#seed cold storage

[phneep]

[thaylepo]

i love seeing ppl plant shade-tolerant or shade-preferring perennials in their less sunny garden beds! I worked at a garden centre and so many people just kept trying to replace struggling full-sun plants every year, or just plant annuals there throughout the whole summer (we have a very short growing season and very cold winters, so even sun-deprived petunias will look nice enough up to August). We had a whole section of shade perennials almost no one ever tried to look for! Bleeding heart is still one of my most favourite flowers.

My shaded back walkway had hostas thriving for five years in a bed of creeping jenny so thick you could walk on it in bare feet, and never got smothered by it. I only had to pull it aside a bit once in the spring to let the shoots up, and they did the rest. 5 hours of partial sun along the fence per day was all they needed to be thick and flowering. I tried red fern, but the soil and dryness here is just not great for ferns except the hardiest of them, and even then they tend to be straggly unless you have an irrigation system (or y'know, water every single day. But that's what the ground cover creeping jenny is for! To save on water!)

And look at your babies! With their lil baby horns and their fluffy baby fleeces! Look how big they're getting! I love them so much!

Doesn't look like a lot right now, but I got this shady spot next to the deck filled in. Planted three different ferns and the lovely White Feather hosta last fall and they made it to this year. Just added a bleeding heart and beautiful astilbe, fighting through the roots from the maple tree all the way. Next year it should start showing its potential. Perennials don't give instant results, but they give lasting results and that's pretty fucken great.

Better shot of the rugosa rose there:

Planted that three years ago, and I'm sure it would put on more blooms in the sun, but it's certainly healthy.

The lambs are getting so big! They're all beautiful. Minnie is still a snuggler. Silly bottle babies end every feeding with milk on their faces, from fighting over the bottles.

Raspberries forming on last year's black raspberry plants. The bed itself is a hot mess, with new canes growing as much as three feet away from the original "row", but it's such a beautiful feeling to look forward to picking berries we planted again, after giving that up to move four years ago.

And produce in my tiny vegetable plot! Those turnips are a Japanese variety I tried this year. Reputed to be very tasty, so I tried them in some desperation, because turnips always grow brilliantly for me, but none of us actually like the flavor. Well, these guys taste more like a delicious mild radish than a turnip, and we ate the ones I picked raw, with delight. And they did indeed grow brilliantly.

Cherries!! Feels too good to be true, having fruit on a tree I planted. Still expecting something to happen to it

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter four

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: jack’s feelings for you grew in the dusk. then, a whispered incident shatters the stillness, and he realizes too late that something’s already broken.

⤿ warning(s): none

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 1.8k

Jack first saw you exactly four years ago during shift‑change—him coming in for the ER night grind, you stalking out after twelve hours in Surgical with three lunch boxes stacked like ammo. Two interns are nipping at each other’s heels until you raise a single finger; the quarrel dies in mid‑air. He watches, amused, then watches again a few minutes later when those same interns turn up in the break room wolfing down a mouthful of poppy-seed muffins that smell like pure comfort.

“Who baked that?” he asks.

They point after you with crumbs on their cheeks and fingers: a hard‑headed nurse from Surgical.

He notices you in passing—but the meeting comes much later, high above the noise.

It is barely dawn, once again shift‑change o’clock. As usual, he takes the stairs to the roof for a hit of cold air before plunging into his ER night. You are already there, arms folded on the railing, watching the river steal the first light. He almost turns back, but you don’t glance over, and the quiet feels too good to waste. So he stands a dozen paces away, breathing steam into the sky. Neither of you speaks. Five minutes later the freight elevator clangs below and you disappear down the stairwell, a ghost in gray.

That becomes routine: his night beginning where your day ends, both of you claiming the same ten minutes of sky. At first it is silence—two strangers dividing the dawn. Then a nod. Then, on a morning whipped by sleet, you mutter, “Coffee? Again?” Jack snorts, raises his styrofoam cup, and admits it is sludge. You offer no sympathy, only a sideways grin that feels like permission.

Conversations creep in. You talk about nieces who mail you science‑fair photos, about Jack’s improbable knack for fixing malfunctioning IV pumps, about cilantro storage and the best pierogi on the South Side. He learns you feed residents and med students like stray cats. You learn his leg squeaks in the rain and he deals with it by over‑tightening the socket and cursing under his breath. That way, the roof becomes neutral ground, a borderland between the hospital’s fluorescent chaos and the city’s slow river.

Jack falls for you in increments—not all at once, not with fire, but in the way late sun warms cold bones.

The first time is maybe a dry joke you lob over your shoulder in passing. The second, the way your eyes soften when a helicopter banks in low, shadows flashing across your face as you pause mid-chat. And after that, it’s everything.

He hasn’t let himself feel something like this in a long time. Not since… and even that name, even the memory, doesn’t ache like it used to—but it has left behind a hollowed-out space where nothing has taken root since. There have been flings, sure. Company here and there, something easy and understood, but nothing that lasts beyond the night or the need. He hasn’t wanted anything to last.

Until you, that is.

And so, he begins hinting—carefully. A stupid pun scrawled in the margin of a half-finished sudoku you’ve been grumbling over all day. A couple of lumpia he manages to snag—somehow, without losing a limb—from Princess and Perlah’s fiercely guarded monthly stash. A quiet confession, offered one chilly morning, that sunrise feels less sharp with company. Each gesture small, deliberate, afraid that pressing too hard might crack the quiet, steady rhythm you both come to rely on.

Because the roof has become necessary.

And still, he can’t lie to himself: the feeling scares him. The possibility of caring again, of wanting something that can’t be controlled or triaged or explained—it unmoors him a little. But it also makes him feel alive in a way he hasn’t let himself feel in years. You make the hours between dusk and dawn feel less like a stretch of survival and more like something to look forward to.

And that… that is terrifying. But it is also good. Very good.

Then, four dusks in a row, you don’t show.

On the eve of the fifth night, he types a message he doesn’t plan to send: Haven’t seen you on the roof. Everything okay?

Ten minutes tick by before your reply arrives: I’m alright—just busy. See you tomorrow?

Something is off, and it isn’t the hour. He fills his thermos anyway and snags a terrible slice of cafeteria pound cake—knowing you’ll roast him for it if you ever find out—and promises himself that if dawn doesn’t bring answers, he’ll start asking better questions.

For now, he simply shoots back: Works for me. Sunrise tea?

And you, a simple but earnest confirmation: Sunrise tea.

Jack can be reckless, but war zones and widowhood have taught him this: when the strongest person in the room starts acting skittish and absent, you step closer and keep watch—especially if the room is a rooftop at sunrise, and the person is the nurse who once turns five minutes of shared silence into the best part of his day.

. . .

He arrives at the hospital, stepping through the double doors with his usual resolute gait, one hand hooked casually under the strap of his tactical backpack. His expression is calm, composed, shaded by that habitual, guarded optimism he wears for years.

But something is off.

It’s not loud. In fact, that’s what makes it strange. The usual din of residents bickering over charting, wheelchairs squealing across tile, interns nervously chugging coffee—muted. Not gone, just… held back, like the The Pitt is holding its breath.

Jack’s eyes scan the room, already sharpening beneath the calm. He catches sight of Dr. Ellis—one of his best senior residents—cutting across the ER with purposeful steps. Not rushed, not panicked. But something close to tight. Her face is unreadable, grim where it’s usually brisk.

“Jack,” she says as she reaches him. No Dr. Abbot, no pat on the arm, no idle quip. Just a quiet, urgent gesture for him to follow. “Come with me for a sec.”

His brow lifts, but he doesn’t ask questions. Not when she’s looking like that.

They weave past triage, through a set of doors into the cramped staff room. The door clicks shut behind them, and instantly the world narrows. The light feels a little too bright. The hum of the fridge too loud.

Jack leans against the counter, arms folded, expression even. “Alright,” he says, not unkindly. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Parker doesn’t answer right away. She shifts, visibly uncomfortable. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just that rare, uncertain edge Jack only sees when things are about hit the fan.

“Something’s wrong up at Surgical,” she says finally. “Trauma Surgery, specifically.”

Jack doesn’t move, but his gaze sharpens. The inside of him goes still. You work Surgical long enough that his mind jumps without permission.

“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice steady. “Is it about a patient? A case?”

Parker shakes her head. “No. It’s personal. It’s… her.”

She doesn’t say your name. She doesn’t have to. The second she says it—her—Jack knows. The knot that’s been building for days, through missed rooftop meetings and clipped, careful texts, cinches tight, pressing into his ribs like a vice.

Of course he’s heard the way people talk. The way the nurses elbow each other when he walks past. Even Parker, just now, had paused like she expected him to flinch at the mention of you. 

But Jack doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t correct anyone, either. Let them talk.

It’s not that anything’s happened—not really. Not yet. But something’s there. Has been for a while now. He just doesn’t have the time or energy to pretend otherwise.

His jaw ticks, barely. He fights the instinct to reach for his phone, to scroll through that last short message—just tired—and see if it reads any differently now.

“She’s been dealing with something,” Parker continues, lower now. “Something bad. I don’t know the whole story. Not really. Nobody does, I think. But… word’s spreading fast.”

Jack doesn’t breathe, but he listens.

“She broke down in the middle of her shift. Not just a bad day. Panic—real panic. Security got called in. So did Gloria.”

The weight of it settles hard. He turns his eyes to a crack above the microwave. It’s been there for years, a small fracture in cheap cabinetry, but tonight it looks like a fault line.

“She alright?” he asks.

Parker gives a vague nod. “I think so. But here’s the thing—no one’s talking. I mean, not even the nurses.”

That gets his attention.

Parker goes on. “You know how they are. They could tell you what kind of gum a new hire chewed three floors down before HR finishes onboarding. But this? They’re locking it down. Close. Fierce. Like they’re closing ranks over her.”

Jack runs a hand down his face, slow. Subdued, yes—but not at peace.

“Do you know why?” Jack asks, voice low and even.

Parker hesitates, then shakes her head. “No. Not really. Just bits and pieces. Like I said, no one’s giving the full story. Not even the nurses, and you know how they are—usually you can’t get them to stop talking. But now? Radio silence.”

Jack watches her carefully. She’s being honest. He can tell.

“I can poke around,” Parker offers, almost reluctantly. “Ask some questions, feel out what’s being held back—if you want.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales, slow through his nose, as if weighing what kind of damage that might do. His fingers drum once against the thermos in his hand. Then he shakes his head, once.

“No,” he says. “Leave it. Maybe it’s not for the best.”

That stops her cold. She studies him, really looks—and the silence between them sharpens.

Because Jack never says leave it. Not when someone’s in trouble. And the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders lock down… that’s not calm. That’s containment. Worry wrapped so tight it’s just short of boiling over.

She doesn’t press. Not now.

Jack straightens, but his expression doesn’t change. If anything, it stills into something harder. More focused.

His name hasn’t come up, and that almost bothers him more. If you’d talked to someone—anyone—why not him? And now that’s too late. The missed rooftop meetings, the clipped texts, the careful way you said “I’m just tired.” It all slides into place with a sickening click.

He tugs his backpack strap a little tighter over his shoulder, eyes distant but burning behind the quiet.

“Thanks for letting me know,” he mutters. “Let’s get to work.”

Parker only nods. She doesn’t add or ask another thing.

And when they walk out of the staff room, there’s no storm in his step, no rush in his pace. But the tension radiating off him—quiet, coiled, dangerous—is enough to make two med‑students step out of his way without a word.

Something’s wrong. Someone’s hurt you. And someone else is going to regret it.

divider credit

[fanged-fanfics]

☆ A Little Frost — Sebastian x GN Reader ☆

Genre: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

The snow had fallen in a thick white sheet, covering the grounds of Stardew Valley. You'd woken up disappointed to see your crops that hadn't yet been moved into safer storage had already completely shriveled up. But, not wanting to waste the day, you gathered what you could from what you already had. You refilled the food and water bowls for your trusted pet before setting off towards Pelican Town.

You heard the crunching beneath your farm boots as you walked down the dirt road, steps making little indents in the powdery white snow. You shivered, rubbing your arms. Despite your planning, you apparently hadn't accounted for how cold the Valley could get. The thin jacket you had packed proved quickly to not be enough. But still, you had a bunch of crops stowed away, and they absolutely needed to get turned in today. Tomorrow was Wednesday, and you needed that time to tend to cleaning up the grounds, not managing crops.

As you huffed shallow breaths that left little white clouds of frostbreath in the air, you finally got to the center of the town. You gave a little wave to the members who were out and about, all completely dressed up for the cold. Lucky bastards.

You opened the door to Pierre's General Store, relieved that cheap ol' Pierre could apparently see the sense in adding heating to his store. At least that's one thing he could have a better mind about, you figured. With trembly, frigid hands, you placed your crops down, trading them for money. "We have the usual in store," Pierre began "But I don't think you'll be able to do much with anything". "Just show me the seeds collection, please" You said through shaky shudders. Pierre rolled his eyes at your insistence, but he dipped behind the counter to grab the box of seed packs.

Mid-mental curse, you felt a hand on your shoulder. You jolted, turning around. You nearly stumbled, but a stabilizing hand grabbed your shoulder and pulled you back up "I know I'm not out much, but I didn't think I was that surprising to see". You looked up at the recognizable voice, sighing in relief as you saw the familiar swept dark hair of your closest town companion, Sebastian. "Oh, whew. You're so pale I thought you were a ghost" You said jokingly. Sebastian scoffed and chuckled lightly, nudging your arm "Yeah, and I'm gonna haunt your ass".

Pierre interrupted your bantering by plopping down the box of packs. You flicked through it, carefully selecting what to spend your earnings on. After getting a good amount, you hopped up to where Sebastian had wondered off to browse the shelves. "You here for anything?" You asked, storing away your new seeds. "Mhm, mom asked me to pick things up for the Feast of the Winter Star" Sebastian answered. You leaned over behind him, chin hovering over his shoulder "Y'got anyone in particular you wanna give something to?". Sebastian turned his head away from you a smidge, not wanting you to see how his cheeks warmed a bit "Psshh, not really. Prolly gonna get Shane or something with my luck"

"I thought you liked Shane" You said, watching as Sebastian paid for his own little carry-out basket of necessities. "I don't hate him or anything" Sebastian said "He's just really hard to shop for. He has the same reaction to everything". "Sounds a lot like you" you teased, letting Seb catch up to you as you began walking to the door together. "Aha. Never heard that one" Sebastian mumbled in response. You gave him a gentle nudge, returning his earlier gesture, which did get him to smile a little.

Once you both stepped out, conversation continued while walking down the roads. The wind picked up, making you curl in on yourself a little. Sebastian glanced at you, and you quickly tried to stand up straight. He chuckled, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck. While you were rubbing your arms to try and warm up, you felt a fabric gently landing around your shoulders.

