

“It doesn’t really matter,” He said, “Now, go and take that,” Din picked up the hunter’s blaster and handed it to the girl. She took it carefully into her hand and examined it. “You know how to use it?” The girl nodded, swallowed down all her fear before she spoke again.

“Thank you,” She said, “Again,” She laughed a little, and tucked the gun until the waist of her pants. “Come by again and I’ll give these back, yes?” 

Din smiled and nodded. “Deal,” 

Y/n walked away, leaving Din to decide what to do with the body of the hunter. She got a few paces away before stopping and turning back. 

“And- uh before I go,” She called back, Din turned to face her, “don’t beat yourself up about the whole creed thing,” She motioned to the cloth over her face, “You saved my life, I can’t be angry at that. I forgive you,” 

Din nodded, relieved to have her word. Guilt still simmered in him but it was eased by the fact she wasn’t mad anymore. She waved once more and disappeared into the rows of ships, back home. Din decided to leave the hunter, someone would come looking for them no doubt and it would save a whole lot of bother down the line. 

As he set off for Navarro he caught his mind wondering back to his own family. His mother and father. He wondered what happened to them, was any one left to bury them or did they just waste away under the sun. Would he end up the same way? If he died on a job, who would come find him?

He shivered at the thought. Death surrounded him constantly, he was grim reaper for many people throughout the galaxy. But, he had never really thought about what would happen when he met his end. He knew it would probably be violent, most likely on a job, his whole life was driven by violence why would his ending be any different. 

He hoped someone cared enough to bury him. A son or daughter, a wife, someone who fought just as hard to make sure he didn’t waste away under the sun of a mystery planet and die in obscurity just as he had been born. 

Navarro appeared just ahead as the Crest dropped out of hyperspace. All thoughts of death and the end dropping out of his head as it did. He had work to do until that day came.

--

the way this was meant to be a short one-shot lol I have absolutely no self control. also idk what got into me in that ending! 

tagging the usual din-brigade: @beskar-tano @buckysbeloved​ @this-cat-is-dea​ @brujaporfavor​ @stardust-kenobi​ @dindjarinsleftvambrace-old​ @graveyardnails​

[cl-01-kestis]

My Little Rebel - Inquisitor!Cal Kesits x Female Rebel!Reader | Part 1

Summary: You’re a Rebel who stays the night in Kashyyyk after a long day of fighting and unfortunately fall victim to the new Inquisitor after not minding your own business.

This is my first fic on here, I hope you like it :)

Warnings: None

(Gif is not mine)

The night was creeping in on the planet of Kashyyyk, the shadows were pouring in from every corner and only candle lit lamps kept the small towns and Wookie-owned homes alive. The nightlife was alive, as well as dangerous human eating plants and animals that wouldn’t hesitate to tear you into bits. You had to be careful when it was night on Kashyyyk, not even the Wookiee’s went out into the forests this late.

Within one of the many towns and small villages of Kashyyyk, you were staying for the night in a local tavern with many of your Rebel friends. It was the night of the domination over the Empire’s base on Kashyyyk nearby where you were staying, the Rebel’s rescue attempt was successful as many Wookiee’s were freed from the Empires grasp and used to attack and overthrow the base. This was the reason you were in a tavern; inside a pub and getting drunk as you could get to celebrate. It wasn’t your ideal way to celebrate something so dangerous and where many people lost their lives, but you drank to them and drank to the Rebellion. You didn’t get as drunk as your Rebel friends next to you, gulping down whatever they were given and their faces turning rosy and flushed as the alcohol began to take effect.

It took a while to get to your camp for the night, you preferably didn’t want to barge into a Wookiee’s home and sleep in the same room as they did, you felt that it was a bit rude and unnecessary; so you simply set up a camp and got yourself comfortable. Not only that, you had your own space as well and you could change out of your rebel clothes - which you had on all day - and give yourself a wash before slipping into your pyjamas and getting a well deserved rest. You waved goodnight to your Rebel battalion, kissing your friends on the cheeks and hugging them tightly before bidding them farewell and slipping into the shadows of the little village, passing the rest of the houses which were filled to the brim with Rebel guests and Wookiee’s who laughed and shared drinks and jokes. You smiled watching the different scenes of friendship unfold and stuffed your hands in your combat pockets, your boots scuffing the concrete slab pathway which led to the outskirts of the city; where many other Rebel tents were set up and had small little lamps lit up inside of them, shadows of silhouettes showing up against the lit up tents of Rebel’s either sleeping or sitting up with other people and chatting.

You approached your tent, fatigued by the fighting from earlier today and wanting nothing more than to lie in your tent and drift off into a wonderful sleep. The night life was very present, strange noises and chirps of either birds or small critters surrounding the tents but also keeping a distance. As you approached your tent - which was kindly set up by one of your friends - you heard a noice just as you were about to unzip the entrance. Vexed, you froze and stood up straight, looking out to the forest ahead of you which was situated right next to the camp of Rebels. No one else seemed to be awake or out of their tents, you felt endangered and almost felt like a deer in headlights as another sound made its way to your hearing. The sound of twigs snapping and footsteps caught your attention, looking up to a fallen over tree which was absolutely massive and taking a few curious steps towards it. Your breathing was rapid, eyes fixated on what was ahead of you as you crouched slightly, body preparing for something to leap out and grab you as you approached the tree and looked behind you, making sure no one was around to tell you off as you slid underneath the gap between the thick tree and the ground, entering the forest in a hurry to reveal the beautiful nature and plantation of the planet.

The air was thick around you, the humidity compared to the other side of the thick trees was almost overbearing and made you want to turn on your heel and get the hell out of there. But something in the distance, a cloaked figure, completely caught you off guard and made you duck the moment your eyes landed on it. Your whole body was tense, you crawled to the nearest place where you couldn’t be seen but you weren’t very good at keeping quiet, it wasn’t exactly one of your specialties. The dark figure in the distance turned its head, revealing a visor in the shape of a line, it was illuminated red and stuck out like a sore thumb against the forest which was full of darkened browns and greens. Your breath hitched in your throat, turning your head around to look away from the masked figure and focus on hiding yourself more. You shimmied to the side, your back hitting the back of a large tree and next to a few bushes where a few creepy crawlies lurked.

Your whole body was tense as you heard approaching footsteps, walking over more rubble which caused more snaps and made your heart beat just that little bit faster. You tried to calm your breathing as the figure got closer and closer, visor shining and covering any sign of humanity or whatever the figure was. Now, standing above you on another fallen tree, was an Inquisitor. The Sith’s little pawns who’s job was to pick off remaining Jedi, or take down rebel groups.

Your heart dropped the moment you saw the Imperial mark on the Inquisitors shoulder, eyes wide and mouth open in shock as you didn’t dare move in case you were killed on the spot.

“Well well well” The Inquisitor smirked, a deep, growl tearing its way through the speaker of the black helmet, revealing a male voice full of amusement and curiosity. All you could do was look at him. “What’s a little rebel like you doing away from the rest of her people? It’s dangerous out here, you know” The Inquisitors voice was sadistic, you could tell he was smiling underneath his helmet and you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. You didn’t reply, you were too afraid to even do anything and felt completely helpless sitting underneath the Inquisitor.

The Inquisitor chuckled, jumping off the fallen tree and right next to you, startling you and causing a gasp to leave your parted lips. The Inquisitor found this clearly funny, once again laughing before crouching down right next to you, helmet inches away from your face.

“Don’t talk much? I didn’t think I was that scary” He joked dryly, but you didn’t even break a smile, not even the corners of your lips curved up. You just sat, shivering in fear.

“Alright then, say, you’re pretty cute, I wouldn’t want to waste such a pretty face by killing you” The Inquisitor said in a taunting voice, looking down at his lightsaber which was strapped to his belt as if to scare you even more for his entertainment. Your eyes widened and this caused you to shuffle back, the exact reaction he wanted from you.

“Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you, there’s nothing to be afraid of” The Inquisitor said, his voice now reassuring and almost verging on comforting as he reached a hand out. You leaned as far back as you possibly could without pulling a back muscle, your lip quivering as your eyes watched his hand closely.

“How can I not be afraid?” You finally said, voice feeble and hints of panic and distress. The Inquisitor sighed, pulling his gloved hand back and waiting a few moments before raising both of his hands up and placing them on his helmet. This bewildered you, you watched in somewhat amazement as the the Inquisitors helmet sprayed out cooped up pressure from the oxygen levels and the Inquisitor finally took it off his head, revealing one of the most, if not the most attractive man you’d ever seen.

The Inquisitor had firey red hair that reached past his ears that was messily parted. His eyes were yellow and glistened with mischief as he gave you a smirk and saw the blush on your face. His jaw was sharp, angled so perfectly it could probably cut glass. On the corner of his right jaw was a large scar, racing up to his mid cheek. Another scar was across his nose, again a pretty large one but for some reason it was oddly attractive.

“See? I’m just like you” Was what he said as you looked at him in awe, face hot as you looked away as felt a whiz of emotions tug at your insides. You weren’t sure what to do in this situation, an Inquisitor, practically the most dangerous person besides a Sith Lord, was standing in front of you and trying to comfort you, it didn’t make sense. On top of that you were also on opposite sides - he should’ve killed you by now.

“What’s your name?” He asked suddenly, breaking the cavalry of thoughts swirling inside your head and making you bite the inside of your cheek, taking a few seconds to think wether or not it’s worth telling him who you were. After looking at him and seeing that he wasn’t trying to trick you, you sighed.

“(Y/N)” You said blandly, voice still barely audible and laced with anxiety and stress, the Inquisitor smiled and nodded his head.

“What a nice name, I’m Cal” The Inquisitor stretched his hand out to you, you were hesitant to even think about touching him, nevermind talking to him. You slowly leaned forward and took his hand carefully, looking back to his face and seisng that he was watching you closely the entire time. You were stunned by his kindness, your mind buzzing with so many thoughts and questions, it almost gave you a thumping headache.

Cal smiled as you took his hand, his gold eyes shifting through every detail of your face and memorising them all within a matter of seconds. He kept a soft grip on your hand, hesitant to let go as you slowly got more comfortable around him and you didn’t feel as terrified as you did when you first saw him.

“Why haven’t you killed me, Cal?” You inquired, your voice growing more condfidence as your breathing got less heavy and slowed down a fair bit. Cal let out a soft and sweet chuckle, somehow it warmed your heart and made you blush as you watched the dangerous Inquisitor chuckle.

“I don’t have a reason to, like I said earlier, you’re cute as well, I think you’re too pretty to face such a fate” Cal answered. You didn’t know whether to feel offended or flattered, but you felt the smallest creep of a smile approaching and you tried your best to repress it in case Cal saw, but it was clear he could sense you were about to - I mean, he’s a force wielder after all, he senses things before they happen.

“T-thank you” You said, flustered as you looked away from the Inquisitor and letting go of his hand after realising you held it for so long. The feeling of his leather gloves were still on your fingertips, you wanted to feel it again but you didn’t let your hormones get in the way of your emotions.

“I hate to cut things short, but I need to get going now and you should too, before the Rebels know you’ve been gone for too long” Cal smirked, standing up and offering you his hand. You reluctantly took it, hoisting yourself up from the ground and patting yourself down whilst Cal still held your hand in his. You tried ignoring the strange sensations that were tingling deep within your chest, you tried ignoring the butterflies in your stomach as you looked back up to see Cal who’s eyes were now narrowed and staring at you like a piece of meat. You gulped, looking away from him and avoiding his intense stare before a gloved hand grabbed your chin and forced you to look back up at him.

“We’ll meet again my little rebel, don’t miss me too much, okay?” Cal smirked teasingly, leaning forward and pressing a kiss on your cheek which made you internally screech, eyes wide and cheeks ablaze with heat as he leaned back and raised a hand to hold your face. Cal started walking backwards, the smirk still purely visible on his face as he strayed further and further away from you before placing his helmet back on his head and running into the distance, out of sight and leaving you feeling more confused than you had ever been in your entire life.

What just happened?

[ddaenggtan]

black irises in the sunshine | kth

anger is everything. other gods tease you for the short fuse, but it comes with the territory. people have called you stupid, have called you dumb, oafish, useless, incompetent, insolent, rude, arrogant. all of it. insults and mockery flung at you, but even your skin isn’t thick enough to deal with constant abuse. it’s the exact reason you keep going to the underground, knuckles bloody and bruised, fighting anyone that dared enter the cage. it’s the reason you go to the clubs, surround yourself with mortals and their writhing bodies. it’s there that you see him the first time, voice husky as it rolls through the room. it’s there you find someone who treats you differently than the rest. you just never expected him to be one of the muses. | monsters and gods pt 3 (masterlist)

pairing | taehyung x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, calliope!taehyung, ares!reader, theres a lot of violence and it does get descriptive so be aware of that, none of the main characters other than ares get hurt and its not uncalled for or anything in a narrative sense, so just be aware of that; there are mentions of other idols, but if you can guess them you get a cookie because they are Vague; suuuuper bisexual Ares, Ares Can Step On Me, like I am SO gay for her it isn’t funny; explicit smut ft: cunnilingus, taeHUNG bc hes got MASSIVE SCHLONG,  some body worship kind of and then just....regular worship? like? idk how to explain that? lots of praise and lots or orgasms

word count | 14k | cross posted to ao3

a/n | HOOOOOOO this has been sitting in my google docs for literal months waiting for an ending and i decided to try to get it out for tae's birthday bUT that didn't work because i have a Job and shit so YEET I GUESS HAPPY FUCKIN NEW YEAR??? LIKE??? YEEEEEEEEEEEEE this fic is very near to me because Ares is my sweet sad angry babie and i love her, and i love tae and i love suho and i love the muses and i just........lOVE this fic like i think this is currently my favorite of the mag series so!! i hope yall also enjoy it!!!! yall are welcome to send me messages about this even tho I'm terrible at replying to them in a timely manner!! thanks to everyone who helped me with this, and everyone who has expressed interest in it, and everyone who has ever read anything of mine, because you're genuinely the best people ever, and this is literally a gift to y'all because you deserve it. 

Fuck, that was too hard .

The guy across from you goes flying, hitting the chain link wall of the cage harder than you intended. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, and even holding back, you've got a better buzz than even the best nectar can give. Your blood sings as the guy gets back up, and you almost wish you could remember his name, because he's put up a hell of a fight. For a mortal, anyway. 

He charges at you again, and time slows as your vision tunnels. You can see the feint as he decides on it, how he hesitates in bringing his left up. You wait, watching him get closer and closer. You start to dart to your left, letting him think he's got you, before you side-step and dart to your right instead. His punch goes wide as you steady your balance and move. The top of your foot connects with his ribcage and the resulting crack of bone is lost amid the cheers and yells of the audience. 

Your opponent steps back and you're proud of the way he doesn't show the pain. He doesn't wince, doesn't move to touch the spot you hit, just tightens his stance and clenches his jaw. It's only you that notices the hitch in his breath, the way he flinches with every inhale. Your eyes narrow at that, zeroing in on the rib. You'd meant to just crack it, had been holding back most of your strength to keep from hurting him too seriously, but as he steps forward, you can see the way he grits his teeth against the pain. 

The fight leaves you immediately, like a bucket of cold water straight to the chest, and you drop your hands. 

"Yield." He just stares at you, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Yield to me, and then go to the doctor."

"I'm not gonna yield," He says. He spits a mouthful of blood out onto the floor. "I'm not weak."

"Seriously, dude," You insist. "You're not gonna win this, and I don't want to hurt you more." 

His scoff has you seeing red. "As if a princess like you could hurt me."

Your fist connects with his face before either of you registers that you've moved. There's a voice in the back of your head reminding you that he's just mortal, he can't take the same kind of beating you can, but it's lost in the haze of fury. The next thing you know, the ref is dragging you away and slamming you into the cage wall. Your opponent is being dragged out - you still don't know his name - and he looks beaten senseless. Victory rolls through you accompanied by a sick satisfaction at the way his blood looks decorating the canvas beneath your feet. 

It lasts for less than an hour. It's always like this; the thrill of the fight, the burn of success, it's gone faster than you can blink. It's what drives you to keep fighting, to keep going to match after match, just to seek out the under-the-table stuff afterwards. It's never enough, not anymore. Back in the old days, they'd let you fight anything. Bears, bulls, lions, giants, anything they could get a noose around long enough to point it at a colosseum. That was a long time ago, though, before all the rights movements happened. You won't lie: you miss fighting beasts like that. The sheer power and strength they have, the survival instinct that makes them such fierce competitors, it's so much better than the rules and regulations of the mortal world now. Fights have gotten dull, rehearsed, more like a performance or a show than an actual fight. People make more money losing than they do winning and it's made the world boring. 

