#and gravity leaps like a knife off the pavement

[coquelicoq]

it's not that i think paul simon was on drugs when he wrote his songs. i wouldn't be surprised either way. but i do think that i would suddenly understand all his lyrics if i did even one teeny tiny little psychedelic.

[massensterben]

@feiglng​ said:                ❝  …you love me?  ❞ +  [ STOPPING ]  for receiver to try and walk away,  afraid they’re going to get their heart broken but sender grabs their wrist and pulls them back in for a kiss. 

The tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Bertholdt can’t hear the concrete jungle outside, the way it crawls and grows and how they kill each other in the streets, for the pounding of his pulse in his ears. If only there were noise. If only he wasn’t broken upon the wheel of Floch’s silent, horrified stare. The shadow of his bruising casts his face in sharp angles, makes him look almost disdainful. The wide-eyed silence that meets Bertholdt’s clumsy confession is enough to rip his eardrums to shreds. He doesn’t need Floch looking at him like he’s insane. 

Is he, though? Have the last weeks not pulled them in that direction? How many nights did Floch show up with food in hand, rather than cocaine? How many nights did he stay to look after him, to make sure he ate? Nobody has ever bothered to stick around. He got a few scattered remarks, cautioning him against exhausting himself. It’s only Floch who cared enough to shoulder his way into the apartment and see to it himself. He really didn’t need to do that. If it’s just a good lay he was looking for, he could have gotten that with less investment. He didn’t need to make dinner, to watch TV with him, to stay after sex and nestle closer. Nobody can blame Bertholdt for the white-hot fear that struck him numb and dumb the day Floch disappeared. A goddamn month of uncertainty, of waking up and sleeping with his worry. 

But Floch stays silent. His lips are slightly parted, as if he just now remembered the blow he took to the face, as if it hurts all over again. Bertholdt swallows dryly. He stands next to his muttered words, dwarfed by the weight of them. They have their own gravity well, and he thinks the longer he stays, the more likely he is to get crushed by it. 

“I should— I’ll—” A jerk goes through his hand as he gestures helplessly towards the kitchen, pretending there is anything at all that would call his attention away from this building confrontation. He thinks if he has to last one more second under the scrutiny of Floch’s open-mouthed stare, the numb horror of it, he will spontaneously combust. He doesn’t get all that far, however, regardless of how hurriedly his steps try to carry him past the man in his living room. He manages to wedge past him, holding his breath like he’s stepping on cracks on the pavement. But that is all. Suddenly a warm hand wraps around his wrist, shackles him like an iron band. The yank on his arm turns him around again, momentum carrying him back until he feels familiar fingers carding through his hair. His head is pulled down almost forcefully until he bends over and into the kiss that follows. 

Bertholdt’s heart leaps into his throat when the warmth of Floch’s mouth presses against his. His chest constricts with a sting of relief so acute, it almost tips over into lust. But no, he holds very still. He lets himself be kissed. He can sigh when he’s done. Before he gathers his wits enough to take Floch by the waist and pull him closer, however, the shorter man breaks them off. 

“...You love me?”

Floch’s voice is so small and incredulous, Bertholdt almost wants to laugh. Maybe it would look unconventional to outsiders, even self-destructive. What kind of idiot falls in love with their drug dealer, after all? But he is not in love with his drug dealer. He’s in love with Floch. And here he is, kissing him again, gently this time, without bruising him further. He doesn’t want to hurt him. He wants to take care of him.

“That you have to ask.”

[chxrrysangel]

You’re My Friend

Summary || The highway scene in CATWS if Bucky’s mask didn’t fall off (Steve’s POV)

Warnings || violence, major character death, crying, vulgar language

You do not have permission to post my work anywhere else

Sam sits in the driver's seat, the trio on their way to Triskelion. They're running out of time.

"HYDRA doesn't like leaks," Sitwell says. He's not a very smart man, admittedly. A hostage shouldn't have such a smart mouth if they hope to survive the drive.

"So why don't you try sticking a cork in it." Sam is growing agitated; many lives hang in the balance as we speak.

Natasha pulls herself between Steve and Sam, arm sitting on the center armrest. "Insight's launching in sixteen hours, we're cutting it a little bit close here."

" I know. We'll use him to bypass the DNA scans and access the Helicarriers directly." Steve scans the freeway looking out for suspicious black Sudans signature government vehicles. You know, if they wanted to me more unsuspecting, maybe using vehicles that blended in with the general public would've been a smarter move. Steve knows what they need to do, and they have to do it fast. The government doesn't like bugs meddling in their garden.

" What?! Are you crazy? That is a terrible, terrible idea."

Jasper doesn't have to time to really finish his argument before a metal hands clasps around his neck, throwing his body into oncoming traffic on the other side. He dies instantly, which is to be expected. It's ironic how vermin like him end up being roadkill.

The Winter Soldier begins to shoot strategically into the top of car, careful to produce as many deaths and waste as little bullets as possible. Luckily no one is hit, but they must act quickly if they're to walk away with their lives. Steve pulls the break handle, sending the assassin hurdling towards the pavement in front of them. He turns his body, titanium fingers scraping against the concrete like metal being cut with an electric saw. He returns to his feet instantaneously, the four entering a standoff as cars whisk past them in a hurry. Steve, Natasha, and Sam begin to understand the gravity of their situation, the neurons in their head running like Usain Bolt of an Olympic track. They don't have time to think however, before another vehicle crashes into them from behind. The mystery machine continues head on, sending them into the direction of immediate danger.

The Winter Soldiers leaps over the hood of the moving car, grabbing onto the front frame. Glass shatters everywhere as his steel-toed boots make contact with the rear window. Time is moving quickly, too quickly for them to catch up. Their lives hang onto the edge, supported only by the weight of the Natasha's ability to make contact with the gun swimming at Steve's feet. Unexpectedly, the assassin pulls the steering wheel from Sam's grasp, causing the car to barrel down the highway with unsurmountable chaos. Now, they're seriously in some deep shit.

"Shit!," Sam screams.

As Natasha begins to shoot back into the top of the car, Steve brags his shield and everyone in the car into his arms.

"Hang on!"

Steve breaks open the door and the three glide across the highway as the car tumbles, rolls and crashes into several others. HYDRA and the Winter Soldier are merciless. They're unconcerned about loss of life, as long as their targets are among the body count. The Winter Solider fires a grenade in the Captain's direction, sending Steve and his shield over the edge of the bridge. He flies into an oncoming bus, causing a multi-car collision in the Washington D.C streets.

The Winter Soldier stalks to the edge of the bridge, expecting to see Natasha walk across the pavement and shoot her down. However, Nat isn't easily tricked. She catches sights on the assassin's shadow from under the bridge and shoots him in the eye as her shadow meets the sunlight. Ducking down in case she starts to fire, rage begins to pool in his stomach and swim through his veins. Targets are usually not this difficult to kill. He needs to be more aggressive.

Она у меня. Найди его. (She's mine. Find him)

The Winter Soldier leaps over the edge of the bridge, landing on a car below and destroying the front windshield in the process. Mind determined and kill-mode in operation, the Winter Soldier is done playing the children's game. They die, today. Guns blazing and fear pumping through her veins, Natasha must act fast. She places a recording behind a car and makes a run for it, hoping to catch this psychopath by surprise. In the distance, Steve takes notice of the Winter Soldier going after his partner and looks towards Sam for guidance.

"Go, I got this!". Sam is trustworthy and skilled enough, Steve thinks to himself. He'll survive just fine.

Hearing her panicked voice just on the other side of the vehicle, the Winter Soldier rolls a bomb under the engine. However, Natasha having the upper hand, catches him off guard and leaps onto his shoulders. She makes a brave attempt to choke him out, only to be hurled over his body and into a car across the street. Natasha throws a one of her taser discs towards the man, disabling his titanium arm and giving herself a short window of time to escape. He's never experienced that before, previously believing this arm to be indestructible. But a tiny disk makes him useless, how does that happen?

Nat runs in the direction of a crowd of people, urging them to run with their lives. She might be a highly trained assassin, but she doesn't believe in collateral damage. People shouldn't have to die if they don't need to. In the process of her trying to save civilians, the Winter Soldier shoot her in the shoulder, sending her diving towards the pavement. Steve jumps in an attacks the man. The two engage in gun to shield combat, desperate to take the other down. The Winter Soldier is on his last leg, knowing he's running out of bullets quickly. Twirling knives, flying shields, shoulders twisting the limit of near dislocation, the two are a sight to see in the distance. The assassin lunges towards the Captain, before being flipped over and creating a several foot distance between the two. They begin to enter a standoff. Who will take the first step, they think to themselves. Just as they prepare to continue, Sam comes to rescue, kicking the assassin towards the ground several feet away. On his feet in an instant, the two men make eye contact, daring each other to try and kill the other. In this same moment, an injured Natasha sends a grenade in his direction. The strange man vanishes in the smoke of the explosion.

Sirens sounds among them, letting the trio know they've been caught by HYDRA. Rumlow, of course, is present to watch their defeat ensue.

"Drop the shield, Cap! On your knees! Get on your knees! Now! Get down! Get down!" Hands up and knees on the ground, the three feel suffocated, confused, and exhausted by the day's events.

"Put the gun down. Not here. Not here!" Rollins and Rumlow make a silent agreement from their positions across the street.

