#it’d be one more thing to make him more subdued than before

[turtleblogatlast]

[ cw : ptsd / trauma / ]

Leo, post-invasion, finally well enough to sit down with his entire extended family for a good ol’ Jupiter Jim marathon…only to shut down near immediately when the first movie begins. He goes quiet and still at the sight of open space, and it’s exactly reminiscent of how he behaved in the Prison Dimension. So very, very silent.

He can’t bring himself to watch those movies anymore.

[ghostaholics]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐒

➸ PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!reader (established relationship) ➸ WARNING(S): [ 18+ ] body shots; oral (receiving); ruined orgasm; basically PWP with slight BDSM (disciplinary action) ➸ SUMMARY: Simon teaches you a very important lesson about holding still – extended version of this. ➸ A/N: Thank you to @mvtthewmurdvck who lets me bitch about anything and everything including this and offered kind words when I certainly lost faith in the whole thing. ➸ WORD COUNT: 2.2k

𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐎𝐍, 𝐒𝐈����𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄. Pilfered from his not-so-secret stash and running low with about a quarter left; the contents slosh around in their bottle-shaped confinement as he stalks into the room with a heavy hand swallowing around the widest circumference of the glass.

Good memories, usually. Like the first time he’d brandished his titanium pocket flask for you to take a sip. You’d scrunched your nose, feigning disapproval of the drink. And he'd said – cheeky as always – with a low-timbered response:

"Don't worry. The taste of your cunt's still my favourite."

But now, there’s no trace of that Simon anywhere to be seen. His face is entirely devoid of the amusement he already so rarely expressed. Stone-rigid. Unimpressed. Disappointed – seems like – and certainly not in the mood for any games.

❝ 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇? ❞

It's a red-hot brand searing the edges of your memory (charred, ash-coated, lined by the cinders of a poor attempt on your part that had gone up into flickering embers).

See, the brain remembers it well.

Your cunt, too: the walls hugging his cock, full of his cum – excessively so, nearly bursting with it after he'd buried himself to the hilt and stayed inside just to plug your snug little hole, ensuring that none of it would dribble out after he’d fucked you senseless. He’d given you plenty, more than enough. And it’d been generous of Simon. A gift, really, considering the enormity of the initial request.

Make me yours?

He’d only had one thing to say, just a simple favour in return for doing this, for indulging you. His voice had been hoarse, sandpaper-rough from overuse – your fault entirely – eroded away after being subjected to a whole night's worth of groaning against the shell of your ear and telling you just how fucking good you felt before you'd milked him for everything he was worth with your greedy, pulsing self.

Keep it all in then.

You’d done your best not to clench, but stretched taut around the girth of his cock like that, you'd just wanted to readjust. Not a lot. But the position you'd been in wasn't the most conducive one for this. And you’d shifted – barely, practically inconsequential (or so you’d thought) – to where you wouldn’t have even thought it’d matter except—

It had.

Pushed some of it out, that is. A stream of cum trickling down onto an area of the duvet, staining it – the unfortunate aftermath of your decision to move.

Thas’ a shame. Thought you wanted it. Guess I was wrong.

Simon comes to a stop at the foot of the bed where you're sitting; he towers over you – an intimidating, subduing presence without even having to try. "Had to wash the sheets because you couldn't keep it all in.”

You blink in surprise as your mouth parts slightly in what you're sure must be a dumbfounded expression. Of course, this is nothing new. You were there. Responsible for the incident, apparently. And though it wasn't necessarily your fault, you still feel the need to explain that it was due to factors beyond your control. “There was so much—” (As if it'll help your case.)

But he's never cared much for excuses.

“How ‘m I supposed to finish inside you knowing that you’re just going to waste it?” he asks. It's a rhetorical question, not one that actually requires an answer.

Your chin tips down in a silent apology. There's something heavy sitting in your chest; remorse, you think.

He grips your jaw in his hand, forces you to look at him. “Yeah, love. We’ll fix that. Gonna teach you how to be grateful, how to understand the value in the things I give to you."

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒.

He makes you tell him your colors.

You do.

He asks if you know what you’re supposed to get out of this.

You answer that he’s probably going to have to wash the sheets again before you can learn whatever lesson he’s trying to impose on you.

Yeah, that earns you a sharp pinch to the hip.

That massive body of his sinks to the floor, one leg bending down before the other joins it, rough carpet cutting into his knees, undoubtedly. Then, his fingers curl around your legs, blunt digits sinking in – ten identical divots pressed into the flesh. He leaves light indentations with his palms spanning along the sides of your thighs to spread you open while his elbows anchor into the mattress.

Heat blooms across your skin, every surface that he touches and even in the places that he doesn't – white-hot, intentional (and he never does anything without purpose); it sparks a fever that fans out, unfurls. There's no part of you left unaffected. You're growing warmer by a few degrees. Doesn't sound like much, but it's enough to make a noticeable difference if the beads of sweat gathering at the back of your neck are any indication.

And Simon lets out a soft scoff. Cocky. Like he knew what was waiting for him—

You're soaked, absolutely drenched. Cotton panties, sticky –saturated beyond belief. If you looked there yourself, you wouldn't be surprised to find a damp patch on the fabric steadily growing in size.

He's such a sight, too: the contour of his muscles shifting and rippling, all brawn and power – his presence speaking volumes about just who holds the cards right now, undeniably the one in control here; the visual of his stature and build emphasize that. And authority bleeding from the width of his shoulders if not spelled out by his words alone.

"Haven't even touched you, and you're already dripping," he murmurs. "Why?"

Your mouth trips and stutters over your own words the same way your heart trips and stutters over his. "Because you—y-you're..."

His thumbs hook into your panties, slowly peels them away – not an easy feat, damn things are clinging to your cunt – before dragging them down your legs. "Say it, sweetheart. What do you think I'm gonna do to you?"

And your mind is racing, jumping too many steps ahead. "You're going to eat me out?"

Simon stuffs his panties in his back pocket for safekeeping. A souvenir, since there won't be much use for them now. "I'm gonna eat you out," he affirms.

"Mhm, yeah. Want your mouth on me."

"Whether or not you come depends entirely on if I feel like letting you."

"Oh—"

"Spill a single drop, and you don't come tonight," he says, never one to draw out the details. His instructions are concise, uncomplicated. Then, further inquiry. "We clear?"

"Yeah..." you say with a shaky breath before trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Yes."

"Good girl," he purrs low, almost a growl – though you're not quite certain that you deserve the praise yet.

He’s answering to a shrine, beckoned forward by the invitation of a wet cunt and the promise of a taste of your slick. He pauses, takes a brief moment to admire it in his own way, almost reverent as he takes in how your arousal’s smeared everywhere from your folds to your inner thighs (all for him, because of him – isn’t that right?).

But make no mistake, there’s absolutely nothing respectful about the act that comes next. Simon leans, forces his shoulders to hold you open, before he bows his head and he licks; it’s a hungry tongue lapping at the slit, everything terribly hot and wet – the sensation makes you jolt upon first contact because it's too much. So, so much.

And at the same time, not enough.

The feeling spikes along the circuit running from your head to your toes – empty thoughts save for the white static that buzzes in the hollow of your skull, a tingling, prickling paresthesia-sort-of-thing that usually accompanies the high of an orgasm. Except, the irony’s not lost on you in this instance; he’s hardly even begun to wreak havoc on your cunt yet.

Currents zip down your spine, down, further down, everything else collateral damage. No part of you is spared by the overwhelming fervor responsible for it – the initial onslaught of his mouth laying waste at the spread of your entrance.

Every single nerve-ending is on-edge, trigger-sensitive as he sucks, and kisses, and fuck are his groans heavy, bone-deep, the rumble of a thunderstorm gathering in his chest. They radiate from the point of origin where your core’s suffering, reverberating tremors that diffuse out to the rest of you. It makes your skin thrum like a live wire. There’s no hope of staying in a fixed position if he keeps this up. How could you? The odds are zero to none. It isn’t feasible.

You forget your place, can't help but squirm within his iron grip.

Then, Simon; a severe reprimand— "Watch it," he rasps. It’s a lull amidst the incursion, an unplanned interlude. Temporary reprieve (barely) so he can scold you for your inability to follow his instructions.

A low whimper leaves your throat. That's completely out of the question, beyond what you're currently capable of. Easier said than done. "I'm trying—"

"Then try harder."

Despite how weighed down your eyelids feel, you manage to guide your laden gaze south, let it roam over your stomach. The dark, amber liquid in your navel sways; it rocks, sloshes with the tide, a consequence born from the pull and heave of your jarring movements. Exercise caution. This is delicate work – a balancing act. Those thoughts are cloudy.

Your mind is fuzzy, thick, a drunken haze. Buzzed, lightheaded. And everything's off-kilter. But you haven't had a single drop of alcohol. None at all. Couldn’t, because everything's still sitting in your navel right there like it’s supposed to.

Simon dips his head back between your legs, continues to seal his mouth over you, flattening his tongue to lick thick stripes from your entrance to your clit. He doesn't let up, only bringing his face closer, following that same path again and again and again – agonizing – until you're trembling. The noises he’s making, something debauched and bottomless – one wet groan after the other. This isn't for you. It's for him, that much is clear.

You plead anyways, hoping he'll grant you an amnesty that you haven't earned in the least bit, "Need you inside. Anything, just—"

"Sure you can handle it?"

Breathless when you say, "Ah, yeah..."

"We'll see about that," Simon murmurs.

He doesn't believe you.

To be fair, you’re not so sure you do either.

But he's courteous, slips one finger in and lets you clamp around him. And your cunt flutters, welcomes the feeling.

You release a soft moan. “Want more, Si. Feels good."

His face turns to the side, wet nose and chin grazing along your thigh to spread the slick in more places that haven't been drenched yet. Then he bites. Gentle. An admonishment. Nothing serious about it though: scraping, the light pressure of teeth sinking into the skin as he pulls with his mouth.

You jerk suddenly before catching yourself.

"Don't be fuckin' greedy. You'll take what I give you, and you'll thank me for it." He's curt, perfunctory. No delay as he offers up his two fingers to your mouth. The expectation is clear. “Suck.” And he's waiting.

You wrap your lips around them, swallowing him down, not one to squander an opportunity sitting in front of you, right? You understand that now.

“So tell me how good you taste.”

"I-um, taste good—"

"Yeah, you fuckin' do."

"Thank you."

“Mhm.”

You can't see it, but you can hear it: the low clinking of a belt being unbuckled, the sound of a zipper being undone. Clinking metal and rustling denim being tampered with somewhere below your line of sight as he reaches down, almost like he— is he… oh.

Most of his body's obscured by the edge of the bed, but everything from the chest up is still visible. Simon's shoulder is bobbing slightly, arm pumping back and forth in a rhythmic motion and fuck, he's getting himself off to this.

That sends another spark of arousal to your core, makes you gush. It adds to the mess coating his jaw, his chin, his lips. You whimper out something – broken syllables – his name, maybe. You’re not entirely sure.

God, you’re almost there. So close. Wound up tight, hips rolling against his mouth, chasing his tongue—

Until he stops entirely. No contact. Simon pulls away in such a rush that you gasp, startled.

"Look at that." Accusatory.

It's a trail of liquor dribbling over the curve of your stomach, down your side in small rivulets. There are streaks pooling onto the sheets underneath you. Tragic.

(Couldn't help yourself, huh?)

Guilty as charged.

Shit.

"What'd I say – told you to hold still, yeah?"

And even though you had a feeling it would happen, you still have the nerve to act surprised at the result. "Fuck," you whine pathetically. "Was so close—"

"We're starting over. Don't care if it takes us all night, we're gonna keep at this 'til you get it right or you use up the rest of the whiskey," he says, readying himself to deposit another pour of alcohol into your navel. Simon lifts his shoulder in a light shrug like he can't be bothered about the final outcome. "Better pray that it works out before the bottle’s empty. Won't let you finish otherwise, sweetheart. Understand?"

[fidothefinch]

set up for failure

For Whumptober, Day 3: set up for failure. Featuring Tim training as Robin, and Bruce being a bit of an asshole.

“Again.”

Tim obediently crossed his wrists behind his back. He took a deep breath as Bruce tied rope around his wrists, levelling his heart rate. It was tighter than last time. Sweat dripped into his eyes and soaked his shirt, but he didn’t dare complain.

He was the one who had begged for training, after all.

“Go.”

Read on Ao3 (or below the cut)

Tim reached with his fingers to trail along the rope, trying to find the knot. Seconds ticked by as he searched.

Bruce’s mouth ticked down into a frown.

“I can do it,” Tim insisted. When he realized he couldn’t reach the knot, he paused a moment to reassess. He could use his teeth, if he could get his hands to the front. But how to do that?

Bruce’s hard gaze on him ushered him to move.

He crouched and hunched over as far as he could go, shimmying backward to slip his knotted wrists under his butt. The stretch pulled at his already raw bare wrists, but once they were behind his bent knees, it was simpler to fold his legs through. (Finally, a good thing to come out of puberty hitting his arms before his legs.) From there, he found the knot with his teeth and began tugging it to the side. Then it was easier to reach the knot, and though it was tight, he made quick work of loosening it. Eighteen more seconds, and he was free.

“Done!” he exclaimed, holding the rope up to show it.

“One hundred eighty-seven seconds,” Bruce murmured, stopping the watch. Tim’s chest swelled, until Bruce continued with, “Not good enough.”

“It’s not?” he asked. It was a better time than he had made before. He absently felt along his bare wrists, which were smarting in the aftermath of two hours of escape practice.

“If you are serious about being Robin, you need to be better,” Bruce said. “Dick could get out in less than a minute.”

Tim thought there was something unfair about being compared to a world-class acrobat. But Jason hadn’t been able to get out that quickly, either.

And Jason was dead.

“Okay,” Tim said. “What do I need to do?”

Bruce studied him for a long moment. “Again.” He gestured for Tim to turn around.

Obediently, Tim turned his back, presenting his hands again. Bruce pulled the rope even tighter, this time. The skin burned. “I think it’s too tight,” Tim hissed.

“Anybody who is tying your hands is going to care more about keeping you subdued than protecting your circulation,” Bruce explained, monotone. “You have to expect the worst. Now, go.”

Tim’s fingers were already prickling. But he got to work, reaching for the knot. When that didn’t work, he tried to repeat his last trick. His hands were tied too tightly, though, and it didn’t allow him the flexibility to get them under his bottom. With trepidation, he realized he had lost feeling completely in his pinky fingers. “Bruce—”

“Figure it out.”

Right. Tim looked around the room. Bruce had never said he couldn’t use a tool. In fact, it’d been repeated over and over again that he had to pay attention to his surroundings and use his resources. His frantic scan revealed a Batarang, left on one of the work stations. Glancing briefly at Bruce to make sure this was within the boundaries of the exercise, and seeing no reaction, he jogged over and grabbed for it.

It took several tries to wrap his fingers around it. They felt like sausages, foreign to his body. Like his tongue felt when he ate ice cream too quickly. But grab it he did, and with some maneuvering, he angled one of the bladed wings up toward the rope. A little sawing, and one strand snapped. It was enough to shake the rest of it loose.

Tim raised his freed hands in tired victory. “Done,” he said. There was blood on his hands – he’d nicked himself with the blade, and hadn’t even felt it.

Bruce stopped the watch, but said nothing. His eyes didn’t leave the timer’s digital readout. “Clean yourself up,” he ordered. “We’re finished here.”

Tim dropped the rope. “We’re done? But—”

“I told you to clean up,” Bruce repeated, voice harsher this time.

Tim stepped backward at the force of the command. He sounded angry. “Wait, Bruce. I can do it!” Bruce had already turned and begun to walk away. Tim chased after him. “Just. Let me try again.”

Bruce did stop, but the look he gave Tim froze him in his tracks. He was talking to Batman here, not Bruce. “Do you know how many chances you get, when it really counts?”

“You just get one,” Tim confirmed. Shame heat his cheeks, but he pushed past the feeling. “That’s why I need practice.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

The hairs on the back of Tim’s neck stood on end. But if Robin was at stake – if Batman was at stake – then he would do what he had to. He swallowed, and he was proud when his voice was steady as he answered, “Yes.”

There was a blur of movement, and Bruce suddenly had Tim’s arm twisted behind his back. He frog marched him over to the middle of the gym mats, where he none-too-gently pushed him to his stomach. Tim barely caught himself with his free hand, which was quickly snapped up to his back again.

“The scenario,” Bruce said, as he tied Tim’s wrists together. The last pull yanked the rope tight, and Tim bit his tongue as he felt skin tear. “You’ve been captured by an enemy and left in an empty warehouse.”

Bruce folded one of Tim’s legs back at the knee and roughly removed his shoe and sock. “You were beaten, and now you are concussed, you have a collapsed lung, and your left leg is broken.”

Tim’s pulse fluttered in his neck. “Bruce,” he grunted, as the tail of the rope was pulled tight around his left ankle. Bruce wasted no time in removing and tossing away Tim’s other shoe, leaving him in only his sweaty T-shirt and sweat pants.

