#sly triangle bastard

[dragonmasteraltais]

I did not know why I didn't post my GIFs when I made them, and so I thought it was about time that I remedy such atrocities...

[dragongirlbunny]

single digit numbers are all such bangers

the classic. cant go wrong with this bad boy

the only even prime and the foundation of computing

triangles babey!!!

2×2, 2+2, 2^2, they're all 4. thats beautiful.

great for breaking bigger numbers down, and easy on the brain for multiplication

now you may think this is where they start to taper off, but have you considered motherfucking tessalating regular hexagons? fuck cartesian grids, hexmaps are all the rage for board game layouts. no need to worry about diagonals here.

she's not called lucky 7 for nothing, plus if you're kinky she's into vore

binaries suck when it comes to gender but with math its great. plus he's the only cube in the single-digit club

this sly bastard lets you pull all kinds of shortcuts with math. did you know if you multiply anything by 9, the resulting number's digits also sum to a multiple of 9? go ahead and try it. that's digital roots baby. play the hit nintendo ds game zero escape: 9 persons 9 hours 9 doors to learn more

[secretly-tword-obsessed]

Informal

Hello Gigglers!

This is going to be last fic in a long time, like a parting gift!

I am about to start a whole new semester of tertiary education that I am super looking forward to - but that also means I won't have time anymore to write tickle fics. Thank you for all of the support Iv'e received on all of my recent Squid Game content and I will keep reading and interacting with all of your stuff. All of your fics bring me so much joy!!! (:

Anyways, as requested, this is another Frontman and Salesman fic. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: The Salesman has been a close friend of In-Ho for years. So why is the Frontman asking him for a pat down as an extra security check?

(This idea came from @lord-of-hyperfix )

Warnings: Mentions of death, pinning, this is a TICKLE FIC

The Salesman scoffed - he loved his formalities. The fact that something as brutal as the Squid Games, where desperate people had to fight to the death, even had procedural formalities was so amusing to him. I mean, if your going to be in charge of dirty criminal activity, you may as well do it politely and follow due process.

"Name?", the gaurd with the triangle mask asked him.

He smirked, lifting his briefcase, "Classified, although my code of entry is G-O-N-G-Y-O-O".

The guard checked the code on his computer, "Welcome".

The Salesman stepped forward. He had a meeting planned with the Frontman - nothing scary, just a general check in on how the recruitment process was going. Although, to the Salesman, he wasn't known as the Front Man but rather as In-Ho. They'd been working together for such a long time, and each of them was thrilled that they had found a fellow man as sadistic and sarcastically heartless as they were. Thus the status of their relationship transformed from employer and employee into two friends - they never agreed on that explicitly, but it was an unspoken fact.

The Salesman knocked on the door of In-Ho's office. In a few seconds, the man opened the door. His dark and brooding expression was immediately replaced with a sly smile at the sight of the Salesman, which the latter delightedly returned.

"You got a new suit", In-Ho remarked, still standing in the doorway.

The Salesman nodded, "One of those broke bastards attacked me and ruined by old one".

The Frotman glanced down, "This one has more pockets I see".

The Salesman nodded, before stepping forward.

"Hey", In-Ho said, blocking him, "How do I know that you aren't storing weapons in those pockets?"

It took a while for the Salesman to process the question. When he did, his expression dropped.

"Why would I have weapons on me, In-Ho".

"You refer to me as the Frontman", In-Ho responded.

The Salesman's heart sunk a little bit. Okay, maybe a lot. He was completely oblivious to to his employer's mischievous tone. Noticing the Salesman's lack of awareness, the Frontman had to try really hard to suppress a grin.

"Er, Okay", the Salesman responded, trying with every ounce of his being to sound unphased and professional. The Salesman's desperate attempts highly amused In-Ho, making this exercise all the more fun.

"Great", he said with a formally polite smile, "Now could you please turn around so that I can give you a pat down".

The Salesman's cheeks went red with somber resignation, and he faced away from his boss as requested.

In-Ho couldn't help but chuckle now, "You forgot to lift your arms up".

The Salesman gulped, embarrassed that he had forgotten such a key part of protocol. He certainly didn't love formalities in this insance.

A million questions were running through his head - why was In-Ho doing this? Why had In-Ho changed his mind about their relationship? Were they even really friends in the first place, or had that all been wishful thinking on his part? I mean, being the character he was, it was pretty hard to find any friends, and if the Frontman were his buddy than he would have been his only one.....

The man's thoughts were interrupted by a rather stiff poke in his side, making him squeal and slap his arms down. Since when were pat-downs this rough?

"Excuse me?", he snapped at the Frontman. There was silence for a few seconds, before the Salesman remembered his current situation. Not only had he just lost his shit during a regular pat down, he had taken it out on the man who was simply performing his duty. He was humiliated at how unprofessional he had been.

Meanwhile, In-Ho scoffed, which the Salesman couldn't see as he had as back to him.

The Salesman coughed - "Sincerest apologies boss".

In-Ho put on his best stern tone, "Just make sure that it doesn't happen again".

The Salesman gulped. He lifted his arms, bracing himself. If the pat-down was going to be a bit rougher than usual, surely he could handle it.

As soon as he felt those hands return to his sides, he whimpered, and quickly bit his lip to prevent any further sound from coming out. The Frontman was firmly pressing up and down his sides, his fingers digging in slightly, causing shivers to run up his spine. This feeling was so alien to him, he couldn't quite place it. All he knew was that it was uncomfortable.

The Frontman than moved those wicked hands to his legs, and the Salesman felt his whole body jolt forward with a chuckle when his knee was squeezed. That was when it hit him. Shit, I'm still ticklish aren't I?

The Frontman smirked, "What was that?"

"Nothing", the Salesman responded, keeping his cool, "You probably just came into contact with one of my injuries by accident". Nice save, I'm thinking on my toes.

The Frontman, knowing this was bullshit, nevertheless decided to have fun with his employee for a little longer, "Okay, I apologize. It's almost done".

The Frontman than started patting his arms - first his shoulders, than under them, and than-

The Salesman felt a finger poke at his armpit, and squealed once again, jumping away from the touch.

In-Ho chortled, "What was that? Another injury?" Now his teasing tone was obvious.

All of a sudden, the Salesman realized what was going on. At first he was relieved - he did have a friend after all. But than he was overcome with borderline fury.

"Fuck you", he muttered menacingly, turning around, "That was not funny".

The Frontman laughed out loud, smacking the other's shoulder, "Aww, too bad, well I'm hoping that this will get a laugh out of you at least-"

Before the Salesman could process his words, In-Ho had grabbed his shirt collar, pinned him against his office door and immediately started digging into his sides.

The Salesman convulsed with a snort, before doubling over with loud, free laughter.

It was funny, his laughter was so innocent and adorable - it definitely didn't match his conniving and psychotic personality.

"Hehehehe, *snort*, fhuhuck ohohoff!"

The laughter was both high pitched and loud, an incredibly endearing combination - endearing for his attacker at least.

"Aww, is my recruiter a little sensitive on his sides?"

With that remark, the Frontman switched spots, pinching at his belly, "Is this any better?"

The Salesman screamed, thrusting his tummy forward in a futile attempt at resistance. The Frontman just chuckled evilly and pushed his stomach against the wall with the elbow of one arm, using the hand of the other arm to scribble and poke all around the Salesman's navel. The thin suit he wore provided minimal protection.

"Plehehease! I cahahan't!", the Salesman cried, his knees buckling beneath him, the Frontman having to hold him up to prevent him from collapsing.

"Hold on, this doesn't make any sense", In-Ho remarked in a matter-of-fact tone, delighting in how poking a particular spot just above his victim's navel made said victim squeak, "How could the man that I hired to recruit people for my deadly games have such a silly little weakness?"

The Salesman's face went pale - as it did when he was embarrassed. His version of blushing was all the blood rushing from his face, not to it. Another one of those quirks that made him all the more menacing - although it certainly wasn't the slightest bit menacing in this circumstnace.

That was when the Frontman had a wicked idea, (if he wasn't being an absolute asshole already). He lifted the Salesman into the air with his instructible muscles, and slowly laid him down on the ground.

It all happened too fast for the Salesman to think, but than the Frontman sat on his legs, straddling him, and giving him an evil smirk that said I'm about to tickle the shit out of you.

"Wh-what the fuck is your problem", the Salesman spat out, trying to repress the anticipatory giggles rising in his chest.

As previously mentioned, the Frontman was the Salesman's only friend. In fact, he was the only friend he'd had in his entire life. He'd never really developed the ability to empathize with anyone else. And because of that, he had never been tickled by anyone his age before. He had only ever been tickled by his parents, when he was a little kid, but that wasn't the same as being playfully attacked by someone your own age, as knowing that a person who had no instinctual reason to care for you actually sought out your joyous giggles...

The Frontman couldn't help but melt, just a little bit.

"Oh come on", he said in mock offence, "I'm just having a little fun. Iv'e actually been planning this moment for a while now..."

"Wh-what?"

"Oh, you heard me. Remember when you called me a few weeks ago on my birthday, and than you just informed me that you'd spotted 456 on your morning walk".

Oh yeah, the Salesman remembered that. He was trying to mess with In-Ho by making him think he'd forgotten his birthday. He did wish him happy birthday at the end of the call though. Still, he'd managed to pluck up the courage to take his desire for cruelty out on his boss, convinced that they were now close enough for it to be playful. It was playful.

The Frontman continued - "Well, you had a laugh at my expense. So than I thought, how can I get you back for this?". The Frontman tapped his chin, as if reliving the moment. "And than I remembered what I used to do to my little brother when he was making mischief, and was wondering if it would also work on you-"

The Frontman than tweaked the Salesman's sides, making him jolt with a giggle.

The Frontman beamed, "And I'm so glad it did".

For a moment the two just looked at each other.

And than that moment carried on for a few more moments.

So...when was he getting tickled?

"You know", the Salesman said, breaking the silence, "I thought that merely hearing 456's player number would be enough of a birthday gift, considering of how obsessed with him you are-"

Silence.

Than, scoffing, the Frontman raised an eyebrow.

"Oh really? So your trying to provoke me into tickling you again, huh?"

The Salesman sputtered, "I-"

"Well, it worked".

And the room was once again filled with bubbly - informal - laughter.

Ahhhh I'm sorry it took so long for me to get this out! I am already drowning in work ):

I really hope you enjoyed it!!

Your appreciation of my work means the world to me and I legitimately think you are all so awesome!!

[memoria-99]

IkePri routes short comments and personal rankings

* All of these are my personal thoughts.

1st Gilbert

Traumatized villain with death wish. Not a fun route, relatively heavy plots, twisted romance, but a good "villain" route. Emma has real great mentality and very brave, loved how she handled the situation and the relationship. Also the best adaptation of "Beauty and the Beast" theme.

2nd Clavis (Tie)

Four-dimensional troublemaker. The first half was funny thanks to all sorts of weird events and the second half was interesting to see dealing stuff this guy was secretly doing. I liked the romance and chemistry between the two. Emma was very cool and proactive.

2nd Silvio (Tie)

Sharp tongued, materialistic brat. Endless bickering between the two was overall fun to read and though there were moments that I wanted to punch this guy, eventually grew to like him. Used to wonder why so many people love this brat but I get why. Loved how sassy Emma was too.

3rd Nokto

Sly playboy. I think I like these kind of foxy character. Has a sad past. I liked the route because the guy was very smart and Emma was quite cool. What I didn't like was that the romance seemed to be leaning toward too erotic after the two became official.

4th Yves

Star-crossed tsundere kitty. The guy himself was very cute, and the romance between the two was cute and heartwarming as well. But they are both grown ass adults in their 20s and yet their romance was like that of teens.... why.

5th Chevalier

Coldhearted genius. The second best adaptation of "Beauty and the Beast" theme. I liked the process of Emma taming him. But didn't quite like that the guy has the upperhand still. This was the only route that Emma didn't call her suitor only by given name till the very end, so...

6th Licht

Severely depressed one. I liked the heavy story and realistic romance. But, although he's kind he has almost no self-esteem, is a master of self-deprecation, and his past is seriously dark, making me feel depressed as well. I know he's loved by many, but just not my cup of tea.

7th Leon

Charismatic, good-natured brother type. Typical fairytale prince. Has a sad past, but speaking of past, there're handful who are worse than him here... The most ordinary route. I don't remember much honestly.

8th Keith

Double personality. One is very kind and the other is rather bratty. Whole premise itself was interesting but two are so different... and made the romance look like a weird love triangle.

9th Rio

Loyal doggo who always loves Emma. But the route was kinda disappointing, I think it's only meaningful in a way that his love met a happy ending for once.

10th Sariel

Felt more like a "common route" in other games where romance does not exist. I didn't see much meaningful interaction between the two. At least I liked that Emma did best in her role as Belle in this route, but that's all.

11th Jin

Seriously remember nothing about the route except that it was very boring.

12th Luke

A sleepy bear turned into a crazy bear.

PLUS

1. I love the ways "sinner" LIs are written in this game, including Gilbert and Licht, and how Emma deals with those. Instead of trying to just reassure it's okay don't let that bother you, she's like "I know what you did cannot be forgiven, nothing can change that, but I'll embrace even that part of you and lead you to step forward"

2. I love that in the two bastards' route Emma ended up 'winning' them. In Gilbert's it was mentioned that he's the one who was conquered, and Silvio's he thought that it looks like he's the one with the collar.

[my-stories-vault]

Chapter 4 ~ Purgatory Series.

Pairing: American Dean Winchester X English Y/N L/N; American Dean Winchester X American Y/N L/N.

Blurb: Purgatory suits you, to be honest. Plenty of distractions to choose from, you can kill as many as to your heart's content. And your heart is one insatiable bastard—it'll do anything to keep the memories of your ex away. Until a face much similar to his struts up into your territory, looking for you, promising you a home you lost too long ago. Your heart melted once before, do you think you would be able to risk it all again for the same criminally handsome face?

Warnings/Trigger Warnings (18+): Supernatural Wars spoilers, major and minor character deaths, mentions of previous major character deaths, violence, gore, tons of angst, (sort of, but not really) love triangle, language, self-sacrifices (not exactly suicide), betrayals, etc.

Note: This was written four years ago and English is my second language - I've tried to edit without losing the past-me's "authenticity", but let's face it, spellings ain't my strong suit, and even Grammerly gave up, soooo all the mistakes are mine 🙂🙃.

{ Series Masterlist ; Main Masterlist }

Purgatory Series: Part 4.

Softly in the background, played Dean's rock music. Your head rested against the cool window pane of the shotgun side. You were nearly dozing, but still alert; the adrenaline was taking its sweet time to leave your system after the three months you'd mostly spent on the sea.

The fast-passing lights from the lamp posts between the trees of the vast forest illuminated your face now and again. The lull of the Impala's engine purred and revved, far more relaxing than you ever thought it would be. You were curled up into a ball, knees drawn to your chest, and your arms held them for warmth.

You were wearing short white shorts, a sky-blue tank top, a black denim jacket, and Dean's leather jacket that he had perched on you when he thought you had been asleep and cold; you adored him for it.

You had known Dean as an acquaintance and an ally, but with the New Law, things had changed drastically. The turbulence in your relationship faded during this three-month retreat, you were starting to see him as a loyal, permanent friend.

You glanced at the said man. He was softly humming to his music, head bobbing up and down, fingers drumming the wheel, the muscles flexing under the rolled-up sleeves of his red flannel, his black undershirt dancing with his playful aura, atop his blue-washed jeans. The light that struck off the surface of the moon was reflected in his green orbs probbing the specks in them throb like liquid gold. His dirty blond strands were tussled in a way that generated a need to run your hand through his hair.

What an ensnaring visual!

Watching Dean drive in his beloved fascinated you - his concentration, his care, his dedication. It did all sorts of things to you, his kindness. You wondered how Dean driving this sleek beauty made you feel all fluffy inside.

A smirk curled up on Dean's lips and you couldn't even care to think if he knew you were staring or not.

This went on for a while: silence, gazing, dozing off, waking up again, and then staring at him again—until Dean steered the vehicle wrong.

'Wrong turn, Mr. Winchester,' you politely informed, voice raspy from sleep.

He huffed in annoyance. 'How many times do I have to tell you that you can call me by my name, darlin'?'

You smiled apologetically, 'Force of habit. I'm not used to taking your name.' The three months in public had caused you to revert to calling him "Mr Winchester" - a title he loathed, only when it came from you.

'Well, if that's the case, then I took the right turn.'

'How so?'

'I kidnapped you and now we are going on a date,' he said, tongue-in-cheek.

You opened and closed your mouth, taking a few moments to process that. You glanced in the sideview mirrors of the car, and sure enough, none of your security was tailing you. Neither was Dean's.

This sly man.

'A date?'

'Yep,' he popped his "p" as mischief took over his face, and a cute happy smirk stitched itself onto his lips.But he was nervous, it could be seen in the way his pearly whites worried his lower lip.

'About time,' you said, pretending to be annoyed, yet barely sustaining your poker face: a smile was about to expose you.

'You . . . won't protest?' Dean checked.

'I get what I want, Mr. Winchester,' you said with a challenging gleam in your eye. 'Some things I get fast, like the monsters I am hunting. And some things I have to wait for, like the only guy I ever liked - you.'

You were relieved when he chuckled. 'You're awesome.'

You whimpered, dreaming of your first date. You'd been reliving all your memories, as life often passes before your eyes before the end. Castiel's struggle was to keep you from the cold fingers of death, but you kept pushing him out of your head, believing you didn't deserve the help.

He would just have to keep trying:

'What are you doing?' Dean asked when you went to your drawers to retrieve a blue gift-wrapped box with golden ribbons.

'I'm putting this under the tree,' you said, doing exactly that.

He chuckled under his breath. 'You know that the parents only do that so the children think Santa left them presents, right?'

'Oh. They never overtly said that in the movies.' You glanced to the main door of your room. 'Do you want me to don a Santa hat and say "ho ho ho"?'

His amusement triplefolded.

'No, darling,' he happily brushed his lips on your forehead. 'It's so that children think Santa is magic that they aren't allowed to see Santa Claus. Never take part in any trivia,' he teased you. 'You'd lose terribly.'

You scowled. 'It's the children you should worry about—allowing them to believe there's good magic.'

'Aw, well—maybe there is,' he grinned smoothly, 'Would make sense why I found you.'

'Good. Lay on the cheesy. Makes my present more practical.'

He rolled his eyes, smacking your butt in retaliation. You gasp-scoffed; any other person would be picking their fingers off the floor but Dean had done this before . . . And you'd kinda liked it.

It was your first Christmas together, and also the night of your first sexual congress - which is why Castiel shuddered out. He waited for your minutes before diving in again to safer memories.

'The coffee's gone,' Dean groaned, pouting as he rattled his flask. He glanced to see you hiding your laugh. Eyes narrowing, 'It's not funny. I might die of caffeine withdrawal.'

'You had a cup half an hour ago!' you freed your laughter. 'You're like a Basset Hound, you cleaned us out in five hours!'

'What's your point?'

'It was supposed to last us a day,' you mused.

'You don't have to be so mean,' he turned his nose up, frowning at your attitude. 'You know what you signed up for.'

You giggled, 'Okay, princess.'

'What are you doing?'

For you had leaned back to rummage through your duffel bag where you stashed reinforcements. You pulled out an extra flask of coffee you had brought specially for Dean, and a pie you had made yourself.

'Becoming your damsel in shining armor,' you said. 'But that's all I have, so can't whine after you've licked your fingers clean.'

He gleefully took the pie in his hands, 'You're the best thing that ever happened to me!'

You laughed, 'Are you talking to me or the pie?'

He pulled you closer by your neck and slotted his lips against yours, in a quick soft kiss, you could feel his smirk on your lips.

'The pie' he whispered against your lips, kissing you again even though you slapped his chest. When he pulled away, his eyes were raw with emotions.

'But I love you, darlin'.'

Your first "I love you"s sifted through your mind. You were moving chronologically, and Castiel didn't want to find out what happens when you reach the end.

Castiel slightly cursed how the green-eyed hunter taught him to. Roaming your memories cost both of you; you, your life force, and Castiel, his grace. He knew if he didn't manage to successfully meet you in one of your trips down the memory lane, he'd lose you forever.

You were already hyperventilating, writhing and gasping out Dean's name over and over again, because your tortured subconscious somehow knew this wasn't real, and it was starting to really miss Dean. Your Dean.

Castiel was starting to feel your agitation as his own, his empathy grudging his mind but your heart might seize by how overworked it was.

He needed to tread carefully now, perhaps, alter his tactics and go to a memory you and his other self were present in together - a place where he could replace the other Castiel comfortably and breach your nightmarish haze.

Unluckily, he couldn't have chosen the worst possible memory for that.

Dean had sneaked into your room to spend a blissful evening together, falling asleep in each other's arms.If the media knew that you two were canoodling before marriage, they would have your heads. People were usually open-minded, but they weren't being constantly watched by the paparazzi - it was different for you Leaders.

'Good morning,' you rasped, leaning up and kissing the corner of his lips. 'I hate you for waking me up.'

He chuckled. 'I love you, too.'

He took your hand and kissed your knuckles, a smile engraved on his face. A blanket was pulled around the two of you. You were wearing his shirt and underpants, while he was in his boxers. His green eyes twinkled as he played with your fingers, his eyes catching on the soulmate ring he gave you during your engagement.

'What?'

'Hmm?'

'Why'd you seem so happy?'

'Oh, your mom called.'

You grimaced, 'I'm sorry. I told her not to do that. What'd she have to say?'

His grin widened: 'The date for our wedding.'

You gasped, 'Really?' You practically squealed, shooting upright. 'This is awesome! When?'

'Next week,' he smirked, sitting up too.

'Oh, my God!' you shriek-laughed. 'This is great! We will never have to pretend to be formal again!'You threw your arms around him, curling into his lap, and he caught you, laughing at your enthusiasm.

You crushed your lips to his for a long minute until he pulled away, your hearts fluttering in tandem.

'I love you so much!' you exclaimed, unable to stop beaming.

He kissed your forehead, 'I love you more.'

'Impossible,' you teased.

'I'll let you think that because I love you more,' Dean said slyly.

'You're so cheeky.'

'But imagine, this day next week, we'll be husband and wife.'

'I know,' you whispered, and you laced your fingers with his.

You hugged him tightly, your hips straddling his, and he buried his face into your hair, letting all his problems fade, and simply feeling unadulterated happiness for a second.

Your moment was encroached when the door to your room burst open. 'Help—Siege! Attacked! Lady Y/N—Sir-Sir, is—'

'Breathe,' you ordered.

Immediately, you and Dean slipped into your roles. You two untangled, sliding off of your bed; confidence radiated off the two of you, irrespective of the fact that you two were severely underdressed for anyone else to see.

The servant didn't even care that Dean was in your room, shit-scared and pale like a ghost. He was panting, hands on knees, and whimpering in short bursts.

'We've been breached. Lord L/N - he initiated Code Red. Request for all hands on deck.'

You exchanged a glance with your fiancée. 'Request approved,' you and Dean said in unison, eyes still locked, but voices professional.

'Where?' you questioned. 'Who?'

'Uh, the courtyard, swordsmen's training area. It's Castiel.'

Your back snapped straight in shock, jaw clenched with anger and betrayal. Guilt and fear tried to overthrow your other emotions; you wondered what kind of consequences you would face for this . . .

'Noted,' Dean answered for the two of you. 'Go. We'll be there.'

Soon, armored up and armed, you and Dean ran as fast as you could to the makeshift battleground. On your way over, it was impossible not to notice the numerous dead bodies littered about, severed limbs and blood decorating the once beautiful palace like gruesome graffiti.

It depressed you when you recognized most of the faces, and it burdened your heart to know that you were to blame for this somewhat directly or indirectly. Only when, on occasion, you stumbled across a body with a stab wound and burnt-out eyes, did you feel slightly better; even the angels were dying.

Within record time, you had climbed down fleets of stairs, Dean in tow, and were running into the open battle.

'Five o'clock!' you yelled, jumping forward, and Dean blindly followed your command as a huge angel bomb slammed into the ground where you were standing not a second ago.