Rollins lowers his gun and HYDRA agents take Steve, Sam, and Natasha into custody.

~~~~~~

[Inside the Helicarrier, Steve is confronted by the Winter Soldier.]

"People are gonna die, man. I can't let that happen. Please, don't make me do this." Steve might have a mission, but he sits firm in his beliefs. He would rather people be unconscious than dead. He doesn't believe that people should die unnecessarily. However if push comes to shove, what will be will be. Steve realises that the man won't give up until his heart stops beating. He throws his shield at the man and revisits his attempt to put the Targeting Chip in the system. He doesn't make it far however, before the assassin attacks him again. The chip falls from Steve's hand onto the level below them. A hand-to- hand combat commences as the two men battle for the fate of Project Insight. If Steve doesn't get that chip into the system in the next two seconds, hundreds of thousands of people die. And it'll be all his fault.

At some point during this battle, the Winter Soldier catches Steve by surprise and dives a blade directly into his shoulder. He drops the chip and the assassin captures it between his fingers like stolen treasure. Steve, painfully but successfully, manages to retrieve the knife from between his shoulder blade. Knowing time is not of his side, the Captain manages to grab the Winter Soldier by the throat and put him in a headlock

"Drop it! Drop it!" Steve needs this to work, it has to. Unsurprisingly, the stranger refuses causing Steve to break his arm in desperation. He holds the man's throat desperately and tightly until he falls unconscious, providing Steve with the perfect opportunity to complete his mission.

"Firing in, three, two, one."

At that moment, Steve manages to get to the upper level and place the chip in the Helicarrier's targeting blade, overriding the system and locking it down. Project Insight has failed.

"Okay, Cap, get out of there." Maria calls to Steve via their communication system. She then proceeds to change the Helicarrier targets to each other, meaning the whole thing will go down with Steve inside if he doesn't escape.

"Fire now."

"But, Steve..."

"Do it! Do it now!" Steve knows he doesn't have the strength to escape the Helicarrier in time. He's too wounded and if he escapes, he knows the assassin is just as capable. He completed his mission, he's done what he set out to do. Steve looks over to the edge of the carrier, seeing the assassin stuck under a large piece of rubble. As much as he realizes it's a terrible idea, Steve does the right thing and goes to save him from such a body-crushing death.

"I'm not trying to kill you. I don't need to, but I will if I have to." Steve's heart aches for this guy a little bit. He's clearly under some level of brainwashing. He doesn't speak and has a one-track mind, almost as if he was made just to kill people. Steve's mind might be a little outdated, but he can tell when people's actions aren't of their own free will.

The Winter Soldier seems only enraged by Rogers's unwillingness to fight back. He's trying to kill him, why would you not fight back?

Steve makes a last attempt to reason with the man above him. However his efforts goes unnoticed as his fist collides continuously with his face. Steve is sure that he's broken something. But he doesn't care, he needs to get out of here. With all the strength he can muster, Steve pushes the man over to his right, a few feet away. He rolls over onto a lone piece of metal still attached to the Helicarrier base. The Winter Soldier makes an attempt to continue his mission to kill Captain America. But before he gets the chance, the Helicarrier bases beneath his body gives way, sending him into the river below.

Standing on the edge of the Helicarrier, watching the body of his attempted killer fall through the sky like a flightless bird, dread starts to pool in his stomach. That could just be the blood gushing through his diaphragm, making every breath feel like dying over and over again. He struggles to stay conscious, awaiting his imminent death like a masochist. Although he could just jump in the water right now and take a chance, he doesn't see himself making it to shore. However, staring at the dead weight falling before him, he begins to second-guess his choices.

What the hell am I doing? Steve doesn't normally feel like this seeing bad guys go down. But... something about this one man continues to pull at his heart strings. Something's not right here, he thought to himself. Steve clips his shield to his back and prepares to make the dumbest decision of his life.

Here goes nothing.

~~~~

Carrying another person's body while being critically injured is not an easy task Steve comes to learn. The beat he took today is none like one he's ever received thus far. Every brush of his arms makes him feel closer to an eventual collapse. He could just stop right here, but it's just his life that hangs in the balance if he gives up. He has to do this, for the both of them. Seeing shore in close proximity, Steve pushes his body into overdrive, overjoyed by the sight of land. He pushes the man onto his stomach in hopes that the water will find its way out of his lungs and onto the sand. The mission today was to create as few deaths as possible, and Steve won't let someone else die at his hands( at least not before they find out why he was after them in the first place). Ask questions first, take action later.

Steve lays on his back for what feels like an eternity, fighting off sleep and trying to gather his bearings. He can't die, at least not before making sure Nat and Sam are safe. There's too much hanging in the balance at this moment. After gaining some level of strength, Steve begins to crawl over to the unconscious man a few feet away. His organs feel like they might just drop onto the sand with every syllable he utters. Steve doesn't think he's ever been in this much pain before. This guy has to be a super soldier, he thinks to himself. How else could he be so strong?

"Man," he chuckles to himself while turning over the body, "you are unbelievably heavy. What do you weigh? A ton or someth--"

The rest of Steve's sentence dies in his throat at his eye's meet the mystery man's face. It can't be. No, that's not possible. He...he died...

"Bucky?" Steve can barely make a coherent thought, his brain is scattered like the Helicarrier debris in the ocean behind him.

"This isn't possible," Steve stands up abruptly, pacing back and forth across the lone beach.

I saw him die. I saw it. The rail snapped and he fell into the Danube River during the Zola mission. I saw it. Steve turns around the look at the face again. That's Buck, he knows it. Those crystal blue eyes are unrecognizable. Girls back in the day used to say that Bucky's eyes reminded them of the sky at daybreak, a blue that you'd give your life to drown in if he only let you. He could recognize his best friend's face in a crowd of millions, his features permanently stitched into the fabric of his mind. It's at this moment that their current situation begins to process. He has to save him. He can't die.

Steve runs to Bucky's body and begins to attempt to resuscitate him. He doesn't care if he collapses in the process. The most important person in his life is laying in front of him. If he dies, Steve might as well be dead too. He spent 70 years locked in ice and several years roaming this Earth believing his best friend died in that icy river. He can't give up now. Steve begins to pump Bucky's chest rapidly, so much so that he might break his chest cavity. He knows that he should be more careful, but he's desperate.

"Bucky, please!"

*pump*

"Buck! You can't die yet!"

*pump*

"James!" Tears begin to roll down Steve's cheeks and his throat becomes dry as he screams out for his best friend.

"James Buchanan Barnes, wake the fuck up! I need you!" He doesn't know what he'll do if this doesn't work. He can't even think of a world in which it doesn't, that's too heartbreaking. Steve would walk through fire, beds of glass shards and nails, just to talk to his best friend again. In an unfamiliar lonely world, he needed Bucky. And now he has him, but he might not get to keep him. Bucky was his lifeline when they were kids, the only person who saw him as an equal and didn't tease or belittle him for small stature. He made him feel seen. What Steve wouldn't give right now just to be perceived by him again.

*pump*

"James, Bucky, please. I need you..." Steve's voice is barely above a whisper at this point. His head feels like it weighs a thousand tons yet as light as a swaying feather in a cool summer breeze. The blood loss is getting to him. The tears floating down his cheeks begin to increase in speed, like a damn finally breaking open.

After several minutes of pumping and blowing air into his body, Steve's hands begin to slow down as reality starts to set in. There's no coming back from this. He spent years believing he died, drowning in that near frozen river. It's almost ironic come to think of it. Steve thought Bucky died by drowning, only for him to actually die several decades letter by Steve's hands--also by drowning.

"I killed my best friend.." Steve whispers into the atmosphere, like he doesn't want anyone to hear him say it. There's not a single person for miles, no one would hear him anyways.

Steve's throat begins to tighten, choking him as he breaks down. He begins to hyperventilate, desperate to take in any air that's willing to enter his lungs. But the panic and grief he's experiencing make it nearly impossible. He feels like his heart is going to give out, beating so rapidly that it might just jump from his chest cavity. "I did it. I killed my best friend."

Steve takes another look to the right of him, sobbing harder as his eyes confirm what he already knew. If Steve the pain he was experiencing earlier was bad, it's a needle prick compared to this agony. The world has stopping spinning, the earth's orbital path taking occupation in his head as thoughts and memories begin to make room for themselves at the forefront of his mind. Every shared sandwich, every homework answer, every laugh, every beating in an alleyway where Bucky came to save him, every night out dancing, has led to this one moment. It's over, it's all over. This is the end of the line.

[therealdeville]

A Little Light Stalking || Solo

The Hunt Begins.

It had been a little while since Montgomery had returned to White Crest. The sun had returned, thankfully. But they were displeased to have spotted a number of mimes dotted about the place. Mimes that all appeared to be exact copies of the people they were following. 

You didn’t have to be a genius to spot it, Montgomery was shocked that more people in this town didn’t die from being unobservant. The mimes were everywhere, lurking around corners, peering from behind the corner of curtains. Stalking their apparently entirely unaware prey. 

Montgomery could empathise with them, silently following whatever moved. In some ways, he was able to appreciate their silence. If you could forget about the silly miming business, the costume and of course the insufferable makeup. But if you could just focus on the silence, that was in many ways a tell tale trait of an experienced hunter. 

Montgomery had seen it a thousand times in the wild. 

A leopard silently hangs from a tree branch, waiting for it’s prey to step beneath the bough of the tree that it hides itself in, without warning and without sound it leaps from it’s perch and pounces. 

A tiger stalks through the long grass of a rainforest, snaring it’s catch into a trap without so much of a rustle. 

A swarm of piranhas devours an entire herd of cattle as they foolishly are forced to ford a stream that was more dangerous then anticipated. Yet there is barely a noise above the torrent of the river.

Today’s prey however would not be ended, not just yet. 

