#need to hive him body hair tone down the gold and maybe give him a tactfully placed scarf to cover the nips

[beetle-grub]

Like so

Because I am dedicated to pissing ppl in the rf Fandom off I'm gonna make Leon short and fat and trans in my redesign

[amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes]

Toy Box

AN: This is my entry for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor Two Years of Darkness challenge. My prompt is Mob!AU you wonder about your bf/gf's late nights and the answer surprises you and my character is Bucky. I took a friendship route to the gf and not romantic and this went from Bucky to an add on. This is a little late but I changed the story and characters last minute; I apologize. Not beta’d so all mistakes are my own. My character is written with a WOC in mind but all read. Please don’t repost my work without my expressed permission 🗣🗣🗣

Warnings: ‼️NON-CON‼️, allusions to prostitution, voyeurism, unwanted groping, slight gun play, violence(the gun is discharged), threesome? four-way? IDK how to classify it. Proceed with caution and do not read if the subject matter offends you. 

Pairing: Officially? Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 3,121

~~~~~

“Hey, what are you doing to make all this extra money?”

Sabrina, your roommate, gave you a weary look as you hesitated by the large double doors. The sounds of the busy street unnerved you but you wanted to do this. Besides, if Sabrina could do it, why couldn’t you? While she had been quite cryptic in telling you what her part-time job duties are, you trusted Sabrina. She'd been your roommate and best friend for years and you had all confidence in her. 

"You really wanna know?" The uncertainty in her voice went ignored. You placed your hands on your hips and tsked. She avoided your pointed glare. Secrets were never kept between the two of you; you both knew everything about each other so to think she was holding something from you was offensive. 

"Girl, yes. I wanna know how you go from not being able to pay your half of the rent to now covering my half. What's the deal?"

After nearly an hour of guilt tripping her, Sabrina finally caved and told you she was working for "some hotel in guest services and entertainment". When you pressed her for a better explanation, she just shrugged and asked if you wanted to meet her boss and get the job description from her. While you may not have skills to be an entertainer, surely they had a position at the front desk you could do. That night you happily edited your resume and dreamt of all the things you could do with the extra money; pay off a bill or two and save for that vacation you so desperately need.  

"You ready?" A hand on your shoulder brings you back to reality. Of all places, you didn't expect her to bring you to the Hotel Cortez. The Cortez was well known as one of two hives for the new crime syndicate that took over the town a few years back. You'd only half paid attention to the news articles as they listed the main culprits: James Barnes, and Carol "The Captain" Danvers. The two of them wreaked havoc on the town and had nearly the entire police force in their back pocket. You’d been lucky enough to not cross paths with them or their associates, hearing that once you get tangled with them, you’re stuck.  

Humming a response to her, you take a deep breath to steady yourself. It wasn't like you're doing anything illegal, you’d be so far down the ladder that the worst that could happen to you was you get fired. At least you still had your full time job to fall back on. Placing your hand on the handle, you shift your portfolio and push open the large glass doors. Red and gold carpet covers the lobby floor and high crystal chandeliers illuminate the area in a dreamlike glow; a true juxtaposition to what you believed it would look like. Standing in the middle of the lobby, you gawk at the red velvet chairs that look like mini thrones rather than chairs. You feel out of place and severely under-dressed with your black maxi skirt and white shirt. 

“They’re ready for you, Ruby. Go on up.” You startle and turn towards the feminine voice. Behind a desk you didn't even notice, a blonde woman in a fitted white dress smiles at you. Sabrina mumbles her thanks and hooks her arms in yours, dragging you to the opposite side of the desk. Frowning, you turn to Sabrina when you stop in front of an elevator. 

“Who the hell is Ruby?”

“Me.” her eyes never leave the floor indicator, the numbers counting down. Clearing her throat, she shrugs. “They give us nicknames here, you don’t use your real name.”

“Why?” The elevator dings and slides open. Still hooked with you, Sabrina pulls you into the elevator and presses floor 21. You turn to her with your arms crossed. She avoids your glare and sighs. 

“It's not too late to turn around.” You tilt your head in confusion at her. Before you can ask for clarification, the elevator dings and the door opens. Again you are taken aback at the decor of the room. You were expecting an office, not a large gray sofa and matching chair on a white rug nor the ceiling to floor windows that made the walls. The rest of the floor was hardwood and more gray chairs scattered about. Tall white vases of varying bouquets of flowers sat on matching gray tables and a small chandelier casts a soft glow. Sabrina let you go and walked further into the room. You stood awkwardly a few feet from the elevator, too nervous to move in fear of breaking something. 

 A call of your name beckons you to move. You hear voices and as you exit the foyer, you get a better view of the room. More gray furniture decorate the room and to the far left of the room, a large L shaped desk with matching cabinets. A woman is perched on the corner of the desk, her short black dress raised over her long legs as she giggles at a blonde woman behind the desk. In a chair to their right, a man sits with a glass and watches you as you stop next to Sabrina. The woman behind the desk stands and moves toward you. Swallowing hard, your resolve falters when you recognize her. Carol Danvers. You weren’t expecting to see any of the bosses and seeing her up close is daunting. Her presence is authoritative as she strides towards you, her tailored black suit as unwavering as her gaze.

“This her?” the woman on the desk glances at Sabrina before raking her eyes slowly down your body. Carol hums as she paces around you, the action making you uneasy. 

"She's cute. What do you think, Barnes?"

Your anxiety spikes as you realize that both of the mob bosses are within arms reach of you and staring you down. Sabrina elbows you in the ribs and clears her throat as she introduces you. You plaster your best smile and hand your portfolio to Carol. She takes it from you and as you are about to speak, she tosses it to the woman still on the desk. 

"How adorable is this? She brought a resume." Her teasing making you frown. You reach for your portfolio but she pulls back and sticks out her tongue with a wink. 

"Maria," Carol playfully chides. "Don't give the new girl a hard time. Test her, James." 

He hums from his seat and placed his glass on the table. You clear your throat and begin to list off your work experience, his hand reaches to his belt and unfastens it. You pause and turn to Sabrina again who shrugs. Carol resumes her place next to Maria and places a hand on her thigh. Your eyes bounce between the women before falling back to James who is in the process of opening his fly. 

"You know what? Maybe this position isn't for me." You attempt to sound braver than you feel but your voice comes out small. "Thank you for the opportunity, we're leaving." Taking a step back, you turn fully to Sabrina who is looking at the floor and you grab her wrist. 

Maria giggles as Carol's hand creeps under the hem of her dress. You attempt to pull Sabrina but she doesn't move. You look at her incredulously as James stands with a deep sigh. Your flight or fight instinct kicks in and you drop her wrist. Right as you are about to run, a strong grip on the back of your neck pulls you back and you collide with warm flesh. You scream and attempt to twist away from  the strong hand holding you but the hand moves from your neck to your hair and pushes you down. 

“Ruby, you didn’t tell her, did you?” James asks but Sabrina stays quiet. He steps into your peripheral and turns your head towards him, the strain on your neck painful. "She's my little toy. And sometimes I lend my toys for others to play. Get it?" 

You reach back and grab his wrist in an attempt to release some of the pressure from your scalp but his hold is ironclad. His hand disappears into his pants and you cringe as he pulls his cock out and taps it against your bottom lip. You grind your teeth as he taps again on lip and sighs after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens and you gasp at the pain. 

"Come on, I don't have all day." His bored tone is offensive and you glare up at him. You purse your lips together in defiance and Maria laughs. 

"Love the fight in her, Ruby. But I want a show." Maria faux pouts as Carol's fingers work their way higher and Maria spreads her legs to allow her access. "Talk to your friend." 

You glance up at Sabrina who is fidgeting and still avoiding eye contact. She sucks her teeth and rolls her eyes. "Just do it and get it over with. You're being dramatic." 

"Dramatic?!" You shriek and attempt to twist in his hold to face her but he spins you around and uses the momentum to force himself into your mouth. You gag around him and jerk your head back but you are unable to maneuver away from him. You grunt in frustration and as you're about to bring your canines down full force on him, cool metal presses against your temple. 

"Bite me and I'll blow your fucking brains out." His warning freezes all movement from you. Your eyes water as he slides the metal from your temple to your line of sight and you look down the barrel of his gun. Saliva gathers at the corners of your mouth as you hold him there, not daring to move. He taps the gun twice on your forehead before he tsks. Quicker than you can register, he releases his hold on your hair and the pressure from the gun is moved. You jerk away from him as a loud pop reverberates the room. You scream and cower on the floor as Sabrina drops to the floor near you. She's crying and holding her arm, blood seeping through her fingers. Carol laughs as you scream again and reach for her but a click near your ear draws your attention back to the man in front of you. 

"Consider that a warning. Hurry. Up." The gun returns to your head but the metal is now hot and burns your skin. You shake your head, taking one last glance at Sabrina who returns your gaze with watery eyes. Sitting up on your knees, you reach for him with trembling hands. He's warm to the touch and the feel of him twitching against your fingers almost has you reeling. His hand returns to your hair though he doesn't grip this time. Closing your eyes, you give him a few tentative strokes before you slowly ease him into your mouth. 

"Good girl. Show us what you can do." Maria purrs and Carol hums. You brace a hand on his thigh and try to recall every porn movie you've ever seen.  Hollowing your cheeks, you push him as far as you can and attempt not to gag as he brushes the back of your throat. A deep moan rumbles through his chest when you bring your other hand to his base and twist your wrist to mimic the movement of your mouth. A whimper behind you makes you speed up; you may have been upset with Sabrina but you didn't want her to bleed out. Maria moans loudly and for a moment you can simultaneously hear the sound of her being fingered with your slurping noises. 

"Keep going." You aren't sure who gave the soft command but you respond by flattening your tongue in an effort to stifle your gag reflex so you can take him deeper. It must work because you hear him hiss and he bucks his hips involuntarily showing him deeper down your throat. Unprepared for the invasion, you try to pull back but the hand on your head locks you in place. Your nails dig into his leg as you try not to panic because you can't draw in a breath. He holds you for a few seconds before the hand on your head reimplants in your hair and pulls you backwards. You fall on your backside as you cough. You turn to check on Sabrina who has gone quiet. She's curled up in a ball and as you reach for her, you're once again pulled back. A soft hand caresses your cheek and it takes a second that it's Carol, not James, who has you this time. 

"Maria, baby. Assume the position. Show the new girl how it's done." Maria hops off the desk and moves to the side of the chair James was sitting in. Carol hoists you up by the arm and stands you on the opposite side of the chair. "Go on honey." At Carol's order, Maria lifts her dress and bends over the arm of the chair with her hands clasped in front of her over the sitting cushion. She wiggles her hips and licks her lips, eyes never leaving yours. You are about to protest when strong hands push you to bend forward, the arm of the chair hitting you roughly in the stomach. You groan in pain and try to squirm away but your hands are held in front of you by Maria. She intertwines your fingers with hers and places a soft kiss on your knuckles.

"Let's see what's under the hood, hm?" Carol mumbled before your skirt is lifted and bunched at your waist. You made to protest but another shove forward had you hitting your stomach again and the pain stunned you into compliance. Nimble fingers danced along your panty line and when they reached the crotch, the fabric was ripped away. Her strength and actions shocked you as she brushed along your inner thigh. Tears fill your eyes as she reaches your outer lips and spreads them with her thumb and index finger. You feel her circle around your entrance before ghosting down to your clit. You hear her chuckle and shame fills you and you know what she fills. 

"Oh you'll like this one, James. She's soaked and just from sucking dick? She'll be a good earner." You try to hide your face as she slips a finger inside of you and then another before abruptly pulling out. From your place on your arm, you see Carol's shiny black shoes move away from you and you peek up to see her stand behind Maria. Carol places the fingers that were inside of you on Maria's lips and you watch as Maria suckles on them. 

You lower your head in embarrassment when your feet are kicked apart and strong hands grip your waist. You protest by trying to stand again but once again you are pushed into the arm of the chair and the wind is knocked from you. 

"Same time?" Carol asks, amusement lacing her tone. Maria holds you tighter as you feel James step closer to you, the head of his cock poised at your entrance. You try to wiggle away from him but he takes another step forward and pushes further into you. Tears stream freely down your face as Maria rolls her hips, Carol slowly fucking her with her fingers. Maria leans forward and places a gentle kiss on your lips. James pushes further into you and you gasp; Maria taking the opportunity to shove her tongue in your mouth. She swallows your pained grunt when James thrusts into you without warning. He gives you no time to adjust to his size before he sets a brutal pace. Every push of his hips sends your abdomen further into the arm of the chair and you don't know what to focus on: the pain, the woman in front of you, your friend bleeding on the floor or the man behind you. Maria releases one of your hands and snakes her free hand down the front of your blouse. You twist away from her roaming hand as she slips under your bra to squeeze your breast. 

"Please, stop." You beg to no one in particular but hope they all would stop. Your request is met with a breathy laugh from Carol who's pumping her fingers faster into Maria in an attempt to match James speed. The legs of the chair protest under your combined weight and the force of the man thrusting behind you. His hand finds the small of your back and forces you to arch; the new position causes you to moan subconsciously.

"Oh, there's her sweet spot. Do it again."  Maria begs, her tongue sweeping across your bottom lip. He obliges and your body unwillingly comes alive. He pushes you down further and you grab the chair cushion for purchase. Maria kisses you again and in your haze you return the kiss which earns a moan from Carol, her hand moving at an unnatural speed. James plunges into you at the same brutal pace and you can feel your arousal. You know he can feel it too because his breathing is becoming labored and his hold on your hip is bruising. 

