Y’all, he’s here and for a limited time only.

Edit: Holllddd on-

He has a throne.

🤨

Fix You

Sypnosis - You'd only known her for a flicker of a moment, but in that moment she had become everything to you. To have her ripped away without so much as a moment to process, it was only inevitable that everything would come crumbling down.

Pairing - Suguru Geto x ! Female ! Reader

Warning(s) - mature themes, foul language, canon JJK violence, main character death (not Reader), allusions to suicide, unresolved angst, loss, guilt, slight canon divergence

Word Count - 8.2k (I am so proud of every single word)

Author's Note - This piece might have taken YEARS off of my expected lifespan, but what can I say, I live for the angst.

! PIECE BEGINS UNDERNEATH THE CUT !

“Just be safe, yeah?” you say with a smile on your face, smoothing your hands over the shoulders of Geto’s uniform. His expression mirrors your own — a soft smile curling the corners of his lips upward as he gazes at you.  

“Yeah, promise,” he responds, nodding his head at you. Your smile momentarily widens, the smile lines on your face indenting deeper. You push yourself onto tiptoe, pressing a gentle kiss against Geto’s cheek. 

The moment is then immediately soiled by a loud, fake retching sound from a certain snowy-haired male. Both you and Geto turn — the latter already biting back the sarcastic quip that rises in his throat.  

“Do I get one too?” Gojo asks, crossing his arms dramatically over his chest as he swaggers to you and Geto, craning his neck and jabbing his cheek in your direction. You giggle, removing your hands from Geto’s shoulders — which he nearly protests — and instead you lay your palms against Gojo’s cheeks.  

“Dramatic ass,” you tease, then laying a kiss against Gojo’s cheek before you shove him away. He sticks his tongue out at Geto as he stumbles, who only rolls his eyes.  

“Come on Satoru, I don’t want to be out all day,” Geto complains, glancing up at you. You smile, nose scrunching in that way that always warms Geto’s chest — he fights the urge to kiss the small wrinkle in the bridge of your nose.  

“Yeah, yeah, m’coming,” Gojo waves off Geto’s rushing, turning his head to flash you one last smile before he jogs to catch up to Geto’s side.  

“(Y/N) is gonna have a field day chewing us out,” Gojo complains, tilting his head back and letting out the dramatic sigh that he had been holding in his chest. Geto nods in agreement, turning his head just enough to cast a glance over his shoulder.  

Riko is still rambling on about all of the things that she wants to do, which mainly includes the simplistic aspects of life. She had already voiced to both Geto and Gojo that she wanted to live life normally — and she had also voiced her want to not constantly be followed by both males.  

Geto can’t help the smile that curls the corner of his lips upward, silently watching as Riko speaks in a manner similar to that of an animated character, spreading her arms wide and smiling brightly at Kuroi, who watches the young girl with softened eyes.  

“Yeah, but she’ll be more than happy to help with Riko,” Geto points out, turning his attention back to his scowling best friend. Gojo sighs, the force of his breath blowing his bangs from his eyes. “Better that she deals with Riko than us,” he adds with a wiggle of his brow, an action that pulls a breathy yet dry chuckle from Gojo’s throat.  

“True,” Gojo hums in agreement, lifting his hands to place them palm flat against the back of his neck. He turns his head, glancing at Riko for a fleeting moment before he turns back to face forward. “D’you think Riko will like (Y/N)?” 

“Who doesn’t like (Y/N)?” Geto answers quickly. His jaw snaps shut, cheeks blazing a light shade of pink as he realizes what it was that he had just said. Gojo catches him, but he bites back the sarcastic quip though he so desperately wants to dish it out. “Shut up, let’s just head back.” 

< … > 

“Y’know, I’m glad that you and Satoru are taking the vessel — sorry, Riko — on a little getaway. It’s sweet of you both,” you say with a smile, leaning back against your pillows. On the other line, Geto lets out a small chuckle, the sound bringing a bout of butterflies to your stomach — God, you were smitten with your boyfriend.  