You both rolled back to your feet, continuing to run. After dodging several more flying magical arsenals like that, you two finally sought shelter behind a tree line, just as a rogue group of fighters passed along the way. But you decided not to help them just yet - you had bigger fish to fry - from what you could see, your aim was the center of the mayhem.

Dressed in a severely abused trench coat, and a suit now painted in God knows how many people's blood - stood the cruel traitor. What shocked you was how much agility he was moving forward with, and he wasn't only killing your people: it was clear that he wasn't below throwing the other angels in the line of fire to protect himself.

Your blood boiled, and rage flooded you. This bastard should not have fucked with your brother's kingdom, he was going to pay . . .

'Y/N?'

You turned to reply when Dean's lips crashed against yours in a firm, devouring kiss. One of his hands made its way into your hair, pulling you closer, and the other stroked your cheek softly, all his actions full of desperate worry, demanding promises of your safety.When he pulled back, concern for you clouded his eyes, and you were sure you mirrored his expression.

'Be careful.'

'Yeah, of cou—'

'Not just of the angels,' he warned. 'Our faction knows he was a friend.'

You hesitated, already knowing the answer before you asked. 'Do you think our people will turn on me? I mean, I didn't know he would betray—'

'I know,' he cut you off in understanding, kissing your forehead. 'But I don't know. Just . . . Just be safe. We will figure this out later.'

'I love you,' you clung to his hand.

'I love you, too, darlin'.'

You releasing him, even though you never wanted to leave. A pit of dread bloomed in your gut, the words to stop Dean from stepping into the battle on the tip of your tongue, but, even though you knew you should have, you couldn't stop him as he ran head first into what would be his demise . . .

Shaking off the bad feeling, you followed suit, your war reflexes kicking in, allowing you to start dropping bodies left and right.You were very much surprised to find hundreds of monsters in here too; it was a combined effort of the three factions of angels, demons, and monsters. How they managed to power down the sigils and the magical borders was ponderable.

Your memory is quite distorted. Parts of the war are fading in and out of your vision.

You chopped the heads of two vampires simultaneously. You'd managed to gank this nest of eight who had ambushed you.

Dean was way ahead of you; he'd already taken down five ghouls, six Djinns, and three werewolves. You both were heading in consistently straight - toward the remnant Leaders and Governors. Your hunters had formed a rough battle circle and were maintaining that position at all costs. Medics were coming and going to save as many lives as they could.

In about twenty minutes, you had been able to join the center circle. The surge of the monster attacks there was more concentrated than anywhere on the whole field. The circle tried to keep shifting, but the monsters wouldn't ease up around them.

Dean was here, pushing back a line of feral rugarus with a little assistance from Joana. Jody, Bobby, Rufus, and B/F were here - all up against different creatures. You couldn't see your brother or Jack on the field. Come to think of it, you hadn't seen Jack in a long while.

But you didn't have much time to yourself when a group of demons set their eyes on you, while you were three-quarters of your way into finishing a group of shapeshifters, dumping them in a heap at your feet.Before you could set the last heart down, they were onto you; you yelped as one slashed for your throat, and you moved back, causing it to scratch your shoulder.

'Dean, fire! B/F, demon blade!' came a shout.

B/F and Dean responded to the call. You only heard it when your name was screamed into the fray of commands.

'Bobby, machette!' You shouted, ducking out of the reach of the demons, and moving onto the angels you'd been assigned. 'Jody, angel gun!'

Your group worked as if parts of a single organism. More commands were screamed, warning the other Leaders in the circle of the weapons they were going to receive and what they had to give, said in this exact order.

You aired your weapon Bobby's way, in return, receiving a gun from Jody's general direction. Reflexively everyone got what they had to. This change was usually made to relieve a pair of Leaders - you think it was Rufus' and Joanna's time for lunch. This also allowed the Leaders to reevaluate if everyone had all the correct weapons for the correct monsters.

Over your head, other weapons were thrown as well, and places were quickly switched. Your impeccable aim slaughtered the bunch of angels. Next to you, Dean unleashed an inferno of fire upon the six wendigos who had wanted to attack you earlier.

And so the war went on, switching back and forth - ruthless killing consumed your little group. The swell of the monsters never ceased.

Sometime later, Sebastian yelled that hellhounds had rampaged the palace - Jo and Rufus were lost, and so were most doctors and civilians. You lost Bobby when he took a blade to his neck for Seth who showed up after a while with back-ups and replenishments in the form of weapons, witches, and more human force.

Still, you were losing.

The grieving soulmates like Jody could only fight so much, she had tears streaming down her face and rage fueled her - but for how long?

Even the youth was struggling to keep up, what of the elderly on the field who might soon start dropping like flies on the ground - but they had no choice. Humans were outmanned.

Castiel was appearing and disappearing. But he was gone more than he was here - sometimes for a couple of minutes, sometimes for hours. Every time looking refreshed and rejuvenated. But he never tangled too much with your group of extremely talented hunters, that bastard.You even cursed him at one instance and challenged him to fight you. He simply ignored your taunts, doing his thing - the seemingly endless supply of his warriors shifting strategies, per his instructions.

You all tried to imply new strategies too, but he was making sure to keep you all occupied so that you couldn't help your subjects. Every human on the field was cornered.

Your concentration first wavered when they killed your brother.

'NO!' you screeched at the top of your lungs, a white ball of energy exploding from your heart and rippling from you in circles - successfully killing all monsters in a five-mile radius. It was your residual archangel powers.

Unfortunately, although the powers managed to kill all the evil - it also managed to weaken your forces by throwing them into the air.

This was bad because no one had known how you'd killed Micheal. People disapproved of using powers to defeat the other factions, they would rather you sacrificed yourself to kill Michael instead of leveling the playing field. Now everyone knew.

Tears welled up and you fell to your knees from dizziness. Your insides were cold and numb from shock. Your brother's eyes glazed over and some more blood gurgled from his mouth as he finally fell limp on the ground, a knife sticking out from his back. A demon backstabbed him in the form of . . . Jody, who now stood over him with a ghastly grin. Before you could even process it, she alleviated her gun, shooting B/F, the last Leader except you and Dean, and most of the humans nearest to you - some die, some take cover. She levied her gun on you and Dean, but never pulled the trigger, tilting her head to one side as if listening to something, and then her neck twisted one-eighty degrees. Black smoke funneled into the air, and her body fell to the ground, unmoving.

Dean's arm slung around you, and you both glanced at each other, equally broken, trying equally hard to not sob in the middle of this bloodbath.

'Tsk, tsk, tsk,' tsked Benny. He was the vampire Alpha's second-in-command and the Captain of the Bloody Princess. 'I really thought that you wouldn't last longer than an hour, let alone days. But, hey, this was more fun, wasn't it?'

'I'm gonna kill you,' you whispered, emotionally wrecked.

'Y/N, no—'

But you leaped out of Dean's reach, practically flying towards Benny. Unexpectedly, someone threw their body weight on you, making you reflexively stab backward.

The gasp was too familiar.

Your entire body froze, and your whole world stopped moving.

Something was terribly wrong, all your instincts screamed: Do not turn . . .

But you recognized it! You recognized him . . .

Your unwilling glance cast to your right, just as Dean's head came to lean down on your shoulder, breath shuddery.

Suddenly, he was on the ground and your memory had progressed. Nothing made sense, including your gibberish words.

'I won't let you die, my love. N-Not while I'm still alive.' A small smile formed on his lips and he locked his green orbs with yours as if he was proud of himself for this little act.

'Why would you throw yourself at me?!'

'Oh, how sweet,' laughed Castiel. He had been standing behind you, and you hadn't noticed him before. 'I didn't think he'd sacrifice himself for you.'

And the heart-breaking understanding dawned on you . . . Dean had seen Castiel while all you'd seen was revenge . . .

A sob tore from your chest, 'You shouldn't have done this—'

He shook his head, a ghost of a smile dancing at his lips. 'That's what fiancés are for, darlin'.'

Incoherent yelling brought you out of your reverie. You looked up in utmost confusion to see Castiel killing . . . himself?

'—fight them,' Dean continued. As if he didn't see this at all.

You gaped at the new guy, a worried look on his face.

You shook your head, tilting it to the side, certain that this shouldn't be happening. 'I-I-I was supposed to duel Benny and Castiel—'

'We need to leave, Y/N,' the lookalike of Castiel said. 'I've been looking everywhere for you. I come from your reality. We should go. Your mind and memories make me very uneasy.'

'Who are you?' you shook your head. 'I need to-to save Dean!' you exclaimed. 'I was . . . this isn't supposed to happen! I don't remember this!'

Castiel's brows furrowed in confusion. 'If you don't leave, you die.'

'B-B-But, if I leave, he'll die,' you said in a low tone, 'he'll die anyway. I'll get him killed. I-I-I don't know . . . he doesn't deserve me, this! I-I get him killed. I deserved to die—I—' Your voice cracked, breaking down then and there.

'Calm down,' he said softly, coming to gather you in a hug. 'I need you to listen to my voice, and you need to breathe.'

You wanted to fight it, you knew you should have. But for some reason, you resisted that urge. You didn't want to hurt this new trench-coated guy, you felt as if, if you hurt him, you'd also indirectly hurt someone you cared about - you just couldn't remember who.

'I don't understand,' you whispered, watching as Dean lay on his side, not even acknowledging the fact that Castiel was hugging you. His eyes were stuck at where you should have battled your planet's Castiel, and it was as if Dean was watching the duel unfold . . .

It should've happened. Why was it not happening?

You should have promised Dean that you'll save him, and then dueled Ben and Cas. And Jack - where was Jack?

'This is a memory,' informed Castiel - something that you had already begun to grasp on.

'Who are you?' you questioned, falling against his chest. 'Please go away. I should've died.'

'Dean wouldn't appreciate that,' he told you. His blue eyes were full of sympathy and pain for you. Why did he even care? You would have killed him if a nagging voice in your head didn't stop you.

The voice was continuously telling you to go with him. To save yourself.

'Come with me,' mumbled Castiel. 'Please. Dean is waiting.'

'He's gone,' your voice wobbled. 'He's dead,' you said it, for the first time in more than seven years . . .

Castiel shook his head, 'Please. He's waiting.'

You glanced at the man in front of you. Two knives sticking out of him - both of them, the price of saving you. He'd insisted that you gain powers to fight Micheal which was when Castiel had become your "friend", and now, he insisted on saving you again . . .

Out of seemingly nowhere, a gold necklace appeared on Dean's neck. You remember putting it there. That and the soulmate ring had been the symbols of your love with Dean - both of which you'd let burn along with the battleground.

As the love of your life bled on the battleground - among the rest of your family, the rest of the Leaders - you felt a part of yourself dying, all over again.

It was over. It was all over.

You let yourself fall back against your savior, stemming the flow of your memories but unbearable crying took over you, as you let the magnitude of what had happened hit you all over again, yet, seemingly for the first time.

You gasped awake in the real world, shooting forward on the forest floor.

Sweat beaded your skin, and you were chilled to your bones but your mind was blank. With an unimaginable effort, you blinked away your tears, toning down your devastating cries to slight whimpers.

Not yet - you can't cry yet. It's not safe.

Your e/c orbs fell on the figure kneeling next to you.

'Castiel,' you said, frigidly. You knew you couldn't attack him. You shouldn't.

He gave you a small smile. 'I'm glad you're okay. Save him, please. Goodbye, Y/N.' A sound of a flutter, a breeze gushed around you, and he was gone.

You tightened your arms around yourself, not caring in the slightest if his company on you was reduced. You mustered your strength and stood up on your jelly legs, but something was missing.

Your mind raced to recollect what had happened before you were forced into an unwilling submission to your past.

You understood slowly that your injuries were missing. You looked down to your stomach and then checked your thigh, giving a once-over to your whole body - if your clothes hadn't been ripped and stained, you would have never known that you had been hurt in the first place.

Then you realized that your bow was missing. You felt vulnerable instantly as if you'd gone out in public without clothes.

You would've thanked Castiel but you didn't because, first, you didn't want to, and second, he left defenseless even if he did heal you.

You decided to ignore his existence until he was needed again as a compromise.

You put yourself on the Purgatory map pretty quickly. You were in the land of Djinns - you had a safe house in here somewhere, this one underground, you believe. They were as good as nothing in here, so technically, they didn't pose you much threat.

You did contemplate freeing yourself from the torture of watching Dean: the stupid American-accented Dean Winchester who you can't have. Technically, he was safe. You sent him to the safest area in Purgatory, rumor for the portal had been spread so a capable monster would come looking for him, and he could this hellhole in his rearview mirror. All he had to do was blame you for how you aggravated the tryst between the Leviathans and the Dwarves, and they would hunt you, and permit him to stay.

Even as you thought it, you knew your goal was too idealistic. Dean came to save you, you doubted he would throw you under the bus - despite your excellent skills.

He really pissed you off sometimes. You honestly can't deal with another man who has a fucking hero complex! That reckless, beautiful fool thought you were important enough to risk his own life and enter an area you clearly told him not to.

To top it all off, he seemed to care about you! Why else would he kiss you?

He obviously cares, and he protects what he loves. Inevitably, he will die like—

No! came an inward scream. Don't go there, your mind warned.

You had to take a second to compose yourself - the state of mental health was extremely fragile.

Out of the mayhem of your thoughts, a broken voice came through, Promise?

Your self-preservation was ravaged by your soft corner for Dean's namesake and lookalike. You did tell him you would find him . . .

For a distraction, you decided to run for the rest of the day.

No monster bothered your jog as you cut down six miles. Within the next hour, you had touched your safe house. You stitched your clothes more or less and constructed a new bow and a hefty set of quivers; you tested them on three stray Djinns. Before evening, you had jogged over to the edge of the Borax forest again.

The army of Leviathans was doubled, parading around the perimeters of the forest. A small camp had also been set up. These monsters whispered around in harsh voices, and tensed at the slightest noises; you even caught a wisp or two of your and Dean's names. You had seen and planned enough wartimes during your lifetime to recognize one; your little stunt yesterday may as well have been a trigger.

Maybe Dean would need you to keep him safe after all. You doubted he had war experience. You know he'd faced apocalypses before, but war and the end of the world are majorly different things. The latter is quick but wars elongate the pain of an apocalypse until you die a little every day.

You shrugged those thoughts off. Eyes on the goal.

Stealthy as a cat, you scaled a tree, tiptoed to the edge, and swung into the Borax forest, absolutely unobserved.

As you trudged further within the forest, now on the ground while the silence deafened you. Not even crickets. You kept an eye out for traps; if you weren't cautious, you might end up hanging upside down from a rope like a lousy Tarzan.

Just because you can swing your own weight now, doesn't make you Tarzan.

Who's Tarzan?

He had scoffed, Don't tell me you haven't watched fucking Disney - what loveless world did you grow up in?

Just because I don't like television or music, doesn't make me an outcast.

Maybe you should look up the word, you bookworm.

'Shut up, shut up, shut up!' you growled.

Your attention diverted when the air whizzed, your ears perked up and you ducked, letting it slash thin air over your head.

You raised your hands in surrender. 'I come in peace!' you yelled. 'Please. I need to find my . . . friend. I mean no harm.'

You stood rooted to your spot, aware that you could spook them. You strained your ears until you caught the rising decibels as someone approached you.

You bit your lip, giving yourself up. 'I'm a human. Y/N L/N. And, my friend, Dean Winchester, is still in this territory if the stories of you guys capturing prisoners are correct. I just need shelter, and for you to release him. We'll be no harm, I swear. Please, let me talk.'

'Is it right? You slaughtered the fairies!' came an accusing, squeaky voice.

You nodded. 'They betrayed me. Gave my location to the Leviathans.'

The Dwarves gasped and snarled altogether.

'We had to . . . let go of the fairy population because betrayal is one thing I don't tolerate,' you raised your chin in defiance. 'It was my idea if you still want revenge - I hear you were close to them. But kindly release the other human, he is innocent, just trying to get back home. You know how homesickness feels better than anyone, don't you?'

A pregnant pause.

You closed your eyes just in case they wanted to take you up on the revenge, your reflexes would only get in the way.

'Hand low.'

The Dwarf King emerged from the shadows. He was wearing a magnificent crown of bird feathers, befitting his royalty.

You had to hide your mystery disappointment upon not being attacked.

You gave him a small tentative smile, greeting him with a curtsy.

He scowled, deepening the frown lines on his grimy, old, scarred face. If he stayed very still and closed his eyes, you could've mistaken him for the bark of a tree, his skin color matched it, and his battle scars were appropriately carved on all the visible parts of his skin. Even his clothes were made of leaves - without his crown, he would be undetectable to a person who didn't what to look for. More small people peeled away from the trees. They were even smaller than their king, which would have been amusing if you didn't know how deadly they were when they wanted to be; all just as unkillable as the Leviathans in Purgatory.

'They us shoo - the bad Leviathans,' the King sneered, voice as rustly as a dead leaf in the graveyard. 'We you not welcome, just capture-kill. Why? Why us seek shelter?'

You kneeled to shorten the distance and appear less threatening.

'We don't want you to exclusively protect us, we can do that on our own. We just need shelter, there is a house I built here—'

'It stand still,' he huffed. 'Dwarf no-no land.'

'I see,' you said. 'We can keep that arrangement. If you could just lend us a couple days, you won't even know we are—'

'We want hurt Leviathans,' he cut you off yet again. 'You want hurt Leviathans?'

'Those sons of bitches who want to kill my friend? Fuck, yeah!' you scoffed. 'I want them deader than my will to fucking live!'

His eyebrows knitted together. 'Say again?'

You pursed your lips in amusement. It had been ages since you switched languages to connect with a person - otherwise, you know half the European languages for smoother conversations with your Governors.

'Yes. Y/N and Dean want to hurt Leviathans. Very bad.'

He assessed you for a moment. 'You good fighter?'

The smug, self-assured smirk on your lips was your experience's fault. 'The best. Me the reason for security more, uh, beyond your forest,' you accidentally ended in correct English.

He approved you with a grin. 'Pick her.'

'Pick what now!?'

The dwarves came like an all-consuming wave, their tiny hands floated you in the air. One of them blindfolded you with an evergreen leaf so lithely that you were a smidge scared, the miniature creatures forwarded you hand-to-hand, to what you can only assume is their secret lair. You "accidentally" bumped into trees constantly, at that point you could only protect your head with your hands. They were chatting in a foreign language you knew nothing about.

Then all too abruptly, you were dropped on the ground; to be fair, they weren't taller than two feet.

You knew better than to make a sound or move unless they directly addressed you to do so. Anxious minutes stretched on until finally, the blindfold was loosened.

All of the dwarves had already made themselves scarce, leaving you on the edge of the small lake, between the tall trees and your house just in the middle of the lake.

You were wrong, they weren't ready to share their lair just yet. Instead, they'd bought you to your safe house, the gazebo you'd built in memory of Dean's garden . . .

'Your Dean come,' a squeaky voice made you jump. You hadn't even noticed the small Dwarf, the size of a tennis fucking ball, near your elbow. She grinned at your fright. 'You stay. Behave.'

Did a tennis ball just ask you to fucking behave? If you didn't want peace, you would've thrown her into the lake like a pebble.

She trotted away behind the rest of her population and you wondered how many were watching you from the trees.

All you could do was wait, you supposed. And if Dean wasn't handed to you by nightfall, you would attack them.

The Dwarves surprised you by keeping their word. You were expecting them to be as unworthy and dishonest as the Leviathans, but they gave you Dean, relatively unharmed - if you don't count his unconsciousness and the bumps on his head from being lugged around like you been, as harm. They carelessly thumped the man at your feet.

The Dwarf King was frowning. 'We no like him, know? He try and kill.'

'He stupid,' you were quick to retort. 'He don't know how great you be. I'll make him understand. I hope this no ruin our new friendship?' you extended your hand for an alliance.

He hesitated, before giving in and shaking his knotty hand with yours. 'Friend. But because you promise to hurt sons of bitches.'

'Aw, you learned how to curse,' you laughed, making the Dwarf King blush grumpily.

He waved his hand in dismissal, 'One favor more!' he demanded.

'Okay?' you quirked a brow.

'Teach English!' he forcefully said. 'Leviathans speak good, we rub good English in face!'

'I think I like you,' you chuckled. 'You got style, buddy. Teach English, got it.'

He blinked both his eyes at you and raised his thumbs. You think he was winking.

He and his entourage left the clearing, telling you that they would be by the next day for their first lesson. One of the Dwarf ladies also told you that she was the healer around there, and if you needed anything, she would be able to conjure it for you within a day or so . . . She reminded you of Selina, but then you slammed the door on those memories as well.

Or, well, you tried too. You had this grim feeling that it was too late to ignore your past anymore. Your breakdown was coming, you just hoped you'd be alone for it.

A/N: Welp, the trauma's out of the bag! What did you think of the glimpses from the Supernatural Wars?

Tag List.

@hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear @emma1998sblog

@stanzie

[daisyishedwig]

Oh boy, it's Wednesday, so you know what that means. Sebklaine fic time! This is from a follow-up to A Place to Call Home that I am working on that was supposed to be a one-shot but might very well end up being at least three chapters, because fuck me, right?

But, anyways, enjoy some boys being horny.

Sebastian blinked slowly at him as he took in Kurt’s dilated pupils and rapid blinking, as well as the way he was now clutching the pillow in his lap like a shield. “Oh,” Sebastian breathed. “Shut up,” Kurt snapped and tore his gaze away. Kurt couldn’t believe he had the audacity to look shocked, like he didn’t know what he did to Kurt. What he’d been doing to Kurt since that mess of a first kiss a year ago, and, if Kurt was being honest, since Kurt had first seen his smug bastard of a face in the Lima Bean, flirting with Kurt’s boyfriend.  Their boyfriend now.  Which only made the fire between them more pronounced. “So little Kurt is very interested in the idea,” Sebastian said, motioning down to the pillow on Kurt’s lap with a knowing glance.  “Little Kurt isn’t in charge of this conversation,” Kurt said. “There are… implications to be considered. Logistics, possible outcomes, good and bad. Little Kurt needs to chill out.” They’d been playing this will they won’t they game for so long, Kurt knew that it was inevitable that something would happen with it, but this was never in the cards. Having to balance his attraction to Sebastian with genuine concern for the way that this, this heat brewing between them, this concept lying on the table before them, could change everything. “I’m not sure you can just send him out of the room.” Sebastian was relishing in being able to tease him, the familiarity of the banter easing the anxiety in his body over the conversation they were ignoring for the moment in favor of… of what? Of finally doing something about this conversation that had been started back in Sebastian and Blaine’s dorm room in May? The concept of them sharing more than a boyfriend, of them sharing everything, of them sharing each other. “Anything I can do to help?” Sebastian said with a sly grin.  “Put a bag over your head?” Kurt said with a glare.  Sebastian laughed softly. “So little Kurt has a breathplay kink, interesting.” “Sebastian,” Kurt hissed.  “Oh,” Sebastian said with mock surprise, “you mean to hide how attractive you find me, got it.”  “God, you’re such a prick.” “A prick you apparently really want to fuck.” “Oh don’t act like this is news to you. Or that it’s not mutual,” Kurt hit Sebastian’s chest with the pillow. “I see little Sebastian has also snapped to attention.”  Sebastian was not trying to hide that fact, if anything the way he’d shifted his body to fully face Kurt, put his own interest in Kurt on display. His legs folded under him as he propped an arm on the back couch, leaning his head into his hand. His posture was open and inviting and Kurt wanted to slap him for not realizing all of the reasons why this wasn’t a foolproof plan, no matter how hot the idea of it was.  “This could go badly,” Kurt said, swallowing hard as he forced himself to think logically about this. They’d built a friendship from the rubble of a wrecked rivalry, done everything in their power to protect it and their relationships with Blaine through the stressors of long-distance romance and transitions into adulthood and the general complexities of polyamory. They couldn’t throw it away on some half-baked plan to fix Blaine’s PTSD because Sebastian’s savior complex was acting up and Kurt had spent too many nights alone in his bed wondering what it would be like to close the final side of their love triangle.