"Bad girl, Ruby. Keeping your friend away from us." James' voice is strained and you're surprised how he can speak and breathe at the same time. A whimper is his response; you can't look at your friend right now as a string of curses fall from your lips. Your orgasm hits you unexpectedly and you babble incoherently as his pace never falters. Maria kisses your nose and shushes you as writhe under him. A few more pointed thrusts has you falling into another orgasm and this time you gush over him. Maria whines as she throws her head back and you watch her, too blissed out to look away. James hips sputter and he abruptly pulls out of you which makes you wince. One hand is still on your hip and he groans low above you, warmth hitting the back of your thighs. The room is filled with heavy breathing before you feel your legs give out from under you. You slide to your knees and rest your head against the chair. The sound of liquid pouring has you tilting your head back as James pours himself a drink. His eyes connect with yours and he brings the glass to his lips and takes a large gulp. 

"Welcome to the toy box, Carnelian."

Not tagging a lot of people just in case this isn’t your thing: @avintagekiss24 @sapphirescrolls @marvelmaree @titty-teetee @angrythingstarlight

[lowsodiumlevels]

Leicha comforting Socorro

  Leicha was returning back to her hive. She was getting some silver and gold that she could make into some fine jewelry. She gets her supply from Skonai. He likes to call her a "gold digger" as a joke. Leicha just started getting annoyed by it though and flicks his forehead every time he calls her that. 

Finally getting back to her hive, opening the door, and setting down her stuff. "\Socorro~honey~I'm~home!/". She began to take out the gold and silver and sorted them in different boxes for later. It was taking a while for her Matesprit to come and greet her, she decided to go look around for him. Usually Socorro is in the living room, watching TV or sitting down reading. Maybe he went somewhere? but if he did he usually lets Leicha know, so she wouldn't worry about it....like she is now. 

She walked down the hallway towards her respiteblock. As she did she heard what seemed to be….crying? She hurried over. Opening the door to find Socorro curled up leaning against the wall,crying like crazy,and his pisonics were sparking from his eyes. Leicha quickly went over to him. "\honey~hey~w-what's~wrong?~are~you~ok?/". Kind of a stupid question. It was obvious he wasn't ok. Socorro just looked up at Leicha. He then shakingly grabbed onto her, now leaning against her body. "p-please, I need y0u t0 h0ld me/..." Leicha just sat down next to Socorro and pulled him close to her. Not wanting to let him go. She then started petting his hair and planting small kisses on his face. He was still shaking and crying. She could hear how he was choking back tears. She sighed and cupped his face. Taking a moment to look at him. Seeing how his golden tears streamed down his face. His face all yellow due to crying so much. She began to wipe away his tears. "\honey~please~tell~me~what~is~the~matter?/". Changing her tone of voice to be more soothing and relaxing in hopes to make Socorro feel safe. Socorro just looked away, he couldn't really look at her of in the eyes right now. "...I can't say it right n0w, I just…I just need t0 be in y0ur arms,0k…./". Leicha just kissed Socorro's forehead. Picking him up and bringing him to the living room so they could relax there. Maybe she could try and cheer him up.

 Having Socorro wrapped up in one of his soft blankets and resting on the couch. Leicha turned on the TV and switched on one of his favorite shows. "\Have~you~eaten~anything?/". Socorro shook his head, still a bit upset and still trying to hold back more tears. "\well~how~bout~I~make~ya~somethin'~what~would~ya~like?/". Socorro didn't answer. He actually didn't know what he wanted. "\h-how~about~a~sandwich~and~some~sliced~apples? Yeah~that~sounds~great/". Leicha then got up and headed towards the kitchen. Socorro saw as Leicha went and got up and followed her. Like a pet following their owner. He actually looked more like a little gremlin with the blanket still on him. Shuffling over next to Leicha, who was in the middle of making a PB&J sandwich. "\no~no~no~honey~go~sit~back~down~and~relax/". Socorro just put his head on her shoulder and let out a little buzz. Leicha finished making the sandwich and cut up an apple into several slices. Leading Socorro back to the couch, Leicha held him while he ate. He's calmed down from crying quite a bit. An occasional little sniffle but he's ok. Leicha placed small pecks on his cheek. Giving him a little love and affection. She actually really loved giving rather than receiving. yes, in "that" way too. Not really caring about herself. She just wants to see her Matesprit smile.

  A few minutes go by and Socorro finished eating. Laying back against the couch, he looked kinda tired. Leicha noticed this. "\you~ok~sweetie?/". Socorro just nodded. "I'm just a bit tired...fr0m all the uh- crying/". She just put a hand on his cheek. "\do~want~to~take~a~nap?/". He leaned his head against her hand and nodded. Leicha then laid on the couch and pulled Socorro on top of her. Making him use her as a cushion. Socorro rest his head on her chest and closed his eyes. Leicha just wrapped her arms around him and held him close. She knew how safe he felt in her arms. Hearing her matesprit buzz was a sign he had already fallen asleep. She thought it was cute how he buzzed like a bumblebee in his sleep. She hopes he doesn't get any nightmares. Giving him a little kiss on his horns, she laid her head back and closed her eyes.

[eddycurrents]

Uncanny X-Men #1 “Disassembled - Part 1”

Writers: Ed Brisson, Matthew Rosenberg & Kelly Thompson | Artist: Mahmud Asrar | Colourist: Rachelle Rosenberg | Letters: Joe Caramagna

Published by Marvel | 14.11.2018 | $7.99

It’s only been since early 2017 since there’s been an Uncanny X-Men series on the stands, but this almost two years has felt like an eternity as the team has been split into Blue, Gold, and Red instances. This new Uncanny X-Men #1 works to bring them back under the same umbrella as a new threat looms over the heads of Marvel’s merry mutants.

This issue kicks off with an ominous vision and warning to Jean from Multiple Man that sets the tone of confusion and questioning some impending catastrophe on its way.

Ed Brisson, Matthew Rosenberg, and Kelly Thompson start out the series with a number of events that would otherwise seem to be routine: Kitty taking a group of students on a field run against c-list second stringer villains like the Mutant Liberation Front and Jean and a group of veteran X-Men to a rally full of anti-mutant hate speech. It’s old hat in both cases, but it gets turned on its ear pretty quick. Something massive goes wrong when Kitty disappears and it just snowballs when Madrox freaks out at the news.

There’s some very nice use of humour throughout, and an interesting bit of character development from the Young X-Men/Academy X group as they begin questioning their place within the X-Men. It’s also really nice to see Cannonball with the X-Men again, it’s been awhile.

Of the puzzles raised, the flash evolution in the Kalahari makes me wonder if there’s a bit of Apocalypse’s technology involved, as we saw in the recent back-ups in X-Men Black. If someone else is using it to help feed and nourish people in Botswana. The random teleportations are also kind of weird, especially when it occurs to both Madrox and Senator Allen.

Mahmud Asrar handles the art chores for this opening salvo, and for the most part the artwork is gorgeous. Asrar and Rachelle Rosenberg produce some incredibly beautiful pieces throughout the story, in particular the Beast and Storm scene in Africa. Great composition and colour use.

The action throughout is also wonderful. The battle between the X-Men and the Mutant Liberation Front is impressive and the latter fight with the multiplicity of Madroxes is incredible. Many moving parts with so many people--albeit the same person--that just adds to the chaos of this story.

I am, however, a little disappointed in the sequence in front of City Hall. The backgrounds and mob of Madroxes are incredible, packing a large amount of detail into the pages. My problem comes in the X-Men themselves. In their civilian clothes, they’re kind of bland. Indistinguishable from one another in a couple of cases. Other than Jean and Betsy due to their hair colour, and Bishop and Jubilee due they’re distinctive looks, without naming them through the dialogue, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you with certainty who they were. Angel and Cannonball might have well been the same person. If the intent, though, was to make them blend into the crowd as nothing special, it worked.

Ultimately, this feels like an end more than a beginning. Kind of like how Avengers: No Surrender was a big last hurrah for the various Avengers titles before the Jason Aaron and Ed McGuinness relaunch. We know that Uncanny X-Men is carrying on past this arc, though, so it makes it a bit more interesting. Making me wonder if this is more of a winnowing process to refocus and repurpose the X-Men from the current status quo to whatever it is that comes next.

It’s very chaotic, and there are a ton of questions raised as to what’s going on, but it’s not messy. The chaos and confusion are definitely deliberate meant to make everyone, including both characters and the audience, wonder what’s happening. I think Brisson, Rosenberg, and Thompson have done a great job of capturing the feel of the X-Men and successfully crafted an intriguing starting point for this series.

“What Tomorrow Brings”

Part One: A Bishop Story - Writer: Matthew Rosenberg | Artist: Mirko Colak

Part Two: A Jean Grey Story - Writer: Kelly Thompson | Artist: Ibraim Roberson

Part Three: An Armor & Anole Story - Writer: Ed Brisson | Penciller: Mark Bagley | Inker: Andrew Hennessy

Epilogue - Writer: Kelly Thompson | Penciller: Mark Bagley | Inker: Andrew Hennessy

Colourist: Guru e-FX | Letters: Joe Caramagna

There’s also a back-up story, broken down into parts for each of the main writers individually, that deals with some moments before the events of the main story.

The first is a Bishop vignette from Rosenberg and Mirko Colak. It focuses on a little device that warns Bishop of forthcoming temporal problems and an investigation that leads him to Dark Beast and the Sugar Man. The inclusion of Age of Apocalypse holdovers and what’s happening to them is definitely an interesting point. Kind of makes you wonder if someone’s cleaning up other anomalies in a similar fashion to what’s been going on in Extermination.

The second is a bizarre coffee shop conversation about hope and the sad state of the world between Jean Grey and a strange old woman, by Thompson and Ibraim Roberson. Roberson’s art is great and his Jean Grey is gorgeous, looking somewhere between Jessica Chastain and Bryce Dallas Howard. Really weird end bit as the coffee shop is invaded by some sort of person who seems able to psychically take over multiple people’s minds to do as they wish.

The third part and the epilogue are both handled by Mark Bagley and Andrew Hennessy for art. Brisson tackles the third sequence, getting somewhat meta with Armor and Anole as they complain about being sidelined. With another appearance from Dark Beast, raising more questions about what’s going on.

Thompson handles the epilogue, bringing together all three parts, and giving a bit of insight into a broader battle between two unknown groups. The first is the psychic who seems to able to achieve a hive mind and the other is “him” who is likely the old woman that Jean was speaking to earlier. It makes you wonder if these are the agents who’ve been causing the havoc in the main story, if maybe this psychic is controlling Madrox (or is a Madrox) which is why Jean and Betsy have a difficult time reading him.

The digital edition of Uncanny X-Men #1 on Comixology comes as the “Director’s Edition” and also comes with an additional bit of back material. There’s the script, art transitions from line art to coloured pages, sketches and designs, covers, and such. It’s interesting to see this look behind the curtain and it increases the page count to nearly a whopping 300. All for the same price as the regular print edition.

Uncanny X-Men #2 “Disassembled - Part 2”

Writers: Ed Brisson, Matthew Rosenberg & Kelly Thompson | Penciller: RB Silva| Inker: Adriano Di Benedetto | Colourist: Rachelle Rosenberg | Letters: Joe Caramagna

Published by Marvel | 21.11.2018 | $3.99

Uncanny X-Men #2 continues the chaos of the first issue, with even more strange occurrences breaking out across the globe as extinct animals resurface and a multiplicity of Madroxes manifests in Kansas which can be seen from space.

I actually think I liked this one more than the first issue, even though it follows along much of the same lines as the first one, as the X-Men are in disarray, chaos is erupting across the globe, and we’re still not sure what’s going on anywhere.

Ed Brisson, Matthew Rosenberg, and Kelly Thompson put the disappearance of Kitty and Senator Allen on hold for a bit as they split into teams to deal with the disasters popping up, that seem to have the same energy signature as the disappearances. It makes me wonder if these are ripple effects from the messing with time from Multiple Man--especially since he’s an unintentional major antagonist so far--or if maybe it’s a repercussion from however Extermination ends (or, of course, it could just be X-Man).

Splitting into smaller teams to handle the issues, witty banter among the cast who treat each other like family, impossible odds, and impressive action pieces, I have to say that this really does feel like the X-Men. If that makes any sense. The humour itself really goes a long way to make this just that more enjoyable.

Also enjoy the simmering sub-plot of the younger mutants. And there goes Beast, always doing the stupid thing.

RB Silva and Adriano Di Benedetto take over the art chores for this chapter. Although I can’t say I’m a fan of the approach that this series is taking to the rotating art teams (each issue has a different art team), as I’d prefer the teams in blocks similar to how Avengers: No Surrender dealt with it, for overall consistency in storytelling and visual appearance when read in one go, Silva and Di Benedetto deliver some very strong artwork. The action sequences with the dinosaurs is particularly impressive. How they handle the Madroxes is also great.

I’m not as sold on the new Betsy Braddock. I really appreciate the reversion to a variation on her original body and ethnicity, I think that was a change long in the making. I don’t know about her overall new design though. Her costume is kind of generic, and she herself just kind of seems...bland. I quite liked the appearance of the psychic sword and shield in the previous issue, and reminding everyone that’s she’s really British through the bloody dialogue last issue and mentioning Brian this issue are nice, but it still feels like more work needs to be done on defining who Psylocke is again. 

There are some very nice uses of colour schemes for the various locations from Rachelle Rosenberg that help clarifying and delineate the sequences. It’s a nice, simple visual cue to help alleviate any possible confusion from scene changes.