“Not really sweet. We’re doing it because she asked for it,” Geto responds, turning his head to glance at both Riko and Gojo — both of whom were bickering for what felt like the hundredth time that day. He rolls his eyes with a grin on his face, returning his attention to his phone call with you.  

“Still, the fact that you both agreed to it is sweet enough,” you tease lovingly. Geto grins at the smile in your voice, wishing that he could see it. “Maybe I can convince Yaga to come with you three.” 

“Please,” Geto breathes, closing his eyes. He chuckles breathily after speaking, glancing once more at Riko and Gojo before he faces forward again. “I don’t know how much more of their bickering I can take.” 

“I’ll talk to him in the morning. You three get some sleep, ‘kay?” you say softly, and immediately Geto wants to protest — he doesn’t want to hang up just yet. It had been days without seeing you, the most he was able to do was video call you, but even that wasn’t the same as being with you physically.  

“Okay,” he relents, his shoulders sagging slightly. “G’night baby.” 

“Night Sugu, I love you.” 

“I love you more.” He removes the phone from his ear, pressing his thumb against the red hang-up button and turning on his heel to face both Riko and Gojo. “C’mon, (Y/N) said for us to get some rest before tomorrow.” 

Gojo snaps his jaw shut at the mention of your name, turning to face Geto and completely forgetting about Riko — who stares at the snowy-haired male with her jaw slack. But her anger over being ignored dissolves quickly into curiosity. She had heard that name several times already — (Y/N).  

“Who’s (Y/N)?” Riko inquires, tilting her head and crossing her legs on top of the blankets of the motel’s bed. She rests her hands palm flat against her legs, her gaze flickering between Geto and Gojo — both of whom exchange a glance that almost says, “We don’t want to say anything.” 

“(Y/N) is-“ 

“(Y/N) is Suguru’s girlfriend,” Gojo answers with an indifferent shrug, playing off the stern glare that Geto immediately shoots in his direction. Riko’s eyebrows raise — she certainly hadn’t expected that to be the response. She had expected “sister” or “cousin”, but certainly not “girlfriend.”  

“Girlfriend? You?” Riko points a finger at Geto’s chest, her eyes narrowing momentarily at him. In response, Geto slowly nods at her, not knowing what to make of the expression on the teenage girl’s face. “I’m shocked.” 

Gojo snickers, slapping a palm over his mouth and turning away so that Geto wouldn’t notice him laughing. Geto turns, glaring first at Gojo before his eyes snap back to Riko, who tries — and fails — to hide a smile of her own.  

“You’re both hilarious, now go to bed.” 

< … > 

Have you spoken to Yaga yet? 

Sent : 11:40 

Yeah, I just left his office. He said as long as we lay low, there isn't an issue with me joining you. 

Sent : 11:41 

I'll send you our location then. 

Sent : 11:42 

Okay babe! See you soon &lt;3 

Sent : 11:42 

Geto smiles quietly to himself, trying to hide the curl of his lips from Gojo and Riko – not that he had to try very hard. Gojo and Riko were, like usual, busy with bickering with one another over God only knows what. Kuroi, bless her soul, is trying her hardest to settle the arguing – but to no avail.  

"Hey, Satoru," Geto calls out, effectively stopping the childish arguing between Gojo and Riko. The snowy-haired male turns at the call of his name, speeding up his steps to fall into line with Geto. He furrows his eyebrows together, silently urging Geto to continue speaking. "Yaga approved the request for (Y/N) to join us. She'll meet us here in Okinawa." 

"Thank God," Gojo says, casting a sharpened glare in Riko's direction – which Riko responds to by sticking her tongue out. She crosses her arms over her chest, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t a little excited to meet you.  

“She’ll be here sometime in the afternoon, so you’ll have to occupy yourself until then,” Geto teases, chuckling as Gojo punches him in the shoulder. Riko watches on, feeling herself smile at the interaction — maybe being stuck with these two wasn’t as bad as she had made it out to be.  

And maybe you were even better. 

