#I’ll be going back and doing something cleaner for the two of them soon

[autumnblooms]

“The flood, the feeling comes over / How are you so loved and so lonesome?”

Been thinking about Dew and Mountain being the last two left, through three Papas now, and just needing each other now more than ever (that and all @forlorn-crows had to do was say “yes please” to more mountaindew and that’s all the excuse I needed 🖤)

[nomie-11]

Last Call Home

masterlist! | read part 2 here!

synopsis: you had promised years ago that when Vi went to university, you would stay back and take care of Powder and tuition until she graduated. You just didn't understand the toll it would take on yourself.

pairings: vi x reader, powder is lowkey reader's adoptive daughter

“Hey, it’s Vi. Just wanted to call and let you know that I love you and I miss you, and I know I promised I’d be home for the weekend, but Cait needed me for a lab her and Jayce were working on. I promise I’ll come visit you and Pow soon. Happy Valentine's Day, baby.”

—phone call from Vi to Y/n, February 14th, 11:36 p.m.

—————————

Working at The Last Drop wasn’t where you had seen yourself in the long run. When your senior year homeroom teacher had asked you where you wanted to be in the next five years, you would have said university, maybe a job in a field you fell in love with, an apartment with Vi that has a balcony and a nice view.

Not living in the same city in the same dingy apartment since graduation, no college degree and a stagnant job at a bar no one came too unless college was on break. 

But that was you, at the ripe age of twenty two. 

Trudging home after a long shift at the bar, but you had work to get done, things to do before tomorrow. Laundry, bills, maybe dinner if there was enough in the fridge for Powder to eat for the next three days until you got paid and could go food shopping. 

The door to your apartment pushed open with a soft click, the scent of the cheap countertop cleaner you bought immediately assaulting your nose. 

“Hey,” Powder said, not looking up from her seat on the floor by the coffee table. She was doing the art assignment her (ridiculously expensive) therapist had told her to do. 

“Hey baby,” you said, forcing a smile onto your face as you kicked off your work boots and sat heavily onto the couch. “How was school?”

She glanced up at you, her soft, violet blue eyes giving you a one over before she answered. 

“It was good,” she nodded. 

You nodded back, draping an arm over your eyes as you stared up at the ceiling. It was unfair to Powder, and you knew it, but ever since her and Vi’s dad had keeled over and died of a heart attack four years ago, and Vi left for school the year after, you were all she had left. 

“Good.”

————————————

“Fuck, I totally forgot that tomorrow is Powder’s art showcase. I know I promised I’d be back home for it, but finals are next week and I really need to study. Just… send me photos of it, ok? I just want to see her. She’s getting so big. I’m sorry again, Y/n. I miss you.”

——phone call from Vi to Y/n, March 4th, 1:47 p.m.

———————————

Mornings started early. You never had time to make Powder's lunch when you got home from work, so you woke up before dawn to make her breakfast and something somewhat nutritious to eat. The last time you actually had enough money to take her to a family doctor, the only comment they had was that you must have been starving her with how underweight she was. 

You hated the implication, hated yourself more for not being able to prove them wrong. Powder deserved better. You didn’t even bother with breakfast for yourself anymore—not since the last time you stepped on the scale and realized your clothes were fitting tighter than they used to. Some days you told yourself it was just muscle from hauling kegs and scrubbing down the bar; other days you knew better, people aren’t meant to live off of cheap frozen meals and energy drinks. 

You shoved a granola bar and an overripe apple into Powder’s bag, watching her from the corner of your eye as she meticulously folded her art supplies into a second-hand tote you had re-sewn more time than you can count. Her hands moved with care, but there was a tension in her shoulders that weighed too heavy for a thirteen year old. She wasn’t even your sister, you were her sister's girlfriend by relationship, but she might as well have been your daughter at this point. 

She caught you looking, and her soft frown deepened. 

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” she murmured. 

“Doing what?” You asked, tying the handles of her lunch bag into a bow as casually as you could. 

“Pretending everything’s okay.” Powder’s words were quiet, but they struck you like a fist. 

You didn’t answer, just slid her bag over the counter to her and kissed the top of her hair. “Have a good day at school, baby,” you whispered, even as the lump in your throat threatened to consume you. 

——————————

“I finally booked train tickets for May, so I’ll be home for two weeks before I have to go on that research trip. Maybe we can plan a day, just me, you, and Powder? We can go to that art museum she loves—tickets are free for under eighteen, I’m sure we can still pass as high schoolers. Sound good? School is really kicking my ass. I just want to come home.”

——phone call from Vi to Y/n, April 24th, 11:23 a.m.

—————

A part of you wasn’t ready to see Vi. 

It wasn’t anger or resentment—not entirely. It was something deeper, heavier. A dull ache that grew each time her name lit up your phone, her voice brimming with excuses that always sounded too reasonable to argue with. You hated how your heart still jumped at the sound of her voice, how it softened just a little each time that she said she missed you. You hated that a part of you believed her. 

You glanced at Powder’s latest painting propped up against the wall by the coffee table. It was a tangled mess of blues and reds, dark shadows streaking through what looked like broken glass. It was beautiful, haunting even, but it wasn’t a pre-teen’s painting. It was too raw, too heavy. 

Powder was supposed to be excited about Vi’s visit. She’d circled the date on the calendar in her favorite bright pink pen, but now you weren’t so sure. She didn’t talk about her sister much anymore, and when she did, it was only in passing. 

The sound of her footsteps pulled you out of your thoughts. She wandered into the living room, still in her pajamas, her hair a long mess waiting for you to braid it carefully. “Is she really coming this time?” 

You sighed, unsure how to answer. “She says she is. She booked the tickets.”

Powder sat on the couch, curling into herself as she hugged a pillow to her chest. “She always says that.”

You didn’t have the heart to argue. She was right. 

—————

“I’m on the train now! Can’t wait to see you. I know I’ve been gone too long, but I’m gonna make it up to you and Pow. I swear. I brought her those paint sets she’s been wanting. Love you.” 

—phone call from Vi to Y/n, May 5th, 3:13 p.m.

—————

You heard her before you saw her—the creak of the apartment door, her familiar laugh as she stumbled inside carrying her overstuffed duffle bag. Powder froze beside you on the couch, her pencil hovering mid-stroke over her sketchbook. 

“Hey! I’m home!” Vi’s voice was warm, teasing, like she hadn’t been gone for months. 

You stood slowly, your heart pounding in your chest as Vi rounded the corner, her eyes lighting up when they met yours. “There’s my girl,” she said softly, dropping her bag and pulling you into her arms. She smelled the same—like leather and lavender, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke that lingered from the months before she quit. You wanted to melt into her, but something held you back. 

Powder didn’t move from the couch. She stared at Vi, her face unreadable. “You’re late,” she said quietly. 

Vi’s smile faltered. “I know, Pow. I’m sorry. The train—”

“Doesn’t matter.” Powder stood, brushing past her sister without another word and disappearing into her room. 

Vi’s shoulders sagged. “She hates me, doesn’t she?” 

You shook your head, forcing a small smile. “She doesn’t hate you. She just doesn’t know how to trust you anymore.” 

Vi winced, her hands finding your waist as she looked at you with familiar, guilty eyes. “Do you still trust me?” 

Your throat tightened. You wanted to say yes, wanted to believe it was true. But trust wasn’t built on promise—it was built on presence. “I don’t know,” you whispered. 

And for the first time since you met her twelve years ago, Vi didn’t have a comeback. 

—————

“Pow’s still mad, isn’t she? I don’t blame her, but it sucks. I’m trying, Y/n. I swear I’m trying. I just… didn’t think everything would be so different. Anyway, tomorrow’s our museum day, right? I’ve been looking forward to it all week. I want it to be perfect. I’ll make it up to the both of you, I promise.” 

—phone call from Vi to Y/n, May 7th, 9:42 p.m.

—————

The museum was quieter than usual, the midday crowd sparse except for a few families and a group of art students sketching by a massive installation in the lobby. Powder walked a few steps ahead of you and Vi, her eyes scanning the walls, taking in every piece like she was cataloging them in her mind. 

Vi tried to catch up with her, her usual playful energy bubbling to the surface. “Hey, Pow, wait up!”

Powder didn’t slow down. She stopped in front of a painting—abstract, full of swirling colors and chaotic lines. “This one’s new,” she said, her voice distant. 

Vi stepped closer, her gaze flickering between Powder and the painting. “It’s cool. What do you think it’s about?” 

Powder shrugged, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Maybe it’s about someone trying to fix something, but they keep messing it up instead.” 

Vi flinched, but you placed a gentle hand on her arm before she could respond. “It’s beautiful, Pow,” you said softly. 

Powder glanced at you, her expression softening just a little. “Yeah. I guess.” 

Vi stayed quiet after that, no attempts to joke or lighten the mood. You could tell she felt out of place, like a guest in her little sister and her girlfriend’s lives. 

Lunch was better—Powder perked up when she was able to order a large side of fries instead of splitting a small with you, and Vi managed to coax a small smile out of her when the three of you went out for ice cream after, and Vi shelled out the extra twenty five cents for rainbow sprinkles on top. But the weight between them lingered, a silent reminder that some things couldn’t be fixed in a single day. 

—————

“Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to say I’ll wait up for you tonight, okay? I know you’ve been working late, but I want to spend some time with you. Maybe we can talk. Love you, Y/n.” 

—phone call from Vi to Y/n, May 9th, 7:12 p.m.

—————

You came home long past midnight, your body aching from another double shift. The sound of the TV murmuring in the background greeted you as you pushed the door open, and there was Vi, sprawled out on the ouch, half-asleep but still waiting for you. 

“Hey,” she mumbled, sitting up as you dropped your bag and kicked off your worn shoes. “You look exhausted.” 

“I am,” you said simply, your voice flat. 

Vi frowned, her eyes scanning you more closely now. She took in the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slumped, the stains on your work uniform no amount of scrubbing could get out, the strain on the clothes you couldn’t afford to replace. Her gaze drifted to the pile of unopened bills on the kitchen counter, the worn-out sneakers by the door, the way Powder’s bedroom light was still on because she refused to sleep unless she was sure you were home. 

“Y/n…” Vi started, her voice low and uncertain. 

“What?” you asked, dropping heavily onto the couch beside her. 

“I didn’t realize…” She gestured vaguely around the apartment. “All of this. How much you’re doing. For Pow, for—everything.” 

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What did you think I was doing while you were at school, Vi? Sitting around waiting for you to come back?”

Her face fell, guilt washing over her. “No, I just—”

“You didn’t notice,” you interrupted, your voice sharp. “Because you weren’t here.” 

Vi looked away, her jaw tight. “I’m here now.” 

“Yeah,” you said bitterly. “For two weeks. And then you’re gone again, off to some research trip or lab or whatever else is more important than being home for Powder’s fourteenth birthday and her next art showcase and all of her other achievements.” 

Silence settled between you, heavy and suffocating. Vi reached for your hand, her touch tentative. “I know I’ve screwed up,” she said quietly. “And I know I can’t fix it in two weeks, but I want to try. Please, Y/n, let me try.” 

You wanted to believe her, but the exhaustion in your bones made it hard to hope. Pulling your hand away as you stood, you couldn't bear to look at her. “I’m going to bed.” 

Vi stayed on the couch long after you disappeared into the bedroom, the weight of her absence these past years settling over her like a heavy blanket. For the first time, she truly saw the cracks in the life she’d left behind—and the toll they’d taken on the people who’d given her the means to leave. 

—————

“Hey, Cait. It’s me. Look, I’ve been thinking, and I know it’s a big ask, but… is that offer for the spare apartment still on the table? It’s just—things here are worse than I thought. Y/n is working herself to death, and Powder’s not doing great. I want to bring them to Piltover. They deserve better than this. 

I swear, I’ll make it work. I’ll get a part-time job, and once we graduate, I’ll pay you back for everything. I just need to know if it’s okay, if you’re okay with it. They’re—well, they’re  my everything, Cait. I can’t keep leaving them like this. Let me know, okay? Thanks. For everything.” 

—phone call from Vi to Caitlyn Kiramman, May 9th, 11:37 p.m.

—————

The restaurant wasn’t fancy by Piltover standards, but it was leagues above the dingy diners you frequented when you had enough saved up to get Powder a vanilla milkshake and a burger. The dim lighting made the worn wooden tables look almost elegant, and the scent of freshly baked bread and sizzling garlic filled the air. Powder’s eyes were wide as she took it all in, her sketchbook clenched tightly in her hands like she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Vi had insisted on treating the two of you, though you weren’t sure where she’d gotten the money. “A friend helped out,” she’d said with a sheepish grin, waving off your questions. 

The meal was nice—better than nice, really. Powder had polished off a plate of pasta bigger than her head, and Vi hadn’t stopped smiling since you walked in. But when the plates were cleared and the check paid, Vi leaned forward, her expression turning serious. 

“I need to talk to you both about something,” she said, her voice steady but soft. 

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at Powder, who was busy doodling on a napkin. “What’s going on?” 

Vi took a deep breath. “I want you both to come to Piltover with me.” 

Your stomach dropped. “What?” 

“I talked to Caitlyn,” Vi continued, her gaze fixed on yours. “She has a spare apartment, and she said we can stay there. Rent-free. She’s even willing to cover Powder’s school and therapy until I can get a good enough job to take care of it myself. And you can enroll in community college until I graduate and transfer to Piltover University. A fresh start for the both of you.” 

Your head was spinning. “Vi, that’s… that’s huge. We can’t just pack up and leave. What about Powder’s school? She can’t handle transferring in the middle of the year. Finding a new therapist she trusts? My job?”

“I know it’s a lot,” Vi said quickly, her hand reaching for yours. “But Caitlyn’s family is crazy rich, and she said she can help with everything. We’ll find Powder a new school with a great art program, a new therapist to help with her BPD, whatever she needs. And you won’t have to work like this anymore, Y/n. You can focus on what you want to do, not just surviving.” 

Powder looked up from her drawing, her eyes wide. “You want us to move to Piltover?” 

“Yeah, Pow,” Vi said gently. “I know it’s scary, but I think it would be really good for you. For us.” 

You pulled your hands back, shaking your head. “This is too much, Vi. What if it doesn’t work out? What if we can’t—”

“It will work,” VI interrupted, her voice firm but pleading. “I’ll make sure of it. I’m not asking you to trust Caitlyn or her family. Just trust me. I’ve got you.” 

Silence hung between you, heavy with unspoken fears. Powder’s gaze flickered between the two of you, her expression uncertain but curious with the hope of a future you wished you could provide but would never be able to afford on your own. 

“I don’t know,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need time to think about it.” 

“Take all the time you need,” Vi said, her tone softening. “But just… think about it, okay? You can’t keep up like this.” 

You nodded, but the weight of the decision settled in your chest like a stone. Vi’s words made sense, but they didn’t erase the fear gnawing at you. This might have been miserable, but this was home. 

—————

“Do you think Powder will hate me for leaving again? I don’t want to go.” 

—phone call from Vi to Y/n, May 15th, 2:54 p.m.

—————

The train station was as dreary as you remembered it being the first time Vi left. The cold concreted floors and harsh fluorescent lights did nothing to make the moment any easier. Powder clung to Vi’s waist like her life depended on it, her sobs muffled against the soft leather of her sister’s favorite jacket. 

“Hey, Pow,” Vi said softly, brushing a hand through her hair. “You’ve gotta let go, okay? I promise I’ll come back. You’ll see me again soon.” 

Powder shook her head, her tears soaking into Vi’s clothes. “Please, Violet! I don’t want you to go!” she choked out, calling her older sister by her full name. 

You stood a few steps away, arms crossed tightly over your chest, trying to keep it together. But when Vi turned to you, her eyes shining with unshed tears, your resolve cracked.

“You’ll take care of her, right?” Vi asked, her voice breaking just a little. 

“Always,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. 

Vi stepped forward and pulled you into a tight hug, Powder squeezed between the two of you. “I love you,” she murmured against your lips. “Both of you.” 

“I love you too,” you said, your voice barely audible as you buried your face in her shoulder. 

The train whistle blew, loud and piercing, signaling the last boarding call. Vi pulled back reluctantly, kneeling to press a kiss to Powder’s forehead, and then standing to press a gentle kiss to your lips. “I’ll call as soon as I get back to my apartment,” she promised, her voice trembling. 

Powder reached for her again, but you gently pried her hands away, lifting her up as if she was still the nine year old girl watching her sister leave for the first time. She wrapped herself around like she had when she was younger, her legs around your waist and her arms clinging to your neck as if letting go would make everything fall apart. 

Vi hesitated on the platform, her eyes fixed on the two of you until the last second. Then she turned and boarded the train, disappearing through the doors. 

You and Powder stood there as the train pulled away, her sobs shaking against your chest. Watching Vi go felt like losing her all over again, and you couldn’t stop the tears that slipped down your cheeks. 

“It’s okay, baby,” you whispered as you held her tight against your chest as if she was a backpack you had strapped to your front. “We’ll be okay. Let’s go home.” 

But even as you said it, you weren’t sure if you believed it. 

The walk back to the apartment was long and heavy, Powder’s weight in your arms a reminder of how young she still was despite everything she’d been through. Her sobs quieted eventually, but she didn’t let go, her face buried against your neck like she was trying to hide from the world. 

When you finally made it home, the apartment felt emptier than it ever had before. 

—————

“Hey, Vi. It’s Y/n. I know you’re probably in a lab right now, but I just dropped off Powder at school. I quit my job on an impulse last night, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I can’t do this anymore. I miss you, and I just— I think we’ll do it. I think we’ll move to Piltover.” 

—phone call from Y/n to Vi, June 1st, 8:02 a.m.

Read part 2 here!

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

[mapsthewanderer]

Plated I

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 7500 words. Slowburn bonanza, 18+ series. Non MC! AU building and Raf’s and Zayne’s time to shine…. Aaaand Sylus’s delicious power play as your hot boss. Let’s get to know them! This chapter contains: fluff, stress, flirting, cheek kissing, sexual tension and banter. I loved writing this. Buckle up and (hopefully) enjoy this slow burn.

Chapters: Pilot, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven

Tags: @gavin3469

Critic vs artist | Chapter one

The air is wet with last night’s rain—still clinging to the sidewalks like spilled thoughts.

Raf walks beside you, steps uneven on purpose—like he’s turning the sidewalk into a runway only he can see. His hair is damp at the edges, violet curls falling into soft, intentional chaos across his brow. The plum of his bangs catches the morning sunlight like ink in motion.

His jacket—a deep charcoal wrap, belted high with asymmetrical cuts and layered fabric—flutters slightly as he moves, half-open despite the chill. The collar’s sharp, exaggerated, and undeniably Raf. His boots are sleek. High-shine. Expensive. One hand is gloved in soft leather. The other? Bare, save for a ring that glints like starlight—delicate but bold.

It’s not mismatched. It’s curated.

“If I die today,” he says, “make sure my eulogy includes the phrase ‘death by undercooked critic.’ And that someone throws rose petals onto the stove.”

You glance over. “Rose petals on the stove?”

He grins. “It’s poetic, Flame. Extremely me.”

You give him a look. He grins wider, eyes catching the early light like stained glass.

“Too soon?”

You nudge his shoulder. “Too early.”

He makes a noise like he’s been personally wounded. “God. I forgot you’re one of those. The focused ones. Calm-before-the-storm types. Do you ever just spiral?”

You deadpan. “I spiral efficiently.”

“Terrifying,” he whispers, full of admiration.

The city around you is half-awake. Sidewalks slick, gutters glinting. The restaurant glows faintly ahead, dark windows waiting.

You both fall into silence for a moment, walking in step.

Then softly, you say, “Hey. Heads up—things might be weird today.”

Raf tilts his head.

“Caleb and Zayne,” you explain. “They had a moment. Yesterday. Tense. Quiet. But… loud underneath.”

You pause. “It shook something.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then nods. “Sooo the air’s going to taste like resentment and repressed masculinity. Got it.”

“Exactly.”

Raf exhales through his nose, flicking his curls out of his eyes like he’s shedding a mood.

“Good to know. I’ll keep it light. For morale.”