After all, she was more of a side project whilst Montgomery focussed on the assignment that August had provided them. Montgomery wasn’t too proud to admit how repugnant they found the man, he called himself August but Montgomery found him to be a tedious and contrite thing. The type of man who had spent too long in other’s shadow and less time trying to find a way out. Looking for a quick fix, unwilling to do things in the right way.

Kids these days.

Yet the thing that irked Montgomery the most about the somewhat pathetic welp of a creature that referred to themselves as August Thomspon, was that if you wanted something dead and you had literal magic at your fingertips, well let’s just say that Montgomery could never understand why August Thompson didn’t just do his own dirty work. 

Montgomery always did all their own work. It was just the way they were raised.

That’s what they were doing right now. The work. Not for August of course, though they had to pause by the agreed dead drop to collect new information shortly. But for now they had a moment to gather information of their own, for a side project. 

Montgomery took a breath, sat in the cold of the morning with a pungent cigar and a small espresso. Smoke and their breath fogged in front of them in the cold but bright morning light. They were aware that there was prey that worked like clockwork. This sort of prey had routine at the center of their lives. The prey had things that made them tick. Internal obligations to meet. The prey had commitments to themselves. The prey would follow an established pattern. Go to the same places at the same time. It was just a matter of establishing the prey’s routine. 

This girl, with her mousey brown hair, her diminutive figure and her hearing aids was not one of those people. 

Sometimes, Montgomery would be able to catch sight of her far quicker then they’d expected. They would wait for her to leave her classes at the school, they watched her making her way through the town a few times a week, trying to confirm their suspicions and lay their plans.

Other days however she would stay in her house, never leaving. She had friends, she seemed to get out and about, but Montgomery wasn’t exactly committing all their time to 

following her, just enough to learn about her habits, her routines, what made her tick. 

She worked at the school. On the brighter days Montgomery always felt slightly better about the progress that their slow, little, silent hunt was making. This was because on those bright and sunny days Montgomery was vindicated with knowledge. What knowledge you might ask? Well it was simple, the way that this girl’s shadow never fell was wrong. It never seemed to quite form to her silhouette. It always looked far squatter, more rotund and more like a seal then Montgomery could understand. Sometimes Montgomery would even swear that there were shadows of little whiskers jutting out from the shadow seal’s cheeks. 

He had said people were unobservant. After all, no one else seemed to notice it, no one else seemed to see the things that Montgomery did. It was like they choose to keep their eyes closed to the wonders of this magical world.

Montgomery had spotted their prey in White Crest’s butcher shop. The greasy man behind the counter was serving her. He stood there, short, squat and ugly. She stood there, waiting patiently with a canvas bag in her hands. He focussed on his work, barely paying Montgomery any attention as they stepped through the door of the shop with a little ring of the bell above the door. The butcher’s knives making quick work of what looked to be a particularly juicy hunk of meat. The memory alone of the tender cut was enough for Montgomery’s mouth to water.

But it hadn’t been the single cut of meat that had taken Montgomery’s attention, it was the fact that it was carefully wrapped in greaseproof paper before being tucked into a brown paper bag and along with three other brown paper bags full of what looked like various cuts of meat it was handed across to the girl. 

In turn she had carefully packed her own bag that she bought with her, pulling out a handful of notes and handing them over.

She had been polite enough, thanking the butcher for his help. Montgomery couldn’t help but wonder why she looked a little morose that day. It struck them as odd that anyone could feel so apparently blue on a day like today, after all, it was bright, the sun was shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. What reason was there to feel down?

Then she had gone to leave, opening the door with a slight ring of the bell that hung there to alert the staff of a new customer’s entrance to their premise. It was a sound that Montgomery wouldn’t hear again until they departed. 

They made their order, selecting several cuts and joints and even a whole chicken to be roasted for Sunday and with their own meat they headed for the car. 

It was as they reached for the handle that they felt it. It was slimy. A thick coating of a viscous, almost mucus like substance layered the door handle and as Montgomery pulled their hand away with curiosity a thin bead of it extended with their fingers for a moment before the slime lost it’s surface tension and collapsed beneath the increasing weight of gravity. 

Interesting. 

Montgomery had been keeping tabs on her ever since, it had taken them less then a week to establish the obvious. A selkie. Apparently one that wasn’t as careful as others, but her pelt would still fetch a pretty penny on the black market. Besides, Montgomery was always looking for new prey. 

They watched her cross the street and disappear around the corner, no matter. Montgomery wasn’t going to do anything today. She had time left. Montgomery didn’t. Finishing the last of their espresso with a grunt, they left the cup with a small stack of notes and strode off into the morning. August would’ve had time to leave his instructions in his pathetic little dead drop. A waste of Montgomery’s time if you asked him, they could’ve just spoken on the phone. 

Dragging on their cigar, Montgomery let out a cloud of thick smoke as they trudged through the morning air. It was already warmer then it had been an hour ago, the effect of spring turning to summer clear on the temperature. But frost still clung to the shadows, white against the dark pavement in the last few places that the sun had yet to touch. 

It didn’t take them long to get to Wilke’s park. It took them less time to find the contrived piece of wire that was tied around the third railing post of the small stream that ran through the center of the park. It took even less time to hoist the wire up and pull a small package wrapped tightly in plastic from the water. 

Glancing around them, Montgomery double checked that no had noticed him. But the park was deserted. Apparently everyone had better places to be and even if the money that this fool was offering him had not been exorbitant, Montgomery was pleased that they didn’t have to spend anymore time with the fool. 

Returning quickly to their car, they pulled a knife from their belt, slitting through the plastic they pulled out a folder that was tightly bound around a bundle of files. Some photos showing a pretty woman, then documents detailing his target. A witch. It had been a few years since Montgomery had hunted something so human, but every hunt was it’s own. A member of a coven, that made the job riskier. Montgomery would have to raise his prices. Their prey had sisters, friends, family, she seemed happy and Montgomery wondered what she had done to upset August Thompson. 

It didn’t matter, either way, Penelope Vural had been added to Montgomery’s list of prey and one way or another she would meet the fate that August was paying them for, as long as the money was good. This fool wasn’t worth too much effort over. Money was only money.

[baepsaetan]

Drop the Bar (Yoongi)

Summary: Yoongi might not be a model citizen, but he’s more than capable of tracking down a serial killer. You might be new to the world of vampires, but you’re more than capable of getting in his way.

And helping. Maybe.

Chapters: pt.1, pt.2

Genre: Angst, action, murder mystery, Vampire! AU –> Part of the Vampire Bar! AU

Warnings: Swearing, violence, mature themes including death and depression, smut-to-be

Length: 6.7k words

A/N: This second chapter is a little light to help ease into the story. Had a ton of fun writing, hope you guys enjoy!

Chapter Two

“You’re fucking kidding me.” The flat statement bounced off the dirty brick walls looming up on either side of him before falling limply to the stained and litter-strewn floor of the alley. No one answered. In the warren of dilapidated buildings and convoluted streets that made up this section of town, you could wander around for a long time without catching sight of someone. If you were lucky.

Which Yoongi clearly wasn’t. The object of his disgust crouched against the back of a restaurant that might have passed a routine health inspection if the inspector was blind. Somehow he couldn’t be surprised that the strange trail he’d followed for the last hour, winding around the city, occasionally lost but always picked up again, had led to a dumpster. Wasn’t that always where the incriminating evidence was chucked? Besides, it made sense he was going to have to dig through trash to figure this shit out – the universe wouldn’t have it any other way.

The thought almost made him sick. Sure, Yoongi had on occasion been covered in worse than mere garbage, but the smell coming from the dumpster made those instances pale memories to the present. The restaurant obviously dumped their leftovers into the metal container, and from where he stood, the rank stench of rotting food was only a few notches too weak to make him gag. He suspected this wasn’t a place that saw dump trucks every day – or maybe even every week - which meant there was a decent chance whatever the murderer had thrown out might still be there. It also meant the trash had disintegrated into a nauseatingly putrid mess that was going to be hell to sort through.  

Fuck. The things he’d do for Namjoon.

That had included skulking around the scene of a murder not an hour ago, stepping over the police tape that blocked the alley in a laughable attempt to keep people out. He’d ignored the skeptical glance of the officer guarding the scene, leaving it to Irene to explain his presence when she pulled up in her cruiser a few seconds later. His hood had fallen off while he was running, which had meant that his face felt raw and tender and his hair was a mess when he’d begun to investigate the dark brown splotch on the pavement off to the side of the alley. Whatever. A run in the sun had been better than a torturous five minutes in the cruiser with the officer. Irene had seemed nice enough when she offered to give him a ride, but he wasn't going to take any chances.

He hadn’t found much… except the strangest scent he’d ever had the displeasure of getting a whiff of. It had been that clue that had lead him to tell Irene to head home, declining her second offer of a ride to wherever he was going. He'd given an ironic salute to the officer on duty as he departed, putting his back to the man and resolving to actually do what Namjoon was paying him for.

That scent was what he’d been trailing for the last hour. Not the dead woman’s – definitely not. It was too sterile, too cold for that. And yet, somehow, an undercurrent, a suggestion of her presence, had haunted him as he’d followed twists and turns in the streets, heedlessly blurring across roads and gone before drivers could realize they’d almost hit something. It had been maddening, that strange mixture of life and death, and by the time he’d reached this particular alleyway, the vampire could almost be glad to have found an end to the chase, even if it meant jumping into a dumpster.

Almost.