As you glanced over, Sebastian's dark eyes were looking downwards, making sure he could properly wrap it around you. You stood still, hoping he'd assume the redness in your face was just from the chill. Once you were securely wrapped up, he stepped back, hands on your shoulders. The cold clinging to his gloves only made you shiver more. "Any better?" He asked, eyes meeting yours. You almost forgot how to respond, too focused on how close he was. He'd gotten more open to you recently, but seeing him smile was still a welcome sight. It's much warmer than the gloomy goth look he carries around as a default.

Once you noticed his eyebrows beginning to furrow in confusion, you brought yourself back into the present. "Ah-! Yeah, yeah. Kinda" you finally responded "Doesn't make my arms any less cold, though. But thanks for keeping my neck warm, I guess" you added, trying to kick back up the playful energy you two usually shared. Sebastian stepped back, nodding in a certain direction. "Fair enough. Come with me, we can hang in my room for a bit". You hesitated for only a second. You should really get back home to sort out these seeds, but- ah, whatever, Grandpa'll understand.

You hopped up to be by Sebastian's side, linking your arm with his as the snow kicked up and began fluttering down around you. He held you a little closer, feeling your arm. "Damn, you're about to freeze-" he muttered "Come on, I'm sure mom'll insist on making you something". As you two walked, you stole a glance at him as he led the way. He seemed so relaxed. You pressed closer to his side a little, attempting to soak up some body heat. He moved his arm to being around your shoulders, gently ushering you to his warm home.

[notwiselybuttoowell]

From 1862 until 1923, US senators and members of Congress provided vast numbers of seeds to constituents. At its peak, the congressional seed distribution program delivered over 60m seed packets directly to farmers and market gardeners every year, helping introduce new varieties of everything from wheat and corn to oats, soybeans, flowers and vegetables. A century later, far fewer Americans till the soil for a living, but seeds remain central to our lives.

Maintaining the seed diversity and abundance we rely on requires constant development of new varieties to combat disease, increase production and adapt to changing conditions. Seed advances are particularly urgent now, as farmers confront the fickle weather of a warming planet while working to meet a projected 50-60% rise in global food demand by 2050. Although elected officials no longer send out seeds through the mail, federal support for these efforts remains vital.

In the era of Doge, that support has been flipped on its head.

The US Department of Agriculture employs many plant breeders directly and funds many more through grants and partnerships, but the crown jewel of its seed program resides in a bunker-like building in Fort Collins, Colorado. The national seed bank houses more than 2bn carefully preserved specimens in a facility designed to withstand floods, fires, earthquakes, power outages and tornadoes. With over 620,000 varieties from nearly 17,000 different species, it is one of the world’s largest seed collections and a major supplier to the global seed vault in Svalbard, Norway.

It is also at risk.

While words like “vault” and “bank” imply simply turning the key and walking away, managing a seed collection demands constant activity. Even in cold storage, the specimens steadily degrade and must be tested regularly to make sure they’re still viable. When germination rates drop for any particular sample, those seeds must be planted and grown to maturity – in the right conditions – to produce a fresh supply. That activity takes place at over 20 research stations in locations (and climates) as diverse as North Dakota, Texas, California, Hawaii and Puerto Rico.

Known officially as the US National Plant Germplasm System, the seed bank and its network of regional facilities recently lost 10% of their workforce in the Doge firings, including farm managers, research scientists, lab technicians, IT specialists, orchardists and more. Some have since been rehired, at least temporarily, but the program remains in turmoil. Projects interrupted or suspended range from germination trials to seed regeneration, research lending and many longterm breeding programs, weakening the entire enterprise.

Plants don’t wait on politics. Any seed varieties lost now will simply be unavailable to improve crops and address challenges in the future. The importance of a robust and diverse seed bank cannot be overstated. To combat the invasive Russian wheat aphid, for example, plant breeders screened over 54,000 wheat and barley samples to find a handful of precious strains with natural resistance.

It’s time for Congress to return to the seed business. Without its intervention, backed by the courts, additional firings appear imminent. Undermining the nation’s seed security undermines its food security and embodies the definition of reckless: “utterly unconcerned about consequences”.

[typhlonectes]

Butternut Squash Pasta Salad with Brussels Sprouts, Pecans, and Cranberries

Nouna's Kitchen

Ingredients: For the Roasted Brussels Sprouts: 12 oz Brussels sprouts (ends trimmed, yellow leaves removed, sliced in half) 2 tablespoons olive oil ¼ teaspoon salt (to taste) For the Roasted Butternut Squash: 1 lb butternut squash (peeled, seeded, cubed into 1-inch pieces) 1 tablespoon olive oil 2 tablespoons maple syrup ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon Other Ingredients: 8 oz pasta (your choice) 1 cup pecan halves ½ cup dried cranberries 3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar or balsamic glaze 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil (optional, for drizzling) Instructions: 1. Roast the Brussels Sprouts: Preheat your oven to 400°F (200°C) and line a baking sheet with parchment paper. In a medium bowl, toss the halved Brussels sprouts with 2 tablespoons of olive oil and salt. Spread the Brussels sprouts, cut sides down, onto the lined baking sheet and roast for 20-25 minutes, or until the cut sides are nicely charred but not blackened. 2. Roast the Butternut Squash: On a separate lined baking sheet, combine the butternut squash cubes with 1 tablespoon of olive oil, maple syrup, and cinnamon. Toss to coat. Spread the squash in a single layer and roast at 400°F for 20-25 minutes until tender. Note: You can roast the Brussels sprouts and butternut squash on separate baking sheets at the same time, or on one large baking sheet if there's enough space. 3. Cook the Pasta: While the vegetables are roasting, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook the pasta according to the package instructions (usually 10-12 minutes), then drain and set aside. 4. Toast the Pecans: Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C). Spread the pecans in a single layer on a baking sheet. Toast for about 5-7 minutes, or until they turn a slightly darker color. Be careful, as pecans can burn quickly! Check frequently. 5. Assemble the Salad: In a large bowl, combine the roasted Brussels sprouts, roasted butternut squash, cooked pasta, toasted pecans, and dried cranberries. Drizzle with balsamic vinegar or glaze, and extra virgin olive oil if desired. Toss gently to combine all the ingredients. 6. Serve and Enjoy: Serve this warm or at room temperature. It’s a great dish for fall gatherings, potlucks, or as a festive holiday side. Tips: Storage: Store any leftovers in an airtight container in the fridge for up to 3 days. You can reheat or serve cold. Customizations: Add a sprinkle of feta or goat cheese for extra creaminess, or swap pecans for walnuts or almonds. Prep Time: 15 minutes Cook Time: 25-30 minutes Servings: 4-6

Nouna's Kitchen

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Mammalia - Microbiotheria

(Source)

Once representative of a vast diversity of marsupials as they slowly migrated from South America, to Antarctica, and finally to Australia, today the order Microbiotheria has one remaining living species: Dromiciops gliroides, known as the “Monito del Monte” or “Colocolo Opossum,” which is native only to Argentina and Chile.

Dromiciops are small, nocturnal, and arboreal. They spend most of the day in a state of torpor, conserving their energy to only become active at night. Living mainly in trees, they use their partially prehensile tail to help them climb. Their tail is furred on top and naked on the underside, increasing friction when gripping onto bark. The base of their tails also function as fat storage during winter hibernation. As protection from the cold, particularly during periods of hibernation, they construct and live in spherical nests of water-resistant bamboo (Chusquea culeou) leaves. They line their nests with moss or grass, and place them in well-protected areas of their tree, such as underbrush, tree cavities, or fallen timber. The nests are sometimes covered with gray moss as a form of camouflage. Monitos del monte are omnivorous, with a diet consisting mainly of insects and fruit, with the mistletoe berry quintral (Tristerix corymbosus) being most favored.

Monitos del monte have a monogamous mating system. Before hibernation, females are generally larger than males, but not year round. They have well-formed, fur-lined pouches, and normally reproduce in the spring, once a year. They can have a litter size varying from one to five. However, they can feed a maximum of four offspring on four teats, so if there are five young, one will not survive. When the young are mature enough to leave the pouch, at approximately five months, they are nursed in a distinctive nest. They are then carried on the mother's back. The young remain with their mother after weaning, reaching sexual maturity after two years.

The fossil record for Microbiotherians is large and dates back to the Early Paleocene, with the oldest known Microbiotherian being Khasia cordillerensis of Bolivia. Fossils are known from South America, Western Antarctica, and northeastern Australia. But the monito del monte is the last of this lineage.

(source)

Propaganda under the cut:

When preparing for hibernation, Monitos del Monte can store enough fat to double their body size within one week!

The Monito del Monte has a mutualistic seed dispersal relationship with the mistletoe species Tristerix corymbosus. The marsupial eats the fruit of the plant, and germination takes place in its gut. It then poops out the seeds, planting them. The monito del monte is the only dispersal agent for this plant, and without it the plant would likely become extinct.

The tick species Ixodes neuquenensis can only be found on the Monito del Monte, and would also likely become extinct without it.

[archangeldyke-all]

slow living reader and sev having a baby? 🥹

AWE of course!

also! this is the fifth little blurb for this series so i'm giving it an emoji on my masterlist! 💐 lets do a little bouquet of flowers because i picture a bunch of wildflowers surrounding your garden :)

men and minors dni

sevika doesn't fuck around when it comes to your pregnancy. so while you're used to getting up in the early morning and spending a couple hours on your hands and knees in the garden and hauling wheelbarrows around your property-- the moment you find out you're pregnant, sevika puts you on a ban from all physical activity.

it's ridiculous. you're barely three weeks pregnant, and sevika's insisting on helping you carry a gallon of milk in from the goat pen. just a gallon.

it's sort of nice though. your baby certainly takes after sevika, if it's appetite is anything to go by. while you're usually happy snacking on snap peas and berries from your garden all day until dinner, where you eat a hearty meal cooked by sevika: now you're shoveling half a dozen scrambled eggs down your throat in the morning, eating through a month's worth of cheese and crackers in the afternoon, and snacking on spicy pickles when you can't sleep in the middle of the night.

sevika finds it hilarious. you guys buy a few more ducks to keep up with the rate your house is eating eggs.

as annoying as she is when she's insisting you don't do anything, she does a fairly decent job of handling the garden herself. after a few afternoons of standing over her to supervise as she weeded to make sure she didn't pull any of your crops on accident, she made a little custom set up for you in the garden: a big sun umbrella covering a reclining lawn chair, a battery-powered fan, ice-cold pitcher of water, and big bowl of sunflower seeds waiting for you each afternoon.

it's become your favorite part of the day: lounging and snacking and chatting with your wife while she learns more about the garden, one of your hands on your growing belly, the other reaching out to pull sevika down for a kiss every ten minutes.

the cats start becoming really protective of you. a few of the older mother goats do too-- recognizing that you're pregnant. you never have a moment to yourself once you start showing, there's always a cat or two standing on guard to make sure you're okay while you wander around your home.

what you used to call 'the cats room' is now your baby's. all the cat trees, beds, and toys have migrated to the basement to make room for a bunch of furniture sevika hand-made.

a crib that can transform into a kids' bed when the kid gets older, a dresser that can last a lifetime, a rocking chair and stool for you to nurse in, and a gorgeous bookshelf for you to fill with toys and books for your baby. sevika made it all in at her little woodworking station in the storage shed by the goat's pen. each piece of furniture is inscribed with a message that makes you sob each time you see it, a simple, sweet, 'for our sweet baby.'

you know that once the baby comes, it'll be a few years before you and sevika can fully adjust and get back to growing all your own food. so, you guys start stocking up on produce and meat-slabs from local farms nearby.

you don't make it to the hospital when the baby comes. you planned to deliver in the hospital, you wanted a fucking epidural, but your baby came out of nowhere a week early.

one minute you were laughing at sevika struggling to prune the watermelon vines, the next minute your water was breaking and you were going into labor right on the reclining chair you'd spent a majority of your pregnancy on.

it doesn't take long to realize that you're not going to make it to the hospital. you know something's wrong when you try to stand.

"sevika!" you gasp. she's staring at you like a deer in headlights as she holds you up.

"what, honey, what's wrong?"

"fuck, baby, i think it's coming now." you whine.

sevika sits you back down on the chair, helps you get your bottom half naked, then looks between your legs.

"is it bad?" you start to cry, the pain and adrenaline needing an escape.

sevika's panicked, you can see it in her eyes, but she doesn't let it show as she speaks. "it's exactly what it's supposed to be, baby. but i think you're right. i think you gotta push."

you start to freak out. "sevika! we can't have our baby here! it's the garden, there's dirt everywhere! we don't even have clean towels and fuck!" you growl as a contraction overtakes you. sevika's pressing kisses to your knuckles as you grip her hands. "sevika, you're not a doctor!" you cry.

she chuckles, reaches up to kiss your head, and then kneels between your legs again.

"i delivered the goats when marnie got pregnant a few years ago." she tries.

"i'm not a fucking goat!" you scream.

and then--

little tiny cries fill the garden, and all your pain washes away. sevika looks up from between your legs, grinning and sobbing, and then she stands.

and wiggling and screaming in her arms, umbliical cord still attatched, is your little fucker.

"it's a girl." she whispers, leaning down to pass the baby to you.

you take a shaky breath, and then burst into tears upon seeing your baby. she looks just like sevika. it's uncanny. "she's so fucking beautiful." you cry.

sevika wraps your baby up in her shirt, cuts the cord with the gardening shears, and throws your placenta right on top of the compost pile before she starts guiding the two of you toward the car to take you to the hospital.

you have to keep reminding her to drive-- she'll pull up to a red light and get distracted looking at you and your baby in your arms in the passenger's seat. you get honked at a few times, but you don't mind.

not when she's looking at you like that and you've got her baby in your arms.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbi3 @ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @leomatsuzaki @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @vikasub @glass-apothecary @m0numents @macaroni676 @vixel352

[owlespresso]

the red fruit which ripens

alpha!blade/beta!reader you are a beta courier. one of your clients is getting too close. tags: blackmail, mind games, nonconsensual touching, blade and luocha are just weirdos idk pt 2 of my part in @lorelune's a/b/o collab. the first part can be read here.

You have never known peace. You doubt any emanator ever has. The Mother of Harmony, of peace, bestowed upon you a fraction of her immortal grace. She cored herself, tore out a seed—jewel like and glistening, and beckoned you to feast. The taste went down so smooth and sweet.

That was the first and last time you held your blessing in awe. Xipe sentenced you, that day, to never know the peace she covets. You could catch glimpses of it, inhale the scent of it deep, but it would fade like morning mist, chased away by the winds of chaos and whatever awful business you were to tend to next.

When you strayed from The Family, tore yourself free of their clutches and hid where their millions of bulging eyes could not find you; you believed it possible to know peace. Perhaps not immediately. There was so much to take care of during your first days on the Luofu, paperwork and apartment hunting. It was all jarringly normal. You were mystified by the mundanity, delighted by it even. The world suddenly closed in for the better. There were no enemy factions to worry about corralling, no petty politics, no attempts to usurp you or take your life.

The world became the Luofu. It became your apartment. It became your favorite food stalls and your neighbors and the little birds fluttering about in the trees.