You and Raf step through the back entrance together, the door creaking shut behind you. The kitchen looms ahead—cold steel and quiet shadows—but you both veer left, ducking into the locker room.

It’s dim and still inside. Just the low hum of the old overhead light and the faint scent of starch and citrus cleaner clinging to the air. Your lockers sit side by side, scuffed and dented, familiar.

Raf peels off his coat slowly, flicking damp curls out of his eyes with one elegant shake of his head. He hangs his coat with care, draping it over the hook like it deserves mood lighting.

You follow, tugging your jacket off and unlocking your locker with fingers still a little cold from outside.

For a moment, there’s only the quiet rustle of fabric—aprons being tied, sleeves being rolled, the low click of latches and belt snaps.

Then Raf speaks, his voice softer than before.

“Do you think he’ll hate me?”

You glance over.

He’s staring at the inside of his locker like it might hold the answer. Like the old recipe cards and mirror decals taped there have started whispering judgments.

You blink. “Who?”

He gestures vaguely toward nothing. Toward everything: “The critic. The entity. The sentient fork who’s coming to reduce me to a single flavor note.”

You pause, slipping your arms through your chef coat sleeves.

“They don’t know you.”

He looks at you then—eyes sharper, lower. His voice drops into something honest.

“Then let’s make sure they remember me.”

You smile.

You’re both halfway dressed now—necks exposed, apron loose. You reach for your hair tie just as Raf steps a little closer, shoulder brushing yours.

He bumps you lightly. Then stops.

Turns halfway, taps his own cheek with one finger.

“This is where you wish me luck, traditionally. Culinary custom. Very sacred stuff.”

You raise a brow. “I’ll kiss your cheek if this turns out decent.”

He gasps. “Blackmail? In this economy?”

You shake your head, reaching into your locker again. But you’re not quick enough.

Raf leans in and steals the kiss anyway—a soft smack against your cheek, close and quick and warm. He lingers just long enough that you feel the smile in it.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t step away completely.

He glances over his shoulder, eyes catching yours—blue and flickering pink in the light, like heat caught in a gemstone.

He sees the blush blooming on your face. Sees everything.

“Oh no,” he murmurs dramatically. “I forgot how adorable you are in the morning. Now how am I supposed to focus?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Raf.”

“I know, I know,” he says, waving one elegant hand. “Discipline. Art. Professionalism. I am a temple of restraint.” A beat. “But temples still burn, you know.”

He pauses then—eyes narrowing, lips curling.

“Watch out, little flame.” His voice drops an octave. “You’ll set the kitchen on fire before we even clock in.”

He winks. Once. And walks out like he owns the day, chef coat flaring behind him like a final act.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are still warm. And when you step out after him, into the glow of steel and citrus—

the fire waits

——————————————————————————

You round the prep counter with Raf trailing behind you like a ghost in glitter, still drying his hands on a kitchen towel he brought from home “because the restaurant ones are too emotionally rough.”

The kitchen’s not empty.

Zayne is already at his station—of course he is. Sleeves rolled. Forearms scarred and steady. His coat is folded with perfect corners beneath the counter, like it needs to be reminded that it doesn’t run the place today.

He’s working in near-silence, slicing spring onions into paper-thin curls. They pile like green silk on the cutting board, each slice identical. His movements are precise enough to be boring—if they weren’t terrifying.

He doesn’t look up.

“Morning,” you offer softly.

No answer at first.

Then, after three more exacting cuts:

“Morning.”

Not cold. Not quite warm. Just… there.

Raf squints over your shoulder. “Ugh. The ghost of conflict past.”

You shoot him a glance. “Don’t.”

He shrugs, not apologizing. “Just observing. The air’s ten degrees colder over here.”

Zayne says nothing, but the corner of his jaw flexes.

You move to your own station. Raf hovers.

“So,” he says, “what’s the vibe? Broken trust? Unspoken resentment? Tense ex-lovers with knives?” Raf pauses. “Actually, I’d watch that show.”

You lean closer. “He’s still not talking. Not really.”

Raf glances toward Zayne. “Right. Post-snap lockdown. How subtle.”

Zayne finally glances up. One slow look at Raf. One at you. No change in expression.

“I can hear you.”

Raf smiles. “Oh good. We were worried.”

You bite back a laugh. Zayne resumes slicing like your voices are ambient noise—like music he doesn’t like, but can’t be bothered to turn off.

Then—

The door opens again.

No bootstep this time.

Just a soft shuffle, like someone walked in without quite deciding to stay.

Xavier appears at the edge of the kitchen, arms full of folded towels and a paper bag clutched in one hand like a peace offering.

His blond bangs are messy from the hood he hasn’t removed yet. His jacket is only half-zipped. His expression is, as usual, unreadable—but peaceful. Like he wandered in from a dream and hasn’t realized he’s supposed to be stressed yet.

He sets the towels down carefully on the counter near you.

“Lavender. From the shelf above the oven,” he says, as if that explains everything.

You blink. “…Thanks?”

He nods once. Then adds, “You forgot it last time. I remembered.”

Raf presses a hand to his heart. “How is he the softest and the most haunting?”

Xavier glances at him. “Because I nap.”

“Deeply unfair,” Raf mutters.

Xavier drifts toward his usual spot near the pantry—not quite a station, not quite out of the way. Just his. He starts unpacking the bag with the kind of slow, reverent movements people usually save for altars.

Then—

The door opens a final time. Boots. Solid. Familiar.

Caleb steps into the kitchen with two heavy bags balanced in his arms, his coat still unbuttoned, hair damp from the outside air. He sets the bags on the prep table with a dull thunk and breathes in the room like he’s taking stock of a battlefield.

He doesn’t say good morning.

His gaze sweeps the kitchen—Zayne still slicing like the cutting board owes him a debt, Raf stretching like a dancer, Xavier calmly arranging bundles of herbs like they’re poetry.

His eyes find you last.

And stay there.

Just a second longer than they should.

Then he turns, moves to the board, rolls up his sleeves in one clean motion.

“Brigade.”

His voice cuts through the soft clatter of prep like it was built to. Not loud. Just final.

“Team’s all here—more or less. Make yourselves useful.”

He doesn’t wait for replies. Instead, Caleb sets a folded sheet of paper on the board—creases sharp, corners squared. Notes. Preferences. A map of the critic’s palate, etched in black ink and personal experience.

“No foam. No tricks. No ‘modernist interpretations.’” He glances—just briefly—at Raf.

Raf throws up his hands in mock offense. “I wasn’t going to start with fire, Maestro. I was going to end with it.”

Caleb ignores him.

“No fennel. No licorice. No licorice disguised as fennel. He’ll taste it.”

He moves a pen across the prep sheet like he’s marking a warfront.

“He cares about structure. Doesn’t want a journey. Wants a statement.”

Zayne, across the room, doesn’t say a word—but he’s watching. Knife paused.

Caleb glances at Xavier’s corner—still calm, still minimal, towels folded and untouched herbs set aside with gentle care.

No prep laid out.

But still, Caleb says nothing. Just: “I want calm stations. I want rhythm. This isn’t about invention. This is about control.”

His hand hovers over the last line on the page—something written smaller.

You lean in, and Caleb murmurs it without looking at you: “He remembers everything. Every plate. Every chef. And he writes like he’s sharpening a knife.”

You swallow. You already knew that. But hearing it from Caleb—voice low, composed—it lands heavier.

He finally looks at you again. Direct. Steady.

“This will be clean,” he says. “No emotion on the line.”

And then—like it��s already decided—

“Service starts when I say it does.”

Zayne doesn’t turn. Caleb doesn’t acknowledge him either.

The silence is short—but sharp.

Raf claps his hands once. Loud. Unnecessary.

“Okay, people. We’re marinating in tension. Can we please toss some oil on this emotional salad and move forward?”

Xavier, without looking up: “You don’t marinate salad.”

“It’s metaphorical, White Rabbit”

“It’s inaccurate.”

You step in, breath steadying as you move to the center. “Let’s just… start. Please?”

There’s a beat of stillness.

Then—a sharp clap. Measured. Final.

Caleb doesn’t even look up from the prep list.

“As I said,” he drawls, voice smooth as steel. “I start the service.”

He flips a page, scans, then adds—still calm, still deadly precise: “And before we start, I expect the tightest, cleanest prep this kitchen’s ever seen.” A pause. His eyes flick up, catching yours with a hint of something almost teasing. “No excuses. No shortcuts. If you’re not proud of it, it doesn’t go on the line.”

Then he moves.

And the kitchen follows.

Stations are claimed. Spoons clink. Steel kisses wood.

The line wakes up—

And so does the fire.

And then—

From the hallway, a new voice:

“Smells expensive.”

All of you freeze.

Dressed like he has dinner reservations in three places at once. Charcoal coat. Silk scarf. Not a hair out of place: Sylus.

“Morning,” he offers, casually. “Anyone dead yet?”

“Not yet,” Caleb murmurs. “We’re warming up.”

Sylus glances around. Takes in the silence.

“Ah,” he says, voice full of velvet and teeth. “The critic tension. Charming. And what’s this?” He points vaguely between Caleb and Zayne. “Frostbite?”

No one answers.

Sylus grins.

“Excellent.”

He strolls to the coffee station and starts inspecting beans like he’s about to invest in them. His fingers drift over the tins with exaggerated precision, turning each label like he’s judging a vintage.

Then—

“Chef Caleb,” he says casually, not looking up, “tell me the groceries weren’t tragic this time. I’d like to pair our slow collapse with a wine that doesn’t taste like disappointment.”

Caleb doesn’t take the bait. Just answers, flat as steel: “Sea urchin from Hokkaido. Stone fruit from Provence. Veal, marble-grade, cut to spec.” A pause. “Sour cherries air-freighted from Kyoto.”

“Mm,” Sylus hums, as if this means something to him. It does. He plucks a bottle from beneath the bar and sets it aside—deep burgundy glass, gold foil glinting faintly.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed now, gaze drifting across the crew. His expression softens—just enough.

“Well, you’ve got your knives. Your fire. Your egos. And my blessing.” A pause. His eyes land on you.

“Don’t ruin it, chefs.”

But there’s trust in the bite.

He lifts the bottle slightly, a toast without the glass.

And turns back to the espresso grinder like none of it mattered in the first place.

You turn back to your station. The mood is sharpened. Not ruined—just pulled tighter.

Everything is clean. Everything is ready.

And you can feel it in your bones.

——————————————————————————

The sound is quiet.

Not a bang. Not a rush. Just the soft click of the front door opening—far too early.

You hear it before you see it. Before the burners are even fully lit. Before the air is properly warm. Caleb doesn’t flinch. Just lifts his head slowly, hands steady on a citrus cure, and looks toward the door.

You and Raf freeze mid-motion at your stations. Zayne pauses with a spoon just above a tasting dish.

The kitchen breathes in.

Two figures step inside.

The first is exactly what you expected: pressed collar, coat folded neatly over one arm, small notepad in hand. The critic. As sharp and as unreadable as the stories say.

But behind him—

A second. Younger. Tall. Black coat, hands in pockets, eyes already scanning the room like he’s cataloguing everything. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak.

You can feel it shift then.

This is no casual meal.

This is a test.

The sound of a blade gently tapping down on wood punctuates the pause. Zayne sets his spoon down. Raf quietly reaches for his tasting spoon but doesn’t move to use it.

Caleb speaks first.

“Chefs—eyes up.”

Not loud. But the air tightens.

He walks slowly toward the pass, glancing once at the unexpected second guest. No comment. Just adjusts.

“New seating. Same service. We keep the plan.”

The hush breaks in tiny cracks. Zayne nods without a word, fingers already resuming motion. Xavier turns, smooth as a whisper, and reaches for folded linens like nothing’s happened. Raf, beside you, exhales through his nose like a performer before curtain.

“Fantastic,” he murmurs. “Not one, but two mouths to impress. Double the trauma. Double the applause.” He glances at you. “We live or die by sugar today, little flame. Let’s make it fatal.”

The guests sit. Not a word exchanged. The critic sets down his pen. The protégé crosses one leg over the other, still watching the kitchen like it might blink first.

Sylus is already at the table, poised with the bottle in hand, pouring the aperitif with practiced grace. The light catches on the rim of crystal as he leans in—shoulders relaxed, smile unreadable.

“From the northern slopes of the Montagne de Reims,” Sylus says, his voice smooth as the pour itself. “Chalk at the roots. Mist in the mornings. Pinot Noir grown in tension—power wrapped in elegance.” He tilts the bottle with perfect control, adding lightly:“It’s the kind of champagne that remembers the weight of the soil it came from—and chooses to rise anyway.”

He doesn’t overstay. Doesn’t sell. Just lets the silence sip it in.

Then he straightens, nods once, and disappears with the same ease he arrived—leaving the glass full, the table waiting, and the kitchen watching.

And just like that—

Caleb lifts his head, eyes scanning the line.

“Fire it.”

The word lands sharp and steady. Not loud. Not rushed. Just final.

Service begins

Plates begin to move. The pass pulses under Caleb’s rhythm—measured, exact. He’s not calling like a drill sergeant. He’s conducting.

Every sound has weight. Every motion has intent.

But the balance is delicate.

You can feel the heat beneath the surface—not just from the burners.

Eyes are watching. Notes are being taken.

And the kitchen knows it. Zayne’s fish lands a second too early. Just one. Caleb doesn’t raise his voice—doesn’t even look. Just:

“Again.” Short. Clipped. Trusting Zayne will fix it without needing more. Xavier misses the tarragon. You catch it first—your hand already reaching for the small bundle. He takes it from you with a calm nod. No flinch. Just adjustment.

And you— you almost let your glaze over-reduce. A second too long. The edges go from shine to danger. Then—

Caleb is there.

Behind you. Close. But not crowding.

His hand moves over yours—lightly, not stopping, just correcting. Two fingers to the flame. A slight shift. The heat eases.

He doesn’t scold.

He doesn’t even pause.

His voice is low, steady, just above the simmering pans: “Breathe.”

You do.

He stays there for a beat longer.

Then—softer: “You’ve got it.”

You nod. The motion feels smaller than your breath. But he sees it.

And then he’s gone—already moving down the line, already guiding the next plate with a tilt of his chin and a barely audible correction.

Your hands—steady now—move with purpose.

The critic’s still watching.

But right now, you’re not cooking for him.

You’re cooking because Caleb told you you could.

You finish the plate. Wipe the edge clean. Adjust a single leaf of micro basil that’s refusing to sit just right.

Almost. You know it’s almost.

You hesitate, but call it anyway.

“Hands.”

And the second the word leaves your mouth,

you know—

this isn’t perfection.

But it’s yours.

And it’s already gone.

The plate disappears down the line.

You exhale.

But only halfway.

Because across from you, Raf is silent.

And that’s how you know—he’s locked in.

Head bowed. Shoulders relaxed but utterly still. The chaos is gone. Only control remains.

His bangs—always unruly—are clipped back with something that looks like it came from a Paris runway and a craft store at the same time. His eyes narrow, squinting so hard the pink fades to almost nothing, lost beneath the glassy sheen of focus.

He’s crafting the final course. The pièce de résistance. The thing that might make—or break—the entire impression.

His station is unusually neat. Garnishes arranged by color. Sauces lined in perfect spirals on tasting spoons. His coat is unbuttoned at the collar, but that’s the only concession to chaos.

He’s torching citrus slices with exacting grace, layering them on a bitter caramel base that smells like late summer and secrets.

Then—Caleb steps in beside him.

No words at first. Just a quiet pause as he picks up a spoon from the edge of Raf’s tray. Tastes. Waits.

A beat. Then a slight nod.

Approval.

Raf freezes for a fraction of a second—enough for you to notice.

Then he grins—low and crooked. “Maestro,” he says softly, almost like it’s a blessing. It’s playful. But there’s real warmth in it.

Caleb doesn’t reply. Just moves on.

But Raf lingers in that moment a little longer than he should, watching him go. Then exhales, flicks a speck of zest from his cuff, and returns to the dish like something just clicked into place.

Like maybe—maybe—he really is about to save the night

You step up beside him.

“What are you making?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just says:

“A memory.”

You blink. “Whose?”

He finally looks up. And winks.

“Hopefully theirs.”

——————————————————————————

The final dish lands on the pass.

It’s not extravagant. It’s not loud.

It’s precise. Deep. Beautiful.

You recognize the scent of browned butter and smoked sugar. There’s a curl of citrus skin twisted like a ribbon at the center. A single candied petal pressed gently to the rim.

Caleb lifts the plate. Looks at it a beat longer than usual. He says nothing.

Then: “Send it.”

And it goes.

You all watch from the line.

The critic tastes first. Pauses.

Then the protégé.

No words.

But they eat it all. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

The critic sets his fork down. Folds his napkin.

He stands.

The protégé lingers a second longer. He doesn’t rise until the chair squeaks beneath him. Then he turns—slowly—just enough to glance back toward the kitchen.

His eyes scan the line.

They meet yours.

Cool. Measured. Calculating.

Then shift to Raf.

The two of them hold that stare a moment longer than necessary.

Still no smile.

But a slow, thoughtful nod.

And then—they’re gone.

The door closes behind them. Not loud. But the sound echoes in the space like someone just set down a judgment too heavy for the air.

The kitchen is still.

Utensils down. Hands still. Breaths held.

Even the burners hiss softer.

Then—

“Puh-lease.” Raf exhales—loud, dramatic, like he’s been holding his breath for three courses too long.

He steps back from the counter, stretching his arms overhead with a noise halfway between agony and art.

“If they didn’t love that, I’m moving to France and becoming a performance artist who cooks exclusively with grief and seaweed.”

He drops his arms. One gloved hand presses to his chest, the other fanning himself.

“Opening night will be called Salted Despair.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. A real one. Small, but sharp with relief.

Caleb doesn’t. But he looks at Raf. Really looks at him. One long glance—unblinking, unreadable, then softened. He gives a single, subtle nod.

Respect.

Raf catches it. His back straightens—not in pride, but recognition. And then he turns to you.

His voice isn’t loud this time. It’s steady. Close.

“Tell me you saw that.”

You nod. “I saw it.”

His lashes flick down once, slow. The faintest exhale escapes his lips. His voice drops, velvet-threaded.

“I was really trying.”

You reach for his hand. Just a light brush of your fingers over his—like grounding a live wire. Just enough.

“It showed.”

His eyes search yours for a moment.

Then he smiles.

Not wide. Not cheeky. Just… full.

He exhales once more, quieter this time.

“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. And he starts wiping down his station like nothing happened—like he didn’t just save the soul of the night.

But you saw it. And he knows you did.

——————————————————————————

Raf’s wiping down his station, humming a low, off-key version of something orchestral and absolutely made up. The rest of the kitchen is beginning to move again—small clinks, closing drawers, the soft snap of towels flung over shoulders.

You glance toward Zayne.

He’s at his station. Cleaning with the kind of focus that looks peaceful to anyone who doesn’t know better.

But you’ve seen it before—the way he gets when there’s too much in his head. When the silence becomes a shield.

He finishes polishing the blade of his chef’s knife. Places it gently in the leather roll. Buckles it tight.

He doesn’t look up.

You cross the room slowly.

“Walking out?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer with words.

Just slings his bag over one shoulder and gives you the smallest tilt of his head—yes.

But when he turns toward the door, he hesitates.

And you go with him.

——————————————————————————

The alley behind the restaurant is quiet. The pavement slick with old rain, the city lights painting it gold.

You walk in silence. The only sound is the rhythm of your shoes against cracked cement, and the low thrum of traffic somewhere far away.

Zayne keeps his hands in his pockets. His shoulders aren’t tight—but they’re held. Like he hasn’t decided yet whether to let the day go.

After a block, he speaks.

Barely above the hum of the night.

“It was good.”

You nod beside him.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Not perfect.”

You glance sideways. “Does it need to be?”

Zayne exhales through his nose. Not a sigh—just a controlled release of thought.

“Maybe not.”

He walks a little further before speaking again. This time, there’s something quieter in his voice.

“Culinary school used to feel like this. Late nights. Long walks. Me, you. Caleb.” A pause. “We’d finish service and grab snacks we couldn’t afford. Steam buns. Cheap noodles. Whatever was hot and fast.”

“You always ordered too much.”