Mouth set, not breathing at all, Yoongi took off his hoodie and carefully set it on the cleanest spot he could see on the ground before hoisting himself up onto the side of the rusting container. Even without inhaling, the stench seeped into his nose, and as promised he gagged. Looking at the collection of plastic and cardboard and food was enough to make him regret eating anything, ever, and if he’d had to breathe at any point in time he definitely would have thrown up the steak Jin had made him a day or so ago. Worse – infinitely, horribly worse – a quick skim across the uneven layers at the top brought no unusual sights.

It didn’t help that he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Something that screamed “I’m evidence,” was probably asking for a lot, but surely it was something that would stand out? Why else bother to go all this way to toss it? Some blood-stained clothes or item that gave a hint about who the murderer was – it had to be something like that. Something had to be responsible for that weird, unnerving scent.

And if it existed at all, it was buried under a mountain of ripped garbage bags and half-eaten pizzas.

His lack of deliberation wasn’t reckless, or because he’d already decided to give his all in this bullshit search. It was just that Yoongi was pretty sure if he didn’t do it now he never would, and the thought of going to the bar, of looking at Hoseok and Jin and Namjoon and admitting he’d fucked up and chickened out… it didn’t sit well, to put it lightly. Who knew when the next truck would come along and empty the dumpster? He wasn’t gonna have Namjoon send out some other person, only to find an empty trash bin.

The fuel of that thought sent him up and over the edge of the dumpster and into the cesspit inside. In some ways it was easy to ignore the roiling nausea threatening to spew from his stomach – it just called for complete focus, for emptying out everything that was made of emotion and leaving knife-like calculation in its place. He could do that. He’d done that all the time, back when he still hunted. It felt the same, in a way, stepping into a concrete tunnel that muffled the distant blare of traffic, the distracting stench… the footsteps coming closer and closer.

In fact, Yoongi was doing such a good job focusing on shifting carefully through each piece of trash that he even failed to notice when the footsteps came to a stop, right outside the dumpster.  

Just as his fingers closed around something smooth and cool to the touch – a blood vial, maybe? – and a surge of wild exultation leaped through his chest, Yoongi’s exhilaration was killed by a cautious voice saying, “Hey kitty kitty, are you in here?”      

Even his reflexes weren’t enough to – well, do anything before a flesh-and-blood girl was shoving her head over the side of the dumpster. He had just enough time to see her eyes widen in horrified shock before a startled scream knifed into his ears, and the girl shoved herself away from the container, disappearing out of view. As he began to simultaneously rise, not quite sure what the hell he was doing, words dancing clumsily on the tip of his tongue, the force of her push combined with his movement shifted the dumpster in the worst way possible. The lid lost its precarious fight with gravity and fell – straight on his head.

Flecks of white scattered across his vision and Yoongi folded, sprawling face first into the trash with a grunt of pain. His vision staggered woozily – although that might have been the smell – and he just lay there for a few seconds, his bearings knocked off-kilter. Vampires were stronger than humans, sure, took more damage and healed faster, but that didn’t make them literally invincible, and his head throbbed like he’d just been hit by a dump truck.

Beginning to collect himself in the darkness of the dumpster, he slowly shifted, hefting himself to his hands and knees. His ears were ringing, draping everything in a muffling sheet, and Yoongi could hardly even hear himself moving against the garbage. His hand hadn’t released the vial and he curled it closer to his body, protective of the only thing he’d found in this whole shitstorm. Fully expecting the girl to be three blocks away by now – and still screaming, probably – he was just putting his hand to the lid to heave it up before it lifted, seemingly of its own accord.

The girl’s face didn’t appear again, but her voice did, muted and far away. “You’re not dead in there, are you?”

He couldn’t help it; the panicked concern, so ridiculous when applied to him, made something snap inside. Laughter ripped from his chest, making his head throb worse than before, but it was worth it because his amusement was leaning on the dangerous side of hysteria and he was pretty sure the laughter was the only thing keeping it at bay. Shoving himself up and staggering on the uneven piles of garbage under his feet, Yoongi caught himself on the side of the dumpster, almost clinging to it for balance. His bleary gaze tried and failed to completely focus on the girl – fallen back a prudent ten or so feet away after lifting the lid – but that was fine.

“In a manner of speaking,” Yoongi chuckled, sounding a little off, even to himself, “I’m not dead, no.”

The ringing was fading into a softer buzz, which was a relief and then some, but he wished his vision would snap out of it. The human had taken several quick steps back when he popped up, and she backed up even further when he hoisted himself clumsily out of the dumpster, almost faceplanting when the ground seemed to shift under his feet. Barely holding himself upright, he glanced at the vial in his hand – and it was definitely a vial, with some liquid or something in it. His vision wasn’t cooperating enough to see more than that, but, mouth twisting, he took a quick whiff of it and, sure enough – that strange scent clung faintly under the stench. Scrubbing at his nose, Yoongi shoved it into his jeans’ back pocket, his skin prickling. His other hand reached up to tentatively feel the top of his head.

His fingers came away wet. “Sonofabitch,” he cursed, the word falling like a stone from his lips. There was something terribly impersonal about bleeding someone else’s blood – it felt like more of a waste, somehow – and he clamped his hand more firmly over the wound. It’d stop soon enough, and his body would deal with it, but in the meantime, he tried to keep the damage to a minimum.

The girl was staring at him. On a different occasion he might have regarded her warily, given the convenience of her presence – he wasn’t sexist enough to believe a female couldn’t be a murderer or at the very least an accomplice – but his rapidly restored healing was picking up her heartrate, her uneven breathing. This was someone who’d just about had the life scared out of them, not some serial killer. It still begged the question about why she hadn’t booked it from the very first, after finding some random guy lurking in a dumpster, but his head hurt too much to pursue the question.

Not to mention this might have been the most embarrassing encounter he’d ever had in his entire life, and that was actually saying something.

Hand swiping ineffectually at the bits of food and waste on his shirt, he gave it up as a bad job and stared right back. “Did you need something?” Yoongi asked with as much dignity as the circumstance could call for. He wasn’t really paying much attention to her – he was thinking about how he was going to spin this into a believable and not mortifying story when he got back to the bar.

“Are you… are you kidding? Aren’t you bleeding?” Finally his vision was coming back into focus – the perks of being a vampire – and it helped that she came a few steps closer. Not close, but she was peering at him hard, her lips set in a thin line, and it was hard to tell if she was inspecting him for a wound or for insanity.

Guilty on both counts.

“No, I’m not kidding,” he replied stiffly, electing to ignore the second question. “I’m fine, thanks, you can move on.” Her scrutiny was just starting to get annoying, and he had better things to do than swap niceties with some chick. Like examine the vial in his pocket. And take a shower. Or ten.

Her eyes narrowed, shoulders pulling back, and he supposed the dismissive tone had got to her. It usually did. “Fine,” she mumbled. “But you totally can’t sue me, y’know? It was your fault for being in there in the first place, trying to get… drugs or whatever.”

That got his attention. “Drugs? Do you think there are drug markets in dumpsters or something? Tch. And -” he added as another thing occurred to him, “it sure as hell wasn’t my fault. You normally go looking into garbage bins for no reason?”

“It wasn’t for no reason! I was following this little cat and thought you were -” For some reason the girl abruptly stopped, pulling uneasily at the scarf wrapped around her neck.

Yoongi loved scarves. They were so pleasantly… diverting. He tore his eyes away from the sliver of skin showing between the blue folds of cloth, reminding himself that he'd pretty much just had a hit; there was no excuse for being greedy. He was a pathetic addict, but not that pathetic. Instead he twisted around ostentatiously, his pointed look picking out the utterly empty alleyway with no cat in sight. God, who wandered into a place like this after some cat? Was it hers? If he'd cared more he might have asked.

Clearing her throat, the human straightened, a scowl overwhelming her flustered expression at his voiceless mockery. “Anyways, who cares why I was looking? I’m not the one dumpster diving in back alleys!”

“Touché,” he muttered, pulling his hand away from his head to check the blood flow. As expected, it was already slowing. Time to get going. “Look, I’m not going to sue you or whatever. Promise and cross my heart and I’d hope to die if that meant anything.”

She was staring – again – and he grunted as she shifted, hesitating. “You’re gonna have to start paying for the show soon,” he said rudely, and at that she flushed and hurriedly looked away.

“I wasn’t staring,” the girl protested, but she finally seemed to get the point. With a last, sidelong glance (and he was happy to ignore the concern there) she turned and began to walk back down the alley, her thin shoes dragging against the ground. “Sorry,” was her soft farewell, and Yoongi said nothing in reply. He watched her go with no small amount of relief – he’d finally be able to put this behind him and get back on the trail of the murderer.

She sure as hell wasn’t moving quickly, a slumped cast to her shoulders, continually and cautiously looking back his way, and he couldn’t tell the reason for her disappointed expectation. Maybe she just really wanted to find that cat. The girl turned the corner, stepping out of view, and, sucking on his spit irritably, Yoongi snatched up his hoodie from the ground, letting his hand fall from his head. Thankfully, it was easing up even more, the blood clotting brownish red across his fingers. He used to smirk whenever his body reminded him of how easily it made mediocre blood into a super serum of health, except Hoseok had killed that particular pleasure years ago.

He'd mentioned it to the lanky bartender, and Hobi’s head had tilted, a grin curling at the corners of his mouth. “Really, hyung?” It had been late, and Hoseok was testing new drink creations to add to the menu, his hands, for once, a little slower as they had reached for unfamiliar ingredients. “Whenever I bleed, all I can do is be happy that someone out there made it possible. If it weren’t for them, it wouldn’t matter how cool my body was, I’d still be dead. We kinda owe humans that much credit, I think.”

