He had seen you do it a few times; pursing your lips together and creating a sort smacking noise. Being relatively new to human customs, he had not the slightest idea what that behavior could mean.
You did it at certain times, directed at certain things - or more accurately, certain beings - followed by a happy smile or a small giggle.
At first he only saw you do it when you were cooing and playing with animals. Letting your hand be grabbed by the paw of the stray cat who always pushed their body against your legs, you would smile and pucker those lips and push them forward, creating a smack sound. Or when that dog starts to enthusiastically lick your face you would giggle and stick out your lips. You would also do it when you greeted family, smacking your lips together before pressing them against the cheeks. He once had asked you what that was called and you told him those were kissy faces. No clue what that meant.
And now recently, you’ve been sending these ‘kissy faces’ towards him. Smiling and breaking out in giggles whenever he caught you doing it. It send warmth through his soul, why he didn’t know. He started to ponder, until one day a realization hit him.
You always gave ‘kissy faces’ to beings you cared a lot about.
Not sure if you're still taking prompts, but maybe something about how Walter would feel after "Intercept the Redguns"?
i'm always taking prompts! i may not get round to them quickly, but i'll always endeavour to write something for them! but anyways yes, it's some angst time... hrngh
"...our work here is done. Return to the garage, 621."
Walter barely paid attention to his Hound's acknowledgement flashing across his screen. He muted his mic and leaned back in his seat, hearing it creak loudly from his shifting weight, and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling.
Unlike their garage back in Belius, the forward garage near Watchpoint Alpha was just a hastily repurposed old hangar that had a tiny concrete room stashed in the very corner of it. It was frigidly cold, even when Walter was surrounded by four portable heaters aimed directly at his rickety desk, and there was a large crack that ran from one corner of the room to the other across the ceiling.
Someone fifty years ago had tried to paint it over, but time and the relentless winter that gripped the ice fields had forced the paint to flex and warp, exposing the gaping crack for the dangerous structural flaw that it was. There wasn't anything above the ceiling, at least. It wasn't supporting any part of the hangar's metal frame, and there weren't any piping or machinery parts resting across it. If it caved in, it'd be due to its own weight, and if it held for fifty years, it could hold for the few days Walter needed to see the rest of this mission through.
A few days.
Michigan would've died in a few days anyway, Walter told himself. In a few days, his Hound would find the Coral Convergence, painting a giant target on where he and Carla needed to point the Xylem for the next stage of their plan. It was crude, maybe, but the Xylem was a colony unto itself. Even if the Convergence was mildly dispersed in an underground pocket, the explosive force of the Xylem's Coral reactors detonating on impact would cause a catastrophic chain reaction.
Walter had vague memories, of his father explaining the startling stability yet votility of Coral. It acted a little like flour, really. In open air, a spark did nothing. In condensed environments, where the particles were forced to pack tighter than their nature wanted, then a spark could cause a catastrophic chain reaction: the Xylem would be the spark for that chain reaction.
Michigan wouldn't have survived that, if he lived past this day. Knowing that idiot, he would've been fistfighting Snail on top of the Convergence itself, vying for control even as a literal colony drop was aimed right for him. Either way, now or then, Michigan would've gone down fighting - this way was probably more satisfying for him, though.
Died of a bad fall. Even with his AC exploding around him, Michigan trotted out a bad joke.
Walter made a quiet, frustrated noise, rubbing a hand over his face as he squashed down that- feeling swelling up behind his diaphragm like an immovable object. It wasn't grief, because Walter had stepped onto this planet knowing one way or another Michigan would die due to him. Michigan had been nothing more than an asset or an obstacle, depending on who was paying his Hound to point his gun where, and Walter had emotionally prepped himself for this eventuality.
What they had on Ganymede... that was the past. It didn't exist anymore. That Walter hadn't even been real, a fake fantasy while he selfishly put off his mission for a few years. It was better Michigan died now, actually. Better for Michigan to go out cracking a stupid joke in a blaze of pointless glory, oblivious to the fact that his old friend had been planning his death just a few days later anyways.
He'd always been a fool.
(Michigan? Walter? Both?)