Tim kicked instinctively, testing the slack of the rope, but it only pulled on his wrists, jerking his back into an arch.

“Smoke fills the room, so you cannot see,” Bruce continued, his voice tight. Tim’s vision was suddenly obscured by a cloth, which was fastened around his head. “And you cannot breathe.” Another cloth, this one stuffed into his mouth and taped into place.

“Batman isn’t going to make it,” Bruce whispered, running a gentle hand through Tim’s hair.

Tim froze at the frozen touch and the tone of Bruce’s voice.

“Go.”

Bruce’s hands left Tim’s head, and Tim immediately lost track of him in the cavernous space.

“Mrrrs?” he called, words horribly muffled.

There was no answer.

Tim tested the grip of the ropes around his wrists. They were tight enough to bite into his skin, and the knot was too far for his fingers to reach. His anxiety rose. How far away had Bruce gone? He wouldn’t just leave him down here, would he?

His teeth clenched over the rag in his mouth. He needed to focus.

A faint beep caught his attention as he was trying to lever himself to his knees. He didn’t pay it much notice – plenty of things in the Cave beeped and hummed and whizzed – until it repeated. Blind, Tim tilted his head toward the noise. It was a small chirp, repeating regularly.

A countdown.

Adrenaline washed through him. Sitting up now, he was able to reach the knots around his ankle that would free his left leg. Simultaneously, he rubbed his face against his shoulder, hoping it would catch the edge of the tape on his cheek and peel at least parts back.

He was still doing both when the timer chirped two fast beeps and fell silent.

“You’re dead,” Bruce stated, voice grave. He stood directly behind Tim, who startled at his proximity. Warm fingers dragged the blindfold away.

“Go home, Tim.”

Tim didn’t argue, this time.

[wolveria]

On Frozen Wings - Ch 1

Pairing: Crosshair x Hunter

Rating: 18+ only, Explicit

After Hunter nearly lost everything, his family is slowly piecing itself back together. Omega is safe, Echo might stick around for a while, and Crosshair... Well. Crosshair never makes things easy, but sometimes, he does make them simple. Crosshair wants him. Unfortunately, Hunter has no idea what to do with this information.

AO3

Hunter wasn’t sure how it was quieter with more people on the ship, but somehow, it was.

The tension on the Remora was a far cry from what it’d been on their way to Barton IV. That flight had been filled with a crackling thickness that forced a subdued atmosphere and silent ride.

This was different. Something had changed on the planet, and it wasn’t just that Hunter and Crosshair were on speaking terms again, though that was a small miracle itself. And to think, it had only taken Hunter nearly being eaten by an ice wyrm to make that happen.

Considering how their fights usually went, this one went rather smoothly. No black eyes, no broken bones. No one had even thrown a punch. Hungry beasts were tame in comparison.

Maybe that explained the strange space between them now. Strange, because it was peaceful. Deceptively so. Hunter once again found himself focused on Crosshair wherever he was in the ship, tracking him by scent, sound, and that unique bioelectric signature that belonged only to him.

But he wasn’t going to follow Crosshair like a lost pup, or the shadow Crosshair accused him of being. He wasn’t.

He just… happened to find himself in the same part of the ship as Crosshair. That’s all. Hunter wasn’t thinking about the questions left unanswered. When had Crosshair’s chip actually been removed, why had he killed an Imperial officer, and what had really happened back on that ice planet.

Hunter had watched him place the helmets one by one, arranging them on the crate like a memorial. Something… significant had happened there, and the way Crosshair held one particular helmet wrapped in old bindings filled Hunter’s chest with both a dull ache and a sharp, cold sting.

Hunter refused to think about how he’d never seen Crosshair so tender and careful before. These were strangers to Hunter, but not to Crosshair. He’d lived a whole other life, away from them.

Away from Hunter.

No, he definitely wasn’t thinking about that. He was not thinking about it so hard that he failed to notice Crosshair right in front of him in the corridor, a brow raised at Hunter’s errant wandering.

Or, perhaps, not so errant.

“Following me again, Hunter?”

Hunter scowled, but it was out of embarrassment rather than annoyance as he glanced away from where Crosshair stood conveniently in his path.

“No.”

The brows rose even higher.

“Really.”

“Yeah. Really.”

The silence begged for something to fill it, and Hunter did with a grumbled, “Was just… walking the ship.”

“Uh-huh.”

Hunter’s gaze snapped to his, but Crosshair’s expression was one of vague amusement. There was no resentment or anger. Hunter could admit it was a nice change.

Hunter relaxed, giving a half shrug and a little smile to acknowledge his answer was, perhaps, ridiculous.

“Our ship’s not meant to hold so many people. Guess I wanted to stretch my legs while I had the chance.”

“Didn’t get enough of that with the wyrm trying to bite you on the ass?”

A chuckle startled out of him. He’d missed Crosshair’s sharp tongue and scathing wit, especially when it was used for amicable teasing rather than ripping him to shreds. Oh, how Crosshair excelled at targeting all of Hunter’s weak points.

“That? That was nothing compared to some of the creatures we’ve come across,” Hunter said. “Last one almost swallowed the Marauder whole.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes, his own posture relaxed as he leaned one shoulder against the corridor wall.

“How did you ever survive without me?”

Hunter’s humor faded. Not very well, he could admit to himself.

Crosshair’s amusement also vanished, studying Hunter’s face with closer scrutiny than he was used to. None of the others looked at him that way, or when they tried, like Wrecker had been the last few months, Hunter simply skirted around the observation and pretended everything was fine.

It hadn’t been, for a long time. Only within the past day, the past few hours, did Hunter realize his hope hadn’t been completely extinguished.

“Come on.”

Hunter blinked out of his daze, but Crosshair didn’t wait for him, slipping down the hallway until he disappeared from view. And like a second shadow, Hunter followed.

They ended up in the cargo hold, mostly empty due to Echo being between missions for Rex. There were a handful of crates around, and one was growing a collection of armor as Crosshair was in the middle of stripping off pieces.

Hunter stared, dumbfounded. Clearly, he’d missed a very crucial part of their conversation.

Crosshair looked over his shoulder and gave an amused huff at whatever face he was making. Hunter certainly couldn’t guess.

“How long’s it been since you’ve properly sparred with someone?”

Oh. Sparring.

“Well…”

He tried to think. They hadn’t had much downtime to begin with, but after Omega had been taken and Hunter had focused everything into finding her, he’d had too much time on his hands during their stints in hyperspace. Too much time to think about all the mistakes he’d made and the ways he’d failed. A distraction had been sorely needed, and sparring would have been perfect.

But since it had been only him and Wrecker, and they hadn’t been able to spar with Wrecker for years because of his enhanced strength, something they’d learned after he’d accidentally broken Tech’s collarbone…

So, not since Kamino. Not since… they’d left Crosshair.

“A long time.”

Crosshair hummed, the tone of it not indicating his thoughts one way or another.

“Here’s your chance,” Crosshair said. “Sounds better than pacing the ship, doesn’t it? Especially if we’re just going to keep running into each other.”

Hunter could hear the amused tint of the words, the way Crosshair’s mouth curved even if he couldn’t see it, and it was the kind of teasing that used to drive Hunter mad. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed it until he no longer had it.

Crosshair bent down to slip off his boots, and he chose that moment to look back at Hunter and catch him staring. Now that he’d been staring at anything in particular, he was just—

“Are you going to strip, or do I need to do it for you?”

Hunter looked away, grinding his teeth together.

Little shit.

Sparring did sound like a good way to get rid of this odd tension he couldn’t identify. It wasn’t a bad sort of tension, not the kind he felt after seeing Crosshair again after so long. That shock had been a punch to the gut, especially after the bone-deep relief of having Omega again.

To have her back, and on the heels of that, Crosshair dropping back into their lives had been like a plunge out of hyperspace with a broken hyperdrive.

Reconciling with Crosshair had been what they needed, and everything should be fine now, right? So why did his gut tighten whenever they were in the same room?

Yeah, maybe this was what he needed. A distraction and a way to work off excess energy.

Hunter hadn’t taken off his chest plate since the ice planet, and he did so now, along with his one remaining pauldron. It was hard to imagine all that was left of his old armor was his cuirass, helmet, and greaves. Even his bandana hadn’t survived the blood and violence he and Wrecker had waged for any scrape of information they could find.

His mind had wandered again—he didn’t even notice that Crosshair had moved closer, only a few feet away and stripped down to his blacks. His arms were crossed, but there was a lightness to his face, bordering on mischief.

“How many layers are you wearing?”

Hunter glanced down at himself. He’d gotten past the green vest, and the tan undervest, which left the brown long-sleeved shirt and his bicep pads—

“It’s protection,” Hunter muttered.

“There’s something else that does a better job of that,” Crosshair said, his eyes bright with silent laughter. “You may have heard of it.”

“Katarn-class armor isn’t exactly for sale at the local market.”

“So, you decided to go without? That’s much better.”

Hunter purposefully glared as he stripped the rest of his outfit. It was a good thing they were going to spar soon, Hunter would happily throw the first punch. Though with the amused tilt to Crosshair’s mouth, he wondered if that was the point.

Hunter pulled off his gloves and gauntlets next, making a show of the exposed armor under the maroon bindings. Crosshair rolled his eyes.

“Well, thank the Maker, your arms have protection.”

Little shit, Hunter repeated as he fought down his own smile.

The running commentary didn’t stop when Hunter removed his gun belt, and Crosshair said, “Didn’t realize you like to live so dangerously, Hunter. That thigh-strap is awfully close to your—”

“Are you going to do this the whole time?”

Crosshair released a sharp breath that wasn’t quite laughter but was close enough to fill Hunter’s chest with warmth. He still scowled at the boots he pulled off his feet, though.

“Not if you’d hurry up,” Crosshair purred. “We’ll pick up the reg before you’re even halfway done.”

Hunter let out a soft growl and turned away. His hands kept fumbling with Crosshair staring at him like that, lips slanted in unending delight at Hunter’s discomfort, but his eyes too narrow and watchful, as if each revealed layer required new scrutiny. Hunter fidgeted like a bug under glass.

He hesitated before pulling off his pants. The armor plating was attached to them, so he couldn’t leave them on. Traditionally, they always sparred in their body gloves, it was fairer and prevented any serious injuries besides what they could cause with their own bodies.

He sighed. It wasn’t anything Crosshair hadn’t glimpsed in the communal shower or even in their old barracks. It was fine. It wasn’t strange.

Hunter kept telling himself that as he shucked off his pants and pulled off the last layer of his upper body. What he wore underneath was… a very truncated version of a black body suit. The upper portion only covered his chest and his shoulders, leaving his arms and hands bare.

The bottom half was even more lacking, only covering his groin and upper thighs. It kept him from overheating with all the additional layers, but that wasn’t much of a reassurance when he felt Crosshair’s sharp eyes taking him in from head to foot.

“What?” Hunter folded his arms across his chest—not because he was trying to shield himself from that piercing stare. Definitely not.

“Nothing,” Crosshair said in a way that meant he had many thoughts he could share, none of them he would.

“Right.” Hunter rolled his shoulder, trying to shake off the new tension that had crept up on him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been such a bundle of raw nerves, but it had probably involved Crosshair. It always did. “Any rules?”

“No killing each other.”

“Thought that went without saying.”

Crosshair’s small but toothy smile reminded him of a predator whose hunger had been piqued.

“Just want to be thorough. Other than that, no boundaries.”

Against anyone else that might be good news, Hunter was deadly in close quarters, but Crosshair fought dirty. Suddenly, his bare skin felt a lot more exposed.

“Sounds good to me,” Hunter said, and he hoped none of his trepidation showed. Hunter might be more prone to biting under stress due to his enhancements, but Crosshair was more than happy to dig his teeth into body parts that got too close to his mouth.

Yeah. Hunter was probably coming out of this bloody.

They moved apart nearly at the same moment, their postures slipping into old fighting stances, comfortable in their familiarity. Too many of their battles these days involved blasters or short, brutal fights that relied on aggression rather than finesse.

Hunter was eager for this, he realized, but at the same time… he held back, hesitant, as they circled each other. The last time he’d fought Crosshair, he’d been trying to kill Hunter, cut him open with his own vibroblade. It wasn’t something he could forget, even if he’d forgiven Crosshair.

And he had. His resentment and bitterness had been buried in the snow of Barton IV. But that didn’t mean he knew where they stood now. The hope felt fragile, and he was afraid to break it with a wrong move or misspoken word.

If Crosshair was feeling any hesitation, he neglected to show it. He rolled his eyes and drew Hunter’s attention to the wide space between them.

“I thought we were sparring, not dancing.”

“Come over here, then.”

Crosshair’s lips twitched upward.

“You first.”

It was an invitation if Hunter was ever going to get one. Crosshair was okay with this, really okay with this, even if it got violent. Which… Hunter wasn’t actually interested in. Not that he ever was, but when it was Crosshair trying to force him into submission, all fists and teeth and lanky limbs, it lit a blaze in Hunter that made him more animal than human—

Air exploded from his lungs as Crosshair’s shoulder hit him hard in the gut, dragging them both to the ground. Apparently, the sniper got tired of waiting.

Hunter was quick, flipping Crosshair over his head and scrambling for him, less than graceful on the metal slats instead of their usual padded mats. He might have been hesitant before, but he wasn’t now, driving Crosshair back to the floor with a combination of thrown weight and gravity.

It was a messy, tangled struggle after that. Nearly all their sparring matches devolved into a contest of who could pin the other fastest. Hunter usually won if he didn’t allow Crosshair to grab him from behind. His height and longer limbs gave him the advantage when Hunter couldn’t reach him, though a jab to the ribs and a hook around his ankle almost always got them back on even ground.

Hunter should have won this round too, but there was an intensity to Crosshair that caught him by surprise, and when the sniper pinned him flat on his back, he stayed there. Mostly because he didn’t want to move and lose sight of Crosshair’s peculiar expression.

It was focused, as it usually was, but layered with a dark intensity that made Hunter’s mouth run dry. Crosshair straddled his hips, his fingers curled around Hunter’s wrists, holding them above his head.

Something about this felt… familiar. Back in their cadet days, sparring matches tended to be most often between them, as Tech wasn’t interested and Wrecker was getting too big for them to do it safely.

Not that anything Crosshair and Hunter did could be labeled safe. Their matches would quickly escalate to black eyes, bruises, and bite marks. Until one day it had escalated to something else.

Nothing happened. Nothing ever happened. They had just been going through the unpredictable swings of hormones during adolescence, a fact they only knew because Tech gave them almost daily updates on his own bodily changes, and Wrecker would enthusiastically contribute with his own.

Nothing had happened, except two sweaty cadets accidentally brushing their aching erections against each other. And then doing it again. Neither of them speaking about these accidental touches, and if they both hurried off to the showers separately afterwards, that didn’t need to be mentioned, either.

So Crosshair leaning forward and rubbing his hard length against Hunter’s equally stiff erection was a shock to his gut, equally familiar and not. They were no longer naïve cadets, and this was no accident.

“Crosshair,” he choked out.

“Yes?”

Crosshair purred around the word, but his eyes were watchful, nearly to the point of wariness, waiting for Hunter to speak. But he had no idea what the hell he wanted to say, frozen like the proverbial nuna trapped under the nexu.

“I…” Hunter finally stumbled out. “What… are you doing?”

Crosshair’s eyes narrowed.

“I thought it was obvious.”

A comment like that might ordinarily earn Crosshair a glare and sharp retort, but Hunter struggled to find where all his air went.

“We…” He swallowed to get his dry throat some relief. “We can’t…”

Hunter’s appeal for Crosshair to see reason might have been more effective if he didn’t groan when the sniper rolled his hips and rubbed their clothed erections together.

“We can, Hunter.” His eyes blazed, staring straight through him and leaving all his old yearnings exposed. “We can.”

But will you? was the unspoken question Crosshair didn’t voice. Hunter didn’t have an answer to that, either. He was still reeling from the idea that Crosshair even wanted him in this way.

And then Crosshair leaned down, so close that Hunter thought he might kiss him, and he held his breath, frozen. Hunter could—and had—faced down battalions of battle droids without flinching, but the sight of Crosshair’s lips hovering over his might be enough to earn his surrender.

At the last moment, Crosshair changed course, his lips tracing over the dark lines of Hunter’s tattooed jaw until his breath warmed his ear.

“Say yes.”

Hunter closed his eyes. He wanted to, stars, he wanted to. Every inch of his body ached with the need to say yes, but he couldn’t. They’d just gotten Crosshair back. He couldn’t do anything to risk that, wouldn’t do anything that might eventually make him leave.

There had been reasons why Hunter hadn’t given in to temptation when they were cadets or troopers. He could have, oh he could have, so easily with Crosshair. Or possibly with regs who had reminded him of Crosshair, but he hadn’t.