&lt; … > 

“(Y/N/N)!” Gojo calls out, his hands cupping over his mouth as he spots you in the distance. He lifts his hand in a wave once your body turns, eyes falling on him.  

You easily make your way over, beelining for both Geto and Gojo. Your arms lock around Geto first, smiling widely as his arms wrap firmly around your waist, lifting you from the ground. 

You crane your neck to look down at Geto, your hands moving to hold the sides of his face as you guide his lips to yours, kissing him sweetly and smiling against him.   

It’s the dramatic retching and spitting that makes you pull back from Geto — and of course, Gojo is doubled over pretending to vomit.  

Geto sets you down, still holding your hips as your head turns to glance at Gojo. Shaking your head, you roll your eyes, scoffing at the male’s behavior.  

You turn back to Geto, choosing to ignore Gojo’s theatrics in favor of sweetly reuniting with your boyfriend after however many days it had been since he’d first set off from Jujutsu Tech.  

“Hi,” you whisper, scrunching your nose at him as you smile. This time, Geto leans in to kiss the bridge of your nose, laughing breathily when he pulls back and catches sight of your flustered expression.  

“Hi baby,” he smiles at you, chuckling as you move to bury your face into his shoulder. His hand tangles in your hair, fingernails scraping lightly against your scalp — the action has you curling further into him like a cat. 

“Wow, so I don’t get a hello at all?” Gojo calls out dramatically, throwing his hands into the air and pouting childishly, crossing his arms over his chest.  

Your groan of protest is caught by the fabric of Geto's shirt, the rumble of your chest against his own bringing a soft smile to Geto's lips. You disconnect from Geto's arms, turning on your heel and opening your arms to Gojo – which he runs into without a single ounce of hesitation.  

"Satoru!" You can't help but bite back the laugh that bubbles up in your throat as Gojo all but tackles you to the ground, nearly knocking you off of your feet from the force at which he runs at you. You let out a hearty laugh the second that his body knocks into yours, your feet lifting from the ground as Gojo messily spins you around in a fashion similar yet not to Geto.  

"Thank God you're here!" Gojo loudly complains, his voice just as dramatic as it always had been. You smile widely, holding tightly onto Gojo's neck so that you wouldn't fall to the ground.  

"Alright Satoru, calm down," Geto says sternly, reaching a hand out and grasping his friend's shoulder. The touch prompts Gojo to set you down. You smile in thanks, nodding once to Geto before you finally notice the unfamiliar face that stares curiously at you – the Star Plasma Vessel.  

Your eyes soften as you gaze at her – she was much younger than you had expected, at least two or three years below you. Following your gaze, both Geto and Gojo step out of your way, allowing you and Riko to meet on your own terms rather than accidentally forcing you both into conversation.  

"Hi, I'm (Y/N)," you say with a kind smile, extending your hand in Riko's direction and waiting patiently for her to take it. Relaxed, the young girl smiles right back at you, folding her hand into yours and joyously shaking it.  

"Hi! I'm Riko," the girl bubbles, her smile seemingly widening as you release her hand. You have to admit, seeing her so happy, even given her situation, was heartwarming in a way that you couldn't put into words. You chuckle gently at her, then shifting your attention to the older woman that stands at Riko's side – she eyes you with a mixture of curiosity and hesitance.  

Riko follows your gaze, glancing at Kuroi and smiling as her gaze and attention returns to you. "Oh! That's Kuroi," Riko introduces the older woman, gesturing warmly to her in a way that has you assuming she may be Riko's mother or older sister – or something of the like.  

"It's nice to meet you Kuroi. I'm (Y/N)," you reintroduce yourself, extending your hand in Kuroi's direction. Her eyes flicker down to your outstretched fingers, eyeing them with a raised eyebrow. You understand her hesitation – you were nothing but a stranger to her after all.  

With a gentle nudge from Riko, Kuroi shakes your hand, offering you a shaky smile – one that you reciprocate kindly. "It's nice to meet you as well." 