A blinking light on his screen drew his attention, and Walter reluctantly looked to see what his Hound had sent. He'd half-expected 621 to report some remnants ambushing him and requesting direction, but instead-
"Should I have picked the other job?"
Walter stared at those words for a long moment, baffled on where the question was coming from, before he realised that 621 was more perceptive than he'd initially thought.
"...one way another, Michigan would've met his end here," Walter said. By V.IV Rusty, or by the Second Fires, it didn't matter. "There's no point dwelling on it. Our mission comes first, anyways."
"But wasn't he your friend?"
"No." Walter's voice was harsh. "Business associate. That's it."
His Hound didn't say anything else, and Walter let the conversation - short as it was - die there. He must be slipping, if a brain fried merc like 621 could pick up on his complicated feelings over Michigan. Walter always slipped whenever that idiot was concerned though. Michigan had a way of getting under his skin.
not anymore, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind. Walter ruthlessly crushed it.
It didn't matter.
It won't matter.
Not in a few days. Just a few days...
...and nothing else will matter to him, ever again.
I wish you'd write a fic where its the aftermath of a "there's only one bed" and one wakes up to the other doing or saying something surprising cause they thought the other was still asleep. <3 if ur still doing these idk?
🤩🤩🤩 I’m definitely still doing these! Ah how exciting! Stay tuned and I’ll have something up in the next couple days! 🥳🥳🥳 Ahhhh so many ideas swirling already! Which one to choose!!??
“It’s all in the smile, you know,” Flowey tells Papyrus one day. They’re hanging out in the skeleton’s basement, because it’s one of the places they can go without having to worry about being overheard, and because Papyrus is working. “Once you figure out how someone smiles, everything else about them is easy.”
“I DON’T SEE WHAT THAT HAS TO DO WITH PREPARING FOR THE HUMAN,” Papyrus says. The papers on the desk are covered in his signature scrawl, contingency after contingency written down to be looked over and filed away. He gives Flowey a sideways glance. “WE BOTH KNOW EXPRESSIONS AREN’T EVERYTHING.”
“Of course not. If anything, a smile that only shows itself on someone’s face is the one that can’t be trusted. That usually means it isn’t a smile at all.”
His own smile widens, as if in demonstration.
Papyrus turns, then, letting his chair swing around to face Flowey as he props his chin in his hand. He isn’t smiling. “I KNOW YOU DON’T LIKE MY BROTHER--”
“This isn’t about him.” Scoffing, Flowey tries his best not to roll his eyes. Succeeds. Kind of. “What I’m saying is, once you figure out how someone smiles, it doesn’t take more than that to figure out what kind of person they are. Like...ugh. Sans. And the King, too. They’re both smiling all the time, but the real smile is the things they do and say to show they’re paying attention. Or the things they don’t say.”
Papyrus narrows his eyes, obviously not happy himself with what Flowey’s put on the table, but after a moment of consideration, he nods like he understands. “DIFFERENT THINGS ARE IMPORTANT TO DIFFERENT PEOPLE.” He swivels back to his papers. “BUT I DON’T THINK I HAVE ENOUGH TIME TO WATCH THEM LONG ENOUGH TO FIGURE OUT WHAT THAT WILL BE!”
“You don’t.”
There’s an obvious conclusion to draw from that statement. Papyrus doesn’t take the bait. He just keeps writing, and writing, and Flowey wishes he was tall enough to see exactly what the skeleton is scribbling down now. Papyrus never shows him. (Papyrus is never stupid enough to write them out in anything but code anyway.)
“IF YOU KNOW THAT,” Papyrus says eventually, just when Flowey is about to decide to cut his losses and find something else to do, “THEN WHAT ABOUT YOU?”
“Huh?”
“YOU’RE RIGHT! WHEN SOMEONE IS SMILING ALL THE TIME, NO MATTER WHAT, IT USUALLY MEANS THEY’RE FAKING IT.” He stacks up his papers as he talks, gathering them up and poofing them somewhere in a muted flash of blue magic. “BUT EVEN WHEN IT’S JUST THE TWO OF US, YOU NEVER SEEM TO MEAN IT WHEN YOU SMILE. I’VE BEEN TRYING TO FIGURE IT OUT.”