The reasons were different now. He didn’t have to worry about pissing off some Kaminoans with their frigid ideas of “appropriate interpersonal conduct,” and he was no longer a sergeant. No longer a soldier. He wasn’t even their leader anymore, not really.

But he couldn’t… they couldn’t…

The noise that came out of him when Crosshair pressed his mouth to Hunter’s neck was embarrassing, startled and needy.

“Say yes,” Crosshair growled against his skin. Hunter’s ability to think, let alone speak, was shot to hell when he sucked on the spot just under his jawline.

Hunter kept his mouth firmly shut as he tried to find the words to explain why this was a kriffing bad idea, but then Crosshair released his wrists and instead dug his fingertips against Hunter’s chest. He used the leverage to grind down harder, and Hunter could practically see stars.

He knew it then. He wouldn’t say no. He couldn’t deny Crosshair anything, not really. And he wouldn’t deny him this, not when it took all of Hunter’s strength not to flip them over and rut against Crosshair like an animal in heat.

So he kept his hands firmly at his sides, and even that was dangerous with them so close to Crosshair’s long, coltish legs.

Hunter tilted his head further to the side, a show of surrender. It was the best he could offer when a part of him still insisted this was the wrong decision, that neither of them were thinking clearly and Crosshair would regret his actions later. Wasn’t that how they got here to begin with?

But that was only a small part of Hunter. The rest of him relished how Crosshair purred in victory and sucked one last spot on his neck before he sat up. His pupils were blown, and his lips were slightly swollen from the rough treatment to Hunter’s neck.

They looked damned delicious, but before Hunter could consider what would happen if he kissed him, Crosshair shifted upright on his knees. He separated his body glove and tugged the lower half down just enough to free his cock.

He was longer than Hunter but not as thick, and he was already leaking copious amounts of precum. Hunter’s mouth watered at the sight, the scent of Crosshair’s arousal even more potent now, and it was a miracle he could keep his hands to himself and simply watch.

Crosshair pulled down the waistband of Hunter’s suit and pulled out his length. He stared at it with a devouring expression that reminded Hunter of what sometimes happens when he gets too close to Crosshair’s teeth.

And then he’s not thinking anything at all as Crosshair wrapped his long fingers around their shafts and thrust forward. The noise that Hunter made sounded almost painful, a ragged groan and gasp, and he failed to keep his hands frozen at his sides, instead gripping onto Crosshair’s calves as if to steady himself. Or keep him firmly on the ground before he floated off into space.

Crosshair kept going, setting a pace that was neither gentle nor slow. Hunter would have thought he’d been more teasing, drag it out just to watch Hunter squirm, but something in his movements were almost desperate. Frantic.

It was all Hunter could do to brace himself, pleasure zipping up and down his spine at a speed that would leave him ruined. Crosshair’s warm hands, the calluses against his skin, the shock of friction between their lengths.

Yeah, he was ruined.

The buildup was quick after that. Too much time apart, years of unanswered yearning and buried desires, Hunter wasn’t going to last long. His bandana came loose, and Crosshair tugged it off, twisting his fingers in the freed locks of his hair, and pulled.

It was nearly enough to hurt, dancing the line between pleasure and pain until they melded, and Hunter arched his back. He gripped Crosshair’s legs and thrust up once, twice, and spilled over Crosshair’s skilled fingers. Fingers that shook when holding a weapon but were steady now as he carried Hunter through his trembling orgasm.

Something gave way inside him, a dam burst after a lifetime of holding back. The grief of losing Crosshair, the piercing ache of rejection and betrayal, the agony of trying to keep Crosshair at a safe distance upon his return, none of it remained intact. The relief shuddered through him, a soft hitch like a sob in his throat.

Hunter didn’t feel the tears until they trickled into his hairline. He wasn’t… crying… or maybe he was? He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried, possibly when he was a cadet. But something within him had cracked, and the released pressure made him feel boneless, warm, and wonderfully brittle.

It was good. Hunter knew that much. The tension was gone, his senses thrummed in a way that was almost overstimulation, and Crosshair—

—was looking at him with a wide-eyed expression of horror.

Hunter blinked stupidly. Not understanding when Crosshair pulled away, hastily rearranging his body glove to cover himself—and things certainly weren’t clearer when the sniper grabbed his gear and practically fled the room.

Hunter stared at the doorway, half-expecting Crosshair to come back. And wasn’t that a painfully familiar feeling?

He dropped his head, the back of it thudding against the floor, and reluctantly, he put away his softening cock. Hunter grimaced at the stickiness that coated the upper half of his suit, and then he stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the ship, waiting for Crosshair’s soft footfalls to return.

They didn’t. Hunter’s heart sank in his chest.

What had he done?

Next Chapter

[fumifooms]

What do you think of Lamari (Laios and Namari)? Both as a ship and the relationship between the two.

I don’t like it sorry broski 😔 Seeing them interacting in ep 9 again made me see the appeal more, it’s cute how they interact, how they trust each other’s abilities and judgement! But ship wise…… I can’t. I’ve been seeing cute fanart of them around though, and I know a few people on discord that like them too. Like hmmm I guess I can see the appeal in the dynamic even if it doesn’t grab me but I can’t form a narrative for them… Usually I need both to truly get into a ship, a dynamic I find fun or interesting + some sort of progression and impact it’d leave on the characters, I don’t really see the character/relationship arc that’d happen, or at least not one eventful enough for me. When it comes to how I think their relationship is during canon, I see it as being professional and hinting at maybe friends, a neutral rather than negative thing mind you.

With Laios, well I’ve spoken about his character and arc before a bunch, but with Namari the part that interests me most is the whole exile thing, how she works hard to fit in both with keeping a good work reputation and shaving, for example, and how she’s not all that good with it because of presumably her bold personality... Because of this and more, and spoilers but I’ve planning on making a rarepair post about it for a while, I like shipping her with Toshiro mainly. I think that she balances out his doormat tendency but his cool attitude would be soothing and grounding and- Well gdbdgdg you see how it is. And to a certain extent I can see why people would want to apply the same logic to lamari, but… I don’t even think Namari and Laios would be able to bond over both being foreigners much tbh, I feel like Laios would sort of remain an odd mystery to her and though they could connect in a weird roundabout way I don’t think they’d exactly understand each other— and see this is the part of lamari appeal I get, the sort of tentative tension of "oh you actually respect me. That feels… Rare. And nice." Thouuugh like I was saying to be fair, it’s true Laios also tries and fails to fit in so that could be an interesting angle to go at it with. I think Namari wants stability and I just don’t really think it complements Laios well. I think trust’s the most important thing with Laios so on his side him liking her enough to be interested or open to a relationship I could see, though in a kinda mild and dry way imo… Like with Laios especially when defining how he and someone fall in love, there are sort of two modes right, and of course these coexist to some degree, but there’s Laios being his partner’s silly goober, and there’s Laios being very mature, more of his subdued stoic but composed self, all king-like, the more like connecting through meaningful conversations side. And idk how to put it into words but with lamari, I feel like Namari being paired with him doesn’t give a fresh spin on the former, and with the latter I feel like they’d always keep missing each other halfway communication wise, I don’t see them ever getting to that level where they deeply intuitively know and understand each other and how they work, maybe Laios -> Namari yes but Namari -> Laios I don’t see it, like I said I think it’d remain like, a mystery that nags at her and she might feel attracted if anything, but I can’t see them as more than casually dating idkk idk.

Namari has that fun ‘gets fired up about what odd things Laios is doing and reigns him back in’ dynamic but it’s something that literally so many other characters have too. I’m not knee deep into Namari yet so who knows maybe I have a wrong angle, but I did start giving her some thoughts bc I have a fic I have in mind for toshimari I wanna do. But yes it’s cute how protective she can get even if it’s shouty or tough love, like how she looks out for Laios’ equipment and for him not to get scammed, or brings in Toshiro here in the convo because she doesn’t want Toshiro to do his conflict avoidance thing and not stand up for himself & stay in the party even if it sucks hah. That bold borderline rude protective personality of hers with that awkwardness with intimacy/non-professional relationships is what’s unique to her I think, but yeah the laios & namari duo strikes me as strangely distant yet strangely interested coworkers who exhange glances over the cashier desk but personally I can’t see myself doing anything with that.

I’m not here to say it’s a bad ship or anything obviously! It just really doesn’t call to me personally and I don’t see stuff with them that I’d find interesting to analyze, if anything it’d involve the wider party a lot. I do want to make a masterpost on Laios’ career history and the old members of his party so I might analyze how Namari and he interact in those pre-canon comics idk. But yeahh like I find nothing to dig deeper at personally, you could make cute fics of them hinting at interest between the two, if Laios went to get drinks with her at a tavern etc etc, but all I see with them is just what canon straightforwardly showed us and I don’t get the urge to explore the possibility of them at all.

Sorry to disappoint, but yeah I won’t be a good source of lamari content or thoughts. I have wayy too many drafts I actually want to get out so I’ll be storing further Laios & Namari analysis for a big maybe, one day. I feel so bad I really hate to be negative at all and as a fellow rareshipper I send u my best wishes truly, good luck y’all deserve fellow stans and content. Feel free to leave pro-lamari arguments in the comments or reblogs if you want idm but preferably not asks (and just don’t be aggressive & don’t expect me to respond/react 🫶) like truly this post isn’t meant as a diss but anon asked me about my personal thoughts so… I love youuu lamaris hope y’all thrive 🙇🙇

Trying to think of crumbs and it’s true she blushed when she saw him in his cape at the end so y’all got that W. Namari having a thing for tallmen is so real

Edit: oh she went with him for equipment shopping… Ok that’s cute

[lemmetreatya]

sub reiner. that's it. just wanna make him cry a little☹

contains: sub!reiner, slight dom!reader, anal (m receive), mentions of anal (m receive)

wanna make him cry and whine and angsty like the lil sub he is?

that’s doable, especially when he’s feeling a tad bit insecure!! reiners very vulnerable in those instances and usually reclines into his little space.

you’d come home to find him sitting up cross legged but wrapped in his trusty fluffy blanket with only his face visible — his nose and cheeks tinted a lovely vermilion as they’re slightly cold from being exposed to the air. upon seeing him like this, you instantly knew what mood he was in and what type of care he required.

you’d kiss his forehead before sitting down onto the bed next to him and automatically his head is in your lap.

“what’s the matter, baby?” you’d coo, knowing he secretly adored those pretty petnames.

nothing but a groan came out of the man’s mouth, his forehead creased inwards and his bottom lips jutting out. with a pursed expression you patted the side of his arm.

“come on, let’s use our big boy words.”

a sigh left reiner’s mouth as he buried his face into your thigh, bearded skin scratching at your skin. if you listened hard enough you would have been able hear the pathetic whine that left his mouth.

“i want you to touch me.”

“touch you? how?” you questioned.

“with one of the toys.”

with a hum, you rubbed his arms in acknowledgment.

“You wanna try them again?”

reiner nodded but this time with a small sound of confirmation.

“yeah. i liked it last time.”

last time being last week when reiner had initially asked you whether you could fuck him or not. which you did, because whatever reiner asks, right? but he was definitely a bit scared and cautious and everything a man could be when exploring their sexuality in a less than dominant way, but reiner was starting to open up more to the possibilities and dynamics the two of you could share.

noting his enthusiasm, you pried him a bit further.

“the same thing or something different?” you asked.

there was a small silence.

reiner was most probably thinking whether to build on initial skills or try new ones. he knew however that with whatever he chose, you’d assist him all the way.

rolling himself, reiner looked back at you.

“is it okay if we kinda try the same thing?”

“want me to fuck you again?” you replied kindly, as much kindly you could suggest anal.

slightly shaking his head, reiner disagreed.

“not… directly, no. i don’t want you to fuck me but i’d like if you could… to…can i just try a dildo for now? one you use with your hand?”

okay, progress! at least he was becoming more open in what he wanted to explore. usually it’d take 21 questions and then some just to get a vague idea out of him.

with a soft smile, you assured his choice.

“of course we can, reirei. let’s get you all prepped up first, okay?”

reiner replied with an even softer ‘okay’ but not without signalling that he wanted physical reassurance first. seeing his slightly pursed lips, you bent down so that you could kiss them. light and sweet. when you pulled back, you couldn’t deny that the mild look of subdue on his face excited you even more.

with his arm over his eyes, reiner couldnt help but let out sappy cries of pleasure mixed with slight discomfort — per stretching of the dildo you currently had up his ass.

“i can’t. i can’t.” he’d whine, already a mess at two pushes in.

a well of pity knocked at your hearts door, and almost everything in you wanted to pull out the toy, but priorly reiner was adamant you didn’t stop unless he used the safe word.

“yes, you can, my love. you can take it.”

you welled the polymer into him a bit further, the toy already tickling his prostrate as you greedily watched how his cock twitched at the feeling.

the blonde let out a guttural groan. with his back slightly arched in squirming, you couldn’t help but admire his distressed beauty. he looked so so pretty on his back; face tear stricken, nose and cheeks blotchy red, and thighs taut as they flexed boldly — muscles defined.

“oh darling you look so beautiful like this. so stripped down and open.” you cooed once again as a thumb came up to carefully wipe at his damp apples.

even with his tshirt still on, reiner looked nothing short of a god-like creation. so utterly and totally broken. tugging at the bottom of the garment, you could tell reiner was trying his best to control his movements, hips bucking and cock caving towards his stomach— such an attention seeking cock he had, it always wanted to be noticed.

you wanted to satisfy him and give him a quick release via handjob but you had to remind yourself that wasnt a time to satisfy your desires but his.

still yet the rest of the time being was you working reiner to a climax, his whines and moans becoming more and more vocal as the session went on.

soon, reiner was able to relax his anus band and take the dildo in lovely succession, the toy appearing and disappearing inside of him. he took it so well!

it was such a pretty sight: his leaking dick that bobbed along with your thrusts. his milky thighs which were blotted with red crescents and gappy ovals as he held his legs to receive the toy better. god, even his drool slicked lips and scanty babbles were beautiful. everything about him like this just made your heart swell.

at one point he even reached down to tug at his neglected cock. the dryness wasn’t even a problem for him as he rutted into his palms for good measure and in sync of how you surged the dildo into him.

“i’m g’nna…”

pretty boy didn’t even get to finish his words. his orgasm came so suddenly, he couldn’t even give substantial warning as he painted pretty strips of white over his tshirt, the semen staining the material darker.

the man made one long husky moan, the sound embarking from deep within him as his orgasm shook him still.

once he had calmed down you soothed your hands over his bare thighs. one aspect of after care reiner loved was feeling skin to skin contact. he always wanted to be reminded that he wasn’t alone in the experience.

with an attentive grin you made sure to bend forwards so you could kiss him well done.

“you took it so well, reirei. make sure you get some rest, okay?”

the man kissed back as best he could but his lips were still buzzing and slack from the after glow of the orgasm. taking his lack of response as a pause, you made yourself useful by removing his soiled tshirt from his body and making sure to cover him back in his favourite blanket.

however, just as you were tucking him in, reiner’s hand took a hold of your arm. with a curious expression, you looked over to him.

“yes, rei?”

the man slowly blinked as he looked up at you, his cheeks still showing hints of red.

“we can…” he croaked in between, his throat parched. “after i rest a bit, i wanna go again. we can go again.” he finished.

with a sly smile, you nodded, your hand coming up to stroke at the front hairs of his head.

“of course we will. anything for you, baby boy.”

[philtstone]

Eowyn/Faramir, 22

painstakingly continuing my spotify wrapped prompts with yet another bollywood entry from one of my favourite movies #22, "Ankhon Mein Teri" from Om Shanti Om along with you / some light has come anyway, this is my answer to the question, "was their great hobbit cacophany post-kiss on the ramparts?" but in hippie camp counselor au

Eowyn’s hospital room has a very large window that looks out into the darkened waiting room. When she wakes up from her doze, which she was partaking in for lack of anything better to do, her head is turned the other way — and so it is that the first thing she sees in front of her is Faramir.

He is sitting in her bed, right beside her in fact, absorbed in a book. He appears to be wearing borrowed pajamas. Eowyn can feel the warmth from his leg against hers. She blinks a few times to make sure she is not dreaming (not that she has had dreams about Faramir in her bed), and it is then that she is struck by the soreness in her hand and shoulder, and quite honestly much of the rest of her as well.

Oh, right. Their valiant protest in front of the EPA building. Eowyn hadn’t expected to be shoved quite so hard by that SWAT officer, but at least Merry caught it all on video. And she got a great punch in before falling with such indignity on her now very broken arm. She wonders if Merry got that on video too; it’d be useful in the event anyone tries to arrest her for assault.

A large white cast covers her whole right forearm. It isn’t particularly ugly, but it is very empty in its clean whiteness, and looking at it leaves a queer disembodied feeling in the pit of Eowyn's stomach, so she goes back to looking at Faramir.

“What are you reading?” 

Of the many questions Eowyn has this is the first that comes to mind. In her general discombobulation the part of her that has lately been engrossed in figuring out Faramir's interests takes the wheel. Of course, it very often does that, but rarely to the point of causing incoherence, which Eowyn is sure she is exhibiting now.