I'll tag @calsvoid, @fallevs, @lusthurts, @kurtsascot, @cryscendo,

@wowbright, @sperrywink, @bitbybitwrites, @backslashdelta and @annepi-blog

[fizzyxcustard]

Betrayal (6)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Masterlist of fan fiction

Fandom: Crossover of Spooks and Pilgrimage (Modern AU)

Pairings: Lucas North x OC/Raymond de Merville x OC

Warnings: Love triangle. Angst. Language. Sexual references/language. Cheating.

Summary: Amy Holland is Lucas North’s girlfriend of six months. Amy is aware of his job as an MI-5 agent and supports him. However, Lucas’ cousin, Raymond de Merville, has always loved Amy and uses their one night stand together as leverage for something more.

Comments/Notes: If you wish to be tagged in any of my tag lists for fics or characters, please let me know, and stipulate what you want to be tagged in. I’m gradually removing people from my tag lists who do not interact.

I don’t normally write about cheating as it’s just not something I particularly feel comfortable with, but I really wanted to write something with these two in this situation, so I hope that this came out well.

The character of Amy Holland is from all of my Spooks fics with Lucas.

It was a grief. A loss. The death of relationships. And now picking up the pieces and moving on. Lucas couldn't move as he looked up at the ceiling in his kitchen, downing another lager. How had it come to this point? How could he have let things slide knowing that there was something between Raymond and Amy?

Lucas thought on the times that he'd walk into a room and their whispering would stop. He thought on the gaze that he would catch from the corner of his eye, Raymond's gaze, focused on Amy. Of all the women in the world that Raymond could have, and he had to have her.

The woman that, for once, Lucas could actually envision a happy future with. She was detached from his work, so he could come home to her and completely shut off from surveillance and undercover operations. He could be open, be himself, and just love her.

The door knocked.

Lucas dragged himself away from the counter and stumbled to the door, opening it to see his cousin standing there. The cousin who everyone said he resembled. Of course not in personality. Lucas detested Raymond now; the sly, manipulative bastard.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Lucas growled. "Not shagging Amy tonight?"

"Unfortunately not," Raymond replied.

Lucas took a swing at his cousin, his blood boiling despite it being affected by the alcohol in his system.

"Oh, for fuck sake," Raymond sighed, and grabbed Lucas, whom he could see quite plainly was inebriated.

Raymond dragged Lucas inside the flat and kicked the door shut, his hands tight on Lucas' shirt collar. "Look! Both of you blame me completely for all of this; I wasn't forceful with her."

"Get off me, you fucking..."

"No, listen!" Raymond shouted, shaking Lucas. "You and Amy have both put me as the main villain in all this."

Lucas shook his head and smirked. "You are an arsehole, you know that, Ray? I know the kind of man you are. I had something you wanted, and you had to do everything in your power to take that away from me. Amy would never have done this completely by herself. You lured her in."

"Believe me, mate. It didn't take a lot of luring."

"Don't you dare speak bad of her," Lucas hissed.

Raymond gradually let go of Lucas and watched him topple backwards and regain his balance at the counter. "Even when she's done all of this, you still see light shining out of her arse?"

"She did the decent thing, Ray. She didn't even argue or deny what happened when you told me. All you do is try and cover your tracks and make things out to sound worse than they are so you can look good."

Raymond cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. "Since when in this situation have I denied anything? I was the one who told you what went on between us. But you're seeing this as all me and I'm not standing for that, Lucas."

Lucas choked and began to weep. "Why? Why did you have to do it with her? She's....perfect."

With a sigh, Raymond placed his hand on Lucas' shoulder. "Because I see in her what you do, mate. I can't deny that I love her, too."

Lucas looked up at his cousin with watery eyes, the alcohol still coursing in his system. "I thought blood was supposed to be thicker than water?"

***

Nearly two weeks after Amy had last seen Lucas, she received a text from him. She stared at the message, having to complete a double take at his name 'Lucas North' on her screen.

I've missed you. Can we meet up and talk?

What was there to say now? Despite Amy loving Lucas, she knew that being in a relationship with him after everything that had happened was wrong. She didn't deserve him. That was even if he wanted to talk about their future.

An hour later and Lucas appeared at her door, after she agreed to meet with him. Both of them looked at each other sadly and sighed. Everything lost. A life, a future, a love.

The conversation was stilted at first. Amy asked him if he wanted a drink. Then she asked how work was.

"I spoke with Ray a couple of days ago," Lucas announced.

"Oh?" Amy asked, taking a deep breath in. "What happened?"

"He reminded me that not everything was his fault, and how he's in love with you, too."

Amy looked up at the ceiling and swallowed over a hard lump that was lodged in her throat. "I can't...I just.....why?"

"Why what?" Lucas asked, sitting at her dining room table while she remained stood by the sink.

"Both of you loving me...why? I don't get it. I could never understand you wanting to be with me, but Raymond as well? Does my type attracting you run in your family or something?"

"Then answer me one question. What do you see in him?" Lucas asked. Did he really want to know the answer? A pang of regret hit him as the words fell off his tongue.

Amy kept her arms folded across her chest and stared into the communal garden for a second that she shared with other tenants of her maisonette block. If only she could trade places with the tabby cat that was stalking a sparrow up the path. She was sure that they didn't have relationship problems and could probably make a better go at any kind of relationship with a man than she had.

"I see you," Amy replied. Then she looked at Lucas, and on instinct began to approach him. "You don't see how alike you two are. I see a dark version of you whenever I look at him. He's uninhibited, possessive, and I don't know...that kind of attracted me. But his eyes, his nose, even his voice.....it's all yours."

"That's the version of me you want?" Lucas asked, quite puzzled and taken aback by the response.

"Raymond doesn't hold back. He's raw."

"You want that?"

"I don't know what I want," Amy snapped. "It's like you're the light and he's the dark. If anything, I slept with Raymond because he's so much like you. It was never about your lack or difference to him; it was because I wanted more of you."

Lucas got up from his seat and stepped towards Amy, and without thinking rationally, he wound his arm around her waist.

Amy sighed and nestled to his chest, then began to sob.

***

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[slightly-gay-pogohammer]

Would you consider having Jin King joining the Cooper gang a bitter choice than Panda King? since a lot of fans in the fandom disliking the storyline because of how little appearance Jing King has. Not that i agree, the Panda King is great! (and i find sly fans can be overly critical of games that don't even try to give good moral lessons-- hello you're playing as a band of thieves, one of your missions is literally called wolf massacre)

i don't think it would've worked either, but i still disagree with your points :V

panda king's presence in sly 3 is VERY important for the plot: it shows sly's attempt to walk foreward and not rely completely on his past (one of the main themes of the game, lol), brings back traumatic past experiences (again, a main theme), puts a LOT of tension between sly and bentley (something touched upon with the really annoying love "triangle" and the actually well written issues brought up by M), and in all of that gives so much more personality to a complex character such as panda king. leaving him behind and giving us his daughter instead wouldn't hit as hard.

jin king is, at the end of the day, the "thing to steal" of the episode. yes, thing. the gang wants to free her, we're shown that panda king loves his daughter a lot, and we're given a literal mysoginistic cock as a villain to drill in the idea that women aren't objects, and yet that's... what she ends up being? Even if the game give us good female characters w Penelope and Carmelita, we're still left with her not really... choosing? To do anything? at the end of the day we save her and then Panda King tells her to stay behind, and we're even presented to him threatening every single person who tries to flirt with her for haha funny memes xd instead of letting us know that she doesn't want to get married, or maybe she wants to find her own way. i'm not saying it's enough to make me dislike Panda King, or the game in general, or even just that episode --- but it's still a little. meh.

also idk how to tell you that while the gang is obviously corrupt abd fucked up and a bunch of bastards through the series, they very often are presented as the undoubtly good guys. again, even if the result isn't the best, they really drill in the idea that Jin King is her own person here literally one of the few times I can say they're undoubtly in the wrong is exactly during the Holland episode (where "wolf massacre" takes place) where they cheat their way to the Black Baron, and even then we're told that everyone in the competition cheats and the baron has no problems killing people; they might act selfishly, sometimes, but wether by accident or on purpose they do what's right.

the Sly series often talks about sexism (for better or worse, lol), environmentalism and classism, actively criticizing those who hurt people "weaker" than them and destroy nature for profit. Sly himself comments that his work and Carmelita's aren't that different more than once, and specifically says that the only thing dividing them is that she must stay there and wait for orders while he does whatever he wants

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

monster, m | myg, jjk

pairing(s): yoongi x reader x jungkook

summary: Mafia boss Min Yoongi and his bodyguard Jeon Jungkook punish you for being a smartass. Oh, I guess there’s some plot too. Maybe.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; intense smut (fem reader, threesome, unprotected sex [get tested please], creampie); abuse;  non-idol!AU - mafiaaboss!AgustD!Yoongi (black-haired Daechwita AU), longhaired!tattooed!Jungkook; mercenary!reader; Jungkook has a praise kink; you have a pain kink (maybe psycho tbh)

--

You raised an eyebrow at him.

“And?”

He tapped the air with his black card.

“Order anything you like.”

A beat passed in silence. You shut the leather menu you were holding and placed it on the table. You closed your eyes slowly and blinked at him.

“I don’t think this date is going to work out.”

You turned and were about to get up from your chair, only to have a gun pointed right between your eyes. The smile the guard gave you was almost angelic with his full lips.

“Jimin, get that gun out of her face.”

You gave Park Jimin a venomous glare. The sunglasses meant you couldn’t see his eyes even if you wanted to. The private room at the restaurant meant there were no one was watching.

“Shoot it. I honestly don’t care.”

“We both know that’s what you’re really aiming for.”

After a long moment, you turned back around to face him. Him and his scar over his right eye. A fresh reminder every time that you were the one who did that. His brown eyes seemed dead.

“How long do you plan on acting like a bitch?”

He spun the black card against the table. You hated it when he flexed how much money he had and he knew it. He didn’t do it because he was arrogant. He did it because he knew it pissed you off.

“I don’t know, how long do you plan on keeping me?”

He shrugged casually. The card spun and spun like a tiny black tornado. Then it made a sharp snap as he slammed it to the table. His eyes flickered up to you.

“Forever.”

Min Yoongi.

You were supposed to kill him and you got caught. The only time you had ever been caught. In your defense, it wasn’t because you were bad at your job. You almost had him. The scar proved it. At this point, it didn’t matter if you killed him or not. Your original contact was now dead. Min Yoongi owned everyone who as anyone in the city. Blackmail, money, whatever it took. Maybe mafia boss was too cliché of a title for him. You, on the other hand, didn’t care what he did. It wasn’t as if you were some kind of angel either. Min Yoongi was just supposed to be another number to add to the list of people you killed for money.

And, well, there was no meaning to that money now, considering he basically owned the banks.

You were pretty sure there was something wrong with you. Something was a little off. People didn’t become mercenaries out of the goodness of their hearts, after all. Maybe you caught on to killing a little too easily and felt a little too little. Maybe causing chaos was a little too fun. A little bit of an anarchist, perhaps.

Yoongi cocked his head at you, his black hair covering his eyes a little. He had been trying to convince you to work for him all this time, but you didn’t see a point in it. He had nothing to give you. Money? There was nothing to buy and nowhere to go. Fame? Not quite the title you wanted as a mercenary. Power? Fleeting as far as you were concerned. Freedom?

Oh, no, Yoongi wasn’t going to let you have that.

“You can play along or I can have Jungkook play with you. Take your pick.”

You flinched. The only reason Yoongi wasn’t six feet under was because of that little shit who interrupted you. Knocked your aim off, caused you to slash instead of stab. A single second later and you were trapped in his muscular thighs, passing out from a triangle choke and armbar combination. It wasn’t just that you were bested. It was that you were bested so easily and without even being able to fight back.

Fucking little bastard.

Yoongi smirked.

“I could go for a game of Go Fish right now,” you sneered.

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Ah, you really want it to be like this, don’t you?” He tipped his head and Jimin stepped out. Panic shot through you like lightning. Aw, shit. Yoongi watched your emotions change in an instant. He hadn’t meant play in the innocent sense, after all.

“It pains me more than it pains you.”

You made a face at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

The door slid open.

“Hey, hyung, what’s up?”

And in Jeon Jungkook sauntered. Black oxfords snapping against the hardwood floor. Black hair long and messy, wearing black slacks, matching black vest, and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He didn’t even bother to hide all the tattoos on his right arm. He gave you a cocky smile and looked over to Yoongi for instruction. Suddenly the short black dress Yoongi told you to wear was much too small and much too tight.

Yoongi tapped his fingers against the table.

Out of the two, you definitely preferred Yoongi. Mostly because Yoongi could be satiated.

You inhaled deeply. “I’ll behave.”

Yoongi’s lips curved into a sly smirk. “Begging, are you?”

“I was stating a fact. I don’t beg.”

Wrong answer. But, of course, you said it because you had too much pride to not to be a smartass. Yoongi smiled. His hand stopped moving.

“Are you hungry, Jungkook?”

“What about you, hyung? You haven’t eaten yet,” Jungkook asked inquisitively, hands in his pockets. “I couldn’t eat before you.”

Ugh. They all loved Yoongi like he was some sort of soft animal that needed to be protected. Even Jungkook, who Yoongi let do what he wanted because he was the youngest. You were sure Yoongi had to clean up some messes Jungkook made, which was why he wanted to use you. You were clean in conduct, diverse in methods, and apathetic to the cause. The perfect tool.

The problem was, he couldn’t convince you to do jack shit.

Yoongi took his card and calmly filed it into his wallet. Even though all of his guards were elegantly dressed, Yoongi was in an olive-green jacket, dark green shirt, and grey jeans. Silver accessories. No one could even guess how important he was.

And you? Tight, short, black dress with thin straps. Black heels. No jewelry. Smokey eye makeup and dark red lip. Not quite gaudy hooker, not quite rich wife either. A strange in-between.

Yoongi placed his hand flat on the table. Slowly, he turned It around and curled his fingers toward himself in a beckoning motion.

“Come here.”

You knew he was talking to you. He knew it, you knew it, Jungkook knew it. Jungkook’s dark brown eyes followed Yoongi’s hand, up the length of the table, and then to you. His lips curved into an amused smile. Like a predator to prey. You glared at the two of them. You never listened. You weren’t going to start now.

“You should listen to hyung, you know,” Jungkook purred, taking a step towards you.

“I hear every word he says,” you retort, standing up.

Yoongi tilted his head. Just a few steps and Jungkook kicked your chair aside, pressing his body against you. Hard, unrelenting, hot breath down your neck. You didn’t even look at him.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You narrowed your eyes at Yoongi, facing him as you responded to Jungkook’s words.

“I told you I’m no longer interested in murdering him.”

Yoongi gave you an open-mouthed smirk.

“You regret it now, don’t you?” Yoongi drawled slowly.

One second you were simply standing there. The next you were twisting out of the way as Jungkook tried to pin you against the wall, knee up to defend against Jungkook’s inevitable kick. Jungkook growled, grinning as he dove again. You went low, elbowing him in the thigh to throw off his balance and slam him into the floor. Or would have, if Jungkook wasn’t sturdy enough to simply take it and he drove his shoulder into your chest. You hissed at the contact of shoulder to sternum, already bracing your body as you slid across the floor due to your heels.

You felt a hand grab you by the hair and yank hard, making you hiss in pain as you went down hard on your knees. Fighting Jungkook always took all your concentration. It wouldn’t be that way if he wasn’t such a skilled fighter. Yoongi, however, was an impatient and dishonorable man.

Yoongi held on to your hair and pulled up, dragging you to your feet and slamming you against the table. You let him do it because, well, it was going to become a beating if you continued. Also, Yoongi was more lenient when he thought he was the stronger one. But you didn’t give him the satisfaction of you yelping in pain, even if your ribs felt like they were rattling.

“I think I would be worried if you didn’t try to fight for once,” Yoongi grunted, grabbing your upper arms and dragging you up the table. You tried to twist out of his grasp but Jungkook suddenly appeared between your legs and pinned your arms down.

“Ah, hyung, couldn’t you pick someone more… docile?” Jungkook complained with a pout as you panted with exertion.

Yoongi chuckled. “Are you trying to tell me you want her?” There was a dangerous edge in his voice.

“I’m only saying it would be easier for you,” Jungkook muttered, forcing your legs in their spread position as you were perched at the edge of the table. Hs eyes flitted to yours and it was obvious – the second Yoongi released you from his grasp, Jungkook would be ready to pounce.

“Take what you can get,” Yoongi growled. Coldness touched your skin as Yoongi flipped his switchblade out, slicing through the thin straps of the dress. You gritted your teeth as Yoongi’s face appeared in your vision. “I was going to let him eat you out but I’ve decided against it thanks to your antics.”

“Fuck you,” you snarled.

Yoongi shrugged. He pointed to your upper arm, tapping the implant under your skin with his blade.

“You can go in raw, Jungkook. Finally had Hoseok install it.”

Jungkook took his hands off your arms and began to unbutton his pants. “Seokjin-hyung is going to be really mad if we fuck in his restaurant,” he warned.

Yoongi scoffed. “Then I’ll let him have a taste too if he’s feeling upset.”

“This will not make me tame,” you hissed, looking up to him.

Yoongi gave you an almost-bored look. “That’s not what I’m looking for.”

You gasped as Jungkook yanked your dress up, ass hitting the table. Yoongi laid your arms one over the other above your head so he could hold them with one hand. The other laced around your neck, pushing your head up and forcing you to arch your back uncomfortably. Each silver ring cut into your skin painfully and you growled at him, even as Jungkook pulled out his switchblade and tore your panties to ribbons.

Yoongi leaned down, lips against your ear. His tongue slid out, curling around your earlobe. You stiffened, breathing swallow. He knew how to get you wet. He paid attention to detail, gently nibbling at your ear, listening to the change in your breathing as you gave in to him. You were human after all. You had your erogenous zones. You barely registered Jungkook cutting up the length of your dress, exposing your breasts to the cold. Your nipples hardened as Yoongi blew softly against your ear, whispering your name, almost pleadingly. It didn’t matter if he didn’t mean it.

“Don’t you wish it was me between your legs?” he breathed.

You sank your teeth into your lower lip, trying to control yourself. Your hand found his shirt and clutched a fistful of it in response. Yoongi chuckled and straightened, only to see Jungkook watching your pussy in fascination.

“Ah, so disappointing I can’t eat her out,” Jungkook pouted. “Looks so tasty.”

Yoongi chuckled. “Maybe next time, Jungkook.”

You could hear Jungkook’s pants falling to the floor, but you were still staring at Yoongi, holding onto his shirt. Yoongi seemed to notice your gaze and looked down at you with a smirk.

“What’s the matter? Ready to tell me you love me?”

You let go, scowling. “As–fuck!”

Jungkook entered you with one swift thrust, no stretching out, no warning, just hard dick shoved straight in. You gritted your teeth, breaking out of Yoongi’s grip and grabbing Yoongi’s shirt with both hands, struggling to adjust as Jungkook grabbed your hips and began to fuck you without remorse. You had never taken in someone raw before, and certainly not Jungkook’s rough, wild thrusts. Yoongi held you in place calmly by your neck as you struggled to not make a sound, feeling every vein and every thick inch of muscle pumped into you with vigor.

Jungkook, on the other hand, groaned lustfully as he fucked you, eyes closing as he felt your pussy clamp around him, tight and pulsing.

“Oh, fuck, hyung, it feels so good,” Jungkook moaned, throwing his head back, muscles bulging in his dress shirt and vest. His right hand dug into your hip, tattoos flexing with his tanned skin.

“Are you a spoiled boy, Jungkookie?” Yoongi drawled, voice low. He always watched. It didn’t matter who it was. He liked to watch.

“Yes, hyung.” Jungkook liked to be watched. He had a little bit of a praise kink when it came to his hyungs. He loved Yoongi, as they all did. Maybe a little too much. “Thank you, hyung.”

And well, Yoongi was clever. Even through you never told him directly, it was obvious you loved pain in all senses of the word. Delivering it, receiving it, all of it. Giving you the birth control implant was your gift as much as it was his. He could hear it, the strained moans you stubbornly kept in your throat, the wetter and wetter slapping of Jungkook’s hips against your own, watching with interest as Jungkook’s angry red cock thrust into you over and over.

He held your neck, slowly tightening. Your mind was fogging up, forced to feel the painful pleasure of Jungkook repeatedly pounding you into the table, his cock swelling inside you. Black spots danced on the edges of your peripheral vision, clouding your thoughts.

Jungkook bit his lip, digging his nails into your hips as he came with a groan. You sucked in a sharp breath, feeling hot strings of cum shooting into you, filling you up as he pulled out with a hiss, cum dripping out of you.

He was still hard.

Yoongi let go of your neck and pulled out of your grasp. Before you had time to collect yourself, Jungkook was pushing you on top of the table, flipping you over so you were on your hands and knees. Your shredded clothes fluttered to the floor, heels still on as Jungkook climbed onto the table, pants at his ankles. You could hear his cum plop onto the table from your dripping pussy. A loud scrape and you looked up to see Yoongi repositioning the chair so he could witness your face.

He caught your eye but before you could lash out, Jungkook grabbed one arm and pinned it behind your back, shoving his cock into you once more. You gasped sharply, biting your tongue as Jungkook began to fuck you again, slowly rolling his hips into your cum-filled pussy. He moaned, feeling the extra slickness of your walls painted in his orgasm. Yoongi observed with interest, not looking away. Jungkook leaned down, hand snaking between your thighs.

“Don’t you dare,” you growled, more to Yoongi than Jungkook, but both ignored you. You felt Jungkook’s nail scrape against your clit and you stiffened despite not wanting to reveal that he found the right spot. Jungkook chuckled, voice dropping several octaves.

“Scream for me.”

He pinched your clit and you clamped down hard on your tongue, squeezing your eyes shut as you slammed your fist onto the table. He thrust into you, hard, making you see stars. Every muscle tensed as you struggled to keep in your noises, furrowing your brow as Jungkook pinched and flicked your clit, abusing it. You could feel your pussy clenching and throbbing around his cock, unable to control yourself as you came with a muffled scream. Liquid gushed down both of your thighs, the squelching sounds becoming louder. It was obscene.

Yoongi’s trademark open mouthed smirk appeared as Jungkook came once again, driven by your orgasm. You were filled up once again by his cum, gasping at the sensation of so much inside you. And Jungkook still didn’t stop, slowly beginning again, moaning at the sensitivity of his cock from the back-to-back orgasms. He let go of your abused clit and grabbed your hips. The first slap made you hiss, nails digging into your palm. He kept going, smacking your ass in between thrusts to feel your walls tighten.

“Such a spoiled boy doing such a good job,” Yoongi purred. Jungkook whimpered at the compliment, looking up to see Yoongi nodding in satisfaction.

“Are you hard, hyung?” Jungkook whined, voice softening when addressing the older man.

“Mm-hmm,” Yoongi hummed, spreading his legs a little to readjust. Jungkook watched him closely, trying to see his erection through Yoongi’s jeans. The thought made him even harder inside you. You squeezed his cock and he groaned, shoving himself all the way inside you.

“Let me see,” Jungkook pleaded, raking his nails down your back. You grunted in pain and glared at Yoongi.

Yoongi chuckled. “You want to see it that bad, Jungkookie?” He dragged out the younger man’s name, low and teasing.

“Please,” Jungkook moaned, gripping your side so tight you gasped. “Oh, please, hyung.”

Yoongi glanced at you, amused at your silent scowl telling him to give the man what he wanted. He unbuttoned his jeans lazily. Slowly pulling down the zipper, lifting his hips a bit to slide it down enough to reveal his black boxer briefs. They could see it now, the growing erection straining against his underwear.

Jungkook groaned, rolling his hips into you and hitting your deepest spot. You almost moaned, eyes fixated on Yoongi’s crotch. Jungkook did it again, mumbling to Yoongi.

“Please…”

Yoongi palmed himself through his underwear, taking his time. He leaned back, exhaling deeply as he ran his large hand over his clothed erection. Jungkook was whimpering, desperate for more.

“Hyung…”

Yoongi cocked an eyebrow and sighed, giving in. He always gave in to the youngest. He pulled down his underwear, letting his hard cock spring free. You felt breathless at the sight. Maybe it was Jungkook’s multiple orgasms getting to your head. But it was always like this. Yoongi always made you wait to see his cock. He knew how to make you blind to your own desperation, growing the hungry desire to see Yoongi’s ringed hand encircle his throbbing, beautiful cock, eyes half-lidded in arousal.