The moment that Kuroi's hand leaves yours, Riko is quick to hook her arm into your own, gently tugging you in the direction of the shops that Geto and Gojo had previously promised that they could visit. You let out a small chuckle, allowing yourself to be dragged away by Riko, who immediately begins to talk your ear off about just how annoying she found Geto and Gojo. 

"Good to see that they get along nicely," Kuroi comments fondly, placing a hand palm flat against her chest as a soft smile curls her lips upward. Geto nods in agreement, watching yours and Riko's retreating figures with softened eyes. 

"Come on, you and I both know that (Y/N) is gonna make me pay for everything," Gojo complains, his voice carrying its usual dramatic whine as he drags his feet to follow you and Riko. Geto and Kuroi chuckle in response, following Gojo.  

< … >  

"You care about her," Geto says suddenly, his eyes flickering to you as you sit quietly on the beach beside him. With a grin, you curl your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around yourself and watching as Riko and Gojo chase each other through the ocean's shallow end.  

Your eyes soften as you watch Riko kick water up at Gojo, laughing loudly as he tries to shield himself (mostly his hair) from getting wet – always the dramatic one.  

"Yeah," you whisper, turning your head and leaning your cheek against your knee, your gaze meeting Geto's. He stares back at you with warm eyes, that which crinkle at the corners as his lips tug upward. His hand extends, a finger running lovingly along your cheek. For a moment, absolutely nothing else matters – not the mission, not the Star Plasma Vessel, not anything.  

All that matters is that you're with Geto.  

You nuzzle lovingly into his affectionate touch, actively seeking more of it – which Geto is more than happy to provide. His finger is replaced by the palm of his hand, thumb swiping at the area just underneath your eyes. "It's sweet, you know." 

"Oh shush, you're going soft for her too," you bite back teasingly, smirking as Geto removes his hand from your cheek. You whine at the loss of contact, but you continue to smirk at Geto nonetheless. He rolls his eyes playfully at you, his gaze momentarily flickering to catch a glimpse of Riko and Gojo – both of whom are still chasing each other around the ocean's shoreline.  

"Not true," Geto attempts to retaliate, but the light pink hue of his cheeks immediately gives him away. You lift a finger, poking one of Geto's burning cheeks and smirking again at him.  

"Sure about that?" 

"Oh shush," Geto chuckles, placing his palm flat against your face and playfully shoving you away. Your laugh is caught by his skin, breath fanning against his palm. He smiles as he removes his hand, feeling his heart warm at the sight of the smile plastered onto your face.  

"Hey! Lovebirds!" Riko calls out, cupping her hands over her mouth and smiling as she waves at both you and Geto. You turn your head to her, laughing as she places her hands on her hips. "Are you just gonna sit there the entire time?" 

You grin at Geto, kissing his cheek fleetingly before pushing yourself to stand, closing the distance between yourself and Riko and placing your hands into her awaiting ones. She drags you gently into the water, laughing as you gasp at the cold water that licks at your ankles.  

Suddenly, a spray of cold water hits your back. With a squeal, you turn to look at the culprit, positively fuming as Gojo stands proudly behind you, knelt in the water with his hands raised in the air. You glare at him, snapping your fingers and smirking to yourself as the water surrounding Gojo raises to his height, then completely dousing him in freezing saltwater.  

Riko laughs, crossing her hands over her stomach and doubling over to follow the force of her laughter. You turn your head to smile at her, heart swelling at the sound of the young girl's laughter.  

< … >  

"What's Jujutsu Tech like?" Riko inquires curiously, falling into step with you as you walk ahead of Geto, Gojo, and Kuroi, all of whom had opted to remain a few steps behind you claiming that they were remaining on the lookout for any potential threats.  

You hum in thought, folding your hands behind your back as you allow yourself to get lost in the scenery that surrounds you – thickened trees and hanging branches providing you with shade that is a welcome contrast to the blazing sun. You smile, tilting your head just enough to glance at Riko through your peripheral.  

"Well, to us, it's like any other school. But to you, I'd assume it'll look like a castle," you respond jokingly, not failing to notice the smile that curls the corner of Riko's lips upward. She lets out a small giggle as she walks beside you, mimicking you and looking around at the trees that line the pathway to Jujutsu Tech's front entrance.  