Faramir, who had not noticed her waking, jumps in place.

“Oh! Eowyn!”

“Hullo,” says Eowyn.  

“How're you feeling? Should I call for the nurse? I should call for the nurse — here, I’ll call —“

She nudges his leg with hers (this at least is still entirely operational), and that shuts him up. He presses the nurse call button anyway. Eowyn ignores this and offers a pointed look at his literature of choice.

Faramir says, “Well; a philosophy primer. Gandalf gave it to me at the beginning of camp.”

“You mean like,” Eowyn's voice is much raspier than she remembers it, “as homework?”

“No. He said I might like it.” He pauses, then adds with a conviction that might have always been there, but appears a touch more at home in his mouth now, “He was right.”

The green of the borrowed pajama shirt suits him (she is sure it is borrowed, as it is too large at the shoulders — possibly it is Aragorn’s, or even Gandalf’s) and his pants have little Smurfs on them. She stops inspecting his hospital clothes and begins inspecting his face, which is turned towards hers and very earnest about it. He has a terribly comforting face, Faramir has. The overall effect is more subdued than what she’s used to (certainly Eomer’s got a talent for looking a bit shocking), as all her family members are known for both being and looking intense. Faramir is also intense, Eowyn supposes, but in a different way. He’s intense about philosophy primers and whatever poem he’s reading. He’ll make weird faces because he’s so absorbed in it all. His fair hair and eyes are familiar, of course, but the bigness of his nose is softer, his hair browner and floppier, and his facial hair patchy and mousy. He has lovely eyes, Eowyn thinks. A bit like a doe or something.

On whole he is, at this moment, a bit mesmerizing to Eowyn, who has always liked him – and it’s a good job he showed up this summer, and not last, when she was in the throes of her Most Mortifying Unrequited Crush (named thus by Eowyn and Eomer and Merry, in mutual consultation) to date – but she’s never properly thought about it because she was too worried about starting college next year. It’s odd. That doesn’t seem nearly so frightening anymore. Only it isn’t as if Eowyn’s feeling any better about things. After all, maybe she is about to be arrested for assaulting a cop. So what if her love life is marginally less pathetic, and her future plans slightly less immediately in the hands of her deeply flawed decision-making? The next time Uncle Theoden tells her she oughtn’t worry so much about The Real World and to go get her degree so she won’t be stuck with only farming as her option, she won’t have a good argument against him; The Real World has been pretty awful so far. 

Eowyn wonders if Faramir would bring his philosophy book and visit her in prison. 

She decides she should ask him. Maybe knowing the answer will make her feel better. She hasn’t managed to open her mouth halfway when the door opens and a sturdy looking nurse bustles in.

“Oh, good,” says the nurse industriously. “You’re awake. Not in too much pain are we? I don’t expect so; it was a very clean break.”

“Was it,” asks Eowyn, as her pillows are righted in a bustley sort of way and a cold metal straw is stuck into her open mouth. Her question comes out a bit garbled around the straw.

“Mmm,” the nurse eyes her significantly. Her name tag reads Ioreth in blocky penmanship and includes a little hand drawn smiley face in the corner. Eowyn wonders if she has put that there to counter her extremely brusque and straightforward manner. Don’t you worry; when I’m not shoving eco-friendly straws into your mouth, I draw my own smiley faces, actually! “You’re lucky your friend splinted it so well, or it might’ve moved around on you before the EMTs arrived. Not a medic, is he?”  

Eowyn can’t quite tell if her tone is impressed or disapproving. 

“He’s thinking of doing herbal medicine MSF,” offers Faramir a bit lamely. 

They follow the nurse’s eyes to the big windows of her hospital room, beyond which she is only now registering is a very full waiting room. It was mostly empty when Eowyn last checked, and the sight of it full makes her eyes well up at the back in a very silly and childish way. Closest to the door sits the lanky figure of Aragorn, who indeed set her broken arm and quizzed her on Twilight trivia on the way to the hospital so she wouldn’t fall asleep before being checked for a concussion. He is asleep himself now, but looking like someone does when they didn’t quite mean to doze off, slumped over sitting up with one scruffy cheek propped up against his palm. A pale-faced Frodo is tucked, sleeping more intentionally against his side, with a lumpy bit of gauze covering two of his fingers. Sitting careful guard over them (for all that they are having a friendly chat with a passing nurse and pointing animatedly to something on the familiar lavender-cased iPhone) are Arwen and Sam, who have together been wrapped once in a hospital issue blanket and a second time in Aragorn’s familiar mud-stained jacket. Eomer (whose face is a much bigger comfort than she expected) is wedged into a seat that is much too small for him and rapidly bouncing his left leg while staring determinately at the ceiling. Draped over a lone plastic chair Legolas’s cream cardigan is all that evidences him, Gimli, Merry, and Pippin (who must have taken his Super Mario backpack with him, wherever they are, as she can’t spot it); and if Eowyn listens hard enough, she can hear a man’s unfamiliar, somewhat distressed, definitely disembodied tones from further down the hallway.

While Nurse Ioreth bustles through checking her chart, Eowyn must make some kind of questioning face in Faramir’s general direction, because he says,

“Oh – that’s, um, my brother. Boromir. He came down, after – everything.” By which Eowyn, remembering it all in patchy fits and starts, realizes Faramir must mean the incident where his father flew down from upstate to loudly disown him in front of many strangers and several news reporters (Eowyn was told this all by Merry on the trip to hospital; she’d been in the midst of getting shoved for her not-entirely peaceful protesting when it happened) for squandering his potential trying to do such useless things as saving the environment, instead of securing a future for himself in this dismal and unforgiving world. 

For a Very Important Businessman, Denethor seems to have an awful lot of spare time on his hands. He spent a whole half hour elbowing his way through police and news vans and a very distressed eleven year old in the shape of Pippin Took, just to yell at his son.

“Is he alright?” asks Eowyn; the voice in the hallway seems very consternated. 

“Who,” says Faramir. “Boromir? Oh, yeah.” He fixes his glasses a bit, which are slipping down his nose, “It’s just that the possum finally bit Frodo, and then we lost it.”

“The collective cool, you mean,” says Eowyn.

“No,” says Nurse Ioreth, definitely disapproving this time. “The possum.” 

Faramir grimaces. “It was sort of my fault. That’s why Boromir’s dealing with it — I think he’s trying to make me feel better about Dad. I really am fine though. And Legolas and Gimli took Merry and Pippin to find us all food — wouldn’t it be ironic if they wound up finding the possum instead? Funny how things work though. Everyone’s sort of come together about it so it’s really hard to feel like I'm doing something wrong, no matter what my — what anyone says. I was more worried about you than anything, and Arwen made Eomer sit outside because he kept getting up and sitting back down in here and the nurse got annoyed, so I got to come sit with you instead.”

Ioreth makes a mild tsk noise over her clipboard and Eowyn blinks. It takes all of her willpower not to blurt out You were worried about me? as if that is not the standard fare between friends – camp counselors, even.

Ioreth says, “If you need more pain medication, press the button; you should be out by the end of the day, dear,” and leaves. Eowyn and Faramir watch her, and the unexpected care she takes to close the door quietly so Aragorn and Frodo don’t startle awake, go. 

“You’re okay, then,” she says, after a moment.

“Hm? Yeah, I mean – well.” He shrugs. “Dad can be a cynic if he wants. I much prefer the delusional idealism of youth.”

Faramir’s always been better at making jokes than anyone gives him credit for. Even so, Eowyn wonders if she’d count as a cynic or delusional by his count. Here she is, having mentally avoided the topic of College Next Year so determinedly all summer, insisting to herself and Uncle Theoden that she hadn’t decided a major yet because she’d rather participate in The Real World, only for that world to have immediately proven itself terrifying and she, Eowyn, unequipped to deal with it. So she is back at square one, and even less sure of herself than before.

“I’m glad,” she says, and finds she can’t look him properly in the eye but has to instead stare at her purple fingers poking out through the cast. She feels all of a sudden quite miserable, but can’t put it to words.

“It doesn’t hurt too badly, does it?”

She shrugs, like he did. “It’s a bit sore.” Like how I feel, despite how wonderful you are, she doesn’t add. It’s so sappy of her. Eomer would sigh for hours if he knew.

“We’ll get the kids to draw on it. Or Gimli. You can too, if you like.”

“Will you come visit me if I go to prison?” Eowyn asks, suddenly on the verge of tears.

“Obviously yes,” Faramir answers, quite seriously. “But Gandalf’s got all that sorted. None of us are in trouble with the law, thanks to you and Merry’s video.”

“Oh.” The realization is not as much of a relief as Eowyn expected it would be. So now she’s got to go to college next year. And actually know what she wants to do with her life. Oh indeed. 

“Which is pretty good actually,” Faramir is continuing, “because I’ve decided to switch into a BA, and I don’t think I’d have been able to do that if we were going to prison.” 

She is quiet for a long moment, chewing on her bottom lip. “Everything is very confusing,” she finally manages, in a whisper.

Then, in a way that makes the small breath at the back of Eowyn’s throat catch, Faramir’s free hand slips over the thin hospital bedding and cups itself over her cold and bruised fingers. 

“I don't think we’ll be confused forever,” he says, just as quiet as she has been, but on purpose. “I think one day, we’ll wake up, and life will be less scary than it is right now.”

Finally Eowyn turns to look at him again. “At seventeen,” she says, and her voice is a bit watery; Faramir smiles at her. A small little smile.

“Yeah.” His voice cracks with the bit of laughter in it. “At seventeen.”

Eowyn is very unintentionally staring at his mouth. Because of the smile — and also maybe him as a person. She feels a bit of her old determination return, but with much less defensiveness and also her own little smile; she leans over the philosophy primer and their held hands, and kisses Faramir on the mouth.

Her stomach is half filled with butterflies when they are interrupted by the sound of small palms pounding against glass.

“Merry! Merry! Merry look —”

“Don’t interrupt them, Pippin!”

The crow of delight is so loud, and Eomer’s leaping to his feet so sudden, that Aragorn almost falls off his chair startling awake. Eowyn watches through the large window; their movement has made the sensors in the hallway go off, and all the lights turn on. The lights in the waiting room are yellow, like sunshine, and not the dull white of a hospital she was expecting.

“I called it! I knew! I said, Faramir’s got to go sit with her ‘cause he cares so very much, you see, and it’ll make Eowyn feel better.”

“Well Eowyn's my friend first, I’m the one who told you she needed to feel better —“

“Both of you pipe down, as if the rest of us didn’t care —“

“I have a sixth sense, you know. It’s very well tuned to romance and such. Remember Gandalf’s rule about only platonic activities in the break room, on account of what I walked into on our first week of camp –”

“Pippin, I am once again begging you to stop talking.”

“Faramir! Faramir can you hear me! Is she alright, then? We got you Mexican food from the cafeteria. Well, Gimli’s the one who paid for it, but we carried over the tortilla chips –”

And by the time the door is flung open Eowyn and Faramir pounced upon by overexcited tweenagers, she is properly laughing.

[striderincosmos]

WIP Whenever

As tagged by @swaps55, and inviting any who wish to participate! (I'm not exactly linked to many writers on here just yet)

Here's a sneak peak (a nice, long one) between Nathaniel 'Nate' Shepard and Garrus on their way to Feros in Spectre Echoes: Memories and Portents!

- - -

The crew area was a rather bustling place at the moment, what with the new additions to the crew. It made Garrus stand out even more at the table, dressed in a shirt and pants that accommodated the slight crest of his upper back.

Nate took a seat next to him, a human beer in one hand and a turian brew from a case he’d had assigned to the Normandy’s cold storage in the other. “Evening, Garrus,” he said casually, offering the brew. “How are you holding up?”

“Rather well, honestly,” Garrus said as he took his drink, opening it and taking a sip. “This sort of environment is easy for me, no matter the species. I might have decided to go to C-Sec over joining the reserves in a decade or so, but you can’t beat out nearly a decade of military training.”

“What made you go into C-Sec in the first place?” Nate asked.

“It was the family business,” Garrus shrugged. “My father had been C-Sec before getting pulled out from the Reserves for Relay-314, and his father before him had done the same thing. Still don’t know why the old man went into politics, though. Even C-Sec is simpler than that.”

Nate shrugged. “I try to avoid politics. When you have a camera pointed at you more often than not…”

“I can see how that’d be the case,” Garrus said, pausing for long moments. “So, I’ve got a question for you about Saren.”

“Funny enough, I’ve actually got one for you, too,” Nate said. “You first.”

“Are you really planning on trying to arrest Saren and drag him in front of the Council after what he’s done?”

Nate ruminated on the query with a pull of beer. “It’d be what the Council wants done, most likely. Saren’s dangerous, but if we can subdue him, he needs to face due process.”

Garrus’s mandibles drooped slightly, the action looking almost like a grimace. Or a sneer. “There’s a lot of risk to that too, though. He isn’t the best Spectre the Council has for nothing. He could probably find half a dozen different ways to escape during transit to the Citadel, let alone what he could do if he was on it.”

“We know he’s the most dangerous person in the galaxy,” Nate said assuringly. “If there’s anyone who can guard him, it’s going to be all of us and the krogan along for the ride.”

“That wouldn’t stop the Council from offering clemency, or just finding some way to sweep this under the rug,” Garrus retorted. “But taking him in is the way it’s done by the book, isn’t it? ‘Do it right, or don’t do it at all’.”

Nate frowned slightly at the rather bitter invective. “And who said that?”

“Lucrius Vakarian,” Garrus said, washing the name back down with a pull of his brew. “Among the most renowned detectives on the Citadel. Spirits know he said to me more times than I can count.”

“Not a regulations guy, then?” 

Garrus sighed quietly. “I get why they’re there. I get that they’re useful. My father and C-Sec drilled that into me well enough. But sometimes, in order to resolve a situation permanently, completely, the regs, and the people who enforce them, can make it so that a solution becomes a stopgap. People get away. Innocents get taken advantage of or hurt when they don’t need to.”

Garrus was silent for a moment. “Take Doctor Saleon.”

“Who’s that?”

“He was — probably is still — one of the leading figures of the Citadel’s black markets. Specifically in grown organs. Real mean bastard. In a place where a krogan who’s well-connected enough could drop 40,000 credits for a full quad transplant to try and counteract the genophage, Saleon was a unique brand of fucked up.” 

“See, there was an increase in organ trade, well beyond what we expected. We managed to confiscate some, and do some genetic tests. It was a bit of a mess, but it led us to a very lively turian who was very insistent that he was not, in fact, missing his liver. We ran a background check, and saw he worked for the aforementioned doctor.”

“What did you do next?” Nate asked.

“We brought him and some of Saleon’s other former employees in for questioning. While I was interviewing one of them, I noticed something suspicious. One of the detainees, a human, started bleeding from his abdomen during questioning. Pretty badly, too. We offered to patch him up, and he got panicky.”

Garrus paused, was silent for long moments. “We found dozens of incision scars on him. Some of them fresh, like the one that gave him away. Others much older. That’s when we realized this sick bastard Saleon wasn’t just employing people. He was testing on them. Growing the organs right inside of them, then cutting them open, harvesting them, and selling them off. Most of the test subjects were poor, desperate. They only got a small cut of the profits from any sale, and only if the organs were viable. If they weren’t, he just… left them inside them.”

The beer wasn’t very appealing to Nate anymore, and he set it on the table at arm’s length. “What happened then?” he ventured. 

“We went out to go and put the cuffs on this guy. But he rigged his lab to blow, ran as soon as his mules started getting pulled in by C-Sec. Took some of his ‘employees’ with him to the nearest spacedock. By the time we found where he was, the ship he stole was already leaving. He threatened to kill who were now his hostages if anyone tried to stop him.”

“And he got away?” Nate said incredulously.

Garrus nodded. “I ordered Citadel defenses to intercept and fire on him, but C-Sec HQ countermanded my order. They were worried about the hostages. Worried about civilian casualties for how close he still was to the city arms. I told them the hostages were already the next best thing to dead, that this was just the cold, hard calculus of stopping a criminal like this now and for good. But they wouldn’t listen.”

Nate sighed. “Sounds like a recipe for hating where you work.”

“To put it mildly.” Garrus chuckled darkly. “I went to Executor Pallin, the man in charge of C-Sec, and told him what I thought about the situation and the policies that made it happen. He told me if I didn’t like it, then I could quit. To be honest, I almost did, just to spite them.”

“As tough a choice as it is, the lives of the hostages were as important as catching Doctor Saleon,” Nate said pointedly. “If we didn’t care about the lives of those threatened by the people we want to bring to justice, how different are we from them?”

It was silent between them for a moment before Garrus sighed quietly. “You know, I can see where you’re coming from. I just wish we could have stopped Saleon as well.”

Again it was silent. “So,” Garrus said after a moment, “what was your question?”

“You’ve got a personal stake in this,” Nate began. “I won’t begrudge that, and I won’t discount that we might need to kill Saren to stop him. But if we do manage to capture him… can I count on you to let justice play out?”