Jungkook moaned again lustfully, his pace increasing again now that he knew that he was the catalyst to making Yoongi hard.

“Harder, Jungkook. Fuck her rougher.”

Jungkook obeyed, slamming his hips into you so hard that the whole table shook despite being solid wood. You choked on air, feeling the cum dripping out of you as Jungkook began to fuck you wildly and with reckless abandon, hitting your most sensitive spots. And Yoongi, in all his audacity, continued to watch, still holding his cock. He noticed your gaze and he stoked himself slowly, making you bite down on your lip to avoid moaning. You shoved your cheek against the cool wood of the table, shuddering as you came, overwhelmed by pain and pleasure.

Jungkook hissed, shooting you full of cum once again. The sensation of being so full intoxicated you and you let out and soft whimper, hoping neither of them heard you. But, of course, Yoongi heard you.

Yoongi purred your name softly. You looked up at him, breathing hard, legs shaking. At this point your makeup was messy and your lips a little smeared, hair messy from fucking. He grinned as you winced, feeling Jungkook pull out of you. Jungkook was still semi-hard, the animal.

“Come here,” Yoongi said once again.

You had snarky comments prepared. You had you retorts all filed away. But the sight of Yoongi holding his hard cock, eyes smokey with lust made you forget all of them. Every muscle hurt from your constant strain of staying silent, refusing to let them hear you cries of pleasure. But your resolve was cracking now, seeing Yoongi’s want. You crawled off the table, ignoring Jungkook who was readjusting himself behind you. There was only Yoongi.

“Hold it in,” Yoongi commanded.

You walked towards him, trying not to hobble in your heels. Even now, you were prideful of how you presented yourself. You clenched your pussy tight, not letting Jungkook’s cum fall as you approached the black-haired man.

Yoongi removed his hand and patted his thigh. Wordlessly, you slid onto his lap, your hand lightly guiding him to your entrance. You placed one hand on his shoulder to steady yourself, spying his smug expression out of the corner of your eye.

“Need me that bad, huh?”

“Shut up,” you said hoarsely. Your throat was dry from breathing so hard.

Yoongi chuckled. “I need you too,” he breathed, lips against your cheek.

You sank down on him, eyes rolling back into your head as he filled you up. He was still mostly clothed, the rough denim rubbing against your thighs as you went down. Yoongi moaned in satisfaction, hands trailing up your sides and pressing his thumbs against your nipples. Against your better judgement, a cry left your lips as his cock shoved Jungkook’s cum deeper inside you. You could feel every contour of his cock, every vein pulsating against your walls.

“Mmm, that’s nice,” Yoongi drawled, pressing your nipples down and moving them in small circles. It wasn’t enough. You wanted his mouth on them and he knew it. He smirked. Yep, he wasn’t going to do it either.

You rolled your hips onto his cock. He grinned, pinching your nipples tightly and twisting them. A soft mewl reached your ears – you. Oh, fuck. Yoongi smirked triumphantly.

“Use my cock and get yourself off,” he purred. “You deserve it.”

It was all a trick. A ruse to feed your ego and yet you still did as you were told because he knew how to manipulate you, especially after wearing you out with Jungkook. It wasn’t fair, but Yoongi never played by the rules.

You lifted yourself up and sank back down, breathing hard. All your muscles were sore and yet you still found the energy to thrust your hips into Yoongi, squeezing him tight as you rode him. Yoongi pinched and pulled your nipples, fueling your arousal. He smelled so good, some kind of sharp pine, and it was driving you crazy. With a start, you realized the moans you were hearing were you, saying his name breathlessly over and over.

“That’s it,” Yoongi murmured, eyes half-lidded and smirk on his lips. “Cum for me.”

Shit. If you were in your right mind, you could refuse him, but you were so full of Jungkook’s cum with Yoongi’s dick so deep inside you that you could barely see straight. He kept pinching your nipples, flicking them hard as you went down, shocking your system every time. You came with a cry, gripping his shoulders hard as waves of pleasure raked though you, your entire body shuddering.

“Jungkook, hold her up.”

Yoongi removed his hands from your breasts, only to be replaced by strong, calloused ones. One tattooed, one bare. Jungkook held you firmly. You were panting, unable to look away from Yoongi’s eyes. His scar was an angry red. Those dark brown eyes looked at you like you were his queen, and yet it could all be a lie because Yoongi was a master manipulator. His black hair was pushed back, damp with sweat. He smirked at you, baring his teeth. You had a strange urge to kiss him, but you held back.

“Time to fill you up with me,” he whispered, hands settling on your hips.

The first thrust was slow, languid. Not enough. You bit your lip, feeling Jungkook roll your nipples slowly in between his fingers. Yoongi didn’t just want to fuck you. He wanted to drive you crazy. He wanted you to lose your mind. He sank in again, hissing with satisfaction. He made his cock throb inside you, your muscles clenching automatically in response. Jungkook ran his nail over your nipple and you could feel yourself becoming wetter with every passing second. Yoongi’s lips parted, a low, guttural growl clawing its way out of his throat. It was gravelly and deep.

“The implant was a good idea, wasn’t it?”

You gasped as he thrust in particularly deep.

“First time my cum will be mixing with Jungkook’s, deep inside you.”

Against your better judgement, you whimpered at his words. Fuck. Yoongi grinned, cocking an eyebrow.

“You like that, hm? Being pumped to the brim with cum?”

Before you could respond, Jungkook moaned behind you, pinching your nipples hard. You winced as Yoongi increased the pace, rolling his hips into you easily.

“Wonder how much you can take,” Yoongi drawled, eyes boring into yours. “Should I tie you up and let them all fuck you one by one? See how much cum you can keep in that pussy of yours before I fuck it all out of you?”

You hissed, feeling Jungkook grip your breasts and flick your nipples hard.

“Hyung, don’t get my hopes up…”

There was no way that the wet squelching noises between your hips were only your juices. You could smell Jungkook’s cum dripping down Yoongi’s cock.

“Or would you rather only have Jungkook?” Yoongi purred. He didn’t miss your eyes flashing at his suggestion. He chuckled deeply. “I’m always curious how far Jungkookie’s stamina goes.”

Jungkook was losing it behind you, groaning, pinching your nipples and ramming his clothed crotch into your back. He was rock hard, desperate for friction. Yoongi continued to fuck you, pace increasing ever so slowly.

“I want to see you on your knees,” Yoongi sneered, “Face into the ground, ass in the air, cum overflowing out of you and falling to the floor.”

You gasped, jerking forward from the force of Jungkook’s movements, your lips against Yoongi’s ear and his against yours. Harder, rougher. His lips touched your ear, tongue tracing your earlobe.

“And then I’m gonna fuck you,” he murmured, voice low and deep. “Fuck you until you can’t walk or see straight, and then wait for you to recover, only to do it again.”

You moaned into his ear, softly, falling apart to his words and his tongue.

“Yoongi, please…”

That wasn’t Jungkook. That was you, breathlessly begging into Yoongi’s ear, so quietly that Yoongi was sure Jungkook couldn’t hear you.

He waited, pumping his cock in and out of you roughly, smacking your hips together.

“Please fill me up with you.”

Yoongi made sure to chuckle right into your ear before he slammed you down hard onto his hips, shooting hot strings of cum inside, cock twitching mercilessly against your walls. You moaned his name, hands tangled in his black hair, whining as he pumped you full. He always had so much. You suspected he let it build up on purpose.

He pressed his lips against your ear. You could feel his infuriating smirk.

“Mine.”

-

click here for part ii --

masterpost

[morsartis]

Built Like An Ice Cream Cone

It was actually sweltering outside, genuinely so hot you felt like you were back on Alternia during the dawn and your ass was about to be fried extra crispy. Your poor ac unit was giving its all but even that wasn’t enough to cool you down. It was barely enough to push around the stagnant air in your living room. You’d traded in your normal attire for shorts and a thin tank top that was near see through from your sweat. As far as you were concerned you were practically dying. Which was saying something as your time on Alternia had made it nigh impossible to truly feel like you were about to melt into a human skin puddle. Marvus, the bastard, seemed completely fine walking around in his day off clothes like it was a gentle summer night and not the scorching hell of being far too close to the sun. It made begrudging sense considering he naturally ran somewhere around freezing cold. An absolute nightmare in the winter when he tried to snuggle close because humans ran so hot. You were not his living hot water bottle and you’d be damned before he made you freeze to death. Even so you still always made sure to keep an electric blanket or three on hand during the winter months. 

Now though, well, it was time for revenge. You were dying of heat stroke and were now going to use Marvus’ natural coldness to your advantage. If you got to inadvertently snuggle with your matesprit, well- that was just a bonus. 

“Hey babe,” You called out teasingly the plan already forming, “So I was thinking...”

“Yeah? Whatcha thinkin bout?” He was already shuffling closer a bottle of faygo in hand. Absolutely clueless about what you were planning. Perfect. 

“You’re built exactly like an ice cream cone.”

“Wh-,”

“Like, babe, your body is a t-pose.”

“Oh-,”

“Your pecs are bigger than the pillows on the couch.” As predicted he tossed the faygo aside in order to grab you and toss you over a shoulder. His skin was exactly as cool as you had predicted. Sweet relief flooded through you as he soaked up some of the heat still clinging to your everything. His usual day off clothes consisted mostly of a pair of baggy sweatpants and sometimes a black tank top that was stretched so tightly over him it left little to the imagination. Most times he walked around your house without a shirt because none of the people who liked to photograph him knew where you lived. Today, however, was one of the rare times he wore his sweats with an honest to god t-shirt. Still in that iconic black that trolls seemed to love so much, it highlighted the fact he was indeed built like the entire letter ‘T’. 

“Babe, you’re a Dorito.” You laughed and he tossed you unceremoniously onto the couch. 

“Why you gotta roast me like dis babe? E’ery chance you be gettin’ you shoot harder than tha profs.”

“I’m not taking shit from someone whose body type is ‘upside down pear’.” You shot back with a grin. Marvus’ shoulders shook with suppressed laughter as he crawled onto the couch after you- careful not to accidentally squish you underneath him. Taking a moment to be a little soft with him you let your hands glide firmly over his chest and across his shoulders until you were gently cupping his biceps. Truthfully you enjoyed how Marvus looked, a little added bonus to the reasons you liked him so damn much. Plus you were going to use those bara tiddies of his as a cool pillow the minute you were able to get him under you. It was a game the two of you played. 

“Fuckin’ reverse triangle lookin’ motherfucker.” You teased already shifting enough for him to slide down next to you. It wasn’t an easy feat, this couch barely held two humans laying down much less an entire extra heaping of clown. He was laughing now, small genuine chuckles that were more puffs of air than actual sound. Moving until you were laying sprawled across his chest and stomach. Resting your chin in his cleavage you smiled down at him. 

“Ya horrible babe.”

“Good luck returning me without a receipt.” You snorted causing his entire body to shake with a laugh. 

“Shit we been knew. I ain’t sendin’ yo mean lil ass to tha los’ n foun’.” He grinned- sharp teeth easily on display. Once upon a time you might have been a little unsettled by those fangs so close to your face but now all you felt was a sort of contentment. Making him smile something other than his usual ‘show biz’ grin always filled you with a sense of pride. “Besides,” His grin turned to a more sly smile, “We all knows that yo ass be gettin’ real fuckin’ friendly with these.” His hand came up to push you further into his cleavage and your snort turned full blown cackling was muffled as you smacked at whatever you could reach. God, what a nerd. You loved him to pieces. 

[heli0s-writes]

V. The damn truth

Summary:  What is the damn truth?? AKA time to get those feelings out and stop being weird y'all. Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes A/N:  So I thought this was the last chapter, but it looks like we got one more, kiddos. More Cincy adventures and another further away. And more Steve time.

Foot in Mouth Syndrome Masterpost

In the morning, you brew coffee and pour it into one mug set out next to two others. You’re surprisingly the first up, senses dulled and head lightly rickety with a loosened brain from last night’s whiskey. Venturing to the garden, you sit cross-legged on a chair and watch Buckeye roam across the grass, rubbing his back over the silky blades still damp with morning dew. 

It’s all green and lush under the summer sun as your eyes trail over to the steps leading down, disappearing into the glass sliding door of the lower living room. The tablet tucked under your arm gets propped up on the glass table and you begin to work. Even in summer, it never ends. 

I’m a way, you’re glad for it because it keeps you busy and tethered to something resembling a schedule. Would you rather lie in bed with Buckeye eating pretzels watching Netflix? Yeah. But your therapist keeps telling you its not healthy .. so… 

Your fingers are clicking away, focused on one window, typing notes into another when the rattling doorknob draws your attention to Steve exiting the house with a mug in his hand, blowing gently on the surface. 

“Hey.” He calls, looking up, then greets Buckeye with a scratch on his wet rump. 

You give him a smile because you don’t quite know what to say, choosing instead to watch your dog pad off again, as if him sniffing the same spot in the yard is more interesting. 

Steve sits down in the bench next to your chair, freshly showered in jeans and a grey t-shirt-- too small, as always. You’re fresh, too, changed into a pale blue jersey romper. “Did you sleep okay?” 

“Mhm,” You reply, but can’t help the way your eyes return to his chest where you rested your head just five hours before. 

Last night ended on a solemn note. The two of them went back to their room and you and Buckeye upstairs, all heavy-hearted and tired of reality. You remember dancing, and crying, and kissing. You remember feeling so shredded, thinking about them. You remember Steve’s warm lap and Bucky’s beard rubbing against your palm. 

 “C’mere,” Steve calls softly, reaching his hand over and tugging on the waistband of your outfit. You comply, carefully balancing the cup in your hand and sit down in his lap again. Your tummy is flipping, because Steve Rogers nuzzles his nose into the back of your neck and wraps his arm around your waist. The denim of his jeans rubs against your thighs as he shifts and sets your coffee cup down. 

Change flutters all around you now, after taking flight last night. It hovers and clings, seeping into your skin like the humidity of morning. You’re not sure where or how to begin talking about this strange relationship, because you’ve never entertained the possibility of its arrival. 

Yes, Captain America is a thicc ass bitch and you’re hot for him, but Steve Rogers is your friend and you care for him more than you want to see if he’s actually a smooth-crotched Ken Doll. You can’t even start to think about Bucky right now, or else you might cry again. 

And certainly, to probe the intricacies of their relationship in order to carve a space for yourself is something so unbearably selfish you would never dream of doing it.  

“What—um, what is—” You pause because the rest of this sentence could push your friendship in any way and you’re fearful of every way. 

“Don’t think about it too much.” Steve comments as you tense inside of his grasp, “We try not to.” Then, he laughs, “I suppose that doesn’t help you feel better, huh.” 

Your arms wrap around yourself and they come to rest on his forearms. “I like what we have. I don’t want to get between what the two of you have. It’s… a massive, wonderful thing-- deep, and—” 

Steve shushes you, “Buck and I really do like you. You’re not intruding on anything.” And then, he turns you so that he’s facing your side and not your back. One hand slides up your face and then his mouth is on yours … and is it too stupid to say that when Captain America kisses you, fireworks pop off in your brain and some patriotic tune   starts blasting itself in the background? 

He tastes like coffee and freedom. Breath warm and sweet like a breeze on the 4th of July— saltwater taffy and the outdoors. There’s an eagle screeching proudly in the distant void of your mind. 

Suddenly, Steve pulls away and you’re sure your face is stuck in some tragically half-frozen mask of sheer dumbstruck. 

“Are you humming America the Beautiful right now?” He asks, incredulous. 

“Huh.” You respond, dazed, “I thought that was just in my head.” 

He tilts back laughing and takes you along with him, your shoulder crashing into his chest and your head knocking into his as you flail, trying to catch yourself. Steve holds on tightly, fingers digging into your arm and thigh—and when the hell did he get fresh and put his hand there? Sly fuck. 

“Wanted to do this for a while now.” He grins as he pulls your face down onto his once more. It is a shock to you that Captain America, the Star-Spangled sunofabitch, can kiss like it’s his damn job. His tongue is in your mouth.  Your heart feels like a gerbil spinning wildly on a wheel and might burst out of your chest any moment until— 

The rattling of the doorknob for a second time this morning catches you off guard. You yank back, fearfully aware that Steve’s spit is glistening on your lips. And goddamn, it is hot. 

Bucky joins with a mug of coffee in hand and slides the door shut. He steps past the doormat and plops down on your old seat, crosses his left ankle on his other knee and stares off into the yard as if he’s there alone. As if you’re not pitched over and crushed against his partner’s chest while one of his hands is so high up your thigh it’s practically on your ass. 

“Morning,” he grunts, taking a sip of coffee. 

“Mornin, Buck.” Steve replies breezily, and you can feel his mouth twist into a smile against your collarbone. “How’s your coffee?” 

Bucky takes another sip impassively, “Pretty good. A little burnt. How’s your lap?” 

You shoot up and nearly knock the whole table over as you brush your clothes off with a nervous laugh, “Well! I’m going to… Jesus. Christ. Uh. Let’s uh. Meet me at the car in fifteen minutes and we can go get breakfast. Or church. Fuck me with a broom.” Your brain is a bag of ferrets thrown into a dumpster fire. 

The door slams shut as you nearly break the entire frame running inside and Steve sends Bucky a shit-eating grin before patting the thigh you were just on top of. 

“You gonna come take her place over here, or what?” 

— 

Breakfast is weird. It’s weird like The Twilight Zone is weird.  

You’ve opted to leave your hair down for today, letting as much of it cover your face as possible because if either one of them looks at you, you think you might just combust. You’re ready to go back to being a bastard at any time now, but your nerves are wringing themselves into knots. Another pancake gets cut into a triangle by your fork. 

And then Steve steals it right off your plate. 

“You candy-ass mother-!” You yelp defensively. 

“There she is!” He replies, stuffing it in his mouth and pointing at you with the prongs. Bucky only raises his eyebrow behind a glass of water. “I thought we were past this.” Steve urges. 

No, making out on the patio is not equivalent to a conversation about joining a relationship as the fucking third partner, you think. Your eyes say as much as you glare at your plate and then up to Bucky, pleading with him to help you. 

“Don’t look at me,” Bucky shrugs, “I wasn’t the one playing tongue hockey with ya.” The fork in your hand clatters as you shove your face in your palms with a groan. Absolute filthy bastard. He’s chomping on hashbrowns open-mouthed as he looks at you expressionlessly. Could anyone be more annoying? Probably not. 

“Well, she did tell you she loved you twice.”  Steve points out, “So maybe I’m not the one who should be playing tongue hockey with her.”  Never mind, apparently Steve can be more annoying. Figures. 

The neckline of your romper is now pulled completely over your face until only your hairline is visible. Inside of your albeit thin, but somewhat safe space, you groan as your entire body rises to sweltering degrees.  

“You guys are bullies.” You complain. 

“What’s that, hon?” Steve asks— and you can just hear him smiling. “Didja say somethin’?” 

“I think she called us bullies, Stevie.” 

“Bullies?! Sweetheart, you made us listen to Sad n Sexy Santa for two hours on the drive here and would not stop screaming until we let you sing along.” 

You’d never imagine Steve Rogers as someone who would so easily distribute pet names like this, but apparently once you cross the bridge of sucking on each other’s face, they don’t stop coming.  

Your stomach is fluttering unbearably, but you snark back anyway, “Sad n Sexy Santa  is a true effort of musical talent,” you proclaim, still glaring at the darkness under your romper. “Christmas songs sung in a minor key changes both the tune and the connotation of their lyrical content. Have you ever thought that “All I Want For Christmas Is You” could be so unsettling? Didn’t think so!” 

A sharp tug is all it takes for your head to return to the world and Bucky’s arm fixes the wide collar so that your bralette isn’t exposed for the entire café to see. “Stop being a baby.” He scolds. 

“You !! Baby !” Nice. 

They both sit back against the opposite booth, arms crossed, smirking, as you pretend to enjoy your meal under their scrutiny. Oh, how the tables have turned, you lament. This is just divine punishment, after two months of being the most infuriating person to them, now they’re giving you a double dose of your own medicine.  

“I love eating breakfast by myself.” You announce out loud, reaching over to take some of Steve’s bacon, “Love getting three plates just for me.” 

Bucky’s laugh makes your ears go bright pink the same time your teeth crush the sliver of meat in your hand. 

-- 

The Cincinnati Zoo returns you to sweeter childhood memories of elementary field trips where the kids went ballistic and the adults spent most of their time counting heads. Your parents never partook in chaperoning, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy it. 

Today, the weather is overcast, and upon the first drop of rain, Steve goes inside a merchandise store to buy two umbrellas. He returns just a bit too late and there is already a huge downpour, soaking half of Bucky’s arm who’s standing over you, acting as a shield when the awning of the building across the store isn’t enough.  

“Get over here!” You’re yelling, tugging on Bucky’s sleeve and stomping your foot, “What’s the point of you getting wet just so I don’t get wet? You’re so stupid!”  

Steve watches him relent with a smile as he opens his umbrella and tosses the second one to Bucky. Then, the three of you trek through puddles and make your way to the covered exhibits. 

Fiona the hippo is asleep in a little alcove of her aquarium, head tucked away. You explain to them the majesty of Fiona’s sonogram, birth, and her subsequent celebrity, but they don’t understand her like you do. They can’t even see the damn creature, Bucky scoffs, but you glare at him and he rolls his eyes away. 

You coo and tut, waggling your finger when her tail flops side-to-side and her back legs kick. When she has a bowel movement in her sleep and it disperses into the very water she’s resting in, you back up and gag, pushing Steve and Bucky away. 

“Alright, let’s go look at some other chonkers.” You proclaim as you lead them to the manatees.  

 Three enormous, alabaster, and smooth-skinned sea cows float serenely in the murky blue. Two of them have green heads of lettuce clenched between their flippers and are chomping away, bits of leaves floating around their heads like vegetable halos.  

You press your hand against the glass and sigh. Steve and Bucky step closer, looking down curiously when you wipe at the corner of your eye. “Look at these giant fuckers.” You whisper, “I haven’t known peace like that since I was a fetus.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, “God, you’re dramatic.” 

It’s quiet in the chamber with only the faint splashing of the rain falling on the water outside and plunking drips from your umbrella onto the concrete floor. Between a family’s departure and before the next one’s arrival, Bucky pushes you up against the glass and kisses you in front of an audience of marine mammals and Steve Rogers’ smirk. 

“How’s that for peace?” He mutters, mouth still pressed against yours. Your heart is thumping in your ears like a battle-drum. Bucky snags your bottom lip with his teeth and licks the sting away.  

“I think you—” you gulp, feeling your bottom lip snap back into place and giving it a slow suck just to see if it’s still there, “maybe need to consult a dictionary. But—you know, good try...” 

-- 

They are relentless. 

In the café while eating greasy cheese and ham sandwiches and cold vegetables, they take turns knocking their knees into yours, grazing your thighs and legs. 

Between the big cats and the painted dogs, Steve squeezes your waist and rests his hand there until you shuffle away.  

Under the shelter of a tree by the elephants, Bucky blows on your ear and laughs when you shriek in surprise. Good God Almighty. There are goosebumps all over your skin even though you are burning. 

-- 

Bucky drives home after deftly fishing the keys out of your bag. He could have thrown a grenade in there and you wouldn’t have noticed, being too distracted by the big and daunting reality of being… whatever it is you are now.  

Currently, Steve rides shotgun, glancing back to you once or twice every few minutes as you gaze out the window. The rain only let up a couple of minutes ago as all three of you exhausted every open exhibit at the zoo. Your feet are blistered from the repeated chafing of your toes against the wet front of your sandals, and the bottom of them hurt like the devil.  

A tiny buzz alerts you to the phone tucked away in your pocket. 

Natasha: So, you guys fucking yet?  

Your heart leaps into your mouth. 

You: What the fuck!!!! Did you plan this? You have cursed me, Natasha. I am broiling in the deepest layer of hell and they are feasting on my bones you asshole!  

Natasha:That’s too kinky even for me. Enjoy being feasted upon. Later.  

Steve twists his head around like a goddamn owl and looks at you, “Everything okay?” 