It’s been so, so long since Flowey’s been able to remember what it felt like to have arms. Legs. Hands, fingers, scrapped knees. He feels the expression on his face strain suddenly, smile feeling much too thin and worn out. It settles down after a moment. Back into place, right where it belongs.
“IF IT’S JUST A HABIT, OR YOU’RE WORRIED ABOUT HAVING TO KEEP UP APPEARANCES...”
“You’re right, too,” Flowey says. “But not about what you think. It was a gift from a friend, is all.” There’s the urge to wink, to throw on a playful demeanor and turn this conversation on its head. He resists. “I haven’t seen them in a very long time.”
Flowey doesn’t have to say any more than that. Papyrus doesn’t have to respond. They both understand. And for the moment, it’s enough.
Thanks lovie for sending something in! This was so fun to write bc let’s face it, we’re all jealous hoes when it comes to Bucky xxx
Prompt #81: “Who’s texting you? - “Umm. Nobody.”
{im sorry but this gif is actually making me cry. he’s just so beautiful someone stop him}
A Naked Face & A Phone
There were a couple of Things that happened that ultimately led to your downfall.
The first Thing was Bucky got a phone.
The second was Bucky shaved for the first time since the 40′s. Like not stubble management, but actually full on shaved. Naked face and all.
Both were huge steps for him and you were so proud. You didn’t tell him that because you’re not Steve and it’d be weird. The only reason Bucky and you have ever spoken is because your the only one he let’s work on his arm.
Stark brought you in because you’re the best of the best when it comes to modern cutting edge technology (which Tony never said straight out, but it was implied and coming from Tony Stark you were flattered). Originally you were only supposed to conference with Stark about creating a new arm for one Sergeant Barnes. Help him with ideas and such because two geniuses were certainly better than one. But when you both brain stormed up a possible first model to present to Barnes before actually making it (because Barnes knows more about it than you two ever would and it would be stupid not to have him involved in the process), he took one look at the graphs and walked out without saying a word.
Tony almost chased him down being offended, furious, and exhausted from about two weeks of no sleep and too much coffee trying to make this for him with you. But you held him back and talked some of Barnes perspective into him. You figured the idea of any kind of surgery on his body would with out a doubt be one of Barnes’ big red ‘DON’T PUSH ME’ buttons on the PTSD panel in his brain.
It took a month of hard conversations and more model work-throughs before Stark, Barnes, and you decided on a final draft. You and Stark manifested this final theory into reality to make the first physical model of Barnes’s new arm. When it came time to put it on though, Barnes took one step into the surgery/tech room, one look at the metal table in the center of hovering machines and assistant drones, and plummeted into one of the most heart wrenching panic episodes you have ever witnessed. It down right broke you in two.
It took another month for Barnes to be comfortable enough to even look Tony and you in eye (not that it was personal, you had to keep reminding Tony of that), and then another month after that to agree to try again. You couldn’t blame him for his fears. Honestly, if it were you, you would have given up long ago. But Bucky has the kind of soul that is so resilient, so strong even at it’s weakest, that he truly does belong in those comic books and museum murals. He deserved to be made a constellation in the sky to be look up to an awed at. Bucky astounded you.
Of course you’ve never told him that.
It turned out that Barnes was only comfortable with you touching him and securing the new arm because during his time with Hydra, no woman ever worked on him. Sure there were women scientists, but the actual surgeries and operations and tune-ups were left to the male “doctors”. Tony, for once, wasn’t offended if maybe a little troubled. Tony understood it wasn’t about him, it wasn’t even about Barnes, it was about fear and how it controls the mind and body, irrational or not.
It’s been about a year and a half since you attached that first new arm; a year and a half of you hopelessly and secretly pinning over Bucky Barnes.
Currently, you’re sitting in your own tech room (after the realization that Bucky wouldn’t allow anything to be done to him unless you were doing it, you were permanently hired) at Stark Tower, sitting a little crooked on a rollie-stool, bent over at an odd angle, nose deep in Bucky’s newest upgraded arm: JBB Model #024.