While we’re still a little in the dark, the action and intrigue is entertaining and the tension in the plot feels palpable, just waiting for everything to explode overall. There are some nice character moments and an impression that all of the different corners of the X-universe are going to be touched upon at some point.

I’m definitely hooked to see where this going to go.

Quick Bits:

Domino #8 concludes, kind of, the vampire arc, though it feels like there should definitely be more coming somewhere down the line. Excellent artwork from David Baldeón and Jesus Aburtov. Aburtov’s colours this issue are particularly impressive, from the snow to rays of sunlight penetrating the ocean.

Exiles #10 brings the Thousand and One Nights arc to an end with a confrontation between the Exiles and Caliph Doom. All of the series has been great so far, but this one seems to really have elevated things. Saladin Ahmed, Javier Rodríguez, Álvaro López, Muntsa Vicente, and Joe Caramagna really seem to have gone all out on this arc.

Astonishing X-Men #17 concludes the series, tying a bow on the Reavers. Matthew Rosenberg gives us some nice character development for Havok and a rejuvenated Banshee.

Mr. & Mrs. X #5 concludes the first arc with some absolutely huge ramifications for Rogue. I’ve never really much liked Gambit, but Kelly Thompson is certainly bringing me around on him for this series, that’s a pretty huge accomplishment. Also, the art this issue from Oscar Bazaldua and Frank D’Armata is gorgeous.

Weapon H #10 has some stunning artwork from Guiu Vilanova and Morry Hollowell. Some of the layouts this issue as Morgan Le Fay drops some truth on the characters are amazing. Greg Pak delivers a few surprising revelations this issue, along with Weapon H’s full name. It’s a shame that this series is ending soon, since it continues to be an exciting and fun ride.

Weapon X #26 is one of the best issues yet from Greg Pak, Fred Van Lente, Luca Pizzari, Roberto Di Salvo, Frank D’Armata, and Joe Caramagna as the team goes to hell. Some interesting representations of each character’s hell and Sabretooth’s moral balance, but I think one of the most interesting things is the use of the 9-panel grids. It gives a feel that hell is ordered, structured, that all of the suffering has a design and is not just chaos.

The Unexamined: Secret Agent Deadpool #6

d. emerson eddy thinks it’s probably X-Man’s fault. It’s always X-Man’s fault. Unless it’s Beast’s. He’s pretty good at gumming up the works and perennially doing the wrong thing for the past decade or so too.

[sinsiriuslyemo]

EPISODE 10

“Okay so where is the meeting?” you asked as you paced back and forth, looking through your new California home. You’d been here three days and Omar had touched base with the art collector going by the alias Mary Cassatt. The house Nevada had rented for the two of you was roomy, light streaming in from every window. The rest of the team had the neighboring house.

“Oye, relax a little bit, will you?” Nevada said from the couch, looking at his watch before looking back up at you. “We’re meeting at her office. Still under construction though, so I guess technically, we’re meeting at a construction sight. You okay? Want me to eat you out? Calm you down a little?” he asked.

You shake your head, “I need to get into...character.” You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to breathe as you focused on reciting your persona. “I can do this, I was in drama. Okay I'm gonna get dressed.”

You moved to the bedroom and opened the closet. You'd had it fully stocked with clothing your character would wear. You tugged on your camel suede bodysuit pairing it with the camel colored jacket and a gold belt, then letting your hair fall down instead of keeping it in a ponytail like usual.  You paired the outfit with matching thigh high boots and plum lipstick, eyeliner wing sharp enough to slit a man's throat. You looked at yourself in the mirror.

“Camilla,” you whispered to your reflection. “Dama didn't come to California, Camilla did.”

When you came back out into the living room, you slid your sunglasses on your nose and nodded to him. “Alright, let's go,” you said nervously.

“Coño,” he drawled, looking you up and down, moving toward you to slide his hands over your hips. “Camilla, you’re making me wanna forget I’m married,” he purred, pulling you against him.

You spun, grabbing his hand and moving it off you, getting in his face and leaning in.“If you want me to sell this, don't distract me.” It was clear you were nervous, practically trembling.

“You’ll be fine,” he said softly, cupping your face and touching his forehead to yours. “I got you Camilla,” he whispered. “You’re the best in the world. Remember that.”

You leaned in and gave him a soft kiss before you nodded. “Let's go,” you whispered.

Rafael opened the door of their condo, moving quickly to shuffle their baggage inside before turning to scoop Roxie up like a new bride and smiling when she let out a giggle. Carrying her over the threshold, he kicked the door closed behind him.

“Welcome home, Mrs Barba,” he mumbled, kissing her lips before he set her down on her feet again.

She smiled and squealed as the piglet trotted towards her, picking him up in her arms. “Hello my love, we missed you so much,” she kissed his snout and laughed as she held the piglet out to Rafael, who took him immediately.

“Izzy! You home?” he called out as they walked further into their condo, scratching behind the piglet’s ear.

“I'm here,” she called out and smiled, “hey, I was actually just getting the rest of my things,” she gestured to the luggage in her hands.

“How’s Lila doing?” he asked her setting the piglet down as Roxie came to stand beside him. They were both incredibly tanned from the vacation.

“She's adjusting pretty well, we're actually moving her into sober living housing for a while to give her some extra support.” Izzy smiled before looking down at her phone and sighing. “Fuck, Eddie…” she mumbled to herself before looking back up. “I gotta run, I'm sorry.”

“That’s okay. How is Eddie?” Rafael asked.

Izzy sighed, “I don't know, he has a lot going on…” she mumbled with a sigh. “He's at his end, I've never seen him like this.” She moved towards the door, “I don't know how much longer he can take this before…” she trailed off and gave them both hugs. “I gotta go.”

“Alright,” Rafael mumbled, looking back at Roxie after the door closed. “I need to start looking into this professor of his,” he said with a sigh.

“Do you have to do it today?” she mumbled against his skin. “There are so many better things to be done with our first evening home.”

“I can at least get the ball rolling, but that’ll just take me a minute, and then I’m all yours,” he replied, kissing her lips. Taking out his phone, he fired off a quick group text to the squad, asking if any of them had contacts in Boston.

Carisi answered that he did, and he called the detective while Roxie took their luggage into the bedroom for unpacking later.

“Hey, I need for you to ask your contact to discreetly look into a professor at Harvard for me,” he said. “I don’t know her name, I can find out, but I do know she teaches torts and is a younger professor.”

“I can take a look into it counselor, why? Is this for a new case?” Sonny said around a bite of cannoli.

“Not exactly,” Rafael answered. “It’s a personal favor and I don’t know if anything will come of it, but...will you help me?”

“Of course, I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks,” Rafael replied, hanging up and looking up at Roxie as she came back into the living room. “Okay, no more phone today,” he said with a smile. “So what do you want to do first, mi amor?” he asked as she came up to sit beside him on the couch.

“I want to go to the bedroom and I want us to cuddle up with Mowgli,” she kissed him, “open a bottle of wine,” another kiss, “maybe even a little more…”

“That sound great,” he replied, humming against her mouth when she kissed him again. “Red or white?” he asked.

“Hmmm, red gets me frisky,” she winked and sauntered towards the bedroom.

Smirking, he watched her hips sway back and forth as she disappeared into the bedroom and got up to grab a bottle of merlot and the wine key from the kitchen. Picking up two wine glasses, he followed her, calling Mowgli to come along.

You were a completely different person the moment you stepped out of the car, stepping with a level of confidence Nevada had never seen from you.

Following you, he resisted the urge to smirk as he watched your ass from behind his sunglasses. Josiah and Sawyer walked behind him, and the three of them stopped when you held a hand up.

“You must be Camilla,” The woman you only knew as Mary strode out of an unfinished office, smiling warmly and extending a hand.

You nodded and took her hand, shaking it. “Mary, I must admit, I've heard nothing about you,” you say fondly.

Mary smirked, “that's how it should stay, shouldn't it?”

She eyed the people behind you. “And these are..?”

“If they were important I would have introduced them,” you say casually. “But this is Dallas, he's the only face you'll see with me.”

Nevada nodded dutifully at Mary, who arched a brow.

“And he is?”

“My right hand.” You kept your tone even, almost a bit impatient. “Shall we talk business?”

Mary smirked and nodded, “very well,” she moved to her office again, offering you a seat, not offering the same to Nevada. “That is a beautiful color on your skin, it works with your complexion.”

You smirk, “my complexion looks good on a lot of things,” you leaned forward, nodding for Nevada to sit while Sawyer and Josiah waited out front.

He moved to sit beside you, taking off his shades and pocketing them as you spoke to Mary

“You want to move a package,” you said thoughtfully. “I'm more than capable of UPS role playing with you mami, pero I'm not cheap. But I am the best and you pay for what you get.”

“Hmm,” she nodded. “And what would I be getting?”

“Me,” you purred. “I understand if it's your first time, I promise I'll treat you like una princesa. I've got the experience and know how to get you where you need, mami.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don't. In fact, trusting me without seeing my body of work would make you an idiot. You don't look like an idiot to me.” You licked your lips and smirked. “Dallas, be a dear and why don't you run Mary through our sampler pack. I wouldn't want you to buy the goods without tasting them first.” You winked.

Mary seemed intrigued by your offer, turning to Nevada.

“You tell us when and where to pick up the package, which should probably be somewhere far away from our hives. Me and Boss Lady pick it up no longer than an hour later. We’re off the grid till we make the drop. After the loot is secure, you’ll get a phone call. But we don’t move till we see the green. Half up front, the other half when we make delivery,” Nevada said.

“That seems a lot less intriguing coming from your lips, Dallas,” she chuckled and looked back to you. “Now tell me what makes you standout from anyone with a truck, Camilla?”

“I have a degree from Yale in art preservation, mami. Anyone with a truck will store that shit in a wooden crate and toss it in a Uhaul. I know how to keep it an even temperature, what paper to wrap it in, all my hive workers have acid-free cotton gloves for handling.”

Mary now did look rather impressed, arching a brow in interest. “I’m interested, but before I trust you with my baby, I’m going to need a sample run. Something smaller,” she replied, leaning back in her seat.

“That can be arranged,” you nodded and looked back to Nevada, “Why don't you play with your friends while the big kids talk?”

Mary smirked in satisfaction at your words as Nevada nodded his head, immediately getting up and walking out.

“He follows direction well,” Mary mused as the door closed. “I wish all men were as obedient.”

“He's a special breed,” you smirked. “He follows directions in every aspect of his duties,” you shot her a knowing look.

“I see,” she replied, crossing one leg over the other. “Is he your lover?”

“Lover insinuates something more, he's simply a means to an end. I say jump and he won't ask how high, he'll just keep hopping until I stop him,” you replied, winking.

“Your slave then?” she said, seemingly impressed with the thought. “His existence is solely to please you.”

You give a casual nod. “Slave seems like an outdated term, now we call them assistants.”

Mary chuckled, nodding. “Alright. Well, then. I’m impressed thus far. Of course, I still need to verify that you are who you say you are,” she said, standing from behind her desk.

You stood as well, holding out a hand to shake. “It was a pleasure Mary, you are a fascinating woman.”

“As are you,” she replied, shaking your hand and smiling softly. “Leave your number with my foreman. I’ll be in touch.”

You nodded and smiled before moving outside nodding for the three to follow but not before giving Nevada's ass a hard smack for show.

When you got back into the car, you had a paper bag to your face, breathing into it to calm yourself.

“Oye, you did great,” Nevada said softly.

“Dama, I don’t know what to say. You’re a natural,” Josiah chimed, smiling at you in the rearview mirror as he drove the four of you back towards the houses you'd rented.

“May I use that bag to throw up in when you’re finished?” Sawyer asked softly.

You nodded at her, eventually passing her the bag. “I think I'm gonna be sick,” you mumbled to yourself before looking at Nevada. “I need my husband.”

“I’m right here, mami. You did perfect,” he said softly as Sawyer hurled into the bag. “Calm down, you’re fine.”

You snuggled into him, nodding and pressing your face against his neck as you slowed your breathing. “Okay,” you whispered and calmed your beating heart. “We're gonna pull this off, si?”

“Yeah, we are,” he assured you, holding you tightly to him. “We’ll be fine.”

Rafael poured the last of the wine into each of their glasses, place the bottle on the night table.

“Oh come on, I think it was thoughtful,” he said with a smirk, looking over at her as he took a sip from his wine. They’d decided to open some of their wedding gifts and had just opened the one from her parents; a book entitled, How To Keep Your Husband Happy.

“Blowjobs and sandwiches,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “That has to be the only thing that book says. As if it was my job to keep you happy.” She poked him in the chest, eyes narrowed playfully. “Make yourself happy, I'm not here to bring joy to your life, I'm here to bring joy to mine.”

“Ouch,” he replied, putting a hand to his chest. “Well, it’s not as though I haven’t had to keep myself happy before,” he added, the wine making his lips a little looser than normal.

“Oh?” She quirked a brow and started nibbling along his jaw. “What did you do?”

“Took care of myself in the shower when you were withholding sex before the wedding,” he answered. “Nothing too special,” he added.

“Hmmm, how did you do it?” she whispered. “Where did you touch first?”

“Well it was just me and my right hand, mi amor. Preludes weren’t exactly necessary,” he replied, taking another small sip before he set his glass down. “I just wrapped my hand around myself and started stroking. There isn’t much of a science to it.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed, laying back on the bed. “Right, you win. Nothing sexy about it.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he replied with a smirk.