A beat.

“But only because you were saving yourself for dessert.”

“So you two could eat it without guilt,” he says flatly, but his mouth tugs slightly at the edge. “It was routine. Caleb and I—we didn’t talk much then either. Not about anything real. Just… walked. Same way we do tonight.”

He glances at you, hazel green eyes catching the light. “It helped back then. It still helps.”

Your chest aches in that quiet, familiar way—the kind that comes from being remembered right.

He walks a little further before speaking again. His voice stays even, but there’s a softness to it—something closer than nostalgia.

“I was never much of a talker.”

A pause.

“But I liked listening. To you and Caleb.”

You glance over. He doesn’t stop walking, just keeps his eyes forward—hands still in his pockets like he’s measuring time.

“You’d argue about everything. Techniques, temperature, plating styles…”

Another pause, dry at the edges.

“You once debated resting meat versus flash-searing for twenty minutes in a heatwave.”

You huff a quiet laugh. That sounds right.

Zayne finally looks over, eyes glinting just a little under the streetlight.

“I kept score, you know.”

You blink. “What?”

“The debates. I kept a tally.” He lifts his brows, faintly amused. “You’re still ahead. Seventy-eight to seventy-three.”

You stare at him.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

“You were always better at saucework. Caleb was obsessed with proteins. You balanced better.”

It hits you gently—but deep. That he remembers. That he watched. That he kept track.

You bump his arm with yours. “I’m going to need that scoreboard in writing.”

Zayne’s mouth twitches—almost a smile.

“Of course. It’s laminated.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You glance down.

RAFAYEL: where’s my kiss. blackmail worked. obviously.

You bite back a laugh and type quickly.

YOU: you’ll have to wait for the review.

Three dots appear.

RAFAYEL: liar. wounded. betrayed. art ruined. jk i love you.

Your chest warms.

You’re still smiling when you tuck your phone away.

Zayne notices.

He doesn’t say anything right away—but then: “Was that who I think it was?”

You pause. “Raf?”

He makes a soft sound—not quite agreement.

You glance at him. “Who did you think it was?”

Zayne hesitates. Just for a second. A flicker of something crossing his face. Then he shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter.”

You walk a few steps further.

Then you stop.

And without a word—you hug him.

His body stiffens at first, caught off-guard. But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t make a sound.

You feel the slow breath leave his chest. The quiet drop of his shoulders.

When you pull back, his voice is barely audible:

“Thanks, Ace.”

You nod.

“Always.”

And the two of you keep walking—together.

Quiet. Steady. Closer than silence.

——————————————————————————

Back at the restaurant, the lights are off—except for one.

A low amber glow from the wine bar, where Sylus leans against the counter, glass in hand, suit still sharp. The room is quiet now. Still.

He watches the door where the two of you disappeared, then raises his glass—not to the critic. Not to the service.

“Stars are slow things,” he says into the stillness.

He takes a sip.

And the restaurant sleeps.

——————————————————————————

The kitchen is quieter the next day. Not dead—just dulled, like someone turned the volume down on the world but left the tension humming underneath.

Knives move. Water boils. Bread rises. The rhythm is there, but it doesn’t carry. Everything feels a touch slower, like the whole place is caught in a long inhale, waiting for the exhale that never quite comes.

No sparks. No fire behind the eyes of the brigade. Everyone shows up, but no one’s pushing.

Even Raf is subdued. He hums something strange and half-finished under his breath as he slices strawberries with more precision than flair, like they’ve said something deeply personal and he’s holding a grudge.

You move through your prep slower than usual. Not because you’re tired—but because it all feels slightly off-beat. Like the air’s too thick. Like the tension is curled somewhere in the corners, just out of sight.

You’re waiting.

All of you are.

So you fill the space with motion. The small, mindless tasks that give your hands something to do while your head keeps listening for a bell that doesn’t ring.

You restock dry goods. Wipe the same countertop twice. Rearrange spice tins that didn’t need arranging.

And that’s when you notice him—Zayne, appearing beside you as silently as he works. No announcement. No shift in the air. Just there, all at once, like he always had been.

Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable.

Watching the shelves like they owe him answers.

He doesn’t say your name. Just gestures toward the shelf like he’s helping, even though he wasn’t assigned to this part of the kitchen today.

You fall into rhythm.

Silence, at first.

Then—

“You ever feel like your best is too clean?” The words are so soft you almost miss them.

“Like it doesn’t taste like anyone at all?”

You turn to look at him, but he’s focused on lining up spice tins. Cinnamon. Cardamom. Sea salt.

His sleeves are rolled. His forearms bare—scarred and steady. The knuckles of his right hand are faintly red, like he gripped something too tightly for too long.

You don’t speak. Just let him go on.

He exhales, slow and precise.

“I don’t care what the critic thinks,” he says. Then adds, “or I shouldn’t.”

He adjusts a container that didn’t need adjusting. It’s already perfectly aligned. His dark hair falls slightly over his eyes, and he doesn’t push it back.

“It’s not about ego,” he murmurs. “I just—need to know that I didn’t waste it.”

He finally glances at you. Just for a second. His hazel green eyes are clearer than you’ve ever seen them. Not cold. Not sharp. Just… bare.

“Sylus once told me I cook like I think. Not like I feel.” A small huff of breath escapes him—almost a laugh. “Said if I ever figured out how to do both, I’d be dangerous.”

You lean your shoulder lightly against the shelf beside him. Still no words.

Zayne stares ahead, not blinking. “Sometimes I think I’ve tried too hard not to believe him.”

He goes still. The jars in front of him are perfectly placed. No more tasks left.

You shift a little closer—not invasive, just enough that he feels you there. And gently, without needing a cue, you reach out. Just placing a hand over his forearm.

Warm. Anchoring. Wordless.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t look at you. But his hand—so still a moment ago—twitches slightly under yours. Like the pressure of your presence is something he doesn’t know how to carry.

But maybe wants to.

When you let go, he finally speaks again.

“Thanks… again, Ace.” His voice is lower now. But clearer. Measured like always—but with something human tucked into the quiet.

You don’t say anything in return. You just nod.

And return to your station.

Behind you, Zayne keeps working. But his shoulders aren’t quite so tight anymore. And for the first time all day—you hear his knife hit the board with rhythm.

——————————————————————————

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz softly. One of them flickers, slow and uneven. The room smells like soap, starch, and the last hours of a long day.

The clatter of post-service fades beyond the wall.

You’re still tying the last loop of your apron when Xavier passes behind you, already changed, coat folded over one arm. He pauses at his locker just long enough to reach into a cooler bag you hadn’t seen him carry in.

He pulls out a small see through plastic container. Without fanfare, he sets it beside your things.

Leftovers. Duck, pickled pear, one perfect mint leaf on top.

He adjusts the knot in his scarf like nothing happened. Then, softly—

“You didn’t eat.”

You glance up.

He’s already by the door, nodding once—silent, certain. Then he slips out, leaving nothing behind but the scent of herbs and the soft click of the closing door.

You’re just turning back to your locker when the air shifts again—Raf enters like a stage cue, perfectly timed, flicking his curls out of his eyes and shrugging out of his chef’s coat like it personally offended him.

His designer coat is draped over his arm, all sharp angles and buttery folds, the inside lined with something silk and scandalous.

He throws it over the bench with flair, catching your eye.

Then taps his cheek.

Once. Twice.

Raises a brow.

“In case you forgot,” he drawls, “you owe me a kiss. The sugar-saved-your-life type. The blackmail-was-legitimate type.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Justice is slow.”

He sighs dramatically.

“So are broken hearts.”

A beat.

He leans in—fast—and steals a kiss to your cheek, grinning as he pulls back. “But I’m still collecting the real one later.”

With a wink and a flourish, he’s gone. You can still smell his cologne in the locker air.

You turn back to your locker, rummaging through your things—gloves, scarf, whatever gets you home warm enough. Your fingers brush against the small container Xavier left, still cool to the touch.

You reach for the container, fingertips just brushing the waxed lid.

Then—

The door swings open. Boots on tile. Two sets. Familiar weight in both.

You glance up.

Zayne and Caleb. Together.

Zayne’s already shrugging out of his coat, hair still damp, eyes sharp and cool as ever. Caleb’s jacket is slung over one shoulder, sleeves pushed up past his forearms, arms dusted with flour and smudged with the faint ghost of oil. His shirt clings slightly at the collar—the aftermath of control.

They both spot you at the same time.

Two smiles.

Zayne’s is faint. Barely there. A respectful tilt of the lips, the kind of smile he saves only for you.

Caleb’s is fuller. Quieter than usual. The corners of his mouth twitching up like he’s relieved to see you still here.

“Look who’s still standing,” Caleb says, tossing his coat onto the bench.

“She’s always the last one standing,” Zayne replies, deadpan.

Their eyes meet—a flicker of understanding, not tension.

Something between them has shifted. Smoothed. Repaired not by words, but by the shared rhythm of service.

Caleb bumps Zayne’s shoulder as he passes. “Still packing like you’re fleeing a war zone, huh?”

Zayne adjusts the strap on his duffel with surgical precision. “That’s rich coming from the guy who keeps an emergency set of knives in his car.”

“I like being prepared,” Caleb murmurs, grabbing a clean rag from his locker.

“You like control,” Zayne says, already moving toward the door.

“And you like pretending you don’t.” Caleb chuckles, soft and low. Zayne almost smiles.

They pass by you again. Caleb slows. His hand rises—

And he ruffles your hair. Just once. Just enough to shift the air around you.

“Get home safe, chef.”

Then he’s gone. Zayne follows without a glance back, their footsteps syncing on instinct.

No farewell. Just quiet.

You blink, hands still hovering over your things.

Something’s changed.

You don’t know what. You weren’t meant to.

But it settles in your chest like heat held close, a soft flicker of something mended—or mending.

And without quite meaning to, you smile. Just a little.

It lingers. Stays with you.

Then—

From the doorway, low and velvet-smooth, wrapped in dry amusement:

“Well now… would you look at that.”

You turn.

Sylus is leaning lazily against the frame, one hand in the pocket of his tailored coat, the other cradling a half-full glass of wine. The light behind him halos the edges of his silhouette, casting him in gold and shadow.

You didn’t hear him enter.

He’s been there.

Watching.

His eyes flick toward the closed door where Caleb and Zayne just left. He smiles—slow and feline.

“You know, I never quite believed in miracles.” A sip of wine. A pause. “But seeing those two walk out without blood on the walls?” Another sip. “Either the stars are shifting…”

His gaze settles on you.

“…or someone knows how to nudge the right pieces.”

You raise a brow. “You?”

He doesn’t answer. Just tilts his glass in your direction, like a toast to a shared secret neither of you will speak aloud. “I prefer to think of myself as… an observer with influence.”

He steps fully into the room now, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft click. His shoes don’t make a sound on the tile.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” he murmurs, circling the edge of the bench. “How fire and ice can share a locker room, when the temperature’s just right.”

You exhale, unsure whether to be impressed or suspicious.

He sits beside you—never too close, just enough to feel his presence.

“They needed the tension broken. And you?”A pause. “You needed to see what happens when people bend before they break.”

Then, softly: “You’re good for them, you know.”

You don’t answer.

But your chest feels just a little heavier. And warmer.

Sylus swirls his glass once, watching the light fracture through it. “Come.” He rises, smooth and unhurried. “We’ve earned something expensive tonight.”

And just like that—he offers his hand. Palm open. Eyes unreadable.

——————————————————————————

The lock clicks behind you with that familiar soft weight.

The restaurant is dim, most of the lights off now—except the low amber glow behind the wine bar. It stretches warm across the counters and gleams along the clean steel like a secret you’ve earned the right to hear.

Sylus moves ahead of you without looking back. He knows you’ll follow. His coat whispers as he shrugs it off—deliberate, graceful, like everything he does.

He gestures for you to sit at the bar.

He selects a bottle already waiting—dark, elegant, and expensive in the way you feel in your bones more than you read on a label.

He pours two glasses. Quietly.

Then hands you one.

Sylus doesn’t speak right away. He just starts swirling the wine—wrist steady, eyes lowered—watching the movement like the glass is telling him something only he can hear.

The wine is deep. Smooth. A dark garnet that clings to the crystal like silk before it lets go.

“It’s got legs,” he murmurs, voice low and rasping like it’s meant to be heard in candlelight. “Slow-dripping. That’s how you know it’s got weight. Alcohol content. Structure.”

His gaze stays on the wine, but his voice drips like the vintage itself—rich, unhurried, expensive.

“You see that cling?” He tips the glass slightly, watching the streaks of red crawl down the side. “That’s glycerol. Comes from late harvest grapes. Colder nights. Longer fermentation.” A pause. “This one’s oak-aged. Five years. Just enough to take the edge off without softening the finish.”

He finally glances at you.

Noticing your stare.

Noticing everything.

Red eyes lock onto yours—slow, unblinking. Almost undressing you in the most cruelly elegant way possible. Not lecherous. Just… knowing. Like he already sees the part of you you haven’t shown yet—and he’s waiting for you to catch up.

A slow, indulgent smile curls at the edge of his mouth

“Careful, chef.” His voice drops. “If I go on much longer, you’ll fall asleep.”

You raise a brow, but say nothing.

He leans in slightly across the bar, wineglass still poised between his fingers.

“Should I have sung you a lullaby instead?”

You say nothing. Just lift your glass to your lips and take a slow, measured sip—eyes on his over the rim. That is your answer.

His smile deepens, slow and sharp.

“Ah,” he murmurs, voice dropping just a little lower, silk pressed against something darker. “So you do like it when I take my time.”

The words hum under your skin like a promise.

Or a warning.

Sylus leans on the bar again, the soft backlight sketching gold across the sharp line of his jaw, the open collar of his shirt catching just enough of the glow. He watches you—not intently, but like he’s measuring something you haven’t said yet.

The silence stretches. Warm. Expectant.

Then finally, with a quiet shift of weight and a tilt of his head, he speaks: “You’ve come far, chef.” A pause, lazy with purpose. “But you’re still standing on the edge.”

You raise a brow, half-smiling. “Of what?”

He doesn’t answer. Not directly.

“The line is made of more than sharp knives and full plates,” Sylus says, voice low and smooth. “It’s made of the people who hold it.”

He doesn’t look at you at first. Just tilts his glass, watching the wine catch the light. Then his gaze drifts, slowly, to the kitchen—now quiet and dark, but still pulsing with everything left unsaid.

“You know them,” he murmurs.

“But not well enough.”

You blink.

“You mean—”

He makes a slow, fluid gesture—elegant and maddeningly vague.

“One of them hides behind rules. One behind silence. One behind sparkle. And one—”

His red eyes flick to the hallway where Caleb disappeared minutes ago.

“—refuses to stop burning.”

You feel it land before he even finishes the thought.

Sylus turns fully back to you now, and the low light brushes silver across his hair, framing the sharp edge of his jaw. His posture is relaxed, but the weight in his stare holds you still.

“Caleb is fire in a pressure cooker,” he says. “He doesn’t burn out. He burns in.”

You glance down into your wine—deep, red, impossible to read.

“Every mistake in that kitchen?” His voice lowers. “He thinks it’s his. Every dish. Every delay. Every stare from that critic—it’s all his to carry.”

Your grip on the glass tightens. “That’s not fair.” It comes out without your permission. Quiet. Raw.

“No.” Sylus doesn’t flinch. “But it’s true.”

He leans forward slightly, and the gold glow of the bar slides across his chest. His presence is calm, but looming—like a storm that hasn’t chosen its direction yet.

“They follow him,” he says, slower now. “Because he holds everything together.”

A breath.

“But one day—he won’t.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Your pulse is already beating harder in your throat.

And Sylus sees it.

His voice softens. But it doesn’t lose its edge. “When that day comes, someone will have to keep the fire alive.”

A pause.

“I think that someone is you.”

The words hang there—not a compliment. A burden. A truth.

You sit with it. And he lets you.

Then—

“So find out,” he murmurs.

Then, a beat later—his voice a shade lower, the rasp deliberate: “Peel them back. Learn what they bleed, what they break for. And when the moment comes—don’t hesitate. Take what’s yours.”

A flicker of a smile, cruel and quiet.

“It’s not a request, chef.”

“To knowing them?” you ask, tilting your glass.

Sylus smiles—just barely.

“To seeing what they won’t show,” he says, raising his glass.

But before yours can meet it, you pause.

Your eyes flick to his—playful, pointed. You lean in slightly, elbow on the bar, chin tilted just enough to be dangerous.

“And what about you, boss?” Your voice is softer now. Closer. “What don’t you show?”

Something in him stills, and the moment stretches—quiet and golden, like a breath held too long.

Then, there’s a shift.

Not in his voice. Not in the measured ease of his posture.

In his face.

It’s subtle, almost imperceptible—a flicker of something old and weighty, a shadow beneath the polished surface. A sadness lacquered in charm. Something that’s learned how to live just fine with the cracks.

It’s there and gone in a breath, hidden beneath the curve of his mouth, the practiced slope of a near-smirk. But you catch it. Just barely. A twitch at the corner of his expression, too honest for him to mean to show.

He lifts his glass, just a fraction, and the light fractures through it—red and amber, like fire caught in crystal.

“That,” he says, voice smooth as velvet dragged through ink, “would ruin the fun, darling.”

He taps his glass to yours—just a soft clink—and drinks first.

And when he drinks, it’s not a toast.

It’s a deflection.

A beat later, you follow.

———————————-———————————-———

Your keys hit the counter. Jacket falls to the back of a chair. The silence of your apartment wraps around you like steam—warm, empty, unbothered.

You shower.

Water hits your shoulders in even beats, but it doesn’t drown out the sound in your head.

Not footsteps. Not fire.

His voice.

When that day comes, someone will have to keep the fire alive.

I think that someone is you.

You turn the water hotter.

It doesn’t help.

Later, in bed, the linen gathers loosely around your legs. You lie still. Eyes open. Ceiling glowing with citylight.

I brought you here to lead.

You close your eyes.

The words chase you into sleep anyway.

I think that someone is you.

I think that someone is you.

I think—

Knock knock knock.

You jolt upright.

There’s weight behind it. Familiar. Steady.

Another knock.

Then Caleb’s voice, muffled but unmistakably him:

“Chef. Open up.” A pause. “It’s important.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, linen tangled around your calves, heart still catching up to the moment. A glimpse out the window shows the light just breaking.

He’s been out running.

Hair damp. Hoodie clinging to his chest.

Your phone lights up beside you—three missed calls from Caleb.

Another knock.

“Chef. Either you’re dead or drunk. Open up.”

——————————————————————————

Chapter two

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: I’m taking my time with this AU because I want each character to shine in their own chaotic, delightful way. Posting the next chapter soon, just need to proofread. Y’all reading this? You’re the real deal. Peak humanity. I appreciate you so much it’s almost suspicious. Like—why are you so nice? Never in my life did I think I’d use my completely useless knowledge about chalky soil and harsh climates affecting grape growth… in a fanfic. And yet—here we are. Peak useless knowledge meets peak unhinged thirst. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[kalopsicanna]

seasons

the four seasons of Iori Utahime, through the eyes of Gojo Satoru

(art is def not mine)

Gojo Satoru first saw her in the spring. how could he have not?

she was stunning.

her luscious black hair was carefully put in two pigtails held by ribbons. her miko outfit, though strange to him then, was clean and free of any wrinkles. the tiny pout she had as she talked to one of his classmates, Shoko, was what really did it for him.

he knew then.

he wanted to go up there where they were. he wanted to coolly flirt with her like he normally did with the other girls. he wanted to make her laugh, maybe ask her out too in the same breath. but all it had taken was a locked gaze with her big brown eyes for just a split second and he had frozen up.

his tongue was heavy and his breaths were short. his brain short-circuited and he couldn’t even form words, let alone sentences.

still, she smiled so kindly at him and the warm feeling in his chest exploded.

“your cursed energy is barely there. you grade two?” he found himself saying, almost instantly putting his foot in his mouth. of course, he had panicked and resorted to a stupid taunt.

her soft, pink lips, the same ones he had likened to a delicious fluff of cotton candy in his head, twisted up in an ugly shape.

she was angry yet her voice was calm as she spoke to him.