But it was not peace. Soon, you came to realize that even the average Luofu citizen did not know the concept as intimate as you hoped. They live in fear of Mara, of the Abundance, which they are so intimately intertwined with. Every pain is a life threatening risk, a potential trigger to a deadly malady. Outside of the Abundance, so many run themselves ragged, weighted by long work hours and petty squabbles with loved ones. The kindly folk by the docks find themselves cornered by the IPC.

No mortal knows peace, you have come to realize. Perfect tranquility is a ripe and red lie, birthed gold and glistening from the Goddess’s many lips, spread carelessly and listlessly across the universe. Unattainable by the emanator’s closest to her.

You believed once, and it hurt you. Not again. You will heed no honeyed words. You can only believe in what is cold, concrete, and solid.

—

“I feel like—” you begin, pushing through the rusted metal paneling of the dilapidated fence. “—you could have gotten here by yourself.” You usually don’t talk this much, but Blade’s habitual silence combined with your burgeoning irritation leaves you uncharacteristically eager to complain aloud.

The abandoned warehouse looms an eerie, empty monument of crumbling sheet metal and shattered glass. Long columns of broken machinery are gutted in pieces across the concrete yard. You make note to return later, just to make sure you’re not leaving valuable goods out to waste.

“I have never been here before. Kafka thought it wise to come with a guide.” 

“And what do you think?” you pause, shoulder buried in the outside paneling of the building itself.

“What I think… does not matter.” Blade says cooly. “A blade is meant to be wielded. It does not choose who it cuts down or where it goes.”

“Hm,” you don’t have much to say to that. You shouldn’t have opened your yap in the first place. The less you know about the bizarre relations of the Stellaron Hunters, the better. You squeeze into the building through the gap. Blade hardly two paces behind. The metal groans and squeaks as he forces his way in. It feels like the loudest sound you’ve ever fucking heard, an offensive and high pitched screech that probably rings through the yard and neighboring alleyways.

“At least try to be a little quieter,” you grumble, squinting into the dark. The main room is made a maze by haphazardly laid out storage containers, many cracked open and already emptied. Wires hang from the ceiling, which has become an amalgamation of mechanical matter and rotting parts. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.

Black grunts his assent.

“Well. You’re here, safe and sound.” you waste no time, doubling back towards the Blade-shaped hole in the wall. Did he just walk straight through!? What are they feeding this guy? “So I—”

The sound of thundering footsteps and approaching shouts freezes you mid-step. Momentary panic jars you still. The Cloud Knights? Here? Now?

Your pulse thrums in your ears as you turn tail, ready to haul ass in the opposite direction, only to collide face-first with Blade’s firm chest. He jostles you to the side with his shoulder, ignoring your grunt of complaint. His hand rests on the hilt of his blade. Your stomach jumps into your throat.

“Where are you going!?” you hiss.

“To take care of the vermin,” Blade replies drolly, looking down his nose at you. His lips twitch into the beginnings of a puzzled frown.

“Absolutely not!” you say, and his frown pulls deeper. “Where there’s ten, there’s bound to be twenty waiting to back them up.”

It is unlike you to be so bold, but you seize him by the wrist, pulling him further into the jagged steel labyrinth. He allows himself to be led, surprisingly docile as you round corners and scuttle down corridors. Pale moonlight covers the room in a silvery sheen, providing just enough light for you to make out a door embedded into the outermost wall. Footsteps echo around you, calling voices made cacophonous by the echo. Blade’s grip on your hand tightens, likely annoyed and sorely tempted to begin the slaughter, but you yank open the door and jam yourself inside what seems to be a cramped server room.

A few circuit towers stand side-by-side, dark and dusty with disuse. Blade shuts the door behind you, opening his mouth to speak, but you’re already wedging yourself into the lone aisle between the wall and the towers, pulling him behind you.

A few moments later sees you crammed in the narrow space. The back wall and server towers rise on either side of you, caging you up against your troublesome accomplice. One of Blade’s thighs presses tight to your own. Warm and firm. The proximity betrays what you’ve expected since your first meeting. Blade is an alpha. Only now, brought so obscenely close, are you fully able to realize that. It’s a footnote in comparison to your agitation, which swims and simmers just beneath the surface of your skin.

“How long were they following us for?” you grumble aloud. “Tell Kafka she owes an extra 20% when you see her, and that I’m not doing this ever again.”

Blade sighs out of his nose. You can’t see his face well enough to make out his expression.

“You’re wearing a mask. Your identity is safe.” he says.

“The threat of being arrested still remains,” you grumble, listening to the clamorous noise outside. Trained troops rush back and forth, kicking up dust and old grease. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, beyond a few paltry words, but no one has yet knocked on the door. Surely a good sign.

Blade squeezes your hand, and subsequently reminds you that you are holding it.

“That won’t happen. Destiny’s Slave would not risk your safety over something so simple. No harm will come to you, tonight.”

Well, isn’t that comforting. You wrest your hand away with a scowl, and clamp down on the pressing urge to let him know what you really think about his boss. He stares down at the place where your hands were once joined.

The next half-hour passes in relative silence. His eyes are all that is visible in the empty dark of the room, candlewick embers extinguished when he shuts them and leans back against the wall.

Eventually, the outside noise quiets. No more thudding boots or searching shouts, the warehouse silent as it had been when you arrived. Shimmying out from the pitch dark crevice is much more awkward without the frantic adrenaline, but you manage it, emerging in a new layer of dust.

“Alright. I’m heading out. Be careful.”

“They won’t return anytime soon,” Blade remains inside, arms crossed and impassive. Your frown deepens. You clamber through a hole in the wall. No Knights have remained behind. You feared a few would have stayed just in case, but none leap out from behind the rubble. Which means that the horrible feeling prickling up the back of your neck is just Blade’s cold, empty gaze trained on your retreating form.

Strange beast, you think to yourself, scuttling into the nearest alleyway.

—

One of your favorite things about Luocha’s home is that he is hardly ever in it. The first time you met him after helping him with his pre-heat, he pressed a silver house key into your palms, before turning and leaving. Not even allowing you to splutter a single, indignant protest. Back then, you mentally swore that you wouldn’t use it.

Now, you use it almost everyday. His neighborhood, smack dab in the middle of the Luofu, intersects with several of your regular routes. It’s just too easy so slide in between deliveries for a quick rest. It helps that he’s hardly ever home, leaving you to pilfer snacks from his fridge and take brief naps on the couch. You haven’t been bold enough to stay overnight. You’ve become far, far too intimate with the man.

No more, you decide, and stay firm to that decision even when he beseeches your company not a week later. It’s rude, but you can’t risk getting anymore attached than you already are. He’s become a bothersome burr stuck to your side, a looming presence in your thoughts even when he’s far across the stars, doing Xipe knows what.

There’s a knock at the door. You startle, because this has never happened before. You remain stock still on the couch. If you remain still, surely whoever is out there will get the message and bugger off. Another knock. You should have known that any solicitor determined to walk through the forest of a front yard would be too stubborn to give up after only seven knocks.

At the eleventh, you get up and stomp to the door. It’s mostly to preserve your own sanity. 

You throw open the door, prepared to give the nosy bastard on the other side an earful. 

It’s Blade. Blade is stood there. He blots out the afternoon sun, leaving you in the shadow he casts. It’s like seeing your clothes in the fridge. You blink several times.

“Ah. It’s you.”

“It is,” He’s holding a bouquet of flowers in his left hand. 

“What… why are you here?” 

“Kafka’s orders. She wanted you to have these,” he hands you the bouquet. You receive it. Fresh petunias and sprigs of rosemary curl next to daisies and tulips. It’s a nonsensical thing. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Nothing particularly artful about the presentation besides the pretty colors. 

“I see… Is this your home?” He looks like he already knows the answer.

You decide not to humor him. You tuck the bouquet underneath your arm and lean up against the doorframe. “What’s it to you?” 

He blinks, looks confused, and then responds after a moment of silent thought. “I… there is someone else who lives here. I remember it clearly, now.”

“You two know each other, huh? What a coincidence. But… how did you know where I was?”

“I asked the woman next door. She directed me here. I’ve been searching for you since the early morning.” 

“All morning?” you tut, somewhat sympathetic. “That’s a lot of walking.”

“It is nothing compared to other pains I have endured.” Blade says, solemnly. “And I have traveled far greater distances on foot. You shouldn’t worry.”

“...Well,” you stare down at the bouquet for a moment. “I’d feel bad if I didn’t give you anything for the effort. You know that big, red maple by the pond? Go sit there. I’ll get you something to drink.”

Two minutes later sees you outside, cradling two crystalline glasses filled with lemonade. You didn’t get him the fancy stuff—the strawberry-kiwi-whatever fruit stuff that you hand mixed. But it’s something.

He’s hunched beneath the red canopy. There’s a dark, inky type of handsomeness he possesses. Dark hair tumbles down his back, shaggy bangs frame that wolfish face. He looks dour almost all the time. Like the frown lines and cold apathy have permanently creased it. He’s hunched beneath the shade. Like it sits on his shoulders as a physical weight. He looks up at you as you settle next to him, accepts his glass without fuss or thanks. Which is just fine, with you. You probably shouldn’t be doing this, anyways. He’s an intergalactic criminal. The less time you spend together, the better.

But at the same time… you can’t help but be curious. Curious about the mara which buzzes underneath his skin, yet somehow never breaches it. Curious about what manner of creature he must be to withstand the final stages of Yaoshi’s curse. Curious if there’s any real, lingering emotion beyond the stoicism he treats… well, everything with. 

The two of you sit in silence and sip. You don’t feel any need for artificial conversation. It’s easy to sit down and simply exist next to him. No impulsive need for niceties. 

“This house isn’t yours,” he says.

“No. The owner is a client of mine. He lets me stop by here, in between deliveries. It’s convenient.”

A few beats of silence. “How well do you know the man that lives here?”

“As well as I know any other client,” he looks at you expectantly, as though waiting for you to finish that statement. “Which isn’t very well. He’s not here most of the time.”

“You should remain cautious while in his presence,” he says, and you nearly raise a brow at the unsolicited advice. He levels you with his dull, candlewick gaze, as impassive as ever. A leaf flutters from the lowest branches onto his head. “That man draws his power from the source of the mara. He wields it under the guise of a blessing, and yet…” Blade frowns, almost a grimace, and doesn’t say anything else. 

“I know.”

“Yet you take shelter under his roof and exist willingly in his space.” Blade stares at you. There’s a faint bristling in the air. A shuddering of the atmosphere that emerges from him. Thorny tendrils of bitter gold crackle beneath his pale skin. You don’t know exactly what aggrieves him so, but you get the feeling that you should say something to appease him, quickly.

“Well. I don’t know any other rich diplomats willing to offer me a free, mostly empty house to take a break in for… around twenty minutes a day,” you shrug. “It’s convenient.”

That seems to settle him.

“Do you… not like him? The merchant?” Does he even know Luocha’s name? What kind of relationship do these two weirdos have?

“In the strange purgatory of my existence, he acts as both poison and cure.” Blade informs you, as if it tells you really anything. As if sensing your befuddlement, he deflates a little, nose scrunching. He looks like a dour cat, stuck out in the rain. “He wants something from me. I can’t tell what it is. His unseemly fascination means it can be nothing good.” His attempt at elaboration gives you somewhat of a clearer picture, but it’s still some insanity that you’ll have to unpack later.

“I see. I’ll make sure to remember that,” you’re not sure if it’s possible to forget a conversation with Blade. Especially one that lasts more than a few moments. What prompted this? Genuine concern for your well-being? You have a hard time believing that. There are many things that are better off left unsaid, in your experience, so you don’t ask. 

The rest of the visit passes in relative quiet. Blade finishes his lemonade.

You reach over. His gaze snaps to you immediately, a beaten dog evaluating a potential threat.

“You have something in your hair,” you inform him helpfully, plucking the leaf from his sable locks. You curl the stem around your fingers. 

He doesn’t say anything after that. The two of you stand. He murmurs a brief farewell, and is off through the yard, slipping through the ferns to become one with the cast shadows. You’re not sure how long you remain after he leaves. The pond water ripples with each gentle breeze. Glimmering koi bob to the surface, in search of mid-afternoon snacks. When they find none, they dive beneath, water droplets flickering off their lashing tail fins.

Well, you think after another moment, at least you learned something.

Now, it is high time that you tend to the bouquet so generously sent your way. You dump the glasses in the sink, halfheartedly vowing to deal with them later, before taking a closer look at the arrangement of flowers. As you expected, it’s more than a paltry, sentimental gift. Tucked into the plastic wrapping is a small card.

Bladie said you got in quite the mess, the other day. You have my deepest gratitude for handling it so cleanly. He’s not that good at talking things out. He seems to like you, though! I wonder what makes you so special?

P.S. Next Tuesday, please escort Bladie to the address written on the back of this note. Please? Do it for me. :)

—

You hate working with criminals. Criminals other than yourself.

Though, you don’t fancy yourself much a criminal.  Deliveries are an entirely different beast, simple points of contact which last at most for five minutes. Escorting a known, intergalactic criminal through multiple layers of the Luofu is completely different—something you would never do if anyone besides Kafka asked. You’ll dance to her tune, run her errands if it keeps you off her shitlist. But is there even a point if keeping off of hers just puts you onto someone else’s?

You’ll have some fierce thinking to do after you shake off the six Cloud Knights currently on your tail. You dive between market stalls. You leap over a counter, sending an array of fruits and vegetables tumbling onto the pavement. You ignore the enraged shout of the peddler behind you, pulse thundering in your ears as you weave between the passerby, narrowly avoiding a stack of crates.

The air stings at the corners of your eyes. The marketplace blends together to the point of featurelessness. You don’t know who you pass or what else you know over, too focused on what’s ahead to care about the wreckage left behind. At the very least, it may hamper the Knights as they shout and stomp and rush after you—and Blade, whose fault all this is.

You slide around a corner and into a red-bricked alleyway, lanterns strung between the two rooftops, gold and glittering against that fake, blue sky.

“Dead end.” Blade grunts. You hear the telltale click of his sword being unsheathed.

“No! Just follow me!” you snap, seizing his wrist and pulling him forward, all the way to the end. As you trudge forward, you tap a sequence into the walls on either side. The worn clay surfaces are coarse under your fingertips. None move after you touch them, but you feel a subtle shift in the energy as it rushes down to the focal point. The pattern ends at the back of the alley. You tap a chipped, ragged brick embedded into the dead-end wall. The slabs unfold, layer-by-layer, to form an opening.

You pull him through.

It folds shut behind you, the quiet sound of grinding stone following you through the passage. The hollering and thudding of the pursuit have been silenced. Their chaos of the market sealed away behind the otherwise impenetrable seal. You doubt the low-ranking footmen who chased you will know the way.

Yellow-green vines crawl up the pulsing walls. Luminous particles bob and float in the air like fireflies. The place is silent, leaving you with only the sound of your own panting and Blade—Blade’s rasping, spluttering wheezes.