The silence that hangs over both you and Riko is comfortable, comfortable enough that she sidesteps towards you and affectionately knocks her shoulder against your own. You smile, turning your head to look at Riko, who only returns your smile just as brightly.  

"Maybe somewhere else I could have gone to Jujutsu Tech with you," Riko mutters, her voice almost too quiet for you to hear. Her words tug at your heartstrings – in a way, you felt guilty that there was no real solution that you could offer. Her sole purpose was to serve as a vessel for Tengen, and it was your job to deliver her to Tengen so that he could continue...whatever it was that he did.  

You swallow the lump in your throat, not knowing what to say. You had honestly wished for the same thing – maybe in some other universe you and Riko would have been able to attend school together. Maybe you would have trained her to become a strong Jujutsu Sorcerer. Maybe.  

Softly, you reach out to interlock your fingers with hers, squeezing at her hand and willing yourself to smile at her. She returns it, though both of your lips are trembling with a deepened sadness. "Maybe. Don't think like that though. I'm glad we were able to spend time together in this one." 

Riko's smile trembles slightly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. You chuckle breathily, reaching out with your thumb to swipe at her lash line, catching the tears just before they're able to fall. "Yeah," she agrees quietly, nodding her head at you.  

"We're almost there," Geto calls out from behind your back, smiling softly at you as you turn to acknowledge him. You nod curtly, then returning your attention to Riko, who had squeezed your hand as you walked beneath the entrance archway.  

"You ready Riko?" 

Riko inhales deeply, feeling her worry ebb away as you squeeze at her fingers again.  

"Yeah." 

< ... >  

"You okay?" Geto's voice is almost too quiet for you to hear, but your ears perk at his whisper nonetheless. You turn your head just enough to glance at him, blinking past the tears in your eyes as you silently watch Riko bid Kuroi farewell, squeezing at her caretaker and sobbing quietly into her shoulder.  

You swallow the lump in your throat, lifting your hands and swiping your fingers against your eyes, not wanting to cry. Geto softens at your actions, letting out a small sigh through his nose – but he says nothing about your concealed tears, if anything, he understands.  

"Yeah, m'fine," you murmur in response, forcing yourself to smile as Riko turns then to you, tears rolling down her cheeks as an aftermath to saying goodbye to Kuroi. The young girl quickly closes the distance between you, wrapping her arms around you and burying her face into the crook of your neck. 

You sigh shakily, holding her tightly against you and resting your cheek against the side of her head. Her body shakes against your own, her tears staining the shoulder of your uniform – but you cannot care any less.  

"Can you walk in with me?" Riko whispers into your shoulder, keeping her voice low enough so that only you can hear what she says. You feel yourself shakily smile, your arms momentarily squeezing around her.  

"Of course," you whisper back, smiling as she disconnects herself from your arms to return your teary smile. "I'd never make you go in there alone, especially not with Suguru," you tease, both you and Riko sharing a tear-filled laugh as Geto loudly protests over your shoulder – but he smiles all the same.  

The moment is soiled then by the remembrance of what you had come down to Tengen's for. You release your hold on Riko, opting instead to gently hold her hand as Geto begins to lead the pair of you down to Tengen.  

The three of you walk in relative silence, Riko holding tightly onto your hand as she walks at your side. Every now and then, she sniffles softly – a sound that tugs at your heart the more that you listen to it. You squeeze at her hand as reassuringly as you can, offering her what you hope is a gentle smile – but even you know that the tremble in your lips is on full display.  

Geto walks a few steps ahead of you and Riko, his hands stowed away in his pockets as he listens both to your trembled breathing and to Riko's soft sniffs. He would never admit it aloud, but he too felt as if Riko had taken on a younger sister role in his life – even though she had entered his life as nothing more than a package to be delivered. And he would never admit it aloud, but he somewhat wanted Riko to refuse the assimilation.  

If not for his sake, then he hoped she would refuse for yours.  