For the last hour you have been trying to get a set of wires to cooperate in his forearm and are heavily relying on your stores of patience to not do something childish or over dramatic in front of Bucky. Bucky still couldn’t make himself sit in a chair with a high back or head rest, so instead he sits on a stool too, metal (or vibranium – courtesy of T’Challa) arm resting on the sturdy work table between you. A bunch of tools and gadgets are displayed haphazardly on the generous wide tray. At the beginning of your tune-up the tools were all perfectly organized by purpose and necessity, but as this process dragged on a lot longer than originally planned, you got sucked into the mechanics of his arm and sacrificed your pretty tray for a messy one.
Your eyes hadn’t left the inside of his arm the entire time, blindly grabbing at tools and things as you could not pull your focus away or relax the line that felt as deep as the grand fucking canyon inbetween your eyebrows. Bucky watched every tick and snap you made in his arm. At the beginning he had to watch because he never was aloud to watch before, making sure you were doing what you told him you were doing. He sometimes felt the need to apologize for treating you like a Hyrda doctor, but one look at your face and he knew you understood and weren’t even the slightest bit offended.
He was so grateful.
Bucky now watched yes to oversee progress, but his gripping fear lessened the more he trusted you, and instead his eyes had wandered to watching you. He hadn’t looked at a woman and thought, ‘She’s pretty’ in such a long time that when it happened to him in the middle of one of your regular tune-ups, he had to exercise every inch of self control to not jolt in his seat. You thankfully didn’t notice but Bucky was left with a big ol’ ball of yarn to grapple with now.
As he observes you now, focused like the world will end if you break your concentration for even a second, he gives himself permission to admire you. He’s as familiar with the planes and lines and curves of your face as you are with every inch, inside and out, of Bucky’s arm. You’re simply beautiful, and Bucky feels so refreshed at having such a human thought but also nervous because shit how does this work again? and he’s kept this precious feeling he has for you tucked safe away inside his chest. No danger of being found out because if Bucky is good at anything, its holding onto things.
Barnes believes he’s too fucked up for you, but there’s no law against admiring you from a far (or one foot away) is there? He doesn’t remember that there was. Staring is only rude if you’re caught, which he made sure he never was.
As you tinker away you’re so absorbed in your work that you don’t feel Bucky’s gaze on your face, never have. You go into this zone when you work where everything blurs out, time, hunger, thirst, rest, your surroundings, and its a curse and blessing. Tony is the only one (and Bruce) who gets that.
Now nothing short of the world blowing up could pull you from your focus –
Beep beep!
Your ears register the sound of a phone vibrating and for some reason your brain deems this ‘world blowing up’ serious because you tear your eyes away from the godforsaken wires, to see Bucky blinking down at his Stark phone, large thumb tapping across the screen.
Your sore fingers want to twitch but instead you let your left eye do the twitching instead. Before you can stop yourself because who the fuck is texting Bucky?!! you finally, after a year and a half, trip up.
“Who’s texting you?” You would like to say your voice was casual and friendly, but instead it sounded hoarse from not having spoken in a while and surprisingly sharp.
Bucky’s thumb pauses. A number of reactions and emotions flutter and tumble through him at your tone. Plus the fact that you never once have been distracted, or even made small talk, while working on his arm before and now of all times you break your streak? Bucky ends up settling on feeling mushy and warm but also like gongs were being banged on in his stomach when he hits send, locks his phone, and stuffs it back into the front pocket of his jeans before responding.
“Umm. Nobody.” Now Bucky had no idea why he lied. Obviously someone had texted him (it was Sam yelling at him in capslock accusing him of eating the last of the oreos he had called dibs on; Bucky was totally guilty of this quote ‘HEINOUS CRIME’), but for some reason a foreign instinct told Bucky to be cryptic. To be mysterious.
Barnes’ words hit you like a slap in the face. The obvious fact that you had expected him to tell you was beyond embarrassing. He might be yours in your head, but in reality he barely said two words to you. Of course it wasn’t your damn business to demand to know who’s texting him! Bucky’s looking at you from the corner of his eye like you might have another head sprouting out of your skull or something. Your heart cries and hides under metaphorical covers.
Bucky keeps his profile to you, side-eyeing you with what he hopes is a dark horse (as Nat had called him) sexy confidence, but seeing your face heat up and your eyes blink back an expression of unfiltered humiliation, before you practically stuff your face inside his arm as you get back to work, he realizes you may have misinterpreted him.