You stop, right where you are, because you have never heard him make such a sound before. Even after a chase, or a fight. 

The passage opens to a wider tunnel up ahead. You drop Blade’s hand, and turn to look at him. The adrenaline is fading, now leaving room for fresh, common sense. 

Blades hunches up against the wall. The air enters and leaves his lungs in winded, rushed wheezes. His eyes are wide and unseeing. Those candlewick irises dart from the floor, to the place where your hands had been joined, and finally, then, to you. 

A scent, like firewood charred too long, blistering into crumbled charcoal, blooms in and clouds the thin space. It’s like nothing you’ve ever smelled before, the vicious pheromones of an alpha at the very end of their tether. Something more, too, something earthen and ancient and charged. A flavor which has graced your palate only once or twice before.

Encroaching mara. You don’t know what he’s like, when his symptoms flare. You’re not eager to find out. The capricious nature of his mara has not once posed a threat to you. But his composure is slipping, his hands curling like claws and flexing. Like he’s getting a feel for his own body. Like the joints are sore and need stretching.

“Blade,” you stumble forward, pressing your palm to the cold, pale pane of his cheek. “Blade, look at me.”

His shaky irises hover awkwardly over your shoulder, before at last meeting your gaze. 

“It approaches,” he rasps, looking as haunted as you have ever seen him.

“Blade, do not let the mara take you.” you take in a deep, steadying breath. The violent pulsing in your ears returns in full force, the unhinged mass of his disease gnawing at your physical form.

Bracing yourself, you reach within. You touch the very bottom of your long neglected wellspring. Harmonic Essence leaps to the surface, warm and loving and so eager to be put to use. It feels like an old coat slipped around your shoulders, a familiarity you wouldn’t dare indulge in under ordinary circumstances. It is a power long wasted on you, but useful this very once. It pulses from underneath your fingertips, washes underneath his pallid skin.

The acrid taste of his mara brashes against the tip of your tongue for a single, fleeting moment. It then skitters backwards. Retreats into the dark, churning void of what you assume to be his subconsciousness. It’s a temporary balancing of the scales, but his wild pulse settles.

You sigh, shoulder slumping in relief. The tension winds out of your body, hand dropping back to your side.

He still looms above you, jet black hair curtaining you in. When did he get so close? Or had it been you in your haste to soothe him? He runs hot as a hearth, the warmth which radiates from him thick enough to feel. This close, you can see his every breath, soft mounds of his chest straining the fastenings which hold his shirt together. Slender stripes of pale skin peek through his chest wrappings. You swallow and look away, up at the strong column of his neck.

“Are you with me?” you murmur. You don’t dare move, lest your retreat trigger the chase instinct which some alphas are known to possess. You don’t like making assumptions. You feel like Blade would be among that number anyways.

“Yes,” Blade’s voice is sandpaper rough. He moves before you do, shouldering past you into the wider tunnel. “You make use of these often, I take it.”

As though nothing had ever happened. Something bitter churns in your gut, but you don’t bring it up. There’s no reason to. He probably wants to distance himself from this episode as quickly as possible. You don’t blame him. The mara must be a humiliating affliction to live and cope with. 

“It’s the fastest way to get around,” you break into a brisk walk, overtaking him. You’re the one who knows your way around, here.

“The mara would rend asunder the minds of anyone not wearing the correct protective gear,” Blade observes. There’s nothing pointed in his voice, but the weight of his gaze makes your skin crawl. Its keen focus is that of an apex predator’s, a beast somehow sated enough to keep his teeth from your throat. How long will that last? Fifteen minutes? An hour? The air here swelters with abundance. His mara must sup on it like a starved prisoner, far stronger and fuller than it could ever be on the surface. 

He could easily match your pace, but he chooses to walk behind you.

“I could say the same for you.”

“I am an abomination of Yaoshi. The abundance has already taken hold of me.” Blade says, grimacing. You toy with the fraying edge of your sleeve between your forefinger and thumb. “All the saturation here does is spur on the symptoms.”

You make a face. He must sense your unease.

“I should be able to resist the pull until we surface. Provided we do not linger overlong.” Blade replies. It does remarkably little to reassure you. 

A predator stalks at your back, one whose sanity may pop like an overfilled balloon at really any moment. Against your better sense, you feel anxiety lash at the bottom of your stomach, guts churning with that primal fear.

“Reassuring.” you bite out thoughtlessly. 

“It would be in your best interest to focus on finding a way out, rather than back-talking me.” Blade says, and you swallow. 

“Back-talking? I think my frustration is quite justified. You’re the reason we’re in this mess, after all.” you pointedly remind him. The words roll bitter off your tongue. Prickling discomfort coalesces with the saturation of abundance in the air, becoming a consistent buzz against the back of your skull.

Blade makes a ragged little noise, wedged between a wheeze and a laugh.

“Another do I make pay the price. I was not always like this. deathless beast borne of blind ambition and hubris…” he trails off. “I was once a man. Death walked with me as it walked with every other. It was never meant to—to become—”

A distorted warble slowly creeps into his voice. Shit, you just shouldn’t have said anything. The hovering energy coalesces, thin whispers congealing into thick, mist-like mass around him. It’s drawn to him. 

“What’s your favorite food?” you turn on your heel and ask, crossing your arms. He looks down at you, brows furrowing as he roots around for an answer. “You haven’t thought about it, have you?” Do the mara-struck even have to eat? Blade is a particularly unique case among them, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he even remembers to eat. He is a blade, according to his own words. And a blade doesn’t need to eat. How desolate an existence he must have lived. Must still be living if his own preferences evade him.

“Well. Try to find an answer while I get us out of here.” you command. He’s quiet for the remainder of the trek. You emerge topside and immediately feel several pounds lighter. The air is fresh and sweet, the skies blue and open. You’re two blocks from your apartment in a dark, neglected alleyway. 

“You can find your way back from here,” you sigh, chancing a glance at your companion as you stretch your arms above your head. “Right?”

He’s still quiet. You don’t sense the acrid tang of the illness. He looks thoughtful. You wish he would just give you an answer already. You’re not eager to be chanced upon again by a patrol, or by any other witnesses for that matter. 

“Your question. I don’t have an answer.” Blade says. He sounds almost regretful. 

Over your few interactions, you’ve come to realize that not much bothers him. Very little manages to budge that glacial mien. His demeanor, as you have come to understand, either sits as stoney neutrality or maniacal, giddy rage. The shades between are so very visited.

“It’s no big deal. You can just tell me next time, if you want.” If he even remembers. The idea of turning your back to him still riddles you with unease, but you do it anyway. Your steps are slow and measured. He stares you down until you disappear around the corner, meld into the crowds like just another thread in a blanket.

—

The sky above hangs a pale grey. It’s the threat of a light drizzle rather than a raging storm. You slip through the abundant foliage of Luocha’s front yard, unable but to notice that the shrubs and vibrant blooms have somehow grown in size since your last visit. The greens are hearty, fresh dewdrops glimmering off grass and unfurled leaves.

It’s not difficult to spot him. He’s lounged beneath the sole scarlet maple of the yard. He’s a spot of red himself, swathed in a richly-colored, likely richly-made, robe of it. The fabric pools on the lawn chair he lounges atop of. His eyes are shut, blonde lashes fanning against his perfect cheeks. Those eyes open as you skirt along the jagged stone edge of the pond, manilla envelope clutched in your left hand. He smiles, but does not lift his head. Sumptuous locks of golden blonde fan out behind his head like a halo. The very picture of serenity. 

“Well, well. To what do I owe this visit?” he tilts his head, smiling like a contented cat. You huff, and avoid looking below his neck, where the plush robe parts to reveal the pale soft of his chest. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but any sliver of intimacy you may have granted him has long passed. The moment you look down, he’ll notice and impose upon you another outlandish favor.

“Don’t get excited.” You hand him the package, and begin to pull back, but he’s faster. He darts for you like a viper. Long fingers curl around your wrist to hold you in place. The look in his eyes is beseeching. He gently deposits the envelope on the side table next to his seat. He doesn’t look away from you for even a moment. 

“Always so busy… doesn’t it exhaust you?” he murmurs, a sympathetic coo. He’s putting just enough strain on your arm to make standing uncomfortable, in hopes that you’ll sit down beside him. 

“No. I’m used to it. I like being busy,” you bear the ache in your arm with unyielding ease. It is so small and insignificant in comparison to every other you have endured.

“Do you… like being busy, or is it that you’ve never known anything else?” Luocha tilts his head to the side, smiling. Your skin prickles. You resist the urge to swallow. 

“You know what they say about assumptions.”

“Which is why I’m glad I’m not making one. You go to awfully desperate lengths to not be known, Courier.”

The corners of your lips twitch downwards, and his eyes gleam. “Don’t be coy with me. Did you talk to them?” You ask. The question has lingered on your mind for weeks, leaving you restless and more unkind than usual. The persistent threat of him is always at the back of your mind, represented in the throbbing between your temples, in the harshness of your voice as you snap at someone who might not deserve it. There’s no sense in beating around the bush, anymore. Not if you want to preserve your sanity.

“How very vague, for someone who just accused me of being coy. Be at ease, I haven’t had any contact with The Family. Merely some… particularly useful informants who have heard a thing or two. Hunches based on speculation that you’ve proven by being cagey.” Luocha assures you.

“...So, what do you want from me?”

“Merely conversation. I do find our interactions so compelling, however short they may be.”

“Being blackmailed doesn’t put me in the mood for conversation. There’s not much for us to talk about.”

“I beg to differ. I know so very little about you, despite all we’ve shared. I’m curious—what set you on the path of Harmony?” 

“...” You look away, internally evaluating the pros and cons of going along with his little game. “Peace. She promised us peace. Because that’s what Harmony was supposed to be.” His eyes soften. The indignation sizzling inside of you sparks into a raw flame (he has no right to look at you like that), but you smother it. 

“Did it live up to your expectations?” he asks. His thumb rubs circles against the hollow of your wrist. His gaze sweeps from your face, down your arm, to where he’s still got you. He’s waiting for you to be vulnerable, you just know it. A shark that smells blood in the water, circling and searching for tender flesh to lay its rows of teeth into. How does he imagine it will taste? Soft and meaty, melting underneath teeth and tongue? Layers of skin peeled back and pried open, made thin by older slices?

“It didn’t work out.” you reply. sagacious enough to play along only minimally. When you elaborate no further, he releases you with a smile.

“How interesting,” he hums. He reclines further, eyes fluttering shut. You could pounce on him so easily, like this. You could fix your teeth into his jugular and make it so he never threatens you again. The blood would be so warm in your mouth. His skin would be so sweet.

Don’t be gross. You grimace.

He drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

The fluttering of wings erupts in the canopy above you, a flock of songbirds taking an afternoon flight. He cracks open his eyes, then. He tracks some sort of movement (you aren’t looking up), idle, like you aren’t even there. He tilts his head to the side, the slender column of his neck completely exposed. The robe slips off of his shoulders, curvature of his collarbones and soft expanse of his chest open for your viewing pleasure. You’re annoyed.

 “I’ve held you long enough,” he sighs. “Thank you for sharing. Though, I do hope we can manage a longer conversation next time.”

“We’ll see,” you just barely keep a sigh out of your voice as you turn to leave, speed-walking up the grassy slope.

—

“That old man’s damn cat has been coming into the yard and bothering all the birds,” you grumble, squinting into the aforementioned patch of forest. 

Blade makes a noncommittal noise, indicating that he’s heard you.

“It pisses me off.”

“You care about the birds in someone else’s yard.” Blade observes. You frown deeper.

“It’s annoying. Cats are an invasive species, here. They slaughter all of the native wildlife—and sometimes they don’t even eat what they kill,” you sigh, tampering down your rising agitation. If you’ve learned one thing in your short and storied life, it’s that being impassioned isn’t good for you. 

“So, how would you suggest the problem be solved? If the owner insists on letting it out…”

“I don’t really live here, so it’s not like I have any right to get involved,” you shrug, “It’s just… if you’re gonna be that irresponsible with an animal, you don’t deserve to have it. You know?”

Blade makes another noise. Closer to a hum, this time. You don’t know if he knows or not. But you do know that he’s listening. You stare into the yard, and in your periphery you can see him staring at you.

—

You see Blade more in the coming days. Despite your best attempts, a routine slips into being, like weeds through cracks in the cement. Silver Wolf doesn’t show up to accept her own packages nearly as much, anymore. It’s almost always Blade. You see him so often that you question if he even has a job anymore.

He glowers. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He says, low voice almost lost amongst the bustle of the crowd. The markets are especially full today. Nestled in the crook of your elbow is a plastic shopping basket, loaded with some bread, some spices, and some vegetables. The stall you’re at rests beneath a red tarp, casts warm shadows onto his pale, bone-weary skin. “There are currently no tasks which command my presence at the moment.”

“Well. It’s good to have time off, but you don’t need to follow me around.”

“...” he doesn’t reply, but he does follow you all the way up to the counter. You can’t tell if he doesn’t understand the nuance, or if he’s just being bizarre and stubborn. Regardless, tailing you like a lost puppy seems to alleviate his boredom. To each their own.

“If you’re just going to walk behind me, can you—” you shift the basket from the crook of your arm, preparing to offer it. He snatches it from you before you can even finish speaking. 

“...Thanks.” 

He takes his newfound job as the basket carrier very seriously. His dour face doesn't budge an inch as you peruse the rest of the wares, plucking a few items from open crates and wooden shelves to add to the bundle. 

“So, see anything that piques your interest?” you’re not sure what prompts you to speak up. You should get through this as silently and as quickly as possible. The less time you spend in public with this man, the better. The presence of the Cloud Knights isn’t nearly as felt on this level, making it as safe a haven for criminals as can be. You suspect, sometimes, that it’s purposeful. In your many travels, you have come to realize that the criminal class is a valuable part of any economy, no matter how much those at the top may protest it. Those who disavow it the most fervently are usually the most involved, under the table.

Blade doesn’t respond, at first. His crimson gaze glances over the nearby shelves. He grabs a bottle of cloves and presents it to you, completely straight-faced.

You get the overwhelming sense he’s appeasing you more than anything.

“...Yeah,” you pluck it from his hand and halfheartedly eye the label. It’s hard to muster the energy to argue with him, especially when he looks so resolute. The fact that he’s continuing to tail you through the market is cause enough to ignore him. You drop the bottle into your basket and move on.

Thankfully, the rest of the trip passes in peaceful silence. You can feel Blade’s gaze, unreadable, lingering on your form as you pull your wallet out of one of your many pockets. The shopkeep, a sprightly young man with a head of bouncy, brown hair beams at the sight of you. You don’t remember his name, but you’re familiar with him. He opens his mouth to speak, but shuts his mouth tight before he can get a word out.

He glances over your shoulder. You swivel just barely to look at your stubborn shadow. Blade looms closer than you remember him being, leaving you with an up close and personal view of his chest. You tsk and look up at his face. 