She reached for the next present, if was from Izzy and Lila, quirking a brow and smiling. “Huh, I didn't think they'd get us anything.”

“Why not? She’s my sister,” he replied, furrowing his brows.

“I figured she'd have her hands full with Lila,” she said honestly and opened it, breaking into a grin. She pulled out a glass and a napkin, both with the logo of the hotel where they'd first met. “This is so lovely.”

“I wonder how she managed that,” he replied, writing down the gift next to Izzy and Lila’s name on the pad where they’d been keeping track of who got them what. “You were the most beautiful barmaid I’d ever seen,” he cooed, peppering kisses against her neck.

She smiled and couldn't help but laugh. “There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that this is stolen.”

“But it was for love, mi amor,” he replied against her skin, biting her earlobe gently.

She quirked a brow. “I was just trying to have sex with you and you brushed off my advances, now you want to do it?” she teased.

“You were? You were not, you asked me about…” He thought for a moment, inhaling as he nodded his head. “Oh…well, you should’ve been more clear. I thought you were asking me about how I masturbated.”

She snorted a laugh and shook her head. “No, no, you lost your chance at sloppy drunken sex Mr. Barba,” she playfully pushed him back.

“Oh you’re terrible,” he replied half-heartedly. “Alright, next.”

She opened the next present. “From my sister, she bought us...oh these are hand cuffs.” She cringed. “I hate that, I hate this, ew! No, as far as my sister is concerned, I'm a pure snow virgin.”

Rafael’s phone buzzed but he ignored it, setting the notepad aside and taking the cuffs from her as he moved to place a knee on either side of her legs.

“I don’t know they might come in handy some time,” he purred suggestively, leaning towards her for a kiss.

“I'm not using cuffs from my sister, get some from Olivia,” she said seriously.

His phone buzzed again and she frowned. Groaning, he picked it up, moving off of her.

“I’m busy,” he said.

“Not too busy for this,” Olivia said flatly. “I just got a call that both your nephew and your sister are in a holding cell in the 19th precinct. We can keep them overnight there if you want,” Liv offered.

“That depends, what are the charges?” he asked.

“They're being held on drunken disorderly, although your sister is sober, looks like she just got caught up in the mix.”

“Then yes,” Rafael replied. “I’ll come get them in the morning.”

“Will do, have a good evening,” Liv said with a chuckle.

Hanging up, he tossed the phone on the bed again and rolled towards his wife. “Now where were we?” he mumbled, pulling her towards him. “Handcuffs?”

She quirked a brow at him and smiled, tugging him down into a long kiss.

“Thank you Gladys,” Amber said with a tight hug. “I just need an hour or two for work and then I'll be right back.”

“Of course, mija. Take your time,” Gladys replied.

“Thank you, for being such an amazing person. I knew you'd never isolate me after the divorce but...part of me was still so afraid,” she admitted as she felt tears spring to her eyes. She shook her head, furiously blinking. “Thank you for letting me stay family.”

“How could you think that?” Gladys asked softly, clearly hurt by the statement. “You’re my granddaughter’s mother, of course you’ll always be family.”

“I'm just not used to seeing what real families act like,” she said softly. “I wish I had a mother like you,” she said honestly. “I want to be a mother like you.”

“No one is without their faults, Amber. Pero thank you,” Gladys replied just as Lucia got home with all the kids.

“I want chocolate!” Lily announced.

“No, dinner first,” Lucia replied, closing the door.

“Hi Mrs. Barba,” Amber said softly with a smile as the kids ran to her.

“Hi Tia Amber!” Lily smiled up at her. NJ and Fiona close behind as they snuggled into her.

Amber smiled and hugged them back, she loved your kids like they were her own. “Hey guys! Oh my gosh you're all getting so big!”

“Hola Amber, que tal?” Lucia said, glad for the break. She loved her grandchildren more than anything, but they definitely knew how to wear someone out.

“I'm okay,” she smiled softly. She was getting better everyday. The divorce hurt but she felt like she'd finally gotten her best friend back.

“Good,” Lucia replied.

“Bueno mija, take your time. Fallon is going to have a ball with us,” Gladys said, smiling at her granddaughter.

“Thank you,” Amber gave Gladys another hug before heading out to her publisher's office. Today was the first day she was meeting her new editor and she wanted to make a good impression.

“Amber, it’s good to see you again!” her publisher, Joan said with a grin, bringing Amber into a hug. “How’ve you been? Excited to move forward with your fiction series?”

“I'm on the edge of my metaphorical seat,” Amber said with a half grin. Joan was a little energetic for Amber's taste, but she meant well. “Is the new editor here already? Sorry I had to drop Fallon off.”

“Yes, he’s just finishing up with another client, but it shouldn’t be too long. We’ve already gotten in touch with a few cover designers, and we have an interview lined up for next week for you to promote it,” Joan replied, walking with her towards the conference room.

Amber nodded and moved to the conference room as well, sitting down and tapping her fingers. She got anxious being away from Fallon for too long. It was ten minutes before a tall, muscular man with a chiseled face, dark blonde hair and blue green eyes walked in.

“Sorry, I got stuck with another client. You haven’t been waiting long have you?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she smiled and gestured for him to sit. “I'm Amber.”

“Scott, it’s nice to meet you Amber,” he answered, shaking her hand and sitting across from her. “Okay, so,” he placed her manuscript on the table and dropped his hand over it, “we have a lot of work to do before this will be ready for print.”

She quirked a brow. “Yeah? Because I think it was close to print ready,” she challenged.

“Most definitely not, not even close,” he assured her, shaking his head. “Let’s start with the protagonist, she’s not relatable at all, and beyond that, she has no flaws, which is an issue. Readers want a strong female, but a strong female doesn’t mean she has to be good at everything. No one can relate to that.”

“Well it wouldn't do me any good to make a clumsy and relatable counter-intelligence officer. They don't make mistakes and they are good at everything. I've met quite a few.”

“Nobody is good at everything, and please do not make a cliche clumsy one dimensional character. I think you know that’s not what I meant,” he replied. “Everyone makes mistakes, sometimes even when they know what they’re doing,” he added, smirking a little bit.

Amber narrowed her eyes. “Well then tell me Scott,” she mused. “What is it I should do to add relatability to a soviet counter intelligence operative? Should she be allergic to blueberries?”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous. You have to treat her like an actual person and not some plot device or stand in for your self-insert fantasy,” he quipped back, sighing and shaking his head. “Look, if she’s good at her job, that’s fine, but she can’t be perfect unless you want your readers to hate her, and they will hate her if you don’t start taking my notes seriously. So quit being a smart ass, and get to know this woman like you would anyone else,” he replied.

When she crossed her arms over her chest, he continued.

“She is human, isn’t she? Or is she a cyborg? Why should anyone give a shit about some perfect little blonde soldier-- who can do no wrong-- falling in love? Relatability. That doesn’t mean incompetence, it means giving people a reason to care about her. Not to mention that making her good at everything serves no purpose for building tension. Why would anyone want to find out what happens next if they already know she’ll save the day because she’s perfect?”

“Because it's not about her skills as an operative, it's about her meeting a civilian, loving a man who can never understand what she's seen or what she has to do on a day to day basis. It's about her trying to maintain his innocence, his purity.”

“I ask again, why would anyone care? What about her or him makes people want to care that they fall in love? Also, his innocence? Purity? What is he an ex-priest? I didn’t read that anywhere in the manuscript, but while we’re on the love interest, please enlighten me, why would this guy, who presumably has little to nothing in common with her fall in love in the first place?” he asked.

“He fell in love with her because she has a fire, in my experience, men like a good fire,” Amber looked him over for the first time, looking away. “But fine, what do you suggest I do?”

He smiled a little, shaking his head.

“Men don’t fall in love with a fire. They may be intrigued by a fire, but ultimately it’s some kind of deeper connection that makes them fall in love. And I’m sorry, but no man would fall in love with a woman who has zero flaws because at the end of the day, they want to be with someone who they know is a real person with real strength and real shortcomings. Someone like them, perfectly imperfect,” he replied, sighing heavily. “Look, my job is to make this novel--your novel--the best that it can be. I’ve read some of your other work, including your first book. This,” he gestured to the manuscript under his hand, “this is not your best. You’ve got some good things in here, but you need to take off your journalist’s hat and put on your story-telling one. Trying to tell a romance story the way a journalist would is not going to do your career as a novelist any favors.”

His eyes looked her over briefly, noticing for the first time how beautifully her hair complimented her skin tone, as he waited for her response, or for her to request another editor, one of the two. The latter wouldn’t necessarily shock him.

She smirked and nodded. “Okay,” she relented and leaned over. “But if you've read my book you know I am well versed in ways to kill you if this doesn't pan out,” she teased.

He snorted softly. “Believe it or not, I think I could take you or at least make you work for it.”

“I don't think you could take me, but I'd love to see you try.” Was she flirting? Since when did she flirt? She hadn't flirted in...years. Jesus.

He looked amused by the challenge. “I was an Army Ranger for seven years, so I wouldn’t be too sure,” he replied, winking at her. “Though I have a feeling you would probably also make me work for it.”

“Army ranger huh? Cute.” She licked her lips as he smiled and blushed a little, and she stood up. “Well let me get my notes and we can get to work then, yes?”

“Yes, I wrote them in the margin,” he said as he handed her the manuscript. “I can probably meet again next week, around the same time? Would that work for you?” he asked, looking up at her.

“Sure,” Amber nodded and shook his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Scott.”

“You too, Amber. I look forward to working with you,” he answered, smiling back.

You screamed in excitement as you pulled the robe out of the wrapped gift box. “You remembered!” You threw your arms around Nevada's neck and kissed him.

One of the weird things you'd said to him during the planning of this trip had been to mention your adoration of Hollywood styled robes, how they looked like they were made for a queen with their long flowing sheer fabric and feathers.  

“They're just so classy,” you'd said with a smile.

“Yeah, I listen when you talk,” he replied.

“I love it,” you whispered and kissed him before pulling it on and spinning. “Do I look fancy?”

“Super fancy, amante,” he replied, smirking. He’d told you before you left, that he would call you amante for the whole trip in order to keep you in the “boss lady” mindset.

You smiled and blushed a bit, turning to him and looking him over. “Turn on music,” you ordered.

He nodded, moving to the entertainment center in the living room and turning on the stereo, finding the latin station easily.

You smiled and nodded him over, trying to get used to bossing him around. Although it had been fun at first, you actually felt very guilty doing it. So you needed to get used to it fast.

“I want to dance,” you said plainly.

“Okay,” he replied, fighting the urge to add, “So dance.”

“With you,” you specified.

“Ah, okay,” he said, coming up to you and spinning you once before he started to move with you, dipping and spinning you in time with the salsa beat.

“Has everything been checked for bugs or spy stuff?” you mumbled in his ear. Nevada could see how nervous you were, not only leaving the kids but participating to this extent in his business put you on edge.

“Of course, amante, and I got Sawyer running interference from next door. Just in case. No wifi here. No wifi, no signal for bugs,” he replied, spinning you again, and pulling your back against his chest.

He put his hands on your hips to press your ass against his groin while his nose grazed your neck.

“Coño, you smell good,” he purred against your skin before spinning you back out.

This made you smile, “what if I gave you permission to take me to bed and...take charge?” you asked softly. Playing the leading lady was honestly a little exhausting, you wouldn't mind some time to give over control.

“You’d let me do that, amante?” he asked.

You nodded and pressed kisses over his skin, “I want you to take control now, that is an order.”

He smirked, opening the robe and carefully pulling it off you. “I don’t wanna ruin this,” he said, laying it on the couch before he looked you up and down. Without warning, he hoisted you over his shoulder and carried you into the bedroom, dropping you on the bed. “Take off your panties,” he purred, near the foot of the bed.

You nodded and did as you were told, sliding your panties down and waiting for the next instruction as you looked up at him. He looked handsome, the California sun had already lightly tanned his skin, it was a good look for him.

“Come here,” he said, not waiting for you to move before he grabbed your ankles and pulled you to the edge of the bed, pushing your dress up to your waist. “Spread your legs for me, mami.”

You spread them immediately and blushed, you loved when he was like this. “You like what you see?” you purred with a smile.

“Mhm,” he replied, nodding his head and pushing your knees a little further apart. “You wanna be Miss Dama, my little slutty kitten, or you wanna just be my mamacita?” he asked as he got to his knees and inhaled your scent, humming with a smirk.

You shivered and thought for a moment, “kitten,” you mumbled with a blush.

“What was that?” he asked, pretending as though he didn’t hear you as he used one finger to trace the outline of your outer lips.

You gasped, hips arching up. “I-I wanna be your kitten.”

“That’s my good girl,” he replied in a sultry voice. “Now I wanna hear you purr for me, kitty cat,” he added as he laid wet kisses along where his finger had been, avoiding the wet slit for the time being.

You whined, already squirming a bit as you watched him with a bit lip. Licking over your puckered back door, he ran his tongue up over your perineum, pausing at your entrance to taste your fluid and humming before lick just below your clit, not close enough to give you stimulation there yet.

“My sweet little kitty cat,” he whispered, sucking your labia into his mouth.

You growled aggressively, arching your hips and trying to get more stimulation from him. Glaring at him with narrowed eyes.