You refuse to meet his gaze, “Uh-huh.” 

Bucky finds your eyes closed tightly the rear view. “Are you actually shy ?” He ponders, grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. When you say nothing, he continues, “I would have never guessed if I hadn’t seen it first-hand. Today.” 

“Be quiet.” You groan. 

“Don’t be like that, princess,” he chides, pulling into the driveway. “You’re a pretty good liar.” 

“You’re a pretty good liar! Heh!” You sneer back, imitating the way his voice might sound if he inhaled a lungful of helium. When the car stops and Bucky shuts off the engine, he turns around through the middle console and sends you a fanged grin, reminiscent of the way he snarled at you the first time he came to your apartment. 

Then he’s out the door, closing it with a quiet bang. Steve whistles lowly and looks over his shoulder, “You’re in for it now.” 

-- 

Bucky throws you into the pool.  

He at least has the decency to take your phone out of your pocket before he chucks you in like a dead fish. Since it’s drizzled all day, the water is cold as all fuck and when it hits your back the shock stifles the scream wrenched from your throat. 

You resurface with a shriek, teeth chattering as you break the water and try to swim to the edge. You can barely get your hair out of your face before an enormous splash creates a wave that slams itself on the top of your head. Another cannonball goes into the blue and by the time your eyes are dry enough to see what the fuck is going on, you’re sandwiched between them and the cold slips right out of your skin. 

Steve’s hands have faithfully returned to your legs where the opening of your romper floats around in the chilling water. The tips of your toes are pointed, and your mouth is barely above the splashes of chlorine licking at your chin. Bucky and Steve are standing flat on their feet, barely wet at their collarbones. 

“Better hold on, ‘less you’re interested in drownin’.” Bucky teases. A mouthful gets spit out onto his neck and for a second you think maybe that point is worth it until Steve picks you up by the waist and dumps you two inches left and the water goes right over your head. 

You scramble and splash, regretting not taking those swimming classes seriously because all you can do is (sort of) float on your back and doggy paddle for about three minutes. Bucky chuckles when you finally relent and wrap your arms around his neck, burying your burning face into his sopping hair. 

“Is this your idea of getting me wet.” You mumble as your cheeks scorch against him. Steve is behind you, kissing your nape until you lean back onto his shoulder too, both inflamed and anxious by their rapt attention. 

“Is it working?” Steve asks, and your silence is enough of an answer all on its own. You feel as if you might be brave enough to look up into Bucky’s eyes, maybe kiss him again, but a third and final cannonball crashes into the tranquil waves and then Buckeye breaks the water with a series of grunts and pants.  

His fat head bobs up and down as he paddles about, tongue hanging limply from his jaw. As he makes his way past the three of you staring blankly at him, Buckeye gives Steve’s face a long, slow lick.  

You swear you can hear Captain America faintly call your dog a “goddamn cockblock”. 

-- 

Steve is in the shower when you snuggle up with Buckeye on the couch. A thick wool blanket covers your bare legs as you lean over, placing your head on your dog’s coiled body. He’s still a little damp from pool water, and the velvet grey of his coat is speckled with dark splotches. From downstairs, Bucky arrives, wet hair behind his ears and quietly lifts your dog up and places him on the sofa couch across from the coffee table. He smells like peppermint body wash.  

The sudden thought of him wearing red and white and kissing you under a mistletoe wriggles into your brain and you could scream. Instead, you steel yourself, scold the fantasy until it leaves.  

Your head lays on Buckeye’s former seat, dampening the leather, staring up into the ceiling.  

Bucky wordlessly smooths the blanket over your legs, sits down on the floor, and props his head up on his arms until he’s looking into your eyes. “Hey,” he says, biting on the tiniest bit of his bottom lip in a way uncharacteristic of him—nervous, careful. “Y’know, if this is too much—say somethin’—I’d rather be your friend than nothing at all.”  

A smirk tugs the corner of your lip and he huffs at the sight of it, waiting for a comment but still, he feels uneasy. You’re not looking at him, not yet, at least. It’s still up in the air if you’ll laugh or cry; your emotions have become overwrought when thinking of them. The quips here and there have been tiny little bandages over the aching wound. 

“C’mon,” Bucky whispers, “Thought you were gonna be bastard about it.”  

“Sorry…” You mutter, turning to face him. A single tear drops out and rolls over your nose bridge, plunking down onto the leather. “I think I am... feeling both overwhelmed and…” You close your eyes, trying to find your words. “I think I’m also feeling inadequate.” 

Bucky’s brow furrows, creating fine creases on his forehead. 

“I guess as a normal person, now faced with something … very serious-- two entire lives that have started  way  before me and will last long after me, I’m just wondering how exactly I will fit? It’s certainly selfish... ” 

“It’s not.”  

A jerk of your mouth catches his gaze, “I can’t stop thinking about you.” You laugh, knowing fully well that the statement sounds silly because he’s right in front of you now, as he’s been for the past few days. And your comment makes it seem like he’s leagues away. “I want you to be happy. I think you‘ve spent so long not being, I just want you to be happy.”  

Against your better judgement, you turn until your entire body is facing him and brush your fingers along his chin, then trail up until you are holding onto the side of his neck, thumb under his ear. Bucky smiles that lopsided boyish smile at you, set in the angular, firm face of a man, and closes his eyes. 

“Thanks.” 

He opens them, letting the gray-blue dance over your features. You feel brave again, because Bucky Barnes is inches away, looking at you like you could be part of his world. Leaning forward, you press your lips to his softly. He is already a part of  your  world, more ingrained than you ever thought could be in the short time you’ve known him.  

You kiss him again. For good measure. And then again, for luck, maybe. “You know I meant it, last night.” You sigh against his mouth, “I do love you two.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky dismisses it playfully as he lifts himself up just a little more to hover over your face, turning so that his mouth slants on yours just right. “No time to talk now, darlin’.”  

He scrubs his beard against your neck, and you start giggling uncontrollably at the way it tickles. His nose brushes against your ear and his tongue traces your jaw before he peppers kisses up to your mouth. His fingers tap a staccato of morse code up and down your sides as you squeal.  

Who knew The Winter Soldier could be so... cute? 

“I’m ready for a nap!” Steve calls from the hallway, stopping short of interrupting the moment. “Think all of us can fit on the bed?” 

“Steve, man, it’s like evening time.” Your voice is muffled against Bucky’s face once more as he takes the opportunity to kiss you again. 

“I’m trying to find an excuse to lie down,” Steve grumbles. You hear his footsteps stop behind Bucky as he peers over his shoulder and into your upside-down face. “Will ya come to bed or not?” 

Rolling your eyes with a smile, you hide behind Bucky’s hair. “Well, fuckin’ twist my arm...”  

-- 

Steve sleeps like the dead. It’s comical how he sprawls out and snores softly, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. And maybe he doesn’t, now that he’s retired. 

You and Bucky have moved to one side where he lies with one arm tucked behind his head and the other one under yours. He tells you Steve usually isn’t so ridiculous, sleeping very lightly and wakes up at the slightest noise, but now there’s a conversation being carried centimeters away from his face and he’s not stirred at all.  

Bucky smiles at this, says thank god, he needs it. 

“He’s gonna be up at three bouncing off the walls.” You warn. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. He’ll sprint fifty miles and go to bed.” 

“Jesus, why?” 

“Super serum bullshit, and because he’s a show-offy asshole.” 

“Aren’t you... also serum-ed?”  

“Yeah, but I also love my bed.” 

At that, you whistle, “Man after my own heart.” 

His face lights up as he turns to peer at you resting on the crook of his arm, leaning so that the top of your head is barely on his chest. “Oh yeah?” The silly conversation takes a turn when Bucky tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, finding excuse to let his fingers roam along the edge of your eyebrow, trailing down until he’s past your cheek, further down to your shoulder.  

It’s his left hand that’s touching you, the cold metal of the appendage sending shivers down your back. You can’t help but gaze at the way it reflects the setting sun slipping through the cracks of your blinds. 

The hand under your head is shifted until he’s propping himself up on it.  

Your mouth goes drier each time he squeezes your arm, closing your eyes to concentrate on the contradicting sensations—your warm body, his cold hand, quickly losing its chill. He travels down, down, until his palm is on your hip, then your thigh, then, ghosting between your legs. 

Against your back is Steve, sighing softly. 

“I feel like I’m living out the thirst tweet ‘bout your arm.” You mutter, eyes closing with a tremulous shudder. Bucky laughs, fingers diving between your thighs, hand wrapping over one. 

“You got a thing for getting choked, too?” It’s a joke, but he pinches your flesh and when your tummy flutters, you suddenly grow a bit afraid of your own desires.  

Behind you, Steve stirs. “Don’t let him do it.” His gravelly voice pipes up, muffled by the pillow his cheek is pressed against, “He toes the line of erotic asphyxiation too closely.” Then, he turns, spooning you, and falls back asleep. 

Why the fuck does Captain America know anything about erotic asphyxiation. 

Bucky is laughing again, pulling you to his chest before he stills. “I wouldn’t. Unless you really wanted it.”  

“Jesus would you stop.” You mumble, but peek up at him anyway, lips parting in anticipation. He gives it to you, curling his hand around the back of your neck and murmuring nonsense into your mouth. Witticisms that you quickly bite off with a teasing snap of teeth. Bucky pulls away with a sound of surprise. 

“Oh, kitten. You got claws, huh?” 

You show him your canines. “Always had ‘em, bee-itch.” He doesn’t know how a person can make the word  bitch  into two annoying—maybe endearing— syllables, but you’ve done it. 

Bucky laughs joyfully, smothers his face into the pillow like he doesn’t want you to see, because Bucky Barnes’ reputation as a stone-cold motherfucker has been completely ripped to shreds in your hands and he is trying desperately to retain some semblance of it. 

You grab his face, grinning, eager to see that winsome smile of his.  

“Fuck, I like you.” He says with a chuckle. 

“Aw, don’t be a bee-itch, Buck.” Steve calls from your back, apparently not asleep after all. “Tell ‘er the damn truth!” Your spine picks up the humidity of his breath, shivers running all the way up to your neck when he kisses your shoulder blade with sloppy presses of his mouth. 

In the sunset glow, Bucky groans dramatically as you and Steve wait, smirks shared between two utter bastards, he thinks. He groans and groans and when he’s out of one long breath he picks up another. 

“Fine, fine.” He relents finally, letting you bask in the glory of that gorgeous wide mouth, stretched so sweetly. He laughs.  

“I love you too. Twist my fuckin’ arm.”  

Next

[see-arcane]

Family, Found

           It’s Basira who catches onto it.

The collective shift that seems to come over them when heading in or out of the Institute. Not just the oppressive sensation of being observed, their every move catalogued for the voyeuristic cravings of some unseen Eye(s). That feeling remained with them even when they left the Institute these days, but it was always stronger inside its walls. That wasn’t the change. Nor was it the point.

           The point was: making life worse for Jonathan Sims.

           Eventually, she will drop that exact line in conversation, and Jon will let out a long, long sigh. Followed by announcing he would make a set of t-shirts that would read I Should Have Killed Jonathan Sims When I Had the Chance in bold letters. Jon will keep one for every day of the week just for himself. Gallows laughter would bubble among them.

But that would be later.

           Now, Basira is paying attention. Making recordings of her own. Not on a goddamn tape recorder, thanks—she’s still a bit baffled as to why their eldritch horror spying eyeball of a patron has such a yen for vintage tech—but her phone. Jon’s voice gets glitchy in parts, of course, when he’s in a particularly Archival state. She had expected that.

If all the spooky nonsense going on really was so gauche as to use static to prove just how eerie and otherworldly it was, fine. She could use that as a warning system. A kind of supernatural Geiger counter for her pseudo-boss slash coworker slash unhappy monster-in-the-making.

           She wonders if he Knows about it. About the why of it. He never says one way or the other. Regardless, he’s aware that they all have their eyes on him as much as vice versa, following the little intervention they had concerning his sneaking live statements on the sly. There had been a lot of shouting, a lot of anger, a lot of shame, a lot of…everything. Basira had been on edge. Still was.

           So, the phone. Just to see how much she could tell with it. She listens to them every night, ears sharp for changes. Jon’s voice breaks up with Archival static now and then. Usually when he unconsciously coughs up a new chunk of Knowledge he hadn’t expected. Sometimes when his voice comes through the door, mid-statement. Up and down, static, no static. Not particularly enlightening. Still, she listens. Waiting for a clue to—something. Jon’s level of humanity versus monstrosity, if she were to explain her motive on paper.

           Elias Bastard, whose name would forever ring as such in her mind should the shady old prick go poking in her head, had dubbed her Detective with a distinct Capital D. Probably mockingly, considering how thoroughly he’d led her around by the nose with his ‘leads.’ But she was a detective, for all that. There is something here she must Detect. Decipher.

           Not an act of archiving, mind, but of action. She had a hunch that the Eye would be just as content with Jon sitting in the Institute all day, having a line of traumatized witnesses fed through his door and getting locked into their own endless nightmares. It was Jon himself who was so prone to rushing around and getting his ass kicked by horrors beyond comprehension. Or vice versa.

           She did not envy Breekon’s fate, whatever he’d been.

           Listening now. Listening.

           Basira hit a voice memo that was particularly long, wondering when she’d thought to hover around Jon’s space for three whole hours. But when she hit play, she realized she must have left the recording on by accident. Here were Melanie and Daisy talking. Then herself. The three of them talking about all manner of mess, dread, and complaints about the crap options in the vending machines.

           “Bet if you open the Doritos it’ll just be a bunch of human jerky triangles,” from Melanie. Still coming down from the Slaughter’s bullet.

           “The soda’s all blood, obviously. At least the V8s are. The rest are all liquid ghosts or something.” That was Daisy.

           “Wouldn’t touch the coffee, frankly,” Basira hears herself hum, “I think I saw it trying to climb out of the pot.”

           Thin laughter, snorts.

           “The coffee’s fine. Just don’t use the creamer, I’m pretty sure it’s got some of Prentiss’ leftovers swimming in it.” Jon. A pause, a shuffle of a porcelain mug, tea pouring. “That was a joke.”

           “Not a good one, considering,” from Melanie. Sharp as knives.

           “They did fumigate the whole place, right? Thoroughly?” From Daisy. Softer, but still heavy in a way.

           “Y-Yeah. Yes, as far as the tunnels.” More porcelain shuffling. The papery sound of a sugar packet being lifted, then set back down, unopened. “Sorry, that was in poor taste—,”

           “You already have your fill with the Kobell statement?” Basira, quick.

           “Yes. The one with the, uh, the snakeskin.”

           “Right. Well, if you’ve got some time between meals, I need you to go over some things in the artefacts room with me.” Flat. Tepid.

           “Of course.”

           Time rolls by. There’s talk. Jon’s Archival tones are kept to such a minimum there’s almost no static at all. Basira remains so purposefully neutral her voice sounds beige. Inside the last half hour, it’s time to go. Daisy’s voice finds them. Drinks? Drinks.

           They—she—had invited Jon along. Not for the first time, either. Basira can’t fault her for that. Out of all of them, monstrous camaraderie aside, she had been served the biggest slice of humble pie concerning Jon’s nature. It’s hard to be brusque to the gangly, danger magnet that crawled into the underworld to rescue you.

Basira pretends she’s fine with it. She always pretends until she discovers she isn’t pretending.

Tonight it occurs to her that such has always been the case when Jon is somewhere outside the Institute with them. ‘Somewhere’ is usually a pub and she assumes that the buzz smoothed out her raised hackles around the man. Probably it did something to Jon too, provided he had enough alcohol in him to push past the avatar threshold. Basira remembers a night when Daisy had brought the notion up and challenged Jon to a contest of shots. Jon had, surprisingly, accepted. Melanie had a video of the results to this day:

Their table, surrounded by awed or hooting onlookers, as Daisy and Jon continued to pile the table up with empty shot glasses. Far more than was healthy, far more than any bartender should have allowed for the emaciated pair. But they’d just kept going until they reached the point of inebriation. Basira had finally forced both of them to stop before they could reach the triple-digits, both avatars whining at the timeout.

“See,” Jon had slurred. “See, this is the type of thing I wish I could’ve done in collage. College.”

“Pfffff,” from Daisy, eyes rolling glassily, “Like you ever drank. You look like a strong apple cider would’ve dropped you before this bogeyman business.”

“Oh, he used to,” Melanie had chimed in. In the video and in her memory, Basira could still see the sheer, gleaming malice in her grin. “Georgie had a lovely story to share about a Sharpie and the term ‘proper diction.’” Jon had looked at her blearily before epiphany crashed through his expression, more incapable of a poker face than ever. A face he had covered with both scarred hands before letting out a groan.

“Et tu, Georgie?” Cue Melanie sitting up with perfectly fake posture and pushing up imaginary glasses.

“Statement of Melanie King, regarding the time Jonathan Sims got wasted on three cheap beers, found a marker, and lost his pants, as related to her by Georgina Barker. Statement begins.”

The statement had gone on for some hours, Jon groaning or cackling along, openly, hot-faced, his eyes so bright Basira almost would’ve thought he was going Archival. A tear had fallen from their corners. Laughing tears. She had been laughing too.

That was then. This is now:

As the noise changes and they exit the Institute—a clear sound of traffic, outside voices, shoes on asphalt—they are talking again. Their voices are uniformly lighter.

“Oh, shit,” from Melanie. The tapping of a smartphone screen.

“What is it?” Jon, immediately. Of course. Basira waits for someone to react to the presence of a question mark. Not every question is a Compelling one, but it makes them anxious. But when Melanie responds there’s no room for ire in her elation.

“I’ve just found a pair of boots that mean more to me than oxygen. Look. Look at these masterworks.”

“I can’t tell if those are shoes or just several belts in a pile.”

“They are both and I love them and I will have them. But I refuse to spend my evil income from the evil nerd institute to do it. Jon?”

“Yes?”

“How opposed are you to just Knowing Peter Lukas’ PIN number?”

“Not terribly. Spare a pen?”

“You are going to share with the rest of the class, right?” Daisy breaks in. “I think I suddenly need thirty new designer jackets. Maybe forty. Tailored.”

           “I’d like some penthouses,” Basira hears herself say. “One for each continent.”

           Jon laughs.

           “Will do. Oh! Ah, Basira, your phone’s about to die.”

           “What?” A ruffle of fabric, the sound coming in clearer. “Oh, sh—,”

           Recording ends.  

           Basira mulls it. What is there to be gleaned from this? They’re crabby in the Institute and cheery outside of it? Not exactly a shock. She may as well dismiss the whole three hours as a waste of digital space and her off-work time.

           She should dismiss it. She doesn’t.

           She doesn’t, for the simple fact that she wants to dismiss it. Badly. There is a wordless voice in the back of her mind, telling her there’s nothing here, nothing to see, move along, move along. If it were a real voice, she knows it would sound like her old superiors on the force.

           “Something’s here,” she whispers into her folded hands. And something moves.

A dot with eight legs creeping along her wall. Suspicion simmers like acid in her chest. The spider watches her watching it. She sleeps on the couch that night.

           In the following days, new tape recorders appear. Not Jon’s, not the Eye’s. Cheap handheld things to leave around the Institute in key locations. If some creature snaps them up or destroys them, well, she’ll be out a small wad of cash. But she will still know that they were stolen for a reason.

           And, she thinks, that is likely why they don’t go missing. Because whatever agents of inhuman Powers are creeping around those walls would not want such clear confirmation that something was amiss. Let her listen—there was every chance she would find nothing of importance.

So she collects them each night, playing what they’ve gathered for her. Plenty of familiar dialogue aboveground. Fatigue and bitterness from most of them, fatigue and melancholy from Jon. Same old.

She does notice how often the former sharpens when Jon appears. The sharper they get, the smaller he becomes; whittling down and away. He stammers more than Basira realized. Never in the middle of a statement, but always in conversation with any of them. More than even Martin ever did. Does. When hearing it in real time, she recalled feeling slightly disgusted by it. Embarrassed of and for the man.

Hearing him now, she thinks of a dog she and Daisy had encountered on an early case. Nothing fancy, just your average bit of domestic violence. But there had been a dog on a chain in the backyard. Half-dead, mostly bones, mottled with scars, a back leg clearly broken. Seeing them, the pup had still wagged his thin cord of a tail. So happy to see them. To see anyone.

Nausea had turned over in her gut then and now. It redoubles when she hears less frequent voices appear.

Georgie is there.

Her: “You should probably get some therapy too.”

Jon: “Would you go with me as well?”

Her: “…No.”

Jon: “Yeah. I thought as much.”

Basira knew already that there was more between Melanie and Georgie than mere friendship, a fact that Georgie could have mentioned, a fact that Jon could have just Known and rationalized into a feasible excuse for their exchange going like…that.

Then she got to a tape with her on it. ‘Helen,’ quote unquote. The Distortion who lived in the endless maze of doors that just happened to hang around in the tunnels under the Institute. She was there, talking to Jon.

“Not sure. I suppose Helen didn’t have quite the same attachment to him as a project. I’m not quite as much for decades-long campaigns of subtle terror these days.”

“That’s horrible,” from Jon.

“Is it? We do what we need to do when it comes to feeding, don’t we? Don’t we, Archivist?”

“…Yes.”

“It would be better if you embraced it.”

Fast forward through some talk about Hill Top Road. Then:

“Were you controlled?”

“What a delightful thought. I don’t believe so, no. But the Spider’s strings are subtle, so I suppose it’s not impossible. Why?”

“I, I want to know: Can the Web control another avatar, one that serves another power?”

That laugh. That horrid, headache of a laugh streaming out of that un-woman.

“Make them do things they don’t want to, make them—,”

The laugh is almost a scream. Jon wrenches the last word out like a confession.

“…feed.”

“Oh, perhaps. Perhaps not. Would that make life easier for you? Are you so sure you didn’t want to?”

There’s a last gale of migraine giggles before the door closes and Jon is left breathing, almost hyperventilating in the dark. Somewhere else, one of the Eye’s own recorders clicked off. The interesting bit is over so far as it’s concerned. But Basira’s tape eats up what comes next.

For an hour and change, Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, weeps in the tunnels. The sound echoes in a way it shouldn’t, making a choir of what is trying and failing to be a quiet breakdown, far from anyone who might see or hear or care. Helen’s door does not open again. No monsters come for him.

This part is wrong somehow. Out of synch in a way she can’t—

She hears the door open behind her. The wall that faces open air, two stories up.

“That bit was right before Martin tattled on him and got you lot in the door with your big intervention. Sorry for the swap. But you did start planting your little toys around so late in the game, and I doubt you really wanted to hear a couple hours’ worth of nothing in the tunnels. Then there was that nasty business with Hill Top Road and Annabelle’s less-than-uplifting statement and…well. Our Archivist has been having some kind of time, all things considered. Hasn’t he, Detective?”

Basira turns. Helen is there, legs crossed—and crossed and crossed and crossed—sitting on nothing but space, all twists and smiles. The sliver of hallway shown in the new door hurts Basira’s eyes. To pretend it doesn’t, she turns a glare at a different wall.

“There’s that Detective again. You pick that up from Elias, or is that some legitimate new title the Powers That Be are tossing around? Am I going to have to start,” her face puckers in disgust, “eating mysteries the way Jon eats ghost stories?”

“Not that I know of. Elias…I can’t say why he likes it. Why I like it is, well, the irony. It really has taken you so very long to make two plus two equal four, you know. Still is, by the looks of it.” Helen stretches and shifts like an untangling streamer. One unpleasantly long finger taps her chin. “How is the investigation coming, if I can ask?”

“I’ll answer you if you answer me. Are you an ally?”

“Of whom?”

“Us. The ones who don’t want to see the world go to hell.”

“Oh, Detective, none of us wants that. Though I’m sure the Desolation would be happy to lay claim to such a rallying cry. They’re so terribly desperate to be the meanest ones in the room. Between you and I, I think they’re jealous of the Slaughter. I personally would love to see us all go to the Spiral. Alas, that opportunity came and went. Just a waiting game for me now. So.” Helen’s fingers lace—and lace and lace and lace—under her curling jaw. “How’s the investigation?”

“I think something is affecting us inside the Institute.”

“How very shocking.”

“Besides the Eye, I mean.”