“Can you get a bottle of white cardamom for me? It should be with the rest of the spices.”

Blade looks at you, and looks at the shopkeep. He is silent. The lines of his face are harsher than usual, burdened with deeper shadow. For a few, agonizing moments, you fear he may object, but he turns almost robotically and walks off. You’re not sure what’s upset him this time. You don’t particularly care. If you troubled yourself with the qualms of every pouting client, you’d be just as miserable as you were with The Family.

“Thanks. I could hardly get a word out while he was giving me those evil eyes,” the shopkeep says, shuddering.

“I guess his manners still need work,” Not that men in his line of work really needed any. 

“Alphas that smell that strong and don’t even try to put a lid on it are the worst,” he gripes, bagging your produce with nimble hands, before pausing and looking back up at you. He wrings his hands, contrite and sheepish. “—er, no offense.” 

“He smells strong?” you tilt your head to the side.

“Well, yeah. He’s all over you,” the man blinks. Some of his bangs fall over his big, brown eyes. He swipes them behind his ear thoughtlessly. “You guys just get together? He’s probably trying to flaunt it. Stake his ‘claim’, y’know?” he says with a sympathetic roll of the eyes.

You don’t particularly care what he says about Blade. A man able to lift a three-thousand pound sword doesn’t need defending.  It’s his misconceptions about your relationship that irks you, for some reason. You don’t care about the opinions of others (you try not to care about the opinions of others) but you can’t resist the sudden urge to correct him.

“We’re not together.”

“Oh,” he blinks at you. “Does he know that?”

“Ugh. Enough. It’s none of your business.” your lips twist, a sliver of teeth exposed in your displeasure.

The shopkeep nods and beams at you, all previous curiosity wiped clean off his face. “Heard loud and clear!”

He finishes ringing you up and sees you off with a “have a nice day~!”. Blade follows you to your next stop, a stall that sells fresh fruits. 

The frustration builds within you slowly. It’s a candlewick of a thing, at first. Blade is following you around. Irritating, but you can cope with it. He would leave if he was asked. Maybe Kafka told him to stick around for a while. She’s gotten into a bad habit of pawning him off on you, like he’s a child that needs watching rather than one of the universe’s most efficient killing machines. That’s fine. You’re not keen to get on her bad side.

Blade is scenting you. He’s sticking to you tight as a cobweb and giving dirty looks to people you talk to. That, you cannot abide by. It takes you at least five minutes to simmer, from the crate of apples to the lefternmost all of the stall to the bundle of leeks close to its middle. You’re not really looking at anything. Lost in thought.

“I am not an omega for you to covet. I don’t need your protection,” you tell him, letting your gaze idly roam over the prices. They’re written on fancy little labels with red accents, each one neatly stickered just below the lip of each crate. 

“I never said you did,” Blade replies after a moment of deliberating. You look over a crate of cantaloupe. Selecting a ripe one is a practiced art.

“You didn’t have to,” you pause, melon held in your hands as you give him a scathing look. “Control your pheromones. You’re not an animal.”

“No. Worse, I am a blade.” he sighs, suddenly sounding unusually surly. Your lips twitch in the barest beginnings of a frown. 

“Not an excuse,” you helpfully remind him. A shadow is cast over his face, then, dark and brooding. The space between his brows wrinkles, an uncertainty you haven’t quite seen from him before. There’s so little need to deliberate in a life like his own, so what troubles him now? It nettles something in you, makes you feel in a way that you don’t care to name and don’t want to look into. You deliberate asking, but he makes the choice for you.

“I will leave you, now.” When you turn to look at him, he’s already walked away from your side, strides longer than usual. He dissolves into the crowd like a sunset shadow, naught left in his wake but the scent you know still clings to your clothes. 

—

“My, my. You rarely ever visit at this hour,” Luocha says, giving you one of those mirthful smiles where his eyes scrunch, unabashedly delighted (and undeniably smug) to see you. He lounges on the ottoman, slender fingers parting the pages of a furniture catalogue. “To what do I owe the honor?”’ He’s already deduced that you want something from him. You take no excessive pride in your poker face but it still pains you to be so easily read. Luocha stands apart from the crowd with his soft hands and feigned delicacy, but he smells blood in the water just as easily as any other follower of the Hunt.

“I just wanted to talk,” you see no reason to dance around it.

“You came all this way for a conversation?” He rests his chin on the palm of his hand in a haughty way that pisses you off.

“Isn’t that what you’ve wanted this whole time?” you grouse, and he laughs.

“I’m flattered, regardless. Come, sit and tell me all that is on your mind.” he beckons to a seat at his side, which you stiffly sink into, unable to relax beneath his hunter’s gaze.

“You’re an omega—”

“Yes, quite,” his smile is now coquettish. You feel your face wrinkle in annoyance, line of your brows dipping low. 

“I wasn’t done. You know more about secondary genders than I do—and I don’t have anyone else to talk about it with, so…”

“I appreciate you confiding in me like this,” Luocha says, sweet as honey, timbre smooth as silk. There’s an ease about him here, in his own domain, that soothes and disarms you despite your best efforts. “It couldn’t have been easy for you to ask, so unused to relying on anyone else. I’m no professional, but I will answer your questions as best as I am able.”

He steeples his fingers with a smile, way too delighted for you to feel good about his generosity. He just likes knowing something you don’t, doesn’t he?

“Well. I’ve been spending time with an alpha, lately. It’s a work thing, but he keeps hovering around. Even after I tell him he can leave.”

“Ah.” Luocha says. The corners of his smile grow taut with something you don’t quite recognize. 

And it’s a question you suddenly have to wonder for yourself. Is Blade bothering you? You can count on one hand the amount of times you have been genuinely upset with him. He’s quiet, most of the time. He answers your questions and attempts to appease you whenever possible. He carries your bags whenever you happen to be at the markets, together. Even if you really wish he wouldn’t, you can tell he’s trying to be kind. 

“He hardly speaks. And when I does, I don’t really mind. But he hovers and keeps grabbing my shopping bags whenever we’re at the markets. I don’t get it. Is it some sort of courting gesture?”

“He certainly sounds like a character,” Luocha muses, sounding far off for a moment. “You have the right idea. He’s carrying your things to both lessen your burden and to prove himself capable, even if he himself does not realize it.”

You grimace, face twisting up, The truth has an acerbic tang to it. Luocha laughs unabashedly at your dismay, the sound melodic and trilling. The longer you spend in his presence, the more convinced you become that the Aeons crafted him specifically to vex you. You give him a scathing look.

“Come, now,” Luocha wheedles. “My humblest apologies, Courier—it’s simply so rare for you to be so expressive. I was caught off guard. Shall I get you something to drink? Come, please, sit back down. Surely you have more to ask of me?”

Reluctantly, you drop into the armchair closest to the door, leaning back as far as you have the space for, You fold your fingers together, elbows perched on an arm rest each.

“I don’t envy you. It must be difficult to bear the attentions of such a peculiar alpha,” Luocha says.

“You know him, then.” You can’t keep the accusation from your voice, something frenetic and ugly kicking up your pulse, making your stomach go sour. How deeply do they know each other? Enough for Luocha to consider spilling your secrets? Enough for them to conspire against your purposes unknown?

No, don't be ridiculous. You're not important enough a figure to be the center of any such elaborate scheme. Weak, as far as emanators go. Painfully average, even as far as betas go. Unremarkable in status and career. All that threatens you is what you have long left behind.

“I do know him. Quite well, in fact.” Luocha muses, undisputed fondness in his voice. How close are they? The question lingers bitter on the tip of your tongue. It vibrates underneath your skin, wild and desperate and gods, you want to know so badly.  “Though he may deny it, he can be shy. You’re alike, in that way.”

“I am not shy,” you bristle. It’s your curiosity alone that keeps you in his company. 

“An argument best saved for another day. Let’s not get off track—Blade is an alpha, but he bears few of the typical mannerisms associated with his secondary gender, which makes this newfound attachment to you all the more significant.”

Progressively, throughout your conversation, you’ve been able to feel the wrinkles on your face multiplying and darkening.

“It makes sense, if you ask me. You’re quite the extraordinary individual,” Luocha says, drumming his fingers idly against the armrest.

“So how do I get him to stop?” you brush past his superfluous flattery with practiced indifference. He wants to fluster you, to see you squirm. It’s one of the ugly truths behind the chivalrous front he wears in polite company.

“Are you sure you want him to stop?” he inquires.

“What are you getting at?”

“If you truly wanted to no longer be the object of these behaviors, you would have no problem telling him yourself.”

You laugh, and it’s a cold and bitter thing. “Not all men take rejection well.”

“As I well know,” Luocha reminds you. He’s so haughty, so utterly confident that sometimes you forget he’s an omega, a demographic as subject to unwanted advances as any you are a part of. He stands up, empty glass cradled in hand. The sheer material of his robe billows around him like fine mist, treating you to the outline of his smooth, toned legs. Blade is more built, the thought comes to you unbidden. You squish it like the raspberries you juiced only a week ago on Luocha's kitchen counter. You wonder if the stains ever came out.

“Objectively speaking, you have more of a reason to hold your tongue around me than you do him. Yet, you hardly hesitate to make your displeasure known in my company,” he points out. “It’s not because of my secondary sex. You hardly ever remember that I’m an omega, unless my heat is soon.”

“And your point is?”

He seizes your chin, then tilts your head up until you’re forced to look into those grass green eyes. Cradled between his forefinger and thumb, you are left with nowhere else to go. You wonder briefly if it thrills him to do this because he is an omega. If he finds some kind of perverse pleasure in subverting the roles society espouses about his kind.

“You could have told him off on your own. Instead, you went out of your way to consult someone you deeply dislike, looking for another, less direct way of handling it. All of that implies some degree of care, whether you want to admit it or not.”

He’s right, and you hate nothing more than when he’s right.

“Thank you for your time,” you dip back into your customer service with a placid and empty drone, because you know how much he hates it. You say it to his chest, refusing to give him the eye contact. Unwilling to expend the effort. For plausible deniability, because you don’t know what you’ll find on his face. The air has grown balmy and cloying and fragrant. You stand up, and he steps backwards. “But I must be going, now.”

“How unfortunate,” Luocha coos as you awkwardly find your way around him, having been sandwiched between his body and the coffee table. “I was going to put the kettle on…”

—

The shroud of night has settled over the Luofu. A crescent moon winks down at you from the artificial sky, peering between the treetops. You’re laid on your back, on the concrete patio near the shed. 

Footsteps head in your direction. You already know who it is. There’s no one else that has that blistering, writhing aura. Blade comes to stand over you. His brows wrinkle in displeasure. You don’t know why. It’s not his patio that you’ve gotten your blood all over.

“You’re injured,” he says, frowning. He crouches over you. A pale thumb smears the drying crimson on your upper lip. Your entire face scrunches up, gnarled like a gargoyle, recoiling from the unexpected touch.

“Nosebleed,” you mutter. The space behind your eyes throbs in protest, accompanied by a fierce pressure at the bridge of your nose. All typical symptoms. The gifts bestowed upon you as Emanator unfortunately do not shield you from your allergies. To think, an Emanator could still be laid low by something as mundane as allergies. 

“Who gave it to you?” Blade looms a little closer, gaze steely.

“No one. Sometimes my allergies act up. That’s all.” you assure him, squinting irritably. You hope your judgmental flower will shame him out of your personal space, but he lingers.

“You should remain indoors, then.” he draws. He lifts his bloodied hand and looks at it, too contemplative for your liking. 

“I take medication for it. Just forgot today,” it feels wrong to justify yourself. He isn't owed an answer, but this is a rare moment. Blade showing such outright concern over something so novel is interesting (a more sentimental person might call it touching). Has his immortality rendered him incapable of distinguishing a few pesky allergies from a deadly ammonia? You can’t imagine someone so riddled with regeneration to register the difference between a gaping gash and a papercut. 

“Then remember to take them.” he advises coolly. 

“I will.”

You lay there, then, in silence unperturbed for a few moments. The hard ground is cool against your back. It’ll fix your aching spine, you’re sure. 

“Are you not going to get up?” Blade asks.

“No. It feels nice to be on the floor, sometimes.” you assure him quickly, lest he assume your nosebleed has robbed you of all mobility. He stares at you, blank-faced, but you somehow can tell he is skeptical. You pat the space next to you, a silent offering.

You don’t expect him to take you up on it. This rare creature, crackling with the energy of his divine “gift”. You don’t indulge in typical sentiments, and you spurn love and limerence for your own sanity, due to the madness you have seen both inspire. To adore is to give of yourself, to exhaust what limited energy you have left. Yet, there is no arguing the fact of his beauty. His hair pools like fresh slick pitch. Faint moonlight catches on the sable strands. His jaw cuts a sharp and handsome shape, eyelashes long and thick. He stares up at the sky, unreadable. 

“Kafka has no need of me in the coming days.” “It is… strange. The Stellaron Hunters are few in number, so our hands are always full. To be bereft of any responsibility… is rare.”

“You don’t sound thrilled about that.”

“No. It will leave me restless. And the silence will only give the mara room to spread. It’s better—more manageable when there is a task at hand.” Blade admits, a shiver in his voice.

“I do. I believe you are familiar with the place,” he says. That catches your attention. And makes you just a little nervous. 

“Do you even have anywhere to stay?” The Stellaron Hunters surely have a vessel of their own where he can lodge. You’re ultimately not too concerned. You shut your eyes and listen to the midnight breeze, feel the black of the night against your skin.

You turn to look at him, almost afraid to ask. “Familiar?”

“The merchant has opened his home to me. I will remain there for the duration of my… off time.”

Again, you are sorely tempted to question the exact nature and origin of their relationship, but it’s truly none of your business. You’ve long espoused a policy of isolation, but there’s no denying how thoroughly entangled you have become in them. Elbows deep. You’re not quite sure how it happened. They’re infiltrated your monotonous life, moved in so slowly that you didn’t even notice until this very moment. 

“Well. He’s not there most of the time, so it’ll be like having your own place,” You can’t imagine Blade as a homeowner, for some reason. It just invokes the image of him mowing a lawn in khaki shorts with that same, placid face he always wears. He’s too ethereal and strange to trim the hedges or fix a leaky faucet. Sometimes, you think he’d look more in-place if he levitated instead of just walking everywhere.

“I had lemonade the other day,” he says, and this fascinates you, because it is so very rare for him to initiate conversation about something so little.

“...And? Did you like it?” Perhaps it’s petty, but you already have a feeling that he didn’t. You hate to presume, but you think you have similar palettes. 

“...It was too sweet, and burdened by a lingering, chemical taste,” he confirms your vague conjecture and you very nearly laugh. Or make some sort of short, wry noise like a horse’s snort.

“Yeah. Ones that aren’t made from scratch tend to be like that.”

“And that is why you make your own.” 

“Exactly,” you lift your gaze from him and return it to the sky. “When you make something from scratch, you can make however you like. Ones you buy pre-bottled have too much sugar.” He hums in acknowledgement, but says nothing else.