That had wiped the smug look right off his face… like it was doing now. Technically speaking, the girl really could have just high tailed it away. He was reasonably certain she'd known what he was, at least by the time he’d gotten out of the dumpster, but she’d stuck around to try and insist on him being okay. Stupid, yeah. But… he kinda owed her that much credit.

Plus he was pretty sure Hoseok and Jin would both be on his case if he mentioned he’d let a human go wandering off by herself in a dangerous area with a murderer on the loose and possibly nearby. And if by some extremely unfortunate but not impossible coincidence she did turn up dead, they would be that much more appalled at him.

Fuck, he might even feel bad himself.

With a dramatic sigh, he folded his hoodie over his arm, and secured the precious vial more securely in his back pocket. Jungkook’s favorite blood was still in the hoodie pouch, and he shifted it, so it wasn’t likely to drop out. Yoongi was about to trail after the human when a short, piercing meow made him pause, eyes sliding back to the dumpster... where a little black cat was slinking out from underneath. The feline was pretty filthy, the dark of its coat not doing much to hide the clumps and dirt, and its one ear was a ragged mess. All in all, pitiful. It froze when it saw him watching, green eyes alert, before it mewed again, the pink of its tongue flashing with the plaintive sound. After a moment of staring, the cat came on, and he backed up several steps, a muscle ticking in his jaw, clutching his hoodie almost defensively to his chest.

"Nuh-uh," he told the advancing black shape. "No fucking way. You can go find her yourself." Although he had to wonder why the girl had let her cat get into such a condition – maybe it’d been missing for a few days.

Shockingly it took no heed of that and padded onwards, and his retreat became faster. Typically speaking, he didn't dislike animals, no more than he disliked humans. Actually, he liked them better; they were less appealing in taste and more appealing in company. But he had a job to do, damn it! Ferrying around some flea-infested feline was not in the description. Yoongi turned his back and began to walk away, ignoring the mewling cry that rose up from behind him. If the damn thing wanted to follow him until he caught up with the girl, great. If not, he'd just let her know he'd seen it and she could go dumpster diving if she was that desperate to have the cat back.

The first time he glanced over his shoulder, just beyond the corner the human had turned at, the plan was working great. The cat had paused with one paw lifted and was staring at him expectantly, some few feet behind. The alley the girl had gone down was empty, which meant she was probably moving pretty fast, and he sighed noisily before inhaling. A soft, floral scent crowded his nose, totally out of place between the squat, dingy buildings, and he assumed it was her. At least it should be easy to find her. Yoongi set off at a quicker pace.

When he looked back a second time, the cat had made almost no progress and was sniffing at a candy wrapper half-buried in the mud, clearly having lost interest. Specifically, in him. The muscle in his jaw ticked harder – at least until Yoongi realized he was grinding his teeth and forced himself to stop.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he muttered, but the decision was a foregone conclusion. If he sent the girl back to find the cat, he’d have to accompany her - what with the whole not-being-harassed-by-co-workers-later-on logic – so it’d just be easier to grab it now. Christ, if any of them smelled the rank animal on him and tried to rag on him about it…

The thought haunted him as he abruptly backtracked, faster than might have been strictly wise given his still throbbing head. Ignoring the abrupt skewing of his vision when he bent down, and the bewildered wail the cat gave as it tried to dodge around him, Yoongi snatched up the cat, using his hoodie to bundle the paws that were suddenly trying to imitate meat cleavers. He had to pause then, holding the squirming shape firmly to his chest as he swayed. The other blood vial – Jungkook’s – was pressing uncomfortably into his ribs from the pocket of the hoodie, and he ignored it until realizing it could be jabbing at the animal, too.

He moved his burden around until the vial was no longer stabbing him or the cat, who had actually calmed down in a surprising amount of time and gone still in his arms. Hopefully he hadn’t misjudged and been holding it too tight…. By now it didn’t happen often, but it was a possibility. In fact… Yoongi hurriedly folded back the thick layers of cloth, his skin prickling anxiously – and a small head popped up, big eyes blinking casually at him. Jesus. What a weird cat.

Since no one was around to hear, the vampire said severely, “You scared the shit out of me, y’know? Asshole.”

The cat started purring.

He narrowed his eyes, tucked it in more firmly to cradle in one arm, and took off running through the maze of buildings. Well – for him, it was a jog. His head didn’t allow for more than that. But given what he was, it wasn’t long until the girl’s back came into view. She was looking at her phone, probably trying to figure out how to get back to a main street. As expected, she was moving fast, close to a jog herself, and for one short moment, as short as a static shock, he felt something leap in his chest at the sight of prey retreating. His steps changed – became smoother, quieter – and his headache retreated to a far, untouched corner of his mind. He’d taken three or four of his prowling strides before the cat in his arms wiggled and discharged the sudden electricity.

The sour taste of bile rose in his throat, and he must have made a noise because the girl started, looked back, her breath hitching as she caught sight of him. He blinked furiously, shoving away the impulse, shoving away the screaming shards of glass pressing against his muscles like a cramp. The abruptly returned headache dulled everything in a heavy blanket of pain, and even the scent of her fear, flooding his nose as he got closer, did nothing to beat back the muffled sensation. Within arm's reach he stopped, and she regarded him with her body partially turned, phone clutched tightly in her hand, obviously ready to flee at the slightest provocation.

Not ready enough, but he appreciated the sentiment.  

Her stare wasn't, after a few seconds, as fearful as it could have been, given that she hadn't made it out of the warren of alleyways and they were still very much alone; he hadn't seen or heard anyone in the immediate vicinity this entire time. It took him a moment to realize she was staring, not really at him, but at the lightly vibrating bundle in his arms. Suddenly feeling awkward, guilty with the knowledge of his thoughts not fifteen seconds ago, he held it out brusquely, throwing back the hoodie arm that had draped across the cat's head.

It mewed, and her mouth fell open. Yoongi had to admit, privately, it was one of the more satisfying experiences he'd had in the past little while, headache and all.

Yet she made no move to take it, her hands flying up to fumble with her scarf. After a moment, he proffered the cat further. "Here," the vampire said. "Take it."

"I -" Her gaze jerked up, meeting his for the first time, and the scarf highlighted rather than hid the blush that crept into her cheeks. "It's not – where did you find her?"

So it was a her? He shrugged. "She was under the dumpster – the one you found me in." A flash of teeth, a tight smile. "So I guess you weren't totally off, after all." The girl continued to stare, not making any move to take the cat, and, feeling even more awkward in the drawn-out silence, he asked, "Uh – what's her name?"

"Her name? I don't know... does she have a collar?"

"A... collar..." He stared dumbly at the cat in question, who definitely did not have a collar. And then it clicked.

"She's not your cat." It was a mangled mix between a question and an accusation that stumbled from his lips, and the girl's brow knitted in bafflement.

"Uh... no?" Shifting uncomfortably, the girl paused and then offered cautiously, "I was walking to my apartment when I saw her. Her ear looked pretty bad, so I thought maybe I could help or something, but she just kept slipping away... Until your, uh, dumpster."

"My dumpster." His jaw was ticking again and this time he was not inclined to make it to stop. This girl - this god damn girl – had been fucking wandering through streets that were dangerous even without the presence of murderers or vampires (if there was a difference) and all for some useless cat she didn’t even own! Obviously, she wasn't stupid enough to be totally fearless - even now, she hadn't relinquished her grip on the phone – but it still defied any kind of reason to go prancing through roads like these.

And, to top it off, he was still standing there with the stupid cat trying to struggle closer to his chest and vibrating like it was auditioning for the role of a girl’s favourite companion.

It did not help at all when the human added, “She seems to like you.”

He growled, low and sharp, making the cat twist in his arms and halt mid-purr. The girl’s free hand dropped into her purse, and when she turned a bit he saw the edge of a brightly coloured can peeking out. Pepper spray, maybe? That actually made him feel better – at least she hadn’t been going around totally defenseless. Still sort of funny she was reacting to him when he was angry and not – before. Humans never really did seem to get the difference between emotion and instincts. He’d literally never killed someone because he was pissed off at them, but the second he got mad, suddenly then humans felt it was time to hit the deck?

Whatever. “That’s cute and all, but I don’t have time for a cat.” Even one that had resumed purring, perhaps even more enthusiastically than before. “Do you want her or not? She’s lived this long, I’m sure she could manage on her own.”

The girl had the nerve to look betrayed, and he refused to feel guilty. “You’d just let her go? Even though she’s hurt?”

“What doesn’t kill you…” he muttered, and her eyes narrowed, lips setting. “Look, working as a bouncer doesn’t give me a shit ton of free time, and I’ve got… other shit to do.” The vial felt heavy in his jean pocket, and he slipped his hand inside, as though he had to make sure it was there. Her expression didn’t exactly lighten, the disapproving glare only becoming sharper, and he shifted on the balls of his feet, eager to move on.

Before Yoongi could defend himself further, she was suddenly reaching out. “Here, no, I’ll take her. I definitely can’t leave her out on the street.” There was some pointedness to that comment and his shoulders rose defensively, but she relented after a moment, her tone softening into thoughtfulness. “At least I can get that ear cleaned or something. My apartment isn’t really cat-friendly… but maybe Changkyun could take her or…”

He would have gladly been immediately rid of his burden, except for whatever reason the cat had decided she didn’t want to be removed from the warmth of the hoodie. They spent the next minute or so trying to pry her claws out of the material, getting in each other’s way, being growled and spit and yowled indignantly at the whole while, and there came a time when the girl brushed against his arm and jerked back with a shocked sound at the temperature change. Which was just about when Yoongi decided he’d had enough of this ridiculousness.