With one hand, he pushed your hips down against the bed, smirking up at you and pushing his tongue inside you, rolling it against your gspot and dragging it up. Again he stopped just as he reached your clit, letting his warm breath billow over it.

You gasped and couldn't help it as your eyes shut closed, moaning and rolling your hips, trying to grind yourself down on his mouth. Letting his lips brush against your clit, he hummed softly, finally pulling it into his mouth and sucking softly, moaning against you as his index finger trailed over your outer lips, teasing you further.

You smiled a bit, “That feels amazing, pleases give me more daddy.” .”

“You want more, kitten?” he asked and you nodded your head. Smirking, he lowered his mouth to your clit again as he slid his middle finger deep into your entrance, thrusting it gently in and out. He moaned as more of your arousal coated his finger and added a second digit. “My little peach,” he purred against your clit.

“I want your cock,” you begged breathlessly, breathing labored as you gripped the bedsheets. “Oh please fuck me.”

“I’m not done playing you just yet, kitten,” he replied against your sex, licking you once more before he stood and took off his clothes. His hard cock bobbed lazily as he kicked off his jeans, and he sat down next to you on the bed. “Come here,” he whispered, helping you stand in front of him. “Take that dress off,” he said. “Slowly.”

You bit your bottom lip and slid the dress down your body. You blushed, loving the way his eyes ran over your .form.

“Such a sexy little kitten,” he purred, reaching for your hand and turning you around before he pulled you to sit on his lap.

He nudged your legs apart, spreading them wide by hooking them over his knees and opening them so you could see his cock sticking out from beneath you. One hand went to knead your breast while the other drifted to pet your core.

“You gonna purr for me, kitten?” he asked, pinching and teasing your nipple while his fingers on the opposite hand circled your clit.

You shuddered, nodding and panting harder as you whimpered and tried to kiss him, mouth open and wanting for his lips. Kissing you, he rubbed you faster, rocking his hips so that his cock was sliding back and forth between your cheeks.

“I want you to come for daddy like a good girl,” he whispered.

You gasped, arching your back and nodding, kissing him as you came hard, feeling needy and desperate for the feel of him. “Fuck! Daddy!”

“Oh yeah, kitten, that’s right. Come all over my fingers,” he moaned, sliding two into you and stroking you through your orgasm. “Another,” he whispered, crooking his fingers and moving them rapidly against your gspot.

You sobbed, coming again and feeling a hot rush of liquid run down between your legs. “Daddy,” you gasped and pressed your nose against his, trying to catch your breath.

“Oh yeah, kitten, that’s what I wanted,” he purred through a smirk. “That’s my good girl,” he said, kissing you deeply. “Now get on the bed so I can give you your reward.”

You couldn't move, looking at him in exhaustion and laughing a bit, “I can't feel my body,” you mumbled against him.

Smirking softly, he picked you up and stood to lay you on the bed. “You too tired for me to fuck you?” he asked. “I’ll do all the work, promise.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you whispered and looked up at him with excited eyes.

Smirking, he moved to lay on top of you, reaching down to align himself with your entrance before he pushed inside, groaning against your neck. He stayed still for a moment, kissing you deeply and biting down on your lower lip.

“You did so great today,” he whispered.

You smiled, “I didn't realize it would be so hard.”

“You made it look pretty easy,” he replied with a smirk. “You walked in there like you own the place.”

“I don't mean being Camilla, I can do that in my sleep,” you said as you stroked your fingers through his hair while he moved in you.

“Oh,” he replied. “You talking about right now? Cause after you came like that, how could you not expect it to be hard?” he purred, rolling his hips against yours.

You giggled and moaned. “No, I meant pretending not to be in love with you,” you whispered as you nuzzled against him. “Pretending you don't hold every piece of my heart in your hands.”

“Who cares?” he replied, shrugging. “It’s not like it’s real, it’s just a job.”

“It's different for me,” you whispered as you kissed him deeply. “This isn't my world, I don't like pretending I don't love the man I love.” You wrapped your legs around his waist, effectively pulling him deeper.

“I don’t care that you have to do that, I know it’s not real,” he replied. “Try not to think too much about it.”

You nodded and kissed him again, smiling up at him softly. He kissed you back, pulling away after a moment and looking down at you.

“Can we fuck now?” he asked softly, and you let out a laugh, nodding your head.

[deathbyvalentine]

Drabble Collection Larp

OJAQs: The One Reason I Employ Her

The boy lounged on what may have been a throne once, but had been chipped and decayed enough that it was barely recognisable as a chair. His fingers traced circles around the edge of his wine glass, the dark red liquid inside trembling with the movement. He glanced at the figure standing beside the chair with something like disdain. Her back was straight, her eyes dead ahead, but she was listening. He could tell. He could always tell. "Why I keep her? Now. Isn't that an interesting question?" He leant forward, elbows on knees, brow furrowed. His mouth was stained red - or not? It was so hard to tell in this light. The question was evidentially giving him pause, if the almost absent look in his dark dark eyes was anything to go by. And perhaps it wasn't. There was snow, tumbling out of the sky in waves, burying tree trunks beneath it, making the leaves shiver and shake. The wind didn't so much howl as scream, racing through the paths of the forest, so cold it could cut. Alexei was leaving again. He was not afraid of the night, nor of the winter, because he was the coldest thing in it. He hurried, the collar of his fur pulled up tight, protecting him from the bladed wind. He didn't think of the warm body in front of the fire who would wake up without him. He only thought of the one ahead, the one he was running to. It seemed he was always running. Perhaps that is why he didn't notice the crack in the ground; forced there by water freezing. His foot caught, and down he fell, hot blood pouring from the wound. He did not cry. He grit his teeth together tight, and did not allow himself to. Pain very rarely made him cry - in fact, nothing did. And besides, his problem now was not the shattered ankle. It was the uncaring snow, still falling around him, some painted scarlet by the still flowing blood. And he could not leave. Alexei may not have feared the winter, but it didn't care. It would kill him all the same, bravery or cowardice. And after an hour or so, it certainly seemed determined to. 

He was tired, and he fought against sleep, terrified of how long it would be if he fell into it. But it was a compelling spell, and his eyes kept closing, the snow whispering and promising comfort. It would be an end, finally, wouldn't it? An end to this story. But it was not to be, perhaps as he knew it wouldn't. It never ended. Arms, stronger than him, pulled him from the ice and the spell, and to a chest. She walked, and walked, and walked, the small once-prince held tight. She had saved him. In more ways than one. Alexei snapped out of his reverie. "Why do I keep her?" He repeated, his pretty mouth full of mocking. "Well. Someone needs to carry me to bed."

Regret

His mouth tasted of ashes. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Every movement that stirred his limbs sent waves of exhaustion through him. With a colossal effort he sat up, having to still himself once upright to prevent himself from vomiting. The light was dim - it was still early, thank the Throne. He wasn’t late. 

Lance stood, pulling up the braces on his trousers, wincing as they accidentally snapped hard. He scooped a bottle from the floor, not glancing at the label as he swallowed it. He dropped it again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A body on the floor stirred, but did not awake. He stepped over his legs, careful not to disturb him.

Painfully slowly, he gathered his things. He couldn’t remember where he had discarded half his clothes, having already been in some state of disrepair as they had been pushed off him. His shoes were underneath the grimy sink, his gloves inside a pillowcase. The hive apartment was small, and yet seemed to have immeasurable hidey holes and piles of stuff to dig through. Urgh. A glance through the window confirmed it wasn’t even upper hive. He’d finally gotten some shore leave and he had wasted it here. Typical. 

He shrugged on his jacket, preparing to leave. Something caught his eye. Some unused stims and opia sat inside a partially open drawer. A moment’s breath and he had scooped them up, deposited them in a pocket. He didn’t feel a drop of guilt about the petty thievery.  His needs were greater than some scum who wouldn’t contribute anything to the Throne but their death.

The ride back to the docks was a joyless one. The light was flat and grey, and the smog was choking. His respirator could hardly keep up. Emperor save him from planets. Give him the great black void, the shimmering stars, the universe at their fingertips. He couldn’t imagine ever staying in one place. He felt his heart lighten as soon as he boarded the shuttle that would take him back to the main ship.

His commander was already on the ramp, tapping her foot. She cut an intimidating figure, arms crossed, red hair flowing over her shoulders. He was acutely aware of the bolt pistol strapped to her hip. “Officer.” He said, pleasantly enough, attempting to sidestep her. 

“My office.” Was her retort, as sharp as the many knives she undoubtedly held in her loose coat. He sighed, resigning himself, and followed her shoulders through the twisting corridors of the hulking ship. He trailed his fingers along the edging, Thesusian in his touch. When he was in her office, and the door snapped shut behind him with a hiss of air, he had already resigned himself to losing his job. 

She sat behind her desk, observing him as he stood to attention, eyes focused on the seal on the wall above her head. “Lance.” She pulled out a file, flicking through it. “You’re something of a discipline case. Skilled enough, potential is there...” She shut it with a snap, and leaned forward. “So why do you keep fucking up?”

He double-took, startled. “Uh, excuse me ma’am?” 

“The universe has been handed to you on a silver platter. Good last name, pretty face, natural skill. And yet here you are, with a middling rank and a number of black marks against your name.” She looked at him, purple eyes compassionless. “I knew your mother, you know. Brilliant woman.” Her eyes flickered to his clenched fists. “The Imperium is poorer without her.” “She isn’t dead.” He spits the words out from behind gritted teeth. The officer doesn’t recoil, but seems to retrace her words, correcting some assumptions. 

“Well. No. You are quite right.” Never officially declared dead. There had been no ashes, no casket. No closure. “But the point is, you are squandering a legacy given to you freely. Don’t ruin her name because you can’t get your shit together.” She set her jaw. “Now, go and sleep it off in your dorm. We’re not due to need you, and even if we did, you’re in no fit state.” 

He went, but sleep didn’t come. Instead he flicked open his altitude meter, with the picture tucked inside.

Briefing

They came around slowly, their blood still splattered across the tiles below them. What people don’t realise about miracle healing is even if their wounds were sewn up, it still hurt. Servitors were not miracle workers. Just because they weren’t dying didn’t mean the wound didn’t exist. Argento however... He was still standing, though his clothes were stained, his skin whole and unsullied. Cal’s was now full of staples, stitches and cauterisation. It hurt to breathe. 

The Inqusitor was gone, but the ghosts remained, and Cal was still shaking, from cold, shock or fear. Argento helped them to their feet, but had to keep an arm around them, as Cal couldn’t quite support themselves. Looking at the pattern of red pooling where they had lay, they knew logically it was probably blood loss that had taken strength from their limbs. But psykers were often superstitious, and they couldn’t help but think this hall had taken some strength for itself. 

Argento was mumbling something about sleep, his tone a little awe-struck. The two missionaries helped them make their way to their cabin, where they fell onto their bunk, exhausted, their clothes still wet with viscera and blood. They’d need new ones. The light clicked off, the door hissed shut. They were left alone, in blissful quiet. 

They didn’t know what just happened, not really. Just that something had been decided for them, and they were powerless to resist it.

Autoseance 

Their limbs moved as though being tugged on with puppet strings. A voice spoke that was their own, but  it was not their words. They were a passenger in their own body. It was not a pleasant sensation. Terror surged through them, a worry that they would not get their body back, and it would be divorced from them for always.They would continue to be an observer. 

Would that not also be a little relief? No decisions, no choices, nothing but watching. Nothing would be their responsibility. Nothing would be their fault. Maybe, bit by bit, their mind would fade away, their physical form a gift given to someone else. It wasn’t that they wanted to die, not in a traditional way. They would not end things themselves - they were property after all, it was not their choice to make. 

But if they could fade quietly, by someone else’s hand, no blaze of glory, no horrid pain, no agonising final last words. Just this ending. But then, the mind dominating theirs was gone, into some other unfortunate that was clearly fighting much much harder. Relief and regret flowed through them. 

The Story of a Secret - Empire

Once upon a time, twins were born in a castle made of bones and gold. They were not the first pair, and they would surely not be the last. Their father was the ruler of the castle and on the day of their birth, the fountains flowed with gold and wine, and the flowers bloomed brightly. Their father held them both, and told them they must be great, or they would bring shame to him. 

Their childhood was both happy and unhappy. They got everything they desired and also were worked so hard it hurt. They spent their days sparring, gardening, whispering secrets, hunting and trying to prove they could outdo each other. Their father pretended not to watch, but watch he did. As their personalities developed, so did his favouritism. Julienne could often be found sneaking into his study, sitting and reading as he did his duties. He was frightened of him, the tall draughir with veins as black as coal. But she loved him too, his grandness and his malicious intelligence. The only thing he loved more than him, was his dear twin. 

Their childhood took a turn for the worst as their mother fled, afraid of what she saw in her earl. The twins cared not for the woman, but this marked the real start of their trials. Their father became more tempestuous by the day, and his cruelty increased. He encouraged the competition between them, pushed them to breaking point. The house slunk around him, attempting to avoid his wrath. Julienne attempted to sooth him, to varying levels of effect. They loved him still, wanted to impress him, to make him proud. 

Finally, he did something that broke his heart, and he found himself unable to reside in the castle for a short while, unable to look on their father’s or their would be sweetheart’s face. They went away and achieved great things, and came back with scars and Pride. When they came back, their father was worse than ever, and even Julienne was struggling to find some humanity in him. His lineage had conquered him completely. 