The twinkling stars are no more authentic than the clouds which hover during the day. But you wonder how many far off stars he has visited across the span of his long un-life. How many civilizations he has seen toppled, how many lives have ended at his hands. What a terrifying beast Yaoshi has created. Yet, here he lay beneath a sky he has likely long tired of, humoring your purposeless requests for reasons unknown.

—

You’re tucked on the steps off the side door, head leaned back and eyes shut, drinking in the warmth of the artificial midday sun. Blade leans up against the wall next to you, arms crossed. You don’t blame him for staying in the shade, not when he’s always dressed so darkly.

You shouldn’t show your stomach to a known apex predator. Your instincts are tampered down, but you still curl your spine and lift your knees to your chest when you usually it on the stoop. You haven’t done it, today. Anxiety thrums in the space right behind your eyes. The scared animal inside of you writhes in his presence. You look at him, gaze by happenstance falling on the profile of his chest.

Breasts, you think stupidly, and laugh aloud. The noise is so sudden that you almost don’t realize it came from you. Blade looks down at you like you’ve grown a second head, and you're still too caught up in your own disbelief. Spending so much time with him has softened your skill, started to fry your remaining brain cells. He’s always been handsome. But you’ve started to too keenly note the bow curve of his lips, the narrowness of his waist.

And you hate, hate, hate proving Luocha right.

“What is it that you find so amusing?” Blade speaks slowly, like he’s talking to a scared dog or a lost child.

“Nothing,” you shut your eyes and tilt your head back, letting it thump against the top step. Blade inhales sharply. “Just remembered a stupid joke I heard a few days ago.” When you open your eyes, Blade has turned away, inspecting a row of gladiolus planted next to the nearby shed. The line of his shoulders has gone tense.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” you muse.

“Did you plant them?”

“No. I delivered the seeds. Only a week ago, I think. They wouldn’t have been able to sprout this fast.”

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps,” Blade skates a finger over a bright orange petal. “That merchant utilizes his gift so shamelessly. Even while at the heart of his natural born enemy.”

“And it’ll all be for nothing if that damn cat comes and eats them,” you grunt. You’ev stumbled upon torn up patches of grass and bitten through flower patches, stems snapped and petals crushed. You briefly, in one of your pettiest and cruelest moments, nearly suggested Luocha plant lilies next. The callousness of your own thought had startled you into silence, so gladiolus it was.

“Ah. About the cat,” Blade begins. You blink, wide-eyed. A cold pit forms in your stomach, because—

“You didn’t,” you gape.

“I did not kill it,” Blade says sourly, clearly affronted by the assumption. “I brought it to Kafka. They seem to get along.”

The tension melts out of you at once. Your petty grudge isn’t worth the blood of an innocent animal. You let yourself fall back against the stoop. The edges of the stairs dig into your spine. 

“That makes sense,” you say, a touch wry.

Blade grimaces. “They send me images of the little beast every day I am not there. If Silver Wolf is to be believed, it ‘eats better’ than she does.”

Does Silver Wolf eat well to begin with? “That was kind of you,” you say instead. 

“Was it? Or was it cruel to the man who will wonder where his pet has gone?” Blade inquires. He doesn’t sound particularly bothered by the possibility. 

You scoff. “I doubt he’ll even notice.”

—

You are natant in the dull haze of half-sleep. The soft scent of camelias and fabric softener and linens. A cloying warmth cocoons you, keeps you mired in a state of partial sleep. Burrowed beneath the comfort exists a nagging feeling of wrongness, like a pebble in your boot. You cling to the sensation, let it pull you from the inky, peaceful depths. You’re not sure how long it takes for you to breach the surface. It feels like ages by the time you pry your weary eyes open.

There’s a body crushed into you. An unyielding, solid mass of muscle. The scent of something charred wreathes around you. Your cheek is pressed up against a heartbeat, steady and strong. It would be comforting if you knew where you were, or who you were with.

Alarm, molten hot, jots down your spine. Shaken from your stupor, you begin to writhe. Your palms slap against the chest of the man beneath you. You brace yourself against him in an effort to pry yourself free.

An arm around your midriff tightens, and the panic grows. You lash out, snarl, a hand reaching behind you to grab onto the assailant’s wrist.

The room blurs, then. The breath is knocked from your lungs as you’re reoriented and pinned with minimal effort. Your eyes blow wide, gaze caught by those candlewick eyes. Blade’s hair is mussed from both sleep and the struggle. His lips are pulled into a snarl. Your gut squirms at the flash of those deadly canines—sharper than you’d imagined (he’s never bared his teeth at you).

“Stop,” he commands, low and throaty. You shudder, foolish hindbrain moved to obey the order. This, you realize, is what an alpha’s command must sound like.

As you lay beneath him, chest to heaving chest, the pieces of the previous night return to you in fragments and shades.

Blade came to your door at dusk’s end. The shuttles had shut down for the night. You let him in, quickly, before anyone could witness a known fucking criminal at your door. You fed him dinner, anyways. Spoke late into the night—about what you cannot truly recall. Somewhere around three in the morning, you must have nodded off. 

“Have you calmed down?” Blade asks.

“Yes,” you grumble, feeling thoroughly chastised despite his flat and empty tone. You attempt to dislodge yourself a second time, but Blade stops you fast. “Blade—” The beginning of a feeling you cannot quite name crawls up your spine, up the back of your skull. It’s a creeping, white hot sensation. A sudden deprivation of air. His eyes have closed. You feel your pulse spike. “Blade.” You try again. “Let me up.”

He draws a shaky breath.

“You don’t understand, do you?”

“What is there for me to understand?” you ask, voice a tepid little thing. He laughs. The sound is manic and bitter. When he opens his eyes, they’re hot enough to burn a hole in you.

“I… remember you,” he begins slowly. There’s a creeping breathiness there, you feel it under your palms, writhing inside of his ribcage. “When you are not there. I remember how warm your hands are, the smell of your sweat—the taste of when we are… together. And I crave it every moment we are apart. It’s—maddening.”

“What.” you’re taken back, all the sudden, to the sixth time Sunday called you to his office. A servant of the Harmony, you were, still protected by your naivete, still convinced by the smiling faces and open arms which surrounded you. A child. A seed, among the older and wiser trees in Xipe’s forests. 

You remember the exact shape of his lips when he said it—you remember how it felt. You feel the same way now, pinned like a little butterfly. Lost in the reeds.

“I remember you,” Blade continues, slower and calmer, now. Burning wood to dead charcoal. “When we are apart, you are all I remember, and the emptiness that exists in your shape is too much to bear. I need—” he licks his lips, his empty pupils blown so very wide.

“The mara becomes quiet, when we are together,” he whispers, like he’s sharing a secret. His eyes close. His forehead is a wide rash of heat, pressed against yours. He takes a single, shuddering inhale, breathing your air. 

And you—you’re still frozen there, caught up in the vice of his body and the couch. You stare emptily beyond him. His face settles into the crook of your neck. 

The lamplight flickers on and off. 

[my-debauchery]

Loud.

idol!yuta × afab!reader

g`smut

cw`kissing, fingering, handjob, penetrative sex, cum eating(m), semi-public sex(maybe)but door is locked, explicit content, unprotected sex

wc`0.7k

A/N: once again, constructive criticism is more than welcome. if you see an error in cw tagging, please, let me know.

seating on top of cable storage box is quite uncomfortable, it's hard and cold. the room is quite cramped and not very well lit, but it's more than enough to see around.

you can hear people going by the door. it makes you jump and look at the door in fear, anticipating with dread someone lowering the handle, opening the door and catching you in an explicit position. then yuta grabs your chin and turns your head towards him, while you still keep your eyes on the door.

'look at me, dear' his voice is low and comforting. as you turn to look at him, his left hand cradles your head and he smiles, big and happy. 'let me see' he helps you lift your legs up on the storage box, bended at knee. yuta caresses you pussy over the underwear and you can feel that you're soaked. you jump a little from his prodding, but immediately relax from little jolts of pleasure from his fingers.

he smiles again and raises to his feet 'let me have a tates, before the stage' you nod and pull him in for a kiss. as the kiss becomes more heated, you can hear your heart beat at the temples. you put your hands on yuta's chest for balance and feel that his heartbeat is spiking just like yours.

yuta pulls away, as he is pulling your underwear to the side. he gently spread your lips and you feel a drop of arousel leak onto the box 'fuck, aren't you the prettiest sight to see?' you blush and look down to his crotch and stretch your hands to unzip yuta's pants.

you put your hand inside his pants, wrap your hand around his dick and squeeze. yuta hisses and slips his fingers inside your walls. you roll your head back and moan, he immediately moves forward and lowers your turtleneck to kiss your neck. you speed up your hand going up and down, and squeezing when you reach the tip. each time you do that yuta bites your neck and curls his fingers to jab at your g-spot. you start to shake a little from all the sensations and impending orgasm. yuta pulls away from your neck and as light comes from the back of him, he looks like an angel with his new blond hair.

'baby, slow down' he pulls your hand off him 'let me have your flavor in my mouth for the stage' he brings his hand, that now is fully covered in your cum, and licks it clean without breaking eye contact.

you are so mesmerized by your boyfriend, you don't even notice him lining himself up with your entrance. yuta looks up at you 'okay?' you nod and hold onto his arms as he pushes his hips at full force. yuta wraps his arms around you and picks up his speed. you feel your whole body tingling, going hot and cold, and pleasure washing over you in waves. you know your moans are getting loud, to loud and someone will hear you soon enough, so you bite into yuta's shoulder.

yuta bring his hand down to your clit and starts to massage it, making you shake again and hurdle you towards your orgasm at the speed of light. 'i'm so close, yuta' you feel like you about to cry 'i know, baby. want to let go? want me to feel you up?' you shake your head frantically and grip onto yuta stronger.

'let go, baby' so you do. your legs give up, drop down and you slum backwards against the wall. you can't really control your body anymore, nor your volume and you can feel yuta wiping your tears, while shushing you. yuta wraps your legs around his waist and grinds into you. you look up at him, he still looks like an angel, his make up stayed on perfectly and light still glows around him, his moans make your stomach flip. then you feel him release and hot seed filling you up, you feel content.

yuta quickly pulls out, moves your underwear in place, zips up and helps you off the storage box. your legs are wobbly, so yuta holds your hands to stabilize you and kisses you on the forehead 'lets go, cutie. the show is about to begin' he winks at you as he unlocks the door and you look up at him in surprise. you were sure it was unlocked, that anyone could have come in on you. yuta chuckles 'i wouldn't let anyone see you like that. you are for my eyes only' he squeezes your hand and pulls you out into the loud corridor.

[hhhsyteriaaa]

𝐂𝐨-𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐬|Toji fushiguro

⇢MDNI!

⇢CW:public sex,m! Receiving oral.Unprotected sex,consensual hardcore. Missionary,overstimulation ,edging,creampies.choking,degrading,cowgirl,fingering,masturbating.

⇢synopsis:your coworker Toji takes you to the back and fucks you crazy.

You had been working at this company for about six months when you met him.Toji Fushiguro one of the more powerful men in the company.

You couldn’t stand him the way he degraded his employees or the way he thought he was above everyone it pissed you off greatly,you couldn’t stand him—for some reason you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

You always did what you were supposed to you were like a model employee but your coworker Toji always found something wrong with what you did.

Work was pretty boring as you typed away on your computer however you found yourself thinking about him during work—you felt your underwear begin to get as you thought of him.

“Damn it.”

You said as began to slip your fingers under your skirt as you rubbed your went cunt—a couple moans had came out your mouth as you gripped your desk.

“Mmph-”

Damn it you had moaned to loud as you covered your mouth looking around hoping nobody had heard you.

You had snapped out of it as you heard a cold masculine voice call your name.

“come see me immediately in the storage room to the right.”

Toji said in a demanding tone of voice—you pulled your underwear up as you dusted yourself off and began to walk to the storage room,some co-workers were whispering.

“I need a word with you.”

Toji said coldly as he pulled you into the storage room—the air was cold making your nipples harden

“Yes what was it you-“

Before you could finish that sentence Toji’s lips were against yours sending shockwaves through your body he forces his tongue into your mouth while his hands moved aimlessly down your body

Before you knew it he had placed you down on the floor of the storage room and began undoing your shirt and bra—once they were off he squeezed your nipples causing you to whimper a bit.

“Mmph..”

He had pulled your skirt down to your ankles looking at your soaked underwear.

“your slutty pussy wet for me already hm?”

He said as his fingers traced the wet folds through your underwear,you squirmed a bit trying to keep composer as he circled around your puffy clit

“Hm..want me to fuck you like the little slut you are?”

He had said while lowering your underwear down to your ankles without a moment to rest he pushed two of his fingers into you. He moved quickly while groping your boob in the other hand you moved your hips aimlessly trying to match the rhythm off his fingers.

You felt like you were on the edge of climaxing when he pulled his fingers out of you. You had looked around for signs of why he possibly could’ve stoppped but he just looked at you and laughed.

“I want you to beg for it like a good girl.”

He said without a hint of joking in his voice,you felt a knot in between your thighs begging for release as you began to beg while kissing him.

“Please Toji..”

You whimpered.

“Please what.?”

“Please..”

“I said please what.”

“Please fuck me..”

You whimpered for him begging him to soothe the ache from between your legs; tears had even began to come out.

“If that’s what you wish.”

Without a second a thought he grabbed her pulling her up to her feet and pressed her against the wall—he unzipped his pants revealing his 5 inch cock.

He rammed his cock into your cunt while pulling your hair thrusting hardly as he whispered into your ear.

“I’ve been thinking about fucking you all day.”

He whispered while thrusting into you with no mercy—you felt like he was stretching you out as you moaned and whined. He was touching your G-spot multiple times as you as you whined and moan for more.

“You’re such a little whore,making all this noise for me.”

He thrusted into you once more each thrust more powerful while yanking your hair. He thrusted into you shooting his warm thick seed up into you he had continued thrusting to you as the waves of your orgasam went over you not giving a moment to stop.

“Toji Mmph-..”

You said before he threw you to the floor as you were still numb you made a bit of a whimper as he smirked at you as you begged for more.

“You look like such a pathetic whore,so needy for me.”

He said as he laid down on the floor.You crawled over to him looking at him for permission,once you got that sign of approval you positioned yourself and slowly went down on his cock as you moaned.

“So fucking big..”

You moaned as you began bouncing up and down while Toji lazily held your hips as you fucked yourself up and down on his huge cock.

“Look at yourself you whore.”

He said to you as you leaned a bit now moving your hips back and forth on him. Your moans were the only thing filling the storage room as you pushed yourself one last time you had came on his cock.

“Look who couldn’t hold back..”

Toji smirked as he looked at you. You looked a mess your hair which had been neat a few hours ago and your makeup was smudged and you were sweatier then ever.

As you got up Toji looked at you with greedy look—he wasn’t satisfied with the previous encounters he wanted more. As he got up he looked at you while licking his lips.

“Where are you going slut who said you were done ?”