“you shouldn’t talk to your senior that way”

he was in trouble.

he liked her face, all red and flushed, as upset as she was. he liked it a whole lot more than he was aware he ought to.

“senior? not when you’re this tiny”

he couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him when she started scolding him about manners with Shoko trying to calm her down and Suguru, who had materialized beside him, doing absolutely nothing to help.

though she was yelling her heart out, he knew, somehow, that she would be in his life for a long time.

maybe even forever.

he truly felt spring then.

the weather was warmer. the trees were greener. the air was cleaner. everything felt alive. vibrant. the sun’s warm rays felt unbelievably fantastic on his skin and the birds above chirped away merrily.

he never acknowledged any of these things before. he thought them to be trivial. unimportant.

but as the cherry blossoms on the trees all around them bloomed, so did something else in his heart, something so small yet so deeply seated.

a liking for the older girl before him.

the summer was about to end.

school would begin soon. he hated it. he hated just how short the break was. hated that he would have to get back to killing curses soon.

but there was one thing he didn't completely hate.

“the fireworks will begin soon” Geto coolly said, holding up his lighter for Shoko to use on her unlit cigarette.

“i’ll go find Utahime” he volunteered, though no one asked of her.

she wandered off with nanami a while ago but he wanted more than anything to watch it with her.

there were all sorts of people at the summer festival they had gone too. a lot of couples too.

he didn't walk for long before he found her.

she was alone.

“takoyaki?” he offered, extending the plate of fried batter to her.

he knew she liked it. it was all she could talk about when Shoko had asked her to tag along with them. that and the fireworks show happening at the peak of the festival.

that was why he wanted to watch it with her.

more specifically, he wanted to watch her. wanted to share something she found so special with her. even if she had no idea of his plans.

she eyed him suspiciously, presumably confused as to why he was being so nice to her when he usually taunted her until she turned as red as a cherry.

“take it while i’m still feeling kind” he added, so as not to give himself away.

she just rolled her eyes but took one anyway.

“why’re you alone? nanami had enough of you?”

“no!” she vehemently denied, not caring about her full mouth.

her denial let him know that he was somewhat right. nanami was too polite to ever say something like that but with haibara’s death weighing down on him in particular, it wouldn't be too far off to say that he didn't want to be around people.

it was a wonder how shoko even convinced him to show up in the first place.

“right” he deadpanned, a hint of a tease in his tone and she huffed, taking another ball of takoyaki.

“oh, it’s time!” a girl beside him squealed and that got his attention.

he looked up and indeed the fireworks show had started, with a few being set off already.

he neither had the time nor the opportunity to process what was happening before Utahime grabbed his hand.

she held it. more specifically, his wrist.

she took off running and he had no choice but to follow.

“w-where are we going?” he managed to get out, despite his brain quickly turning into mush from the sudden skinship.

he was panicked.

he didn't want her to realize what had happened. how he had no infinity up around her like he did everyone else (save for Geto and Shoko). how he was burning red at just the touch of her hand. how he was quickly losing awareness of his surroundings just because she held him.

he was hyper-aware of her palm enclosed around his wrist. he could feel it all. every ridge, every bump. it was hot. like she was burning her print on him.

he couldn't say it would be unpleasant if she did.

much too soon, she stopped at a clearing of some sort, a ways from the crowd of people, and let him go.

“there's a better view here,” she told him with a kind of smile that made his heart go into overdrive.

surely, she couldn't have been smiling at him.

“huh?” he blurted out but before she could even begin to answer him, another firework exploded into brilliant colors in the dark sky, taking her attention.

he watched her throughout the show, carefully taking in every single fraction of every reaction she gave to it.

her yukata, baby pink and blue, was a wonderful contrast to her fair skin. her hair, though still left in her signature ponytails, somehow made her look far younger than she actually was now. maybe it was the childlike beam on her face, so bright and dazzling that it rivaled the flashing lights.

he took a secret joy in being the person to see her like this.

not Nanami. not Geto and certainly not Shoko.

just him.

he only moved his gaze once there was nothing but darkness around them.

“you are such a kid, Utahime,” he told her, grateful she couldn't see his own growing smile in the dark of night.

no, he couldn't possibly hate this.

the fall came with a sad rush.

Geto had defected.

he’d been slowly suffering silently and had just finally snapped and massacred an entire village of nonsorcerers.

Gojo Satoru had been none the wiser.

he didn't know what hurt more. that he had been so oblivious to his best friend’s agony. or that his only friend couldn’t even confide in him until the very end.

just thinking about it made his chest throb painfully.

exhausted, he placed his arm lazily over his eyes, shielding them from the sun.

he'd only been in that position for a little over five minutes when he felt something cold be pressed against his cheek.

“got some time?” Utahime, the guilty party, asked, an eyebrow raised.

she‘d brought an extra can of cola alongside her beer and she held it out to him, which he accepted.

she had a small smile on her face but there was no hint of amusement in her features.

“sure” he mumbled and she took a seat beside him under the shade of the tree that was quickly browning in the autumn season.

they sat in a natural silence.

she peacefully sipped on her drink, eyes following the falling leaves in a sort of childlike amazement. he, on the other hand, held onto the can, though its coldness was biting and his fingers would go numb soon.

maybe he would feel something other than the hurt in his heart.

“how are you doing…really?” she started, carefully, like she was thinking about her every word.

he didn't answer. he couldn't. what could he possibly say? that he was anguished?

even the thought of it almost made him laugh.

Geto Suguru, his friend Suguru, had completely caught him by surprise and gone rogue. that's all there was to it. all he was feeling towards it was immaterial at the moment. he knew that very soon, he would get the call and he would have to hunt down the one person he once considered a brother.

the one he still considered a brother.

“yeah, it was a stupid question,” she thought out loud and laughed a bit.

she was a bit different, he noticed, now that she wasn't a student anymore.

her hair was out of the pigtails and now in a half-up half-down style with a bow to finish it off. her eyes didn’t glow like they used to back when he had first met her. the only thing that didn’t change was her miko outfit and that too didn’t look quite the same.

she looked almost…sad.

he wanted to ask if she was okay. wanted to ask how she had been doing. wanted to ask how teaching in the same school she had attended was. but he just couldn’t get the words out.

“we’ve really never been friends, you know…?” she muttered, taking another sip of her drink.

a gust of wind blew and shook up the tree so some more leaves fell out of it. a few landed on his white hair and she gingerly picked them out while she continued talking.

“but i’m here. right here” she paused to take a breath. “if ever you want to talk”

she placed her hand on top of his for just a fraction of a second before retracting it.

“anytime” she added and he finally met her eyes.

his sunglasses were nowhere to be found and she was able to see how redrimmed his six eyes were. able to see how actually bothered he had been about the whole ordeal.

she feared he would be next. feared he would snap next. that they would lose him too.

he knew it took a lot for her to offer him such comfort. she didn’t exactly hide her distaste for him. no, he wouldn’t take her up on her offer. but hearing those words from someone he trusted as much as her, it made him feel just the tiniest bit better.

“please”

or maybe he would.

the winter was biting.

his lips were numb and he knew that if it wasn't for the cherry lip balm in the pocket of his coat, they would be chapped too.

Gojo Satoru shook off the snow that had piled on his shoes and stuffed his hands into his pockets too. he was sure that if he stood outside for an extra minute or two, he would be well on his way to being the first-ever human popsicle.

“i’m here!” a feminine voice called and he whipped his head around so fast that he almost got whiplash.

Utahime, swaddled in a large coat, a thick scarf, and even mittens, pranced down the street to the white-haired man with a scowl on his face.

“did you wait long?” she asked him once she was close enough.

“yes. i’m all frozen” he sulked like a kid, dramatically sighing.

“sorry. my mom wouldn't let me go”

she hooked her arm with his, giving him the most apologetic smile she could muster.

“warm me up with a kiss?”

she flushed a bright red, eyes darting all around them to see if anybody had heard them.

“we’re outside” she pointed out and he laughed like she'd said the funniest thing ever.

“no one cares, Hime”

with that, he leaned down and placed a quick kiss on her lips, further flustering her.

“hey!”

her scolding only made him laugh even more.

they continued on the way to Shoko’s apartment where they were supposed to meet up with the others without any other incidents, just catching up on all that had been going on in their lives.

it was only when they got there that he turned to give her the most mischievous smile.

“what is it now?” she asked him, exasperated with all his antics.

he only pointed upwards and mouthed,

“mistletoe”

Nanami, Shoko and Ijichi had been busy decorating the tiny apartment with seasonal props when they heard a very loud

“Satoru!”

[keyboardsmashess]

The Siren, or The Heart of the Matter

Chapter Thirty : The Note, or The Thesis Defense from Hell

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

Warnings: language, fluff, angst, canon-typical violence, smut MINORS DNI. A/N: My bbs! We're nearing the end of this story - I'd say maybe five chapters to go, give or take 😭 Until then, though, enjoy the insanity of my fully unleashed Bucky obsession now that Cleo's feelings are out there 😘

Summary: The morning after our heroes' big moment takes a very unexpected turn.

Chapter Directory

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Bucky squeezes his eyes closed against the sound, wondering for a moment if he’s got a leak somewhere in his apartment. If he does, then Stark’s really getting sloppy. He’ll have to give the guy some shit for that. These Tower apartments are supposed to be state-of-the-art everything, or at least that’s what he thinks Stark said - he wasn’t really listening when he got the grand tour.

But wait, Bucky thinks, shifting in bed. Since when do I have silk sheets? He listens to the sound again, realizing that it sounds an awful lot like the tapping of a shoe.

Before he even really registers what he’s doing, Bucky’s standing in his boxers with a gun pulled on the stranger.

“What the hell, Barnes? Also, when did you stash a handgun in my nightstand?” 

Bucky releases a lungful of air he didn’t realize he’d been holding and lowers the weapon.

“Also part two, what the shit did you guys do to my bedroom? If I have to hire cleaners, I’m billing you,” Meg says, arms crossed and tapping her foot.

Bucky sets the gun down on Meg’s nightstand, finding his pants on the ground and pulling them on self-consciously. His shirt is nowhere to be found, and he suddenly remembers Cleo putting it on after… 

After the best damn night of my life.

Speaking of. “Where’s Cleo?”

Meg rolls her eyes. “Sure, just ignore all of the very valid questions I’ve just asked you, no big deal.” She hands him a piece of notebook paper. “Your lovely lady has written you a note. Don’t worry, I’ll pretend I didn’t read it.” She winks.

Bucky accepts the paper with a small smile. “Sorry about this,” he says, gesturing to the mess of a bedroom around him.

Meg waves a hand. “It’s fine, really. I mean, I am for sure billing you for the cleaning, but it’s not like I didn’t expect something like this when I graciously removed myself from the premises for the evening.” She kicks off her shoes into a pile in the corner of the room. “I’m gonna go make some coffee and leave you to collect yourself.”

Bucky nods gratefully, unfolding the piece of paper the second Meg closes the bedroom door behind her.

James,

I can’t possibly wake you up, considering how handsome you look sleeping so peacefully (and how rarely you sleep at all), so I’m heading to my defense alone. Don’t panic when you read this - my advisor already told me I wasn’t allowed to have guests in the room, so you’re not missing anything but a boring hallway.

Bucky chuckles and shakes his head at how well she knows him, realizing his heart had already started racing at the thought of missing her big moment. 

I’ll come back to Meg’s the second I’m done and tell you all about it, promise. And then I’m pretty sure someone said something about taking me back to the Tower to celebrate? I have some new ideas for what that celebration might look like, just saying.

Bucky bites his lip as he reads, already reacting to Cleo’s words.

Speaking of that, last night was… everything. I’m shit at mushy stuff, Buck, but it was probably the best night of my life thus far. And I don’t know if you know this, but Meg and I went to a Kassie Cantor concert once and I actually got to meet her, so you’ve passed a pretty high bar. (Since I’m sure you have no idea what I’m talking about, she’s a pop singer who I’m going to force you to listen to on the way back home.)

Anyway, I don’t know why I’m writing all of this in a letter like I’m going off to war or some shit, because I’ll be back soon and could tell you all this in person, but what can I say? It’s easier to write some things than speak them out loud. To that end, I’m sorry for not being able to reciprocate the thing you said last night. I want to, and I should have, but I’m a fucking coward and emotionally stunted and just sort of a general mess, so… yeah. I should probably save the rest of this conversation for when I get back, because you deserve that.

He blows out a huff of air. When he’d told her he loved her, he knew it was something he wanted to tell her - needed to tell her - regardless of whether or not she said it back, but he can’t say he isn’t relieved to read that she apparently feels more than she let on at the time. 

Fuck, I really am bad at this, aren’t I? Whatever. You’re great, last night was great, and I can finally tell you that I think your ass is great, too. Like really super great. Okay, I’m going to go stand in front of a bunch of grumpy white men in suits and ask them to give me a degree. Bye!

xoxo, Cleo

P.S. Like spectacularly, phenomenally great.

Bucky folds the letter back up and carefully tucks it into the pocket of his jeans, resolving to save it forever. 

He stands suddenly and checks the time, an idea popping into his head. He pokes his head into the kitchen long enough to tell Meg he’s going to take a quick shower, grabs the overnight bag he’d left in her living room, and runs to the bathroom where he takes one of the fastest showers of his life.

Clean and dressed, Bucky darts into the bedroom to grab and holster his gun, then rushes toward the front door. Meg is waiting for him, a disposable travel mug of coffee in her hand and a smirk on her face.

“Cleo told me you couldn’t go into her defense, but I figured after reading that note - the note I absolutely didn’t read myself, by the way - you’d want to do something romantic like wait for her in the hallway. I already texted you the building and room number.”

Bucky grins and accepts the drink. “Meg, you’re the best.”

She waves a hand. “I know, I know. By the way, you’re going to pass a market on your way to campus, just around the corner from here. They sell flowers and Cleo’s favorite is forget-me-nots. Hey, what a fun little irony!”

He eyes her, speaking before he can think better of it. “Come visit us at the Tower sometime, there’s someone you should really meet.” And with a grateful smile, he’s out the door.

******

If Bucky’s calculations are correct, he’s arrived in the hall outside of Cleo’s defense with about ten minutes to spare. He paces the hallway for a few moments to calm himself down after the sprint to campus, then leans against the wall directly across from the door Cleo will be walking out of soon. He’s got a slightly windblown bouquet of blue forget-me-nots, a sweaty right palm, and a nervous but eager grin. He’s ready. 

When ten minutes passes with no sign of Cleo, he tells himself that it’s probably normal for these things to go a little long sometimes. After fifteen, he’s doing his best not to worry. At twenty five minutes past the stated end of the defense, Bucky decides that he’s willing to risk embarrassing Cleo and himself by opening the damn door. Taking a deep breath and preparing his excuse (they’ll buy him as a student in the wrong room, right?), Bucky hides the flowers behind his back and tries the handle.

It’s locked.

Fair enough, he thinks. They probably have security protocols in place, you know, to avoid the exact thing Bucky had been planning to use as his excuse for intruding. He knocks instead, deciding he doesn’t actually care about embarrassing Cleo at this point. When nobody comes to the door, he knocks again and presses his ear to the wood, listening closely with his serum-enhanced senses. Not only is nobody coming to the door, but he’s fairly certain nobody is in the room at all.

Fully aware he’s probably overreacting, Bucky lets out a huff of air, looks up and down the hallway to make sure nobody’s coming, and grabs the handle with his metal hand. With a little grunt, he breaks the handle and forces the door open. 

No Cleo. No committee. No one at all. 

Bucky frowns and pulls out his phone, double-checking the building and room number in the message from Meg. When he confirms he’s at what should be the right place, he paces into the room, hoping to find a note or schedule or something to clue him in to what’s going on. The room is frustratingly empty, though - empty chairs arranged behind a long conference table, an empty lectern facing them…

Bucky sighs and calls Cleo, potential interruptions be damned. Immediately, he hears a buzzing sound coming from the lectern. A sick feeling brewing in his stomach, he crosses the room and peers behind the lectern, seeing Cleo’s phone on one of the shelves lit up with the selfie she’d taken of the two of them in the home goods store. Next to it are several wrinkled notecards and a half-empty bottle of water. He ends the call, dread coiling in his gut.

Stuffing her phone in his pocket, he picks up the notecards and starts flipping through them. They’re clearly reminders she’s made for herself of the main talking points of her thesis, but when he flips to the last one, a small piece of cardstock falls out. Bucky bends down to pick it up, noting the unfamiliar scrawl in red ink.

Soldat - 

Only the dead have seen the end of war. As long as you are living, your war is not over. 

Hail HYDRA.

Bucky’s vision narrows to a singular point, blood draining from his face. He stumbles backward into the table and grabs it with his metal arm for support. He doesn’t even register the crack of the wood as he grips it too hard.

Ears ringing, he pulls out his own phone and dials the first number that comes to mind.

“Hey, Buck, how’s everything go-”

“They have her, Steve,” he chokes out, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Wait a second, what are you talking about, Buck? Who has who?” Steve asks, voice growing serious.

“HYDRA,” he bites out, the word feeling like poison on his tongue. “HYDRA has Cleo. The Philosopher must be working with them and I don’t know how, Steve, but they found her and they took her.”

He hears rustling and then rapid footsteps from the other end of the phone. “Hang on, Buck, I’m going to get Stark. We’ll find her, okay? Bucky, I promise we’ll find her.” Steve’s voice is calmer than it has any right to be, in Bucky’s opinion, but he trusts the man more than almost anyone else, so he stays on the line.

While he waits, he frantically searches the room for any clues to Cleo’s whereabouts, tossing chairs to the side and upending the table, but he comes up empty. Stark’s voice brings him back to the present moment.

“Barnes, what was she wearing today?”

Bucky gives a disgusted scoff. “Christ, Stark, what the hell is wrong with you? I don’t think now -”

“Barnes,” Tony cuts him off, voice cold and serious. “Just trust me for one second and answer the fucking question.”

Bucky wants to kick himself when he realizes that he can’t - that he didn’t wake up in time to see her off. “I don’t know,” he says, voice small. “I - I was sleeping when she left.”

Stark sighs. “It’s fine, we’ll just track it anyway and hope for the best.” Bucky makes a sound of confusion, speech nearly impossible in his sheer panic. “I retooled her suit a bit,” Stark explains. “Used nanotech to fit the entire thing in two little shell pins she can wear on her shoulders. All she has to do is tap them and the suit comes out. Plus a pretty slick helmet that comes out of her glasses. Ruins whatever she’s wearing at the moment, but you win some, you lose some.”

“Focus, Tony,” Banner shouts in the background.

“Right,” Stark says. “The pins have a tracker embedded in them, just in case, and the HUD in the helmet does, too. If she was wearing them this morning, we can figure out where she is.”

“Got it!” Banner calls out. “Er, I think I got it. This doesn’t really make any sense.”

Before Bucky can ask what they’re talking about, he hears Steve’s voice cut in, sounding weary with resignation. “It does if you know HYDRA.”

******

When I force my eyes open, I’m nearly blinded by the pounding in my head from just the dim, exposed lightbulb hanging overhead. I try to moan at the pain and move to wipe at something wet just above my eye, but I can’t do either.

No. Fuck. NO.

My hands are bound behind the back of the hard, metal chair I’m sitting in, and my legs are as well - one duct-taped to each of the front legs of the chair. And, worst of all, my mouth is taped shut. 

I flick my eyes wildly around the room, moving as much as my restraints allow, but there isn’t a lot to see. I’m in a small space, no windows, with that single exposed lightbulb dangling above my head. Curiously, it’s all metal - the walls, ceiling, floors - everything. That’s the only remarkable thing about the room, though, and it doesn’t give me much of a clue to my whereabouts.

I try to think back over the events of the last few hours, mind still fuzzy.

I woke up next to Bucky after the most incredible - nope, no time to focus on that, Blake.

I got ready for my thesis defense, passed Meg on the way to campus and apologized for the state of her bedroom. 

I got to the English building, went to room 12C, and…

Oh, that fucker.

It all comes back to me in a crushing wave - the empty room, save for Dr. Sapros. His laughter at my confused look. Anxiously chugging half a bottle of water. Him thumbing through my notecards. And the look in his eyes when he reached out with that current of red electricity and fucking knocked me unconscious.