He died on the battlefield, a sword through his chest. They arrived with enough time to hold him, and to weep, but not enough time to save him. This is where the secret began, though Julienne did not know it at the time. They would not learn it until years later, when they themselves had veins as black as coal and eyes as red as blood.

The secret made them feel their grief and sorrow all over again, now tempered with the rage of a draughir. They felt cheated, excluded, isolated and furious. They took their knife and stabbed their twin, until they themselves were cut down. And then, during the trial, with both their wounds bound, they created another secret, made up of all the lies they had told to protect the thing they loved most in the world - their twin.

Ship That Left Port by Itself - Green Cloaks

The barracks was lively, partially because they had been cooped up by the bad weather all day. The driving rain had made all but the most basic reconnaissance impossible, and the energy of the company had built and built. Gwen was threatening to gut Owyn, Trelawny Jr would not stop his whistling as he polished his boots, and Merryn (talking with Leo) laughed frequently and loudly. Trelawny Sr was clearly two seconds away from reprimanding the lot of them as he tried to do the requisite paperwork. He was aware of his own rising irritation, and knowing his family well, he also knew of a solution. A word in Scott’s ear and he had pulled up a chair into the center of the room. The spotlight suited him, and the company quietened down as they saw him gearing up for a story. 

“The Company of the Just were a pro-active group from a long while ago. More so than us, and that’s saying something as we know. In both age and proactivity. They didn’t focus on mercy, obviously. Guess what they liked? So, they travelled to enact their justice all over Durgan. They would go to places where the corruption was deepest, and put it right. Sometimes they could be a little bloody about it, we wouldn’t like to have drinks with them, let’s put it that way, but they were good at heart. They had their enemies of course, as all good folk do, but they were good at being objective.

There had been some trouble over the sea. Which sea it was doesn’t matter, only that is was angry and wine-dark. The company decided even though it was far away, and the sea was unkind, that was where they were needed so that is where they would go. They packed up their bags, and each other, and sailed for a week before reaching their destination. When they arrived, they found it in a worse state than anticipated. The temples were empty, with windows smashed and ruined. The people had turned selfish, as it turned out the crime committed that drew them there initially had stoked the fires of their anger. They blamed the temples for not preventing it, for not foreseeing it coming. The Company had come at a bad time.

They slept in the ruin of their temple that night, hoping to evade the crowds long enough to figure out a plan. But again, they underestimated the situation they were in. While they slept, the rabble crept out to the docks, and put flame to their ship. It went up easily, ash and sparks rising to the night sky. They then crept into the temple, and killed all those who slumbered within it.” 

All was quiet. Leo reached out and caught his brother’s hand, squeezing. 

“Now, like all good temple acolytes, they had wanted to be buried in the dust of their hometown, or their ashes dropped into the sea that lapped at the shore. Here, their bodies were left unburied and unmourned. The rabble assumed their bodies would fall into ruin like the temple, and they should think no more of it. But then, something peculiar happened. For two weeks afterwards, the people slept poorly. Not because of the weight of their conscience for they had no such thing, but because there was a manner of noise. Sawing, hammering, and thudding, as though something was dropping from a height. When they investigated though, nothing could be found, and the noise went quiet. They were tired and confused, and their anger was wearing off, leaving in them a great sadness instead. Those who are angry are actually usually hurting in some way, after all. 

Anyway, these weeks past, and one day the village was awoken with a tremendous splash. They rushed to the docks, and saw a great ship starting to set sail. Wind billowed in it’s sails though no wind could be felt on shore. And they heard laughter and joy, though they could see no crew. The sword of justice was painted clearly on the sails though, and the boat looked like it was coming from whence it came, as if returning home.”

Friendly Fire

The gun felt too heavy, even braced against his shoulder it made his arm ache. It didn’t help that the gun was scarcely shorter than him. He sighed, switched hands, shook his arm out. Leo watched him, matched his sigh before pushing off the tree and taking a stance behind him, guiding his arms back up. 

“It’s alright, I got it.” 

“No, you haven’t.” His brother corrected. “You’ve been struggling for the last twenty minutes.” “What would you know about guns? You’re a bloody medic.” This was not an insult, far from it. Simply a pointing out of different knowledge bases. Leo was a fine medic, with delicate hands and the bedside manner of an angel. Owyn had never once seen him lose his cool, or even seem flustered. He envied that, as he envied so many things about his older brother. 

“Wasn’t always.” Leo said, mildly enough, tipping his elbow so it was straighter. “I did some gun training. Even was good at it for a while.”

“What made you stop?” He cocked it, satisfied as always by the dull clunks and clicks. There was something soothing about the predictability of a machine - it only messed up if you made it mess up. 

“I didn’t have the stomach for it.” He stepped back and shrugged. “I can’t hurt thins. Even if it’s necessary sometimes.”

Owyn laughed a little. “The most merciful amongst us Leo.” He pulled the trigger, and smiled, a hole ripping through the target. Almost dead center. 

Fresh Meat

No matter how much they eat, it wasn’t enough. He ripped into the deer flesh with his nails, pulling out the muscles and sinew with only a little effort, and raising up the dripping meat to his mouth, and chewing it raw. He knew logically he must be full. He had been crouching in the snow and eating for almost an hour now. But still the hunger persisted. It would not be sated.

With a colossal effort, he stood, wiping his hands clean in the surrounding frost. He didn’t feel the cold. He hadn’t in so very long. His surcoat was splattered with gore and viscera. That couldn’t be helped. He would go back to the farm and terrify a servant into scrubbing the blood from his clothes before any of the Order saw. The shame of their lineage grew and grew, and was unrelenting in its fierceness. They could tell nobody of their weakness, and nobody of their fear.

Unless.

Unless they could. An image came to mind of a hood, of black surcoats and red lanterns. They needed help. They needed it before their reflection became their fathers, before they could see nothing for the hunger. 

They walked out the woods, tired, weary. They spent a lot of time asleep or hunting nowadays. They longed for the golden skulls and winding rooms of their home. They missed their pack with a pain that was almost physical. And still that question, grinding away in their head - “Why?” Why had they been exiled? Orlene always had a plan, but this time Julien couldn’t see the steps or the logic. Clearly they had done something terribly wrong, or something was happening they needed to be tucked out the way for. But what?

And where was Jacques? Or their father - whichever it had been at the time. He was furious at himself for missing him, for wanting him, for wondering if he was thinking of him as frequently. Furious, but not surprised. Their emotions, when they felt them, were a frightening, tempestuous thing. 

As they walked into the cottage, they attracted looks and frightened whispers. Good. Fear was as good as love and a great deal better than being liked.

Lost and Found

There was a portrait of his father. Small, barely the size of his palm. He was not smiling in it, his mouth turned down in a characteristic frown. His hair was a little over-long, brown curls falling into his eyes. His eyes were striking though, even from behind the curls. They were a dark but unmistakeable green, and the artist had captured the thought behind them. Ancel remembered his father best in thought, quiet and calm. It was not that he was not a passionate man. Quite the opposite - it was that he was either completely calm or a storm. He consisted of extremes. He loved as deeply as he hated, and broke things with the same hands that once nursed a small bird back to health after his son begged him to. 

Ancel wondered if he resembled him in any way. If his manner echoed the man he had lost so young. He wasn’t sure which he would prefer. He was condemned for his blood already, he didn’t need more condemnation. But on the other hand, of all his father’s work, only he remained. He could pretend all he liked, but he could not erase that. Did he choose legacy or safety? 

Sleeping In Their Arms

Once, they slept in beds that were tangled with other people. Small and light, they often slept curled on Baris’s chest, making the most of the tiny amount of space they could carve out for themselves. It was often too hot, but the arm slung around them was a comfort. When they had seperate shifts, Cal often found themselves fraught, tossing and turning until a weight returned to the mattress.

They said goodbye to that on the Black Ships. Sleep came for only an hour or so at a time, and they pressed themselves into the loneliest, most isolated corners they could, wishing for nothing more than to become invisible, to not exist at all. They got by by hiding, by talking and looking at nobody. Loneliness was their armour and they held it tight. 

They had slept alone for almost a decade now. They covered every inch of skin they could find. Their rooms were built for one. They flinched from touch, especially embraces. On the Lord’s Confidence this had been a problem. So many people had expected affection, social convention, even showing offence when they flinched away. It had been Hellish.

 And then in the last few months... That had changed. They had found people who didn’t frighten them in quite the same way. They accepted a hug from Silvestro. Bridge had held them, and they had let him. Nic had done even more than that, and Cal had curled against him, his arms around them, basking in the flicker of warmth that begun.

And now, even further, this. Anoretta’s head rested gently against Cal’s, her thoughts idly drifting into Cal’s head occasionally. They held hands, Cal occasionally tracing patterns on the back of Anoretta’s hand. They were wrapped up in each other, and Cal realised, foggily, they were falling asleep. And they were letting themselves. They felt like they were baring their throat to a pack of wolves, so great the vulnerability. 

They squeezed her hand, and closed their eyes.

[haveyoueverseenoneinnature]

You balance comfortably on the blade’s edge between awake and asleep.

Eridan is surrounding you, not even vaguely ashamed of how touchy he’s being. His touch lingers longer than it’s needed, leaving featherbeast-bumps on your skin. You let him touch your bare neck and belly without protest, exhaustion serving as a suitable substitute for trust.

He seems enamored by your body; your mutation must be a novelty that even a seadweller would be fascinated by. Or disgusted, when the newness of your blood ran dry.

The thought has attempted to nudge its way into your thinkpan more than few times since Eridan’s having rescuing, a conscious anxiety towards the unreadable ticking clock on your bloodpush.

You’re starting to realize that worrying about the future is a strange novelty when you’ve always had to focus on surviving the present.

You wake up like starch-cake syrup comes out of the bottle: in little bits with no sense of hurry.

The first time, your eyes don’t even open. You’re immensely comfortable, and the cool something surrounding you spells out “Safety” in your thinkpan like bubble-wrap and a suit of armor.

You curl your limbs inward a little tighter, your arms clutching the comfortable coolness like a fresh-hatched with their lusus. That feels good, your brain sleepily notices. You fumble to get your legs lodged around the feeling too. When you’re done, you fall back under without a further thought.

The second time, you wake to the unmistakable feeling of being watched. You feel a faint twinge of annoyance at that, because whatever you’re floating in is as comfortable as ever; opening your eyes seems an excessive labor.

You keep your eyes closed and stubbornly feign sleep.

But the itching feeling on your eyelids doesn’t relent, and as your foggy thinkpan becomes more awake, you seem to remember the dangers of being watched.

Your eyes open, and then immediately close again in a flinch.

The coolness surrounding you grips you under the arms and thrusts you to the surface. Hands, you register.

Staring down Eridan Ampora while sitting buck-naked in a too-big recooperacoon is a far weirder situation than your thinkpan is equipped to deal with on a short notice.

A moment passes and then he’s howling, hunched over and feigning wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

“It’s not that funny.” You say, mostly because you’re at a loss at what else to do. Eridan just laughs harder.

“You, you-“ He struggles to get out the words between snickers. “You opened your-hmmph, opened your eyes...in the sopor!” He flicks his claws towards his eyes and suppresses another cackle.

“I don’t usually do that.” You say, which is immediately evident as being the worst defense possible.

“Of course you don’t, Kar.” He replies playfully. You don’t reply.

You’re looking at Eridan, really looking, and sure, you’d seen him without glasses plenty of times, he liked to take them off when on the husktop, but it’s weird seeing him without his hair gel or his rings. His hair appears to develop loose ringlets when wet, and they crowd out the dignified angles of his face.

Maybe if you ignored the gills, let the curls round him out, kept his mouth closed-

Well. Maybe he could even look like someone you would know.

You get the urge to playfully flip his purple streak over his face, but your arms are still mostly numb and buried in sopor and he’s so tall that you dismiss the thought.

Eridan is now leaning against his side of the recooperacoon, watching you silently.

The pleasant cloudiness is evaporating from your thinkpan and the situation becomes increasingly unbearable as it does.

You try to instinctively hide in your clothes, only to be reminded of your own lack of them.

Everything below your biceps is still in the sopor, deep in a sluggish numbness. The disconnect is disconcerting, between your head and your body. Maybe it could be pleasant if you grew accustomed to it, but right now you feel like the captain of a punctured vessel, losing soldiers to the void of space every moment.

Eridan smiles, and there’s something sharp behind it. You don’t meet his eyes. You imagine yourself looking up, and him cutting into you, you bleeding and falling to pieces without him ever moving his claws.

He’s running his claws gently over the top layer of your hair. You know it’ll stick up ever more than usual at that, covered in cooling slime, but Eridan doesn’t seem to care. A kiss is pressed to the top of your skull.

Your eyes dart upwards for a split second, just long enough to see the pearly flash of his teeth as his licks his lips clean.

The shark’s grin he gives you when he catches you glancing leaves no doubt to his intentions. You get the urge to dive under the slime (There’s definitely enough of it, you don’t think you ever used this much in a half-sweep) and never rise. But there’s a nervous fear settling into your thinkpan, a memory of you opening your eyes and his arms hooking you, pulling you up-

Eridan seems to be in an exceptionally good mood. He swings himself over the side of the recooperacoon in one motion, and you avert your eyes to avoid looking at his lower half. You don’t have to look at him to know he’s rolling his eyes.

There’s a type of smooth carpeting around the coon’, and it soaks up the sopor that Eridan’s departure leaves. The greenish color fades into white, becoming immaculate again.