“Toji what do you mean?”

You said raising your eyebrow. Before you knew it Toji had grabbed your head pushing it down towards his cock—you immediately caught on and got on your knees as you opened your mouh.

He rammed his cock into your mouth as you began to suck it while bobbing your head up and down. He had gripped your hair.

“Who knew that loud mouth of yours was good for other things too.”

He smirked as you kept going his breathing got a bit heavier as you slobbered all over his cock he had pushed it deeper into you mouth as sped up.

He was on the brink of climax as he grinned your hair tighter as shot his seed filling your mouth as he pulled his cock out you smiled as you swallowed his semen.

“Good girl.”

He said as he stood up and put his pants back on while you got dressed as well you two kissed one last time as he smacked your ass and you both left the storage room not realizing you had been gone for two hours.

[babbygirlblues]

Chapter 3: Ch-ch-ch-changes (Time may change me, but I can’t trace time)

By the end of the week your calendar has 5 ‘X’s’ from Tuesday to Saturday. On Sunday morning something magical happens. 

One of X’s pigeons flies through your window and small bits of dirt and feathers fall onto the fall as it skids across the floorboards. 

You untie the paper-wrapped package attached to its back and quickly go to get it some seed mix and a bowl of water.

Once the bird is happy eating and drinking on your living room floor, you skid back over to the package and rip it open. 

A set of tubes knock together with a glowing red liquid inside. 

A slip of paper is folded up between them reads: 

Should be enough for about 10 trips. 

Test: Earth, within 10 years

X

You carefully pour a tube into the little accelerator box, and take your place in the centre of the circular mat, another gift from X. You’re racking up quite the tab. 

Glass twists up your legs until it reaches your head, turning your skin a glistening lucid sheen. 

You take a deep breath and press the watch.

It clicks.

Did it work?

Your vision slowly creeps back in, and you immediately recognise the night you’ve chosen to come to. 

You’d put in these coordinates and this date almost instinctively. 

God! You’d forgotten how cold it was. 

You’re on the outskirts of St Petersburg, Russia for your first mission with Natasha. 

At this point, you were friends, close friends but your feelings for her had long changed from platonic.

Icicles form on the smooth surface of your skin that is tinged white and blue like the ice. 

It was the same that day. 

You look on from the otherside of the mountain, almost invisible against the white snow beneath you, and watch the two of you climb side by side. 

On foot you follow in Natasha’s footsteps up the snow covered mountain. You’ve turned to glass to avoid the deadly cold climates and feel a bit guilty for it. Fog puffs from Natasha’s mouth with every breath but she doesn’t seem cold though which makes you feel a bit better. 

The two of you are on the way to a base up ahead that was recently raided by an unknown enemy. 

Natasha has a worried and knowing look in her eyes but she refuses to say anything she may suspect about those responsible for the attack.

You don’t push her for answers and follow her lead loyalty. Missions like this were usually left to mid-level agents like Natasha. It was never something that Fury let you risk exposure for, even though it occasionally came at the cost of agents' lives. 

Curiously though, you’ve been posted for this one. You don’t care, if anything you’re just excited to spend time with her. It feels good to know that you’ll be here to help protect her if anything goes wrong. A welcome change from the times you watch her leave, and only to wait desperately for the moment she comes back off a carrier safe and sound.

The mission is simple. Salvage anything you can from what was abandoned, destroyed or set on fire. Then destroy what was left for real.

The base is hidden behind a rocky interface between two mountains. It looks dangerous. As you start to climb you drop back to follow behind Natasha in case she slips or a rock beneath her comes loose from the mountain face. It looks like a rocky landslide could take off at any moment. You’re prepared to catch her and carry her up, floating above the rocks at any moment. 

You’re not sure if it’s appropriate to offer her a flight up before anything goes wrong.

She stumbles a couple of times when the rock beneath her twists and —-. Each time your feet are off the ground and your hands are a hair's width away from her, ready to lift her from the rocky avalanche. But she always catches herself like a dancer who already anticipated the movement beforehand.

The base is small, a huge garage for helicopters that take agents to the base, rooms for armoury, file storage and dormitories. The control rooms are the worst damaged, computers with screens caved in, and most servers have been ripped from the racks and look like they’ve had hammers taken to them.

The whole time, Natasha moves like she’s in a trance. Skimming through file after file, electronic and hard copies like she’s searching for something. Every piece of garbage she picks up seems to add a piece to the puzzle that she’s solving in her mind. 

However, you feel aimless, digging through scraps of metal and paper, hardly understanding what’s in front of you. 

You can’t help but wonder again why you’re here. There is no pressing need for your powers and you can only string together simple sentences in Russian. You feel useless.

It took a few hours of searching before Natasha decides you’ve seen enough. She comes out of the last room and tells you that there’s nothing left to see. 

You pour a special SHIELD technology petroleum through the whole base and set it on fire. You stubbornly insist that she stay outside and at least 200m metres away the whole time. 

There’s no-one available for a pick up so the two of you get posted in a safe house until morning. You arrive at the door of an old cabin at sunset and it feels impossibly colder inside than out. 

Natasha takes a look at your shivering figure and is surprised by how charming she finds your arms curled into yourself. You could have stayed in glass form, but once the mission was officially complete it felt weird.

The cabin is a single room with a bathroom at the back. It’s completely barren except for a small couch and kitchenette, and a thick layer of dust has settled on almost every visible surface. The fireplace is black with soot and old charcol, but it’s calling your name.

“Do you want to search the cupboards for any food?” Natasha asks. 

She gestures to the fireplace, “I’ll get started on a fire.” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

You go through every drawer and cupboard in the place until you find one of them has a few cans of tomato spaghetti. They expired 2 years ago, it’ll have to do. There’s a fork and spoon in one of the drawers and you grab them both. 

Natasha comes back in with a few logs and a handful of twigs, a blisters like wind follows inside before her, blowing snow and cold air through her hair and into the room. She lets the door slam shut behind her.

Kneeling in the fireplace to start a fire and with her bare hands you watch her rub sparks into one of the dryer logs. Somehow smoke starts to blow, the grass and sticks turn the sparks into flames and soon a blazing fire glows and starts to warm the room. 

You almost run over to her, entranced by the warmth and red glow of the fire. You offer her the cans you found. You take a seat next to her on the ground and huddle together to conserve some warmth.

She opens the lids with the knife strapped to her calf and places them on a rack above the fire to warm up.

Natasha chuckles at the way you aggressively rub your hands together and practically moan at the warmth from the fire. Your face is going red from the heat. 

“You can change to glass, you know.” She says. “I don’t mind.”

“And let you suffer alone?” 

“You’re the only one suffering.” She laughs. “I’m Russian, I don’t get cold.”

“That’s impossible.”

After you’d choked down the old spaghetti in silence, you got up to look at the sleeping situation on the couch.

The bottom pulled out to extend it into a bed and the backrest cushions made up the bottom half of the ‘mattress’. 

“Voila!” You display the bed to her.

“You can take it.” She says. 

“What?”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“There’s plenty of space.”

“It’s ok.” She insists and refuses to move from her spot on the floor.

“This is ridiculous, we can easily share the bed.”

Granted, you were incredibly nervous to sleep next to her. And worried about anything your mind might accidentally conjure up during the night. Your power can sometimes show up, sand creeping from your fingertips to create various objects in your dreams, but you haven’t had any incidents for many years. 

“Fine.” You relent to her wishes.

You pass her two of the cushions to make an improvised mattress on the floor. She pieces them together and sits on it. She turns back to face the fire and her hair drops to cover her face from you. 

You collect the other two remaining cushions and move them onto the ground next to her. A small gap between the two of you. 

“What are you doing?”

You lie down and your feet hang off the end, but it’s reasonably comfortable and warmer than sitting on the cold floor. You close your eyes and try to relax.

“Sleeping, what does it look like?” You try to keep the smile off your lips, but fail. You blink one eye open to take a peek at her, and she’s smiling at you like you’re an idiot. 

Eventually she concedes and lies down on her cushions, her body parallel to yours across the floor. The light from the fire dims slightly and the sun is long gone from the sky.

You wonder if she’s fallen asleep, because it's silent for a while before she speaks.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Go for it.” You say.

“The sand.” She says. “How does that work?”

She’s never really asked about your powers before. You’ve mentioned places you’ve lived, your mothers, but nothing much more. It was never important to her, even though it's all everyone else seems to care about.

It doesn’t surprise you that she’s curious to know more. 

“How can I make stuff?” 

“Hmm, yeah.” There’s something more to her question. 

“Well, you know about my mother, and how she had the same powers. She was born from her planet. The planet grew out from its core which was a powerful stone, one of the most powerful entities within the universe. When she was born she literally emerged from the sand dunes. My sand is the same, it’s a connection to the planet, and its core, the power stone.”

“What I make is basically up to me. It could be anything, the only limit really is my imagination.”

“But some things would be pointless to make because it can only be sand or glass. Swords are good, but a bed wouldn’t be that comfortable.”

“And it turns black once it loses connection to your body?”

“Yeah.”

The conversation lulls. You’re not sure what else to tell her.

Natasha breaks the silence. 

“The mission today?” She says

“Yeah.”

“I asked for you to come.”

“Oh.”

The silence stands still in the room and your mind reels for something more to say. Why? Ok. I’m glad you did.

“The base was one I’ve been to before.”

Oh. “KGB?”

“No.”

A heavy feeling presses deep on Natasha’s chest. She can’t get the next words out. 

“Whatever it is, I promise you can tell me. And it won’t change anything.”

She tells you about the Red Room. About her mother abandoning her as a baby. Training, graduation and then her career as a spy. When she’s finished, the fire is almost out. Her voice is weary and she’s too tired to hold back her tears. 

You reach across the space between you and gingerly loop your pinky around hers. She sniffles into the darkness and squeezes your finger tightly. 

With all the determination in your voice that you can muster, you tell her, “You are the most incredible thing in the entire universe.”

“That is so much, too much, for one person to go through. I’m so sorry.”

She sobs. You shift to hold her hand properly and try to inch as close as you can, almost tipping off the side of your makeshift bed. 

“Can I move closer?”

“Yes.” She immediately replies. 

You shuffle the cushions over until they press next to hers. 

“I wish things had been so different for you.” You whisper.

“It’s truly astonishing how strong you are. How kind you are.”

“No. I’m not a good person.” She warns you. 

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’ve done terrible things.” 

You tell her that anything she’s done for them was not her fault. You’ll tell her everyday until she finally hears you. 

“Love is unconditional.” You tell her.

She says she doesn’t deserve love.

“You deserve love from anyone you want it from.”

You don’t want to push her. The words on your lips are I love you, I love you! Please pick me.

“Anyone would be so lucky to love you.” 

There’s a moment where you fear you’ve pushed too far. Dread seeps through your stomach that you’ve made her uncomfortable after she’s just opened up to you. You curse yourself for taking her painful confession and making it about you.