Fuck, he thinks, barely stopping himself from huffing like a child, this flirting shit is harder than I remember.
You almost can’t take the never ending Niagara Falls level of embarrassment pouring over your head and soaking your body to the bone. You want to vomit. You want to stab yourself in the eye with the electric tweezers in your hand. You also couldn’t stop even if you wanted to the rush of theories running through your head at who could be texting him. The phone is new, barely a week old so you comfort yourself that he couldn’t have gotten loads of girls’ numbers…
Yet, you’re inner asshole adds.
You know Nat is trying to rope Bucky into her matchmaking game, the same one that she’s been doing with Steve. Your heart gives an extraordinarily uncomfortable squeeze in your chest, but you’re proud to say you didn’t wheeze. You only continue working on the wires, praying you can fix them because sitting here under Bucky’s obviously disgusted eye is Purgatory itself.
Bucky hears your heart do an impressive chorus of pumps and jolts, the only hint that you’re as effected by this as he wanted you to be. Okay maybe he didn’t want to make you feel humiliated, but the confirmation that you cared was so satisfying; he actually loved you wanted to know who was texting him. Your exterior expression is back to its professional masked coolness and Bucky is hit with the itching urge to try to do something to break it again. To peel you out of your formalities and get you offering –
Offering? Bucky’s eyebrows would have knit together but his face is as cool and empty as yours, Offering him what?
Its another ten horrible minutes from hell before you finally fix those fucking wires. As quickly as you possibly can you carefully re-plate his arm, making sure everything is secure and smooth, before near leaping out of your seat and sprinting for the sliding glass door even if this is your workshop. Shut up, escaping was vital to your survival at this point. You shout some excuse about really having to go to the bathroom before Bucky can say anything, door already sliding close behind you.
Bucky stares after you, outwardly impassive, but inside there’s a hurricane of What the Actual Fuck Am I Doing?
It’s been a week since your outburst. You keep torturing yourself with re-runs of the moment to remind yourself why you need to avoid him at all costs. I mean not that you spoke that much anyway, but still you made extra sure. You wish you were cool enough to not have to avoid him and could hide your feelings so effortlessly like Natasha tried to teach you, but you were much more pathetic and therefore, weren’t good at hiding your feelings. You’re surprised you’ve gotten away with it this long. If it was a normal dude you would have been caught much sooner, but since Bucky is so far from normal you realize that’s been your cop out.
Now you’re panicking. Because Bucky, while oblivious to certain things while he re-learns how to be a man, was and still is one of the world’s most deadly assassins with instincts and reflexes as sharp as a fucking laser. Nothing got past him in a professional setting, but now that he’s realizing he can apply those same skills to everyday communication in reading people you have a fairly good dooming feeling that your time has run out.
He’ll emotionally snipe your ass so quick you won’t even know what hit you.
Bucky’s arm tune-ups are weekly. Sometimes more than once a week if there are any minor training incidents or the like. Tomorrow he’s due back in your workshop and you’ve been laying sprawled out on the carpet of your bedroom in your place in Queens for the better part of three hours.
You’ve been meticulously going over emergency procedures, installing ‘self-eject’ buttons, on multiple situations that could occur in that room. You know your end is here but goddammit you’re going in prepared. You know you might be over-dramatizing things, but you’ve been head over heels for this guy for a year and a half. You give yourself a little slack.
It’s tomorrow and your about ready to vomit sitting, or more like jittering on your stool obsessively organizing and re-organizing your tools. Your hair is tied back into a loose ponytail to keep your hair out of your face as you work, but you are tempted to yank a few strands out to hide behind. Before your nerves can get the better of you and release a curtain of your hair, Bucky strides in.
You don’t look up right away, pretending to be professionally preparing your tools for the tune-up. It’s not until Bucky grunts his usual hello and sits down, before you brave a quick glance up and do a painfully embarrassing double take. Your lips part, your fingers drop the tool you just picked up, and your lungs peace out.
Thing #2 happened. He shaved.