Just as I’m squeezing my eyes shut in frustration, the metal door to the tiny room creaks open.

Speak of the devil.

Sapros is wearing his usual professorial attire, except with the new addition of that red cape I’m all too familiar with from my fights with The Philosopher. He’s abandoned the Greek tragedy mask, though - I suppose he no longer needs it now that I know his identity.

“Cleo,” he croons, voice disgustingly smug. “Finally awake, I see. Did you have a nice nap?”

All I can do is narrow my eyes at him in a glare, with my mouth taped shut and hands restrained. Nat had been pushing me to practice more, to learn how to manipulate the strings of frequencies without using my hands or voice, but I hadn’t made the time with my defense coming up. The defense that never fucking happened.

“It seems you’re finally speechless. In all my time as your advisor, I never thought I’d see the day where Cleo Blake had nothing to say. Well, I suppose there’s a first time for everything.” Sapros grins widely, and I mentally kick myself for not putting it all together sooner - that cadence in speech, that ridiculous smugness - of course The Philosopher sounded familiar to me - he’d been my teacher for three fucking years.

“I’m terribly sorry your defense couldn’t proceed as planned, but there were more important things to be dealt with - you understand, right? After all, patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.”

I roll my eyes, hoping he sees. That was Aristotle, you stupid dick.

“Some of my… colleagues, I suppose you could call them, are hard at work trying to determine how we might extract that little beauty,” he says, pointing to my crystal. “However, until then, you’re serving another purpose here. Of course, you’d see for yourself soon enough, but I know how you despise surprises so I’ll just let the cat out of the bag, as it were. My colleagues and I lost a very important weapon some time ago, and we believe you are just the thing to draw him back.”

Him. Sapros said ‘him,’ not ‘it.’ That means…

My eyes go wide with realization and I fight against my restraints, crying out futilely from behind the tape across my mouth.

“Oh hush now, Cleo, no need for such dramatics. Though you always were a feisty one, weren’t you? It took everything I had to convince you to drop your Atlantis research in favor of something more ‘mainstream.’ Lucky for me, you were more desperate for belonging than you were to follow in your father’s footsteps. Once I threatened to remove you from the meager little community you’d scraped together at Culver, I could have demanded anything and you’d have given it.”

I freeze, eyebrows knitting together at the mention of my father. I never once told Sapros where my passion for Atlantis came from.

He smirks at me. “Are you just realizing that I mentioned your father? Nothing if not sharp, you are. Yes, I am well aware of your father’s little pet project. And, as it turns out,” Sapros says, tapping the crystal in a gesture that has me flinching away from him, “he was far closer to the truth than we gave him credit for.”

I blink at him, mind reeling as I try to piece everything together - every past-tense word, every mention of my father’s work - hoping none of it means what I’m starting to dread it might.

“It’s tragic, really, that he’ll never know just how close he was. He’ll never know that the crystal chose precisely who he suspected it would, despite my best efforts to find it myself and keep you as far from it as possible. How ironic that I was in the middle of the Mediterranean, following your father’s final theory, while you were stumbling upon the object of my desire in a dusty, second-rate library at little old Culver.”

I make a squeak of indignation when he calls the library ‘second-rate,’ but it goes ignored.

“By the time I returned,” Sapros growls, growing angrier as he monologues, “you had already been snapped up by the gods-damned Avengers. Tell me, Cleo, is Rogers still as self-righteous as he used to be, or has he lost some steam in his old age? And how is my favorite weapon enjoying the droll mediocrity of the fight for justice?” He pauses, sneering at me, before releasing a dark chuckle and bringing his palm to his forehead dramatically. “Of course. I’m terribly sorry, how could I forget I’ve finally managed to render you speechless? And thank the gods for that - your incessant prattling is nearly as irritating as your father’s was.”

I close my eyes, squeezing them tight. Sapros must be toying with me, attempting to rattle me or wind me up. Maybe he’s trying to make me emotional to see if the crystal will react in some way. Whatever he’s doing, he can’t possibly be telling the truth - he can’t possibly mean that my father had been working with HYDRA, or that my father is now gone. 

Sapros looses another chuckle. “Of course, you must be simply exhausted after preparing for your little thesis defense. I’ll just leave you to rest for a bit. You’ll need your strength, after all, if you’re going to give me that crystal.”

I hear the click of his footsteps on the metal floor followed by the slam of the door, and only then do I allow the tears to roll freely down my cheeks.

******

“I’ve just sent the coordinates to your phone so you can meet us. But Buck, we’re an hour out at best. I know you’re closer, but I’m begging you - wait for the rest of us to get there,” Steve says, voice pleading.

“Sure,” Bucky responds flatly.

“Bucky.” Steve’s voice is stern, warning. “I’m serious - we don’t know what we’re going to find, but it’s HYDRA, so it can’t be good. Don’t do anything stupid.” Bucky hears footsteps, and when Steve speaks again, his voice is a whisper. “We haven’t figured out how to break your trigger words, Buck. You can’t just go running in there.”

“Got it,” Bucky says, voice void of emotion. “Of course.”

Steve sighs. “We’ll get there as soon as we can, okay? Just hold tight.”

“Absolutely,” Bucky says, setting the flowers next to Cleo’s note cards on the lectern. Forehead creased with anger, he hangs up his phone and memorizes the coordinates before tossing it in the trash on the way out the door. He stalks out of the building and into the parking garage, doing a quick sweep of the vehicles before his eyes land on a motorcycle.

Perfect, he thinks. It takes him all of a minute to hotwire the bike, and then he’s speeding out of the garage, headed for the nearby coast. He has a submarine to catch.

[theeccentricraven]

Writecamp Day 17 🌴

Another day of Writecamp created by the wonderful @agirlandherquill ✍🏻🪶

the rules are as follows: choose a prompt (or as many of them as you like) from the list, write something and share your creation with the rest of writeblr, and share the game with others, because as we all know writing is a gift and it deserves to be shared!

For Day 17, I chose two prompts:

Dialogue Prompt: "I do not want your victory. I want your survival."

Setting Prompt: "A scorching quarry"

I applied this to The Blood Cleaners my YA Dystopia. I'm trying hard to finish Draft 2 soon. This scene is far into Act 3, so I had to be cautious to not reveal some spoilers.

_______________________________________________________

Justin sought out the best spot where he would send a signal to Joselyn. He found a spot of land just barely within the range of the limestone quarry, where no drones or towerguards would see them. Justin used the knife to make a small cut in his hand. The blood dropped to the ground, close enough for Joselyn to sense it on her shift. He waited a minute before he used his tools to start cleaning. The hanging sun teased them enough, Justin figured Joselyn would have to guide them to a new hideout. He sprayed his blood, letting the UD work.

Oddly, he didn’t hear his blood whisper like the times before. 

John couldn’t stand around for a minute before musing, “I just want to make one more thing clear.”

Justin turned his ear to him. 

"I do not want your victory. I want your survival."

Justin glowered. He knew where John was coming from. He wasn’t surprised that the old exile was unchanged. John saw no hope in the land they stood upon. He only had hope in Justin, the most valuable asset for the city of Arthur. On the one hand, Justin could feel safe knowing that John would always have his back, always there to carry him out no matter how far they failed. Yet Justin would never be able to live with himself if everyone he ever loved withered and died like dry grass. While Arthur would find him “useful,” Justin wasn’t going to survive for only himself. His heart pounded like thunder. Joselyn waited for him. Elena and Miriam waited for him. He would live for them.

He began to wipe the spot, a little punch to his voice. “I’ll die with my people before I’m the sole survivor.”

John frowned. He watched Justin finish cleaning without a word, apparently tired of arguing.  

Only seconds after he finished wiping and bagging, a body of fluid zoomed toward them. Justin and John watched as the liquid formed the body of Joselyn. 

“Jus!”

Justin barely had a second to see her face before she wrapped her arms around him. He held her tight. She covered his face in kisses. 

She lay her head on his shoulder. “I've been so worried about you. I missed you so much. And now you're here.”

He breathed in, inhaling her beautiful hair. He almost forgot how much he needed it. “I feel the same, Jos.”

Out of the corner of his eye, John’s frown deepened. Whether John was impatient over the display of affection or further disgusted by Justin’s secret, he groaned, disgruntled. 

Justin let go. Joselyn turned her eyes to John.

“Is this him?” 

Justin waved his hand to John and to Joselyn. “Joselyn, meet John. John, meet Joselyn.”

John displayed his smugness. “Nice to see the heroine in the flesh. So you're the beautiful face your boyfriend can't stop yapping about.”

Joselyn blushed. She tugged Justin’s sleeve. “You found him then. And Arthur. Must be quite a story.”

Justin rubbed his neck. The baking sun above wouldn't make the long story easy to tell. “First, do you have a place where we can hide? Someplace, dark and cold.”

Joselyn stood up and faced the south, where the city on the horizon beckoned them. “While you were away, I found just the place.”

Justin took hold of her hand. “I’m sorry it took so long. If I could, I would have returned sooner.”

Joselyn shook her head vigorously. “Don’t be. I knew you wouldn’t die on me. I knew I just needed to wait. I’d wait seven years if I have to.” She gave another peck on his cheek. She turned and pointed south. “This way!”

*************************************************************

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[psithurista]

approach shift pt. nine

pairing: Peter Parker x f!reader (TASM/Andrew Garfield version) length: 4.3k rating: explicit 18+ warnings: Mentions of death, fingering, a quick wristy (lol)

Peter Parker is a weirdo. A hot, distracting, irritating weirdo. And you can’t afford distractions right now. So there’s only one thing to do.

a/n: Last full chapter but there will be an epilogue in the not-too-distant; I'll probably have more notes then. Thank you x

series masterlist

The back of your head is torturously itchy. 

You try surreptitiously to press your knuckles to the spot, just to relieve the worst of it. The nurse sitting closest to you glances up at you from over the top of her monitor and guiltily, you clasp your hands back down into your lap. 

It smells sour in here, like soft plums left to rot. Whichever industrial cleaner it is this hospital uses, it’s definitely not one anybody’s trying to market for domestic use. It’s probably cheap as fuck, you contemplate, your hand drifting back up towards your head.

“You can go in now,” a new nurse says beside you. You jerk your hand away. “He’s awake. I let him know you’ve been waiting.”

“Oh, thank you,” you say, unpeeling yourself from the plastic waiting room chair. “I won’t be very long. I just wanted to say hi.”

She gives you a mild, distracted okay-that’s-nice-whatever smile and disappears. You push open the door to the room she’d just exited and duck inside. 

It smells far better in here. There’s a vase of opening lilies leaving red pollen-stains on the table in front of the window, and the lavender-powder smell of clean sheets. Doctor Brant is propped up in the bed, frowning hard at the tablet in his hands.

“I hope you aren’t working while you’re meant to be resting,” you say.

He tilts his head down to peer at you over his glasses. “Oh, no. It’s just sudoku. It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Doctor. How are you?”

He nods, and sets the tablet aside. “Well, they’ve finally taken me off the oxygen so I expect I’ll be allowed to leave soon. All things considered, a little smoke inhalation injury at my…advanced age could’ve been far worse.” His eyes glint a little bit. “Were you injured?”

You shake your head. “A concussion, but I’m fine. The. He. Um. You know. He got me out, before he went back for you.” 

“You shouldn’t have stayed to look for me.”

You sit gingerly on the very edge of the chair next to the bed. “I thought. I didn’t think he’d made it to you in time. I thought you were both.” Your voice starts to sound weird, so you stop talking.

He folds his hands together over his chest. “It’s strange. I remember the first time I saw him. I didn’t understand what was happening. I thought it must have been a stunt, or an advertisement for something. Silly, really. And yet he’s saved Oscorp from itself more times than it deserved. After Connors and Dillon and that whole terrible disaster with young Harry. It’s too much. There’s no reason for anybody to endanger themselves in that place ever again.” He takes his glasses off and sets them beside the bed. “Which is why I’ve resigned.”

You stare at him. “You. What?”

He smiles at you; the expression a little indulgent. “All those years of work, gone. And for nothing. I’m sure you’ve already heard what happened?”

You have. It’s been all over the news the entire week. First the speculation: was it an attack? Was it political? Was it another disgruntled ex-employee? A competitor? And then, later, the worse, more boring truth: regular old corporate negligence. An undertrained technician who’d tried to prematurely purge a vac test chamber with concentrated oxygen. An alarm system two years overdue for maintenance. And floor upon floor of laboratories filled with dangerous substances, improperly stored.



Nobody else in your department was seriously hurt. But others weren’t so lucky.

“When I started with Norm, it was all about changing the world for the better. And in the end, we’ve helped nobody.” He shakes his head. “If you’ll forgive my language…Fuck Oscorp. I’m ready to start over.”

You grin at him, even though it feels a little watery. “I’m…really happy for you.” And you are. In the brief time you’ve worked under him, his passion has been obvious, but he’s always seemed so bogged down by the minutiae of red tape; appeasing a board of investors with no interest in the importance of his life’s work beyond its potential profitability. 

But it also makes your already-uncertain future with the company even foggier. You’ll need to find someone else willing to offer you a similar graduate position, and you already know you won’t find anything else quite as specialised as the work he’s been doing. 

He takes a sip from the glass of water beside his bed, then sits back with a sigh. “Publicly-funded research is a far less glamorous world than that of private enterprise. We’ll be relying primarily on grant funding and academic support. There won’t be any glass fountains or vertical gardens, I’m afraid.”

You nod sympathetically. “I can imagine. It’ll be a big change.”    His eyebrows draw together at you. “I would understand if your answer is no.”

You blink. “My answer?” you say, like a genius. 

“If so, I would, of course, write you a glowing recommendation. And I have plenty of contacts I could put you in touch with, if you’d prefer that.”

Holy shit. Is he…? “Hold on. Are you offering me a position with you?”

“Well, yes.”

He grunts as you dart in and hug him. “Oh! Yes! I mean, of course! I would love to. Thank you so much. You won’t regret this.”

“Uh.”

You lean back as he smooths his blankets down. “Sorry,” you say, a little sheepish. “That was unprofessional.”

He tries to look stern, but it’s unconvincing. “Well, yes,” he says again. “But I’ll choose to ignore it just this once.”

You stop by to see Bear on your way home. The roller doors in the alley beside the grimy little theatre are propped open so you can see all the half-painted set pieces inside, and there’s a bunch of people dressed all in black gathered around smoking. 

“Are you gonna be home tonight?” you ask, watching her inhale the deli sandwich you’d brought after correctly guessing she hadn’t stopped rehearsing long enough for lunch.

“I can be if you want,” she says, her mouth full of half-chewed food. “But I was kind of planning on staying at a friend’s.”

You press your knuckles absently against the back of your head and leer at her. “Would this friend happen to be the same person who wanted you to move in after one salad date?”

“If you don’t stop scratching your stitches I’m calling the hospital and narcing to your doctor. And yes.”

You make a face. “I’m not even touching them!”

She stuffs the rest of the sandwich in her mouth and wipes her hands on her jeans. “I’m seriously cool not to go, though. It’s totally fine.”

She’s barely left you alone since you got back from the emergency room, even setting alarms and checking up on you throughout the first couple of nights. You know for a fact she’s had to cancel other plans for you—again. You shake your head. “No, go. I kind of want some alone time anyway.” 

It’s another cold, bright afternoon. You walk into the feet of your shadow and spread your fingers beside your body as your arms move, watching them elongating out on the pavement in front of you, lost in thought. You’ve been lost in thought a lot, lately.

You’re just past the end of your block when you catch sight of the figure sitting on the stairs outside your building. Long legs in faded jeans are stretched out and crossed over at the ankles, and there’s duct tape around the toe of one sneaker. You slow to a halt on the sidewalk. A woman behind you huffs with irritation, veering around you, a giant paper grocery bag clutched in her arms.

He looks up from his cracked phone screen as you draw level with your door. His hair is as chaotic as ever, stuck up in every direction, except for at the nape of his neck, where it curls gently around in little flicks. He looks tired. He’s always looked tired, the whole time you’ve known him, but you notice it differently now. Like the holes in his jeans, and the bruise on his jaw, and the angry-sore-looking blisters on his knuckles. 

He smiles a little, jerking you out of your silent staring. “Hi. Sorry. I didn’t wanna just show up unannounced. I’ve been trying to call, but,” he holds his phone up, and you shake your head.

“My phone was—”

“Yeah, I figured.”

The wind lifts the edge of your scarf and shivers under the neck of your coat. There’s something sweet in the air; like cinnamon sugar, maybe someone baking from one of the open windows overhead. “Do you want to come inside?”

His expression is soft as he considers you, looking up through his lashes. “Okay.”

Neither of you speak on the trip upstairs. Your hand accidentally brushes his as you reach out for the elevator buttons, and you both pull away, as awkward and over-polite as strangers. 

He stands a respectful distance back as you open your door, and you lead him inside, waving your hand vaguely toward the sofa. “Do you want a drink?”

He folds himself into the seat nearest the window, hunching over and shoving his hands between his knees. A cold drift of sun touches his jaw. “Um, no thanks, it’s cool.”

You sit down beside him, folding your hands across your lap like you’re about to get a class picture taken. 

He chews his lip, runs his thumbs over his burned hands. Outside, a car horn beeps. “It’s not because I didn’t trust you,” he starts. “If you’re wondering. I don’t want you thinking that’s the reason.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “You don’t need to explain.”

“I just want you to know—”

“I know.” You try to smile at him, and it feels a little watery. “I get it. I know why you couldn’t tell me.”

His brows bend together just enough to mark out a pained line. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. “Really. Don’t be.”

It falls silent in your living room. The little clay pinch pot in the centre of the coffee table Bear had brought home from the artists’ market watches you both watching one another; soft-skinned and tender as nervous newborn things.

“You might die doing this,” you finally point out. “One day. All those times you’ve been hurt. You might…not come home.”

He nods at the floor. “Which is why I couldn’t really ask you to, you know. Waste your time with—” he waves his hands vaguely back and forth between your bodies. “It’s not worth it. And, like, trust me, I would never, ever want to drag you into any of the shit I’m involved with. I didn’t mean to fuck you around so long, knowing you wouldn’t...” He looks back at you, his dark eyes soft. “It was just. The happiest I’ve been in a really long time. I couldn’t stop myself. I’m sorry. It was shitty of me. Selfish.”

You stare at him for a few seconds in stunned disbelief. Then you laugh. You don’t mean to, and his head jerks back, startled. “Are you serious?” you manage.

His eyes are huge. “Uh. Yeah?”

You laugh again. It sounds a little manic. “You’re unbelievable.”

He flushes. “Could you maybe quit laughing at me when I’m trying to—”

“Peter. You saved my fucking life. Twice. Even after I was a total asshole to you. You saved me.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah, look, I don’t want you to feel weird about that. Like, it’s totally, one-hundred-percent not a big deal and I never want anybody to feel like—”

“You help people. Strangers. Every day. For nothing. And they aren’t even grateful. The things people write about you.” He hasn’t moved, and you realise you’re talking louder than you need to, considering he’s right in front of you. “You’re the least selfish person I’ve ever met,” you tell him, emphatic, needing him to get it. “You’re a good person, Peter. I’m so sorry I didn’t see that before.” Your voice breaks a little and it’s embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as the fact that your vision has gone blurry and your cheeks feel suddenly too hot.

You stop and breathe for a few moments, willing yourself not to cry. He doesn’t say anything, just studies the edge of the rug as though he’s pretending not to notice, and you’re grateful. 

Then, quietly, he takes a breath. “I was going to tell you. Before the fire. I saw May, and she told me she saw you, and that you’d talked, and. I wanted to explain everything.”

You remember the way May had looked that day in the park; her small, sad mouth, and the way she’d spoken slowly like she was choosing each word carefully. “Does she know?”

Peter half-shrugs. “We’ve never talked about it. But, like, I know she knows. And she knows I know she does.” He gives you a little smile. “It’s easier if we both keep pretending we don’t, though.”

“Does anyone else?”

His smile turns tight. “I guess not. Not really.”

“So you’ve been doing this all on your own? The whole time? How?”