You flex your hand as you open the door to your favorite bar. Something caught it at some point in the last fight, a cheekbone or a tooth, and it stings a little. Doesn't hurt, not exactly, not for a goddess, but it did enough that you feel it at all, which means it couldn't have been anything but torture for the guy on the other end. The bartender waves at you and gets your usual ready as you sit, and you idly wonder if Busted Rib Guy will be okay. It looked painful, for a human, and you'd tried to hold back, but…

Well, you weren't really responsible for what happened to condescending little fucks, were you?

You sip the bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down. The lights are dim, tonight. You're glad. You don't want to deal with people looking at you, men coming over to talk to you, trying to advise you on how to properly bandage your knuckles or how to avoid the bruise on your cheek next time. If you had wanted to avoid it, you would have. You'd intended it to hurt worse, honestly, but that first guy'd had a weaker right hook than you expected. 

You look around, wondering if anyone here would provide a decent distraction for the night. There's a pretty brunette in the corner with carefully crafted braids, and as your eyes travel, you imagine what's hiding beneath the silk and leather. You're pulled from the thought by the sound of music, and you curse under your breath. You forgot that it's an open mic night and you'd meant to go to the bar across town instead. Irritation colors your vision; every open mic night is awful, full of lofty poets talking about their trauma and wannabe Taylor Swifts thinking they're on the same level as Sappho. Ah, now that was a girl with a set of pipes. You miss her, wonder what she would say to the butchering of whatever song you're about to hear.

The voice that comes isn't what you expect. It's smooth and deep. The world turns to velvet around you as the voice wanders from one speaker to another, creating a mesmerizing multi-dimensional effect despite the way the singer doesn't ever leave the stage. You turn, knuckles white around your bourbon glass; he's utterly magnetic, every eye in the room trained on him as he purrs into the vintage mic. Long fingers are wrapped around the scuffed metal, decorated with jewels that glitter in the dim light of the bar. You can smell the lingering cigarette smoke from the guy beside you and the Jäger from the girl two stools down and for once, you don't even care. He's captivating, voice travelling between speakers in the bar and coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. 

Your eyes don't leave him, and you wonder if you can memorize the way the blond waves fall against his forehead if you stare long enough. 

The red seeps away from you, slinking back into the corners of your mind, settling once more into a low thrum under your skin. It fades into the background of this man's voice, the charisma that rolls off him in waves as he pulls the mic in close just to push it to the side with a teasing smirk. It settles something in your chest that hasn't been calm since the fight in Athens so long ago. 

The music fades out sooner than you'd like, and he gives a slight bow before wandering into the crowd. You do your best to follow him, but the gold of his hair disappears almost immediately, lost in the throng of people around the stage waiting to speak to him. You turn back around, downing the next bit of bourbon that Suho pours you. 

"I know," He says with a grin. You cock a brow at him, not having said anything he could agree with. "He's good. That's what you were thinking, right? He's why we're so packed on open mics. Got the audio and lighting guy whipped, so he's got all these special effects, too. Drives people crazy.”

"He's alright," You mutter. You toss a few bills down on the bartop and step back. Suho gives you a courteous nod as you leave. The bouncer gives you a dirty look when he spots the lit cigarette between your lips, but he knows better than to try to tell you otherwise. You've taught him better. 

You lean back against the brick wall of the alley and take a drag. The warm smoke fills your lungs and you close your eyes. It's a different kind of burn than you're used to, a distraction from the crawling sensation that drives you to fight. It's calmer, more controlled. Feels like the smoke from Hestia's fires. Feels like home. 

"Never expected to see you here," A voice calls out. It's deep and startling in the darkness, but you don't jump. You just open your eyes, exhale, and look to where it came from. 

The singer stands before you in the same undone white button up and black tee he performed in. He doesn't have a cig, doesn't seem to have much of any reason to be outside. He moves almost lazily, as if he doesn't even need to, just wants to, and when his gaze flicks up to meet yours, your vision fills just for a breath with every opponent you've ever faced lying at your feet. 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them. It's not his fault, the voice in your head says, he didn't mean it that way, but still, your blood is thrumming now that he's here and you want to know what he's talking about. Want to know why he thinks you wouldn't be here when there's attractive people and good bourbon and you've never seen this man before in your life. Want to know why he already seems to think you aren't civilized enough to be at a bar, why he spoke but all you heard was Zeus' voice in your memories.

"Exactly what I said. Should I be clearer?"

"Yeah, probably," you spit. Yet another person that assumes you're stupid, that you don't understand basic languages, as if you haven't been speaking them since the ancient times. As if you couldn't speak circles around him if you wanted. "Unless you want your teeth on the fucking ground."

"Good to know the stories are true." He tsks and you're filled with a strange sense of disappointment and fury, both at him and yourself. Your vision turns red at the edges and the cigarette between your fingers is crushed in your grip. He pays no mind to it, just saunters past with a lazy, swaying gait that draws your eyes to his hips and then down the long leather-clad legs. "See you around, Ares."

"That's not my fucking name," You yell after him. He doesn't respond when you shout your actual name, the one you chose, on your own, as a middle finger to the Olympians. "Get it right next time, dickwad."

He turns the corner of the alley and the streetlight catches his face just enough for you to see the smirk he wears. For once in your life, you're torn; you want to smash his face in, yes, because how dare this random guy speak to you like that when you could kill him with one finger to the right pressure point. You also find your skin's hotter than usual, stretched too thin over your bones, and you want him to run his hands over you until it feels right again.

Until it feels like it did when he was singing. 

How did he know my title?

The thought comes unbidden, days later, with the desperate hit of a palm against your shoulder. You've got the woman in a headlock, patiently waiting for her to pass out completely so the fight can be called, and your mind is wandering. 

How did the singer know who you are? You hadn't thought anything of it at the time, distracted by fury and frustration, but with time comes a special kind of clarity. You've never seen him before, not that you know anyway, yet he didn't hesitate to call you Ares. The only ones who know of your kind are your kind, but you haven't seen any of your siblings among mortals in a long time. You thought you knew the other gods and goddesses, but maybe not. It has been a while since you stepped foot in the golden city.

The woman in your grip goes slack and you release her. You're still lost in thought as the ref calls the match and leads you out of the makeshift ring. The cheers of the audience are background noise at this point, akin to static or the buzz of electricity, and you pay them no mind as you head to collect your winnings. You didn't even get any kind of buzz from success this time, too immersed in the way the singer walked and talked and looked. The image of his smirk is burned into your retinas. 

"Yeah, you didn't hear? He just got out of the hospital. They had to keep him overnight because they thought he might puncture a lung. I heard that if it had been a little worse, they would've had to wire his jaw shut." You stop, fingers brushing over the stack of bills you don't even remember being handed. You look up, making eye contact with the guy whispering nearby. Your suspicions are confirmed when his friend smacks his arm and juts his chin in your direction before they both disappear into the crowd. 

You shove your way outside, frustration creeping through you and coloring your vision. You manage to keep it contained long enough for you to make it to the alley behind the warehouse, but it explodes from you in a rush of thrown dumpsters and sheet metal. 

Fuck , you never meant to hurt him like that. You told him, you fucking told him to yield, it isn't your fault he didn't listen. It's not your fault that he went and insulted you, acted like he was better than you just by virtue of being a dude, as if you weren't worshipped in the old days for the power you had and the blessings you could give. You'd held back, through all of it, you'd told him to yield, and he insulted you. It wasn't your fault. 

You slide to the ground, running a shaking hand through your hair. It isn't your fault , you repeat. You close your eyes and take deep breaths, the way Hestia taught you, willing the fury to dissipate. It's like a fire in your veins, burning and bubbling your skin until you can't resist anymore. You take another breath. It isn't your fault. You tried. You offered an out. It isn't your fault. Fuck, what was his name? 

With a growl that quickly morphs into a scream, you kick the dumpster once more before stalking off into the darkness. You need a fucking drink and you're gonna find a distraction in someone else if it's the last thing you do. 

The club is packed when you get there; you're not usually a fan of clubs like this, too full of people who are too friendly, but they're perfect for nights like tonight. You don't even need to wait in line, just slip the bouncer a 50 as you pass, and the bartenders are quick to spot you. You're pretty notorious in the city for over-paying, which means you're knocking back bourbon before you have a chance to ask for it. There are people everywhere, pressed up against both sides of you while the bass thrums in your throat, and it takes you longer than you're proud of to realize why. 

There's a band playing, apparently. They're not bad; the vocalist isn't anything like the singer from Suho's, but it doesn't make you want to tear your ears off, so you consider it a success. 

You're dancing before you remember deciding to. Everything's a blur when you get the itch in your bones, the need to make someone bleed. To feel something that isn't rage or condescension. People are even closer here on the dance floor, suffocating in their proximity, but there's a woman grinding her ass into you, and it sparks the dying fire in your gut. The beat of the music drowns your own heart, and it's all flashing lights and heat and a body pressed against yours that is all too willing.

She follows when you go back to the bar for another drink, and giggles when you lick salt from her wrist before downing tequila. Her hands are wrapped in the leather of your jacket as she kisses you, your own resting lightly on her hips. She laughs against your lips and says something you don't hear before ordering another drink. Something makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You take the brief reprieve to look around the club, searching for whatever it is that has you on alert. You find him on the upper level of the club, leaned over the balcony with a drink in hand. You can't make out his expression, exactly; it's too far away and too guarded. But you'd know him anywhere now. The singer knocks back whatever's in his glass, eyes never leaving yours. You don't know why he's here, if he comes here often or if the Fates are having a laugh at your expense, but you do know you want to make the most of it.

The girl is back, pressing a heated kiss to your lips and drawing your attention from him. You return it, nipping at her lips and getting a small gasp in return. You smirk and bite your way down her neck. She's breathy in your ear, hitched moans lost in the beat of the music, but you barely hear her as you suck bruises into the skin of her neck. He's still watching you. His drink is gone and he's gripping the bannister of the balcony, rings glinting in the light. You wonder if the cool metal could soothe the burn in your bones. You want to know if he can bring that calmness from before back, if he can soothe the frenzy in your mind with his hands the way he can with his voice. Just imagining it has you soaking through to your jeans.

The girl makes a particularly loud noise in your ear and you're brought out of your thoughts. As if he can sense it, the singer straightens. He gives you one last look before disappearing back into the crowd, and you wonder if you're imagining the disdain in it. You draw back from the girl's neck, about to tell her to find her friends when she slides her hands in your hair and tugs.

The burn in your blood is back, now, and you hope this girl is prepared for what awaits her.

"You're here early," Suho says when he spots you in the nearly empty bar the next night. He's not wrong, either; you skipped the fights tonight completely. There was no buzz last time, no relief, and you have no reason to believe there would be tonight. Not with the way the singer captivates your thoughts. 

Besides, you have enough money leftover from the previous few to last a couple days.

"What, did you decide not to kick someone's ass before getting wasted?" Suho doesn't wither at the look you give him, just pours you a couple fingers of bourbon and slides the glass over. "Or did they just stop letting you in completely?"

"I might change my mind if you don't shut up," You tell him. There's no real heat behind it. You've known Suho for years now, been coming to his bar for so long it almost feels like home. You're almost friends at this point. 

It helps that he knows when to bite his tongue so he doesn't get his teeth knocked out.

"Seriously though, I don't think I've ever seen you here this early. Especially not on mic nights." You're very careful in your lack of a reaction to his words. You'd seen the workers setting up for it when you came in, and even if you hadn't, you know when mic night is. You've spent enough time avoiding it.

"Does he sing every time?" You ask in lieu of an explanation. You don't look away from the amber liquid in your glass, letting the silence hang as the bartender does his best to follow your thought process. 

"Taehyung? Most weeks, yeah. It's been a nice change from the usual drunken karaoke. He goes around to some of the other places in town, too. Apparently he just likes to sing." 

"Taehyung," You repeat. The name rolls from your tongue a bit awkwardly. It's more than you expected, somehow, but you can't place exactly how . Just...more. "Is he always that good?"

"Oh, yeah. We have regulars now for mic night because of him. He's got a whole fan club and everything."

"Hm." You drain the rest of your bourbon and Suho refills it. He leaves you in peace then, serving some others that appear at the bar. 

The place fills faster than you can blink. That's what it feels like, anyway. It's like one moment there's you and a handful of other people scattered around, and now you're being jostled between some dude a million feet tall that definitely doesn't look old enough to be here and a girl with her tits up to her throat and surrounded by a cloud of perfume so thick that it starts a migraine behind your eyes almost instantly. She flirts with Suho a little, likely trying to score free drinks, and you roll your eyes. She pouts at him when he gives her the total, batting eyelashes that go on for miles, and for once, you wish Suho would just give in and comp the drinks. 

"I'll pay for them," You say. She was definitely saying something, maybe you should have been paying attention to it, but fuck , this migraine is only getting worse the longer she stands there. "I'll pay for your drinks."

"Oh, thanks," She says. Her smile is hesitant, and quickly turns apologetic as she takes in the boots and the ripped jeans and the leather jacket. "Um, I'm not...I don't, uh…"

"Do I look like I want to fuck you, sweetie?" She looks a little affronted and a laugh escapes you. You lean closer, letting your breath ghost over her cheek as you speak in her ear to be heard better. "If I wanted to fuck you senseless, you'd know it. And I can guarantee you it would be a hell of a lot better than the watered down rat piss this guy's giving you." 

When you lean back, her face is flushed and she's stammering. You smirk and hand her the drinks she'd ordered. 

"Too bad you’re not, you don’t, huh?" You tell her. The patronizing tone isn't lost on her, nor is your mockery of her earlier words, and she shuts her mouth with an audible click before strutting off. Suho glares at you as he pours more bourbon.

"Can you please try not to run off my patrons?" He mutters. "Some of us actually need money to live."

"Some of us would like decently timed refills and to not choke on perfume," You quip. "And better bourbon, for that matter." He hisses something about what he's giving you being top quality but you tune him out, throwing one leg over the stool Perfume Girl vacated. You'd like to keep just a little bit of personal space. 

Across the bar, you catch a brief glimpse of the girl from the night before and you wince. Her neck is thoroughly bruised, and you catch a peek of bruises and scratches on her back as she shrugs her jacket on. You didn’t mean to be so rough with her, even if she had been into it; you’re usually pretty good about remembering that the mortals are just that - mortal - and as such have to be handled delicately. They’re so fragile, it feels like they could break with a strong wind. Guilt settles in your gut and turns the bourbon in your glass to cough syrup. You’ve half a mind to just leave before she sees you, are about to turn and do exactly that, but the speakers screech to life and the deafening feedback from the mic keeps you glued to your seat. 

The crowd quiets even as the excitement ramps up, all talk silencing but for the occasional hushed whispers here and there. The first few notes of the song echo through the speakers, and a spotlight appears on him. 

He looks different this time, his hair dyed a vibrant blue that matches the glinting jewels in his ears and on his hands. He's an absolute vision and you wonder how Aphrodite has allowed him to live so long when he's so beautiful. His voice hangs in the air and calms you, the same settling in your chest as last time, the same freedom from the burn in your veins. It's addictive. 

The song doesn't last nearly as long as you want it to but the stillness inside you lingers long after he's done caressing the microphone. You place a few bills down for Suho and light up a cigarette as you head outside, ignoring the dirty looks from other patrons as you do. You're on a mission, the thrum of bloodlust returning with every second that passes, and you can't even be sure if he's still around or if he's wandered off already. 

You stand in the alley for what feels like hours, turning at every sound and smoking cig after cig just so you have something to do. You've almost decided to say fuck it when footsteps sound from the back of the bar, coming closer to you. 

His blue hair is visible even from the other end of the small alley, a giveaway similar to the light at the end of your cigarette and the smoke you blow into the air. There's no way he hasn't seen you, you think, you're making no effort to hide or be sneaky, and yet he's continuing forward as if he doesn't see you at all, eyes focused on a phone in his hand. You wait until he's just a few steps away before speaking.

"How do you know my title?" You ask him. He stops as if he'd always meant to and doesn't even bother to glance up at you or respond. The edges of your vision turn scarlet at the blatant disregard and you're speaking before you can even process the words. "I asked you a fucking question, pretty boy, you're gonna answer me. Unless you want that precious mouth bloodied up."