The once rugged look Bucky sported had disappeared completely. The loss of stubble on his face revealed the elegant lines of high cheekbones and a diamond cut jawline, high arched eyebrows sitting low and enticing over crystalline cobalt eyes, a swath of coal lashes that cast soft shadows on either side of a swooping nose sitting above the deep valley of his cupid’s bow. It all collected into this handsome portrait of old world charm and beauty.
The sound of your tool clanking against the metal of your tray wrenches you out of your staring. You fumble with it some more making an awful ruckus. Bucky is smiling fondly at you scrambling cross the work table and gently places his metal elbow down in the usual position you like it when you first start. When you eventually wrangle your tools back to their spots and a loud silence reigns over the two of you, you gently run your fingers over his arm before starting the tune-up.
Your cheeks are like two bonfires that adamantly refuse to go out. Bucky watches you blush and blush and blush and blush as you dive nose first into his arm. It’s downright adorable. He hears your heart pump unevenly and fast, doing it’s best imitation of Thumper in your chest. Bucky rolls his shoulders a little and swallows against a dry throat. He takes out his phone and opens up the messaging app.
“Sorry!” You squeak when your fingers twitch at seeing Bucky fucking texting again who the hell is he texting?! and a sensor on the inside of his bicep sends an electric jolt into Barnes’ shoulder.
Bucky feels the jolt but doesn’t do anything but smile when you look up all doe-eyed and jumpy.
“Didn’t hurt.” The supersoldier says kindly, looking in your eyes and letting his smile ink into his gaze. You bite your lip, flutter your lashes in a nervous flurry, and snap your eyes back down to his arm.
Bucky is so damn smug with himself. Knowing for sure that him possibly communicating with other people makes you jealous. At first he didn’t know why you were acting the way you were, he just knew he liked it. It wasn’t until he really thought about it that it came to him. Bucky doesn’t want to play with you, he just wanted to run a few tests of his own before going in for what he so charmingly called ‘Real Obvious Flirting Initiative’.
With a small steadying breath and without taking his eyes off you, Bucky types out a text. His smile grows with your terribly hidden jealousy as you listen to the thick pads of his thumb tap the screen. When he’s finished typing, he checks to make sure there are no weird autocorrected words then hits send.
Your phone goes off with a ding! in your back pocket. You pay no mind to it and continue to work, subconsciously plotting ways to steal his phone and see who he has in his contacts. Threatening every female in his contact list is too much right? Right, yeah too much. Maybe you could accidentally break the phone? No, Stark would get him a new one. Probably even a better one at that. You continue your devious train of thought while pacing on through the tune-up.
Thankfully Bucky doesn’t pull out his phone again, so when you finish you don’t have to bolt out of the room. Again. You look up and deliver (what you hope is) a professional smile and a nod, wiping the grease and fluid off your hands with a rag. Bucky stands, looks down at you and winks.
You’ve never felt so close to death (and maybe heaven) in your entire life.
When Bucky leaves you breathless sitting dumbly on your stool, you pull out your phone and subconsciously check for any messages.
Today 16:30
Unknown Number: Hi
You furrow your eyebrows and respond.
Today 18:12
You: Who is this?
It’s not a second before you get a reply.
Unknown Number: Next tune-up you’ll find out
Things went pretty smoothly from there. Sickeningly cute actually but you weren’t complaining (only Tony did but what’s new).
Hi so I hope you liked it! I had a blast writing jealous!reader and smug af!bucky xx
Don’t be afraid to submit something if you so desire! Drabble Prompts are here .
Everything went wrong. He’s failed multiple monsters by not catching the human sooner. He had to spread so much dust….tell so many little caring families…had to dust some of those families himself out of defense too…His soul was laying so heavy inside his chest. Times like these makes him wonder what he even was fighting for anymore…
Charon’s trudging home with dust still fresh on his hands. No matter how much he tried to wipe them or shake them off the dust stayed…tainting him even more than he already was. As if the rise in EXP wasn’t enough of a sickening reminder…
The door gets slammed closed just a tad too loud and Red is already rising up from his seat at the table, expression tense and shoulders hunched. Ready to attack if necessary, but he relaxes once he notices it wasn’t an intruder.
“boss, yer home late…troubles on patrol?” He asks, even though he knows the answer already. Charon grunts in response, feeling the exhaustion start to weigh on him.