"Well, here we are," Geto says suddenly, stopping and looking down at Tengen's barrier. You and Riko stop at his side, hands still intwined as you both peer curiously around the room. Riko lifts her free hand to her eyes, swiping away the stray tears that lingered on her cheeks before she turns to you.  

"I-I think I'm ready," she stutters out, swallowing the scared sob that claws at the base of her throat. You soften, turning momentarily to make fleeting eye contact with Geto, who only stares at both you and Riko with a softness that felt similar to that of a loving husband and older brother.  

You nod at Geto, turning to Riko and removing your hand from her own and opting instead to place your palms flat atop her shoulders. You stare at her, and she returns your gaze with a curious pinch to her eyebrows.  

"Riko, I want you to listen carefully to me. You don't have to do any of this. We could easily forget this assimilation entirely and go back to Kuroi and Satoru. Hell, I'll even take you back to Okinawa so that we could finish shopping together," you laugh through your tears, which roll freely down your cheeks. Riko stares back at you, slightly stunned.  

"All you have to do is say the word," you whisper.  

Riko swallows, feeling tears build in the backs of her eyes. Her rosy cheeks darken, her eyes crinkle, her lips tremble – she's on the verge of tears all over again.  

Her eyes fall shut, her mind mulling over your words. Did she really want this assimilation? Or was she doing it simply because that's what everyone wanted her to do? 

"I want to be with everyone longer," she pauses to hiccup, "I want to see all kinds of things and just do more!" 

You smile softly at her, removing your hands from her shoulders and holding your hand out to her – just like you had done that day you met her.  

She reaches for you, her lips turned upward in that soft smile that you had grown oh-so-fond of.  

BANG! 

Riko's body crumples to the side, falling to the floor with a dull and lifeless thud. You freeze, hand still extended, fingers twitching in waiting – still waiting for Riko's. Your eyes widen, mind unable to process anything but the incessant ringing in your ears.  

At your side, Geto stands stiff as a board, his expression almost a perfect mirror of your own. His eyes wander down to Riko's body, gaze fixating itself on the steady stream of blood that pours from the bullet wound to the side of her head. Her eyes are open in everlasting shock, one final tear rolling down her face before it grossly mixes with the blood that surrounds her.  

Your eyes shift only when you hear footsteps approaching, gaze flickering upward to watch as an unknown man strolls into the room, knocking the handle of his gun against his head. A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth, an amused glint to his tired eyes.  

He doesn't say anything immediately, instead waiting to close the distance between himself, you, and Geto. The arm that holds his gun lowers to his side, and in a fit of mock curiosity, he tilts his head to the side.  

"That was easier than I thought," he comments offhandedly, glancing between Riko's body and you. Your shoulders rise and fall in heaving breaths – breaths that you're unsure are heavy because of anger or sadness. You want so badly to rush the man and give him hell, but something holds you back from doing so.  

Geto reaches out instinctively, moving your body behind his own protectively as the man draws closer. You let him – the ringing in your ears is strong enough to hold all of your attention. Your eyes return to Riko, praying that maybe – just maybe – she would stir and sit up. You could take her right back to Okinawa, and everything would be right again.  

"(Y/N), get out of here," Geto says quietly, his voice nothing but a muffled buzz in your ears. You nod numbly at him, sidestepping around his body and making a break for the exit. You know that it's wrong – how blindly you listened to him and left him with someone that could potentially end his life.  

You screw your eyes shut as you sprint down the hallway, feeling tears finally sting your eyes as the realization of what had happened seeps into the cracks of your mind. You'd failed. You had failed everything. You promised her that you'd protect her, that you would take her back to Okinawa, that you would show her the world that she had been so scared to lose.  

A harsh sob rips from your chest as you skid to a stop, doubling over and placing your hands on your knees. Underneath the weight of your guilt, you crumble. Your knees strike the ground as your hands grip at your chest now, clawing at the fabric of your uniform as if it suffocates you.  

You bow your head down, gritting your teeth as your body shakes with the weight of your sobs. Your hair shades down over your face, creating a veil around it and preventing anyone from looking directly at you. Your lips part, and from the deepest depths of your throat, you scream.  