"And you wonder how I know who you are," He drawls, still not bothering to spare a glance at you. A scowl grows over your face at his sarcastic tone. "If you're going to hit me just get it over with. Otherwise, I have places to be."

He stands, waiting and expectant, but you don't move. He's humming, quiet and to himself like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and the red seeps away from your mind until you're left clear-headed once more. You sigh, long and heavy, and crush your cigarette into your denim-covered thigh to put it out. It tickles. 

"I'm not going to hit you," You tell him eventually. "I just wanna know how you know me. And how you do it."

He cocks a brow at that, finally looking up from the phone in his hand to level dark eyes on yours. "Do what? Sing?"

"No." You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. The words are harder to find than you thought they'd be, lost in the depths of his gaze, in the clarity you're so unaccustomed to, in the way you feel like you can breathe for the first time in days. "I don't care how you sing, that's not important, it's the...fuck, you know what, never mind, it doesn't fucking matter." You push off the wall and step past him to head towards where the streetlight gleams off the bar windows. 

"Tell me." The command has you stopping in your tracks, and you're again flooded with just wanting to know how. How he clears the haze, how he stops you, how he makes you feel real. You turn, hands stuffed into the back pockets of your jeans. "How I do what?"

It takes you several long breaths before you can answer, and you aren't even sure he can hear you over the sounds of people leaving the bar, and you find yourself disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response. Your own words are reverberating in your skull, getting louder with each step you take, and you wish you could just turn it off . 

"How you make me feel like a person again."

You avoid the bar for a few weeks, going hours away from your usual area to an unfamiliar hole in the wall just to make sure you don’t see him. You’re more deadly than usual in your fights, victories coming quicker, injuries piling up along with the guilt, but you can’t bring yourself to return. It’s unnerving, the way everything goes quiet around him, the way you can think, but the worst is the way you can feel. Everything’s calm and steady and blue, and it only makes it easier for the regret and the guilt and the anxiety to curl around your throat and squeeze until you can’t breathe, to clog in your throat while the laughter of your siblings echoes in your ears, and you...can’t. You can’t do that, you can’t let it win, you can’t let them win, they can’t know that you’re everything they think you are and worse. 

You can’t let yourself drown in that, and yet you find yourself back at Suho’s, lost among the crowd while Taehyung’s voice surrounds you. The ache in your bones fades away, chased by the thrum of the fight that still lingers despite the hours that have passed since you felt your opponent’s femur break under your palm and their screams echoed in your ears. Everything is calm again, and the guilt nearly drowns you.

He hasn’t even finished singing before you’re outside, chest heaving as you gasp against the weight on your chest. You broke someone’s femur , and did you even really need to? The fight itself is a blur even now, snapshots playing through your mind like a montage. The way they’d darted at you first, how their foot felt connecting with the backs of your knees, the determination in their eyes when you went down, the jolt of shock as your hands wrapped around their leg, the dull throb of a barrage of hits against your waist as you pulled them down as well and bloodied their face, the blood-curdling scream as you snapped the bone like a pretzel stick.

Your breath comes faster in your lungs, forced out by the growing guilt that lodges there in its place. Images swirl in your mind, chased by a never-ending stream of thought and regret that you should be used to by now. Fuck, you didn’t need to, and you still did it; you lost control, you fucking hurt them, and for what? A couple hundred? Was it even worth it? Who knew when they’d be back into shape to fight, what if they needed the money? They weren’t even half-bad. They got you down, at least, shouldn’t you have gone easy on them? You don’t even remember their face, can’t remember what the announcer said their name was, words drowned out by the buzz under your skin.

Metal crumples under your grip and you spare a half-second to mourn Suho’s dumpster before you slam your knuckles against it. It tingles, not even real pain, and you don’t hesitate to repeat it. By the time the metal is disfigured completely, a distorted mess of paint and steel and garbage, you still aren’t in pain, but there’s a sheen of gold across your knuckles and you feel less like you’re drowning and more like you’re suffocating. The usual. You can handle that. You think. 

You don’t even realize that you’ve slid down to the ground beside the dumpster until the back door of the bar opens and footsteps echo through the alley. You wish you knew how long you’ve been here, how long you’ve sat among empty bottles and stale beer and broken glass, but you can’t be sure. The brief reprieve brought by Taehyung’s voice is long gone, chased away by the guilt and rage that still sits heavy in your chest. You hope you’re not noticeable here, that whoever’s left will just pass by and leave you to piece yourself back together on your own. 

Voices tell you that it isn’t likely, the deep baritone of one too familiar to ignore. The other is new, but you’re familiar with the tone, the inflection, the intent behind it. You've heard it before, in crowded clubs as a guy pushes too close to some girl who can barely stand, in a coffeeshop when a random customer can't take a fucking hint, at the local campus when some professor insists that there could be maybe one thing her student could do to pass. It makes everything in you curdle, the bourbon from earlier threatening to work its way back up; it screams predator , and you absolutely refuse to let anyone fucking talk to someone like that, like they have some right to whatever it is they want. 

You refuse to let someone talk to him that way. 

"Seriously, Kratos, didn't I tell you to leave me alone? Did Aphrodite not teach you your lesson last time you harassed someone?" Taehyung's voice brings a calm that's an unsettling match to the anger washing over you. You're used to the red at the corners of your vision, the tint to everything you see, but you aren ' t used to the way it all turns purple and focused and clear . 

There's no haze this time, there's no abrupt shift of you moving before you know you've done it. You can feel the glass crunching under your boots with every step you take, can feel the way the air has a chill that creeps down into your lungs with every breath, can almost taste the apprehension that's rolling off of Taehyung despite his relaxed stance. The only thing that gives him away is the tense set of his jaw and the mix of relief and fear when his eyes land on you. 

"I'm pretty sure he said no, Kratos." The god turns at your voice and you watch the realization wash over him as he realizes what - who - you are. 

"Been a while since anyone's seen you, Ares." He scoffs a little, not moving from where he has Taehyung caged against the wall of the bar, one hand pressed firmly into the brick. He's entirely too close, and you have no doubt that the stench of him permeates the very oxygen around them. 

"Been busy. Doesn't change the fact that the man said no. Take the loss, walk away." Kratos' eyes narrow at your words and he steps away, but only to move closer to you. 

"Why do you care so much? You've never been one to care about any of us before." Kratos inches closer and the hyper-focus that Taehyung's voice causes starts to melt away with every twitch of your fingers. You've never liked Kratos, all brute strength with no respect for the challenge, no appreciation of the fight, too focused on sheer power and exhilaration. He is the worst of the worst of the worst of your kind, of all the war-focused gods. Every bit of yourself you hate is every piece that Kratos loves about himself. 

"I care that you don't seem to be able to understand when someone doesn't want to be around you, you absolute piece of filth. Taehyung had a point though, I really thought the whole thing with Aphrodite would've taught you how to back off. Or should I pull the video out, I think I still have it saved for when I need a good laugh." Malice and fury twitch across the other god's face and you absolute revel in it. You can feel his anger prickling across you, like needles in your very pores, and you ache for it. It's been so long since you last had a good fight, a real challenge where you didn't need to hold back at all. 

Too long since you fought a god like yourself.

"You're testing my patience, cousin," Kratos spits. It's a little generous to call the two of you cousins - you're several times removed, at best, and potentially closer than that with your family's warped history - but you let him have it. It might make him feel better. "I'm having a conversation, that's all. And if said conversation means that we end up back at my place, then, well, can anyone really blame me for what might happen to this pretty little m-"

Your fist connects with his jaw immediately and the red floods you for the few seconds it takes to register Taehyung calling your name. The calm struggles for a second, warring with the rage, but it wins out eventually. The singer's talking, but you can't make out any actual words. You're too focused on Kratos, the way he's righting and readying himself for a brawl. There's a fire in his eyes that matches the one in yours and everything in you feels alive for the first time in too long. 

This fight is different than your usual ones. There's no blur, no warped sense of time that usually comes with the adrenaline. You're focused and controlled in a way you haven't had to be for centuries, careful and precise and deliberate with every swing and every kick. The red seeps back in slowly and every time you think you're about to lose it, you hear Taehyung, still pressed against the wall of the bar. 

Kratos lunges at you for what has to be the tenth time, clearly trying his best to knock you to the ground - he succeeded, once; you let yourself get distracted, too caught up in thoughts, but it didn't last long - and you sidestep him just in time for him to ram into the ruined dumpster instead. He looks pissed when he turns back around and something in you sings at the sight. He makes for you again and you dodge again, only to be dragged back towards him by the grip he has on your jacket. Fuck, should've taken that off , whatever, he's too close.

Pain explodes in your side and you're fairly sure he's busted part of your rib, but you just slide your arms out of the sleeves and twist to plant your knee straight into his gut and then slam your heel down onto his much-less-safe toes, and then back up to knee him in the groin. It's nowhere near enough to take him out, but his nose is oozing golden ichor and he groans with every shift of his weight, and you've got him pinned against the wall with your forearm pressing hard into his windpipe. 

"Now, you're gonna listen to me you steaming pile of dog shit," You hiss. "When someone tells you no, it's not a fucking negotiation. It means you fucking leave and find someone with loose enough morals or enough internalized self-hatred that they're willing to subject themselves to your absolutely pitiful fucking excuse of an existence for the thirty-two seconds it'll take for you to get off." 

Kratos doesn't respond, just sneers and spits blood at you. It's a miracle you don't actually try to rip his head from his body, because the thought crosses your mind for a second too long. Instead, you just press harder against his windpipe and enjoy the choked gasp that it draws. 

"You don't stalk people either, the way you did with 'Dite. Don't you know it's better to let them come to you sometimes?" You tsk, ignoring the way he claws uselessly at your arm. Gods may not need to breathe, that's a fact, but they feel pain, and there is no way this isn't absolutely excruciating for him when even you can feel the small bones in his neck cracking and breaking. "And if I hear even a whisper of you pulling shit like this again, then I'm gonna find you, you pigshit. And when I do, I won't hold back even the slightest, and do you know what comes after that?" 

His eyes are full of fear now, and only grow wide with terror as you lean in close enough that he can feel your lips against his ear as you whisper. 

"You are going to wish that you could die." 

When you do release him, he disappears instantly, with a cloud of acrid grey-green smoke curling around your ichor-spattered boots. He's only been gone a second when you slump, the adrenaline fading as quick as Kratos had left. Your side is throbbing now, your knuckles are bruised and broken and gold, there's a pain in your leg that you aren't sure what's causing, your head is screaming even through the high of the fight, your face stings in the crisp-cool air. Every breath makes the pain worse so you stop breathing. The brick wall of the bar is rough against your palms, but it's the only thing around that can keep you upright, so you'll take it. 

"Well," a voice drawls from your left. You'd jump if you had anything left in you, but every ounce of energy is gone, spent teaching Kratos what Aretha Franklin meant when she sang about respect - and really, there was another fantastic singer, you really should visit her sometime soon - so instead your head lolls to the side. You aren't sure what it is that jolts through you when your eyes land on Taehyung, fingers curled carefully around the collar of-

Your jacket. That's your leather jacket. You barely remembers shrugging out of it, but you're glad it's not on the ground, trampled and covered in the gold spatters that decorate the rest of your body. 

"Well?" You echo, wincing at the pain it causes. You've definitely got a busted lip, that's for sure from the way it feels different and swollen, and you're pretty sure there's a head wound, too, because you don't remember there being a golden halo around Taehyung before the fight. 

"Well," He repeats, slinging the jacket - your jacket - over a shoulder. "You should get that looked at." He starts walking, making his way to the entrance of the alleyway. He gets halfway there before he stops and turns and cocks a brow. "Are you coming, or do I get to keep this?" Your jacket waves a little, as if he's wiggling it, and it makes you feel like a stray dog being lured off with treats. 

You're never going to tell anyone that it works.

Taehyung's place is as nondescript as the car he parks outside. It's a plain apartment building on the outside - looks like maybe it was a hotel back in the 1930s, based on the outdated carpeting in the lobby and the grate on the elevator he steps into. Even the hallway is plain and unassuming as he leads you to the end and uses an old, tarnished brass key on an older, more tarnished brass knob. You aren't sure what you expected, you can't even begin to guess what Taehyung is like outside of the dirty alley or the stage where he sings, can't fathom what kind of decor he could possibly have. 

What you step into isn't anything you could have guessed. It looks like he has the entire rest of the floor to himself based on what you can see, but there's also a spiral staircase tucked into a corner, bookshelves built in under each step that are filled to the brim, and a fireman's pole in another corner, so there's at least one more level above this, but something tells you both the staircase and the pole continue past that. There's artwork everywhere, pieces you recognize and pieces you don't, several van Goghs and a couple from Matisse and you think in the corner you spot an actual fucking da Vinci sketch that's supposed to be somewhere in Europe. There's a gramophone beside a top-of-the-line sound system, an entire wall that's just a record collection, books upon books, framed bits of poetry - including an actual hand-written rupi kaur, a signed Maya Angelou print, and a signed cover of ain't i a woman by bell hooks that you would die to know how Taehyung got his hands on. It's a museum's wet dream and yet it retains a lived in atmosphere. There are mugs left on tables, blankets strewn about as if someone just got up from a nap, an easel propped up by a far window with what looks like an impressionist painting of the cityscape, books tossed down half-read with receipts and coupons and candy wrappers and everything but a bookmark tucked between the pages. 

It feels like a home and it makes your heart flutter in your chest at the same time that something in your stomach shrivels up into itself. 

Taehyung walks like he’s meant to be followed, so follow you do. You spy another man - older, you think, but it’s hard to tell, really - sprawled across a couch, blanket splayed across his lap as he watches some kind of dance show on a flatscreen hung above a warm and roaring fireplace, a couple of girls in what looks to be the kitchen, one sitting on the counter while the other stands between her legs and pretends not to notice the former stealing strawberries from her bowl as she taps at her tablet, and there are footsteps creaking above you, hidden behind walls even as Taehyung leads you up the staircase. They all look up when you pass, but only the man gives you a second glance; his eyes are a weight on your back that doesn’t leave until you’re upstairs and following Taehyung into a large, rather nice bathroom. 

It’s vintage as well, but it’s spacious and well-kept, like the rest of the place. Taehyung pats the marble counter by the sink and you bite your tongue against the urge to tell him you aren’t a dog. You don’t move though, instead watching him as he lays your jacket across a brass bar on the wall and then digs around in a cabinet for a minute or two. When he straightens up, he’s got a somewhat dusty off-white box in his hands, and he frowns. 

“Up,” He says. “I need to look at your ankle.” 

You don’t move, but you can tell he doesn’t miss the twitch of your nose at the thought of being commanded like an animal. Like someone who can’t understand. Like-

He sighs. 

“Please, will you sit on the counter, so I can look at your ankle?” You huff, but you do as he says. 

He doesn’t speak as he works, completely silent except for the odd command - “Roll it for me...alright, now flex that...deep breath...stop fidgeting or I’ll only make it worse…” - and the occasional hum under his breath. It seems to be second nature, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and it endears you more than you’d like. His touch is gentle but firm as he lightly squeezes your ankle and wraps it, lifts your pant leg to rub some kind of cream into a somewhat worrisome golden bruise forming on your calf, darts under your shirt to quickly and painlessly set your ribs before wrapping those as well. He doesn’t say anything at all until he’s almost finished with the cuts on your hands, golden ichor long gone and wounds already on their way to healing thanks to some sort of mist he spritzes on them. 

It only stings once, as he’s spraying something over some kind of cut on your thigh where Kratos ripped through the denim there without you noticing. You can’t stop the hiss as the pain hits, though you regret it when he glances up at you. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles under his breath as he dabs lightly at it with his long fingers. 

“It’s fine,” You tell him. “I’m used to it.” Your voice is rough, always, but softer than usual. You don’t know why. You can’t decide if you like it.

The entire time he works, you wait. For him to tell you it wasn’t necessary, that he can fight his own battles, that he’s not surprised a brute like yourself got into a fight, that you’re no more than what the rumours say you are. You’ve got a million different curses and insults ready to spit back at him when he finally speaks.

“Thank you,” is what comes. It shocks the words out of your mouth, and you actually look up from where you’ve been watching him methodically wipe gold away from a scrape on your forearm. His gaze is concentrated on the injury and his lips are pursed and you wish you could figure him out. 

He must take your silence for the confusion it is, because he continues. 