Garrus was silent for long, contemplative moments. “As much as it might grate at me…” he finally said. “I’ll trust your judgment. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Shepard. However the stellar wind blows, I’ll follow your lead.”

Nate nodded. “I’m glad you have my back, Garrus.”

“I mean hey,” Garrus said, his mandibles implying a slight grin, “I get to learn what a Spectre looks like from you. Thus far, I’d say I’ve got a pretty good mentor.”

[eye-of-yelough]

uhhh what would ur other ocs think of gort (me personally i love thinking about how he would break each one of my characters mentally & physically in a way specifically crafted entirely for them but that’s not an ask i should send i think)

so i thought the question was “how would gortash manipulate your ocs” and answered that question as well so. you’re getting the answer to both cos i don’t wanna delete. its kinda long so 👇

Leo Hawke, Dragon Age 2: kill kill kill bite devour mutilate. Gortash is everything he hates and everything she wants to be. cool, commanding, smart, feared, respected, loved, powerful. swag off the charts, i know he’d love the outfit.

How he’d manipulate him: easy. kill the only family he has left, Anders and Isabela, or keep them from her. actually yeah locking Anders up in solitary confinement, somewhere he spent an entire year before, that she regularly holds him about when he gets claustrophobic or has nightmares about. the thought of Anders in a small dark cell all alone with his thoughts would break him and he’d simply do Anything to ensure he’s not in there a moment longer than he has to be :/ that being said her first instinct would simply be to kill the man, and he’d definitely try, even if it’s a dumb idea. and honestly not to hype my own oc up too much but if anyone could, it’d be her. one woman (not really a woman) army of a reaver when a loved one is on the line. monster. could probably cleave his way through a dozen lackeys and at least 2 steel watchers solo before getting tired, and that’s only if they’re even in the way.

Slater Adaar, Dragon Age Inquisition: she’d be smart enough to know to be terrified of him. just be a useful tool while keeping as much distance as possible and keeping an eye out for the exits at all times. run at the first opportunity, no heroics.

How he’d manipulate her: i am realising i don’t actually know her all too well. autistic qunari sera romancing artificer pursedog butch lesbian who just wants a normal life away from politics and armies and magic and sainthood, damnit. that’s all i’ve really got on her. so, i guess using the promise of a normal life. tell ya what, she’d make a great deep cover secret agent. she is definitely an oc i could stand to make more interesting lmao

Vice, Skyrim: competition, quite simply. he has a thing about dragon imagery, right? subtler than the sun stuff, but it’s there? but is it about being a dragon himself, or subduing them. either way, they’d scoff at his posturing. underestimate him for sure, letting their ego and lack of respect for humans stop them from being smart. they have lawful evil no empathy aroace megalomaniac in common, so they’d definitely have an interesting time together :)

How he’d manipulate them: power. specifically the power to do their human experiments in peace. freedom from legal consequence, basically. it would be difficult to dominate or even get a good read on Vice and their desires tho, even for Gort. i mean. they don’t speak. and have pretty good control over their emotions. they’d be playing psychological 4D chess and it would be so entertaining. (remembers it doesn’t have to manipulation, it can be about breaking physically) OH YEAH. YEAH that’s the one. it would still be HARD to keep them down, draconic force of nature that they are, but i’m sure the gorster would be able to figure something out.

uhh . oh man is that all my ocs. i mean no, there’s my newish tav, “we have Romeo’s zeke at home” Ginger (half elf, same face shape, ranger, shart romancer??! i promise this is a coincidence idk how it happened) uhh i have a Khajit oc i’ve never talked about whose name is Ace and i have nothing else on him. OHHH GALE MY DRAGON AGE CIRCLE MAGE OC WHO DIDN’T WORK AS SURANA. uhh yeah he’d simply have no use for that old woman sorry. i need to change her name man can’t let her get confused with the bg3 wizard.

how could i forget Jack, Jack Valentine, my gta 5 guy i’ve had for like 3 years and also never once talked about despite loving him forever even if i’ve kinda forgotten him lately cos i haven’t played it in ages. kind of a self insert type, or at least the closest oc i do have to one, so. he’d make an alright lackey, i think. he’d probably hate the gort but ultimately fall for his shit after a while. like with gale he’d be very disposable.

man i need to think of better ocs these guys are boring

[qnomnstrs]

Nanami x Reader Finding You in the Dark

It’s been a while since I wrote a story, don’t judge. I feel the writing is kind of emotionless, but I’ll work on that. This story contains ADULT SEXUAL THEMES MNDI 18+ ONLY

Nanami Kento speaking in blue

Itadori speaking in red

Y/n speaking in purple

Warnings: Smut, Aphrodisiac curse, drugging, creampie, dubcon (because of drugs), semipublic sex, Terrible plot with porn, pet names like sweetheart, hon or honey, Use of sir.

You found yourself on a mission with Nanami and Itadori. You were recruited later in life, already an adult. Nanami oversaw training the newbies after Gojo. It was hard not to crush on the blonde man. He was a bit older, the age lines prevalent on his face. Despite his age he is quite muscular with a strong jaw. You are smitten with the man. Not to mention how sexy it is to watch him in battle. He is so headstrong with a calm demeanor. When it comes to training, he always mentions “it’s my job to watch over my subordinates”. He is a little rougher with Itadori than you. Perhaps the reasoning is that Itadori is way stronger than you or that he has Sukuna inside him. Anyways, back to Nanami. He gives off a respectful nature and a demanding presence. You call him sir. It’s been a while since you’ve called anyone sir, but he makes you feel it’s necessary.  You catch Nanami observing you both in battle and not. Well, he kind of analyzes everyone. You wonder why that is, what he is thinking. Not to be a hypocrite but you’re literally analyzing him in your mind right now. You have a bad habit of people watching too.

You three were fighting a curse close to sundown. It was necessary to hurry as the darkness would prove a challenge. Nanami had the same idea.

“We need to find it’s weakness and exploit it before nightfall.”

“Yes Sir!”

It is a slimy curse. Itadori was rushing and landed a punch. After impact, the punch blew a hole through the curse.  However, as it blew through, the slime, split in two. The smaller spawned slime fled the scene.

“Itadori you can handle the smaller one on your own. It might be hiding to regenerate. y/n and I will take on the bigger one.”

“All right! Leave it to me!” Itadori sped off chasing the other curse.

“Y/N I’ll try to leave this up to you”

You pondered where to hit it. Slicing through the slime just temporarily subdued it. It’d be nice to have a domain expansion to crush it.

The slime created a tendril and went to strike. Nanami quickly sliced the tendril off before it reached you. The now fallen tendril moved its way back into the main body.

“Y/N pay attention. You have to observe while you move.”

His back was to you as he spoke. His back muscles are showing through his shirt. He towered over your smaller form.

“Yes S- sir! Sorry!”

 He continued to move away to give you more space. You were now quite aways from Nanami, on the opposite side of the slime.  Sundown was here, the sunset finally ending. As the sky darkened, without warning, the slime curse exploded. Pieces of slime and rain came falling. You grimaced at the sight and wet slimy smell, like a swamp.

“Itadori must have defeated his! That’s why it ran away, it had the weak spot!” You could no longer see in the darkness.

“Sir?”

“I’m right here y/n. Come to me we don’t know if this thing will regenerate. Or if this slime will affect us”

You followed his voice. You held your weapon in one hand and the other hand ooen and stretched out searching.

“I’m coming Sir”

The slime was soaking into your skin. Brushing it off didn’t help with the rain. Suddenly you felt your body reacting. You felt so cold from the rain, yet your core was heating up. You shivered at the conflicting forces. Your body ached with desire, nipples hardening. Your breath was hot and raggedy, head warm and fuzzy

“Sir I don’t feel well I think somethings wrong.” It was still embarrassing to tell him what exactly was wrong.

“Hurry come over here ill check you, we- n-need-”

Nanami’s voice faltered and came to a halt. He was starting to feel the effects as well.

“Sir?”

He didn’t respond. You could hear his huffing. You continued to search. You swear you could smell him. His fancy musk cologne, always the professional businessman. Your hand came across a wet brick wall. You continued to grope it, realizing it was Nanami’s chest. You dropped your weapon placing your other hand on him. His shirt was soaked and cold. Underneath the cold fabric his body was hot. He grabbed you by the hips, but he didn’t pull you close, almost as if he was holding you back. It was hard to stop yourself you couldn’t think straight. Your breathing matched his and your condition worsened. Heading to Nanami might have made things worse. You rubbed your legs together and groaned at the feeling of his hands on your hips.

“y/n we need to get out of here”

“I’m sorry sir please”

You weren’t sure what you were asking for. Nanami’s skin jumped hearing your desperate plea. He grabbed the back of your upper thighs and lifted you up. You yelped and hung onto his shoulders. You buried your head into his shoulder inhaling his scent again. He began to run with you in his arms. It was an attempt to get out of the rain and copious amounts of slime was still falling.

He reached a park that was dimly light and abandoned. He placed you on a picnic bench under a pavilion. His arms closed around you as he looked in your eyes. His glasses were still on, hiding his true intentions. You were now safe and out of the rain but not safe from Nanami. His cock was erect and was visible along his thigh. It was thick.

"We need to find itadori “

You pulled on his tie

“I need you” Normally it’s hard to be this open but the effects of the slime have taken over you. You just desperately need relief. You need him inside you.

“It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to take advantage of my subordinate in this state. I like you y/n but I can’t not here. This isn’t what a man does” Nanami wasn’t lying that he had feelings for you. You were mature and kind. He liked watching you after missions, how you laughed and spoke with the others. How you would cook for the younger trio when they got hungry. He removes his glasses. His face was stern but softened trying to comfort you.

“I have admired you for so long sir and I don’t think I can look anymore. I need to feel you it hurts so bad please help sir please”

His fists tightened. It was hard for him to keep control. He was better than this. He didn’t want to hurt you. You kissed him. His eyes widened at your desperation. He couldn’t hold back anymore. His cock had been rubbing against his slacks so painfully. He puts his hands under your shirt rubbing circles into your hips. He wanted to feel everything and admire your body but now was not the time. This was desperate. Not only that, the faster the relief- the faster this can be resolved. That way you both can get back safely. At least that’s what Nanami told himself. He unbuckled himself and undid his zipper. He slipped out his cock and pumped it twice. You broke the kiss and took off your wet pants. You went to lie on the table, but Nanami stopped you.

“Don’t dirty yourself on this table come here ill hold you hon.”

Nanami lifted you again, your feet on tiptoes, on the bench seat. He had you by the thighs again. The sexy blonde slipped your panties to the side and began pushing his cock into you. He was thick and had to prod a couple of times before entering. There was tension and strain, but Nanami kept bullying his cock into you, forcing it to fit. Meanwhile your hands are wrapped around his neck, and you are melting. The stretch onto his cock was euphoric. The pain mixed with pleasure, and it felt good. You wrapped your legs around him as well. He began a steady and rough pace.

“ooh-OH! Oh my god Sir-”

“Call me Kento sweetheart. Y/n you have such good manners when my cock is all the way in you. N-no n- need for formalities. *gasp*  You’re so sexy”

 The tip of his dick rubbed roughly against your cervix. His was no longer pulling out, just keeping his cock inside as he thrusted roughly. You moaned at how sensitive you were.

“ooh sir… Nanami..fuck- KENTO!  please ughh make it hurt- please don’t stop it feels so good.”

“Sweetheart you are so mean to your pussy. Let me take care of you alright ill make it feel really good. You just hang on y/n”

You came right there a strong orgasm rippling through you. You squirted on his cock. He pushed you through your orgasm and continued fucking you.

“Kento God I’m so glad it’s you I wanted to fuck you so bad. I want to kiss you again nhnn..”

“Is that so? You want an old man like me? You deserve better y/n”

“No sir please please don’t let this be the last time.”

“You really know how to make a man feel special hon. Well all you do is have to ask nicely and ill will GLADLY fuck this wet pussy the way it needs it. God y/n I’m gonna cum I need to pull out y/n”

“nu-ugh please Kento inside inside”

“I can’t I can’t” Nanami tried pulling out put you held him there. Riding him through his orgasm.

“Fuck y/n ughhhh” He grunts as he cums into you, as he spurts, he thrusts up into you a few times. He grunts again as the second orgasm runs through him. He starts cumming again kissing you furiously as he rocks his hips into yours. You both catch your breath as he stays inside you. You both seemed to have calmed down from the effects enough. He sets you down, and hands you his handkerchief. You used it to clean yourself of any leaking cum. He zips himself back in his pants, and you put yours back on. He then proceeds to put his jacket over you. Footsteps are heard running towards you, Its itadori. He is also soaked in the rain but no slime.

“Hey guys I got the curse! How’d yours go?”

He looks at the both of you hanging onto each other, curious.

“Ew you guys are covered in slime. “

[crimsonsnippet]

TYSM FOR ANSWERING <3333 i love asking so i’m glad u like answering!!!

i love that misa keeps thinking light is harmless, he’s just a pathetic little meow meow of course he can’t be the second kira. when do you think she’d finally realise maybe he’s not so harmless after all? or would she not realise at all? would kira win in this au? or do you not know yet.

light would totally fuck with l by dressing more risque around him, especially since it makes a vein pop in soichiro’s neck every time too. it’d be a win-win.

it’d be so funny if light and hideki ryuga had a sordid love affair, especially if hideki ryuga is like desperately pining for light who is just like ‘i was into you for like a week last year, man, get OVER it.’ would l be jealous? probably not since he knows hideki ryuga is like so far below light it’s not even funny, but then again, if light did date him once…

that’s so cute for light and rem, and i love light and sayu being close that’s so sweet. even if it’s because of sachiko dying lol. speaking of, how did she die? were light and sachiko close before her death or not really? also, if light tells mikami he’s kira do you think he’d tell sayu too, or would he want to protect from all of that? in this au would sayu be a kira supporter? and would she be as upbeat as she is in canon or would she be more resentful like light? would she and light drift apart a little when he becomes the second kira? do you think he’d let her meet rem? probably not, but i’m wondering about how she and rem would get along.

YEAH OFCCC i sat on this one thinking of how to reply for a bit bc of the first question lol

and the answer to that one is- maybe you’ll see at some point!

YEA HE ABSOLUTELY WOULD i joked about the school uniform revolution thing but that’s exactly the type of shit he’d pull

this is so canon now hideki has like 12 alts and light keeps having to block him

the family dynamics for the yagamis were taken from the jdrama! i could explain the plot but they probably explain it far more coherently on the wiki :] i honestly dont know wether he’d tell sayu or not i think it depends on the circumstances and i haven’t really thought about specifics like that as of rn but i think it could go either way! sayu would probably like kira as he is with his less drastic actions because of the way the jdrama goes but she wouldn’t be a fanatic about it just vaguely pro kira i think. as for general attitude i think she’s a little more mature and maybe a little more subdued than in the series but she doesn’t have as much to be angry about as light does although she sympathises with him more than their dad. light essentially has to take on running the household as the older sibling when their mom died so he’s stand in parent running the house cooking doing most of the chores etc and then soichiro comes home and shakes his head when he acts out so light is pretty explosively upset while sayu probably just really doesn’t like the fighting and has grown used to helping her brother when she can.

[pacifistcowboy]

Can you rattle off question 16 for your Sol Ocs (whichever ones you have enough development on)?

I imagine theyll be opposite ish their counterparts, but am intrigued!

(16 is biggest strengths)

ooo thank u for askin’!!! sorry this took so long to reply to, i did a lot more than just rattle off jscjsjcj

sol-shadow’s biggest strengths in terms of like, skills are ice-skating, which she can do as fast as blaze can run, n i haven’t really thought about her fighting style, but she’s definitely efficient in using her cryokinesis. i imagine when she first shows up in blaze’s time her go-to would be using icicles to stab enemies, but after goin’ through the whole hullabaloo of self-reflection n whatnot, she decides to learn to use her powers in a way where she just immobilises enemies instead of kill them.

in terms of personality, sol-shadow’s biggest strength is how dedicated she is to other people. she does NOT want to be alone so she will do anything for someone if she thinks that means they’ll stick around. she also cares a lot about honouring what pierce (her brother) wanted for the people of the sol empire, in a very similar manner to the way og-shadow is with maria’s wish. however, sol-shadow’s a little forgetful i guess n doesn’t have a great grasp on what’s right or wrong, so sometimes she’ll already be doing something before she realises it’d be something her brother would’ve probably discouraged her from doing, or she can’t fully tell if it’s a good or bad thing. i guess she’s more of a ‘help this one person’ than a ‘help the greater good’ kinda person which isn’t really a strength or a weakness!