“Yeah, yeah, y’know what, just take her.” So saying he shoved the whole bundle into her arms, a surge of irritation making the motion too fast, too hard. She caught it with surprising deftness despite that, quickly cradling the feline in a steady hold, and he ignored her attempts at an apology or protest – whether for her reaction or his loss of the hoodie, he didn’t know or care. “You’ve got what you came here for in the first place. Let’s just get to 17th Ave. You can find your way home from there, right?”

Looking so overwhelmed he could have felt bad for her, the girl mumbled warily, “!7th? I – I can get home from here fine, thanks.”

His mouth twisted. Jin and Hoseok being annoyed with him might have been better than this, after all. “Maybe,” Yoongi said, “but still… let’s just walk together.”  

Her jaw set, an unexpectedly stubborn expression, and she drew herself up. “No, thanks. I really appreciate you helping me out with the cat and – and thanks for the offer, but no, I’m fine.” There was a mulish air about the way she stared at him, and Yoongi drew in an exasperated breath, the sound rattling through his teeth.

“Okay,” he muttered, too quietly for her to hear. “That’s enough of that.” When he looked up, finding and deliberately catching her gaze, he felt the familiar warmth seeping through his chest, swooping into his stomach and spreading across his fingers and, most importantly, surging into his eyes. This soon after drinking blood, the feel of his power was heavy and poignant, almost a pressure, and she couldn’t look away after he’d put it into her mind that she shouldn’t. He channeled the feeling, the stifling contentment, and watched the way her lashes suddenly fluttered, tight expression loosening.

Strictly speaking, this was illegal. But also strictly speaking, this wasn’t something that left any proof, and he was using it to help her, anyways. There was nothing wrong with that, right?

Which didn’t really ease the mild discomfort at the way her personality, her stubbornness, slowly leeched away. Compulsion was a… strange… thing, and no one – not even Namjoon – understood it completely, but it certainly made idiots of even the best people. Will didn’t seem to matter much, either, or strength of personality. Awareness and vigilance were the only things that could stop you from slipping under, and he couldn’t help but feel a little bad that she’d obviously not had that kind of guard up at all.

He was helping her, though.

Repeating that to himself, Yoongi let himself smile, soft, gracious and winning. “It’s not a far walk,” he observed with a gentle tone at odds with his normal rasp. “I don’t think it’d be bad to walk with me for that long, would it?”

Her blink was slow, sluggish, and after a moment she replied. “…No. It wouldn’t be bad.”

“Okay,” he said, careful to keep that same composed tone. It was pretty easy to accidentally snap someone out of it, if you said the wrong thing in the wrong way, and he didn’t want to have to go through the bother of her getting upset when she realized what had happened. “Let’s start, okay? Just a little walk.”

She nodded, her arms wrapping around the cat almost like she was seeking comfort, and they began to walk. He kept his distance, and kept talking. It was always a good idea to distract people when they were under the compulsion.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t catch your name.” He didn’t particularly care, but such idle conversation came easily to him… at least in this context. Yoongi had done it all the time back in the day, and fishing for comfortingly normal pieces of information had become almost second nature. At least the compulsion stifled people enough that they rarely tried to ask him anything.

“I’m Y/N,” the girl said softly, carefully petting the black shadow snuggled in her arms, and he was once again struck by the blank submissiveness on her face. He looked away.

“Y/N, okay,” he said, keeping his steps slow and casual. “I’m Min Yoongi. It’s nice to meet you.” They passed by another dumpster and he made a face that she didn’t see – or notice. “Have you been in the city for long?” The words felt even more hollow and insincere than usual, maybe because it’d been awhile since he’d last done this. Everyone working at the BS&T had a free supply of regular blood, and he made more than enough to buy something more exotic if he was feeling fancy. There was no practical need for hunting strategies, not any more.

She didn’t notice how fake he was being. “No, not long at all. I’m here for a working holiday; I just got here a few weeks ago.”

“Really?” he asked quietly, his words fading as he caught the first sounds of traffic, an almost imperceptible murmur at the edge of his hearing. “What made you choose this city?” Yoongi asked, not really paying attention, but when her answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming he realized it was the wrong question.

Y/N was looking at him. The clouded senselessness of the compulsion was still there, but a fine furrow between her brow meant she was starting to feel something outside of it. “Because… of you,” she eventually said, and he almost tripped.

“Me?” Yoongi demanded, too sharply, and the furrow became more pronounced, little frown lines appearing around her mouth.

Good thing they were almost to the main street, ‘cause this was definitely not gonna hold. Damn, he was getting sloppy – but Yoongi almost didn’t care, his stare focused intently on her.

“You,” Y/N agreed, and she sounded like she was struggling to the form the words. “I mean… vampires. We didn’t – don’t – have them at home.” He could have scoffed at that. Any reasonably sized place that claimed they’d never had a vampire should have said they’d never been aware of having one, instead. But the girl was continuing. “My family… actually pretty much anyone there… is really against them. But me and my brother and… some friends… thought that you were living well with humans here, peacefully, and maybe I could see that you were really… just like us. Bad and good. If that makes any sense…”

She was definitely drawing out of it; a high colour was peeking up from her scarf, splashing across her cheeks, and each word was clearer, more certain. Unfortunate, because she probably wouldn’t have been speaking so candidly without the effects of his coercion. Was gonna be embarrassing for her – and he found himself uncomfortable, too, at knowing just how wrong she was. How ironic this all was, given his current job of searching for a rabid vampire… and his own character and presence, in general. What a disappointment that would have been for her if they’d spent any kind of time together.

Which, thankfully, wasn’t happening. The cars were loud enough that Yoongi was pretty sure even Y/N could hear them, and he began to pull away the fraying strands of his compulsion, slowly, carefully, so she wasn’t just abruptly left with none of the softening effects. By the time they’d emerged from out of their last alley (and wasn’t he just getting sick of those) her animation had pretty much returned, and she’d put even more distance between them. Her eyes kept darting over to him, wary and a little perplexed, but he was pretty sure she had no idea what had happened. She’d probably just berate herself later on for not saying no more firmly.

He hadn’t thought about saying goodbye. Shoving his hands into his pockets, his shoulders rounded, and he made sure to stay in the shadows of the building they were next to. People were walking by them, but only a few noticed him for what he was despite having lost his hoodie. His pale skin probably wasn’t that noticeable, and if he stayed still, it wasn’t as obvious.

Those that did notice gave the usual range of reactions. Fear, excitement, interest. He felt like a scary looking dog tied up to a post, with the brave or stupid people eager to push their luck and pet him. His scowl was more than enough to keep them moving, except then he noticed Y/N was staring at him closely, and, remembering her positivity, the glare dropped from his face. Someone else could disillusion her about the relationship between vampires and humans in the city.

And on a lighter note, the cat was pulling plenty of attention for herself, too, so he supposed he should be grateful for the small things.

“I’m gonna -” he started saying, just as she began with, “Thank you for -” and they both stopped awkwardly.

Eventually she laughed, self-conscious but sincere. “Thanks for helping with the cat. And, uh, I guess for walking with me. I’m – sorry I was talking so much, I hope I didn’t offend you.” Her embarrassment was almost painful, and he could only assume she wasn’t normally that unreserved with strangers. Ah, the benefits of mind-control.

Although, honestly, being offended hadn’t even occurred to him. “Yeah, it’s no problem. Any of it.” Yoongi was close to saying something like “It was nice walking with you” but that was so inane and so far outside the truth he couldn’t bring himself to say it to her expectant silence. “I’m gonna take off now,” he mumbled instead, hand briefly touching the back of his neck like he needed to reassure himself. He kept his eyes on the cat, and it was easier to speak to it than her. “Hope the city turns out okay. You should probably, y’know… avoid the back alleys from now on.”

And then, before it could get more uncomfortable or he could start throwing out more unwanted, stupid advice, the vampire turned and began to walk away. The cat meowed, plaintive once again, and a small smile curled the corners of his mouth. At least one life had been improved by this, even if it was just a dumb feline.

Y/N murmured to her, and the cat stopped, but he didn’t get quite far enough away to miss Y/N’s uncertainly raised voice. “Goodbye Min Yoongi. Thank you!”

Fingers curled, nails pressing into his palms, Yoongi hesitated for several steps. Not looking back, not even sure if she was still looking towards him, eventually he raised his hand in a curt wave. No harm in that. Another thing crossed off his list, and his friends could even be proud of him for it. But it was time to refocus on what Namjoon had told him to do. Time to catch a killer.

Pushing the girl from his mind, Yoongi began to run, darting in and out of splotches of sunlight and breezing by startled humans. His head almost felt clear. It wasn’t until he was halfway to the bar that Yoongi remembered that he hadn’t taken out Jungkook’s blood vial from his hoodie. His hoodie, which the girl still had.

A clipped sigh fell from his lips, and he slowed to check his back pocket and make sure the other vial was still there. It was. Good. He could take a closer look at it at home, and who knew? Maybe he’d be able to get the city that much closer to… what had the girl said? Living well with the vampires. Peacefully.

His derisive laugh startled a couple holding hands and window shopping not far from him, and then Yoongi was running. Again

[lyricalt]

[ovw]  carry

Rating: T Pairing: mcgenji Note: Pre-relationship, flirting, pining, Recall.  A kinda dumb warm-up.

(Now on [AO3])

The trouble with always finding the high ground is the possibility for a very long fall back down. Genji hasn’t been keeping an eye on McCree, though he has been aware of McCree’s revolver falling suspiciously silent for the last three minutes. This leaves Genji with a little more enemies than he cares to fight by himself, but it’s only been three minutes. There must not be any stairs for McCree to climb.