There must be a recycling process, a sort of chamber underneath where the sopor is gathered and reused. It’s the fanciest fucking thing you hadn’t known existed. In your hive, you had just stepped into an old metal pan and dumped it back in after wringing as much as possible from your hair and skin to reuse.

The drones couldn’t have built it, couldn’t have built anything in this ship, you realize.

Everything Eridan had was a million tiny pieces put together, a far cry from the concrete hives that had dotted the plains of your life.

You imagine tiny gray hands carving and welding and polishing; when you swaddle yourself in a towel and step out of the coon, your thinkpan conjures the prick of tiny bones against your feet.

You notice Eridan’s wandered into an adjacent room. The doorway casts a sliver of white light on the floor, dissolving back into darkness before it reaches your corner of the room.

It’s your first moment alone since Ascension day, without Eridan’s gaze on your skin.

You unwrap the towel to scrub the slime from your skin and hair, taking advantage of the moment of privacy. Afterwards, you wring the towel into the carpet, watching it disappear.

As you step into the light of the doorway where Eridan had disappeared, the change in light makes your vision sting. The daze of the sopor is staying past its due in your limbs and thinkpan.

You lean against the doorway, blinking in the light and feeling the cool shock of tile underneath your walkpads. You take in the ablution block, noting with unease that you didn’t recognize at least half the devices strewn about the block.

Eridan is whistling and palming gel into his hair. His rings are scattered across the rockslab like veins of gold in a glittering cliff-face.

“Kar!” He beams into his own reflection in the reflection disk, or perhaps at the other you he sees in the background of the image.

You linger, frozen, in the doorway. The bright lights reflect off the twinkling surface of the block, imparting the feeling of being a hoofbeast in the headlights of an impending shuttle.

He waits for a moment before drumming his nails on the rockslab and huffing petulantly.

Eridan has contorted his face into a caricature of pitiful need. He widens his eyes and implores your presence with his hands.

Eridan pulls you towards him and clutches you like he’s trying to become one. His chin is nestled in the messy nest of your hair and his arms absorb you into his chest. Through his thin shirt, you can feel his cool epidermia, the layers of muscle, his ribs, and rising to the surface of it all, the beat of his bloodpusher against your cheek. It beats at an icy fever pace to the pattern of your tremulous breath.

“You’re going to havve to be on your owwn for a wwhile today.” Eridan mumbles reluctantly into your hair. His tone seems to suggest that incredulously, he guinely considers moment not in your abrasive presence despicable prospect.

You think, not for the first time, that Eridan must be batshit fucking crazy. Maybe all highbloods were. It actually seemed pretty likely, now that you thought about the highbloods you had known.

There isn’t a thrill at the prospect of time alone, of being on a looser leash for a while. There’s mostly just more of that leaden feeling making itself a hive in your guts. Eridan’s a seadweller, but’s he’s your friend, your morail, you guess, but mostly he’s the only island of familiarity in the ascended void of space.

As you dress into a shiny violet shirt and pants, which you can’t constitute as clothes more than thin cloth made for lounging in the purgatory between sleep and activity, as your bare feet are lead down the hallway of movie glimpses, as Eridan leaves you in an extravagantly comfortable and unfamiliar living block, as you’re left alone for the first time in two days. Well. You start to realize when Eridan’s a block away, it feels like it might as well be an uncharted galaxy.

@are-u-kitten-me-right-meow

[activatingaggro]

CW: age gap, implied hooking up between adult and teenager. takes place.. a week or so before ID fakes his death, and ditches the clade.

PHERES DYSSEU | 7 sweeps, 17 years old

ICONIC DISQUIET | 9 sweeps, 21 years old

“It’s 3PM,” the television sings, “do you know where your clademates are?”

And just on cue, the door slides open.

The lights in the common room are dimmed. The curtains have been drawn shut, but this late in the day, there’s no way to fully block the sunlight: it creeps in through the cracks in the fabric, seeping into the floor in front of each window in golden pools that make your eyes water. You’ve told Raphae to get a better tint on the panes, but he likes the light. Says it gives the room atmosphere.

“And besides, babe,” he chided, last time you’d brought it up: “- why are you up at 3PM, anyway?”

The next time you start to complain about the light, you’re going to remember this: Pheres walking into the room, wearing enough white that it feels like a slap to the face. There’s white on his shirt, white on his pants, white painted in arching designs across both prongs of that obscene rack. He’s bright enough that he’s practically glowing.

No, scratch that: he’s taken out his lenses, and what you’d thought was an after-image is his eyes, glowing bright as two suns in the darkness. He’s scrubbing at his face as he heads in. He doesn’t pay you any mind, not at all, not until you clear your throat.

“ID,” he says, startling.

“That’s me,” you drawl. You mute the television with your psionics and keep knitting, the click of your needles loud in the sudden silence. “The one and only! And where are you going, mister daywalker?”

He’s never quite dropped his hand from his face. But now it flicks up, fingers brushing close to his eyes before he forces it down. Forces: you can see the muscles in his arm going taut, drawn tense as the tendons in his neck. His smile barely deserves the name. “.. funny.”

“I’m a regular comedian, sweetheart.” He’s lingering directly in front of your television, shifting from foot to foot, but when he notices you watching, he stops moving and lifts his chin. Behind him, the show’s flipped from the commercials back to the recital. But although you can see a familiar pair of horns bobbing behind him, you don’t gesture him to move. Not just yet! You’ve seen Apollo Harley’s last performance a dozen times. But it isn’t often that Pheres comes slinking into the apartment when he’s alone! Why, usually, he doesn’t even risk it with his moirail.

He’s usually too scared. Too terrified, poor pupa: he’s grown in sweeps and inches since Sipara first hauled him in, with his scabbed over face and his cullbait eyes, but he’s never really changed. Never stopped suspecting you were one bad day from culling him, as soon as Raphae turned his back. There’s something flattering about that level of fear! But he hasn’t been cowering at the sound of your very name, lately. And right now, he isn’t even quaking, poor dear. Why, he’s acting like he’s not scared of you at all, and if it weren’t for the were holding his body taut, maybe you’d even believe it. He’s scared, but he’s refusing to show it. That’s something new! And that’s far more interesting than any old recording.

When he slinks forward, you click your needles together, a loud clack that stops him mid-step. “Now, don’t ignore me! That’s rude, sugarhorns.”

“.. my apologies. I didn’t expect you wanted to chat, given that it’s so late, so. Ah. I’m going to bed.” The ‘obviously’ hangs silent. “Raphae gave me a key,” he adds, so sweet and pleasant that it almost makes you pause. It’s the sort of tone he uses on Raphae. It’s not one you’ve ever had directed at you, not from this half-grown sprig: Pheres’s always been sharp and anxious, the few times Sipara hasn’t spoken for him. “Presumably the offer still stands?”

“Well! It’s not like it’s my hive, sugarhorns,” you say, blithe, “so if Raphae said you can stay, I guess that’s that. But the guest room’s that way.” You wave with a needle over towards the far hall, but all Pheres does is laugh. Then he grins at you, sheepish and lopsided as he threads a hand through his hair.

“Ah.” He’s darker than Raphae. The white of his clothes feels blinding even in the light of the room, bright enough that it makes you want to squint as the sunlight catches on the gauze, turns it irisdiscent. “Yes, I realise,” he murmurs. “I was going to Sipara’s, actually.”

“Sipara’s asleep, dearheart, like all good, little pupas.”

And that gets you a frown.

“I’m not going to wake her.” Patience is layered thick as syrup in his words, softening the edges. No wonder Raphae likes him so much: he’s nearly as cloying as one of his co-stars. “I’m just going to sleep -”

“In her recuperacoon?” you ask, raising your eyebrows, and your needles click together as you start the next row. “Just climb in there, smelling like you just dipped yourself into a vat of vodka? Booze and sopor doesn’t mix, fourprongs! You’ll wake her right up.”

“And that’s no good.” You click your tongue, shaking your head. “Sipa-dear has actually been working all night, unlike some of us,” you inform him. “She needs her rest! And not to have it ruined worrying after why her moirail’s come limping in at 3PM, looking like the most bedraggled dandelion in the field.”

“Did you actually go out like that, by the way, or did you lose your glasses along the way? Oh! 'scuse me, sweetpea, glasses and lenses,” you say, helpfully. “Don'tcha know those are expensive? I know that our little rust makes bank, but that’s no call to get careless!”

He lifts his chin. “Sipara doesn’t pay for me,” Pheres says, prim. “Or for my clothes. But, ah, thank you for your concern! But I assure you, I’m not going to wake her up.” There’s nothing on his shirt, but he dusts the front of it off all the same, fingers tugging at the end of his sleeves and straightening them out flat. “I’ll see you in the evening. Enjoy your..”

He glances towards the television. You missed the first blood, listening to him; there’s maroon on the floor, but the poor schlub who got cut is nowhere to be seen. Pheres’s nose wrinkles as Harley’s shoe skirts the pool, close enough that the fabric wrinkles from the heat of it. “.. show,” he says. “Enjoy your show.”

Then he turns and stalks towards the back hall.

You let him take the first three feet. Of course you do! Garbed in white or not, Pheres isn’t exactly a sight for sore eyes: that ridiculous rack of his is long enough to make some of the church-rats jealous, and it’s glossed, to boot, the rough arches gleaming gold in the sunlight. With the curls catching around it and the horns curling on bottom, even you have to admit, it’s kind of fucking gorgeous.

And the rest of him sn’t quite a sight for sore eyes, either.

So you let him take the first three feet, then you snatch hold of him with your psionics. Pink tangles around his ribs and shoulders, and you spin him mid-step. When he stumbles, it’s right back into the recreationblock.

“Hey, there,” you say, amused. “I think you got a little confused, spacecadet! Understandable, really, considering your awful drinking habits, but I’m pretty sure I said the guest room was thattaway.”

The look he gives you this time is infinitely more familiar. “Yes, you did,” he says, mild, but there’s that sharp edge you’re used to. Except it's fascinating, really, because for once, it's just him: he's not peeking from behind Sipara's shoulder, like she's the worst kind of meat-shield, like she could really do anything if you decided to cull him.

It's just him, chin up, nose high, like he's got any right to look down on you. “But I’m not heading there.”

He turns on his heel. You give him another two feet before you spin him around, and this time, he actually flails when the pink lights of your psionics snap into existence.

It doesn’t do anything. He snaps a hand through one band, breaking it, but you’re already tugging him right-ways with the others.

“To the left, sweetheart,” you say, helpfully.

He actually hisses at you. You’ve spent too much time around Riccin and Sipara! When his ears don’t flip back to match, just stay all stiff and round, it actually throws you.

What throws you more is the way he flares up a split second later, eyes lighting up like embers in the night. Psi snaps off of the corners, bright enough that you can hear the whine of it at the edge of your range. “Stop it!” he snaps, baring his fangs so the light hits them, and wouldn't that just be a sight, if they weren't nubs?

“Well, good job, fourprongs, that was practically fucking eloquent.” The ding of your protocol is still new. When Raphae had said he didn’t like cursing, you hadn’t realised how far his definition spread: it feels like someone puts a finger to your node and presses, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough you know it's there. “Maybe if you say please,” you drawl, trying to ignore the intrusion, “I’ll consider it.”

He just looks at you.

And then Pheres takes a deep breath. When he closes his eyes, the room dims, the light fading down to something almost managable. When he opens them, the glow’s dimmer, too, a slower hue that matches the slow rise and fall of his chest, and it's a nice effect, you'll give him that.

“Iconic,” he says, slow and proper, each syllable in that clipped, rural accent of his. He’s grown a few inches in the past few perigees! Seems like everyone’s been doing that, except for you: he’s gained the two, maybe three inches he needed to catch up with Sipara, and he’s tall enough to actually look down his nose at you from the couch. “Might I please go sleep in my moirail’s room? As is her stated preference?”

There’s so much condescension layered in his voice. You let the question hang, because there’s something absolutely precious in the way his breath picks back up in response. Has he always imitated Raphae like this, and you just never noticed? You’d known he was a little cuckoo, but the way he’s holding himself - like a proper little blueblood - is amazing.

“Well,” you finally say. “That just didn’t sound very sincere, sweetheart.” “Stop calling me that.” Three steps, and he’s halfway across the room, his knees bumping into the coffee table in front of you. The glass figurines on top shift, clinking into each other, and you tsk, reaching out to fix where a ceramic kitten nearly fell to the edge. “Careful,” you scold, but he doesn’t pay you any mind, none at all.

“And what is your problem?” he demands. “Being her auspistice doesn’t make you her keeper. She has a lusus, Iconic. She doesn’t need a second one. And she has a moirail. We always sleep in the same recuperacoon.” Frustration leaks in. “I’m not going to wake her up. For heaven’s sake, I’m her moirail. I think I’m a lttle more concerned about that then you.”

“But you’re such a bad one, pupa.” His eyes widen. Then he flushes, red flaring fire-bright in his cheeks. “Oh, sorry,” you laugh, “do you prefer me not using that, either? Sugargrub. Sweethorns. Fourprongs, how’s that –”

“I don’t see how you can judge bad moirails, considering yours is going into the helmsblock.” A beat.

“Or is that your preference?” he says, prim. “I know how your.. religion views such things.”

.. well!

Scratch that. He’s definitely not afraid of you anymore.

You blink at him, watching his face to see if he’ll realise how much he just erred. But Pheres’s chin is up, and his mout set. The jut of his upper horns would almost be threatening, if they weren’t curved over his shoulders, the tips blunted and round.