“Oh dear. Am I a suspect?”

“Not sure.”

“Oh. Well, then to make sure you’re sure, allow me to clarify. Yes: I am absolutely a suspect. In fact, I will confess outright. I am guilty.”

“…Of?”

“Exactly what you are guilty of, Detective. What so very, very many of us are complicit in, where dear, destined-to-doom Jon is concerned.” Her smile broadened. Heightened. Coiled. “Making his choices easier.”

“If that’s a joke, it’s not funny.”

“It’s the truth, inasmuch as I can tell it. His choices are simple, Detective. Do this or do that, do X or do Y, eat fresh or eat stale, give in or give out, accept or deny, fight or flight, on and on. You told him so yourself, yes? His choices are either, ‘Be a good pet monster subsisting on a diet of stories gone to dust,’ or, ‘Be a bad pet monster who needs putting down for scaring the locals.’ Ha.”

A warped tittering rises, then peters out just as Basira thinks her brain will boil over from hearing it. Helen sighs.

“Assuming you could manage it. Assuming he is trying very hard not to Know just how easily he could abandon the whole fruitless farce and be done with all of you. Assuming that the one advantage he has in the face of our crimes does not finally break and break him with it. I do believe the odds are even on that.”

“What crimes, Helen? What are we all complicit in, exactly?”

Helen’s lip curls. So much so it looks like a snail pretending to be a frown.

“I am many things, but never exact, Detective. Not for anything. Nor anyone.”

The lip uncurls the other way. A snail facing upwards.

“However, I do have a certain dislike for cheaters. Games are all well and good, but to stack the odds so wholly to one side, well, that’s no game at all. No choice at all. I spoke with the Archivist on this point too. Care to listen?”

Before Basira can say anything, her tape recorder is playing.

“It is astounding the sort of thing you’re willing to choose given an unpleasant enough alternative, isn’t it?”

“How much of our willpower is just safety?” Jon asks. “Comfort by another name. The option to choose and be fine?”

“Hungry, are we?”

“Oh, that’s not—I haven’t done anything—,”

“Yet.”

“I feel like if I don’t—I might die. Fade away into nothing.”

“Do you know that?”

“No. But I can’t die. They need me.”

“Come on, Jon, no excuses. They didn’t need your protection.”

“What, are you going to look after them?”

“And how would I do that?”

“You eat things as well.”

“They have to open the door, Archivist. I can’t just push them in.”

“Oh, you’ve got hands.”

“Sharp enough to pull out worms, kill a few old men, maybe stab an overeager Archivist. But my physicality is as much an illusion as everything else about me. Think of me as a bear trap, not a sword. But we’re not talking about me, are we?”

“When does it stop?”

“What?”

“The guilt. Misery. All the others I’ve met, they’re been cold, cruel. They’ve enjoyed what they do. When does the Eye make me monstrous?”

A static-choked burst of laughter.

“What—why would it ever do that?”

“I don’t…”

“When has your guilt, or your sadness, or your hand-wringing ever actually stopped you from doing what it wants?”

“I-I have not been taking statements—,”

“You’ve sworn off other people’s trauma for now, because you’re caught. Because continuing would endanger you. But other than that, when has your discomfort ever actually stopped you walking the path of the Beholding?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Even if it were capable of doing so, what possible reason would the Eye have to change how you feel, when it makes no difference to your actions? Helen was like you at first. She felt such guilt over taking people, until one day she realized she wasn’t going to stop doing it. So she chose to stop feeling guilty.”

“Fine. I get it. My feelings mean nothing to it.”

“Not true. They carry a certain flavor, a seasoning.”

“I see.”

“I am enjoying our time together. Well, you know my plight already. Cheerio, Jon. Enjoy your brooding.”

There’s a click as the recording that was never recorded ends. Helen giggles an ache into the spot behind Basira’s eye.

“Ah, but that evidence only incriminates me. What about you, Detective?”

Another click.

Jon: “Disappointed to see me alive? Basira?”

Basira: “…We can deal with it later.”

A pause of quiet understanding.

Click.

“I’d add more if I weren’t already bored of this. The obvious does get so boring so fast.” Helen shrugs and her shoulders don’t stop going up. Once they’re above her head, she gives Basira a hopeful, doubtful look. “You are seeing it, aren’t you?”

“I see what you’re trying to make me see. No one around Jon is fair to Jon. Jon isn’t even fair to Jon, from the sound of it. Is that what this is? An intervention on his behalf? If so, you could go a fair way yourself and stop picking at his brain like an old scab.”

“Aahhhh, so close. I suppose you do need another hint, Detective. Tell me, how would you label his…” Helen waves one hand around in a gesturing spiral that moves like a ribbon in the breeze. “…social circle? Who counts as an ally in his world, if you had to guess?”

Martin comes to mind first. Hopeless sap and even more hopeless sap, pining sadly at each other through the ceilings.

Daisy, definitely.

Melanie, somewhat.

Georgie, to an extent.

The background noise that makes up the rest of the Institute’s staff who, rather wisely, keep their distance from the freaky soap opera that seems to live in their basement offices.

And herself.

She almost gives the list aloud, but stops. Not least because it’s a stupid thing to dole out your list of friends to a living embodiment of insanity, no matter what goodish terms you’re on with her, but because she has the sudden suspicion that…

“You think whatever people I list, I’ll be wrong.”

“Look at that, she can be sharp. Only, I don’t think it, Detective. I know it. Perhaps not with a Kapital K, but I am far less oblivious than you’ve been made to the reality of things. Tastes like irony, that.”

“I was going to leave you off that list. The Spider too. That why?”

“Yes and no. Believe it or not, Jon has become somewhat of a social butterfly since he walked into the quicksand that’s become his life. Not that he would believe it either. Not yet.”

“You’re talking in circles.”

“And you’re talking in squares. Leave that box, Detective, and consider just who—and what—the Archivist now knows, personally. Even if only through injury, or trauma, or,” another sinus headache of a chuckle, “idle chitchat.”

Basira makes another list. Jane Prentiss. Michael who was not Michael, followed by Helen who was not Helen. Jude Perry. Mike Crew. Trevor Herbert and Julia Montauk. Nikola Orsinov. Jared Hopworth. Manuela Dominguez. Annabelle Cane and her company, at varying distance. Yet to actually meet Peter Lukas, just like anyone else who wasn’t Martin. And—insert an internal groan of immense and devastating power—fucking Elias Bastard. Not a single interaction had gone without hurting him in some way, so far as Basira knew.

“Several of his fellow bogeymen who didn’t much like and/or tried to flat-out murder him.”

“Your partner included.”

“She wasn’t in her right mind.”

“And Jon is? What of the rest of us, ‘bogeymen,’ hmm? From his dancing card, remove the ones who attempted to end him. Who’s left?”

“You, if we’re not counting your previous incarnation.”

Helen hums. The air vibrates with it.

“Michael was in a tough position. He rather liked Jon, but he wanted the Archivist dead for far too human reasons. Revenge for Michael Shelley, which we were not. Revenge upon Gertrude Robinson, which Jon was not. He was merely the Archivist just as she had been the Archivist. The math checked out for me at the time, until it didn’t, and I became myself.”

“Right. That leaves, what? Perry, Crew, the father-daughter Hunting club, the Boneturner, of all things, and Annabelle’s friends on the Web. And, if we absolutely have to count monsters who supposedly don’t want him dead, Elias.”

“Give or take an avatar of The End. But even Jon wasn’t quite aware of that visit, so we’ll not split hairs. The point is,” Helen leveled an endless spear of a finger between Basira’s eyes, “that’s quite a roster of avatars known for leaving no survivors, who let Jon survive. Who let Jon pluck stories out of them, even when it was something uncomfortable. And they let him go on his merry way.”

“Damn. Break out the BFF necklaces.” The words strain on her tongue. She can almost taste the misplaced glibness laced through them. Artificial and wrong. She sees Helen seeing it, the lights coming on in her head, one by one. “But I take your point. Even when he’s being cataclysmically unlucky, he’s also just lucky enough to not piss off all the other horrors in the Avatar Club. The Web’s influence, at a guess.”

At this, Helen breaks into a laughing fit so cacophonous that the edges of the room warp, bowing out like melting wax.

They snap back again as she giggles, “It truly is amazing, Detective! How hard you’re working not to notice how much you don’t believe what you’re saying.”

Basira opens her mouth to say she doesn’t know what the Distortion is talking about. Only to catch the words at the threshold of her teeth, turn them over, and realize—no. She does know.

She knows it the same way she’d known that her impulse to ignore that accidental recording of indoor versus outdoor dialogue amongst their crew had been too quick, too flippant. Everything held the potential for a clue. Leave no detail behind.

That sensation is back again, that all-too-human paranoia chipping frantically at the fog of dismissal in her head.

And again, she thinks of the beaten dog in that backyard. All bones and scar tissue, thumping its limp tail against the ground.

Basira gnaws her tongue. Thinks. Scrutinizes the facts with an internal telescope, pushing its lens so close she can see the atoms that make up her suspicions.

In a high corner of the room, a cobweb flutters.

“The monsters Jon’s met. The ones that hurt him, because that’s their gimmick, but let him walk; do you know what they were like with him?”

“What is anyone outside your Institute’s drama like with him, once he lets them start talking, Detective?”

“They…they open up. Maybe annoyed, maybe friendly, but always eager to talk to him. To have an audience. Company.”

“It is nice to be noticed. To feel a perfect monologue all about yourself fall out of you, easy as air, and have someone, or something, listen with rapt attention.” Helen straightens, as much as a thing like her can assume a solid posture, and pantomimes the pose of a flattered girl at a party, lashes batting and curling into ornate coils. “I certainly enjoy our chats. Michael did too. Makes you feel feared and wanted, our Archivist.”

“Right. So there’s the,” Basira dug for a word, “attention aspect. Most avatars so far have been somewhat on the prima donna side. And Jon, for all his throwing or tripping himself into danger, is afraid probably ninety percent of his waking hours. But curiosity and his, his whole Archivist thing, outweighs that enough to go seeking these monsters out.”

“And he’s polite. Don’t grudge him that, Detective. Unhappy as he is about it, the Archivist understands that horror is now part of his dealings with anything other than human. Pain and fear are just new forms of etiquette.”

Helen holds up her hand and ticks off too many fingers.

“He shook Jude Perry’s hand, knowing that the toll of a burn was the cost of leaving her company alive. He was sent on a long, falling ride by Mike Crew, suspecting far worse from the avatar who had pitched a man off a Parisian rooftop into eternity, simply to hear his story. One of Death’s own hands gave him a pass as he regaled Jon in his long sleep. He let the Boneturner reach into him and take away his own ivory in trade for an interview as well as that little anchor for his trip into the Buried. The Spider and all her kin have had their Web wrapped snug as a blanket around him since he was a boy, scuttling secretly around him, coming as close to loving him as a thing like the Spider can love one of her puppets.

“And then, of course, there is Elias. Nobody’s favorite person at the moment, least of all Jon’s, but…” Helen looks at something, at nothing, at everything. “He is absolutely fond of Jon. Again, so far as we can ascribe such emotion to a thing like him. Not as a person, no, but as a sort of paradox. On the one hand, he loves Jon the way you might love a favorite toy or home appliance. An object that does something useful, entertaining, or both. Less than a person.

“At the same time, he is positively chomping at the bit for Jon to shed the last of his humanity and dive headfirst into his full avatar potential. Finish the metamorphosis from the same crawling, squirming, flailing grub that the rest of you are, and come out of his cocoon as something Finished and Whole, with all its Eyes on its wings. More than a person.”

“And you? Where are you on this weird, sadomasochistic scale with Jon?”

Helen shrugs. The motion carries her up like a balloon.

“I like him. I like him as he was, as he is, as he will be. He’s fun from all angles. Reminds me of a dog Helen had once. Always eager to see her when she came home, always starved for her attention—any attention after being all alone during her workdays.”

There is another click. Not from a recorder. This one is from deep inside Basira’s head. She raises her eyes to the cobweb in the corner. A small spider is there now. Watching her watch it. Innocuous as anything.

“Helen.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s been established, pretty vaguely, that the Web can nudge things. Manipulate certain factors to lead to a desired result. Supposedly.”

“Supposedly, yes.”

“But that’s just cause and effect. In her statement, I noticed Annabelle failed to bring up the manipulation of factors other than action, other than free will.”

“Such as she calls it. I rather liked her description.”

“Right. Well.” Basira’s hands flex, wishing she held a gun, wishing she could put a bullet into the corner full of cobwebs and tiny, spying eyes and replace it all with a gaping chasm. “I’ve read statements about the Spider’s less friendly acts. The ones to do with obsession. Mentality.” Her hands flex tight. Three knuckles pop. “Emotion.”

“Aaaand..?”

“Purely hypothetically, if you were a scheming, string-pulling, manipulative, shit-sucking, epitome of living putrescence pretending to cosplay Hannibal Lecter who was working in tandem with another, equally controlling, micro-managing piece of eldritch bullshit, what would you do if you wanted your pet project protégé to give up on his humanity and moral code entirely?”

Helen hummed and drummed her knife-point fingertips in thought.

“Well, I suppose if I was that, I’d set things up so that my pet project protégé had every reason to feel bitter and abandoned by the only examples of real humanity around him. And if one such example was simply too smitten to have around, I’d make sure he was put far out of reach. In a top office behind a thick door with an isolationist sea captain, if I could.”

“Right. And for those humans left in proximity, I’d make sure they were all from morally grey origins. Violent ones. Caustic ones. The sort who could be easily nudged into having their hackles up all the time. I’d make sure they’d take out that ire on the one part of the horror show that’s trapped them who’s just as stuck as them. The one who screams louder than they do when the monsters attack. The one who never fights back when they…say things. When—,”

“When they play favorites? Blatantly homicidal girlfriend versus mildly creepy bookworm—which is the real monster, folks? Whoever can tell?”

“I get it.”

“Oh, don’t stop now, let’s keep spit-balling! Really get inside the perp’s mind. Would you also make sure the pet project protégé’s ex grew progressively colder to him? Would you make the—the friend,” the word comes out in a warbling snicker that’s like needles in Basira’s ears, “he saved from possession somehow perform just the right mental gymnastics to lay the remaining fury and blame for her situation on his shoulders? For daring to steal her magical rage bullet? Would you? Why would you do a thing like that, Detective?”

“…To make the choice easier. To make the world I want him to join, the one full of avatars and monsters and tasty, human trauma, the more palatable option. Why bother hanging around such thankless, spiteful bastards when you could drop the pretense and join the winning team, right? Most people would in his situation.”

Basira had seen it more than once in her previous line of work. The road from innocent civilian forced into a dangerous position to genuine, willing criminal was a very short walk. Not just in terms of things like drugs or trafficking, either.

This was how cults worked. They made prey of people who felt isolated in their regular life. No friends, no family, no support network of any kind. Even the ones entrenched in violent dogma and pure insanity could be seductive to someone with nothing to lose.

But.

“But Jon is holding on. He’s still holding on, after all of this. He’s miserable as hell, but he’s still there. Still with us.”

“Yes, he is. Like I said, he has an advantage. One he certainly doesn’t enjoy—but that’s just life for Jon, now, isn’t it? Can’t gain one nice thing without losing ten more.” Helen tilts her head to one side. It keeps tilting until it turns, slowly, winding around on her neck like clock hands. “Have you guessed it yet, Detective?”

Basira sees the dog wagging its tail. She’d found out later that it had still been wagging when the vet had pronounced the neglect, injuries, and diseases in it too much to surmount without hours’ worth of surgery and more of expense. No one had stepped forward. The dog had wagged its tail even as the needle slipped in.

“Detective? Something wrong with your Eyes?”

“He doesn’t,” her voice is sandpaper and glass, “he doesn’t care what we say to him. Or about him. Or, or even what we do to him. He doesn’t care because he doesn’t want to lose us. Because—,” That spider, that fucking Spider, watching with its tiny, smug eyes, “—because he agrees with everything we say. More than agrees. Because he, Jon, he…he hates himself more than anyone else. Even more than the things that want him dead. At a guess.”

“Depressing, isn’t it? Funny too. Behold, Jonathan Sims, unconsciously fighting off the fulfillment and freedom of pure inhumanity and all the forces that urge it…because he’s a great big maudlin ball of self-loathing. Not the best superpower, but it’s what he’s got.”

“What we’ve got,” Basira says, and knows it’s true as she speaks. She can’t be sure, but the spider in the corner looks somewhat put-out. “We’ve been lucky so far because Jon has such a stranglehold on himself. He’s only ever been ashamed when we jump down his throat, never angry. Never menacing. Never pulling an Elias on anyone. Which I’d think would be the ideal next step in the grooming process. Cutting off ties, taking some kind of revenge. Anyone else would have by now. But not him.”

She looks squarely at the spider.

“And not just because of self-loathing. Not just because he thinks he has it coming to him. It’s because he’s a good person. A good person who got cornered into a position where all the choices he has are shit, and the only freedom he has is to choose what kind of shit he endures. He deserves better. We all do, but—but it’s got to start with him.”

“For the power of friendship, then? Or for self-preservation?”

“Could be both. Could be neither. Could be I’m just fucking sick of outside forces doing everything they can to make life just that little bit more miserable than it needs to be. Like they’re allergic to people being happy, or even bonding in a situation where they should, by all rights, have doubled down on each other as a support system. And if going full Barney the bloody dinosaur on our hellscape of a workplace makes things even slightly more unpalatable for our voyeurs, I’m down for it.”

Helen’s smile overtakes her face and the mile-long hands clap, their fingers clattering together like carving blades.

“Lovely! If you do spring for BFF necklaces, I’d like mine in—,” she makes a noise that sounds like a garbage disposal eating your hand feels.

“What?”

“Name of a color that doesn’t exist. If you can’t find that, I’ll settle for rainbow. In the meantime, I think you’re about to be late for work.”

Basira looks at the time. Helen is, somehow, right. The night has come and gone in the space of a conversation. She doesn’t have room in her to be surprised. There’s work to do. She reaches for her phone, then pauses.

“Helen?”

“Yes?”

“I appreciate this. Whatever this really was.”

“But..?”

“I still have no clue what your deal is.”

“Well, neither do I half the time. It’d be rather unfair if you knew more about me than me. But if you do need to know where I stand concerning your merry band and the Archivist, I suppose it is the equal opposite of what other, likewise involved powers feel for you.” Helen lifts one hand. It shudders in and out of being real. “They would see the Archivist subsume Jonathan Sims completely, and the rest of you either discarded or recruited by neighboring patrons. Whichever, whatever.” Helen holds up her other hand.

For a moment, Basira sees it as only a hand. Small, neat, manicured, just the right amount of bones in just the right places.

Almost human.

“I would see Jon and your lot as whatever you might or might not be. He could give in. He could not. You could live or die or change along with him. You could not. You all just…do you. Perhaps you’ll win, perhaps you’ll lose. Consider me an interactive audience. I’m just as curious as the Eye to see where this all goes. But only if it isn’t predictable. And if certain busybody Fears just can’t help stacking the deck until all the choices dry up, all the Twists flatten, all the options eliminated under the sheer, crushing weight of futility—well, it’s just dull. You see it all coming.”

Helen’s eyes slide up her face and into the corkscrews of her hair, smiling at the spider.

“Because I do see plenty. And, if there was one thing Michael and Helen had in common, it was a deep dislike of cookie cutter plots. Basic and boring with a capital Yawn. That said.” Basira blinks. Helen is now crushing something between her fingers. A tiny, brownish something with eight legs and no more eyes. The cobweb dangles in broken, gauzy threads. “Is there somewhere you need to be, Detective?”

“Yes, actually. Just let me get my stuff.”

The phone doesn’t leave her hand as she gathers her things. Her thumb taps, texts, and sends.

Thirty minutes later, they’re all out in the Magnus Institute’s carpark, watching Basira march up to them. She doesn’t miss how Jon takes a wary step back as she approaches. Nor does Daisy, who takes a small step between them. Melanie is too busy rubbing her eyes to get the spots of sunlight out.

“Alright, what’s the deal, Basira? Why are we meeting outside? Not like the recorders can’t pop up out here. Basira?”

She comes to a stop. She looks at Jon. He looks at her, forcing himself to blink; he forgets to now and then. His eyes are an artificial-looking green at the irises, bloodshot, sunk in sleepless, shadowed bags. He looks at her like he’s waiting for something to crack down on his skull.

“Basira, come on,” from Daisy. She’s just a little bit further between Jon and her. Wary. “What’s the big clubhouse meeting about?”

“Us,” Basira says, glancing at her. Back to Jon. “Specifically, it’s about you.”

“Of course,” Jon sighs. “What did I do? I’ve been sticking to nothing but paper statements. Everyone can attest to that. Or is there another death threat for me? A fresh ritual?” Basira says nothing, steeling herself. “…Did you need me to Know something?”

“I do, since you’re offering,” Melanie pipes up. She closer to Jon too now, and it strikes Basira that, if she hadn’t known them, they’d look every bit like brother and sister. Melanie pokes him in the arm, peering up at him. “I know you’re not into solid foods anymore, so you’re officially off the suspect list, but some thieving fucker has been making off with my turkey subs for almost a week now, and my options are either for you to point the bastard out or I start lacing the bread with some very creative seasonings—whoa, whoa, Basira, what’re you—,”

“Basira, hey—,” from Daisy, not quick enough.

“Basira—?” from Jon, backpedaling, definitely not quick enough.

All at once, Basira has her arms snapped around him, holding tight. Jon shudders into a statue, so tense she can feel the thin wires of his muscle and the birdlike bones twitch in her hold. It’s like holding a scarecrow. No one’s sure what to do. Jon swallows a lump.

“Um. Basira?”

“Yeah?”

“Is this—I mean, what is this? Exactly?”

“Same question,” from Melanie and Daisy.

“It’s called a hug, Jon. No, there is no needle in you. No, I am not holding a knife or gun. It’s just a hug.”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah. Um.” She doesn’t have to see his face to know he’s looking frantically at Daisy and Melanie, pleading for answers neither of them can give him. After a few long seconds, Jon finally manages to put his own arms around her. He squeezes gently, shakily. Like he’s afraid those sticks could somehow burst her if he holds too tight. “Okay.” It’s a croak. “Can I ask why?”

“I’ll explain later. Right now, we are all out sick.”

“We are?”

“Yeah. Some kind of scary ghost cold’s got us all, wouldn’t want the rest of the Institute to catch it. Peter Lukas sure as hell doesn’t care if he’s less a few people in the building. That’s the alibi, anyway.”

“Oh. For what?”

“You, being kidnapped.”

“What?”

“Everyone else has got a turn, may as well see what all the fuss is about. Come on.” Basira hefts him up and gets a few good paces in before setting him back on his feet. “Alright, carrying you is like holding a bunch of broomsticks wrapped in tweed. You’re walking. Melanie? Can we use your car?”

“To kidnap Jon?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess? Why’re we kidnapping Jon?”

“Consistency. Also for reasons that I’d rather not toss around inside the Institute, even if we are always being watched. Plus, I’ve not had breakfast and I’m quite happy to get day drunk as a substitute. You?” The question is directed to them all, though tipped slightly more toward Jon who looks at her with eyes so owlish they should have been his Archivist stare. They aren’t.

“Well, yes, I suppose. Honestly, I’d be happy to live in a bottle these days.” Under his breath, “Wish there was such a thing as a statement that carried a buzz.”

Daisy snorts behind him and swats the back of his shoulder.

“Your luck, you’ll stumble onto a story of some poor bastard who walks into a haunted pub where the beer is made of people, or some damn thing. Let’s get a move on, get you kidnapped properly.” Her hand stays on Jon’s shoulder, holding without gripping. Basira feels a tingle of relief in her chest at the sight. Ditto when Melanie unthinkingly loops her arm through Jon’s elbow, almost as wiry as his, keeping close. Her dour mouth laughs.

“You got a punch card for this sort of thing, yet? Ten abductions and you get a free toaster?”

“At this point, I, I think I’m just going to break down and get a datebook. Have all the avatars call ahead, schedule their pick-up dates. I’ll have the vampires turn up and tell them, ‘Oh, so sorry, I’ve got an appointment with some lovely people who want to fill the underground with snake demons today. I’m free Thursday, though.’”