“I mean it,” He says. “I’m usually not someone that lets other people fight for me, but we both know that I couldn’t have taken Kratos. He’s too strong, and he was counting on that. Until you showed up.” You don’t respond. “Is there a reason you left before my set was done? Or why you were sitting in an alley beside what is possibly the most gnarled dumpster I’ve ever seen?”

You don’t answer him, instead focusing on the way his hands feel as they tilt your chin so he can look at the cuts and bruises and scrapes that decorate your face. You focus your gaze just past his shoulder, content to memorize the pattern of his gaudy vintage bathroom wallpaper, and he doesn't press for more. The distracted humming picks up again every time he stops talking, and eases the storm of guilt shame rage pain hurt grief loneliness in your chest. 

"I fight," you eventually say. Your voice is too loud in the quiet of the bathroom, shatters the silence like a sledgehammer, and you hate the way it trembles. Still, Taehyung doesn't look away from where he's carefully wiping gold from your skin, just cocks a brow, and it's as if a dam breaks in your throat. "Like, real fights. Actual competition, with rules and shit, and...sometimes the bad ones, because they tend to fight differently, it's a different kind of fight, y'know, and it's never really fair, because I'm...I'm me, but I hold back, just for fun, y'know, and it's, uh. It's alright usually, I go in, do my thing, I win, I go drink, and it all gets, I dunno, easier, maybe, for a while, like I can think right, but, um.”

You hesitate for a split second and force yourself to focus on the way the alcohol-soaked cotton tickles the cut on your head. 

“Sometimes it's not...sometimes I can't control it as well, the anger, and I kind of just lose it on people, and a while ago this guy, he almost needed his jaw wired shut, but he was kind of a prick anyway, I guess, so whatever, but, uh, today, I...there was this girl and she was doing really well, actually, y'know, managed to get me down to the mat, which is rare and pretty impressive, and I'm pretty proud of her for it now, but then, I just. I just kinda lost it, like, I just kept swinging, I couldn't stop, and then I just...I broke her leg, for no real reason, just because I wanted her to hurt, and I don't...I'm not sure why I even did it, because I'd already won, right, like what was the point of doing any more, it wasn't even helping at that point, y'know, it's not like the buzz kept up any longer because I broke this kid's leg, and I love the fights, they help clear my head for a second, but I never wanted to actually-"

You words stop short, like there are too many of them to say in too short a time, and it's then you realize Taehyung's hands are in his lap and he's looking at you fully. His expression isn't neutral anymore, it's not the carefully crafted mask of a performer, it's real and open and genuine and all you see there is pain . For you. Pain and understanding and compassion you never expected to find anywhere but the deepest corners of your soul. Looking at him looking at you like that makes you feel like you can breathe again.

"You never wanted to hurt anyone." His voice is rough, like maybe there's emotion clogging his throat as well, and you aren't sure what that does to you, but something in you jumps at the thought.

Tears mar your vision as you nod and you curse under your breath before wiping them away. He catches your quivering hand in his and just holds it for a second. His eyes don't leave yours and there are a thousand things you expect him to say but what he says is: 

"I believe you."

And that...it's more than you can take, and you break, right there on his bathroom counter, sobbing into his chest while he just rubs your back and hums and you remember the face of every person you've ever hurt and the look in their eyes as you left some of them for dead. 

You wake up the next morning curled up on the most comfortable chaise lounge in human history, sitting up and shoving the blanket off of you in a rush before you remember where you are, why you're there. A glance around tells you that you aren't alone; there's two guys bent over a table that you think might also be a tablet, conversing quietly and pointing every so often at whatever they're looking at, a girl balanced along the edge of the staircase holding a lyre - which, wow, you haven't seen a lyre in that good condition in a while - and strumming lightly along it before she frowns and shakes her head and restarts whatever melody she's playing, and the same guy sprawled over the couch with a blanket strewn haphazardly over him while he watches a different dance video on the flatscreen. He's the closest and you don't really want to talk to any of these people but you think you might have to because you aren't really sure how Taehyung got you here last night but you know it was quite a drive. You'd just mist over to the bar if you really wanted to, but your ribs hurt like a bitch still thanks to that fucker Kratos. Anything as intense as misting is out of the question for the time being.

The man on the chaise spares you a glance that feels longer than it should, full of a judgement you have no doubt you deserve and yet somehow fires your anger anyway. 

He rolls his eyes before you even say anything and waves a hand towards the kitchen. You snap your mouth closed and shoot him an irritated look, but you storm in that direction anyway. Healing is exhausting, and you want nothing more than some meat to tear into and a cold beer. 

When you get into the kitchen, however, Taehyung is standing there already, as if he’s been expecting you any minute. There’s a plate in front of him, full of food you barely recognize, and he slides it towards you. 

“Eat,” He says. You grit your teeth, unmoving, and he sighs again. “Please sit, and eat. You need the strength to heal properly.” 

You resist for a split second, but there’s a softness to him now. Something you can’t exactly put your finger on, but that you know is different , somehow, and it changes things. It makes you want to listen, to do as he asks, because he is asking . He’s not telling, he’s treating you like an animal. 

It’s a request, not a demand, and that makes all the difference. 

Taehyung is quiet while you eat. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t watch to make sure you’re doing it, but you have no doubt he’s keeping an eye on you. It’s quiet, but not unbearably so; the air is broken by the sounds of the lyre and the television, as well as the soft chattering of the men at the table. It makes it comfortable, makes it soft in a way you’re unaccustomed to being, like the way people talk about lazy Sunday mornings or that voice they get when they see a cute animal.

It feels like home should be, instead of what yours is. 

“So why’s Pretty Boy giving me the death glare?” You eventually ask past a mouthful of food. Taehyung barely looks up, just glancing past you to the guy laying on the couch. You can feel his eyes boring into your spine, but it’s nothing new. 

“Taemin’s just protective,” Taehyung says softly. “Especially considering the stories.”

“The ones about me, you mean.”

A myriad of emotions passes through his eyes when he nods, and you wish you could more easily decipher them. Maybe in time, you will. 

Maybe.

“Those, yes,” He says softly. “But he’ll learn.” He doesn’t say it, but nonetheless, you hear the words as clear as day. Just like I did.  

Someone hums behind you and you glance over to see a woman - the strawberry thief - making her way into the kitchen. She gives Taehyung a look you don’t care enough to figure out, and they have an entire conversation in the span of five minutes. Something about it irks you, and it only gets worse when they start moving around each other, Taehyung handing her things without her asking. 

It’s ridiculous, and you know it, but the air gets heavy in your lungs and your head starts to swim and suddenly you’re suffocating. It’s too much, there’s too much here, and you can’t take it anymore. 

The force with which you shove away the counter would have slammed it into the wall were it not already attached. There are slight cracks in the granite tops, though, and there’s just enough clarity as Taehyung calls your name for you to feel guilty about it. It’s not enough to stop you though; you have to get out, you need to get out, before you do something worse, and the cracks in the granite are proof of that. 

You’re out the door in an instant, your form coalescing painfully back into solid matter as you reach the hallway. Your ribs ache, screaming with the effort of trying to mist away from this place, this home , and you lean against the wall in the hope that it will help steady you. 

The door opens behind you, the creak of the old hinges deafening in the silence of the hall. There’s a commotion behind it, voices overlapping each other and reverberating in your skull until they’re a twisted mockery of your siblings. 

You stumble down the hall, one hand clutching your ribs to keep them as still as possible despite your movement. It’s not lost on you that there are footsteps following you, but you can’t focus on them now. You’re not moving fast, and you need to be, you should be running , but you can’t. Your vision is already clouding slightly at the edges, the sudden spike of adrenaline waning now that you’re out of the apartment. 

Someone says your name and you swing. 

It’s instinct, the way your fist flies through the air; you can’t control it, not this, not when the red is all you can see even as it seeps away and turns lilac. It doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t make contact with anything but the wall, plaster crumbling around your fist and onto the carpeted floor. 

“That was rude,” Taehyung says softly. He doesn’t sound mad, though he should, considering you almost decked him straight in the nose. “I’ll take you back.”

He drapes your jacket over your arm and walks away, toward emergency stairs tucked into the corner instead of the elevator, and you follow. He hums as he goes, and he lets you lead the way down the stairs, keeping pace with your quick steps until both of you step out a side door into an alleyway. 

Out of habit, more than anything, you light a cigarette and put it between your lips. You don’t miss the disgusted scrunch of Taehyung’s nose, but you do ignore it. The smoke is familiar in lungs, comforting, and he doesn’t understand it, won’t ever understand it, but he doesn’t have to. 

“Sorry, Tae,” You say after a few minutes of silence. Taehyung shrugs one shoulder and moves to lean beside you against the stone of the building. 

“Are you okay now?” You nod, taking a deep breath, remembering how Hestia had taught you, so long ago, how her hand felt against your chest, the warmth and love it held. “Then you’re forgiven. And you can call me Calliope, if you want.”

You’re both quiet after that. He doesn’t make fun of you, he doesn’t judge you, he just silently drives you back to Suho’s bar, which is when you remember that he doesn’t know where you live. You’re fine with it; you don’t want to see him in your run down hovel. It’s not much, especially compared to his own apartment, but that makes sense, too. 

What could ever live up to the home of a Muse? Not even a muse, really. The Muse. The Head of the Nine Muses, the one called on most often by those in need, the one that everyone knew, the one that Hephaestus just put statues of in the gardens of Olympus, according to the rumors that Apollo sent you. 

The calm that he brings lasts until you get back to your apartment, nearly ten full minutes after you disappear into the alley beside Suho’s bar. It’s the longest the calm has ever lasted, and the view of the city tinted lavender is one you think you love. 

If you can love. 

Things get clearer, somehow. The weight on your shoulders lessens, makes you feel less like Atlas and more like you, how you were all those years ago in the now-ancient days when things made sense. When people fought for honor and glory and justice more than they fought for oil and death and greed. 

It could be because open mic nights are frequent around the city, and you’re able to figure out his schedule pretty well. You don’t go every night that he sings, just when it gets to be too much, when the scarlet haze starts to bleed into your irises like a flag in front of a bull. It helps, for a while, lets you settle long enough to pull the pieces of you back into a shape that vaguely resembles yourself. 

It could be because the fights happen every night, and Taehyung is no stranger to where to look to find them. He watches every one that he can, when he isn’t singing, and his presence anchors you. Focuses you, so that you can pull your punches just enough, so that there’s less hurting and more fighting. It doesn’t work every time, you still lose yourself in the rage and do more damage than you ever mean to, but it helps enough. And when it doesn’t, he’s there, to slide a hand across your shoulders in that exact same way that Hestia used to, that Apollo might if you let him close enough to know you’re alive, that Artemis would , were she anywhere but where she is. 

It’s a strange feeling. You’re not used to companionship, you don’t know how to have friends. You still say the wrong things and do the wrong things and he still speaks to you like he expects to be listened to, but you both are learning. You apologize more often, and he corrects himself quicker. It’s a slow, fragile thing, this friendship, but it’s there. 

Until the night when it’s not. 

You aren’t sure how it happens. It’s been weeks since you last saw Taehyung; he mentioned some project he was working on, something or another that would have most of his attention along with that of several of the other Muses. You had brushed it off when he said it, some snide remark about how you don’t need him there to win. 

You would take it back if you could. 

Because you were right, of course, you don’t need him there to win; you can do that on your own. And your control has gotten better, stronger, over the last few months, but complacency is what always leads to disaster. 

The guy deserved it, is what you tell yourself as you’re pulled out of the ring. He was a piece of shit anyway, you remind yourself as you call Apollo with shaking hands. He didn’t deserve your mercy, you tell the golden gold after you’ve begged him to help save the man’s life. Artemis would have done the same, you insist to him, long after he’s hung up the phone and left to follow the ambulance to the hospital. 

You don’t go to Suho’s. You can’t bear it, not when he might be there, not when he would read it on your face in a heartbeat. You don’t want to watch the disappointment crumble into something more familiar, something worse, you can’t watch him look at you with the knowledge that your siblings are right, that they’ve always been right, that you’re nothing better than a crazed animal. 

The club is packed full when you get there. The bartender starts to pour you a drink and you just take the bottle, leaving a too-thick wad of bills in return. The bourbon tickles as it goes down but it warms your stomach and distracts you from the haze in your mind, the repetitive beat of they were right they were right they were right they were-

“Whoops, sorry,” someone says, a second before they knock into your shoulder. You’ve been around long enough to know a fake fall, and you scowl as you glance towards them. 

He’s cute. Taller than you, with skin that would hide the marks you so love to create, and hair that looks like it would be soft in your hands. His clothes fit well, and they look like they were chosen for comfort over style despite the way he walks like a model in them, which you always find attractive. 

The smile that slips onto your face is familiar, as is the way you bring your hand up to rest on his hip in an effort to steady him. 

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” You tell him, not being subtle in the way you eye him. He looks soft; you love them soft. “You headed to get a drink?”

“I might be,” He says teasingly, a coy grin forming on his lips. 

“I’ve got something better, if you’re interested.”

His eyes roam along your body, his breath drawing somewhat quicker when he notices the scrapes on your knuckles. “I might be.”

It takes five minutes to get him to a corner quiet enough to talk. Less than three to get your lips on his. One and a half to start sucking a mark into his neck that makes him moan so pretty you can’t help but want to hear it again. 

One of your hands is up his shirt, playing with the pebbled buds and the metal pierced through them, while the other teasingly massages the skin of his hip when he’s torn away from you roughly. 

“What the fuck?” Your voice growls as you look up. The guy is standing there, looking for all the world like he’s ready to run, but he isn’t watching you. 

No, his eyes are on a familiar sight; Taehyung, his hair now a pretty lavender that makes you think of a home you don’t have, even as he doesn’t look at you. 

“Taken,” He growls, releasing the collar of the guy you had every intent to make cry with pleasure. The guy scurries off before you can stop him, though, and you don’t bother to hide your disdain. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” You demand, already lighting a cigarette as you head outside. Taehyung follows, pulling it from between your lips and crushing it in his hands before you have the chance to get your lighter out.

“Me? You looked like you were about to eat him .” He follows you all the way to the street outside and down the sidewalk, pulling each cigarette out of your hands before you can light it. He waits until you’re a decent distance from the crowd outside the club before he stops you, one hand lightly encircling your wrist. 

Your boots scuff against the ground as you stop, not turning to look at him. You’re too afraid to, too worried he’ll see it all on your face and just know that you’ve fucked up, maybe beyond repair. 

“Apollo called me,” is what he says instead. “Said I might want to find you tonight.”

You should’ve known. That little fuck, of course he would rat you out. 

“I didn’t-” 

The words choke in your throat. You want to say you don’t need him. You don’t need him to come running like you’re some scared little girl who can’t control her strength, you don’t need him to piece you back together because you aren’t broken, you don’t need him because you don’t need anyone, you never have. 

“I know you didn’t,” Taehyung says quietly. “I know he deserved it, I know what he did, and I know you didn’t mean to.”

Something inside of you breaks and you find yourself shaking. 

“He hurt her , Tae, I heard it, I heard her telling her friend about it on the phone, I saw her crying, I saw her clothes, okay, he-”

“I know,” Taehyung says, pulling you into a loose hug. “I know you did, it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s not gonna escape his punishment from that, you didn’t send anyone to Hades today. It’s okay.”

The cloud struggles, for what feels like hours. Guilt settles like lead in your stomach, and you wish you weren’t so used to the feeling. The rage returns every time you remember what that girl looked like, what she sounded like on the phone, how you felt when you realized it was your competitor who had done that to her. 

There’s no honor in that. There’s no justice, no glory, in beating an opponent who was never aware they were in the ring, and it makes your blood boil all over again. Taehyung’s voice soothes you, slightly, makes the edges of your vision turn indigo, but it isn’t enough. 

It’s never enough. 

“I have to go,” You say, pulling yourself away from him. “I need- I have to find-”

“A distraction,” He finishes for you, too aware that you can’t find the words you need. “Some mortal that you can bruise and break and bang until you feel less like a monster?”

That’s exactly what you want to do, what you had been about to do with that guy at the club, and it’s only Taehyung’s voice calling your name in that soft, sweet way of his that makes you wonder if that’s not a good plan. 

“I’ll be a distraction, if you need one.” You whip your head around, staring at him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m sturdier than the mortals, I can take more. Let me be your distraction.”

“I…” You hesitate. You don’t know why. You shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea, it’s not a good one, but then...when have any of your ideas been good? “I can’t fuck in a house with eight other people.”