(so uh since writing this ^^^ i have realised i should probably have sol-shadow and sol-rouge swap ‘roles’ because blaze’s ‘role’ is much more like knuckles so it’d make more sense for her rival to be more like rouge than shadow, but i haven’t figured out how much needs to be changed around or how i’ll make it work so i’ll still share what i originally wrote for sol-shadow. i’ll have to figure out why she’d be a thief and possibly an agent or something of that style)

thorn’s (i’ve decided sol-amy’s name is thorn :]) biggest strength in terms of skill is swordsmanship. he’s self-taught so he doesn’t know any like formal ways of sword-fighting, but he knows how to attack and defend effectively n that’s all that matters to him.

in terms of personality i’d say thorn’s biggest strength is that he’s probably very focused and detail-oriented given how much he worries about things going wrong. he has no faith in winging it so he’d make sure everything is thought out and would notice things other people overlooked, but he’d always point them out in a way where it sounds like he’s more calling people dumb for not noticing rather than trying to be helpful. so i guess tldr he’s good at catching problems! but i don’t think he’s good at solving them :/

mittens’ biggest strength skill-wise is her physical strength which she’s much better at using to carry or move objects than to fight, simply because she tries not to use her strength violently. if she had to fight someone using her physical strength she’d probably accidentally kill them ‘cause she doesn’t know exactly how powerful she is. she also figured out how to use her aerokinesis in a way where she can subdue enemies without hurting them, which is her go-to move against people instead of using her physical strength. she can also use her aerokinesis to fly but chooses not to because she simply prefers walking.

personality-wise mittens’ biggest strength is her patience. she will always try to talk things out and find a peaceful solution and pretty much never loses her temper. she likes to give people the benefit of the doubt but she doesn’t just suddenly wholeheartedly trust them, more just has faith that every person can change.

i feel so bad that i cannot think of a single skill sterling has ahdjwjfjwjf. she can see the future but that’s involuntary. i guess she’d eventually have to get good at finding clues and asking the right questions since she’s the only one who can see and interact with the future for a short time to figure out what caused it. she also might eventually learn to control when the visions happen but that’ll take time and be a constant effort. she’s very much a normal person who just accidentally gained a special ability.

again, i can’t really think of what sterling’s biggest strength would be personality-wise fjhfjwhd i SWEAR she’s a good kid and i love her!!! she just spends too much time trying to stay out of the way and doubting herself to really let herself shine :( i guess i could say she’s very modest and you can trust her follow orders since she doesn’t trust her own judgement, but those aren’t exactly strengths, more like positive twists on poor confidence. she also doesn’t know social etiquette so she always skips the unnecessary waffling n stuff when you talk to her, so i guess that’s a good thing! as long as you don’t perceive that as rude n appreciate not having to participate in dumb social rules wndnwnfb sterling doesn’t even do it on purpose, she just never picked up on the stuff you’re “supposed” to do. i know that trait isn’t very opposite to silver, but it was rather difficult to make a character contrast silver since he himself has rather conflicting traits, so i said fuck it and picked one main part of silver to give sterling the opposite personality of, then let the rest of her form on its own

sol-vector’s biggest strength when it comes to skill is probably her orderliness. she is much stronger than the average person, but not freakishly strong like mittens, and she only uses her physical strength when it’s necessary, not like it’s her specialty, which is why i’m sayin’ her work ethic is her best quality. she’s adamant about checking every clue, following every step, and only going after a bad guy once absolutely certain they’re the culprit, not just goin’ off assumptions and vibes. this can be seen as either a strength or a weakness, but sol-vector thinks it’s a strength so ajdjsjc she also tries to refuse when random people ask for the sol-chaotix help since they actually work for the sol empire and are assigned jobs, so to her that’d be like breaking the rules, but if someone is in need of enough help, her compassion outweighs her need to follow the rules.

i guess sol-vector’s skill-strength is also kinda her personality-strength?? she sticks to her guns and doesn’t give up on doing things the ‘right’ way (her version of right, idk if i can say it is The Right Way), and it comes from a place of wanting to make sure the wrong person doesn’t get in trouble and that the sol-chaotix genuinely do a good job at helping people and protecting the world.

sol-espio’s greatest strength skill-wise is her aim. i’ve decided she’s a cowboy n not a sumo wrestler so she uses revolvers to fight and she is absolutely awesome at shootin’. she can handle multiple enemies at once, is a perfect shot, and has the time of her life doin’ it. if she runs out of bullets she resorts to just throwing her guns at enemies which she makes work!

sol-espio’s greatest strength personality-wise is her enthusiasm. she’s full of energy so she never loses steam, and she’s always in the mood for action. she’s constantly looking for someone to fight but she won’t hurt innocent people. she keeps situations lighthearted and banters with absolutely everyone…she just sounds like sonic doesn’t she :/ i’ll say i think she’s a lot more intentionally irritating than sonic, and has much less patience when listening to people. ig she doesn’t mind not being friends with ppl while i think sonic tries to befriend everyone he meets at least once

sol-charmy’s biggest skill-strength is her attention to detail. she’s very quiet and observant, and always wanders away from the group just looking at everything. most people gravitate towards the big, obvious things, but her brain doesn’t work like that, so she notices the little details and usually ends up finding the important clues first. being a spider, she can also climb and stick to walls n ceilings, and given her size and natural quietness, she’s good at going unnoticed. she’s also a good artist and poet, but idk how well i can show that given that i’d be the one writing her poetry lol (she can also probably shoot webs out her butt ‘cause y’know; spider, n could also maybe use it like rope? but i haven’t explored that yet)

sol-charmy’s biggest personality-strength is how insightful and a deep thinker she is. she doesn’t take things at face value, and she really cares about truly understanding someone or something. she’s very introspective, constantly writing and drawing how she feels, and although she’s very shy, if she sees someone is struggling she’ll try to support them, albeit by just kinda silently being near them and giving them a face of “i understand and i’m here for you.”

so i hadn’t written about sol-rouge before deciding i’m gonna change it so he’ll have og-shadow’s ‘role’ more than og-rouge, but his personality would still be a contrast to og-rouge, so i now don’t really have a grasp of sol-rouge anymore. i’m probably gonna have to skip him for this ‘cause i need to figure out how he’ll have skills like og-rouge but not identical, how they’ll be useful for someone not a thief, how he’ll still have og-rouge’s core selfishness(??) while no longer being a thief, what exactly og-shadow’s “role” is and how to apply it to sol-rouge, and how to make sure he’s actually different to og-shadow ‘cause i think they’re a bit too similar at the moment. this character’s a tough one D:

i haven’t developed my sol-cream, sol-big, or shelly organik enough to answer for them, but i do know that sol-big is a very good birdwatcher :] if that’s a thing one can be good at

thank u again for being interested in my funky characters and i am SO sorry that this was not remotely succinct

[vacantgodling]

worthless war lore dump that has nowhere else to go

because i’m not expanding that story formally but i will probably never stop rotating it in my head and i can’t help but know about shit So.

the mc (who “you” is referring to) is named atreyus, an alternate spelling of the greek name atreus. the name means fearless and brave, which contrasts heavily with his perception of himself which is weak, following and subservient to the generals who lead him and his company along.

mentioned it in passing but i do imagine him with red hair. he is black tho—because with me just fucking assume every character i make is black or mixed unless i state otherwise LMAO—but i (personally) have a cousin who has kinky curly red hair, afro-centric features and freckles. that’s the vibe atreyus has lmao.

^^^ like that

i don’t know much about the other knight who helped him and that’s probably because atreyus doesn’t know much about him either. i do know the man is older than him, and has black hair. atreyus has seen him without his helmet but it was before this encounter and he never saw him without his helmet after that even though they stayed close by each other’s sides after the war.

i think the other knight not removing his own helmet is symbolic of the idea of detachment. he knows that they both will not be able to survive in the real world if they learn of each other more so in creating that barrier there’s a false sense of being able to keep them from being attached to one another. it doesn’t work—for neither atreyus nor for the other knight but they can pretend lmao.

atreyus does get married to lucasta after the war but as mentioned he is very distant. he loves her still, and cherishes her, but it’s the whole thing where ptsd can change you and he’s no longer the innocent man he once was. he took the war hard, as many do. he very much longs to be with the other knight and has even entertained going off on his own in the middle of the night to find the other man but… he doesn’t know anything about him so he couldn’t find him even if he wanted to. it’s a bitter feeling.

lucasta and atreyus have five children after the war. one dies young and lucasta cries but atreyus is impasse. he’s buried so many dead that even the sting of his own child doesn’t burn.

there are times where he does go out into the forest near his hometown, find a good rock and just sit on it. he’ll touch the scar under his arm, the only memory he has of the knight and it’s the only time he allows himself to cry.

thought about writing a piece where his children ask him of love and the only thing he can think of is that knight. i haven’t but yknow. vibes would be immaculate.

i’m terms of the knight himself (the nameless one) unlike atreyus he doesn’t have anyone to return home to and spends a lot of his time wandering between village to village. the war made him restless and terrors keep him awake at night. i think it’d be an interesting occupation for him if he was a “dog to sheep” —basically he watches over a flock at night and takes out any predators if they should try to kill any of the herd.

he also thinks of atreyus often but it’s more of a subdued yearning versus the way atreyus is broken up about it.

and tbh that’s it for now i just rotate them

[golden--doodler]

Bob's Burgers AU Sneak Peek #2

Okay, so I can't hold it in again, and all of you are so amazing that I have to share this next chapter, this one is hands-down my favorite so far (even though I only have three written so far, including this one), and the longest, too. I decided to create an origin story for why Bob hates Jimmy Pesto in this AU, and also snuck in the origin of Tina's crush on Jimmy Jr., just because. Even though I feel this chapter is more light-hearted than the other two chapters I've written so far (still haven't shared the first one, yet), mild content warning for Jimmy Pesto Sr. being the worst, and discriminatory (he's definitely at his absolute, absolute worst here). And for swearing. This was so much fun to write, especially the dialogue between everyone:

Jimmy Pesto’s Pizzeria

That day, the restaurant was still and smelled of stale cooking oil, with nothing noteworthy happening. With Linda away to assist Gayle with a “Catastrophe” (Bob didn’t desire to know what that meant), the kids had been a bit more subdued than usual. Earlier, they had constructed an immense mountain of napkins, so impressive that even he had to acknowledge it, although that was their one time getting off task. On a typical day, they would cause a lot more chaos, the restaurant becoming filled with their noise and energy, with him having to remind them all day to at least pretend to help. Was this routine ideal? No, it’d been what he’d gotten used to.

He guessed this change in behavior was because of Linda’s effervescent presence being gone, her bright spirit always a welcome addition to the restaurant. No matter the reason, he wanted their moods to improve, and if he could accomplish this task and have them be productive, that would be preferable. The dampened, sluggish atmosphere being created was sapping his energy, and it wouldn’t be long before his cooking suffered, too. In an effort to craft the perfect idea which would fulfill all these criteria, he allowed his gaze to wander to the vibrant colors of the trees and shrubs outside. His eyes roved over the scene, filled with the sounds of people bustling around, pushing strollers with fussy toddler and carrying overloaded shopping bags. Then his aimless watching of the view outside the restaurant settled on the building across the street.

Jimmy Pesto’s Pizzeria.

When he first laid eyes on Jimmy Pesto, he had an icy coldness in his stomach, like his body was warning him of something, and he couldn’t understand why. It’s not as if he knew much information about the restaurant’s background or the owner’s. And it’s not as if they’d interacted much, but the Pizzeria was a constant presence, its laughter and music echoing through the streets. But he had to admit he had a sickening sensation in his stomach when he encountered any sign of competition. Despite Bob’s best efforts, Jimmy Pesto’s was a hive of activity, with a constant line of customers waiting to be served, unlike Bob’s restaurant, which was always much less crowded. One thing he did notice was that the titular Jimmy Pesto had a son he believed was Tina’s age, which caught his attention. He was uncertain about how to feel regarding this information.

“Dad, are you looking at Jimmy Pesto’s? Can you see his pizza from here?” Tina asked, joining him near the window. “We should go there for lunch.”

“My stomach’s eating itself for sustenance!” Gene said, his words laced with such obvious hyperbole they were almost humorous. “We need food, like, yesterday.”

“I could go for some pizza.” Louise nodded in agreement with her siblings. 

He massaged his temples, hoping to soothe away the pounding ache that was beginning to form. “Sorry, kids, but we need to stay here. We might get a customer. I can make you all something, and it might even taste better.”

“They have garlic breadsticks, father!” Gene punctuated his words by thumping the table with his palm. 

“Will we get a customer?” Louise gave him a suspicious expression, squinting her eyes and a strange, incredulous noise escaping her lips.

Tina widened her eyes to appear more innocent and clasped her hands together.

No. He was the parent. Where would they be if he gave in to the kids’ every whim? Besides, how delicious could Jimmy Pesto’s cuisine even be? He’d prepared pasta plenty of times. It wasn’t worth closing the restaurant over. 

“Don’t you want to celebrate me getting better?” Tina gave Bob’s arm a gentle nudge as her grin widened. The constant pain of her ear infection had taken a toll on the family’s morale. It’d been very rough for her to get through.

“We need to celebrate this beautiful son of a—” Gene said, and Bob had enough foresight to step in. 

“Gene.” He gave what he hoped was on intimidating glare. “You three need to take out the trash.”

“Beautiful son of a bitch.” Gene completed his sentence anyway, under his breath. 

“Well, it’s too bad. You could’ve scoped out the competition.” Louise shrugged, standing from her spot in the booth. “But if we have to stay here, we have to stay here.” 

“What do you mean?” He crossed his arms and felt the soft fabric of his shirt against his skin, praying they’d lose interest soon. He felt a pang of loneliness as he wished yet again for Linda to be there. This was why he needed her.

“You could’ve snooped around Jimmy Pesto’s place. Maybe find some of his weaknesses. No big deal.”

Crap. He couldn’t believe this idea seemed tempting. He couldn’t allow Louise to manipulate him, to be swayed by her tantalizing words. It was just Italian food.

Then again. If they got takeout and were there for a few minutes at most, his kids would stop badgering him and he’d be able to see why people kept coming to Jimmy’s. There had to be some sort of secret, and if there wasn’t, he could walk away with a confidence boost.

Great. His kids had won another argument.

“All right, we’ll go. But we’re getting takeout, and you all better say the food’s mediocre.”

His kids met him with enthusiastic cries of triumph. Gene even wrapped his arms around Bob’s legs in a sudden, unexpected sign of affection.

********

“Do you think the rumors about their never ending-pasta bowl are real?” Tina's gaze darted around as they began their journey across the street, the hot pavement radiating heat beneath their feet. Their ears were on high alert, ready to pick up the sound of any approaching cars.

“It better be! And it better be infinite. Or else that’s just false advertising,” Gene said, and he looked as if he was imagining such a glorious bowl of pasta, the fresh steam permeating the air.

As they approached, there was a sudden voice in Bob’s head telling him to turn back, that he’d made a huge mistake. That it wasn’t too late to change his mind. He was about to give in to it because of how crowded and noisy the place appeared, with people laughing at various stories and clinking wine glasses. And with people cheering on their favorite team on the sports game being displayed on the TVs. Of course, their TVs were higher tech than theirs.

Bob then felt the familiar vibration of his phone informing him he had a new text. He fished his phone out of his pocket and encountered a bright light when he hit the power button.

It was from Linda (Labeled “Linda <3” in his phone after Tina taught him how).

Gayle’s driving me nuts, but we helped Mr. Business and we’re having a good time now. Hope you guys are too. Miss you <3 <3 <3 

To anyone else, the hearts would’ve felt too tacky or excessive. But they made Bob feel a pleasant heat emanating from his cheeks, spreading to the rest of his body. It was the most endearing message he could’ve hoped for, almost more than he deserved. He was relieved in a way that Linda was having fun. And he realized he would deprive his kids of some fun if he turned back. It would just be a few minutes. He could handle this. 

Before he could change his mind again, he texted Linda back (“We are. Miss you too <3”) and he pushed open the glass double-doors leading into Jimmy Pesto’s. It was even more crowded than he first thought with the added bustle of waiters rushing from table to table.

The man himself approached them when he noticed them enter, “Welcome to Jimmy Pes—Oh. It’s you.”

Well, that was unnecessary. His kids didn’t seem to notice, though.

“We want all of your garlic breadsticks!” Gene leapt up with glee, his feet pounding on the ground in excitement.

Tina grabbed a new menu and perused it, “Some jalapeño poppers would be nice, too.”

“Can anything in your kitchen explode or combust? Asking for a friend.” Louise gave him her attempt at an innocent grin. “Also, I want the bacon mac’ n’ cheese.” 

“We’re out of breadsticks, and a firm no to your question.” Jimmy Pesto scoffed at Louise, and Bob felt the urge to glare. “We can get you everything else.”

“What kind of restaurant runs out of breadsticks?” Gene’s expression morphed into one of pure horror. “I demand to speak to the owner.”

“I am the owner.” Jimmy Pesto crossed his arms, and it seemed his nametag had gone unnoticed by Gene.

“Hi, I’m their father. You already know that, though. We’ll get the jalapeño poppers, the never-ending pasta bowl, the alfredo, the shrimp scampi, and wait, Louise, what did you want again?”