Grim chuckles teetering on the side of real humor, the closer they get to the car. Basira doesn’t need a recording to catch the change this time.

“Nah,” Daisy huffs, getting the door. “You’re too in demand. Better to make it one of those little ticket dispensers. Get a line of monsters just hovering in the lobby waiting for their turn.” Jon groans at this, Melanie laughs, and Basira snorts. Before Jon climbs in, he turns to her.

“Hey, can we try to get Martin in on this? He’s never kidnapped me either. If, if this is just a one-day thing…”

“It is. I don’t think Lukas will let that much slide. But,” she says, before Jon wilts completely, “he’s also going to be part of this. Definitely won’t be happy with the audio evidence I sent him, but that’s rather the point.” Basira looks at Daisy and Melanie in what she hopes is the right balance between apology and affirmation. “I expect we’ll all be getting an earful from him pretty soon. Ideally, I’d like Georgie to be there too. If you can convince her to come around, Melanie.”

“Wait, audio evidence of what?”

“Did you catch something on tape?”

“Why would Martin be mad at us? He’s Martin.”

“Long story. I’ll not go through it sober if I can. Jon, quit stalling and get kidnapped. In.”

Jon gets in. They go.

They find the earliest restaurant open, sit down, and don’t eat as Basira lays it all out. It’s Jon who protests the most, covering for all of them. Trauma and a more-than-toxic workplace environment and his own less than shining record all tumble out of him in a flimsy verbal shield.

Basira waits for him to finish before she plays the audio, more grateful than she’d admit that Helen decided to leave even the impossible recordings where she’d left them. Between this and their distance from the Institute, Jon goes very quiet and the people around him—Georgie included, after much pressing from Melanie—go very pale.

Before the uncomfortable hush at the table can grow too big, heavy footsteps come plodding up. Jon immediately perks up from the awkward hunch he’s been folding himself into.

“Martin?”

It is Martin, his own eyes bloodshot and his paint-water eyes somehow greyer than usual. But the dullness there seems to be rapidly burning off as he strangles his phone in one hand and yanks up a chair with the other. He sits down quickly, as if forcing himself through an action he doesn’t want to do, but knows needs doing. Or perhaps it’s the reverse.

Either way, he puts himself firmly between Jon and Basira, sets his phone on the table, and folds his large hands together so tightly they shake. His smile is brittle as glass.

“Jon. Hi. Everyone?” He sucks in a long breath through his nose. Jon can’t look away from him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Basira doesn’t blink.

“How’d you get away from Lukas?”

“Took a vacation day. He tried to spin something about suddenly really needing my help today. I told him I really needed to tell a number of people what utter pricks they were and that I didn’t want to see their faces again afterwards. He knew I was telling the truth. So here I am. You utter pricks.”

Jon is still looking at him.

“M-Martin, it’s not like that, it’s not their fault. They didn’t—,”

Martin finally looks at him. Basira doesn’t have to be a Detective to know he’s been fighting the urge to look since he walked in the door. Now it’s like Martin’s eyes are glued to him. Normally she’d recoil at the pure sap oozing out of the pair, but not today. Not now. Not even when Martin’s hand leaps eagerly to Jon’s shoulder.

“Jon, do not. Do not defend them or your own masochistic little voice telling you that you deserve one more ounce of crap on your plate, alright? Just don’t.”

“Exactly what I was going to say,” Basira says. “We need to talk.”

So they talk through it all. Connecting the dots, simultaneously uncomfortable and tired and fed up. There are curses, sounds of disgust and, ultimately, a general choir of apology. Jon, for his part, looks like a man who’s been thrust onstage to accept an award he’s never heard of from people speaking an alien language. He seems to actually be compressing himself in his chair, heat coming off his face as he tries to duck out of the attention.

He drops the line about the t-shirts in defense. Most laugh. Martin doesn’t. Instead, he clamps around Jon in an embrace. Jon shudders—then immediately grips him back.

Melanie makes a loud retching noise. Then elbows Martin to one side and squirms her own hug in. Georgie follows suit. Daisy. Then Basira. Jon’s face is a furnace by now, his eyes liquid-bright. Both knowing and Knowing that this moment is real.

Then he wheezes, “This is all very nice, but I’d like to keep my remaining ribs intact.”

“Shhh,” from Georgie. “This is just what bonding feels like.”

“Can bonding feel more like whiskey?”

“If you’re a lightweight, yeah,” says Daisy. But she finally peels herself out of the pile and knocks back her lukewarm drink in one go. “Come on. All this sincerity’s making my teeth ache. Another round?”

Agreement rises from them in a murmur as they all break off from Jon, Martin last and longest. Basira’s certain she could fry an egg on Jon’s cheek by then.

They haunt the table for hours after that, talking, laughing. After, they hit the shops. A small herd of friends migrating down the blocks, taking their pleasant noise with them everywhere they go. It’s Daisy who hunts the shirts down, in the end. Strange, edgy-to-nonsensical slogan tees meant for the college and younger crowd.

Some they try on for a laugh, some for keeps. Jon has to be given more than one look from everyone before he grudgingly puts back one that reads Home Sweet Home above a graphic of a garbage can. Eventually they all walk out with at least one shirt apiece.

Georgie’s features the phrase, Life is Finite and Meaningless! in cheery Barbie font. Melanie’s is simply a hammer and sickle done in hot pink glitter. Daisy’s is just a wolf howling in angry wingdings, the text reading Call of the Swearwolf. Martin gets one that shows an illustration of a 1950’s housewife holding a steak knife, grinning manically at the viewer, a cursive font reading, I Am This Close, Swear to God. Jon’s shows a print of Pandora opening her evil vase, the text reading, aptly enough, Can and Will F*ck Around and Find Out.

Basira walks out with two. One for her, featuring a cascade of daisies. The other she brings back to the Institute’s tunnels, leaves it in its bag outside the door that shouldn’t be there, knocks, and leaves. The woman who is not a woman opens the door and reads the note left on the parcel.

Couldn’t find it in rainbow.

When she takes the shirt out, she laughs, and every spider in every wall of the Institute cringes under the reverberation.

She had not been lying. She did not care what the Archivist and his friends became or ceased to be. They were an entertaining show, these funny, fretting people. Whatever looming destiny was coming for Jon would no doubt be outstandingly amusing.

But he really was growing far too glum for her liking. It was no fun if that was his default state. He couldn’t even muster up a little Edwardian huffiness for her anymore. He was just sad in every version of the word.

So, for the good of the Distortion’s amusement, the Eye’s cooped up agent and the Spider’s silk would just have to take this loss. A small thing, really, but for those Powers who are so very complacent in their endless stream of things going According to Plan, well.

She imagines the new lovefest is rather nauseating.

That sets her laughing again as she pulls the t-shirt on over her permanently-affixed realtor’s blazer. The woodcut Cheshire Cat illustration is adjusted until it can walk and talk and laugh on the cotton. She makes a note to blackmail the Archivist into giving her her own cozy little embrace, knife hands or no, before she offers anything in the way of doors or advice the next time he slinks down to see her.

Aboveground, there are still Eyes, Spiders, and Loneliness. But now the Eyes squint, the Webs have lost half their threads, and the Lonely finds that, in the space of a day, its fog can now barely touch its would-be avatar.

The Archivist Knows this, knows his friends, and smiles.

 Shout out to @spiralgender, @nooby-banana, and @generalgrievousdatingsim whose own relentless interest in the podcast finally lured my lazy ass into hitting play on that first episode. Now I too am an entire mess. 

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 6-Everyday

Hello everyone! Extra thanks to @duplicitywrites for coming up with the idea of a Groundhog Day! 

***

The worst part is that Harry never remembers him.

***

Tom is holding Harry's guts in.  Harry's in so much pain his eyes aren't tracking, and a bubble of blood forms at his lips. It pops and droplets flick onto Tom’s face. It doesn't matter. What's a little more blood?

“Go,” Harry wheezes, and Tom's genuinely impressed he made actual sound, with the state his diaphragm isn’t in. He lackadaisically waves one hand, before he realizes that it's missing and just. Stops. “We both know this doesn't matter.”

Tom nods.  It doesn't matter, not really. But it also does, to Tom, so Tom stops applying pressure with his hands and waits for that glow in Harry's eyes to die before he moves on.

***

Tom used to be terrified of dying. He's not anymore. He's done it so many times, so many different ways. How can you be afraid of something that happens every day?

***

“How did you get it to stop?” Tom asks, desperate, the first time he meets Harry.

Harry takes a deep breath, caps an Inferi over Tom’s shoulder. The way he moves is unreal. His voice is casual. “I got injured, real bad, but not enough to die right away. I passed out and the field medics got me. They bled me out, until it was red again.” Another burst of fire, another dropped horde of Inferi. Tom isn’t sure if he’s full of envy or dread.

“It hurt so bad I thought I died for real,” Harry laughs, cheerfully, and shoots another one.  

***

“We should fuck,” Tom states. He’s staring at the nape of Harry's neck, at the line of clean-looking skin at Harry's hairline where his sweat has pushed away the grime. He wants to lick it. Or bite it. He's not picky.

Harry glares at him out of the corner of his eye, still maintaining good coverage with his gun. It's pointless. There aren't any Inferi until they hit the second outbuilding, and Tom will kill those three.

“I’m going to go with no, Riddle. And I'm not even flattered.” Harry's voice is dry, but Tom knows him so well he can tell he's amused despite himself.

Tom shrugs, like he doesn't want this almost as bad as he wants the morrow. “We have before,” he lies.

Harry shakes his head, obviously exasperated. There's a smile on the corners of his lips. Tom loves that smile. “I don't believe you.”

Tom shouldn't be surprised. Tom is new to Harry every day, but he still hasn't managed to successfully lie to him even once. Every day, Harry just looks up from where Tom blows the Inferi off of him, says a small, ‘Oh, you too?’, and follows him off the battlefield. Just like that. Still, Tom’s offended, more than he should be.

“What, you don't think you would ever condescend to bed me? You're straight?” Tom snarls. “I'm not ‘your type’?”

“No.” Harry's smiling outright now, and it takes the edge of Tom's anger, just like that. “I think I've been waiting. I’ll keep waiting. I'll wait until it will motivate you the most,” he says, sly, eyes gleaming.

***

“Good luck today, Tom,” Harry wishes him, voice soft. Tom can't feel his body, can't move his legs. The Inferi are screaming for flesh, and Tom can hear it getting closer. They have one bullet. Harry puts the barrel of his service pistol to Tom’s forehead and pulls the trigger.

***

Dumbledore twinkles at him, the rat bastard, and tells him he’s needed on the front lines, to boost morale. Tom declines. That's not what he does. He's handsome and he knows it. His father had abandoned him, left him only a face, but it's a damn good one, and he's used it to stay invaluable and thus invulnerable, in the war. Tom does recruitment and public relations and social media relations. He does not fight.

Dumbledore twinkles and twinkles until he stops. Tom ends up in the front lines anyway.

***

Tom vomits after he kills his first Inferi. It's not because it looks almost human, despite being over pale with a strange triangle circle amalgamation on its brow. He's killed humans before—father. grandfather. grandmother—and he didn't puke then. He'd felt high, as close to believing in God that he'd ever been. It had felt addictive and heady and right and he'd decided right then he’d never do it again because otherwise he'd never stop.

No, Tom vomits because the creature explodes into viscous black sludge, splattering his nose and mouth, squirting on his tongue. The fluid tastes like anise and motor oil and Tom knows the instant he tastes it everything is wrong. He dies for the first time, fifteen minutes later, teeth still stained black.

***

He and Harry are in a tiny cabin. Tom plucks a shotgun from inside the pantry and some buckshot from a drawer in the bathroom. He hands both to Harry.

Harry smiles at him, wan. He’s tired, and Tom knows he’s in pain all up his side from being thrown by the Inferi. “Thanks, Tom.”

Tom kisses him, brief, his mouth scorching hot against his own. He's been cold, so very cold, ever since he started dying. He's not sure if it's psychological or because there is black sludge to replace the blood in his chest.

Harry’s smile brightens, his cheeks the tiniest bit red. “Thanks for that too.”

***

Dumbledore doesn't believe them about the Deathly Hallows. He calls Harry his boy and fixes Tom tea and listens as Tom drags up his whole life history from Gellert and his baby Aryan group to his poor sister and the hospice incidents.

He doesn't and doesn't and doesn't and doesn't, until Tom presses a kiss to Harry’s brow and pushes Harry's gun down and asks him not to shoot, that doesn’t work, please love. He’s not sure if he even means it. He's so sick of Dumbledore’s twinkle.

Dumbledore hands over the Deathstick Harry had confiscated from the Inferi. After that Tom remembers the goddamned combination.

***

The Resurrection Stone Tom knows by now to pry out of the forehead of that first Inferi he killed, and still kills. He has to be quick about it, because every day Harry's nearly half the field away, every day Harry's got an Inferi poised over his neck for Tom to punt off of him.

He gets very fast.

***

“I just don't know where the Cloak is,” Tom whispers. He and Harry are playing hooky today, pretending the lights in the sky are fireworks instead of mortar and heavy artillery fire.

Harry's head is heavy on Tom’s shoulder. He's crying, silent with it, eyes so swollen Tom can only see slits of green. It's so painful for him to sit here, Tom doesn't think he'll ever ask Harry to do this again, no matter how many more years this stretches.

He folds his arm around Harry, squeezes him tight. He presses a kiss to Harry's hair. It smells good for once, from their selfish shower. His brain doesn’t quite know how to reconcile it as Harry.  

***

The Cloak is in the Inferi’s Spawn Maw. Tom and Harry scope it out over the course of three days, and his stomach flips when he sees the pattern, or lack of one.

The few Inferi he and Harry kill at the Maw don't recycle. For the first time, since this never ending day began, something different is happening.

It’s only at the Maw, but that's enough. Time doesn't reset there. A fear he thought long dead—ha! rekindles in his belly.  

Harry gets it a good while after he does, when they retreat, after Tom zips him into a shared sleeping bag and curls up beside him, breathing in the scent of his filthy hair. He’s exhausted, bone deep, but he fights the urge to sleep, choosing instead to savor these last moments with Harry, before Tom goes to shoot himself and they cycle back around. His mind has honed and honed and honed itself, but his body is still the same as that first day, fit but not hardened with it.

Harry goes perfectly still. He takes Tom’s hand in between his, grip tight. Tom knows if he looked, he'd see Harry's fingers dimpling hard enough to blanch Tom's skin even paler white. “Promise me, Tom. Promise me you won't do it alone.”

Tom nuzzles deep into Harry's hair. It smells awful, like blood and burnt gunpowder and Harry’s drying fear sweat. He breathes in deeper and doesn't reply.

Harry always knows when he's lying, after all.

***

They’re back at the cabin. Tom leaves the shotgun and the buckshot where they are. He takes a step towards Harry instead.

“Please,” Tom whispers. He gently pulls the gun from Harry’s hands, then hooks his fingers into the curls of Harry’s belt loops.  He pulls Harry to him, gentle. “Please,” he repeats. In another time, another life, he'd have never said that word, never could have meant it. But this one day has become a new lifetime, and he means it now.

Harry melts to him, body going soft, pliant. He holds Tom’s face in his hands. They're gritty and acrid-smelling from gunpowder. Tom rubs his cheeks against them, presses kisses against the calluses on the inside of his palms.  

“Please, Harry, let me have you.” He whispers into Harry's skin. “Let me remember this for the both of us,” he pleads. He pulls Harry closer, grinds his hips, slow. “Let me.”

“Okay,” Harry nods. “Okay.” He kisses Tom back.

***

In the end, the Spawn Maw’s is just as horrific as he never could have imagined.

He does end up taking Harry, if only because he can’t fucking shake him after punting that Inferi off his almost-corpse, and he refuses to fix a future where Harry dies. He can’t shake Harry, so he also ends up taking a ragtag bunch of deserters he quite literally stumbled across about five years in todays ago instead of just stealing their Semtex. They’re crazy, and it takes less than fifteen minutes of convincing before they’re game.

“Groundhog Day!” The crazy curly haired woman who runs the group gleefully crows. She shot and killed him the first time, and Tom literally just saw her put a blasting cap in her mouth and bite down, so he thinks it’s understandable he misses her name. Stranger, maybe?

There are more Inferi in this maw than Tom could ever imagined, and half of the deserters are gone before they even get inside.

Inside holds a huge pool of black liquid, like the sludge Tom holds in his veins. It’s still, still, until one of the deserters trips as one of the Inferi tries to rip off his arms falls in. Then Inferi come pouring out, more bodies than that slick black morass could possibly hold.

The Cloak doesn’t turn out to be an object in quite the way the Stone and the Deathstick are, but more like a thick fur-like thing grown into a giant Inferi’s skin. It’s marked with the same bastardized circle triangle as that very first Inferi he killed and kills. He and Harry end up kneeling on the shrieking Inferi’s too many jointed limbs as Stranger-maybe laughs madly and flays it.

She’s barely ripped the last stretch of the Cloak free in a burst of anise and motor oil when even more Inferi pour in. She’s still laughing and holding it triumphantly aloft as she dies. Harry pulls the Cloak from her hands, and there’s no time.

“Riddle,” Harry stares at him with wide eyes. Tom hasn’t kissed his lips once today and he feels the lack like a split in his soul. Harry passes him the Cloak. “There’s no time.”

There are neatly packed blocks of Semtex in the backpack Stranger-maybe was carrying. Tom has the Stone and the Deathstick in his own, and the thick morass of the Cloak dripping in his hands.

Tom ignores the startled look in Harry’s eyes when he takes Harry’s hand for the boom.

***

Tom wakes up. His body is not sore and the sun is shining. It’s not today. Tom looks around, and some distant dim recognition supposes it might be yesterday. He’s not certain if this is better or worse, until he notices the people sort of milling about, stunned and aimless.

“The Inferi just keeled over and stopped moving,” one woman tells him, somewhat stunned. Tom lets her go, stunned himself.

His hand bleeds red when he cuts it. Tom could laugh in sheer joy.

It takes an interminable three hours to find him.

“Harry Potter.” Tom calls out, knowing better than to startle Harry. He can’t stop smiling and it feels unnatural on his face.

Harry jerks up from where he’s polishing his gun, looks Tom up and down. He smiles back. “Oh, you too?”

[wetalkinboutbooks]

We Hunt the Flame by Hafsah Faizal

Summary: People lived because she killed.

People died because he lived.

Zafira is the Hunter, disguising herself as a man when she braves the cursed forest of the Arz to feed her people. Nasir is the Prince of Death, assassinating those foolish enough to defy his autocratic father, the king. If Zafira was exposed as a girl, all of her achievements would be rejected; if Nasir displayed his compassion, his father would punish him in the most brutal of ways. 

Both are legends in the kingdom of Arawiya—but neither wants to be.

War is brewing, and the Arz sweeps closer with each passing day, engulfing the land in shadow. When Zafira embarks on a quest to uncover a lost artifact that can restore magic to her suffering world and stop the Arz, Nasir is sent by the king on a similar mission: retrieve the artifact and kill the Hunter. But an ancient evil stirs as their journey unfolds—and the prize they seek may pose a threat greater than either can imagine. (Taken from Goodreads)

Our Ratings: 

 → Geena: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

 → Kae: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Overall: We Hunt the Flame is a rich Arabia inspired fantasy with characters that you easily fall for (like the two of us with Altair lmao). Personally, we wouldn’t classify the romance as an insta-love, it’s more of an insta-annoyance and gradual build up to feelings. The story keeps you on your toes and Hafsah does an amazing job at tying in different plot points together. Also, it’s got that amazing unlikely group of friends trope :’) SO if you haven’t already, check out this book we highly recommend it! 

Spoiler-Full Discussion Below...

The Good: 

→ The Premise and Characters

Kae: So we start off with Zafira hunting in the Arz, a forest that is full of darkness. Once you go into the Arz, there is no coming out. But our girl Zafira is a baddie and she can travel the Arz without much trouble. She can always find her way out. She hunts in the Arz for her village because it is an icy, barren land and it is their main source of food. The thing is, Zafira is a woman so no one can ever find out she is the famed Hunter of the Arz, or she’ll probs get like, banished. But her two best friends, Yasmine and Deen, know her secret and keep it safe. Along with her sister and bedridden mother. Zafira has acquired this wonderful hunting skill from her father, who taught her everything she knew so she could fend for herself and well… Those skills came in hand because he got lost in the Arz one day, kind of went crazy, stumbled out, then tried to kill his family. So Zafira’s mother did what she had to do and killed him to save her daughters. She (Zafira’s mother) has been plagued by nightmares since. 

Geena: Kae outlined the premise of Zafira’s story really well! On the other hand we have Nasir, the crown prince of Arawiya and one of the most feared assassins across the caliphates. He’s also hated by literally everyone in his life… especially his dad. Nasir was raised (See: forced) into becoming the Sultan’s weapon, killing anyone that dared to oppose him. We find out that Nasir’s mom, the Sultana, died ~mysteriously~ when he was young and after that his dad went batshit crazy essentially. Nasir does everything as a means to get his dad’s love and approval (even though he likes to pretend that he’s just doing shit just because ‘i have no life so might as well kill’). Nasir ends up falling for some servant girl, who’s tongue the Sultan serves to him in a golden box. After that he is very angsty like, “I can’t love anyone :( ” Or so he thinks. 

Kae: Then we have our secondary characters. Like, the ‘friends we made a long the way’ characters who all def were trying to kill one another but it’s cool now ‘cause they love each other :) 

Geena: The magical artifact was the magic of friendship :’)

Kae: LMAO YES. So we have Kifah, she is from Pelusia and she is a badass legendary warrior who is fast as lightniiiing, WILL ABSOLUTELY kick your ass with a staff (she won’t hesitate, BITCH) and she’s also really pretty and tall and she brings her own snacks and seasoning. I can relate because I too, bring seasoning and snacks when I know they will be needed. Kifah is funny, sarcastic, and one of the few people that has a witty retort to Altair and his tomfoolery. She also has a thing for Altair. 

Altair, we love him! He’s a big buff boi with pretty eyes and a dazzling smile. He also makes a lot of dick jokes and is an absolute CHILD. But we love him for it and so does Kifah. They have the hots for each other.  My boi doesn’t have good aim and he killed his homie on accident but we’ll get to that later. He is the #1 general in Ghameq’s (Nasir’s father) army and is ordered to tag along with Nasir on this unintentional road to friendship. He is the sunshine in Nasir’s life and Nasir HATES IT BECAUSE HE’S AN EMO BOI. 

Geena: ALTAIR IS THE SUN TO NASIR’S MOON HONESTLY. ALSOO, we got our two best boys that unfortunately didn’t make it to the end :/ Deen, aka the boy that loved Zafira enough to go on an impossible quest with her and then die for her too. He’s Yasmine’s older brother and an absolute sweetheart who wears his emotions on his sleeve when around Zafira. In a way, he was Zafira’s first boyfriend who she didn’t love romantically. Deen proposes to her and she’s like *radio silence*. I DIED AT THAT KAE…. SHE WAS LIKE “NO COMMENT” 

Kae: RADIO SILENCE LMAOO SHE WAS. She pulled a, “okay but like the arz tho…”

Geena: But yea! Deen literally dies in the first few chapters because of Altair’s shit aim…. No one ever hand him another bow and arrow again plz. So like I’m thinking Hafsah made him super sweet the first few chapters just so we would be devastated when he died like 5 chapters later or something.