He runs his hand back through his hair. “Yeah. Well, I guess I’m pretty good with DIY now, you know? I wasn’t always. I had to learn. Shit went wrong a lot in the beginning. Shit still goes wrong a lot.”

You lean in a little, curling into the cushions. “What’s the hardest part?”

You’re expecting him to say the fear of discovery, or the isolation, or the sheer physical exhaustion. But he wrinkles his nose. “God. The sewing. It’s so hard. And it’s constant. I swear I pop a different seam every day.” His face goes blank for a moment and he looks at you as though a brand new thought has just occurred to him for the first time. “It’s actually really nice. Getting to talk about this.”

“Am I allowed to ask about the outfit?”

He slaps his hands over his face. “You are absolutely fucking not allowed to ask about the outfit.”

Your mouth drops open in outrage. “I wasn’t gonna laugh! I just want to know why—”

“Look, I was going for, like, a velodrome thing. Like for speed and better flexibility and less wind-resistance and then like, anonymity as well, obviously, and originally—”

“What about the, uh, pattern?”

“Yeah, okay, okay, it seemed cool at the time! I was fifteen!”

The thought of Peter as a child, alone, in danger, no doubt even ganglier and nerdier than he is now, sends a fresh pang of sadness through you. You try not to let it show. “Do you eat the webs?”

He stares like you’ve just asked if he’d like to swap heads with you. “What?”

“Certain types of spiders go back and eat their webs after they’re done with them. Like, to replenish the protein they expended making them. Do you ever eat yours?”

The expression on his face is the funniest thing you’ve ever seen. “Uh, no. It’s inorganic. Like, it’s a, like essentially a nylon polymer composite. It’s not edible. I mean, I’ve never tried, but it’s designed to dissolve after a few hours, so I guess if you did really want to eat it, it wouldn’t hurt you…” He trails off, sheepish, looking at you sideways. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Yeah,” you say, unable to stifle your smile any longer. 

He grins and ducks his head. He hasn’t shaved today, you note; there’s a little bit of stubble along his jawline. 

Your chest hurts. Seeing him, being close to him, just like before. It pulls open the ache of missing him, turning it from a bruise into a wound. You know you shouldn’t. You tell yourself not to. But you do it anyway.

“I miss you.” Your voice is barely louder than a whisper. 

He looks so fucking sad. His eyes are huge and pained and so close, and then they dart down to your lips, and you see it; the precise split-second the urge hits him, then the one after as he fights it, and your heart sinks and you’re about to lean back but then his mouth is on yours and it’s soft and it’s warm and unbearably gentle as his hands sweep up to the base of your neck.

It’s not the best kiss you’ve ever had. 

You’re twisted uncomfortably to face him. Your hands lay shocked in your lap, and you’re pretty sure he can hear you attempting not to sniffle too much with your breathing, and you’re so busy worrying about it that you forget to open up to him; his tongue touching the edge of your lips. His fingertips brush the stitches at the back of your head and you flinch, pulling away.

“Oh, shit, sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, visibly mortified. 

“It’s okay,” you say. “Didn’t hurt. It’s just sensitive.”

“For kissing you,” he clarifies. “I know we’re not, like…you know. Anymore.”

That hurts. You shake your head. “We could be. We could try.”

“I can’t ask you—"

“No. Don’t do that. What do you want?”

He exhales through his nose and a tiny, pained sound escapes with it. “It’s not that easy—“

“It is. It is that easy. What do you want?”

“You have no idea,” he says, suddenly. “God. You have no fucking idea how bad I want you. I want this. You’re the only thing I. Fuck.” He knuckles at his eyes, frustrated. “You just have no idea how bad this could go.”

“I do,” you tell him, gently. “I know exactly how bad it could go. And I’m sorry, Peter. I’m so sorry that happened. It’s so, so fucked up that that happened and I’m so sorry, and I know nothing I can say will ever make any of it any less fucked up, but fucked up things happen. They happen all the time for normal people, too. And fucked up things are going to keep happening and it’s inevitable and it’s part of being alive and that’s why we just need to take that risk every day, and choose to—to try to just be happy in as many stupid fucking hopeless ways as we can anyway, because we deserve to be happy. You deserve to be happy.”

He’s staring at you like he wants to believe you. Like he wants to cry. “You need to know,” he says, reaching his hand out, pulling it back. “I can’t promise you this’ll be okay. If you still wanted…I would try. I would try so, so hard for you. Harder than I’ve ever tried at anything. But I—I still just have no way of knowing that it’ll be okay.“

You smile at him, shaky and sure. “That’s any relationship, Parker.”

This time when he kisses you, you’re ready. Your mouth opens eagerly under his, catching the faint metal-salt of his skin, the dryness where his lips are ever-so-slightly windburnt. 

All the breath leaves your body in a rush. You shove your hands up through his hair, lifting up onto your knees and sliding across his lap until you’re straddling him on the couch. 

He tilts his head back to work his tongue into your mouth, one of his hands sliding up underneath your shirt to find the edges of your bra, and it’s awkward and clumsy and you’re both breathing hard by the time he manages to get your jeans unzipped and his hand cramped into your underwear. 

“Holy shit,” you gasp, half-dizzy from kissing without pause. You almost bite him when his fingers find your clit. “Can you—yeah, like that, oh, my God—"

“Hold on, it’d be better if, let me…” he murmurs, frustrated, and you let out what could only be described as a yelp as he lifts your entire weight up to easily shove your jeans and underwear the rest of the way off your legs before settling you back down over his lap. 

You’re stuck between trying to grind down against the front of his jeans and trying to give him enough space to work his hand back between your legs, ultimately deciding on the latter as he finds your clit again, this time his attentions unhampered by clothing. 

His body hasn’t forgotten yours. It only takes a few moments of searching before he has you melting into the palm of his hand; your bones soft and hot inside you as you roll your eyes closed. It’s easy with him, just like before, but better.

You’re almost close when he eases two fingers inside you, and that’s easy too, so easy, the way you give for him. Your forehead rests against his as your lips come apart; too focused for kissing anymore.

“I missed you,” he breathes, working his wrist. “God, I missed you. I missed you so much.”

You flex your thighs as you rock with the movement of his hand, and that’s when you need to touch him, urgently. It takes a little repositioning before you manage to open his jeans and ease his cock out, wrapping your fingers loosely around him. 

You feel him tense and shudder as you stroke him, too slow to really get him anywhere, too lost in the way his long, firm fingers curl inside you. 

He noses along your jaw, mouthing lazily at your damp skin, his eyes closed, and then he’s there, right where you need him, and you’re clenching and biting down on the sounds trying to escape as you come apart sudden and hard around him.

You’re still loose-limbed and shaky when he pulls his slick fingers free, gently moving your hand out of the way to grasp himself instead. You feel a little guilty; you’d almost forgotten about him straining in front of you, but he doesn’t seem to care as he jerks himself quick and short in his fist. His other hand cups the swell of your ass as he huffs hot breath into your hair, your neck, coming sudden across the inside of your thigh.

You slump your weight against him. 

Neither of you speak for a while. Your hand is curled between your bodies, trapped where it’s warm and you can feel his heart slowing in his chest. He runs his hand absently from your hip to your thigh, then back again.

“Peter,” you murmur.

“Mmm.”

“You do need to promise me one thing, though.”

He moves, just enough that he can look up at you. His cheeks are flushed. “What?”

“We can never. And I mean never. Tell Bear we fucked on her couch.”

His eyes widen in horror. “Oh, my God. She already hates me.”

“I know. But it’s okay, because we’re not gonna tell her.”

“I just don’t know if I can keep that secret; I’m not good at subterfuge, y’know, I’m just not that kinda guy—"

“Yeah, yeah, okay—"

“—and you should see me under pressure; I fold like origami—"

You kiss him again, just to shut him up, and feel his lips curling up against yours. 

Your thighs feel sticky and gross, and you’re starting to get cold, and when you get up you nearly fall over from the cramp in your leg from sitting so awkwardly, but you’re too happy to care in the slightest. 

You stand together in the bathroom, cleaning each other up. Every time his eyes meet yours in the mirror you both smile again, giggling and getting in each other’s way, like idiots.

It takes twice as long as it should to get back out to the couch, and you’re hoping he’ll curl up with you again but then you catch him glancing toward the window. “You need to go,” you say. It’s not really a question.

He hedges. “I kind of do, but…”

You offer him a little smile. “It’s okay. Go.”

He nods. You walk him to the door, where he pauses. He chews at his thumbnail, looking at you sideways again from under his eyelashes.

You watch him for a few seconds, waiting. “What?” you finally say.

He presses his lips together, runs his hand through his hair. “So. It’s probably, like, kind of weird. To ask. At this…uh, juncture.”

He’s nervous, you realise. It’s excruciatingly endearing. You nudge him. “I feel like weird’s kind of our thing.”

He grins. “Yeah. I guess. So. I was gonna ask if you’d like to go out. For dinner. Friday night.”

There’s absolutely no way to prevent the smile slowly pulling at your mouth. “Peter. Are you asking me on a date?”

He laughs, a little self-conscious huff. “Uh, yeah. Like. I mean, I wanted to way sooner. But. I guess I wanna try doing things properly this time. If you want.”

You can think of a thousand different things to say, but most of them are embarrassing, so you settle for keeping it simple. “Yes. Fuck yes. Obviously.”

He blinks. “Oh, okay, awesome, holy shit. Okay. Should we…? I don’t have your new number.”

“Oh, yeah, I need to get yours again too.” You pull your phone out and make a new contact before handing it to him.

He stares at your screen for a second, then he snorts. “You have me in your phone as ‘p.p.’?”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Why? What do you have me as?”

He laughs again, quiet, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter.” He hands your phone back. He takes a few steps out the door, then he sticks his hands in his pockets. “So. I’ll see you?”

“You will,” you tell him, watching the way his jaw juts crookedly when he smiles. 

He’s halfway to the elevator, walking backwards, his hands still in his pockets when he calls back to you. “Friday, Miss Jersey.”

You laugh. “Quit disturbing my neighbours.”

You stay there long after he’s gone, leaning against your doorframe, smiling to yourself, aching with stupid, giddy affection.

[enbysanavi]

Resident Lovers: Bela

Bela Dimitrescu hunts down her vice President in an unlikely place.

Warnings: N/A

Bela Dimitrescu always held herself higher than everyone in the Student Council, she was their president after all and being the leader of such a vital club meant she had to be on top of any problem that she came across. Which also meant that if one of her colleagues weren’t pulling their weight, she would figure out why.

That’s how she found herself searching through the library to find her second in command. They were reliable almost all of the time but for the past week they haven’t been handing in the work that she assigned. Normally she wouldn’t confronted them earlier but due to a sudden push in workload from President Miranda even Bela couldn’t take a break.

She peered down a long line of bookshelves to find it empty yet again. This process of checking study area and book shelves were beginning to wane on Bela’s patience. She tried calling them multiple times but the call never connected.

Bela walked down the steps and fished out her keys to get into the archives, maybe her second in command was just doing some research for their Romanian heritage class.

The archives were covered in a thick layer of dust, Bela packed the idea away to get the cleaners down here more often. She walked through the sh lives and filing cabinets with her phone light illuminating her way. Bela would never admit it but being down in the archives always freaked her out, there was just something about the dark that unnerved her.

It wasn’t until she heard the familiar sound of opening and closing filing cabinets that she steeled her fears. “What do you think you’re doing?” She asked, causing the student to jump almost out of their skin and turn to her with wide eyes.

“Woah, calm down. It’s just me.” Bela felt a little more sympathetic to her second in command when she saw how frightened they were. There was something familiar about their fearful face, it concerned Bela and yet she doesn’t remember a time where she saw such wide eyes and laboured breathing on her vice President.

They blinked a few times, almost as if they were actually seeing Bela and not some monster from the darkness. “Bela, you scared me.” They breathed a sigh of relief and put a hand on their chest. “Is this about the council work because I’ll get it finished soon I am just really swamped with work at the moment.”

Bela sighed with frustration and pinched the bridge of her nose. Just as she was about to respond she noticed something weird. “Have you been looking through files without a light? How have you even been reading what’s on it?”

They looked down at the open case file in their hands with a sheepish expression. “I just… I can see very clearly in the dark.”

Pressing her lips into a frown, Bela crossed her arms and looked at her vice President. “What has been going on with you lately? It has even gotten as bad as my sisters bringing up their concerns with me about you.”

“What? Nothing is wrong.” They said sharply and mirrored Bela’s stance. “I’ve just been busy.” They said dismissively and stared back at her with the same tenseness that Bela reciprocated.

“Busy,” Bela scoffed. “Daniela told me that you got drunk so bad that she found you sitting in the kitchen with empty bottles surrounding you.”

The vice president looked down at the floor, seemingly caught off guard for once. “That was a one time thing.” They said quietly.

Bela took a step forward, surprised to see that her friend took two steps back. “You have been acting weird ever since the play finished, hell, even Cassandra is concerned.”

They perked up slightly, looking at Bela curiously. “Well, I…” They trailed off before turning around and shutting the filing cabinet drawer. They sighed and rested their head against it. “I’m just really busy and it’s all piling up.”

Bela took another step forward and gently put her hand on their back, deciding to ignore the way that they tensed against the contact. “Midterms are over, you don’t have a play up soon, you haven’t been going out with Daniela and Angie to party.” She sighed. “The only thing you have to do is the student council and even that workload has gone down.”

Another sigh escaped from their lips as they stood up straight and turned to Bela. She could almost swear that their eyes glowed in the darkness with her light shining upon them. Similar to how a cat’s eyes would reflect the light.

“I’ve been working on personal projects. Something my… family sent me to complete.” They huffed and watched Bela from the corner of their eye.

Bela’s face contorted with worry as she gently guided their face towards her with the use of her hand. “You never talk about your family.”

“It’s complicated.”

Bela snorted with a chuckle. “Trust me. I know how complicated family can be.”

Making light of the situation didn’t seem to be the right course of action with how Bela’s vice president turned their head away.

They grabbed the file that they had set on top of the filing cabinet and tucked it under their arm. “I’m sure you do.” They said shortly. “I should be going. I have a lot of work to catch up on.” And just like that, they disappeared into the rows of filing cabinets before Bela could stop them.

Bela huffed with frustration when she let them escape. “Now I have to track them down again.” She groaned as she leaned against the filing cabinet, pulling back her hand to see some weird black dust on the top. “Gross.”

[come-on-shitty-boys]

// The Rules of K. Ink. inked 03. //

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*The nature of this series may be not be appropriate for all readers. Content warnings include: vulgarity, heavy swearing, and implications of adult relations.  Due to these themes, this series may not be suitable for readers under the age of 16.  Reader discretion is advised.*

Kuroo Tetsurou knew he made a mistake when you came waltzing in with that cocky grin plastered on your face.  He was hoping that, at the very least, you would have some humility with the situation, but you just proceeded to sidle right up next to him at the counter, eyes trained up at him as if you were the one giving him the opportunity of his dreams.

“Well, well, alley cat.  I had a feeling that you wouldn’t be able to resist me,” you say low and smooth, the corner of your mouth twitching up into a teasing smirk.

He could already feel the steady drum of a headache settling in behind his temple and he had a sneaky suspicion that it wouldn’t be going away anytime soon.  His bright eyes blinked slowly, almost unamused, before he pushed away from the counter, walking off further into the shop leaving you behind. 

“If you’re going to work with me, kid, you better learn to move those damn legs,” he shouts, leaving you to scramble in an effort to catch up to him.  This was everything that you’ve been hoping for ever since you first stumbled across his Instagram feed all those years ago.  He had just been starting, no more than 200 followers and maybe a dozen likes on his posts, but the talent and the seeming mastery of the craft was all there, even if he was only 20.  His page had grown with him as an artist and you had been right there every step of the way, admiring from afar, picking up his techniques and incorporating them into your own work.  He was, to put it simply, your biggest inspiration, your push in the right direction.

You clutched the strap of your bag.  It had been in the back of your car, waiting patiently for the call that you knew was coming.  Sketchbook, pens, pencils, inks of various colors, everything that you could possibly need to make the most out of your tattoo artist apprenticeship.  You felt like a kid wandering around a toy store.  Frames upon frames of artwork were displayed in the front window of the shop, each piece signed with an extravagant ‘KT’ in the bottom corner.  Paintings of various sizes littered the walls depicting various landscapes and buildings, each one seeming to carry an essence of home between the brush strokes.  It has you slowing to a stop, leaning in close for a better view at all of the tiny individual shapes that pulled the full picture together.

“Did you make these?”

“Rule number one.  Don’t ask pointless questions.  You’re here to learn, not uncover my life story.”  Kuroo doesn’t even bother to look back at you.  He just pushes open a door to a small supply closet, taking something down from a shelf.  His smile was almost too kind when he turned back to you, but his eyes didn’t carry that same sentiment.  They were almost cruel, narrowed to a point that you could barely make out any color at all.  “Welcome to K. Ink.  It is K dot Ink and you will call it as such.”

“But your sign says-”

“I know what it says!”

“And your instagr-”

“K.Ink was taken!”

“So you chose k-”

“Rule number two! Do not call my shop or anything associated with it Kink!  Now, I have some work to finish, so I can’t deal with you right now. Bokuto took a massive shit earlier and now the bathroom fucking reeks, so I’m going to need you to take care of that for me.  Unfortunately, our toilet brush is having some technical difficulties and had to be taken to the repair shop, but luckily for you, we do have this toothbrush.  I’ll see you in a few hours, kid!”

“Hours?!”

“I told you.  Massive shit.  Remember, if you breathe through your mouth it won’t smell as bad!”  Kuroo pushed the toilet cleaner and the small plastic toothbrush into your hands.  “Gloves are in the cabinet.  Have fun, kid.”  He gives you a firm pat on your back that has your body lurching forward as he walks by you.

“Wait!  Kuroo!”  If he heard you, he sure didn’t act like it, because he didn’t even acknowledge you.  He just kept moving, black boots tapping rhythmically against the tiles as he disappeared back into his own work space.  You stared down at what he had given you, not exactly the materials you were expecting to need for your apprenticeship.  Accept defeat or march in there and tell him no? Accept defeat and you’re left on your hands and knees scrubbing a disgusting toilet bowl, nose deep in a smell you could do without.  But, telling him now, could just result in him telling you to leave again.  He wouldn’t even give you a second chance.  Taking on an apprentice was already out of his comfort zone, surely one fuck up would just have him shooing you away with your tail between your legs.

You pushed your sleeves up, reaching for a pair of gloves in the cabinet and letting them snap down against your wrist with a satisfying noise, holding a tight grip on the handle of the toothbrush. 

Defeat it was.

Hours seemed to pass and each time you heard a set of footsteps, you could only hope that it was Kuroo coming to finally tell you to stop scrubbing.  But he never came.  Those bells above the door just kept chiming as clients arrived and left, satisfied with their K. Ink experience.

“You’ve had them scrubbing that bathroom since 2 p.m., Kuroo.  I’m pretty sure it’s cleaner than it’s ever been,” Akaashi stated, peering up at Kuroo over his glasses.  It was almost 5.  With walk-ins unwelcome and only a handful of piercing appointments scattered over the next few hours, the work day was closing down and the other two staff members of K. Ink had to have a proper introduction with the newest member of the team, who apparently was just doubling as their janitor.  

“They’ll be fine.  It hasn’t been that long.  Besides, you smelled that bathroom!  It needed a good cleaning.”  Kuroo shrugged, leaning against the front counter, typing away the caption to an Instagram post.  

“Kuroo, you’re supposed to be teaching them how to be a tattoo artist, not how to clean toilets.”

“I didn’t teach them how to clean, they figured that out themselves.”

“Kuroo-” Akaashi warned.

“What?”  There was not another word from the desk clerk.  He simply shook his head, pushing his glasses back up his nose, turning his attention back to the computer.  “Akaashi!” Kuroo whined, sinking down against the glass countertop.

“I just cleaned that.  Don’t get your fingerprints all over the glass or else I’ll make you clean it.”

“Then I’ll just make-” he paused.  Akaashi could practically see the gears spinning inside Kuroo’s head.  “Do you remember their name? Kid, apprentice, I don’t know, whatever their name is- they can clean it when they’re done in the bathroom!”