He had been away from home for a week, having to find the human that was causing havoc in the underground. There’s had been no time to properly sleep or breathe with the ever present fear of messing up and getting dusted by his supposed comrades. Because if he showed even an inkling of weakness they would take the chance and strike in the dead of night, it loomed over him like an ever present dark cloud that inter-mangled with the damning knowledge of being just a little too late at the scene time and time again. Failed to spare the souls from a massacre, failed to capture the human before he could’ve created more damage around him. The human had been a rather tall one this time, yet he still wore his stripes…Covered in marks and scratches dripping red. He didn’t go down without a fight, Charon had watched the human fall, Charon had to get rid of the remains, the human’s last resting place was among the fire. His eyes still haunt him. They had been filled with fear…no ounce of bloodlust to be found in those eyes…yet their owner was capable of such carnage…
It would’ve broken any normal being. However, Charon couldn’t afford to be a normal being.
Charon slumped down on a chair, he couldn’t find within him the will to care to keep up the charade of being fine. Of being the ‘invincible’ Charon. What Charon was was tired…bone tired, so, so, so tired…
“should i whip some up, boss?”
Charon managed to nod. And that was all Red needed to give his brother a pat on the shoulder before make his way to the kitchen. Goggles still stuck to his head, he set to work. Charon takes a look at the machinery spread out on the table: a broken tv, some busted junk and some traps that needed rewiring.
It seemed Red had been busy fixing stuff in return for favors when Charon had been away. Dangerous business. If he didn’t leave his customers satisfied there could be a chance he would be snitched on to the Royal guards. Helping him would be hard then.
Charon couldn’t force Red to stop since it was what kept both of them alive before Charon managed to get into the royal guard. Only homage to his opinion was that Red worked when Charon was away.
Red came back with a big plate a little while later, placing it infront of his brother. “want me to stay or get outta here?”
Charon snorted, “Stay…” He was too tired to even keep the tough guy persona in front of Red…plus, the thought of being alone with his thoughts was…unpleasant to put it gently. Red’s company was appreciated.
Red gave him an understanding look. “sure thing…bro.” He said, grabbing a plate for himself too and plopped down next to Charon. “give me some of those fuckers. ‘m hungry.” Charon watched as red scooped up two waffles from his plate, drowning one in syrup and the other in a disgusting amount of mustard. And as Charon looked down at his own plate of waffles he felt his soul get a tad lighter. Remembering what it was worth to fight through another day.
Oh dammit, why did you kiss his cheek when he had his hood on, now you can’t see his reaction at all. Anxiety coursed through your veins as you waited for what seemed like an eternity.
“M-Mastiff…?”
Did-did you go too far? Had you assumed wrong? Oh god, what if you crossed a boundary and he hated you now?
Your mind is racing with all kinds of possibilities, all negative ones of course. Until you saw Mastiff move. The only warning you got was a mumbling sound of what you think you heard was “fuck it” before you were yanked by the collar of your shirt.
While you were panicking inside your mind, Mastiff’s wasn’t exactly taking a coffee break either.
It only took a second for Mastiff to process what just happened. He’s mentally fist pumping the air, while shouting from the rooftops the adrenaline inducing feelings of glee that flooded his soul. Pumping into every inch of bone marrow inside his body.
Rationality and cautions had been thrown to the wind the moment he looked at your eyes, and heard the unsure call of his name.
Mastiff’s soul is racing, it’s slamming against his chest rapidly, as if trying to burst out and jump to you.
He lets his body do the talking. Thrusting out his arm, he clenches a fist full of the fabric from your collar. And yanked you towards him. Mastiff can’t restrain the urge anymore, he can’t withstand his soul commanding him to get a taste of what he’s been denying himself from for so long.
How did this happen? It didn’t matter to Coal, especially since the little furballs kept him way too preoccupied to think of anything else. There he was, sitting in quite a creative position as cats and kittens climbed and walked all over him. One big spotted cat was sleeping soundly on his back while a small kitten was licking and sniffing experimentally at the nape of his neck. One kitten was playing with the fabric of his open jacket and another cat was walking against his side, giving him headbuts. One big gray cat was staring into his sockets, looking for something. She meowed softly before giving Coal’s face a poke with her paw.