“Come on, dad, mine was the easiest to remember, it’s bacon mac n’ cheese. Everyone likes bacon mac n’ cheese.”

“Sorry, Louise. Okay, we’ll get all of that, plus the bacon mac n’ cheese. And it’ll be for to-go.”

Tina bounced in excitement along with Gene, “Alfredo, here I come.”

“All right.” Jimmy Pesto wrote everything down on a small pad of paper. “That’ll be eighty dollars.”

“Eighty dollars?” Bob’s kids even seemed taken aback by this news. “Are you sure?”

“Are you going to pay or not? There’s a kind of line forming behind you.”

He turned, and sure enough, there was a large line of waiting people behind them. Most people were shifting their weight from foot to foot, a feeling of restlessness in the air. Now he had to make a judgment. He stole a glance at his kids, and he could tell this was important to them. Well, they’d come this far.

He pulled out his wallet as Jimmy Pesto called for his son. Jimmy Jr. came dashing, wearing what appeared to be a waiter's uniform. The outfit consisted of a white button-up shirt, a navy blue blazer, and midnight black pants, the materials rustling as he moved. He was even wearing dress shoes. Jimmy Pesto barked for him to take the order to the kitchen, and he felt Tina's presence before he turned to leave, her gaze still stuck on the menu. Bob wasn’t sure why she was doing this.

“Hey, Tina.” A thick, surprising lisp slipped out as he spoke.

She paused in her reading. Bob couldn’t understand why the menu captivated her so much.

She then glanced up, noticing his presence for the first time. “Hey, Jimmy--”

All at once, her body become as stiff as a board. Her expression morphed into pure astonishment, her mouth hanging open and her eyes flicking in every crevice of his body. Then, almost as fast as they began exploring the boy’s body, they shifted back to the menu in her hands. Bob had never seen his daughter’s face turn a darker shade so fast.

She had also lost the ability to form coherent sentences, “I—uh... Oh. I’m Tina.”

He gave her a blank, unreadable stare. “I know.”

Bob could sense the internal panic emanating from Tina as her face become pinched, seeming scrunched like clay, as if she wanted to hide. She fanned herself with the menu, disregarding the icy air that was pouring from the air conditioner, causing a wave of goosebumps on everyone’s arms. Bob wanted to groan, recognizing these expressions on Tina all too well. He looked this way when he laid eyes on Linda on their first date. Part of him hadn’t stopped, at least the adoring part.

Of course, his daughter was falling for this boy, because his day needed to get more complicated.

Gene and Louise noticed this reaction from their sister, then looked at each other and shrugged. He guessed they didn’t know how to feel about this new situation, based on their loss of words.

“The order, Jimmy Jr.!” Jimmy Pesto gave his son an unceremonious shove towards the kitchen. 

“Geez, dad, I was going!” Jimmy Jr. stomped the rest of the way to the kitchen, his feet pounding against the floor as he flung open the door with a loud thud. 

“Earth to Tina.” Louise waved her hand in front of Tina’s face.

“Lost in Pesto Land, are you?” Gene smirked, being unable to resist teasing the lovesick girl.

Bob shook his head in disapproval. “Don’t call it that, Gene.”

“Did you see what he was wearing?” Tina asked once she’d broken out of her stupor. “And he said hey to me. Just to me.”

She began hugging the menu, much like how a child would hold a beloved stuffed animal.

“I can’t believe after all the times I saw him at school, I never saw him.” She gave a sheepish grin to everyone. “Does that make sense?”

“Just don’t spread whatever that is to me,” Louise said, taking a step back from her. 

Bob was eager to change the subject, but Jimmy Pesto beat him to it. “Any particular reason why you’re here? And without your wife?”

After some deliberation, he provided an honest response. “My kids wanted to try the food. And Linda’s visiting her sister right now.”

“It must be a relief for you, right?” Jimmy Pesto grasped his shoulder and gave it a hearty squeeze, as if they were two old pals reuniting. “I guess on occasion the universe needs to assist people like you.”

He yanked his shoulder away, now wanting to escape the conversation. “What do you mean, people like me?”

“Oh, you know, poor sad sacks with a pipe dream who don’t have a chance. And on top of that, are stuck with their burden of a wife. Yikes, am I right?”

A fury like no other he had felt before boiled inside him like a pressure cooker left on high. Jimmy’s snide remarks about him were nothing he hadn’t heard before, including from his own father. Sure, they still stung, but it was nothing compared to what he’d said about Linda. There was no reason to drag her down with him. And he wouldn’t let some knock-off Italian mob boss get away with insulting the love of his life. 

Louise’s head snapped in Jimmy Pesto’s direction. “What did you say?”

“Stand down, Louise.” Bob’s hand curled into a fist at his side. “I’ve got this.”

 “Good luck, Jimmy Pesto.” Tina shook her head in sympathy, and Gene nodded in agreement.

“You’ll need it.” Louise complied and took a step back.

Bob fixed Jimmy Pesto with the worst, most malevolent glare he had attempted in his entire life. “What. Did. You. Say. About. My. Wife?”

He punctuated each word with emphasis.

“I thought you’d appreciate my honesty. I’ve seen your family together and what you do all day, Bob. It’s sad. You believe with all your heart, people will pack your restaurant this much every day.” Jimmy Pesto gestured around his restaurant, his arms moving like windmills. “And on top of that, you have to deal with your wife. I mean, for someone who can’t hear, she sure doesn’t know when to s—”

Bob didn’t allow him to finish the sentence. Reeling back his arm, he delivered the hardest, most painful, and most enraged punch he could. He wasn’t thinking with a clear head anymore, or second-guessing. All he saw was red. Just one thought reached him in this moment: This asshole had messed with his wife. 

He was doing more than insulting Linda: he was disgracing her, discriminating against her, worse than anyone else. And he needed to learn what happened when he did this.

It was a lesson Bob hoped he wouldn’t forget anytime in the future. Once it happened, he stood there, panting, feeling as if he’d just run a marathon. As Jimmy Pesto groaned, holding his nose, and customers around them gawked, he ushered his kids out the door. “We need to leave.”

Once they were outside and safe, Louise shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you punched him, dad. You punched him!”

“Yeah. Don’t repeat what I did. But he said all those awful things about us and your mother, and I just…”

“I knew we couldn’t trust him when he said they were out on breadsticks.” The earlier exchange continued to fixate Gene.

“I hope Jimmy Jr. didn’t inherit any personality traits from him.” Tina stopped her siblings from crossing the road too soon on instinct.

“Sorry we couldn’t get the food like you wanted,” He said as they approached the restaurant. 

“Are you kidding? That was way better!” Louise grinned, it spreading across her face like butter. “You should do that more often.”

“No.” He fumbled for his keys, still reeling a bit from the confrontation.

“I’m still hungry, though,” Gene said as they shuffled back inside.

Bob then remembered a crucial detail, a crucial detail which, if he’d remembered earlier, could’ve prevented them from going to Jimmy Pesto’s in the first place, “Well, Jimmy Pesto doesn’t have garlic breadsticks. But do you know who does?”

Bob’s head was sure to suffer the consequences of Gene’s excited squealing the next day. It was worth it to see him so delighted, though. The news delighted Tina and Louise as well, though, if their laughter and expectant gazes at him were any implication. He led them to the basement, the familiar wooden walls greeting them as they hurried down the stairs. Time couldn’t move fast enough for the kids as he rooted through one of the many crates in the corner. He then lifted a golden, savory breadstick in the air and pumped his free fist in celebration, accompanied by a joyful shout.

Despite there being one more breadstick, the kids were, to his surprise, willing to be generous and save it for Linda once she got back. And as if he’d manifested this reality, he heard the resounding thud of the front door shut and footsteps making their way towards their location. It didn’t take long for her to decipher where they were, and she heaved the door open, poking her head in.

“Mom!” With a hug, Gene was the first to greet her, as they knew he would be.

“Lin!” He welcomed her with the familiar sign of her nickname, which caused her to let out a silent laugh. “You’re back already?”

“Hi, Bobby.” She reciprocated by showing off the sign of his nickname. “Hi, kids. How was your day?”

“Dad punched a guy,” Louise said, which he should’ve foreseen.

“Geez, what have I been missing out on?”

“Come join us.” Gene guided her down the stairs, his grip gentle. “Dad’ll tell you all about it.”

“You won’t believe what happened to me.” She sat cross-legged on the floor next to Bob.

“Well, I guess because of Gene, I’ll have to tell our story first. It may or may not beat yours. In terms of how dramatic it is.”

“What an emotional rollercoaster,” Tina said, and he couldn’t help but let out a laugh. He cherished this moment, surrounded by the love of his family, feeling the closeness of their bond because they were the people who mattered most. Not Jimmy Pesto.

[jonathanvik]

Krisis - Chapter 2

“Tsk.” Police Chief Rolf scowled as his secretary brought him the daily report, chalky smoke filled his office from his cigar as he scanned the reports. He suppressed a yawn, quickly skimming through each paper to get home early. If anything important happened, he’d learn about it in the morning.

“Another Demon protest.” Rolf smothered his cigar against the report, annoyed he’d have to deal with that nonsense again. 

If they were so unhappy about their pay, why didn’t they move to Vanderfall? There, they’d probably treat that trash better. If the Demons lived in his country, they lived by UOP rules. They should be proud to be citizens of the UOP, regardless of their living conditions. Some hell gas should suffice to clear that rabble. The agony caused by the nerve agent would make anyone think twice about continuing their worthless cause.

“Sir! Apologies for the interruption, but there’s an emergency!” His view screen said, flickering on. Sitting inside its frame was a cartoon green-haired girl in a police captain’s outfit with flashing police sirens acting as hair buns.

“Phú. I left my monitor off for a reason. This better be good.” While he could have easily gone through his reports with the AI’s assistance, Rolf preferred the tactile nature of paper. The higher-ups had forced the damnable AI upon his department, believing it would be an enjoyable mascot for children.

But his desk rattled as he abruptly stood up when he caught the AI’s stark expression. “It’s your nephew, Joven. He’s in the hospital. He’s suffered severe brain trauma. The prognosis isn’t good.”

Rolf was already charging from his office to the parking garage. People scattered at the sight of their irate police chief. Above him, a flying monitor followed him, Phú’s hover engines struggling to keep pace.

“He was attacked?” Rolf demanded, mind racing as the AI explained the scant details. “And this Rocke Ralss brat is responsible?”

“Correct. We’re taking testimony from both witnesses.”

“Keep them here. Once I return from the hospital, I want to hear their testimony myself.”

“Sure thing, Cap!” Phú said, giving him a thumbs up. “We’ll squeeze them for everything they got!”

“Rawr!” A roar echoed around the main lobby, officers were struggling to subdue a suspect. The brute was massive and violent, resembling more a wild beast than a human. Even with five officers on him, they couldn’t contain him.

“One moment,” Rolf said, forestalling Phú with a hand.

“Gah!” The suspect howled as Rolf delivered a powerful kick to the face. Stunned, he was helpless as Rolf grabbed him by the skull with both hands and drove his knee into his chin. With a thud, the man collapsed unconscious.

“Thanks, Chief.” Sergeant Halkken said, giving him a thumbs up for the assist.

“Throw that scum into a cell, Jan. Perhaps he’ll calm down after a day or two without food or water.”

---

“By Solv, I...” Rocke shook his head, hoping to wake from this terrible dream. This couldn’t be happening. His stolen car increased speed, zipping between two trucks. Metal squealed as he clipped a truck’s side, leaving an ugly gash in the car’s rear end.

“I appreciate the assist, young man. How about slowing down before you kill us?” the prophet said wryly. “The Sovereign might have saved my life, but I’d rather not risk it again, if you catch my drift.”

“R-right.” Rocke tried to gather his racing thoughts. Had he just killed Joven? No, impossible. It’d only been an ugly head wound. He’d be fine, surely.

“Dear Solv! I’m in a stolen car fleeing from a crime scene!” The full impact of his situation struck him like a brick to the skull, hands trembling with pent-up emotion. He’d just ruined his life, hadn’t he? Rocke doubted his family would think highly of him throwing away everything for some bum. His uncle would be furious about his debacle, maybe even refusing to help him legally through this mess. And Rocke’s dad? He’d rather not dwell on that.

“It’s okay, son.” The prophet said, giving his shoulder a tight squeeze. “We can get through this. The first point, I would imagine, is ditching this stolen car.”

“You’re right.” Nowadays, cars have trackers for just such a situation. It wouldn’t take long for this vehicle’s theft to be reported. After taking a deep breath, Rocke guided Joven’s car to a back alley behind a warehouse. At this late hour, nobody was around. With a hiss, the vehicle parked behind a  bin brimming with trash bags.

An idea struck his dulled mind, and his fingers danced across the flying car’s controls. While people usually drove their cars manually, they had an autodrive function. He programmed a course that would drive the vehicle halfway across the city.

“Okay, now what?” A million scenarios passed through Rocke’s head as his feet landed in the dark alley, almost pitch black from the lack of moonlight. Behind him the car started up on its journey.

Should he turn himself over to the police and plead for their mercy? But Rocke trembled, terrified by the prospect of going to prison. How could this happen? The UOP promised its citizens perfect peace and prosperity. People like him never committed crimes!

“I have a friend who lives nearby. Let’s stop by there to rest. After your day, you’ll need it. Besides, I doubt good decisions are made in a foul-smelling alley.” The soothsayer wrinkled his nose at the alley’s smell of indeterminate bodily fluids. 

 Rocke watched as Joven’s car sped away to parts unknown. “Okay, lead on.” Some sleep sounded nice. It might sober him up for better decision-making tomorrow.

“Matthias Daliven.” The prophet said, extending his hand. “I haven’t properly thanked you for saving my life.”

“Rocke Ralss.” While a wiry fellow, the soothsayer’s grip was firm, a sharp contrast to Rocke’s more feeble one. Despite his father’s emphasis, Rocke had never attained an imposing grip.

After a slight smile, the prophet led Rocke into a district of Vladus he’d never visited. It shocked him how grimy it was. Didn’t the automatic robotic cleaners come down here? He even noticed some streetlights weren’t working. With palpable unease, Rocke followed Matthias to parts unknown.

“Matthias, is that you?” A woman said. She waved as they entered the shantytown, a makeshift village within his grand city. The lady was an Ottomon, her tribal markings stretching across her middle-aged face in a sharp, zigzag fashion.

To call these huts homes would be generous. They appeared more like tin boxes of thin metal than a house. It shocked Rocke that anyone could live in them. Did they even keep you warm at night? North UOP had harsh winters with meters of snow every year.

“Evening, Maple.” The prophet replied, limping over.

“By Sovereign, what happened to you?! You’re all black and blue! Did someone hurt you? Angry about your prophecies, no doubt.” Maple said, fretting over the older man. “And who’s your friend? A higher district folk, from the looks of him.”

“Rocke,” he said bashfully under the woman’s scrutiny. Her penetrating gaze reminded him of his grandmother. That woman’s stubbornness could force a building to move if she wanted.

“He saved me from a bunch of hooligans,” Matthias said, giving Rocke’s back a friendly pat. “The Sovereign sent him to save my sorry keister.”

“That’s very brave of him.” The woman’s smile was grateful and full of admiration. It made Rocke somewhat self-conscious, but the glow from her respect felt nice. “Come in. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Maple. You’re a dear.” Matthias said, limping into the woman’s shack.

“Sure thing.” The metal hut was even smaller on the inside, barely larger than Rocke’s bedroom. Yet, its owner maintained it with obvious love, making do with whatever was available. The air didn’t smell as bad as he’d expected. Instead, the fragrance was of cooked vegetables. An old metal stove sat in a corner, and above it were stacks of shelves with different utensils and spices. Two beds sat in a corner, not giving the occupants much room for privacy.

“No use staring, lad. We might be poor, but we manage.” The older woman said. “But make yourself at home. I’ll get you something to eat. You’ve suffered quite the ordeal.”

“Sorry,” Rocke said, blushing. He found a stool next to a fold-up table and sat.

“You’re too kind.” The prophet said, groaning as he pushed himself onto the stool.

“Mom? Are you talking to someone?” A young woman said from outside. “Has Matthias come to visit?”

Rocke gasped as a familiar face slipped into the shack, recognizing the distinctive tattoo markings anywhere. What an impossible coincidence.

“Didn’t you give me a few copper coins a couple of hours ago?” The beggar’s eyes became suspicious. “Why are you here?”

“None of that, Kallane. He’s our guest. Please make him feel at home.” Her mother said.

“He got me out of a nasty scrape,” Matthias said, providing the backstory.

“What happened to you?” Kallane said, alarmed. She examined the prophet, making sure his injuries weren’t serious.

“Don’t fret. I’ll be fine.” The prophet said.

“The fool has been prophesying again.” Maple poured a thick broth into wooden bowls and placed them on the table. His mouth watered, despite being a simple affair made from vegetables, mostly celery from his guess. “Like those uptown fools will even listen to him.”