Before you can apologise, Natasha leans over and presses a hot kiss to your lips.

~~~

You wish you knew earlier how the night would end. You’d kick yourself out just to take her place and experience it with her again. You watch the pair of you disappear behind the curve of the mountain, Natasha was right there and your heart calls out to her.

But you can’t stay. Years from now, Natasha is waiting to be saved and finally you have a way back to her. 

Yelena and Kate are waiting too.

You close your eyes, and with a deep breath, you tap the gadget on your wrist and let it take you back to your apartment in New York, present day.

[vanillablankcanvas]

Clovers

Short Clay and Viva story.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It had been six months.

Waiting and hiding.

Staying quiet and keeping a lookout for Bergens.

…And for other Trolls.

There had been no sign of either.

“King Peppy will come for us any day now.”

“Hang tight, we’ll be back together in no time.”

“Can't wait for all of us to sing together again.”

Although he hadn't yet spoken directly to the Princess, Clay was the first to see through the smile.

She was hiding her worries but kept up the act.

She was performing.

He knew what that was like… all too well.

He didn't fault the Princess for it but they needed to plan long term.

Noone was coming for them…

…Except winter.

Clay rubbed his rumbling stomach.

He had done the math.

There were thirty seven Trolls here. 

The sunflower seeds were running low and the clovers wouldn't survive the cold without proper storage.

They would run out of food in three months, in the middle of winter, if they didn’t act fast.

He had plans ready to go. 

He'd already put a few in motion.

But he was only one Troll.

He needed help.

Unfortunately, no one would listen to him.

So full of hope, they believed in what the Princess was telling them, that help was coming for them soon.

As much as Clay wanted to join in and believe they would be found…

They couldn't wait for a rescue anymore.

I need to talk directly to the Princess.

Everyone in the course knew that at nighttime, they could find the Princess on top of the giant rundown clown.

Not only as a look out, but every night she crossed all her fingers and waited for a shooting star.

That’s where Clay found her, with her arms wrapped around her knees.

“Princess? May I speak with you?”

No response.

Clay pulled out an old bubblegum wrapper that he had written notes on.

“I just wanted to let you know that at the current rate of consumption I estimate we will be out of…”

The Princess suddenly jumped up excitedly.

“Look, look, look, was that it?!” she yelled

“What? What? A Bergen?”

*distant scream*

“A shooting star! I think I saw one!”

Clay looked to the sky and sighed.

“I didn't see it.”

“Hmm maybe not! Oh well! We'll just have to keep looking out for one!”

“Princess… Maybe while we're waiting I think the food supply needs your immediate attention?”

“What if it already came and I missed it? Or was it behind me? In that part of the sky?” She pointed.

“Princess?”

“Maybe I could find a mirror or something? Some broken glass?”

“...Princess?” Clay rubbed his rumbling stomach again as he got more frustrated.

“Oh! I could even use it to signal a rescue party or something! Wouldn't that be perfect?”

Perfect

Perfect

Perfect

Something inside Clay snapped.

“Princess! WE ARE GOING TO STARVE!”

The Princess finally looked at him.

“Wishing on a shooting star?! Are you serious?”

“I… I don't”

“The sunflower seeds are almost gone and the clovers won't last in the cold!

“I…”

“You're supposed to be our leader! This is what happens when we listen to you.”

Clay stopped as he heard his own words.

Viva tried but couldn't hide the tears.

The shock on her face was almost heartbreaking.

“I...I’m sorry. I'm not ready. I wasn’t supposed to be in charge yet. I just thought if I stayed out of the way, you'd all be better off without me…You…you don't think we'll be found?”

Oh what have I done?

“Princess. It doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is… either way, we have to stay alive.”

Viva’s eyes dropped and she nodded in agreement.

Clay led her to what he had been working on. 

He babbled on about the germination period and the proper storage.

At first all she saw was the broken castle obstacle for the course.

Once inside Clay noticed that Viva was no longer following him.

Viva was astonished at what he had created.

She noticed immediately that it was warmer inside.

Clay had used old food packaging to cover up the holes in the walls but it still allowed the natural light inside.

The ground had been cleaned out and replaced with soil.

And from the soil she could see hundreds of small sprouts beginning to grow.

Each sprout had a clear plastic cup covering it, acting as small greenhouses.

“Baby sunflowers?!”

“Yeah. I guess you could call them that.”

“How?! How did you do this?”

“I dunno…read a lotta books “ he blushed.

“Where did you find extra sunflower seeds to plant?”

He turned away from her.

“I didn't” he said bluntly.

“Then where did you-?”

Clay's stomach rumbled louder than ever when she asked.

It was then that she noticed exactly how skinny he was. 

His face wasn’t as round as a Troll’s face usually was and his arms and legs were far too skinny.

“You've… been planting your food?”

“It had to be done.”

“But.. you didn’t have to-”

“Don’t…Princess, it’s fine. What’s done is done and I would do it again. The next part of my plan however, I can't do by myself, which is where I need your help.”

Viva looked up to Clay with determination.

“What can I do?”

Over the next few weeks Viva instructed the Trolls to listen to Clay's directions. 

He split them into different teams to handle specific jobs.

They had a team for watering, pest control, measuring, harvesting, storing, cooking, drying and even labelling.

With some help Clay was even able to lead a team to patch up some of the other obstacles so other Trolls could stay warm inside.

They even found some old souvenir socks to use for warm clothing and blankets

By Clay's estimation, they would survive the winter.

“Thanks by the way.”

“For what?”

“For bringing me back to reality. Life isn't all cupcakes and rainbows and I shouldn't have been depending on silly wishes and luck. 

“Princess Viva, I-?”

“-Please just call me Viva. I don't feel much like a princess anymore.”

“I got a little something for you. I've been feeling kinda bad about how I acted when I was hangry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that and I'm sorry, so…you know...here”

He handed her his bubblegum wrapper.

“Thank you Clay.”

“No no… inside the wrapper.”

She gently unfolded it and inside…

Was a four leaf clover.

“I don't believe in making wishes and luck and stuff..but you do. And if it's important to you then imma respect it.”

“Wow! This is so amazing and fantastic at the same time! It's amastic!”

“Is that a real word?”

“It is now!”

Clay chuckled.

Viva suddenly narrowed her eyes at him.

“Clay?”

“...Yes?”

“I’ve been wanting to ask you… are you THE Clay... From Broz-?”

“Shhshsh!!! They'll hear you!”

“Huh? Who?” she gasped.

“My fangirls” he whispered.

And for the first time in months, the Princess gave Clay a genuine smile before bursting into laughter.

[tidalfoam]

what do we think??? its just an idea i threw together idk??? i'd probably put it on a black sweater, do the standard COTL color palette of reds/golds/black & white/etc. i have some lovely red and cold seed beads and some metallic gold thread i think would be lots of fuuuuun. I could see if i have any silver in my massive thread storage lol.

[joelovebl-blog]

Maz's Metamorphosis

The fire station’s washroom was filled with a damp yet clean smell. Av brushed water from his hair, droplets still clinging to his bare chest after a quick shower. Days of non-stop duty had made his body tense; this shower was a rare chance to breathe.

He was used to washing his uniform and drying it at the station. Spare clothes were always kept in his locker. But today, the lock wouldn’t open—the code seemed broken. It was late. He rummaged through other storage, hoping to find a spare pair of shorts—then noticed a rolled-up pair of underwear at the bottom of a plastic basket.

It was clearly someone’s personal item, not standard issue. The style was outdated, the fabric thick and damp, with crusty patches of dried sweat. Almost stiff. As his nose got closer, a pungent stench of sweat and skin oils slammed into his mind.

“Whose... why hasn’t this been thrown out...?”

Av frowned, but time was tight. He glanced around—no one in sight—then gritted his teeth and slipped the underwear on.

In that moment, he felt something latch onto his skin. Like a sticky palm clutching his groin and upper thighs.

He shuddered.

The fabric rubbed against his thighs—hot, coarse, itchy. He thought he heard a faint panting sound... or maybe it was just his imagination. It was short and low, like a broken pipe releasing a breath.

“...Something’s wrong.”

He muttered, but didn’t move. His fingers brushed along his waist—his skin was radiating heat. Not post-shower warmth, but something burning from the inside.

He looked down at his abdomen.

His skin tone... seemed darker.

Subtly. Like a mild sunburn. But he knew he had only worked night shifts these past weeks. It was a seeping change, as though thick pigment were leaking from his pores, slowly painting over his original tan with a dense brown.

Sweat began to bead again. He had just showered, yet now his back, chest, even inner thighs glistened with oily moisture.

He touched his chest.

Sticky. Warm. The skin felt thicker.

He noticed his knuckles swelling, bones intact, but flesh puffing up. A faint shine oozed between his fingers.

He exhaled—deep, unexpectedly low. Not hoarse from a sore throat, but a "more masculine" resonance, almost feral.

“Ha... what the hell...?”

He blurted out, and startled himself. His voice ended with a crude nasal tone, like some middle-aged man always cursing when he talks.

He didn’t remember ever speaking like that.

What was worse—when he heard that voice, his groin flinched. Not from cold, but a strange mix of shame and... arousal.

It was like the voice wasn’t his—but so familiar.

Like... he’d heard it many times before.

Like some memory he didn’t want to acknowledge slipping quietly into his mind, planting the first seed of corruption.

He stood, intending to rush back to the dorm and strip off the damned underwear. But with his first step, the fabric pulled painfully between his legs. He looked down—the old underwear seemed to have shrunk, gripping his thighs and groin tightly.

No—it hadn’t shrunk.

He had grown.

Av braced against the wall, heart pounding. He could feel his inner thighs swelling slowly—like water bags filling up, heavy and thick. His once-flat, firm waistline began to bulge with dense layers of flesh. Not soft fat, but firm, glossy, suffocating mass.

Sweat slid down his expanding belly, thickening between his navel and groin. He touched it—his skin burned unusually hot, pores gaping, reeking of sweat and sebum.

A familiar stink.

He covered his nose suddenly—that smell... it was the same sharp, masculine, hormone-heavy “Maz scent” from the underwear earlier.

“How... is this coming from me...?”

He muttered, but his voice no longer carried its usual clarity. His throat sounded smoked, rough, sticky. Even he could hear the weird tone—drawn out, low-class, greasy.

“Ha... fuck... what the hell is this...”

He tried to curse, but the words came out too naturally.

He never spoke like that—yet it was like he had a thousand times.

His eyes widened. He realized—his tone, his rhythm, his curses... exactly like how Maz had spoken in that old GV clip.

He remembered that video—his friends had joked about it behind closed doors. He never admitted he had seen it, but he remembered every scene: the coarse voice, sticky panting, glistening flesh in motion.

Now those images weren’t external—they felt implanted. Even his skin seemed to remember.

He turned to the mirror.

His pecs, once firm but modest, were now two glistening, overblown mounds straining his upper skin. He reached to touch them—they felt like a matured blend of fat and muscle.

“Fuck... are these my tits?”

He whispered, but his voice held a strange excitement. The heat and shame tangled in his breath. He bit his lip unconsciously.

He felt a voice inside laughing—not someone else’s, but his own voice in Maz’s tone—mocking his downfall, his helpless descent into this vulgar, lewd body.

“Touch ’em again... feel how fucking fat they’ve gotten... haah...”

He stumbled back, horrified.

“No... that’s not me... I wouldn’t...”

But he froze, looked down at his belly. His hands rested on a gut that felt too familiar, heavy, slick with sweat and stink.

He sniffed his fingers.

“...Fuck, it really stinks...”

He frowned—but didn’t pull away. Instead, blankly, slowly—he sniffed again.

Then closed his eyes. A mix of revulsion, shame... and strange, deep-seated belonging passed across his face.

His sharp, proud features were dulling—brow thickening, nose widening, lips puffing up, shadowed with stubble. That wasn’t him—it was Maz’s face.

He touched his cheek—felt coarse pores, slick sweat on his fingertips. His eyes in the mirror shimmered with confusion and fear.

“This isn’t me... I’m Av... I... I’m—”

The words caught. He was always composed. But now, he couldn’t finish a sentence. His throat felt gripped by something rough, his voice gravelly and heavy.

“...Fuck, shit... damn... this... haah, why... does this feel... good...?”

The voice wasn’t his. He never spoke like that.

But the words flowed effortlessly, like he’d rehearsed them a thousand times.

He covered his mouth, his face red with shame. Sweat mixed with grease ran down his brow, and his palms were soaked in heat and stink—that scent, unmistakable now. The scent from that underwear. Maz’s scent.

“Why do I... know Maz’s scent...?”

The thought hit like lightning. He shouldn’t know. It was a stranger’s underwear. But now, more images surfaced—beds, shoots, mirrors, self-touching, men's panting, wet breath, greasy laughter.

Not his memories. But horrifyingly vivid.

One clip—Maz on a sofa, filming himself smugly, fondling his own fat chest—wasn’t from a video.

It was something “I” did.

“I...?”

He spoke—and froze. The voice was rough, raspy like a smoker, tinged with Maz’s oily drawl.

“Fuckin’ hell... what’s up with this voice...”

And yet he couldn’t resist saying one more thing:

“Shit... this voice... fuck, it’s so hot... haah...”

His mouth moved on its own.

The words weren’t his thoughts—they were desires rising from his throat. Maz’s voice in his brain said:

“You’ve always wanted to talk like this, haven’t you?”

He stood, staggering from the washroom. But every step felt heavier—his legs no longer lean, now thick, broad, sticky.

“No... I’m not him... I’m not Maz...”

He repeated, weakening. Because the voice inside whispered:

“You were never the good guy. The real you... is me—stinky, filthy, man-loving Maz.”

Av collapsed before a mirrored hallway wall, saw himself—fat pecs, bulging gut, dark skin, filthy tone, sweat-stained lips.

Breathing hard, he reached for his warped face.

“...Fuck... why do I... look so damn slutty...”

He didn’t deny it anymore. For the first time, in Maz’s tone, he cursed himself: “You filthy whore.”

Lying on the floor, his whole body burned red-hot, muscles squirmed under skin, bones clicked like they were rearranging.

He pushed himself up—his glistening chest bounced heavily, dense slabs of greasy meat weighing down his lungs.

“Haah... hah... fuck...”

His voice—no longer youthful. Like sandpaper, thick and sticky. Every word came with a guttural grunt.

“This body... how... did it get like this... fuck... it feels so good...”

His tone shifted. He wanted to say “how did this happen,” but his mouth added “feels good” instead.

Saying it made his legs tremble.

Shame roiled in his chest—he shook his head, but couldn’t stop the rising heat and thrill.

He felt like a rutting beast, drenched in sweat and stink. His skin seeped grease, the air thick with salty, sour, almost rotting male musk.

He knew—that was Maz’s scent.

Not from memory. From instinct. He knew this smell should spread from his armpits, chest, feet—onto sofas, sheets, and other men’s faces.

“I’m not... I’m Av...”

Still trying to resist. His eyes struggling.

But he looked at his hands.

Veins raised, knuckles thick, skin glossy with sweat, fingers stained with armpit stench.

His once-clean, slender hands now looked like a gruff middle-aged man’s. Thick, greasy, salty, dirt under the nails.

“Fuck... these hands... these fucking hands...”

He lifted them, trembling. Like touching a strange man for the first time—terrified, but addicted.

He couldn’t resist. He grabbed those fat pecs—hard.

“Haah... hah... fuck... this... this softness... feels... so fucking good... hahahah...”

Language broke.

He cracked from his shell—his mouth could no longer say old words.

Only filth. Only the vulgar, to describe what he was becoming. And saying it made him shudder in climax.

“Look at you, you filthy piece of shit... fuck... I’m gonna fuck myself stupid...”

Not thought out—those words grew from his body.

Etched into his tongue, waiting for the meat of Maz to finish forming—then they burst out naturally.

He stood up, naked, facing the mirror. The reflection was no longer Av.

A thick, brown face glistened with grease. Damp short hair clung to his brow. Lips puffed, shadowed with stubble.

He raised his arm—tufts of armpit hair swayed.

He licked his lips—sticky spit on his tongue. Staring at that perverted, sweaty man, he muttered:

“...Fuck... I look so damn sexy like this...”

Then he laughed. A crude, filthy, resigned laugh.

But deep inside, shame still flickered. He cursed himself in Maz’s voice: “Filthy man, whore, slut... still wanna be Av? You’re me now.”

He covered his face, collapsed, writhing between pain, thrill, and horror.

The skin of Maz had almost fully claimed him.

Av no longer sat like Av. He squatted before the mirror, legs spread, elbows on knees, biting a sweat-soaked towel—it reeked of his current scent: salty sweat, body odor, brown skin grease.

The pose—Maz’s.

He didn’t know why. He just squatted—and his body remembered. Posture, motion, habit—once the body was claimed, it performed them on its own.

He stared into the mirror, dazed. Drenched in musk and post-lust exhaustion. His fat chest still stood proud, wet and sticky.

“Fuck... haah... shit... I stink...”

The words weren’t what a clean-cut firefighter would say. His tone now carried laughter, nasal dips, throat rasp—just like Maz’s classic voice in recordings.

He remembered one line—

Maz, before a shoot, winked at the camera and said:

“I’m so fucking horny today I can’t even handle myself~”

Now, that line leapt from his throat—not from thought, but as if slipped out.

“I’m so fucking horny today I can’t even handle myself~ Hahahaha...”

He froze for three seconds.

Then he laughed—in Maz’s voice.

That laugh—hoarse, filthy, but relaxed. As if the last trace of “Av” had been wiped away in that laugh.

He pushed closer to the mirror. Heavy footsteps slapped wetly on the floor. His fat thighs rubbed, sweat and musk dripping from the gap.

He inhaled deeply—sniffing his armpit.

“Fuck... this smell... goddamn familiar... it’s Maz’s...”

His tone—now flawless. Every word, every breath, was Maz.

But he suddenly stopped, looked down at the mirror.

His heart jolted—deep in his eyes, a glimmer flickered. That wasn’t Maz.

It was himself.

“I... Av... I’m still here...”

He whispered, trying to call himself back. But when he tried again:

“I’m... Av...”

The words caught. His face twisted like he’d been choked, and he cursed:

“Fuck you, what’s with that sissy-ass name, fucking stinks, hahahaha—”

Laughter and curses shattered the last bit of dignity. Not acting. Not reflex.

It was linguistic self-correction.

His mouth, tongue, throat, and brain wouldn’t let him define himself as “Av.”

He slapped his thick thigh, grabbed his warped face, and shouted in Maz’s voice:

“I am—MAZ!!”

That shout—loud, filthy, a broken seal’s howl.

He collapsed, holding his greasy chest, panting. Sweat dripped from his chin. The transformation was complete—body, language, scent, posture, voice—all Maz.

He laughed.

Not Av’s laugh. But Maz’s laugh—aroused, self-loving, filthy, and proud.

Alone, laughing like he was making love to himself.

That night, he stayed in front of the mirror for a long, long time.

Until finally, he licked his stubbled lips, and whispered in a deep, raspy voice:

“I’m finally home.”