“You have an apartment,” He says easily. “Let’s go there.”

It’s a bad idea. You don’t do that, you don’t fuck people at your apartment, you don’t have people in your apartment, it’s your space. It’s a bad idea, it can only end in disaster. 

“Okay.”

Taehyung’s lips are soft against yours, yielding and pliant just the way you’re used to. His hands are big and warm against your ass, even through your jeans, and the feeling gives you the courage to slide your own under the ridiculously patterned button-down he’s wearing. 

He lets you lead the way through the door, kicking it closed behind you with slightly too much force. Your apartment is small, a studio with a bed tucked in the corner for the rare times that you need it. 

You push Taehyung onto it and slide yourself onto his lap, already grinding down onto the hard length you can feel there. He's not quite as enthusiastic, but his fingers are like steel against you, pulling you down with every rut of your hips. 

This, you can do. This, you're familiar with. 

You push on his shoulders, doing your best to get him on his back so you can have better access to the clasp of his jeans, but he resists. You try again, firmer, using a harsh suck against his skin as a distraction, but he still doesn't go. 

Frustrated, you pull back. 

"Not like this," He says. His voice clears some of the fog, and you frown. 

"Do you want to be on top, then? Because I don't mind, I just need it," You tell him. He sighs a little, but he flips the two of you over so he's kneeling between your open legs and your back is cushioned against the mattress. 

"How long has it been since you spent the night with someone who knows who you are?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he sits back on his knees. 

You shift, uncomfortable. "A while. Why does that matter? Just fuck me."

"No," Taehyung says, voice gentle but firm. You cock a brow at him and move to get out from under him, but he stills you with a hand on your thigh. 

"You are a goddess," He tells you, trailing his hands down so he can undo the laces on your steel-toe boots and slide them off. "You have held Victory in your palms and set her free." 

His palms burn through the denim on your thighs, but you welcome it as he slides your jacket over your shoulders to the bed beneath. 

"You are the winner of wars. You are the one who grants battlefield wishes. You are the dead's escort to Hades." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek and then down your throat. 

He pulls back as he gets to your collarbone, eyes blown wide with unfamiliar desire, and it makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You," Taehyung tells you, with desire in his eyes and belief in his voice, "Deserve to be treated like the goddess that you are, with the respect you have earned, and the care you deserve." 

As often as you fuck people, it's been a very long time since anyone wanted to fuck you for any reason beyond your appearance and the personality you show them. But this? This look in the muse's eyes as his hands settle on your knees as he waits? 

Taehyung wants to fuck you because you're you. Not despite it, not because he doesn't know . He has seen you at your worst and yet he keeps coming back, keeps showing up as you fall apart. Each time he stays, hands you a basket so you can pick the pieces of yourself up off the ground, holds the tape so you can mash it back together, and is ready to help steady you when you start to crumble again. 

He's here for you , to treat you in a way no one has ever treated you before. He's your friend.

He cares.

You nod, however tentatively, and his lips are on yours in an instant. They're firmer now, less pliable and more controlling, but you don't mind. Not this time. 

Not with Taehyung. 

His hands don't hesitate as he strips you both of your clothes, but you can feel it each time he checks to make sure you're okay. The way that he watches your expression, the tense of your muscles under him, the cadence of your gasps for air between kisses, he reads all of it as clear as if it's a book in front of him. He slows down before you can stop him, his lips drawing back from the kisses he draws across your thighs, and he speeds up as your thoughts start to drift, swiping his tongue and two fingers through your folds to tease and bring your attention back to him. 

His fingers bury themselves in your heat, crooking slightly to brush against that soft part of you that makes the world spin, and it's all too intense. His lips are hardly even touching your skin, just pressing gentle kisses against the skin of your thigh, a gentle complement to the way he glides his fingers in and out of you, slow and steady and delicious, but it's absolutely intoxicating. 

He's talkative, too; he gives you constant praise. He tells you how well you take his fingers, how good you look with his fingers inside you, how absolutely fantastic you taste on his tongue, how he'd live between your thighs if he could. 

It's too much, and you can't be sure why, not when your orgasm is approaching quicker than it ever has, not when your walls clench around him and you soak your sheets, not when he's cleaning your cum off his fingers with his tongue.

"Good," He purrs. "Now you're all warmed up." 

His mouth hits your heat without hesitation or warning, before the aftershocks are even finished, and your hips buck upwards. His arms slide underneath your thighs only to grip them and bring them back down. You can't move much in his grip except to grind your pussy against his mouth, which he seems to enjoy, if the muffled grunts that escape him are any indication.

He doesn't stop until his tongue is buried inside you with one finger drawing lazy circles on your clit and you're cumming again, hands gripping the soft strands of his hair so tight that you would be afraid of pulling it out if you could focus on anything besides the feel of him against you.

He lets you ride the aftershock, this time. Waits until your pants die down slightly, until you're back in your mind. 

"Good?" He asks you. His voice is deeper, rumbles instead of slides, but it breaks through the post-orgasm haze long enough for you to nod. “More?”

“More,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a heated kiss. You haven’t been this clear-headed in a while. Every sensation is clear and crisp, every sound heightened, everything is simultaneously more while also being exactly what it’s always supposed to have been. 

Taehyung’s cock is everything you could have expected from a muse; thick, long, beautiful, and it fills you in a way that’s indescribable as he slides inside. He groans at the feeling, deep and throaty and beautiful, and begins his thrusts nearly immediately. 

It’s as slow as he was with his fingers; steady and forceful, but unhurried. As if he wants to take his time. As if he wants to savor it. Savor you . 

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He mutters, almost as an afterthought. “What you look like right now, what you look like when you’re fighting, when you’ve won and you’re triumphant? It’s fucking addictive, seeing that confidence in you.”

“Shit, Tae, don’t stop-”

“It’s so fucking intoxicating,” He groans, pace quickening. Your arms wrap around him more fully, nails like claws down his back as you arch your back to get him deeper. “You get this look in your eyes, like you can do anything you fucking want to, and it’s so fucking brilliant, because you can , you can do anything and everything you ever fucking want to do, and no one can stop you.”

A whine you’ll never admit to escapes your throat, and Taehyung drives his cock further into you. 

“Let go, my sweet,” Taehyung purrs in your ear. “Let yourself relax, just this once. For me.”

His hand touches your clit and it’s so much, too much , you’re feeling everything so intensely that it takes a solid minute to realize you’re coming down from an orgasm. Taehyung has stilled inside you, unmoving but groaning as you flutter around him, and you push weakly at his shoulder. 

He slides himself out of you, looking entirely too proud of wet spot underneath you and glistening against his lower stomach. You wobble your way up to rest your elbows underneath you, and it’s like he can sense your words before they come. 

“No,” He says simply. “I don’t you to get me off with your mouth.”

“A hand then? I don’t want you to leave unsatisfied.” 

A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he leans down just enough that your lips are almost touching, a not-there kiss that you can only wish for. 

“In what world is fucking you to the point of Elysium unsatisfying?”

The crowd around you is deafening; some of them are cheering for you, but the majority are rooting for your downfall. Such is the life of a challenging the champion, you suppose. 

You don’t know how Taehyung found this place; maybe Artemis had heard rumors, or maybe he searched for it himself. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’ve got someone worth fighting on the other side of the arena. 

The sand crunches beneath your feet. It’s hot, hotter than it should be since you’re still wearing your signature jeans and boots - without the jacket this time. You learned from that mistake. 

Your vision tints pink as you size up your opponent; he’s massive, not one to be easily defeated, and you relish the challenge. It’s been so long since you’ve fought a giant. Excitement thrums under your veins as he turns to you. He scoffs. 

If you had a little less control, you might be flying across the arena already. He clearly has no idea who’s standing across from him. Probably thinks you’re some demigod, come to challenge him for the fleece he isn’t supposed to have. 

He’ll learn. 

Something moves in the distance. It should blend in, considering how dark it is, but instead it draws your eye, and you don’t even question why. You would recognize him anywhere, have recognized him everywhere, and his presence calms you. Makes you remember a few nights ago, falling into bed in a hotel in Rome because the burn was to much and you needed him to help you release it. 

“Try not to be too quick, princess,” The giant across from you huffs. You cock a brow and send a look to your muse, who just rolls his eyes, despite the smile playing across his face. 

Violet rings your vision as you ready your stance. The announcer yells something that’s lost over the noise of the crowd. Taehyung leans forward, elbows on his knees, excitement and pride in his eyes. 

The giant swings. 

[whyiask]

Just a Stupid Dare (ch.4)

Masterpost Ao3 Link tws: manipulation, a mild anxiety attack but not very graphic note: :))))) virgil is starting to regret some things :))))

There was a while before class started. Roman hopped up from his seat as soon as Virgil finished eating and set off at a brisk pace towards the door. Virgil frowned. Had he really wanted to leave that much? Roman turned around and gave Virgil a look that clearly read, “are you coming?” and Virgil lurched to his feet in understanding.

He followed Roman out around the back of the school, hunching his shoulders and stuffing his hands in his pockets. It had been a while since he had been alone with anyone other than Janus or Remus, and he didn’t know what to expect.

Roman hopped up and slid down the stair railing, landing in a beautifully executed turn into a leap. Virgil watched with wide eyes and sprinted down the stairs after him. Sliding down them left too much opportunity for humiliation- what if he fell off?

Roman was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. He smirked at him and Virgil felt his face heat up slightly.

“Where are we going?” he asked, trying to shake off the warm feeling in his chest.

“You’ll see,” Roman said mysteriously, tilting his head back. He grabbed Virgil’s hand, and before Virgil had time to protest, they were skipping along again, Virgil stumbling and Roman beaming.

After a few minutes, they ducked into a small circle of bushes. There was a park bench and several beds of flowers. A pink watering can was tucked neatly in the corner. Roman looked at Virgil with an expectant expression. When Virgil didn’t say anything, Roman nudged him.

“Well?” he prompted, grinning at the dark side. “What do you think?”

Virgil stuttered for a moment, looking for the right words, and eventually settled upon, “How did you find this place?”

Roman beamed. “Actually,” he said, “I made it!”

Virgil raised an eyebrow.

“I found the bench halfway through freshman year,” he explained further. “Patton helped me clear it up and make it into a little area. I don’t even think the school knows about its existence.”

“Patton…” Virgil drew out the ‘n’, trying to place the name.

“Patton Gardener! He’s a good friend of mine.”

“Ah.” Virgil nodded as if he actually cared. “He was the other guy with you at lunch?”

At Roman’s nod, he frowned in what he hoped seemed a thoughtful expression. “I don’t think I’ve met him.”

A small frown crossed Roman’s face. “He’s in your english class.”

Virgil feigned surprise. “Is he? How do you know?”

“Because I’m in your english class too, Stormcloud.”

Virgil picked up the subtle note of amusement in Roman’s voice and the smile threatening to take over his face. It was oddly endearing. (Virgil quickly shoved that thought out of his mind- he was here for a dare, not to make friends).

“Are you allowed to be out here?” Virgil asked, slightly unsettled by where his thoughts had strayed to.

Roman shrugged. “Are you allowed to terrorize the school?” He froze, then his eyes went wide. “Shit- sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m just so used to thinking of you as a dark side, and I know you aren’t, not really, not at heart, and I didn’t mean to imply that-”

Virgil cut Roman off with a wave of his hand.

“Relax, I know you didn’t mean anything by it,” Virgil said, struggling to keep a smile off of his face. (He had a reputation to uphold, after all. He hadn’t become a Dark Side by being soft.)

Roman smiled sheepishly and scratched the back of his neck. “But yeah, I suppose no one really knows about this place. Only me, Pat, Logan, and now you.”

Virgil swallowed. “Why did you show me this place then, if it’s so special to you?” It was strangely open for Roman to be showing Virgil his favorite place. In his heart, Virgil knew he couldn’t tell Janus about it. He might be a Dark Side, and he might be mean, but he knew Janus and Remus would come and ruin this little garden- and as much as Virgil would’ve found it funny in other circumstances, this seemed too precious to shatter.

Roman pondered for a moment before responding. “Because you’re nice,” he eventually settled on.

Wrong, Virgil’s mind whispered.

“I trust you. I can see in your eyes that you truly mean what you said about the Dark Sides.”

Wrong again.

“I think you’re really cool,” Roman admitted. “I want to be your friend. You’ve opened up to me, I thought I would return the favor.”

Virgil froze.

His mind was torn. What he had told Roman… none of that had been true. Not really. And now Roman was being nice because he believed that Virgil was a good person at heart? It felt wrong. Everything about it felt wrong. Roman felt so sincere… so open, caring, kind. Honest. Everything that Virgil wasn’t.

Maybe the dare wasn’t worth it. Maybe he should just call it off. He hadn’t agreed to this heart-wrenching confusion and indecision. He hadn’t agreed to this twisting feeling in his gut.

“-gil? Virgil, are you okay?”

It took Virgil a second to blink and remember where he was. Roman was crouched in front of him, holding onto his hands tightly- when had he sat down? His mind was reeling and he couldn’t focus on any of the thoughts shooting around his head.

“Virgil, Virgil, just focus on me, okay? Breathe.”

Virgil heard Roman’s voice before he saw his mouth moving. Roman’s voice was soothing, like a bubbling spring, or like a songbird, even his speaking was melodic. Virgil hadn’t even noticed when he had switched to singing, a soft melody that carried into Virgil’s head.

He blinked heavily several times and sat up straighted, pulling his hands from Roman’s grasp and hugging them around his legs. Without breaking stride, Roman slid to the ground next to Virgil and put a warm hand on his shoulder.

When Virgil’s breaths had finally calmed down and his head had stopped spinning, Roman stopped singing as well. Virgil instantly missed it, then shot down that thought as quickly as it came.

“Are you alright?” Roman asked, concern lacing his deeply tanned face.

“I- yeah,” Virgil muttered, sitting up and leaning away from Roman. He drew his hand back sharply and fiddled with the hem of his shirt. He didn’t move his gaze. Virgil scuffed a toe aggressively in the dirt.

Roman hesitated before speaking. “The bell is about to ring in a few minutes, do you want to head back and head to class?”

Virgil stood up, shoving his hands in his pockets and pulling up his hood. He knew that once he got back into the building, he would have to be a Dark Side again, confident and controlling. But for the moment, he was content to just be Virgil Summers.

Thankfully, Roman didn’t ask him about what had happened, instead making small talk. Virgil let him ramble about musical theater, but he wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention to the words. It was more soothing to just focus on the animated tone of voice he used when he spoke.

He shook himself out of his thoughts. It’s just a dare, he reminded himself. You aren’t here to make friends.

But the more Roman talked, the more drawn in Virgil felt. He couldn’t stop himself from nodding along to the other boy’s words, smiling and watching him out of the corner of his eye.

He isn’t really your friend. It’s just a dare.

Just a stupid dare. 

And that’s all it would ever be.

None of it was real, and that thought alone was nearly enough to make Virgil sick to his stomach. He was playing Roman, manipulating him, and all Roman had ever been to him was kind. He had opened up to him, he had helped him through an anxiety attack, he had been there.

Virgil knew exactly what he agreed to. Pretend to be Roman Stone’s friend, gain his trust, leave him to go back to the Dark Sides.

And for the first time since becoming a Dark Side, Virgil didn’t know if he could follow through.

[youarejesting]

Limited Edition.7 Shattered

[FULL MASTERLIST] [Limited Edition Master list]

Beta: N/A Rating: All audiences Genre: Fantasy, Comedy, Fluffy Fluff, Adventure. Pairing: Bts x Friend!Reader Words: 1.4K

Summary: It is your first time buying proper merchandise, there are new chibi figurines and the first person to order will recieve a limited edition set. But what happens when BTS have gone missing without a trace and a few days later you receive your package. The box says congratulations, you open to find your limited edition figures, they look so lifelike. OH WAIT! it’s cause they are.

Announcement: the new TINY TAN video is adorable!!!

“Finally you are out, we are starving?” Taehyung whined. 

“Sorry, I will get your ingredients” selecting one of the ziplock bags from the freezer you looked at the tiny portions, handing it over to Yoongi. 

Seokjin asked, “why are you crying?”

“I called Mr. Kang Jungho and he said they aren’t coming for you, he admitted he did this?”

Yoongi who had touched your hand in concern and empathy backed away in disgust. 