“Someone needs to warn them,” Matthias said, pulling his spoon to his mouth. “The Sovereign tells me they must be warned before judgment. They need time to repent.”

“Brave, silly Matthias.” The older Ottomon woman shook her head.

“And are you a repenter?” Kallane asked, eyeing Rocke with interest.

“Naw, I don’t believe any of that,” Rocke replied, trying the soup. It was excellent and flavorful, much to his surprise and delight. It helped remove any lingering effects of the drinks he’d had earlier.

“Yet you helped me,” the prophet said, raising an eyebrow. “Against your own friends, no less.” This caught their hosts’ attention, increasing their curiosity about what had happened.

Rocke’s hands covered his face, the futility of his situation crashing down on him. “I’m a wanted man now.”

“It was the Sovereign’s will. He put you there to help me,” Matthias said, his words kind.

“Thanks for ruining my life, Sovereign,” Rocke replied, not hiding his bitterness.

“This life is temporary. What we do for the hereafter matters more. The Sovereign will judge us for our transgressions. Being a good person isn’t enough. Unless we confess our sins, they hang over us like a noose.”

“Sure,” Rocke said noncommittally. He’d heard this speech countless times from his grandmother, too. She was the only person in his family that ever believed in the Sovereign. The controversy had gotten her kicked out of the family.

“Now Matthias, let’s not scare away our guest,” Maple said, scolding her friend.

“Tsk. Seems no one wants to hear the truth,” the prophet said, his tone going sullen. “It’s like I’m talking to myself. 40 days isn’t enough time!”

Why bother then? Rocke wanted to ask, but decided against it. It wasn’t his job to tell people what they should do.

“Well, I’m proud of you. Someone needs to speak out! The Uupies need to understand there are consequences for what they’ve done. Making us live in squalor while they live in palaces!” Kallane spat on the dirt floor, her tone venomous. “When judgment comes, they’ll get everything they deserve!”

While disapproving of her tone, the prophet patted Kallane’s hand. “I’m proud of how much you care about your people, Kallane, but don’t allow your anger to poison you. The Uupies are human too. I was once one of those snooty uptowners.”

The prophet was an uptowner? What poor luck drove him to become a prophet of a dead religion? Despite himself, it sparked Rocke’s curiosity. 

“Tsk. You’re different. You’ve always had a heart.” They’d clearly had this argument hundreds of times. Rocke shifted uneasily in his seat. He’d never realized how badly the Demons despised his people.

“Dessert?” Maple asked too loudly, trying to break into the awkward mood.

“That sounds lovely,” Matthias replied.

“Sure.” His host gave them each a sweet cake. Despite its simple flavor, and small size, Rocke enjoyed it. When Maple left with her daughter to do the dishes out of a basin, it left Rocke mostly alone with the person he’d lost everything to save.

“Are you okay?” the prophet asked, catching Rocke’s forlorn mood.

“What should I do now? I have no future.” While his uncle had money, he doubted he’d spend a copper to defend his disgraced nephew. Joven’s family had even more powerful connections. His father was a powerful local politician who aimed to become Vladus’ mayor. 

If Joven survived, Rocke would suffer only a short jail sentence. If the big man died, Rocke’s uncle wouldn’t dare fight that to save his own political skin. He’d consider it wiser to toss away his nephew like useless chaff. Like his father always said, it’s a dog-eat-dog world. 

“The Sovereign will provide,” Matthias replied cryptically.

“Sure. Thanks for the meal, but I should go,” Rocke stood up.

“No, stay the night,” Maple replied.

“You’ve been too nice. If I stay, you’d only get in trouble.” Where he’d go, Rocke hadn’t a clue. He couldn’t bear these good people getting hurt because of him.

“No, you’re staying. It’s dangerous at night in these parts, especially for Uupies.” Maple’s tone was emphatic.

“Yeah, everyone here knows Matthias is a friend and holy man, but a rich Uupie like you would get sliced to bits in seconds.” Kallane’s frosty glare sent a shiver down his spine.

“Okay.” Rocke’s tongue caught in his throat.

“We have a spare mat you can use,” Maple said kindly. She offered the same to Matthias too, and he accepted the offer with a grateful nod.

Rocke grimaced, disliking sharing a cramped room with three people. But it wasn’t like he had much choice. He’d lost any claim to comfort when he’d attacked Joven. He hoped by tomorrow, things would improve.

---

“Explain again what happened?” Rolf said, getting into the witness’s face. The young man was a scrawny thing that flinched under his piercing gaze.

“Like I told you. My friend Rocke went crazy and just attacked Joven. It’s nuts. There wasn’t any reason he did it!” Sweat trickled down Marshion Parra’s face.

“He messed up, you mean?”

“Sorry?”

“Last night, Joven was at the bridge for a purpose — discarding trash.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“The prophet, kid. That’s the reason my nephew was near the bridge late at night. It was to dispose of a nuisance who's been disturbing public peace.”

“We’re just talking about that?” Parra said, surprised. “Openly?”

“Yes.” The boy flinched at the tone of Rolf’s voice. His men wouldn’t dare betray him. Besides, no one would care if that traitor died. “Answer the damn question. Where is the prophet?”

“Rocke stole him away. Took Joven’s car.”

“Better.” The picture of the scene became clearer. Joven asked his friends to join in the fun. But this Rocke kid wasn’t as keen about it. The situation escalated, and Rocke struck Joven with a baseball bat to defend the prophet. Panic struck, and he fled with the injured soothsayer in the nearest car.

“Phú, my nephew’s car has a tracker. Locate it.” 

“Got it!” The AI said, her monitor flashing before switching off. 

If the kid was stupid, he’d keep running with the stolen vehicle. It shouldn’t be hard to trump up some charges for the prophet so he’g get locked away in some cold prison somewhere. Death during a fake escape attempt was another promising idea. Still, it was nothing compared to when they caught…

“Sir,” Halkken said, bursting into the interrogation room.

“What? I’m busy.” But the sergeant’s face told Rolf everything.

“It’s your nephew. He didn’t make it. The brain damage was too severe. He passed ten minutes ago. I just learned about it.” Halkken said in obvious dismay. A lump caught in Rolf’s throat. Despite the grim prognosis, his nephew had still been alive when he’d left the hospital. His sister’s wailing still tormented him, guilt stabbing into his heart like a knife. It’d been his fault the boy had gotten hurt. 

After a brief silence, Parra uttered something stupid. “I’m sorry for what happened. He was a good friend.” The brat howled as a fist impacted his nose.

“You little brat. Don’t you dare speak of my Joven!” Rolf channeled all his rage into his words, an avenging angel. “He had a bright future. He was going to be police chief one day, but you allowed him to die. You allowed that Ralss kid to hurt my boy!” 

“I...” Parra trembled, words failing him.

“I’ll leave you be,” Halkken said, motioning to leave.

“No.” Rolf regained his temper. Although he'd enjoyed venting his fury on this pathetic whelp, he wasn’t Rolf's true target. “Throw him out of here, and none too gently.”

“Understood,” Halkken said, nodding.

“Phú!”

“Yes, sir?” The AI said as the room’s monitor reactivated. “I overheard what happened, Chief! My deepest condolences!” 

“Shut up. We’ve got work to do!” 

“What’s the plan?” PhúLAX, or Phú or short, asked, her voice chipper as always. “Are we going to hunt that murderous scum down and make him pay?”

“I like the sound of that.” Halkken said, amused. Rolf’s heart soured with pride at his officers’ sense of justice. 

“You read my mind.” A devilish smile spread across his features. “Put a city-wide APB on this Ralss kid. Shoot on sight with stun weapons, highest level.” The weapon was powerful enough to make an elephant twitch in erratic spasms. The agony would be pure misery. “But I’ll handle the rest myself.” 

“Of course, chief.” Phú gave a salute. “Your blood. You deserve to avenge him.”

“Damn right.” Rolf left the pathetic Parra whimpering on the floor. He had a job to do. He’d burn down half of Vladus if need be. No place could protect Joven’s murderer from him.

[luminescentlyricist]

🎠 Path Paving 🌹

Carrie awoke, eyes blinking slowly. She didn’t want to greet the day, of course, but the beds not being particularly comfortable made up for any will to sleep in. Due to the nature of the troupe, lodgings were seldom given any comfort. Everyone had things to do. Movements to make. One was reluctant, though their complaints remained unvoiced. Too much happened for her to waste time on such petty little whims, much less pushing them onto anyone else to deal with.

She sat up, the sheets falling away from the top half of her body and leaving her near-bare arms to prickle with goosebumps. The sensation was a shock, seeing as she usually made sure to block her tent’s entrance as much as possible, but she chalked it up to her father’s antics. He didn’t need any permission from those he thought inferior, as the Ringmaster, even when it came to invading more personal affairs. It was a pain, yes, but something she expected. Privacy was inexistent between them due to how ‘tight-knit” Homura wanted his employees to be.

That was just code. He wanted them to be loyal to him, and letting bonds forge between those he considered pawns would just make subduing a group that much easier. So boundaries were important - just not to him. He was leagues above the rest.

His daughter’s eyes, despite still adjusting to the dim surroundings, flickered over to the entrance to work out what was actually going on. She couldn’t see much beyond the fabric, but the amount of light and noise let her know that someone had shifted it earlier in the day. Kicking the lower portion of the sheets away from her legs, she groaned aloud in protest. Ultimately, there wasn’t enough of a valid fight she could put on to halt the sun in the sky. Swinging upright and over the edge of her bed, the young performer shrugged on a jacket and slid on shoes while still fighting back a yawn.

Upon closer inspection, a small figurine of a cat with gleaming red eyes had been placed in her path to the outside world.

So it hadn’t been her father after all…

With visible relief, Carrie allowed themself to roll their shoulders and shrug away some of the tension that’d built at the prospect of meeting with their father. However good his intentions were, intimidation was something that Homura relied upon to have the upper hand in any interaction. Bending down at the waist to pick up the figure, she noticed there was a note attached with tape onto its front paw. Folded beneath the left, a trademark of only one performer she knew - if the animal itself weren’t a good enough indicator.

She placed the cat in her pocket, smoothing a finger over its head with a quiet affection. This cat was something often passed between she and its initial owner, with her notes attached to the back left paw instead. Though the distinction was unnecessary, it felt strange putting anything on the right - and thus out of the way - because of her own dominant hand. Unfolding the note, her eyes skimmed the page. It’d been many years of deciphering Kazuki’s scrawls before she was able to read them at a glance, and there were still some days she had to ask the overexcited aerialist for confirmation in person. Of course that rendered their secret communications moot, but proved necessary the irritating majority of the time.

The note itself was short, just inviting Carrie over to their tent to watch them “do something new”, with some mention of a hobby they’d picked up. She had a feeling it was more than that, but wasn’t going to deny a chance to see her friend. It had been a busy week of performances, so the little ‘downtime’ she had was precious to her. That meant neglecting herself in favour of others, unless her father had dragged her off to do some maintenance work instead. She placed it in her pocket and proceeded across the Sparkslide grounds, though her vision swept anxiously around. They didn’t want to get caught and dragged away.

One particular figure within the crowd milling around caught her eye, but she made no move to engage them because of her mission. The knife-thrower, Dahlia, had hopefully settled in since Carrie’d last seen them. They weren’t wearing their signature wig, but had been too little a blur in Carrie’s periphery for her to gauge what their hair actually looked like. Their last encounter had been less than amicable, but the performer was still coming to terms with the fact that it hadn’t been a nightmare. She was all too willing and eager to forget the details of almost being skewered by the knife-thrower. They were a friend, after that, but the young woman wasn’t quick to trust others in general. Especially not when her father had his claws in all affairs.

Eyes falling to the ground, Carrie dug her heels into the path for a moment of forced pause. Her mind had begun to wander, and she wasn’t sure she liked looking into the crowd’s faces. Luckily enough, she knew the way to Kazuki’s tent with her eyes closed. Instead, she made the rest of the journey there with gaze trained at her feet, arm held protectively to both shield her vision and prevent her bumping into anyone on the way there. Something did run into her path, a streak of black with pale eyes, but she’d not processed it was a cat until she’d reached her destination. They often followed Kaz around, almost as if protecting them, and it was as if they knew Carrie herself was no threat. She had enough scrapes and bruises from her daily practices to make up for the lack of claw marks, however.

Her luck was famously bad, and the black cats were just the cherry on top. Grimacing at the thought of having to nurse more scratches, she knocked on the panel of wood that served to shield the tent’s entrance from onlookers. Hers had been shifted earlier by the very aerialist she sought. They didn’t particularly mind if they were turned away, but being outside made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. The sound of clicking heels grew louder, soothing any worries, and she was soon greeted by the familiar face of Kazuki at the doorway. Their cotton-candy dyed hair was duller than normal, presumably due to lack of supplies at the troupe’s current location, but their smile was vibrant as ever. 

“Kaz, you know you don’t have to barge into my tent while I sleep… It’s kinda creepy.”

Carrie only said this as a way of greeting her friend, a gentle smile playing at her lips. They took it with grace as always, a wide grin on their own face as they stepped away from the doorway and allowed their friend inside. So she sat, picking her way through a strewn path of silks, hoops and all manner of other tricks scattered across the floor. She’d no doubt that Kaz had a reason to be messy at all times, mainly when it came to laying out their thoughts in a more tangible manner to sort through - a method Carrie herself often employed - but had no intention to trip over so soon.

She thought there were things to discuss.

“Of course I don’t! But where’s the fun in that?”

Kazuki was lucky he was hard to be mad at. Their smiles and apologies both were genuine at all times, and it was remarkably hard to find someone so precious. Still, Carrie waited in a stunned silence before digging around in her pocket to break the stilted atmosphere. Pulling out the cat, she set it gently down on a cluttered side table and once again pet it on the head a few times.

“You wanted to show me something, right? A new move or another dubious hobby? I don’t think we have much time, so you better make this quick.”

She murmured, brows furrowing. Carrie hadn’t intended to be rude, but her words weren’t the best. Truthfully, her heart was hammering in her chest, and she couldn’t quite figure out why. Kaz was preoccupied, wringing their hands in a distracted manner and refusing to look their companion in the eye. Their expression had fallen similarly to the other’s, but they didn’t want to show outward concern to Carrie so openly and cause them more worry. If anyone was aware just how fragile Carrie could be when it came to panicking about other peoples’ safety instead of their own, it was Kaz. So, being a performer by nature, they forced a smile back onto their lips and silently gestured for their friend to follow them outside the tent.

Picking their way through the bushes, the aerialist followed a simultaneously overgrown and well-worn path for a few minutes. Pushing lightly against a trellis, the large structure yielded to his touch only enough to swing on rusted hinges. These had been covered by leaves, positioned accurately enough that no prying eyes would glimpse the metal beneath. They spared a glance backward only to check that their companion hadn’t fallen, sighing gently but otherwise refusing to speak until they’d led her away into the clearing behind the ‘gate’.

There lay roses.

Bushes upon bushes filled the area, each in its own stage of development and bloom, with countless fallen petals cushioning the pair’s footsteps. The scent was enough to make Carrie’s eyes water, but it wasn’t a bad thing. For a moment, she remained in a state of shock, the drone of their many friendly pollinators remaining the only constant sound in the surrounds. A tear ran down her cheek, and the first movement she made was wiping it away before Kaz could see. She knew that her friend had created the scene, due to how often the cats had hissed at her when she tried to move around the back of the tent.

“It’s beautiful, Kaz. Thank you.”

Their voice was little more than a whisper, nearly reverent in tone. Though they knew it wasn’t just for them, the sight of so many roses made their heart ache. The flowers were special to them because of Kazuki, after all, and she had a feeling he knew that. There would have been little reason for them to risk bringing the other into their private space if that weren't true.

Though the aerialist was anything but secretive, keeping the flowers away from anyone that might’ve killed them was of utmost priority. They had to flourish, and it was a private joy that he hadn’t wanted the Ringmaster to extinguish or covet for himself. There was a reason why he’d kept it from Carrie until the flowers had opened properly, despite her lack of ill will. Her bad luck was just the thing that would nullify the hard work they’d put into their garden. 

Though the troupe would come to move from their current location, taken by the needs of the Ringmaster for entertainment, it would continue to bloom through rain and shine for a few moments longer. That was more than enough, because Kaz had always had no trouble leaving things behind. The second performer, engrossed in the sights before her, had chosen to stay. She wasn’t moving, quiet breaths solely displaying her liveliness. 

Creeping ivy tendrils, growing to support the latticed roses, had spread in equal measure beneath the petals. They would climb, indiscriminate, around anything that looked stable enough. The aerialist was aware of this. They kept themselves elevated, stamping their feet occasionally to ward off the plants. They were almost scared of him for a reason he couldn’t explain. Plants weren’t sentient, after all.

However, they watched as ivy coiled itself around Carrie’s legs, thinking no harm would come of it. But she didn’t react, frozen with that gentle smile on her lips. A realisation hung in the air, stronger than the perfume of the roses.

Carrie could no longer move forward when Kaz was by her side.