“My religion,” you repeat, curious, and he gestures sharply towards his cheek. Now that he’s mentioned it, you can feel the black bars on your skin. You’d forgotten to take off your paint after the performance - and of course he’d think you’re a part of the Navigressors, with grease still on your hide.

It almost makes sense. That’s so noteworthy, with Sipara’s little cullbait. “Really? Don’t you mean the clade religion? Because I think you’re a little out-numbered.”

“Sipara’s outgrown it,” he says, peering down at you through his lashes. “It’s a shame the rest of you haven’t.”

You’re not entirely sure what’s changed since the last time you paid any attention to Pheres! Sipara’s spent whole twilights furious about him dealing with bluebloods: maybe their shitty pride has rubbed off. Maybe this is just liquid courage, turning from some cowering rust to someone worth noticing.

You don’t really care why: you like it.

The sunlight to his back puts his face in shadows, and then the light of his psionics set his features into sharp relief. His features look stone-cut in the darkness. The set of his body language is downright imperious. If you slapped fins on him, they wouldn’t be out of place - but why bother with fins, when he’s got that curling rack?

No wonder he’s got that brace on his neck. Between the weight of both sets, it’s a wonder it hasn’t just snapped.

It’s a wonder someone hasn’t snapped it!

But seeing this half-grown sprout try and get belligerent at you is the best entertainment you’ve had all night.

“But it doesn’t matter,” he continues. His chin’s up, but now there’s amusement seeping into his voice, too, sweet and poisonous as bad well-water. “You realise you can’t actually stop me, don’t you?”

He lifts a hand, and snaps. There’s a buzzing in your horns, seeping all the way down into your horn-bed as energy builds - then light flares at his fingertip, pooling down into the bed of his palm as it grows. Psionic tricks like this are a dime a dozen. Doesn’t mean the way the light creeps across his skin, darkening the hue and bleaching out the white of his clothes, isn’t attractive. “It’s Sipara’s hive, too. I can go anywhere in this block that I want. I was being polite,” he emphasizes, eyes narrowed, “in asking, instead of just jumping.”

“I wasn’t actually asking permission.”

Oh, right. That’s what his power was.

(What sort of maroonblood teleports?)

“Isn’t that just sweet of you?” He doesn’t slouch, at that, which’s a surprise: his lips thin instead, his horn tilts up. If he were a more interesting troll, he would’ve growled. It’s a shame he isn’t. “D'you want a medal, fourprongs? ‘cause I’m afraid I’m all out.”

“It’s a good thing you were polite,” you add. “Just imagine what might’ve happened if you weren’t! Why, some cullbait vagrant just storming into my matesprit’s hive, in the wee hours of the night. Barging into my poor auspitice’s room. What’s a fellow to do, in that case?”

“I mean, just look at yourself. I’m surprised the security bots even let you in through the door, to be honest!” He opens his mouth. You laugh, waving a hand, and unfold yourself from the couch.

Pheres stiffens, but he doesn’t step back when you step forward. He doesn’t flinch, either - and isn’t that just a disappointment? “Oh, honeypie, I know you’re on the admissions list,” you drawl, “but look at yourself. You look like a goddamn ghoul. If they had any sense, they would’ve culled you, just to be sure.”

“But I guess you’re just lucky like that.” He tucks his chin in, tossing his head. On anyone else, it’d be a horn toss. On him, it’s just absurd. “Unfor~tunately for you, my little raspberry, I’m just not as forgiving as the bots! If you try to do your little bunny-hop in, my darling sprite, I will haul you out personally, how’s that?” You place a hand on his shoulders. He’s coiled tight under you: if he gets any tenser, he might just break.

Poor thing.

And you don’t want to break him. Sipara would get upset, bless her heart! But you do dig your nails in as you lean in, and your smile’s as thin as his lips. “Or ma~aybe,” you drawl, “I’ll just do all of us a favour and haul you out the window, how’s that? Sipa’ll get over it –”

When he tenses, you know he’s going to do something. but you’re not expecting him to slam those absurd horns right into the underside of your chin. Your head jerks up even as you start to twist  away, and he takes advantage of that. His hands plant firmly in your shoulders and he shoves, hard.

Sweeps of experience should keep you upright! But momentum wins. You fall, hitting the coffee table, and distantly you hear the tinkling of glass shattering. More relevant is the way you haven’t let go of his shoulders, though. Pheres writhes like a snake, fangs bared, but you haul him down with you.

Your ass hits the edge of the table, then your shoulders. Instinct alone has your horns hitting the soft carpet with a puft, rather than the wooden edge. And there’s bony knees digging into your hips, and bony fingers digging holes into your shoulders. Above you, Pheres is as wide-eyed as if he was the one that just got fucking shoved.

“Did you just break my cats?” you demand, incredulous, and letting go of his shoulders, you fumble around you on the carpet. Everywhere you touch, there’s glass.

This close, with the dark of the ceiling above him, you can make out the faded bloom of his pupils, faded pink behind the glare of the white. Before, he’d flushed. Now he’s just red, the colour creeping up like a rash.

When he realises you’re staring, he laughs, brittle and high. “I did you a favour. An undeserved one. They’re fucking terrible.” His fingers curl in, his nails biting into your bare skin. “I’m not going to apologise,” he adds. “You deserved that.”

You really, really should cull him for this. Half of those figurines are collector’s items! They are unique and precious to you, and worse yet, they’re irreplaceable. They don’t even make them anymore! You can feel the shards digging into your back through the fabric of your cardigan, undoubtedly ripping holes into the weave of the fabric. But unlike your poor figurines, you can always replace the sweater.

And right now, even with dollar signs dancing in front of your eyes.. you can’t bring yourself to be too irate over the figurines. Pheres’s half bent over you, knees framing your hips, his claws digging into your shoulders. This close, he’s warm as the sunlight on his back, and when you shift, letting yourself get a bit more comfortable on the ground, he doesn’t move.

He just exhales, a little shakily. This close, you can smell the vodka on his breath, but it doesn’t matter: he’s a psionic, and his eyes aren’t dull. He’s burned it off. If he hasn’t, he will.

“Besides,” he adds, “you can’t complain. You’re not even bleeding.”

“Yet,” you say, and shrug your shoulders. “Watch your nails, pupa, they’re sharp.”

Pheres blinks, looking down at his hands like he forgot they were there. Then he jolts up, eyes wide, nervous laughter bubbling up like foam from a spritzer. “Ah -” Surprise sets in. For a moment, he’s straight as a board, sliding back like he’s able to pull off of you entirely.

But he doesn’t. He looks down at you, eyes wide, then he relaxes, inch by inch. “Don’t call me pupa,” is what he says, waspish, even as he clasps his hands in front of him. (No blood on his claws, but he actually manicured them, and they’re as white as the gauze on his arms. It’s absurd.)

“I already told you that. I have a name.”

“So Sipara’s told me, unfortunately!” It’s a little hard to focus on anything but the glutes on your hips, honestly. You shift, bracing an elbow behind you, and look up at him. Pheres isn’t half-bad looking from this angle, all things considered! If he didn’t keep talking, you’d focus on that.

But he doesn’t seem keen to shut the fuck up. “Right. She’s told you.” He shakes his head at you. “She’s told you all about me, and us, and I’m sure she’s mentioning me every time I so much as message her,” he says, and it’s not bragging: he states it as a fact, crisp and clean and without so much as an edge of doubt in his voice. “Because we’re moirails. And that’s what moirails do. You’re so concerned about me waking her!”

“Well, how do you think she’d feel about this? Me scrapping on the ground with you, like we’re a couple of lowbloods?”

“.. are we scrapping? Last I saw,” you note, “you’re the one that took a swing, darling. And now you’re just sitting on me.”

He flushes at that, but when he shoves at your shoulder, breath so terse it comes out as a hiss, he doesn’t move.

Oh, you should move him. You know you should, honestly, and you can hear Raphae in the back of your pan, dubious, as loud as a pan nanny: “- are you robbing the school creches now, Iconic?” But you can’t bring yourself to care.

He’s pretty, and he’s warm, and if he’d just shut up --

Well. You can’t say you’re averse, not when this is getting fascinatingly caliginious. Caliginious is a strong word for it, maybe: you’re not precisely certain what he’s doing here. The only thing you’re sure of is that he has no idea what he’s doing here.

If only he’d shut up.

“That’s not moirallegience,” you say, because you can’t resist an opening, and Pheres is nothing but them: he’s targets upon targets, all there to be fucking prodded. “That’s co-dependence.”

Pheres swells. “What do you even know about quadrants?” he demands, flustered, fucking aghast. “You don’t even care about the ones you have! I’ve never even seen that yellow that you and Sipara are all about - you don’t have pictures of him up, you don’t have his name up. On anything. I’ve checked.” He’s emphasizing each word, gesturing with a hand as he talks. “Or Iphige’s, or.. even Raphae’s, for heaven’s sake. And he’s your matesprit! Most people would have his face plastered everywhere.”

“So many questions! Are you trying to pile me?” Pheres’s been frowning. Now he genuinely scowls. “Because,” you say cheerfully, “you’re getting awfully personal –”

“Do base accusations usually work to distract people? Sipara uses them, but she’s seven. I rather thought you’d learn better by ten!” He pauses, takes a breath. “But it makes sense. No wonder you’re so worried about Sipara and I’s relationship.”

“You’re projecting,” he declares. “That’s a little embarrassing, don’t you think?”

There’s a hundred different things you could say to that. There’s a hundred different retorts! You’re not going to be shown up by some half-grown adolescent. And somehow the tables have shifted. He’s amused, and you’re not.

“Nine,” is what you manage, irritated at him, irritated at yourself. (Two sweeps. Eleven is looming like an omen, but you’ve still got two sweeps until you’re plugged in, and Raphae has his matched set. Two sweeps, and you’re not going to let this scrap of fabric take one from you early.) “I’m nine.”

“Really? With all the mention of pupas, I was certain you must be at least ten. Maybe eleven!” Maybe you twitch. For the briefest moment, Pheres’s eyebrows knit. Then he grins, shakes his head. The motion sends his twists spiralling. “Heaven only knows you’re the oldest person in the hive. Still.. that’s an entire sweep until you’re conscripted. Such a difference,” he says, poisonously bright. “However could I forget? Nine, and a few perigees. But that poses another question!”

“How, exactly, are you so bad at quadrants?”

Somehow, this isn’t amusing at all.

“Codependence. Moirallegience. Really! Are you even serious? Is Iphige even your moirail,” he asks, pointed, “or is that just for convenience, just like your matesprit?”

“Alright, alright. This is absolutely precious, but analysing ID hour is over, I’m afraid! And you’re digging holes into my organs, sweetheart. So you can just move.” You start to push up. There’s glass digging into your elbows. The cleaner droids are going to have a field-day with this.

But Pheres is not moving. Pheres is just staring at you, eyes narrowed, chewing on his lip. “I don’t see why you care,” he says, irritated. “Are you going to let me go without - threatening to haul me back by my hair, or something savage?”

“.. I’m fairly certain I said nothing about hair, sweetheart!” He’s not moving. For all of your shifting, when you still, he’s still perched on your hips. “Have you been thinking about this?” you say, amused, eyeing him. “Because, sure, we can work that in -”

“Then we’re not done talking,” he announces, and slams his hands into your shoulders.

You let him push you down. He’s rougher than you’d have expected! Your horns hit the ground with a thump, and - alright, this’s progressing. Unexpectedly.

He’s still chewing on his lip. The skin’s pinched and colouring, the red bright under his fang. You’ve got half a mind to bite it, see if you can’t spill it properly.

If he doesn’t beat you to it first, because he leans forward, hands braced on your shoulders. “I don’t understand,” he says, frustrated. “It’s none of your business! This isn’t how auspisticism works! This isn’t your job, and it’s not - you shouldn’t care!”

“It doesn’t make any sense, unless..“ His breath catches. His eyes widen. If he had ears worth noting, they’d lift, but instead he swallows, hard, and practically bounces on top of you. "Oh my god,” he marvels, “you’re pale for her.”

“I can’t believe it.” His hair’s fallen out of those ridiculous ringlets and into waves. They’re tumbling past and around his horns, framing his face like a halo and blocking out the light. There’s no heat coming from the glow of his eyes! But the warmth in his voice scalds. “Oh, but - it makes so much sense.”

“I should’ve guessed, when you moved her in.” He’s picking up in speed. “I told her auspitices aren’t that kind. I told her you had motives.”

Raphae’s asked you before, exasperated, long suffering: don’t you ever get embarrassed? It’s always been a silly question. You don’t do shame!

Until, as it turns out, there’s a ninety pound bag of knives sitting on your thorax, casting all sorts of frankly unfortunate aspersions on you! You pride yourself on not caring, usually, but it’s remarkably hard to keep your balance with the bone-sharp jut of a knee digging into your hip, and the carpet doing its very best to add new holes to your back.

“Look -”

“No, no, my apologies. That was untoward. You’ve demonstrated that you’re such a kind hearted soul,” he says cheerily. “No, perhaps it was later. When you first saw her fighting? Good heavens. After you put her into the ring? This is just - I can’t believe it.”

“You don’t care about your moirail,” he announces, viciously pleased. “You don’t care about your matesprit. You don’t care about anything at all, except - blurring on my moirail. Don’t you think you ought to be paying attention to your own quadrants, ID? They’re your age.”

“This is just pathetic.”

“Oh, fuck off -” you snap, and midword, he fucking kisses you.