“You don’t have to lie, I get it your favorite Kpop group living with you acting friendly and cuddly” he sighed “honestly I thought you were cool and we could hang out without it being weird.”

“What’s going on?” Namjoon asked, looking at  Yoongi in confusion. 

“She is a sasaeng, Kang warned us in his email that she might try to keep us forever and lie to us about not being contacted or that the company had given up on us.”

They all seemed to realize something and stepped back. You pressed your lips together muting your denial. Pleading your case against Mr. Kang would only make things worse. 

You nodded “okay” you walked out leaving the room, taking a collection of snacks and water. Jacket and keys in hand, you left the house shutting and locking the doors behind you. You went out to the mall and scolded yourself for thinking about buying them things you thought they would like.

The bitter feeling didn’t pass, you stayed out later than you should have and when you came back, they were asleep. Lifting the house you took it to your roommate’s room, she was away visiting family so you were able to leave them on her desk.

You left them more water and food and walked away shutting the door. You wouldn’t disturb them, not when they don’t want anything to do with you. Taking a deep breath you laid down in your bed, sending emails to the BIGHIT.

They were all being declined, you had obviously been blocked from messaging the company. One day past and you entered the room with more food to hear them on the phone with Mr. Kang.

“It makes sense that she is lying I am doing everything I can to get you back”

“Well BIGHIT is a big company send a private Jet, I will have them at the airport in a heartbeat, Mr. Kang,” You scoffed “Wouldn’t want them to be with a crazy Sasaeng, would we?”

“Of course, we will have a Jet ready for them by tomorrow,” Mr. Kang said “I can see this is taking a toll on your mental health”

“Sure, great. What time, what terminal, what airport?” You sneered “Get it done.”

You stormed out to your room and sat on the bed, you were trying to hold it together but the tears were so hot. With a soft sigh, you went to the kitchen bench and sat on the tiles with a pint of ice cream that you demolished listening to ‘We Are Bulletproof: The Eternal’.

Something about the way they said ‘We are not seven with you’, made you feel like they actually cared about you. Clearly you had thought wrong. You didn’t notice that Jungkook had stepped left the room and was watching you sob grotesquely. Turning off the song and throwing the headphones you were packing up wiping your eyes as your phone began to ring.

“What do you want?’ You snapped into the phone putting it on speaker.

“The boys said you had put them in another room, they don’t trust you now do they?” You could hear the amusement in his voice. “Take them to the airport, I will tell them, you canceled the tickets, or don’t take them. Either way, you are the bad guy”

“Listen, you know I don’t care if they hate me I am going to get them back to Korea and when we expose you, you will be fired” you threatened

“Try your best I have blocked all your calls to the company so you won’t be able to contact anyone” you placed the dishes in the drying rack. 

“You can’t hide the truth forever” you shouted as the phone beeped, he had hung up. You turned only to see Jungkook’s retreating figure. The young and now tiny man thought he was stealthy but you were very observant. 

“Jungkook?” The way your voice called sounded full of defeat made you cringe. Jungkook’s face appeared around the corner looking guilty. His hair fell in its usual coconut-like shape. 

“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to listen to your conversation.” He said and you heard a small sneeze. Walking slowly around the counter to see the entire group of young men shuffling in ᵗᶦⁿʸ.

Hoseok looked devastated eyes watering which set off Jimin and even Jungkook’s eyes spilled over helpless to his hyungs emotions. You wanted to coo, at the sight of the boys running towards you their eyes misted and little arms outstretched the pressed their faces into your knee and spluttering their apologies.

“Seems I was wrong and I am sorry?” Yoongi tried to act cool and it made you smile. 

“We are so sorry?” Hoseok whined and you sniffed wiping your eyes from the emotional moment. 

“Hey it’s okay, imma get you home and to your correct size” you sighed scooping them up into your arms and carrying them to their little house. 

“Can we have some hot water?” You nodded moving their house back to your room. 

The boys were feeling quite upset by the recent events, they felt betrayed and guilty for hurting you. That night you heard the door to their home open and you turned blinking tiredly. “What’s wrong?”

Taehyung has a blanket in his hand and a sad expression, you blinked concerned. “Can I sleep beside you?” Taehyung asked and you hummed reaching your hand out, he climbed on and you placed him on the pillow beside you. 

You held your hand there and he cuddled against it tired. 

Without the boy's knowledge you were trying to get accepted for a loan to get the boys back to Korea, the thing is you were not exactly rich and your job was a YouTuber live streamer. 

Thankfully your tiny tan videos were gaining a lot of popularity so you decided to ask them, “hey would you be interested in recreating a music video?”

It was a bit of a stretch but perhaps you could get enough revenue to go over seas. They agreed dancing, rapping and singing adorably for the camera. People praised your cgi animation skills. 

By two months you had just enough to get to Korea but you needed a little more, the boys did interviews and mukbangs and they continued practicing some new songs for when they were normal again. 

You got approved for a loan and was ecstatic, taking the time to pack and look at the boys. You took their house and had the boys in your jacket. 

You had to go through a metal detector. And put your things in a tray. You took the tray and sat on a near by chair unbuckling your heels. While the boys ran stealthily under the line of chairs to the other side where you went through and took a seat to put on your shoes again. 

You got onto the plane and was in first class in a private pod where the boys could run around freely. They shared your inflight meal and slept on your lap half the way. 

Namjoon has secretly gotten in contact with Adora and was hoping everything went well, and that she would turn up to collect them. 

“When you arrived she was there with a sign with your name on it” she looked confused and lead you to a hire car. 

“You haven’t happened to have seen the boys have you, it was strange to have them contact me and still be in hiding, and it’s such a strange request”

“Well we thank you for going to all this trouble it is really important” You breathed blushing talking with Adora was super intimidating. She was so pretty and elegant and you felt so plain beside her.

Shuffling your scuffed boots looking at her pristinely shined kitten heels. “Alright, I don’t know why the boys are in hiding, or why Namjoon messaged me wanting for me to take you to the figurine factory. But I won’t question it, as long as it gets them to come home.”

“Thank you very much!” You said nervously, “it really will help them return”

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[monstersandmaw]

male half-firbolg, half-drow x reader (sfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

The first 500 words of this are dedicated to @akaneakiwolf​ who won the second prize slot in my 10k follower giveaway. They asked me just to write something that inspired me, which was very generous of them, and, well, this story ran away with me a bit.

It definitely feels like a part one. Because this was a Tumblr-based giveaway, this wasn’t previewed on my Patreon, but any future parts will definitely go up on Patreon first on early-release.

Content: fluff. Just... fluff. And plonts. Wordcount: 1871

___

With the distinctive white hair and pewter skin of a drow, but standing at nine feet tall and broader at the shoulder than any elf ever had been, the university’s new groundskeeper drew a fair bit of attention to himself in his first week. It wasn’t until you were leaving campus one evening that you got a closer look at him though, and realised he wasn’t a drow, or at least, with his slightly bovine nose and ears, he couldn’t be a full drow. He had to have a fairly sizable dose of firbolg blood in him too, which was an unusual combination to say the least. He wore it well though.  

You passed by the stretch of grass where he was raking up winter leaves with the steady, hypnotic rhythm of someone completely lost in their task, and you really did try not to stare. He was heart-stoppingly gorgeous though. He wore a sleeveless, white shirt despite the winter chill, which showed off tight bands of muscle in his thick, lean arms, the gunmetal grey of his skin looking more like living shadow in the fading light. His pure-white hair was thick and long, falling right the way to the small of his back, restrained back in an unadorned braid. Scruffy, pale jeans with rips in the knees were tucked into old, scuffed leather boots, and he wore a wide leather cuff around each wrist.  

He twitched his gaze sideways at you as you inevitably slowed, and as his eyes made contact with yours, you saw piercing silver irises flash in the dusk. “Goodnight,” you chirped as you scurried towards the bus with your bag slung over your shoulder and bashing you painfully in the hip with each step; the thing was groaning at the seams with books and it was threatening to give out on you at any minute.  

The groundskeeper just nodded once and turned silently back to his work.  

Next morning as you scuttled and flailed from the bus towards the faculty building where, in a mere five minutes’ time, you were supposed to be giving a lecture, your bag finally decided to give way. 

The bottom corner ripped open, and the canvas tore with a loud groan, dumping your books onto the damp tarmac of the path, along with half a dozen pens and pencils, a few snacks, the odd wrapper which immediately decided to flutter away on the light breeze, your phone, wallet, house keys, and a small array of small change that had somehow fallen out of your wallet too.  

“Fuck,” you snarled, dumping the remnants of the bag on the path and scampering after the wrappers before they got too far.  

When you returned, you found the groundskeeper approaching at a steady stride, a large bag of leaves abandoned nearby, his head cocked slightly to one side. Instead of the practically indecent white tank top that he’d worn yesterday, he had on a thick flannel shirt over the top of a close-fitting black tank that day, with a small array of pens and screwdrivers and what might have been a penknife tucked in the top pocket. His facial features were monumental, rugged and harsh, but he was far from unattractive. On the contrary, with the rough, white stubble you could see along his jaw and around his mouth, he looked positively delectable. His silver eyes reflected like mirrors and his already large, almost cow-like eyes were pinched a little with concern.  

“You alright?” he asked.  

“I’m late,” you moaned as you approached your forlorn little scattering of belongings. “My bag gave up the ghost and I’ve got a class full of undergrads to teach.”

He blinked at you again then, as if reassessing you.  

“What?” you asked, stooping to start picking stuff up.  

“Nothing. I just thought…”

“Thought what?”

You shot him a quick look and caught the way he scratched the back of his head and then shrugged, his cheeks darkening slightly. “I thought you were a student when you passed me yesterday. I'm sorry.”

You snorted but didn’t look up again. You might get distracted if you did. Instead, you watched the way he adjusted his not inconsiderate weight by the slight shuffle of his dirty old boots out of the corner of your eye. A moment later, he stooped, his knees cracking loudly as he bent down, and he handed you a small pile of books. In fact though, what looked like a small pile of books in his scarred, rough hand was actually four thick tomes, and you nearly wheezed as you took them from him.  

“I’m Suléth,” he added shyly. He had a strand of his white mane that had escaped the plait and was dangling alluringly in front of his silver eyes in a way that was entirely too fascinating.  

You softened, offered him your name, thanked him, and then bolted.  

You didn’t see Suléth again until the next day, and this time he was laying out new bark chipping around a flowerbed near the campus canteen. With a huge bag balanced on his right shoulder, and another half-full and dangling from his left hand, he made his way to the end of the path. There he set the heavy bag down for later and began to shake the remnants of the first loose around the little, tough-looking evergreens planted in a neat line along the bed. That day his hair was plaited into three braids on each side, which joined at the nape of his neck into a single, thick rope. There was a single black bead halfway down this time, and you wondered idly as you approached if that held any significance. You knew nothing about either firbolg or drow culture, both tending to be somewhat secretive, or at least secluded in the case of firbolgs. The fact that he was living here in Old Trollbridge, and not in some commune in the forests near Starfall Springs, or deep underground in the Starfall Mountains may well have meant he’d left his heritage behind him. Or it may have had nothing to do with that whatsoever.  

His bovine ear twitched and his nose lifted slightly as you made your way towards him, and he turned with a very slight smile on his lips.  

“Morning Suléth,” you greeted him as you slowed. Nodding at the flowerbed, you added, “That looks good. I wish I had a garden, but I think I’d just kill it anyway. I’m not good with plants.”

“Everyone’s good with at least one plant,” he replied in a softly amused rumble, but he didn’t offer any further comment.  

“I’ve got to run - again - but I’m glad I saw you,” you smiled as you excused yourself.  

Suléth bowed his head politely and you left him to get on with his work.  

Exhausted, hungry, and probably dehydrated too - staff room coffee was not known for its nutritious, hydrating properties after all - you slouched out of the department that evening and made your way along the paths of the grounds until you paused by the bed of winter plants where Suléth had been working that morning. The wood chippings had been neatly banked back off the path, and the plants looked frankly cosy beneath the blanket that the chipping created. The groundskeeper’s hut sat across the campus, near the overflow car park that was rarely used, and in the opposite direction from home, but you found yourself leaving the campus by that exit. Something about the way he’d looked at you earlier drew you to him, shy as you still felt.

The hut door was open, but you didn't see him and, not wanting to come across as a complete creep, you headed out of the gate and onto the street beyond. You’d gone no further than a few paces down the road, however, when you head him call your name. Turning, you found Suléth loping easily along to catch up with you, and he had something in his big hand. With a frown, you saw it for what it was, and your stomach swooped unexpectedly. It was a small pot-plant.  

“I hope you don’t think it’s too forward of me,” he began as he drew level with you.  

You craned your neck up to look at him and smiled inarticulately, unable to muster anything else at the sight of him looking slightly flushed and a little flustered.  

“It’s called a sansevieria,” he said awkwardly. “It’s basically indestructible…”

“When did you get that?” you asked as he stretched his hand out for you to take it. “I only told you about my special way with plants this morning!” The sansevieria had tall, upright, blade-like leaves, the centre of which was a dark, mottled green, with a sharp line of pale, yellow-green along the edges.  

Suléth stepped back so that you didn’t get a crick in your neck, and smiled lopsidedly. You liked the way it made his strange, sensitive looking nose crinkle on one side, and his silver eyes glinted warmly as he replied, “I got it on my lunch break. There’s a shop not too far from here that sells plants. Friend of mine owns it. I… I hope it’s not… uh…”

“Thank you,” you said, and in a rush of boldness, you reached out and touched his muscular forearm. He’d cuffed the sleeves of his shirt up to the elbow, revealing dark grey skin dusted attractively with white hair. “I love it. How do I look after it?”

“Water it every now and again,” he shrugged, his solid muscles relaxing intoxicatingly beneath your fingertips.  

“Everyone who’s planty always says that, but how often is ‘every now and again’?” you practically whined. “That could be twice a year or every three days!”

Suléth’s amused laugh was deep and soft as distant thunder, and his eyes sparkled. “Every couple of weeks, give it a cup of water, but only if the soil’s completely dry. How’s that?”

“That I can work with. Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome.” Suléth sighed softly and said, “So… I’ll… uh… see you around?”

“I hope so,” you smiled and turned to go, plant in your hands, repaired bag slung over one shoulder. “Thank you.”

The half-firbolg watched you go for a little while and then turned to head back into the car park behind him.  

It wasn’t until you got home and arranged the so-called ‘indestructible’ plant - ‘I’ll do my best, but we’ll see about that, won’t we?’ you told it softly - on the kitchen windowsill that you noticed a post-it note attached to the little information tab in the pot.  

In completely terrible, chicken-scratch handwriting was written a phone number and a short note which read ‘I’m not very good with words but I’d love to go for coffee sometime with you and get to know you better, if that’s something you’d like. If not, then please just accept this plant as a gift, and hopefully the start of a little collection of your own. Suléth x’

You read it through three times, heart hammering with excitement before drawing out your phone and composing a text to him.

—

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[screpdoodle]

Duality - Chapter One (The Diabolical Ways of the Deciduous Demon Outside my Window)

"KAOS!! Get down here! We're going to be late!!"

Early morning sunlight dappled through the smudged windowpane, the chirping of birds mingling with the songs of the warm autumn wind working its way through the cracks. All things given, it seemed like a perfect morning. That assumption, though, was a misplaced one. At least to the young boy in the bed. He opened one eye, took one look at his window, and pulled the blankets over his head with a groan. The light stung his eyes, making him crave for the sweet embrace of dreams once more. Maybe if he just closed his eyes, it would all just fade away-

Tap tap tap

He flinched, then peered out from beneath his covers, pulling them down just to the bridge of his nose. Tap tap tap. It was back. The warm autumn breeze brought with it that no good tree branch, the warm toned leaves swaying with every tap against the glass. The boy squinted, then laid back down, pulling the blankets tighter around his head. If he just ignored it, the tree wouldn't notice he was there. It would go away, realizing it was a futile attempt to gain his attention. Whatever the tree wanted, he wasn't curious enough to risk finding out.

Tap tap tap. Tick tick tick.

He covered his ears, he wasn't listening. He didn't have time to deal with the tree and the ticking. There wasn't enough time in the world to deal with both. And yet, here they both were. That itching at the back of his mind, and that incessant tapping against the glass.

Tap tick tick. Tap tick tick.

Every moment of silence he could have been relishing was filled with those Ancients awful noises. How long has passed? A minute? A moment? He couldn't tell. All he could focus on was that stupid tree.

Tick tap tick tap tick tap.