Akaashi rubbed his face over his hands, bringing his coffee mug up to his mouth.  No amount of caffeine was going to get him through this day, hell, through the span of your time at the shop.  “You don’t even remember their name and you have them scrubbing our toilets?  You’re absurd, Kuroo.”

“You’re going to give me hell over this forever, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to give you hell about it until you see that this is ridiculous.”

Kuroo just sighed and rolled his eyes, stepping back from the counter with his hands up in surrender.  “Everyone has to go through some sort of shit when they get an apprenticeship.  It’s just how it is.” 

The smack of his palm against the door made you jump, had you scrambling for the toothbrush that had long been forgotten and had been traded for cycling endlessly through the same three apps for nearly two hours now.  The door teased open just as you had dipped your hand back into that disgusting toilet bowl to at least pretend like you had been scrubbing away this entire time.  

“I’m not going to lie, this is a pretty disgusting thing to watch.”

If you weren’t so determined to keep this damn apprenticeship, you would’ve smacked the absolute shit out of him with that nasty toothbrush.  You could just slump down against the wall and look up at him.  “It’s not exactly the most glamorous thing to do either.”

He leaned against the door frame, arms tucked over his chest.  “Come on, wash up, and let’s go.  I got another job for you.”

“What?  Am I going to be polishing your tiles with your gym socks?”

“You know, that’s really not a bad idea.  Maybe some other day.  Just move your ass and get up.”  He waited in the doorway just long enough for you to scrub your hands under the running water of the sink before stalking off back towards the front of the shop with you having to almost run to catch up with him.

“Kid, this is Akaashi Keiji, he’s the front desk clerk, you know, the one you blatantly ignored this morning.”

“Hi.  Y/N.  It’s nice to meet you, Akaashi,” you state, reaching your hand across the counter for a greeting.

He nods, giving your hand a firm shake.  “It’s a pleasure.”

“Bokuto!” Kuroo shouts as if he wasn’t ten feet away from the piercer’s room.

“He’s with a client right now.  You’ll have to give him a few minutes,” Akaashi says, eyes darting from you to Kuroo and then finally settling on you, studying you like a textbook, steel eyes tracing over every inch of your face before finally nodding in contentment.  

Kuroo hummed as he leaned back against the counter.  “Well, we have some rules to finish up anyway.  Where were we?  Four?”

“Three.”

“Right.  Rule number three.  There’s a shop a few doors down.  You know the owner’s name, you’ve almost said it.  We don’t talk about him here.  You keep that snake-ass bastard’s name out of my shop.”

“Snake ba-? Oh! Do you mean Dai-”

Kuroo raises his index finger up to your lips.  “What did I literally just say?  Rule number four.  Listen.  You have ears.  You better use them.”

“What’s your problem with him?  He’s cool,” you pause, eyeing your new boss up and down, letting a smirk pull at your lips as you watch him start to unravel at the mere discussion of he-who-shall-not-be-named.  “Cooler than you.”

His voice is low, almost a growl as he leans into you, stooping down so he’s right in front of your face.  “Tell me rule number three, pip squeak.”

“‘Keep that snake-ass bastard’s name out of the shop.’  Yeah, got it, boss.  It was just a question, damn.  What?  You two have some secret romance going on?  Are things not good between you two in the bedroom, is that what this is?” You ask, mock sympathy painted over your face.  “You know, it’s actually really common for men your age to have perf-”

Kuroo looks at you completely exasperated and utterly baffled that that’s where your mind instantly went.  “Do not even finish that sentence.”

You turned to Akaashi and gave him a teasing smile.  “That’s a yes.”

“Rule number five.  Do as I say.  If I want you to rewire the electrical, you’re going to rewire the-”

“No, they aren’t.  That’s how you get a fine from the fire department.  You already have a health code violation against you.  Don’t be stupid,” Akaashi warns.

“Fine!  No electrical work! But, rule five still stands.  For these next few years, you better be ready to be at my beck and call whenever I need you during business hours.  Which brings us to our sixth and final rule.  Do not contact me outside of business hours.  We are not friends.  I do not want to be your friend. This is a strictly work relationship and it will remain that way, are we clear?” Kuroo finishes, raising an expectant eyebrow at you.

“Alright, that should get you all finished!  You wanna pay cash or card?  Cash?  Great, then I can go ahead and take that from you.  Remember to just give me a call if you have any questions or concerns.”  The big man who had tried to stop you during your desperate attempt at gaining your apprenticeship emerges from a room, a client sporting a nose ring that was still a little red trailing behind him.  He smiles brightly and waves as the shop door closes behind them.  “Man, you never would’ve believed how much she bled!  I mean, I get it, you just got a needle jammed through your nose, but damn!  I haven’t seen one bleed like that since I did your eyebrow, bro!”  He turned his attention to you.  “Had blood dripping down his face like crazy.  Looked like someone had beat him real good upside the head.  I’d wipe it away and woosh! More blood.”  The man paused, finally getting a good look at you.  He leaned away from you to look you over.  “Do I know you?”

You shake your head, holding your hand out towards him.  “Y/N.  I’m Kuroo’s apprentice.”

“Oh! You were-” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.  “Sorry about the toilet.”

{Taglist: @boosyboo9206 @universal-s1ut @zamorazz // never miss an update! send an ask or dm to be added to the inked taglist!}

[psychotic4ghost]

Strength Together a story by Psychotic4Ghost

TW: Blood, medical, guns, violence, mild language WC: 2.4k

Masterlist <- Chapter 4 // Chapter 6 ->

Ophelia paced the small living space in the safe house she was stationed in. It had been a few hours now since they had left and she was growing to hate the silence. The men who were stationed outside and in the safe house didn’t speak much to each other or her, making these last few hours incredibly lonely. 

After the fifth hour ticked by, the men outside the safe house began to shout. Something was wrong and the hairs lining her arms stood on end as she tuned into their words. 

“We’ve been found. Get her in a vehicle now! Move! Move!” One of the guards shouted, unfortunately his words were followed by gunfire and it sounded close. 

Ophelia had followed Ghost into the shooting range many times but she always had earmuffs. She had never heard gunfire without them before and it was loud, too loud. Her hands flung to her ears as she stifled a cry. Strong hands gripped her under her arm and dragged her outside. He had her medical bag slung over his arm as he pushed her out the door and into an armored truck. 

“They found us, Doctor. We need to move and fast.” One of the guards she had learned was called Sergeant Fang, demanded as he moved faster than she could. It wasn’t long before he had her in the truck. She could see two of the five guards laying dead on the ground near the safe house as the truck sped off. The other three were in the truck already, heads sticking out of the truck windows, ready to fire back if needed. 

“Where are we going?” Ophelia shouted over the chaos. 

“The next safe house. It was marked on your map, remember?” Sergeant Fang responded as he focused on driving down the dirt road to the next safe house which was 3 clicks away. 

Ophelia tried her best to calm her heartbeat, something was wrong, not just with them over taking her safe house, but there was something else keeping her nerves from calming. 

“Captain, do you copy?” Sergeant Fang asked through his coms now that they had managed to cover some ground. 

Ophelia could hear the faint static of Captain Price responding on the other end of the small earpiece Sergeant Fang wore. A small wave of relief washed over her, Price was alive. 

“Ghost? I thought that man couldn’t be taken down.” The conversation was one sided for Ophelia but that alone told her what she needed to hear. Her heart sank, tears threatened to spill.

“She’ll be at the safe house ‘hound’. I’m sure you can see that the safe house ‘rover’ has been overrun.” He listened for a beat. “Yes sir, I’ll have her medical station set up as soon as we get there. Over.” 

Ophelia turned her whole body towards Sergeant Fang in anticipation of any shred of good news. 

“Ghost is injured. Bad. If you don’t start working as soon as they reach us, he won’t make it.” Fang informed her as he pushed the accelerator down as far as it would go. 

Mixed emotions flooded her, he was alive but not for long if she didn’t do all she could. “Are Gaz and Price okay?”

“As far as I can tell, yes. The safe house is just up ahead. They should be close. Check your GPS to see how far out they are.” Sergeant Fang was more than helpful with his calm tone, keeping her from fully breaking down. This was the most action she had ever been in. 

The new safe house wasn’t that different from the first, the same run down look but somewhat cleaner on the inside. Sergeant Fang was quick to set her new base up. The other two men stood guard as she set up her station. She cleared the full sized dining room table of any debris, making a place for her to work. She pulled up a chair from the table and began laying out her supplies. She had no idea what his injury was but she prepared for it all. 

“Is she set up? We don’t have time!” Gaz could be heard shouting from the front of the building, startling Ophelia as she placed her sterile case of tools out on the chair she prepped. 

“What happened to him?” She asked as she rushed for the door where Price and Gaz were lugging Ghost in by his arms, feet dragging behind him. 

“Bullet wound, I think it nicked his external jugular. There’s a lot of blood but he’s still alive, barely.” Price nearly shouted, adrenaline taking him over as he and Gaz placed Ghost on the wooden dining table. 

“Move, move!” Ophelia had just finished snapping her last glove on as she shoved Price and Gaz out of the way with her hips and elbows. 

“Gaz, on the other side of the table, now. I need you to get this armor off as fast as you can.” Ophelia took a deep breath before barking her next order, not caring that these men were above her in every rank possible. “Price, I need you to get gloves, splash your hands with that bottle of alcohol and get those gloves on. I’ll need your help.” 

Neither of the men questioned her demands as they jumped into action. “I need to remove the mask.” Ophelia said with hesitation. 

Price nodded, pulling out a surgical mask from one of the chest pockets of Ghost’s plate carrier. Ophelia turned away as Price stripped Ghost of the mask, still wanting to respect the privacy he would have wanted. After Price placed the black surgical mask over Ghost’s nose and mouth, she began doing all she could. When it came to getting him oxygen, she had Price do what he could to cover Ghost’s face, unfortunately, this was where her respect for his concealment ended. 

Price was right, his external jugular had been nicked and the amount of blood he had lost was fatal. She worked on removing the bullet as carefully as she could so as to not harm his jugular anymore. If anything cut through the vein fully, he wouldn’t be able to make it. Everyone held their breath as she worked. Gaz paced the living room and then somewhere outside, claiming he needed air. Ophelia didn’t blame him, she would kill for some fresh air right about now. 

The captain was a huge help to Ophelia, doing everything she asked to a tee. The operation was done. She had removed all the shrapnel she could before stitching the vein and the rest of the wound. Ophelia slumped back in one of the dining room chairs that sat next to the table Ghost was still laying on. She eyed his face as she caught her breath. He was breathtaking, his skin was a cool tan that nicely complimented his dirty blonde hair accompanied by a shower of very light freckles. His facial hair was short but long enough to hold shape from his mask being pressed against it all day. 

Around his cheeks, chin and upper lip was a shadow of more dirty blonde stubble. As if he hadn’t shaved in a few days. That has to be annoying with the mask rubbing against it all day. His face was peppered with light scars and some deeper. Over his left cheek, coming down from the apple of his cheek to the base of his jaw was a clean cut scar, as if someone took their time carving it into his skin. 

His chest was the same, though even more knicks covered his skin. Across each side of his ribs were very deep scars, they weren’t clean as if someone had ripped through his skin harshly. More knife marks littered his skin, another large one slashed from the top to the underside of his right pectoral muscle. Many more deeper cuts adorn his chest and abs, ones Ophelia could study for hours. His skin was her newest novel and she felt she would never be able to put it down. 

“How’s he doing?” Gaz asked as he finally returned once Price informed him she had finished her work.

“He’s stable. I was able to remove about 96% of the shrapnel and I pray the remaining 4% won’t hurt him…it shouldn’t.” Ophelia sighed, her throat was rough from her barking orders and then not speaking for hours as she worked. 

Bloodied cloth lay all around her feet and on the table around Ghost. She was far too tired to clean up her mess right now. And he couldn’t be moved yet so there was no point. 

“When do you think he’ll wake up?” Price asked as he handed Ophelia a fresh water bottle. 

“No idea. I can’t monitor him like I usually would. We need to get back to base as soon as we can so I can better monitor him. There’s too many unknown variables here.” 

“We’ll load up as soon as Sergeant Fang and his team give us the all clear. We can’t move when Makarov’s men could still be out there.” 

Ophelia nodded to her captain as she turned her attention back to the large man sleeping on her makeshift workstation. She wanted nothing more than to get him hooked up and monitored as soon as possible. The rest of the night was going to be long as she watched over her patient. 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The night had fully passed and the sun peeked over the horizon as the loud winds of the helio filled Ophelia’s ears. They were finally heading back to the base after one more gun fight, taking out the rest of the Konni team that was in the village. Nolan was being taken to the gulag where he belonged. However, he and Makarov were to be kept on completely different cell blocks. 

Ophelia finally managed to get Ghost hooked up to the proper machines and monitored. She refused to leave his side though, even after her routine checks. Price and Gaz grew worried as she refused to leave her clinic, the two would take turns checking on her and Ghost as the week passed by. 

He was in no way in a coma and had woken up a few times but he was so out of it that he never seemed to remember any conversation he had. Ophelia would change any tubes he needed through the days, making sure he was fed as he wouldn’t be able to eat on his own for a while. 

“He’s recovered from worse, Lia.” Price tried his best to comfort Ophelia as she had her head pressed against the cool metal of her desk. Her desk was in a small office, just big enough for a standard desk with her chair and one on the other side of the desk, two medium sized filing cabinets and one standard size anatomical skeleton. To her left, the direction her head was facing, was a glass window that had blinds for privacy if she needed it but she currently had them open so she could watch Ghost at all times. 

“I know. You told me…but…I just worry. It’d be the same if it were any of you.” She forced her eyes to stay open, grabbing about two hours of sleep in the week he’d been in her clinic. The two hours were separated into about fifteen minute increments as she would snap awake moments after realizing she had fallen asleep. 

She listened to the soft beeping of his EKG through her open office door. “Can you please let me look over him while you get some sleep? Some food too?” Price was doing everything he could to get her to leave her office. “I can’t, what if he wakes up?” 

“Then I’ll be here for him. After you’ve showered, changed, and grabbed at least a few hours of sleep, I’ll come get you if he’s woken up. You’ve told me what to do if he does so many times. Lia, sweetheart, I’m begging you.” 

She could feel the genuine worry in his voice. With a very heavy sigh, she pushed back from her desk. “Fine. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 

“No, Lia. Sleep. I’ll have Gaz check on you and I promise I will not leave Simon’s side.” Price placed his hand in the small of her back, pushing her out the door. Gaz was waiting at the entrance of the clinic to escort her to her quarters which were just down the hall. Both men were worried about her collapsing on her way there, this way Gaz could catch her if she did.

“C’mon, Lia. Let’s get you washed up.” Gaz was gentle with her as he spoke, he gingerly placed his arm around her like a side hug as he guided her to her quarters. 

“I’m gonna stay in your room till you’re done showering, I don’t want you slipping.” Gaz sat on the edge of her bed after handing her a stack of clothes he picked out for her. 

Her shower was difficult as she couldn’t stop thinking about Ghost laying on the wooden dining table back at the safe house. The panic she felt that he could die. The moment he was pulled into the safe house, he became her patient and she would do anything she could to save him. The idea of him dying, as her patient and as her friend, scared the hell out of her. 

This was the first time since she was moved from the first safe house that she’s been given a moment to think. Tears pushed past her eyes and rolled down her cheek as she took it all in, she was so close to actual gun fire. Then Ghost was brought it, nearly dead and she had to stop thinking, go into doctor mode and it wasn’t till now that she could come back to herself. 

After turning off the water and getting dressed in the cozy pjs that Gaz picked out for her, she stepped out of the small bathroom that was connected to her room. Gaz was still seated on her bed, he was scrolling on his phone as he waited for. He put it back in his pocket the moment he heard the door click open, “Feelin’ any better?” He asked with a soft smile. 

“Not really. This has been the scariest week of my life, Kyle.” 

“I know, I know. C’mon, let’s get you in bed. It’s currently 0200 hours, I'll wake you up at 0900, does that sound good?” Gaz stepped away from her bed so she could climb into it, she nodded her head gently before pulling the blankets over her. She was exhausted, she never heard the door shut as Gaz left, falling asleep before any more words could be exchanged. 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

<- Chapter 4 // Chapter 6 -> Story Masterlist // Main Masterlist

[iamvegorott]

Magicians Don't Need Superheros Pt22

First: Link Prev: Link Next:TBA: Link

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Yet another week passed, a peaceful week, well, as peaceful as the Septiceye House could be with Anti always trying to find something fun to do. But nothing too chaotic happened in that week and Marvin had agreed to go out on another one of Jackie’s patrols, wanting an excuse to go to the little bakery and get a sweet treat. It wasn’t hard to convince Jackie to make a stop during his routine for something chocolatey. 

“I meant to ask you a while ago, but what other jobs do you do aside from security?” Marvin said after he and Jackie claimed a little booth in the bakery. He had a chocolate muffin in front of him while Jackie had a muffin as well but he also had two cookies and a slice of apple pie that he couldn’t resist getting since it just came out of the oven. 

“The security stuff is like my usual go-to ‘cause of my strength.” Jackie took a large bite of the pie, smiling at the flavor for a moment as he chewed. “Does being a bodyguard count as something different?” 

“I’d say so. Watching over a location and watching over a person seem very different.” Marvin picked up a fork and used it on his muffin. 

“Dude, no.” Jackie stared in disbelief. 

“What?”

“You’re using a fork for your muffin?”

“It’s cleaner to eat it this way.” 

“It’s a muffin.”

“You’re using a fork.”

“For a pie.”

“Same thing. Dessert forks.”

“I’m going to explode.”

“You’re not going to explode.”

“I’m dying.”

“You’re dramatic.” Marvin loaded his fork again and held it toward Jackie. “You’re not going to die if you eat some muffin from a fork.” 

“I can feel my atoms splitting as we speak.” Jackie exaggerated a shiver, noise, and all. 

“Eat the muffin bite.” Marvin leaned over the table and had the fork closer to Jackie. 

“My particles are parting.” 

“Your particles are fine.” 

“Death is coming for me.”

“I’m about to crawl over this table and shove this fork into your mouth if you don’t do it yourself.” 

“I want everyone to wear superhero outfits at my funeral.”

“I’ll make sure of it.” Marvin rolled his eyes as Jackie ate the muffin from his fork. “Look at that. No atoms splitting or particles parting, you’re in one piece.” 

“I feel like I committed a war crime.” 

“You are such a-” 

“Dork?” Jackie finished with a chuckle when Marvin’s phone ringing cut off his comment.

“A massive one,” Marvin added, taking his phone out and seeing that it was Chase calling. “Hello?”

“Hey, Marvin. Let Jackie know he needs to charge his phone and I need you two back at the House.” Chase said through the phone. 

“Wait, why?” 

“You’re going to be meeting the Ipliers.”

x~x~x

Marvin thought the Septiceye House was large but the Iplier Manor was massive. He felt like a Barbie-sized doll going into a house and not a grown man. 

“People live here?” Marvin asked Jackie in a whisper, the two of them sticking to the back of the group as Chase knocked on the door. 

“Yeah. just wait, it gets fancier.” Jackie whispered back. 

“I’m so surprised.” Marvin’s voice was laced with sarcasm. 

“Welcome, come in, we’re just waiting for the others and we can begin.” Dark greeted them after opening the door, stepping aside and gesturing with his hand for them to enter. 

“I think my particles are parting,” Marvin muttered. 

“And you call me dramatic.” Jackie teased and quickly scrambled into the Manor when Marvin gave him a look. 

“Good afternoon,” Dark stated flatly to Marvin as he came into the building last. “Do you plan on behaving like a brat again?” 

“Do you plan on removing the metal rod from your ass?” Marvin matched Dark’s tone. 

“Bad idea, bad idea,” Jackie said to himself as he scrambled back over. “Should not have left you alone with him.” He slipped between the two and turned Marvin around by his shoulders and walked away with him. 

“I think me and Dark get along swimmingly.” Marvin’s sarcasm was back in full force. “Soon we’ll be braiding each other’s hair and talking about cute boys.” 

“I sure hope I make it into that talk.” A new voice said with a deep chuckle. 