He ducks behind a car to reload a new set shuriken, make sure his swords are still within easy reach, and take a quick breather to set a new rhythm. His gaze flits upwards, sweeping over ledges and balconies. He is annoyed to find them all clear.

A whistling rocket flies above him. Genji sees that. It crashes into the building behind him, the shattering debris forcing him to leap out from cover and into incoming gunfire. He distantly feels the sidewalk shake from the impact, making his footsteps skip over the ground before he can stand proper, but he cannot afford to stay still for long. He draws his sword and goes for the mercenary with the rocket launcher.

Seven more mercenaries move to intercept Genji, his beeline charge across the street towards his target too obvious and brazen. Genji deflects the first wave of bullets, gets a knife lodged into his armor where his left clavicle should have been, and puts three shuriken into the neck of the last man standing between him and the mercenary with the rocket launcher.

Genji’s HUD flashes several warnings once the point of the missile is directed his way. A dozen suggested escape routes scroll over his screen, his mind rejecting each one faster than he can blink the commands through the interface. He has no time to clear the screen, knowing he is surrounded on all sides with a rocket pointed to his chest.

Genji stomps his foot down, crossed, though he has enough discretion to make it look as if he is only backing away. “I have lined them up,” he mutters.

The mercenary’s eyes snap upwards, away from Genji. The rocket pointing at Genji shifts, but Genji has no time to stop it, letting it fire over his head. The shrieking audio input renders him deaf for the five seconds it takes to lunge for the mercenary, sword driving deep into the man’s abdomen while the second blade slashes across the throat. He knows where the mercenary had aimed the rocket, why it had been directed behind him instead of his head.

Genji doesn’t get to hear McCree’s shots over his ringing ears, but he turns around to take quick note of the six dead bodies before he starts sprinting back.

His audio sensors come back online in time to hear the rocket’s impact into the opposite balcony.

This, he thinks, jumping over fallen slabs of concrete and giant cracked asphalt—this is why the high ground is troublesome.

McCree is silent when he falls from the exploding balcony. Genji can see his hands reach out to grab onto a ledge, but it’s already crumbling into pieces. His hand slips, and McCree becomes a blur of vivid red in the air, serape fluttering in the wind.

Genji dives across the broken sidewalk, arms outstretched before he can stop himself.

There is nothing quite like catching a hundred kilograms of armor and cowboy. A second later, and Genji ends up on ground, surrounded by rubble, and McCree in his lap. His cybernetics are not pleased by the impact, sounding out critical warnings—something about strain and arm damage—but Genji is happy enough when his hands still have enough control to tighten his grip as he sits up.

“McCree?” Dust and broken glass spills off them both. Genji lays his hand over McCree’s eyes to block most of it from getting on his face. When he removes his hand, McCree stares back, eyes wide and dazed. Blood from his forehead trails down his face, dripping to his beard.

Genji flicks McCree’s hat upwards, which has a miraculous habit of staying on against all odds. The quick movement causes McCree to blink and lift a hand to his head to tip his hat back into place. He looks up at Genji.

“This is embarrassing. I think I might’ve swooned,” McCree finally says, breathless.

It’s more likely from whatever head injury McCree has taken from falling, but Genji huffs. “And why not? Is this not impressive?”

McCree gives him an unfocused look that appears vaguely sick and very concussed.

“Hm. Perhaps I will ask again later,” Genji says. He shifts a little, testing his legs as McCree starts to wiggle in his arms.

“I can still walk, it’s—oh. Oh, well, alrighty then.”

McCree weak protests die out once Genji stabilizes himself on his own two feet. He has one arm beneath McCree’s legs and the other around his mid-back. For a moment, McCree doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, making a few abortive movements before he resolutely hooks his metal arm around Genji’s neck and presses closer to their center of gravity. It helps. Genji assumes a man of McCree’s size and disposition doesn’t get to be carried very often, much less in a hold that is, for all intents and purposes, a princess carry.

But McCree doesn’t say anything and Genji doesn’t mind for now. He starts walking. Their rendezvous point with Winston and Reinhardt is nearly two blocks away.

“I will make you walk the last block,” Genji says, snickering.

McCree’s arms loosen around Genji’s neck. He frowns. “You ain’t gotta carry me at all.”

His tone isn’t the usual mocking whine or sharp teasing they frequently exchange. Genji looks down at McCree, but McCree’s gaze is elsewhere, watching behind Genji’s back and all around them. He looks solemn, though it suddenly occurs to Genji that McCree has never liked feeling incapacitated or useless. He supposes not much has changed since Blackwatch.

“Ah,” McCree says, sounding relieved. He points at some spot to their left. “My gun.”

He sounds apologetic but Genji hitches him higher and jogs lightly to where McCree had pointed. His cybernetics makes it easier to keep McCree in his arms, but they are both acutely aware that there are better ways to carry an injured man. Better ways that are less entertaining, though. Genji wonders how long McCree will last before his pride gives out.

The gun is, predictably, on the ground. They exchange amused looks with each other before McCree sweeps his free hand out in invitation.

“Now I usually don’t like another person touching my gun, but if you do a squat for me I’ll be very impressed,” McCree drawls.

“No, you can do it yourself,” Genji says, fond, and drops McCree on the ground.

This is how they discover the metal shard in McCree’s right ankle, and how McCree ends up sprawled on the pavement again with Genji crouched over him.

“How did you not notice it?” Genji asks, once McCree’s muffled cursing is over with. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Had a lot on my mind at the time,” McCree says testily. He glances at Genji and prods his chestplate. “And you’ve got a knife sticking outta your left clavicle.”

Genji pulls out the knife while McCree takes care of the metal shard embedded through his boot. They both mutter, though Genji is happy to hear that McCree’s pained grunt had been louder.

With their most serious injuries taken care of, McCree reaches over to grab Peacekeeper, slowly getting to his feet. Genji does a few quick stretches to shake out the soreness, alloyed arms scraping against their new dents, and stands as well. He turns to McCree, surprised to find the other man already at his shoulder.

“Ready?” McCree asks. His expression is a good mix of expectant and resigned.

Genji pauses, uncomprehending, before he realizes what McCree is waiting for.

“Oh. You still want to be carried?” Genji asks, slightly taken aback. He holds out his arms.

Many things happen at once, though the most fascinating one is the color washing over McCree’s face before he ducks his head. Genji stares, expecting a smart quip or sarcastic remark from him—and it’d be easy to make one since it’s all they do, most of the time—but McCree only steps back with his sad limping right ankle and puts his hands up.

“Uh, um,” says McCree, waving them uselessly. He tugs his hat down over his eyes. “Oh, I just thought, uh-”

Flustered. The word pops up in Genji’s mind like one of his HUD warnings. McCree is flustered, which in turn makes Genji a little embarrassed as well.

“It is perfectly fine to enjoy being carried like a princess,” he says, adopting Zenyatta’s kind tone. He has gotten very good at mimicking it. “By me, especially. Anyone would understand.”

McCree throws him a mean look. He is still red to his ears, but he at least he’s stopped trying to wring his revolver to pieces. With one metal arm, he might actually succeed.

“Genji,” he says evenly, “Shut your mouth.”

“You cannot see it.”

“Oh, for cryin’ out—ugh.”

Grinning, Genji sweeps McCree off his feet in a manner very befitting of a princess. He manages a small mocking spin, cut short by one of McCree’s stupidly long legs hitting a crooked streetlamp. It is the injured one, of course.

“Fuck you, fuck Recall,” McCree hisses, grip on Genji tightening. “Shoulda never answered you people.”

Genji laughs, stumbling as McCree shifts his weight, but it only causes them to knock heads with each other, McCree’s warm breath fogging the corner of Genji’s vision before he sways back. Genji regains his footing and continues to walk.

“I think,” McCree begins, leaning in to glare, “you want to carry me.”

The blood is beginning to dry on McCree’s face, clumping his eyelashes and staining his teeth. Genji becomes very conscious of McCree’s broken nose just inches from his mouth. It’s his helmet. It confuses people on where they should look or meet his eyes. Genji bounces McCree in his arms, jostling him to sink lower into his hold. The top of McCree’s hat brushes harmlessly beneath Genji’s chin, and McCree’s stare becomes hidden beneath the brim. Better.

“Woah now,” McCree says, clinging harder, hand going to Genji’s neck. His thumb brushes the rim of Genji’s faceplate.

It’s the helmet again. There’s no sense of space. Genji thinks he may have miscalculated the move after all.

“You are walking the last block,” he says, whether to remind himself or McCree is up for debate.

McCree scoffs. “Carry me some other way then.”

“Hm,” Genji says thoughtfully, as his HUD flashes a red warning, and McCree goes dropping from his critically damaged arms once again.

Later, Winston asks, “Why didn’t you two call us earlier?”

Reinhardt’s huge arms are more suitable for carrying any amount of people. Genji is fairly certain Reinhardt can fit four more occupants within his embrace, but he is too exhausted to ask, and Reinhardt’s arms are very comfortable despite the armor. His body twitches, drained cybernetics making it difficult to even shrug his opinion.

“Listen,” McCree begins, nestled within Winston’s fur. He doesn't get to finish, too muffled by Winston’s hand going over his face as he leaps into the air to get McCree back to base. His hat doesn’t fly off, for some reason.

Meanwhile, Reinhardt booms into Genji’s ear, “I admire your perseverance! Very noble of you to carry a comrade back to safety.”