In one movement, the boy sat up, throwing his blankets to the ground as forcefully as he could muster, facing the source of his problems.

"For the Ancients' sake, would you shut the f-"

"Kaos!!" The boy screamed as the door was flung open, nearly causing him to fall from his loft, grabbing the pillow in self defense. "Ancients, what is taking you so long?! Mother took Mey to school already, and at this rate you're going to miss the bus! Get dressed and get downstairs!!"

The door was slammed shut just as quickly as it opened, leaving the boy alone in his room. A small room, with walls lined with papers, a soot stained carpet and a desk set beneath the window. The sun bathed everything in a warm light, leaving the still burning candle on its surface obsolete for the time being. Still in shock, clutching his pillow like a weapon, Kaos slowly gathered himself, then climbed down the ladder, still clutching the pillow in his off hand in case he needed to use it. Which he most likely wouldn't. But it never hurt to be prepared. With a huff, he eyed the tree branch one last time, its pesky attempts to grab his attention finally coming to an end. It sat there, perfectly still - aside from the dancing leaves that yearned to be carried away with the fall winds. Oh, how he wished he could join them. For good measure, Kaos threw his pillow at the window, making sure the tree knew who was boss, before venturing over to his closet. His closet was a box. Of course, he had a real closet, set into the wall across from his loft, but he had never bothered to store his clothes in there. No, that was for storing other things. The box did quite nicely for the minimal amount of outfits he owned. Most of which were piled under his loft, waiting to be washed. Kaos half the time forgot they were there, along with some of Mey's clothes that he had borrowed; and some of his brother's that he had… Liberated from languishing beneath his bed with old socks and unfinished homework from grades passed. It was a mystery how Dyskord had ever managed to graduate, Kaos thought as he fished through the unfolded clothes stored within his closet box. Finally, he settled on the same things he always wore, which were sitting to the side of the box. He stumbled back as he pulled on his black sweats, wriggled into his tunic, slipped on his canvas shoes and grabbed a miscellaneous hairbrush he was pretty sure didn't actually belong to him. Kaos pulled the comb through his hair as he scrambled down the stairs, mumbling to himself as he chucked it to the side (Mother or Dyskord would pick it up eventually), grabbed his long coat off its hook, then careened into the kitchen as he put it on. The coat was far too big for him, swallowing his wiry frame whole like some beast made of shadows. Kaos hoped he would someday grow into it, but he had owned it for years now and no such luck had befallen him. Kaos climbed up onto the kitchen counter, eyeing his prize. The cookie tin, his ceremonial breakfast whenever Mother was out of the house. He pulled the lid off, then peered inside - only a few left. Just as Kaos reached his little hand down into the metal tin, Dyskord walked through the back door, tracking mud onto the scuffed tile flooring.

"What do you think you're doing," he spoke, kicking his boots off, never once taking his eyes off Kaos.

"Oh, please. Like you'd tell Mother," Kaos rolled his eyes, sliding the cookie jar back into place, his bounty in hand.

"Maybe I will."

"Then maybe I'll have to tell her who really passed your final exams for you, brother."

The two locked death glares, the only noise being that of the leaky faucet and the occasion chirp of the birds outside. Kaos cracked a smile, Dyskord following.

"Just grab me one too, short stack. Then we've gotta go."

Kaos shoved the cookie into his mouth, then grabbed the tin once more. His face reflected back at him on the polished sides. Big eyes the color of copper, a piggish upturned nose, his cheeks puffed out like an chipsquirrel's, gathering food for the winter. Cookie crumbs mingled with the imperfections that littered his skin, freckles, blemishes, and his birthmarks - mirrored patches of darker skin that clustered around his eyes. They had gotten lighter with age, but they still bugged him sometimes. One little snaggletooth stuck out from the corner of his mouth - an issue that could have been fixed with braces. If he hasn't broken them nearly the day after he got them. He may not have been the 'peak of perfection', but Kaos didn't mind. It made him unique. It made him… special. Though, that paired with his lackluster height usually ended up with him being at the receiving end of a bullying entourage.

"You got everything you need, baby brother?"

Kaos nodded, then hopped down from the counter. "Yes, mother. I have everything."

Dyskord rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. "Backpack?"

"At the front door."

"Lunch?"

"Won't be there long enough to need one."

"Catalyst?"

"Harvested it last night."

"Well, aren't you prepared," Dyskord chuckled. "Specimen?"

"That’s your job, remember?" Kaos smirked. "I have it all thought out, Dyskord. Don't worry."

"Well then, what's your plan for when Mother finds out?"

"Who said she'll find out? The only way she would is if someone rats me out." Kaos took a bite from his second cookie, handing the extra to Dyskord as he pushed past into the main hall. The high ceilings and towering walls making him seem even smaller; like an ant in a dollhouse.

"If I'm this deep in, why would I rat you out and risk getting in trouble myself?"

Kaos shrugged, walking backwards so that he could watch Dyskord's movements. "I don't know, brother, but the only variable that could possibly go wrong is you. So as long as you play along, everything should be absolutely peachy~" He grinned, then shoved the rest of the cookie into his mouth. It tasted a little old, probably a month or two, but a stale cookie was better than no cookie. And at least Kaos knew that batch hadn't been poisoned.

Dyskord chuckled dryly, placing the cookie in the little leather satchel that hung at his hip. Kaos knew he'd probably eat it later. Dyskord could never resist a cookie. "Alright, alright, tiny genius. I'll trust you on this. But don't blame me when this plan fails too."

"It won't. Trust me."

Kaos grabbed his backpack off its hook, unzipping it just to triple check its contents. It never hurt to be certain.

"Communicator?"

"Yep."

"You got your diary~?"

Kaos whipped around, glaring. "It's not a diary! It's my journal of doom!!"

Dyskord patted Kaos on the head, ruffling his umber hair, a condescending smile on his lips. "Sure it is, baby brother."

Kaos grumbled under his breath, turning back to his backpack. He shrugged Dyskord off, trying to focus. Sure enough it was all there. Homework, lunchbox, communicator, his 'journal' - everything important was there and accounted for. As Kaos struggled to zip up his backpack once more, his gaze drifted to the portrait that hung above the door. His family, painted in exquisite detail, framed by an intricate wooden frame. Dyskord, with his old ashy blonde hair (Kaos had suggested he dye it neon green since it was a similar level of horrible against his skin tone, but Dyskord had insisted on vibrant silver.) Mey sat on Mother's lap, creasing the dress she had spent all of the previous day ironing to get it absolutely pristine, because she wouldn't sit still. Mother bore her usual scoul, contrasted by Mey's wide grin. If their expressions weren't so different, Mey might have been mistaken for a younger Mother. Father stood to the side of her, behind Dyskord, wearing a similar expression to his wife. Kaos had been surprised he hadn't been absent for that too. Looking down to where he was immortalized in paint, Kaos stood the front - where the painter had instructed him to stand; wearing a matching suit and tie like the rest of his siblings - though he at least still had his scarf. Black and grey striped knit that was as long as he was tall, coiled around his neck and draped over his shoulder. Kaos never went anywhere without his scarf, and even though he heard Hel from Father afterwards, it was worth it. As Kaos slung his backpack over his shoulder, he trailed his hand to his neck, reaching to feel the soft warmth of his scarf. Instead, his hand only met skin.

"C'mon Kaos, we gotta get going. We don't want you being late for-"

"My scarf!!" Kaos shouted. "Where's my scarf!?"

"Kaos, it's not even that cold out. You don't need your- oooor you can go get it. That's fine too, I guess." Dyskord watched as Kaos chucked his overstuffed backpack to the side, the contents spilling across the floorboards as he raced upstairs to his room. He swore, Kaos would be the death of him one of these days, but at least his life was interesting with him around. Dyskord just wished he wasn't so, well, chaotic. But he supposed that came with the name.

Kaos threw the door to his room open, his breath catching in his throat. He had been wearing it when he fell asleep, where could it have gotten off to!? Had he taken it off when he got dressed? No, it wasn't by his closet box. Was it in his loft? No, no. Maybe it was in the blanket pile he had created that morning. Or maybe it was- Kaos froze, slowly turning towards the window, the familiar tap tap tapping of the tree branch against the grimy glass greeting him.

"You," he glowered at the tree branch, carefully approaching the window. "What did you do with it!?"

The tree branch just continued its endless rapping against the window pane, mocking him, oblivious to the enemy it had made. Kaos stormed forward, climbing up onto his desk, kicking the papers that covered it onto the ground.

"Give it back now!!" He pressed his face against the glass. "Or so help me, you will meet your untimely demise!!"

He was given no response. Not that Kaos expected one. The trees were always conniving, this one especially. They seemed innocent, but beneath that bark was a dastardly deciduous demon, lulling him into a false sense of security, laying in wait. But Kaos knew. Kaos knew the truth about these creatures. And he wouldn't let them get the upper hand. Never once taking his eyes from the branch, Kaos slid open his window slowly, then peered out. There it was, as he had assumed, his scarf. In the patchy grass, between the gnarled roots of the beast. He shot the tree one last glare, muttering to himself, then stepped out onto the small ledge right outside his window. At least that was a perk of being small, he could fit into spaces others couldn't. Kaos stood up, balancing himself against the wall, holding onto one of the few bricks that jutted out from the flush surface. He had done this many a time, but every time he felt butterflies congregating within his stomach, a few fluttering into his throat. The wind in his hair, the view of the forest beyond- painted in autumnal colors of deep purples and dry oranges, the grounds below in desperate need of tending. All of it flooding his senses, paired with the impending damage he would receive at one wrong move. It was all… magnificent. But admiring the view wasn't what he was here to do, no. Kaos shook his head, reaching out to grab the closest branch, hoisting himself into it. The tree may have been a conniving, callous creature, but at least it served a purpose. That being a way for Kaos to get to the ground without completely shattering all of his fragile little bones.

"Kaos, come on!!" He heard Dyskord call from inside. "I have other stuff I need to do today, if you don't hurry up you'll have to take the school ship!!"

Kaos rolled his eyes, carefully stepping down onto the next branch. Dyskord was so impatient. He'd get down, grab his scarf, and they'd be on their way before his older brother could utter another idiotic sentence. Kaos slid onto another branch, this one bending slightly under his weight. He shot the tree a glare, as if daring it to try something, before stepping onto the next one. This one, unluckily, wasn't so forgiving. Before Kaos knew what was happening, the branch had buckled beneath him, sending him crashing to the ground - the branches he fell past slicing at his skin. At least the damp earth was there to soften his fall. Kaos propped himself up on his arms, spitting out a chunk of dirt as he silently cursed himself out for letting down his guard. At least he has his scarf. Kaos stood up, brushing the dirt from his clothes best he could before assessing the damage. A few cuts here and there, his coat would definitely need some stitches, but at least nothing was broken. Kaos scooped his scarf up, wrapped it loosely around his neck, then froze. He heard the sound of an engine revving up, the realization hitting him all too late.

"WAIT!!" Kaos shouted, making a mad dash for the front door. "Dyskord, I'M COMING!!"

As Kaos rounded the corner, three things crossed his mind. His backpack laying on the path that lead up to the door, the idiocracy of his older brother; and the boat that belonged to the very same, the one that was usually docked at the edge of the island, now whirring off into the horizon without him.

"YOU IDIOT!!" Kaos shouted, skidding to a stop. He swore he heard his brother laughing over the sound of the motor, which was quickly fading away. "I'M TELLING MOTHER!!"

Of course he wouldn't. Telling Mother had become an empty threat within the family, no longer holding any weight after countless empty promises of "Mother'll hear about this" and "I'm telling mom" (the latter usually used by Mey) had been thrown around for years. But it was the only comeback he could dream up in the moment. He had other problems than coming up with a witty response that Dyskord couldn't even hear. He'd get him back later. After he was done with his current plan. Then he'd have all the time in the world to get back at Dyskord for being a complete ignoramus and putting a petty act of defiance over the welfare of the plan. That's what Kaos got for letting him in on it, he supposed, kicking a loose pathing tile out of frustration. His kick barely dislodged it, but it was at least something. Kaos grabbed his bag up off of the ground, finally noticing the note taped to it. Have fun taking the school ship. Of course. Kaos crumpled the note up as he swung the backpack over his shoulder, muttering to himself all the while. He looked around, starting to head in the direction the school ship usually docked. It was quite a ways away, so the sooner he left, the better chances he had of catching it. Why it didn't dock closer to his home was beyond him, and despite the complaints he had lodged with the school board and his mother, no changes had been made. Rolling fields of splotchy, yellowing grass were laid out before Kaos, broken up by the occasional stone pathway. Cracking with age and broken up like a checkerboard. The wound through the dirt haphazardly, interrupted by the occasional tree (which Kaos did his best to keep his distance from) or the start of a rickety bridge that connected the nearby islands. On his usual walks, Kaos would have stopped on the bridges, kneeling down and seeing how far down he could reach into the abyss below, waiting for something to float by that he could possibly add to his collections. Today, he had no time for that. Today, he actually had somewhere to be. Kaos counted his steps, glancing over his shoulder occasionally to watch as his home got smaller and smaller. From here, it looked normal. Simple even. But the imposing aura it cast still lingered in the air. The tall spires piercing the wispy clouds themselves, high stone walls and arched windows covered in moss and ivy. An overbearing, ancient labyrinth of a castle Kaos called home. Sometimes Kaos was convinced the place was still standing because of the grime it was caked in, which was the excuse he gave himself whenever it came to cleaning. If he did a good job, he might not have a home to go back to. It was an excuse Mother was never fond of. Kaos remembered one year he had been put on ivy duty during their yearly cleaning. He had encountered a particularly dastardly tangle of vines on the west side, one that had kept him trapped for the majority of the day. Mother had found him deep asleep in their verdant web after the sun had set, and Kaos hadn't been allowed near that part of the castle for a good while afterwards. Kaos sighed, a smile creeping its way onto his face at the memory, his home now simply a silhouette against the backdrop of the endless sky. He looked ahead, finally making out his target. The old barge that served as the school ship. Badly, at that. It was only a few islands away, where the grass was more lush and the terrain less harsh. Kaos picked up his speed, going from a light jog to a sprint, barely feeling his feet touch the ground. He was gonna make it. He could still see students boarding, he still had time, he could still make it.

"WAIT! WAIT!!" He shouted, causing a few heads to turn, but only for a brief moment.

Kaos forced himself through the crowd, nearly doubling over as he struggled to catch his breath, one hand on the strap of his backpack and the other on his scarf, just making sure it was still there. He ignored the dirty looks he was getting as the line began moving again, following the students ahead of him up the ramp. Even from his low vantage point he could tell the state of the ship. Noisy and overcrowded, with just a sprinkle of staff trying desperately to keep order. The chatter of students loud enough to make the patchwork steel hull of the ship vibrate. Kaos found his mind wandering as he and the rest of the students were herded onto the ship like animals, personal space a thing of the past. Everyone around him was at least double Kaos' height, leaving him lost in a forest of legs and torsos shuffling him forward. It would have been humiliating if he wasn't used to it. Ever since he was little, (well, littler) he had been the runt of the litter. Mother had wanted to hold him back because of it, even though she admitted he was smart enough to be a grade ahead. But here he was, stuck in a sea of people all taller than him, even at a grade lower than he should have been. At least that meant he excelled compared to everyone else - when he actually applied himself, that is. It was so hard to apply himself when everything was so easy. Kaos wanted a challenge, he needed one, he-

BANG!

Kaos stumbled back, bumping into the person behind him. He clutched his hands over his ears, the world vibrating around him. He faintly heard the person behind him mutter something as they pushed past, pulling him back to reality. What in the Ancients' names was that?! Kaos looked around, stepping off of the ramp and onto the deck of the ship, feeling the engine start to whir to life. He frowned. It must've just been a misfire of the engine. The ship was old and broken, misfires were bound to happen. But even then, Kaos couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Kaos peered over the edge of the ship, watching as the island below them slowly began drifting away. The smell of engine fuel and strong perfume filling the air. Kaos gripped the rusting side rail, then looked back to the deck of the ship. The talking had only grown louder, everyone trying to be heard over the roar of the engine and of course one another. It was an idiotic sight, people huddled into groups. Elves and Ents playing a quick game of Skystones, a group of Mabu discussing the best way to prepare beetroots for their cooking class - even the Gillmen were chatting it away, all in their own little worlds. Everyone seemed to have a group. Everyone, but Kaos. It wasn't a bother to him, though, not at all. Why would it have been? He had himself, and that was all Kaos needed. Kaos began making his way through the crowds of kids, hands in his pockets and eyes trained on the floor. He slid his backpack off once he got to his usual corner, plopping himself down. He looked up at the sky, watching the clouds drift by, the chatter around him becoming nothing but white noise. He closed his eyes, letting himself drift off, running the plan through his head once more. It would be perfect. He just needed to make it through the day.