“Cowboy?” Marvin said when he saw the newest Iplier, blinking as his form took on his unique one.

“Adventurer.” The Iplier corrected, tilting his hat before bowing a bit, taking hold of one of Marvin’s hands, and kissing the knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He said with a wink. 

“A flirty cowboy.” Marvin hummed. The man straightened up with another chuckle. 

“Wilford wasn’t joking when he said you have a fun mouth on you. I can see why Jackie enjoys your company.” The man’s grin turned toward Jackie, gesturing to his hands that were still on Marvin’s shoulders. 

“Well, I just-we’re-we’re just-he’s a good-he’s a good friend.” Jackie sputtered as he dropped his hands and then used them to point to the person whose name he spoke; “Marvin, Illinois. Illinois, Marvin.” He tried to change the subject with his next sentence. “Illinois was the one that taught me the waltz.” 

“Now, that’s not shocking,” Marvin picked up on how Illinois seemed to like to tease. It wasn’t too far of a stretch for someone very flirty to be like that as well.  

“Did he dip you?” Illinois asked.

“He did,” Marvin said with a light nod.

“I was showing off,” Jackie weakly laughed. 

“A dip is a good way of doing that.” Illinois chuckled, eyes shifting to the side before returning and he grinned. “And I am going to steal Jackie here for a moment.” He wrapped an arm across Jackie’s shoulder and walked off with him. 

“A good friend?” Illinois asked in a soft tone, making sure no one else could hear them over their own conversations. 

“Yeah. Like, we clicked really fast and he’s a good friend.” Jackie matched Illinois’ level. 

“Usually good friends don’t look like they want to yank off my head for doing my usual introduction.” Illinois hummed.

“I’m protective, you know that. When we went on that security job together some creep was like, being all creepy with him and I…I might have almost broken his shoulder.” Jackie admitted the last part quickly, it sounding like one word. 

“Jackie,” Illinois said the name in shock. “You’re not one to normally do something like that.” 

“He was making Marvin uncomfortable.” Jackie rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Are we still going with the ‘just a good friend’ route? Because that sounds like you’re getting jealous.” Illinois poked Jackie’s chest. 

“No. No, it’s not.” Jackie pushed Illinois’ hand away. “If the creep was creeping on anyone, I would have done the same for them.” 

“Would have stepped in, of course, you are a hero after all, but you wouldn’t almost shatter a shoulder,” Illinois said. “Did you tell Chase about that?”

“No. He would have grounded me big time if I did.”

“Maybe you should talk to him. I know we’re pals but he knows you a lot more than me, might be able to pick at your brain and see if you were just being a hero, or if there’s more going on in that heart of yours.” 

“Nothing is-” Jackie stopped himself and sighed. “You’re not going to leave me alone until I talk to Chase.”

“You know it.” Illinois winked.

“Fine.” Jackie slumped his body in a bit of a pout. “But I’m not going to like it.”

“You might.” Illinois patted Jackie’s back and then let him go, walking off while Jackie turned to see where Marvin was. He chuckled when he saw Marvin standing with the Jims, the other set of twins, and wasn’t shocked at how Marvin looked very confused as the Jims rambled to each other.

“Magic.”

“Magic.”

“Not chaos magic.”

“No, no. No chaos. Just magic.”

“No demons.”

“No demons.” 

“Jackie, I can’t tell if I’m having a stroke or I really need a nap,” Marvin said as Jackie joined him. 

“They are the Jims. He’s RJ and he’s CJ.” Jackie first pointed to the Iplier with a microphone in his hands and then to the one with a camera on his shoulder. “Reporter Jim and Camerman Jim.” 

“They’ve been calling me cat Jim,” Marvin said. 

“They do that. I’m hero Jim.” Jackie had a proud grin. 

“I can’t tell if this is adorable or if I should be running for the hills.” 

“Everyone has a Jim name if that helps.” 

“Guess I’ll get my cardio workout in later.” Marvin chuckled. “How many more do I need to meet?”

“Five, well, six if you count Blank.” Jackie counted with his fingers, putting down four of them and then pointing. “That guy talking with Henrik is Dr. Iplier or Edward as we all call him. He’s the Iplier’s doc like how Hen is ours.” 

“So, he’s their dad?” Marvin asked with another chuckle. 

“I think Dark has that title.” 

“The way I would always be running away from home if Dark was my parent. Not even teenage rebellion, I’d be running right after birth.” 

“Would you believe me if I said the newest Iplier did?” Jackie chuckled. 

“Oh? Now you have to give me all the details.” Marvin couldn’t help his curiosity from peeking through. 

“Maybe not while he’s in the room.” Jackie scratched his cheek with a finger. 

“Hey, dude! You must be Marvin!” One of the Ipliers Marvin hadn’t met yet rolled on his heels over to them. Marvin had to admit, with the other Ipliers he’s experienced, he wasn’t expecting someone with bright orange sunglasses and a black tank top. The b that was on the shirt looked familiar and he swore it was glowing.

“You are going to scare him, you nearly did the same with Madrick when he arrived.” Another Iplier joined, this one wearing basic glasses, and his blue t-shirt had a glowing G. Did they have lights in their shirts?

“Maddy’s warmed up to me, man. He just had to get used to the vibe.” The first Iplier did a little wave with his arms. “Plus, like, the dude was ready to literally set everyone but Mare on fire, so I have some laxness in that. Robbo loved me though when we first met.”

“Does he own a skateboard, by chance?” Marvin asked Jackie. 

“He does,” Jackie said.

“I knew it.” 

“Let’s get our introductions finished so we can continue with our day. We are completely off schedule and this new vision is only making it worse.” The second Iplier sighed.

“Vision?” Marvin was asking Jackie again.

“When everyone gets here, it’ll be explained.” Jackie gave a nervous smile. 

“Alright, man, alright.” The first Iplier faced Marvin again. “I’m Bing and this mud-puddle here is Googs.” 

“Google.” The second Iplier corrected.

“Like the search engines?” Marvin was going to ask if those were nicknames, but given how ‘Googs’ seemed to be the nickname, it was likely their actual names. Not too odd considering some of the other names he’s experienced. 

“Exactly! We’re androids, dude.” Bing had the biggest grin.

“Androids?” Marvin definitely wasn’t expecting that. Magic he was used to, androids that moved, breathed, and looked like the average human, was sci-fi and he didn’t dwell much into that genre.

“Yes. We were formed with wires.” Google placed a hand on his arm and opened his skin like a panel, showing said wires and lights and other technical gadgets Marvin would never understand the function of.

“Googs!” Bing quickly closed the opening. “Come on, man, you know we can’t just show off our insides. You’re gonna, like, traumatize the newbie.” 

“Madrick was interested in it,” Google stated.

“Maddy’s a big nerd, he likes that stuff. Not everyone is the same, dude.” 

“Oh. My apologies.” 

“I have no idea how to feel about this situation anymore.” Marvin blinked a few times. Did seeing an android’s wires under their…skin count as gore? Should he be traumatized?

“Hey, look, it’s Yancy.” Jackie waved a hand over to an Iplier that came out and went over to Illinois. The Iplier, Yancy, shot a smile and wave back to Jackie before his hand was taken by Illinois and they walked off together.

“Is he in a prison outfit?” Marvin asked. “Or does he just really like black and white stripes?” 

“Prison. I don’t know the full story, the only person that does is Illinois.” Jackie shrugged. “He likes musicals.”

“I’m getting whiplash.” 

“Sorry, we’re late.” Mare’s voice spoke as he, Phantom, Mad, and, who Marvin assumed was Blank, appeared in the middle of the room.

“I’m really getting whiplash.” Marvin rubbed his temples with his hand. 

“Blank’s change came in late and we wanted to wait until he finished before using magic on him,” Mare explained. 

“Robbie!” Blank, a young child, squeaked as he ran over to Robbie, also a young child. “I’m six!”

“Me too!” Robbie was also squeaking, the two children were very happy about being the same age. 

“RJ, CJ, take Blank and Robbie to the playroom and I will come to get you all when we are finished.”

“Yes, dad Jim!” RJ and CJ both saluted before taking off with the children. 

“Dad Jim?” Marvin repeated with a snort. 

“Hush.” Dark snapped as he walked past. Marvin was about to snark but stopped when he noticed the weird shift in the air, everyone moving and following Dark.

“It’s time to do the thing,” Jackie said. “The vision thing.” 

“Then we can go back to the House?” Marvin walked alongside Jackie.

“Yeah. Wanna play Stardew Valley tonight?” Jackie offered. 

“That sounds nice.” Marvin smiled, watching everyone go through a set of double doors. He stepped in before Jackie and paused when he saw the last Iplier. 

He sat at the end of a table, arms resting on the surface and hands on top of each other. He sat up straight and faced forward. None of that was strange but the bloody cloth wrapped around his eyes is what caused Marvin to hesitate. 

“That’s Host,” Jackie said. “He’s our vision guy.” 

[spectatingspectacle]

BloodLove AU "Love Bites"

{Fair warning! This may be a little suggestive, nothing too graphic since this is mostly just fluff, but the Lust ritual is mentioned near the end and they mention what they'll do to one another. Also, the Lust ritual is called the Rite of Asmodeus. Other than that and the biting it's all fluff}

Shamura slowly arose out of bed, barely mustering the energy to bring their claws up to rub their many eyes. They looked over to the lamb, who was peacefully asleep still, unaware that the sun had greeted the day through the window. They flopped back down, turning to their side and wrapping their arms around the lamb, absentmindedly putting two of their legs over theirs as well.

“Mmh…” the lamb stirred, slurring out “morning” before falling silent once more.

Shamura let out a little chuckle behind their ear, and turned their attention to where the lamb’s shoulder and neck meet. There was a scar there, two dots spaced out with smaller harder-to-see scars around them in a curved arch.

Without really thinking about what they were doing, they ran their tongue over the scar.

The lamb shivered, a rather weird way to be taken out of slumber to the world of the waking. They muttered something under their breath before they heard a very familiar giggle from the spider. Gods fxcking damnit…

As they did it again, the lamb moved their arm from under Shamura’s and moved their wool out of the way, a glance over their shoulder revealed that —just as they thought— Shamura’s pupils were glowing a vibrant yet muted shade of pink. The lamb opened the space between their neck and their shoulder, sighing.

“Go ahead, make it quick, I have shxt to do today.”

Shamura laughed quietly. “You’re so nice to me~” and with that they sunk their teeth into there, their fangs met up perfectly with the scars as they drew blood and savored the taste, letting it simmer and burn into their tongue. They withdrew their bite for a small moment before going back in, they still laughed quietly as their fangs went a little deeper than the first time.

They swallowed some of it before their pupils faded back to red, it was then that their heart calmed down. When did it start beating so fast? Shamura let go of their bite and swallowed again.

...

Silence rested over the bedroom until Shamura sat up from on top of the lamb, drawing some silk and gently yet firmly wrapping it over the bite mark.

"Apolog-”

“It’s fine, I get it,” the lamb cut them off and waited for them to finish wrapping the bite before sitting up themself.

Shamura wiped some blood off their chin until the lamb moved forward and met their lips. A familiar ritual of a “good morning” kiss. They closed their eyes and kissed back, both dismissing the blood Shamura’s mouth was covered in.

When they both pulled away, they looked to where the lamb was just laying down, seeing a dark red seep into the mattress, soon to join the other dark red stains there.

"Hm…” the lamb hummed. “I’ll have to ask Forneus where she got that laundry cleaner from that she gave me a couple months ago, it got out the stains pretty well on the sheets, blankets, and clothes.”

Shamura climbed out of bed and grabbed a cloth off of the nightstand, wiping away the rest of the blood. “Well, when you go I’ll take care of the cult, love. I know you’d also want to crusade while you’re out,” they said as they began to straighten out the blankets on their side of the bed.

“Thanks, Moonpie.” The lamb ran their hoof lightly over the silk, little red spots were showing up already. The lamb sighed. “Do you think you could be a bit gentler next time? These bite marks are getting harder to explain, love."

"Just say it was me, nothing embarrassing about it.”

"You have no shame."

With a chuckle Shamura finished making their side of the bed. They leaned on it and gave the wrapped bite a light kiss before standing up and grabbing the laundry basket.

“Oh, and don't forget, next week is the annual Rite of Asmodeus.” The lamb finally got out of bed too and threw on whatever tunic they grabbed first.

“Oh, yes yes yes, the Rite of Asmodeus…” Shamura adjusted their hold on the basket. “I’ll see to it that the decor is arranged while you and Sister Heket prepare the buffet, yes?”

“Yeah, then maybe later we could… well, you could have something else to eat, mayhaps?”

Shamura stopped just before the door, a small laugh crept onto their face, the mere implication exciting them. “Such as…?”

The lamb smiled.

Shamura smiled back. “Oh, you know I love the taste of mutton, hmhmhmhmmm…” they chuckled. “This year will be fun!

“You know it!” the lamb laughed.

“Hahaha, Alright, I’ve got laundry to do, hope the followers won't pester you today!” They waved before taking their laundry basket out the door.

The lamb gave them one last smile as they left. They turned to their journal, reviewing their to-do list before setting off for the day.

[justicekiy]

Then Call Me The Joker 🃏

I sat alone in the dark, blazing my sorrows. Was this the fourth joint? Or maybe the fifth ? I should slow down. I felt cautious enough to go out my room and get some water in the dark. I wore only a big T labeled “I can’t Breathe” and white satin panties. I walked freely through the room because it was summer. That meant my roommate left for home. School was over.

When I stumbled past the living room, I almost jumped outta my skin. I saw him sitting near my small dining room table. He was dressed in all black with low 1s. His tattoos were scattered like monumental pieces from like neck and the way down to his exposed arms. He looked leaner… cleaner since the last time we saw each other. His scars healed over and his amber eyes were in full view of me.

He was perfectly still. Quiet. Like he was studying me. He held something in his hand. I couldn’t see it clearly through the rapid heart beating in my chest.

“What-How are you here?”

He still eyes me slowly. Starting to feel a little more exposed than I like, I tried to go back and find my pants. As soon as I opened the room door, he placed his hand on top of mine to pull it shut. I turn around slowly. He brings his lengthy arm from behind me and creates a bridge for our faces to meet. His fingers tapping against the cheap wooden door was too loud for me to relax.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been looking for you.” When he finally answered, a grin creeped up slightly.

“I wasn’t hiding,” I fired back. “I just wanted to be left alone.”

He looks slightly left and see how small my apartment really is. “Clearly.”

“Are you going to stand here forever or let me go?”

His laughs vibrates the door we both are leaning on. “Careful. That mouth of yours got you into some serious trouble before…” His orange burnt eyes had sunken into my view before he asked, “Hadn’t it?”

I move away from him completely and make my way into the kitchen. I wasn’t trying to rehash the past. And as far as I knew, he was my entire past. I look for that bottle of Pinot Noir I stashed before. Fuck the water now. I ignored his obvious stares as my ass bend down to snag it on the bottom shelf.

“Giving me a show already?” I heard him say.

I rolled my eyes as I watched him lick his lips while propping his head on the counter. His eyes were dead locked on my breasts now. I poured my glass and raised it up. “You can go to hell.”

“Shit ma, you already know that. Problem is… do I bring you with me?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Then stop dodging. Why the hell are you in my house?”

“Why else?” He throws a set of keys my way. “To get you out of it. We got work to do.”

I didn’t skip a beat and waved one hand in his face. “No. I’m not going there. Or anywhere else with you. Ever again.”

“That’s too bad,” he comes around the counter and stands behind me. His breathing lifts hairs off my ears. Then he whispers, lips barely pressed to them. “Should I let your sister know you ended her life then?”

I blinked and almost choked on my drink. “You’re such an ass. I told you, it was one job and I was done. I was done when she was bleeding in my arms. I was done when I had to make the call. This is shit I gotta live with. But I’ll be a fool to ever get back in business with you.. ever again.”

“Then call me the joker and quit complaining. There’s loose ends. And I need them handled yesterday. So you’re doing this….” His hand grabbed my waist and trailed my thigh. He keeps caressing my leg up and down, making an electrifying pattern in his path. When he gets to my ass, he squeezed it with two hands. I tried to cover up the gasp but it was no use. I know he heard it. “Whether I gotta make you scream yes is on you.”

[industrial-tox]

☣️SKIDS ARC MASTERPOST☣️ @skidsthemudokon

Skids, a slave toilet cleaner, is in desperate need of help so he resorts to uploading an S.O.S call in the form of an online video. It got little to no attention, but it was noticed by the skilled hacker Tox. His interest had been caught, so he decides to assist Skids out of curiosity regarding his circumstances. However, things don’t quite go to plan and Tox has to learn what he’s actually got himself into.

This arc has kind of been years in the making and we’ve been very excited about it! If you want to follow from the very beginning, you can catch up here.

Posts are in order of oldest to newest, and this will be updated as the story progresses!

https://www.tumblr.com/industrial-tox/729032000843972608/toxs-feathers-frizzed-up-in-alarm-as-his-eyes?source=share

[bolton-buried]

Statement of Jackie Crow, regarding a “deep puddle.” Statement taken direct from subject, May 21st, 2024. Statement begins.

It wasn’t even supposed to be raining that day. I don’t know why that stands out to me so much, but it shouldn’t have been raining at all. Deep breaths. Step back. Okay.

I used to work with debts. The exact kind isn’t important, but suffice to say it was large amounts of money for the most useless products you would ever see. I’m talking MLM type stuff. “Oh, Jackie, it’s a vacuum cleaner it’s not useless” it’s also not worth $5,000.

I lived in Minnesota, up north of Lake Superior. You probably don’t know where that is. So, the fact that I’m here in London at all? I’ll get to that. Sorry.

This started while I was watching a streamer on twitch. He plays games, but another thing he does is live reactions to some really weird videos. They’re almost always of a person drowning in a body of water, a river, lake maybe. I didn’t like those ones so much, I always felt like I couldn’t breathe while they were playing, but that day…

It was me in the video. Sure, it’s hard to make out features through the water, and it’s got this broken-camera effect on it, but clear as day, that was me. Drowning in a river, lake, whathaveyou. I tried to chalk it up to coincidence, but… it itched. In my head. Didn’t help that my job was starting to get hectic, and I was starting to look for a way out.

I mean, have you seen the US job market? Just thinking of that sheer amount of pressure, that force, a tidal wave of change that feels like it could swallow you whole if you let it. That’s terrifying enough.

I was let go from the company soon after. They must have seen me getting my resume out, because “inappropriate dress for work” is the most bullshit excuse I’ve ever heard if you’ve seen what I wear. I stepped outside, exposed to every metaphorical force of the world, and like a scene from a movie, it was raining cats and dogs out there. Things in hand, I started to walk.

I saw two men on the sidewalk near me. One of them—the one in the black trench coat—handed the other an umbrella, then stood in the rain himself. And then—I’d think it was a trick of the light if it weren’t for what happened to me afterwards.

He let himself tip backwards to fall, like a trustfall exercise with no one to catch him, but instead of cracking his head on the pavement, he fell into a puddle and just. Kept going.

He vanished through what should have been solid ground. I was still processing the fall, and started to run to help, stepping out into the street.

And the next thing I know, I’m in over my head in icy rainwater. I think I stepped in another one of those puddles. Maybe. I don’t remember it well down there.

I remember cold water around me. Struggling to hold my breath. Rough stone walls that scraped at my sides. And a current. God, when I hit the current, it was like a truck hit me. I was caught in an endless flow and could do nothing to stop myself from being forced against those walls, tearing at my skin, pushing in on my lungs harder. All too close. I couldn’t breathe. And I couldn’t hold my breath either.

Again, my memory is fuzzy, but I think I stayed like that for a while, trapped in the current. I think I stopped holding my breath at some point—it felt like hours. But I couldn’t have. I’d have drowned. And I feel like I was struggling to hold in my air the whole time.

I think I fell unconscious. I remember seeing some of my friends, reaching out, calling me to them. And I remember reaching out, and then waking up on a street in London.

You guys work with this stuff, right? You can fix it, or, I don’t know. Something. There has to be something you all can do.

I need to get a new job. Funny, the things you think about when it all comes crashing down. Are y’all hiring?

Statement ends.