“Yes,” Genji agrees, voice growing fainter as he hears Reinhardt’s charging engine start to fire. He has seen that thing in action, usually against enemies. His grip on Reinhardt attempts to tighten, but his arms dangle uselessly over his chest, all his energy spent from carrying McCree.

“Are you ready, friend?”

“Yes,” Genji says, just to get it over with.

“I think I may have swooned,” Genji admits to McCree, laying in the next bed over, once they have both woken up in the medbay.

“Y’see?” McCree says.

[libraryscarf]

Sad Kanej - one of them dies on a job (why am i like this akdkdklsndcbjajdj)

you would think these two had been through enough already *rubs my angsty little hands together*

“No mourners,” he had said.

“No funerals,” she had replied.

For some unknowable reason, Kaz had assumed Inej would die long after he did, or not at all. They were too much of each other–she was too much of him, to make that last leap into the darkness.

“Kaz,” she said. There was a very slight warble in the vowel of his name, and he turned to her.

The moon slid between the clouds, catching on the escaping curls of her hair, the infinity black of her eyes. The short, silver handle of a knife jutting from beneath her collarbone.

Inej looked at him, and then she fell.

For some unknowable reason, Kaz had thought death didn’t apply to Inej the way it did to everyone else. After all, she was the Wraith. She was a creature of smoke and sunlight, her knives the teeth of some forgotten god. He had seen her bend gravity into impossible shapes, so he had thought she could do the same this time. Just once.

He caught her before the pavement did, and lowered her delicately the rest of the way. When she lay on the ground, he did not let go.

“You need a medik,” he said roughly.

Inej’s fingers fluttered uncertainly over the handle of the knife, and her chest contracted with sharp, uneven gasps. She lifted her neck slightly, eyes wide and uncomprehending as she stared at the wound. The small movement wrenched a cry from her, and Kaz flinched badly.

“Be still,” he ordered, aware of how uncaring his voice was, aware of how miserably obvious his fear showed. “Don’t deepen the–”

“Kaz,” she said again. This time it was only a breath.

Moon and shadow whispered over her, enshrouding her body, and illuminating it just as quickly. Kaz bent down, pulling her against him until he felt her quick, hot breaths on his throat.

“I want to be in the ocean,” she murmured. “Don’t let them put me on the Reaper’s Barge.”

Kaz’s throat closed off, and he shook his head. He would not let her melt away, or dissolve, or whatever the hell Inej Ghafa did in the dark that made her more spirit than substance.

“Kaz,” she entreated.

“I won’t let the Reaper’s Barge have you,” he growled. “Because, Inej, you are not going to die.”

Kaz had never seen Inej shed tears, and he still wasn’t sure if that was what she did now. It may have been that her eyes were simply too full of the moon to hold the rest of her.

After a too-long moment of hesitation, he slipped his gloves off and buried his fingers in her soft, untidy braid. He swallowed a wave of panic, and slowly tipped his forehead down to meet hers. His mouth barely brushed the skin between her eyebrows.

“You haven’t paid off your contract, Wraith,” he said.

Her lips spasmed upward, a ghost-smile. It was something.

“You really think I won’t follow you into the next life to get my dues?”

Inej laughed. For a wild moment, Kaz could think of nothing but how impossible the sound was. She could not leave him. She could not fly away yet. Her wings were not meant for this journey.

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” she said. Her cool fingers reached up, combed through the soft, short hairs behind his ear, and he trembled with terror and grief.

Not yet, he almost said. Not you. But by the time he opened his mouth, her eyes were empty, and as dry as the moon.

As usual, he had not heard her go. He just felt her absence.

[sarkisozlerinametr-blog]

Song About the Moon - Paul Simon

Song About the Moon – Paul Simon

If you want to write a song about the moon Walk along the craters of the afternoon When the shadows are deep And the light is alien And gravity leaps like a knife off the pavement And you want to write a song about the moon You want to write a spiritual tune Then nah nah nah Presto Song about about the moon If you want to write a song about the heart Think about the moon before you start Because…

[afanficfortheages]

Prologue

MATTHEW

It has been eight months and I still have so many questions.

I don’t know who pulled me out from the rubble. I don’t know why I woke up bandaged and comfortable, as if my world hadn’t imploded.

I don’t know if Elektra is alive or if she died in my arms again.

I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I’m trying to be content with that. At some point a lawyer can’t continue asking questions.

But despite what Foggy and Stick and the Defenders wanted me to be, I’m human.

ELEKTRA

I emerged from the darkness with a burst of breath, like breaking through the surface of ocean water. The air does not expand my lungs immediately. Instead, it splinters through my body. Feeling returns with an explosion from my ribcage to every other inch of me. It’s searingly painful at first, then it numbs.

Consciousness awakens next. It’s groggy, clearing the confusion adorning my skull like cobwebs. The first thought that enters my mind proves that even in death, I am not separated from it. Him.

Matthew.

Chapter 1: Forever

ELEKTRA

Death and Elektra have become acquaintances. Death was unmalleable, and she knew what to expect from it. It wasn’t a resolution, but a detour within the grand scheme of her plans. She grew to accept it.

The metaphysical energy freed from her cage of skin pulled through galaxies and light years. She delved deeper into numbingly dark folds without protest. Her essence felt expectant, because the inexplicable yank back to earth coiled around her. For existence had a habit of drawing her in and spitting her back into life, her life-force slamming into her body as if discovering gravity after a great tumble through space.

Atop wet pavement, Elektra Natchios jolts awake.

Her first breaths sputter Matthew’s name as her eyes flicked open, burning at the world’s disarming light. Everything was too bright, and she expected Matthew’s countenance to appear, blotting out the sun, for he was the last thing she saw before she died the second time. She wanted to grip him, to kiss him, to touch his flushed skin and taste his tears. In his years of knowing her, Matthew should have known better to weep for lost causes. Yet he wept all the same. In her dying moments, Elektra had loved him even more. She doesn’t know where he could have gone, but she remains unperturbed. She knows he’s alive. She would know of his death as surely as she knows her own.

Her consciousness sharpens like a knife ground against stone. Clarity in her thoughts offer solace to the overflow of sensory stimulation, like tell-tale New York smells and feeling in her appendages. Adjusting to living again was ruthless, but, like death itself, it was only temporary. After finding her bearings, Elektra wants to leap to her feet, but the heaviness in her limbs causes a struggle to roll on her back and prop onto her elbows. The heat of motion sends a shiver down her spine to contrast the cold pavement digging into her. It seeps through her clothing, a loose black shirt with matching pants that whispered against her skin. It didn’t feel expensive, but Elektra thought she may have imagined its murmuring.

The fatigue pooled into her body further unsettles her. As she fits in her skin, flexing her fingers, rolling her shoulders and kicking out her legs, the well of exhaustion cannot be depleted. She remembers her body after her last death. It was a fine-tuned machine of blood and sinew, with a rotten heart at her core. Her muscle memory hadn’t failed her, as she never allowed herself to grow tired in her former life. Like a father passes on a generational curse, Stick imbued Elektra with his tirelessness in everything he had done. She knew fatigue as not merely a condition, but as a mindset that leeched away one’s strength.

And of all the things she is, Elektra is never weak.

With a groan, she leaps onto her feet. She has no idea where she is, how she got here, or where her clothes are. She almost stumbles before finding balance, toes curled into the hard pavement for purchase. She’s taller than she remembers. Another peculiarity: she hadn’t felt her long hair swing against her exposed back. Instead, it barely brushes against her bare shoulders. The texture is different too, not the luxurious silken strands Elektra groomed until they shined. Elektra touches it contemplatively, pushing it into her eyes for a better look.

This isn’t her hair. It’s perfectly brown and wavy, not black as night or straight. She rakes her fingers through her scalp, tugging to yank this god-awful wig off her head. A patch of hair bunches in her fist, freshly plucked, and her head prickles where she pulled. Elektra winces and discards the hair with a swipe of her wrist. Her fingers find her face, feeling youthful fullness instead of sharp angles. Before, she preened over her pronounced cheekbones and jawline. Now, that, like her strength and her hair, had been ripped away from her.

If she is not herself, this will be her cruelest penance.

She doesn’t want to prove herself right, but she needs to figure out if this is her body. In her past lives, she was in her own body. Having a body she couldn’t recognize in her reflection would erase her formative years with Stick. She would have to relearn his techniques, his agility, his cruelty. Stick. She’d have to find him. She would have to weaponized herself again, so that she could enact her revenge. Whoever did this, Elektra vowed to hunt them down. Their fingers would go first, then palms, then tongues, and then eyes. The kill was last, because Elektra was known to have fun before puncturing her victims’ hearts. Whatever damn witchcraft they performed did nothing to change who she was at her core.

Elektra knew death, vengeance, and bloodlust, but rage was unfamiliar. She seldom felt rage, for whatever reason, resorting to steeling her jaw and remaining unflinching in the face of danger. Notwithstanding, as she scampered to a nearby puddle of water and leered at her unfamiliar reflection, she seethed. Like flowers blooming through skeletons in old paintings, she felt embers of her rage throughout her body, licking her bones from under her skin. She hissed like a viper.

First, she must find Stick. She needed his help to snap this form back into taut sinew. Even if he was a futile ally, that old bastard would be her trail of breadcrumbs to Matthew. Matthew, on the other hand, may be even harder to convince, but surely, he’d empathize with Elektra being reincarnated into the wrong body. He was too good. He was so good that Elektra couldn’t wait to feed off of the light in his heart. She imagined him sinking into her darkness while she flung into the light, as she would be his and he would be hers again. Forever.