We also have our wise old Safin (essentially an immortal Elf but like cooler) Benyamin, who is centuries old and a book nerd (relatable). He and Kifah join Nasir, Altair, and Zafira later on in their quest, and he seems to know a lot more than he lets one. We learn that Benyamin is the living embodiment of that one meme “Baby jordans, never worn - for sale” bc of his baby that didn’t make it :/. He wants the whole crew to be like a little family so bad that he enforces the word “zumra” aka gang on them and overall he was sly but sweet nonetheless and he too…. Kicked the can… all for the zumra :’(  

→ The Ride or Die Relationships

Geena: One thing that Hafsah Faizal writes really well is the friendships between Zafira and the small crew that knows that she’s actually the Hunter that’s been keeping them fed for years. Zafira’s absolute best friend, Yasmine, supports Zafira in all her decisions EXCEPT for the decisions where Zafira parades as a man. Deen I suppose is the same as Yasmine, except he’s less snarky. It’s canon that Zafira would lay down her life for Yasmine, and not to sound like a weirdo but Zafira was wildly jealous when Yasmine got married to Misk... like “ugh now I have to share my bestie with a man??” only explanation is that Zafira is bi confirmed. Also, where we had Zafira ready to die for Yasmine, we also have Deen ready to die for Zafira (and he does...😭). IDK how Deen was hot, smart, sweet, and everything in between and he still died. Hafsah gave us the perfect man and was like “yeea FUCK that, the only love interest will be leech-scars sad boy.” ANYWAYS, The Zafira-Yasmine-Deen triangle is a whole “I would die for you” thing, whereas Yasmine is more of a “I would kill for you” and I think that’s beautiful :’) 

Kae: Alrighty, so we also have the relationship between Altair and Nasir. They aren’t as close as Zafira, Deen, and Yasmine. At all. But they kind of have this “if it were not for the laws of this land, I would kill you” thing between them and it’s hilarious. Nasir is constantly like, “I can and will kill you, you bastard brute of a man” and Altair is like “do it bitch, I dare you” and Nasir tears up and stomps away like a brat. But as this journey continues, Nasir gets a newfound respect for Altair because he soon learns Altair isn’t a dumb brute at all and is actually pretty bright. Did we mention they’re brothers? Yeah, that’s a thing. But Nasir doesn’t learn this until the end of the story. Did Altair know the whole time? Yes. Did he swear to their mother to protect him? That as heavily implied so also yes. SO now Nasir is like, “oh noooo, I wanted to kill my brother and was also ORDERED BY MY BITCHASS DADDY TO KILL HIM” then boom goes the dynamite and Nasir finds that he can be a good boi. ANYWAYS WE LOVE ALTAIR IN THIS HOUSE. 

Geena: OKAY SINCE KAE MENTIONED IT, AND THE WHOLE ALTAIR-NASIR THING. See since I have poor reading comprehension, I didn’t realize that Altair had promised to protect Nasir. SO THIS BRINGS ABOUT THE QUESTION of the servant girl, Kulsum, that Nasir realizes is working for Altair. The same girl that appeared around the time Nasir’s mom “died”, so does that mean Altair had sent her to help console his brother 👀 Does Altair feel partly responsible for the Sultan tearing out Kulsum’s tongue?? If so… both Altair and Nasir need mad therapy 

The Bad:   

→ The Sea Monster

Kae: So, this isn’t inherently bad and we honestly have nothing bad to say about the book, let’s get that straight. But we wanted to mention it because it was eh. So we have a sea monster scene when Altair and Nasir are on their way to the island. It’s from an old folktale they’d heard growing up, that sea monsters lurked in the sea. They end up running into a sea monster and it is blind and attacking their ship. It is following them by sound so they eventually realize they need to shut the hell up. But then there is our wonderful golden buff boy, Altair. He starts singing, taunting the sea monster and Nasir is like “BOY IF U DONT-” but then his singing kills it. Apparently, the monster hates music and song? So there’s that. It as a very quick scene and I kind of wish I was longer and more dangerous. I wanted some bloodshed! Maybe a sunken ship! But it was still okay. 

Geena: Kae said everything that had to be said about that scene. And I agree, it was cool to have a monster from the author’s folklore, but at the same time, it didn’t really add much to the story other than the fact that Altair knows how to sing (whether he can sing well is a different story).

The Ugly...Crying:

→ The Lion and The Sultan

Geena: This is going to be very cliche but the ugliest thing in this book was the Sultan, our main villain, who is later revealed to be controlled by the Lion aka some ancient ifrit-safin hybrid dude that was the cause of all of Arawiya’s problems. First off, we find out near the end that the Sultan is possessed by the Lion because Nasir’s mom had a big swig of dumbass juice and gave the Sultan a pendant from the place where the Lion was imprisoned. So, following his mother’s “Death” Nasir watches the Sultan’s descent into a sort of madness and suffers under his dad’s abuse. The Lion is also Nasir’s Mom’s Ex so you can imagine what kind of shitshow that was. The Lion is also coincidentally Altair’s dad, and I’m guessing the Lion was like “fuck them kids” because he wanted Nasir to murder Altair... his only son :/ ANYWAYS, the Lion is a terrible dad 0/10 should ever have kids. 

ALSOOO THIS BITCH WAS OUT HERE CONTROLLING ZAFIRA HALF HER LIFE??? And was instrumental in her dad’s death, since he’s the embodiment of dark magic -- which makes up the Arz (evil forest) -- we learn that the Lion coaxed Zafia’s dad into entering the forest and essentially turning him mad, which lead to her mom killing him. AND IN A WAY, he can control Zafira?? Or at least get into her head.

Kae: Geena said everything perfectly. The Lion is a skank bitch and we HATE HIM. But if we hate him, that means he was written really well so HELL YEAH HAFSAH. Now to the Sultan.  The Sultan, like Geena said, is possessed by the Lion. And upon learning that in the book, I kind of felt bad for him and Nasir. Nasir remembers when his father was kind and loved him. He has watched the decline of the Sultan and this drastic change from kind to 100% evil as fuuuck. The Sultan has no control over this and Nasir just wants to please his father to get that love back from him. He sees small flashes of the man the Sultan used to be, but they are very quick and sometimes he almost misses it. The real Sultan is stomped out by the Lion whenever he peeks through. 

Geena: Like can the sultan see the shit that the lion is doing? BRO THAT WOULD BE TORTURE! Oh my god, when they finally break the spell on him there are going to be so many tears between Nasir and his dad.  

Kae: YOO WHAT IF IT’S LIKE HE CAN SEE EVERYTHING OUT OF HIS OWN EYES BUT CAN’T CONTROL IT? DUDE NOW IM EXTRAAA SAD. 

Geena: What’s sadder than all that? THE FACT THAT OUR FAVOURITE HIMBO, ALTAIR, GOT LEFT BEHIND. At the height of the action as Nasir and the surviving zumra are escaping we find out that Altair never makes it to their escape ship…. Even though it was Altair’s powers that helped them escape. And then we find out that he’s stuck in the Lion’s lair…. Thinking that no one cared to look for him… scuse me while I weep…. Hafsah didn’t have to do him like that 😭 

Kae: OKAY MOOD. YOU SAID IT PERFECTLY. And like, she wrote that part so well. Because you know how sometimes the reader knows something the characters don’t? Like, NONE OF US, THE READER OR THE CHARACTERS realized Altair was left behind until Hafsah mentioned it. It was heart-shattering. And everyone is instantly like “shit shit shit shit we fucked UP. We have to go back.” But they can’t go back. So everyone in this feels horrible. Altair feels horrible because he thinks his friends (and beautiful warrior crush) have left him behind. Nasir feels horrible because he left his brother. And the rest of the zumra because they left their friend. Also, the reader, because we see how all this shit went down. It’s just a whole roller coaster of emotions and ALTAIR IS LOVELY AND WE WANT HIM BACK. But this also leaves potential for him to switch sides and join his evil father. It’s totally a possibility and we do NOT WANT THIS TO HAPPEN TO OUR FAVE. OUR HABIBI (because he calls Nasir that and Nasir, the brooding death prince hates that) HAS TO COME BACK SAFE AND UNHARMED... fin

Conclusion 

Geena: That concludes our review, we didn’t really touch on the romance and so on but it’s how you say… a slow burn? Also, we had so many thoughts about the characters because they’re all soo interesting and have their own stories that we LOVED. Hafsah did a great job at world-building and introducing her individual characters gradually, she didn’t just slap us with like six characters at once and call it a day. AND HER PLOT TWISTS??? POETIC CINEMA… As a self-proclaimed dunce, I did not see half of them coming, every single thing I thought would happen didn’t happen. For example, I thought that Benyamin was Altair’s dad at some point. Overall, this is a great Arabia inspired fantasy with engaging characters and a fast-paced plot that keeps you guessing what’ll happen next. I give it 9/10 (-1 for Altair’s suffering). 

Kae: Ngl I totally forgot about the romance. “It means nothing” GAH THE FOOL. BUT YES. I can’t believe we forgot the romance and their collar bone touching. Also the inevitable ‘omg I just caught you coming out of the bath and now I see your scars oooo’ and honestly tho mood because I wouldn’t avert my eyes either. ANYWAY, the world-building is beautifully written as were the characters. Geena is right. Everyone has their own stories and the time was taken out to tell each one. None of the characters were dumbed down and neither were their backstories. They all had their own personalities and interests and quirks. The fantasy, the magic, and the history was rich.  There was never a boring moment. I give it a 10/10 because I was super entertained and the slowburn was to die for. BUUUT. I’m still SICK that Deen was killed off five minutes into the adventure because I would’ve loved to see him giving Nasir the ~death glare~ whenever he looked at Zafira ASJDADKLJK. 

Geena: IM CRYING, YES I AGREE 100% Wish we had gotten that good ol’ Deen-Nasir beef.  

Kae: omg it would’ve been such a good beef because I feel like they would absolutely become friends at some point and HATE that they respect each other. WELP. THAT BE ALL, FOLKS. READ THIS BOOK CAUSE IT’S GOOD. 

[jonahsbuffy]

things that stood out to me in the extended promo - TJ IS SO JEALOUS BITCH WTF - who tf is this justin bieber look a like bitch - an lgbtq+ love triangle? terri you sly bastard - in the first pic andi and amber are definitely holding hands love that for them - who are cy and buffy looking at? probably tj - why is amber mad andi what have you done - not pictured but wuffy was literally confirmed like 80 times in that promo someone hold my earrings - not pictured but my man ham is back finally - jyrus is officially dead there’s literally 0 scenes of jonah and cyrus together rip they deserved better - yall its gay

[nihilhumani-blog]

The one where they raise the red flag over the Reichstag (summer mix 2017)

LINK HERE

1. Jorge Ben, “Meus Filhos, Meus Tesouro”, África Brasil (1976). A pretty simple song. Jorge Ben has this knack for investing the quotidian with a kind of profundity, and I just love it. The gist of the song is an imagined conversation with his children in which he asks them what they want to be when they grow up. The most poignant, beautifully-sung line in this song translates literally to “I want to be a soccer player!”

2. Philip Cohran, “The Minstrel”, On The Beach (1967). Massive Afrofuturist groove from ex-Sun Ra sideman. According to Allmusic, some of the people playing on this went on to gigs as diverse as the Agharta band (Pete Cosey) and Earth, Wind and Fire (Don Myrick). The thumb piano that anchors the groove is a creation of Cohran’s that he calls the frankiphone.

3. Gene McDaniels, “Tower of Strength”, Tower of Strength (1961). Great performance of a classic Bacharach and Hilliard tune. That falsetto is to die for.

4. Broadcast, “Goodbye Girls”, Tender Buttons (2005). Never got into this band when they were more popular (even though I probably should have). Those goofy antique synths are so joyously raucous, just barely in time, and Trish Keenan’s vocals are as delicately celestial as they’re cracked up to be. This flows nicely from the McDaniels tune — it falls somewhere between a Northern soul stomper and Young Marble Giants.

5. Amps for Christ, “Colors”, Circuits (1999). Glorious rendition of an ancient Scottish folksong. I have a real special spot in my heart for AfC — they got a good deal of attention in the indie rock press in the mid-oughts but, fairly unique among bands that won Pitchfork’s heart, they came not ought of the basement of some Chicagoland suburb but from the late 80s/early 90s SoCal powerviolence scene, a heterogenous outgrowth of US hardcore punk that took inspiration from British grindcore, Bay Area thrash, Sabbathian sludge and injected a much needed dose of good politics into the scene at a time when hardcore’s leading lights were sporting Fred Perry and Freikorps haircuts. Main dude Henry Barnes handled circuits for Man is the Bastard, who are simply one of the greatest bands the United States has ever produced: a heady mix of prog rock, US hardcore, the burgeoning “noise scene” (which was more-or-less in its infancy), thrash metal and god knows what else. As Barnes got older, his music got mellower in some ways, more intense in others, and remained fiercely committed to a better world (with a sardonic sense of humor to boot). It’s hard to say enough good things about them.

6. The Roches, “Runs in the Family”, The Roches (1979). Turns out that that all-women, multipart-harmony-heavy, Dustbowl-folk revival thing started not with Mountain Man’s terrific Made The Harbor (2010) but about three decades earlier with the Roches. This is a weird little record, kind of a mixed bag (and produced, bizarrely, by Robert Fripp, whose unmistakable Frippertronics fit surprisingly well). But some of the tunes are just stunningly beautiful, and this is one of them. The harmonies are heartbreaking and just unconventional enough to keep from turning into saccharine mush. Also I’m a big fan of any folk song that can organically work in a line as tearjerking but nerdy as “I can’t change the law of averages”.

7. Roscoe Holcomb, “I’m a Free Little Bird”, The High Lonesome Sound (1965). Listen, I know we’ve all had enough of that “white working class” mythology so beloved of both wings of capital, Trumpers and liberal imperialists alike. Think of this not in terms of “authenticity” or as a paean halcyon days of (white) class collaboration in America but as a virtuosic and joyous celebration of life that draws its strength from the well of the multinational US working class.

8. The Vibrators, “Whips and Furs”, Pure Mania (1977). From that corner of early punk that was self-consciously retrograde, a mud-caked revival of rock’n’roll, comes this nugget. It opens by quoting a Sly and the Family Stone classic — at that point already a decade old — and hits the heights of harmony with a line about a lothario who “drives a black Cadillac [with] whips and furs in the back”. Real fun pulp mag vibe here. Those ambitious little bass runs top off an already perfect song.

9. Godley and Creme, “Sandwiches of You”, L (1978). Restless, complex, delicate, sophisti-pop from the weirder half of 10cc. I really don’t even know what to say about this: it’s so accessible, funny and bizarre but it also sounds like Gentle Giant playing the Looney Tunes soundtrack. Amazing record. This will forever remind me of driving to rural Kernersville, NC in the middle of the night for work at the massive FedEx warehouse there.  

10. Todd Rundgren, “Long Flowing Robe”, Runt: The Ballad of Todd Rundgren (1971). For a guy who’s done some of the weirdest records in the pop music canon, his more straightforward tracks are remarkably approachable and familiar. Although even this song is, all things considered, pretty weird: it kicks off with a clavinet (more associated with Stevie Wonder than power pop), and it includes prominent bongos and cowbell, Rundgren’s infinitely-multitracked falsettos, and a strange combination of thudding proto-metal drumming and delicate fingerpicking. But it’s also simultaneously a perfect pop song about being lonely whose chorus you can memorize before you’ve heard the full song for the first time. My dad reports that this remained a huge jam at Southeast High in Wichita in the late 70s.

11. Jefferson Airplane, “Watch Her Ride”, After Bathing at Baxter’s (1967). The sound of the Summer of Love becoming heavy metal. A paranoid but tender freakout that clearly points ahead to NWBOHM-style metal while remaining somehow heavier than metal — there’s hardly any distortion on the guitars, but they’re so resonant, their jazzy chords seeming to linger in the air forever, that they end up sounding more powerful than the filthiest drop-tune. Spencer Dryden (nephew of antifascist film star Charlie Chaplin) turns in a great drum performance.

12. Squeeze, “Hard to Find”, Cool for Cats (1979). Underrated gem from Squeeze’s second record. There’s a marvelous contrast between the white-knuckle new wave of the verse and the brief intrusion of good vibes in the chorus with handclaps, lovelorn vox, Glenn Tillbrook’s throaty cry, and bluesy arpeggios that sound like nothing so much as King Crimson (!).

13. The dBs, “Love is for Lovers”, Like This (1984). Stellar, weird powerpop (from Winston-Salem!). This is from their third record, after one half of their great songwriting duo (Chris Stamey, who pops up later on the list) had left. Still, Peter Holsapple could write a mean tune on his own. His yelp in the chorus is magnificent, so full of boyish charm — even in recent live performances, he sounds exactly the same when he sings it. True story, he came into the restaurant that I used to be a cashier at (he still lives in the Triangle, if I’m not mistaken), and I immediately said “holy shit, you’re Peter Holsapple!”, and he goes “this literally never happens”. My dad has some good stories about seeing them live when he lived in Raleigh in the 80s.

14. Orange Juice, “Holiday Hymn”, The Glasgow School (compilation 2005, originally recorded live 1981). My favorite “indie-pop” group of all time. My listening diet when I was 15 was about 80 percent grindcore, 20 percent jazz and it became about 75 percent indie pop after my dad bought me this comp. on a whim. This isn’t actually a “signature OJ” song; it was unreleased for a long time (as far as I can tell), and it’s actually a cover of a Vic Godard song (member of the class of ‘77 punk group Subway Sect before he became a noted soul revivalist). But it’s a perfect song for them to cover; that needling soul bass and the angular Byrds-playing-funk guitars work so well. “Today all the girls / will see our fire begin to glow / today all the girls / will recite Jean-Jacques Rousseau” is a very pretty, if mysterious, little line.

15. Captain Beefheart, “My Head is my Only House Unless It Rains”, Clear Spot (1972). It’s a little unfair that Don van Vliet could be one of the most influential, pioneering rock musicians of all time (Trout Mask Replica 100 percent deserves its reputation) and also have penned a Van Morrison-style soul ballad so deep it makes Van Morrison look like the Bee Gees. This sounds like a slightly offbeat, if dark and powerful, ballad, until about a minute in, and then suddenly the tension that the verse and the pre-chorus bridge build...just goes awry, in the prettiest way. The chorus turns out to be not only not-a-chorus — it only occurs once! — but one of the most subtle, propulsive riffs ever crafted.

16. Kim Fowley, “Mom and Dad”, Automatic (1974). This guy is such a Hollywood sleazebag that his Wikipedia page literally lists his occupation as “impresario”. And yet, this gorgeous fingerpicked Lou Reed-ripoff is one of the most straightforwardly-affecting records I’ve heard in my life. I barely knew who this guy was when Jonathan Woollen announced his death via Facebook and posted this track, and I swear I could barely hold back the tears after the second playback. As much as I hated Lou Reed, I deeply loved Lou Reed, and this is maybe the most Lou Reed thing ever written by someone other than Lou Reed.

17 Kyu Sakamoto, “Sukiyaki” (single, 1961). According to Wikipedia, one of the few “non-Indo-European language songs” to ever crack the Billboard top 100. Even if you don’t speak a word of Japanese — I don’t — its virtues are manifest — an effervescent tune that apparently takes the generic form of a lovelorn pop song but was composed as an anti-fascist protest of the post-WWII US-Japan alliance.

18. Sneakers, “Like a Cuban Crisis”, Racket (1992, originally recorded mid-70s?). It’s hard to imagine something that appeals to me more in descriptive terms than an angular, punchy power-pop group from NC featuring Chris Stamey (dB’s, whom we heard earlier) and Mitch Easter (Let’s Active, feature on previous mixes). And they really live up to the description, from the sparkling twin guitars of the opening riff to the perfect (non-)chorus, and bonus for the genuinely funny satire.

19. Witchfynde, “Leaving Nadir”, Give ‘Em Hell (1980). A jammer from that brief period of the NWOBHM during which a gorgeously-arpeggiated, powerpop-ish intro like the one this cut sports and a pounding, palm-muted verse could comfortably co-exist.

20. Linda Ronstadt, “Heart Like a Wheel”, Heart Like a Wheel (1974). A classic country-rock record — the country-rock record?! — that was once immensely popular, even winning a grammy, but which has so fallen by the wayside amongst the cognoscenti that I don’t feel bad about putting it on a mixtape. It’s a subtly-weird track. After a vertiginous piano opening reminiscent of a solo Bill Evans date, Ronstadt begins the song by detailing, then abruptly disavowing, a simile for the human heart. The song never quite coheres….there’s a beautiful chorus, but one that’s cut short by an extended instrumental break featuring heart-rending cello (?) — but that makes it all the more addictive — how can you hear that (much-delayed) chorus just twice?! Another record that inexplicably reminds me of North Carolina, even though Ronstadt was the scion of a wealthy manufacturing family from Arizona who had, far as I can tell, no special connection to NC.

21. DJ Screw, “Every Day, All Day [South Circle]”, Chapter 226: Million Dollar Hands (1995). A change-of-pace superficially, but that melancholy melody line forms a natural transition from the Ronstadt track in my mind. Absolutely classic, unrelentingly-bleak mid-90s chopping and screwing. The South Circle track is a merciless g-funk cut to begin with, but the Screw remix is a monolithic thing of beauty.

22. The Brides of Funkenstein, “Disco to Go”, Funk or Walk (1978). Hilarious yet deadly-serious, powerful yet loose P-Funk spinoff. This reminds me of swimming at the apartment pool when my parents divorced dad moved to the heart of downtown Kansas City to be near his work; this record was one of the few that we could all agree on as a family to put on the boombox during afternooon swims. This was back when downtown was inhabited by the kind of straight-up phreaks who stuffed hardcore guy-on-guy pornography into their neighbor’s mailboxes apparently just for the hell of it (finding this sort of thing in the mail among the form responses from fan mail I’d sent to Vinny Testaverde is one of my first memories). E-I-O-diss-CO-to-GO!

23. Trinity and U-Brown, “Nice Up the Yard”, (single, 1982). My favorite riff on the “Boxing” rhythm ever released. Something about this just crackles with youthful energy and energy. Almost totally-unknown — this is off a comp I pulled off the internet called DUB HOT DUBS several years back, and I can’t find a single thing about either of the artists, but still, totally classic.

24. Linton Kwesi Johnson, “Fight Dem Back”, Forces of Victory (1979). Militantly progressive Black British reggae. One of the funniest and, yet, most deadly-serious songs ever recorded. 

25. The Dils, “Sound of the Rain”, Made in Canada (1980). Marxist-Leninist powerpop — nuff said. Name a catchier tune whose chorus begins “I don’t listen to the cops / I wish they all were dead”.

26. Fairport Convention, “Cajun Woman”, Unhalfbricking (1969). One of the slighter — but catchier — tracks from a top-10 record for me. Fairport, at that point featuring two of my favorite artists of all time (Linda Thompson and her husband Richard), turned in a massive, spiritual brit-folk-revival LP that was also stuffed with oddities like this zydeco-jammer. Like many Fairport tunes, the rapturous boogie is cut with a surprising gravitas. That slightly discordant note in the chorus is perfect.

27. Magma, “Üdü Ẁüdü”, Üdü Ẁüdü (1976). There are some of those “underground canon” records that are fun to listen to, that tickle your brain, that are intellectually exciting. And then there are some that, even though they’re sung in a made-up language and performed by a French band 32 years before you first heard it, feel so familiar that it’s as if they were written by dear friends. That joyous background whoop at 1:51 is one of my favorite moments in recorded music. A pulsating, polyrhythmic, deliriously joyous mass of music that seems to prefigure “Brothersport” down to the details.

28. The Fans, “Giving Me That Look In Your Eyes”, Giving Me that Look In Your Eyes EP (1979). Feckless, extremely-active Bristol new-wave-cum-powerpop. This reminds me of Vampy Weekend a little bit, actually, just in terms of how dizzily sucrotic this is. Unfortunately they didn’t realize very much other stuff but most “throwaway bands” manage only one great lost single — the Fans had several. If you dig this, have a listen to the equally-great “You Don’t Live Here Anymore”.

29. Alice Coltrane, “Sivaya”, Transcendence (1977). How are hipsters not all over this? Immediately accessible, burning-with-soul, post-apocalyptic prayers to god from one of the most respected jazz musicians of all time. It’s really hard to express how simultaneously and simple and deep this is; there’s something especially beautiful about this ragged, loose beauty when you know exactly how complex and brutal her music could be.

30. DJ Screw, “It Was All a Dream [Shaq]”, Chapter 11: Headed 2 Da Classic (1996?). Mention of the original Shaq record is something of a snarky in-joke amongst people that know anything about basketball or music, but this cut — while manifestly unoriginal — is genuinely beautiful and the Screw mix accentuates the deep vibes. Shaq’s not a great rapper but there is some real solid production on this and the big-workin-class-dreams-come-true bit tugs at the heartstrings.