***

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[unluckyopossum]

I Need A Place I can Rest- CH 1

Viktor Vector x Fem!V

Vik wants to fix things for V more than anything. V just needs somewhere to feel safe.

Read on AO3

The sun had long since set, the moon now rising steadily over Night City as the constant hum of the streets above the small clinic became more pervasive. Snippets of conversations and raucous shouts from Night City denizens filtering through the cracks and crevices of the old building. The cramped streets, and shadowed alleyways filling with increasing numbers of bodies going to the closest club, BD lounge, or love hotel. The daylight that filtered down the stairs into the dark clinic had been replaced by the neon glow of signs and adverts from above. It was well past time for any clients to drop by, other than a potential emergency, but there were 24hr joints for those. The esoterica was dim and Misty was likely back to her apartment by now, preferring to leave before the streets became so busy.

    Vik sat at his desk finishing up the day's paperwork and idly tinkering with his exo-glove. A habit more than a hobby at this point, since there was only so much that could be done for the gloves precision at a certain point. He had started taking his time closing up in the evenings, not because he was behind with his work, or wanted a moment of quiet time for himself after a busy day. Instead, for the small hope that a certain little merc might come and fling open the gates. V had started coming by the little clinic in the evenings frequently, shortly after they first met, and the addition of the relic to her person had only increased her visits. Vik relished in any time he was able to spend close to V, but the ripper in him hated what caused the encounters. The merc always seemed to be struggling with a new relic malfunction or scrape from one of her increasingly dangerous missions. From what little she had told him, the search for answers and how to remove the relic had her treading dangerous waters. Though it seemed even the gigs from fixers and ncpd hustles had been getting her into his clinic several times a week. Most of those visits just involved a quick bandage or cleaning a scrape; first aid she was more than capable of doing for herself now that he thought about it. The older ripper didn't think too long about it, not wanting to give himself any false hope that these visits were more to see him than to receive medical attention.

    Most of the time he felt helpless before V. Unable to save her from what the relic was doing to her, unable to find someone who could, and unable to express his feelings to her. So he instead had to trust the merc to find the answers herself, and pretend to be busy at the clinic late into the night on the off chance he could do the smallest thing to help her, trying to fight back the helpless feeling of not being able to fix this. Helplessness was not a feeling he managed well, and certainly not when it came to her. If he thought about it too much -like he did many nights- a deep feeling of self loathing would creep up for not being able to help one of the few people he considers close to him. If anyone should be helping her it should be him ...right? He should be able to keep her from dying like Jackie.

    He wasn't one to share his feelings but on the rare occasion Misty had caught him in one of these spirals she had given him one of her knowing looks and reminded him that having supportive friends and somewhere safe to go was helping V, a lot. She didn't neglect to add that V did seem to run right to him when things went wrong, so he was clearly doing something right.

    At the time it had made his heart feel like it would beat out of his chest as he tried to remind himself that of course she would see her ripper first. It wasn't like she was going to see Vik specifically or anything, he was just her ripper. Though that wouldn't explain all the times she has visited Misty to talk about some new tarot mural and always came down to see him. Often bringing him a coffee exactly as he would order without him ever asking for one first.

He shook his head letting the thought roll off of him, breaking out of his daydream with a long deep sigh.

    Not that he hadn't been paying attention to her since Jackie first introduced then, but he found himself getting stuck thinking about her more and more often. While Jackie was alive he told himself he was just thinking of her as a new choom. One who always made him laugh and could talk him into silly plans even Jack couldn't. A friend who he worried about on missions late at night and whose eyes held light in a way he had never seen even with the most advanced optics. One who probably didn't think of him as anything more than that. He had realized that he felt more than that when losing V became a reality, and he spent more time pushing those thoughts aside than he would admit... even to himself.

    Finally settling down his tools he ran a large hand through his hair, wincing towards the back of his head reminding himself that his chance at something more with her was likely long past for the aging ripper. Staying close friends and making sure to support her as she tried to survive was more than he could ask for.

    Before his thoughts began to spiral again he checked his monitor a final time. The corner of the screen let him know he had been lost in thought longer than he expected. V knew he was normally long gone by now. There was no point in him hanging around any longer if she wouldn't be dropping by, and he had long since passed any excuse that he was there to do paper work.

He rose to his feet slowly resigning himself to locking up and leaving for the day. His apartment was close by, but the idea of returning to an empty home wasn't an appealing one tonight. Normally he wouldn't mind the quiet time alone at home after a long day; to have a drink and decompress. Yet tonight being left alone with his thoughts the way they had been going was daunting.

    Bending back down to the desk he roughly snatched the keys off the surface to lock up the gate, turning to leave. It would have been clear to anyone watching his disappointment with the evening by the way his broad shoulders drooped as he made his way to the clinic exit. Heavy boots dragging across the floor, exhaustion more present in his gait than the normal reserved swagger he carried himself with. Reaching for the gates he halted in his tracks, his heart skipping, and a panicked weight formed in his stomach.

    The scuffed toe of a familiar pair of boots was just visible through the gaps in the gate grating. The leather barely peeking from the corner by the stairs leading to the alley above. Panic fully set in as Vik took a breath and time began to slowly move for him again, pushing him into action. He flung the gates open with more force than he felt he ever had before, and as he whipped around the corner was confronted with V's still form.

    Haphazardly slumped against the wall, her eyes were closed but the rise and fall off her chest was all Vik needed to breathe a sigh of relief. Her breathing was steady and deep letting him know that if she was in danger it wasn't immediate. Unconscious was a world better than what his first reaction had been, unconscious he would work with. A quick glance over showed one of her mantis blades stuck extended, metal twisted and warped where it connected to her arm. Her hands and forearms were splashed with drying blood, hers or anthers he couldn't be sure. Though based on the burgundy tint covering the entirety of her blade he could tell at least most of it wasn't from V. Kneeling next to her he placed a hand on her shoulder, and with no response, called out her name softly.

"V? Can you hear me sweetheart?... V? Valerie?" He tried at last.

Her full name was known to wake her after even the most degenerate nights out with Panam.

No response.

     In a flurry he popped back in the clinic grabbing a tarp to cover the exposed blade. Neither of them would be happy if one of the two was injured because he was rushing. Kneeling down he wrapped the blade securely and slipped one powerful arm under her knees, the other under her back. Lifting her off the ground as gently as possible the thought of how light she felt in his arms flooded through his mind for a short second before being cast aside by the hammering dread of what might have happened. As he turned to take her into the clinic she finally began to rouse. Looking up into his sharp green eyes barely visible over his shades she gave a weak smile.

"guess I didn't make it in the door huh"

she reached up her good arm, shaking slightly, and placed it gently on his cheek.

"yep not dreaming, sorry Vik" she kept speaking before he could even ask what for.

"' S’okay though, not my blood. Blade got messed up, but I'm fine" She mumbled and squeezed her eyes shut as Vik set her down in his procedure chair.

"V?"

"Sorry… it's just the relic, acted up real bad on my way over, that's why"

She gestured loosely towards the gate. A frown made its way across Viks face before he could control it. The relic, an ever present sore spot for him, a man he has never met slowly taking V away.

"I know what you're thinking Vik, but really, I'm alright... it's already passing"

She tried to comfort him, giving his forearm a delicate touch as he powered up the screens by the table, letting the touch linger as long as she could.

" Is it getting worse v, you  taking the blockers?"  A sheepish half smile creeps to her lips.

'' Well, I'm not taking them regularly..."

Which he knows means never.

" We just have a lot to do, and having him around is really helpful Vik"

“How much is he really helping sweetheart, he's the one killing you” A hint of malice laced the rippers words.

V’s face crinkled as she looked at the far side of the clinic, as if having a conversation with someone he couldn't see. Vik realized it was the dead rocker, he could help but be irritated that Silverhand was in his clinic, not that he had any say in the matter.

“It's not like he wants to” V said barely above a whisper.

”Wants what V?” He asked moving to unwrap her blade, and address the reason she was in his clinic in the first place.

“ For me to die, said he would trade in a heartbeat... well not that he has one anymore, other than mine” she shifted in the seat looking uncomfortable as if she didn't want to disappoint either of them with her response.

    She had to know how Vik felt about Johnny, it wasn't like he could hide the disdain in his voice when the parasitic rocker was brought up. Johnny was her friend now, and while they gave each other shit all the time she didn’t want Johnny to think she blamed him. She also didn’t want Vik to be disappointed in her for befriending the engram slowly killing her. V didn’t give a shit what most people in Night City thought of her but Vik was on the short list of people whose opinions mattered most. Higher on that list than she was willing to admit, and higher than Vik could know. Vik sighed, thumb and forefinger rubbing across his brow drooping his head.

“ I know you don't like him Vik, but he helped get me to you” The ripper peaked back up at her eyebrow slightly raised.

“ I know V, hard to separate him from what he’s doin to you though, don’t want to lose someone else to the relic, especially not you”.

    He hadn’t meant to remind her of Jackie but he couldn't help but think of him, dead in his clinic. Trying to clean up his best friend for his family when arasaka ripped him away. Their relic threatening to rip V away from him in a way that felt so similar. It was hard to admit but losing V terrified him more than even losing Jackie, the terror ever growing the more she wormed her way into his heart.

She had started to frown, he realized, probably thinking about Jackie. He worried that he had made what she was going through even worse, he had hurt her.

“ Sorry V, shouldn't have brought it up, tell me about your arm, what happened.” He desperately tried to change the subject. He wasn’t trying to make her feel guilty but seemed to be saying all the wrong things.

“ Ah... nah Vik, you didn't do anything wrong, didn't mean to worry you… don’t need to waste your time thinkin bout me.” But he always thought about her, worry or not.

She lifted the arm with the damaged blade shifting it inspecting the warped metal.

”This though, cyber psycho. Not the usual fair though. None of them have been like her so far, and you know I have butted heads a bunch of these guys so far.” She paused slightly, eyebrows furrowing ” Some maelstrom ritual on this girl, must not have gone well since she went psycho and all. Spooked me though, looked like a ghost or something. So she caught me off guard hence...” she flapped her arm in the air, the blade creaking in protest.

” She really did spook me for a second though Vik, I've seen a lot but that was a first.” the ripper finished gathering his tools with a chuckle settling down on his stool by her arm to get to work.

” Can’t imagine you being bothered by much out there V, quick pinch” before she knew it he had done a ring block on her arm to get to work.

” Yeah... I guess it wasn’t so much the ritual, or the dead malstromers, that's pretty much my everyday. I guess I doubted what was real for a second. Hit a bit too close to home ya know. Guess that was never something I had to think about until recently and now… well. You know.” Silence hung in the air, only the clicking of tools and metallic creaking breaking it.

    Vik wasn’t sure how to respond, to him V was still V. The only person who could brighten any day for him, who he couldn't stay mad at no matter how much trouble she brought through his door, and the person who made him feel like his heart would stop when she looked up at him. It wasn't just her though he knew, now when she clung to his arm trying to talk him into something he wouldn't want to do, Johnny was right there with her; And one day soon it might not be her at all. Johnny could take over whether he even wanted that, and Vik may never see or even hear from her again. Her reality was constantly in jeopardy and that was what frightened them both. Vik didn’t want to wallow in those feelings though, thinking of losing V made him feel like a nail was being hammered into his chest right by his heart, an oddly motivating feeling.

” V, you’re you... the same V Jackie introduced me to. You may not see it because you have to listen to Silverhand all the time, but those of us who know you, we can see it. You're still the same you.” he squeezed her hand gently before snapping a piece of blade back in place.

    The merc blushed lightly looking down uncharacteristically shy, squeezing his hand back clumsily due to the numbness from the anesthetic. Her eyes darted up to his where he was already staring at her, eyes locking with each other. With a loud click the mantis blade retracted back into place pulling them both back to reality.

” Alright sweetheart I’m all finished with ya, should be back in working order.” the ripper started to stand leaving her side to return his tools.

Her hand darted out fingers tangling in the edge of his loosely tucked shirt.

”Vik… I…” she trailed off keeping a stiff grip on his shirt as he set the tools on the table by the chair.

”It's getting worse Vik... and well, I’m not sure I have enough time anymore… to fix this” he didn't move away from her grip but a hand returned to rub his forehead the ripper looking almost frustrated.

“V you need to stop giving that thing control, I told you that would make things move faster” her voice raised, she had wanted to be comforted not lectured.

”He isn't a thing Vik you know that, he’s my friend, and it impacts both of us”

“V he isn’t even a person, just an engram of a long dead Rockstar”

“I get it Vik, I fucking do, I don't want to die that’s the point... but I’m fucking scared and at least he is there when I’m alone” The ripper continued rubbing his forehead and let out a low exasperated sigh.

“V for fuckssake you know I'm not good at stuff like this” He wanted to comfort her and hold her tight more than anything, but the words he wanted never seemed to be within his grasp.

“Well fucking aware Vik, shouldn’t have expected anything more form you” … shit, he hadn’t meant to get mad, he wanted to wrap her in his arms and tell her it would all be alright, that he was right there and wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her. That all he wanted was for her to survive so she never had to leave his side. But none of that would help her, would just make her uncomfortable, and put added pressure on her. He wanted to tell her he loved her … but stopped himself like he had for months.

“V…”

“Don’t Vik, I don't need a lecture” the merc finally let go of his shirt, attempting to sit up and get out of the chair still looking a bit dizzy from the previous malfunction.

She refused to make eye contact as she stood, preparing to delta as fast as she could.

” The last thing I need is the one man whose opinion means a damn to me giving me shit”

Vik started to open his mouth to explain, he wasn't trying to do that. He never wanted to.

” Look I know you hate him and you don't get it, but I'm trying my best. Even if that means Johnny needs to take over some times, and look... I get it it may speed things up, and that scares the shit out of me but I don't know another way.”

“ you could ask for help V”

“ Vik I ask for you help so much I feel like a leach, like i'm taking advantage, I bother you all the fucking time… I can’t impose on your life more than I already do. I know you cant want a half dead gonk barging in here all the time… I just… fuck forget it”

In one swift movement she hopped up and walked quickly towards the door, purposeful strides carrying her away from the ripper.

” Vik sometimes I don't want you to try and fix me, I just want you to be with you”

    She moved faster towards the gates before she said something that couldn’t be taken back. Something that might ruin the friendship she had and make her look truly pathetic. She had already accepted the ripper was taking care of her out of friendship, guilt at not being able to save her, or some obligation to Jackie. She just used that to see his face as often as she could, spend what little time she might have with him. She knew she had to be a disappointment to him though, just some dumb streetkid who couldn’t get her shit together when it came down to the wire. She reached the gate and turned her head back to him one more time.

“Vik … I know you might not feel the same .. but when I’m here with you… fuck.” she swallowed her words.`` I’ll take better care of myself, I’ll get you the eddies for my arm soon” and she disappeared around the corner.

“V “ he shouted after her, frozen in place.

   Vik stood in stunned silence for the most excruciating minute of his life. He had never been all that great with his words and couldn't respond as quickly as he wished. Sharing his feelings was a weak point all his exes had pointed out and he hadn't learned much on that front as he got older. Feel the same about what? Be with him how? A flicker of recognition flashed through his mind. He may make a fool of himself but it felt like now or never. Chase after the girl or she may walk out of his life forever, which meant he couldn’t see much for himself to lose. Normally not one to make rash decisions the ripper bolted out of the clinic flinging the gate open not bothering to lock up. If V was telling him she just wanted him to be near her, well he was going to make sure he did that for as long as he could calling out after her again as he bounded up the stairs.

    At the top though, he didn’t see her, just the normal gonks hanging in the ally. The shadows and light in the clearing played tricks on his eyes through his dark shades. Glimpses at figures that could be the merc seemed to be at every exit as he whipped his head around frantically. A familiar meow sounded at his feet, the pale ally cat looking up at him eyes wide and piercing. The cat brushed against his calf then walked towards the elevator, meowing again at the closed doors, becoming him to follow it, the elevator panel indicating it was up at the roof. With a heavy swallow he reached out, all hesitation gone and pressed the call button.