< … > 

Hey baby, Shoko was asking for you. 

Sent : 12:06 

Saw a cat outside a coffee shop today, thought maybe you'd want a picture of it. 

Sent : 15:00 

Left you some dinner outside of your door, please eat something. 

Sent : 04:17 

Movie night tonight?  

Sent : 06:15 

Pressing two fingers against the side of your phone, you silence it, then tossing the device as far away from yourself as you can. The clatter of the phone against the floor does little to stir you – the comfort of your sheets was stronger than any Cursed Energy, and you'd be damned if you were leaving it.  

How long had it been since that day anyway? 

Days? Weeks?  

Hell -- it could have been months. In truth, you didn't know. The days had started melding together a very long time ago, everything felt the same – nothing was new. Everything felt bleak, like an old movie that you had accidentally left on perpetual repeat.  

You turn over in bed, facing the wall. Your eyes feel heavy, but the moment that you close them you know exactly what it is that you'll see. You'll see whatever wisps you have left of her.  

Do you even remember what she looks like anymore? 

Your chest tightens at the realization, and instinctively your body curls inward. Your knees touch your chest as you adjust yourself into a fetal position, screwing your eyes shut and biting back the sobs as they rise in your throat.  

There wasn't a day that went by where you didn't blame yourself. You were a Sorcerer, you were quite literally trained to protect the people around you. But no, you were so focused on convincing her on a situation that she was already decided on – you failed to protect her because of your own selfishness.  

God forbid you had lifted your head, even if it was just to sneak a peek at the rest of Tengen's barrier. Would you have spotted him? Wait, of course you would've – Geto had once complimented your ability to keep your head on a constant swivel.  

You could've activated your Cursed Technique, you were always the swiftest of your classmates. You could've saved her – Riko would have been fine.  

But you didn't do any of that. Instead, you held her shoulders and tried to play mother dearest. It was your tear-filled monologue that got her killed.  

"Fuck," you mutter, the dull ache in your chest deepening as you spiral into a pit of your own regret. Your hand comes to bunch up the fabric of your shirt, clawing at it as if it were choking you. "'M sorry..." 

You can feel yourself beginning to cry, but your body is unable to produce a fresh round of tears. You whimper quietly, lips parting to release the soft sobs that you had been forcefully holding in your chest. The sheets that cover your shoulders shake in sync with you – but they continue to serve their purpose in keeping you concealed from the world. 

Across your room, you can hear your phone buzzing against the ground. Suguru. 

How long had it been since you last saw Suguru? 

It felt like you were punishing yourself, keeping yourself holed up in your room and limiting your interactions with anyone – Gojo, Geto, and Shoko felt more like figments of your imagination. They felt like strangers to you. And in a way, maybe they were.  

Your thoughts are interrupted by a knock at your door. The ringing in your ears dies down, leaving you alone in the silence of your room – you almost wish for the ringing to come back. Any noise was better than none at all, and with the way your mind had been whispering lately, you'd rather an incessant ring.  

You turn your head halfway, yet you don't move from the familiar comfort of your bed.  

"(Y/N)? Baby, it's me." It's Geto. Fuck, it's Geto. 

You don't answer, shifting back to your original position and sighing shakily. Even though every part of you wants to open that door and promptly collapse into his arms, you force yourself to remain rooted to your place. You force your eyes shut, praying that your silence would turn him away.  

"It's been – God – I don't even know how long it's been. We're – I'm worried about you," Geto pauses, likely to swallow the growing lump in his throat, "I just want to know if you're okay." 

Your lips wobble, and for the first time in days you feel the familiar sensation of tears sliding down your cheeks. Your hands curl around your sheets, tugging them impossibly further around you.  

On the floor, your phone buzzes again. For a moment, you wonder just how many unread messages you have. How many were from Gojo? Or Geto? Or Shoko? Or maybe you were just imagining the sounds, maybe they really didn't care at all.  

"Please open the door." He sounds so desperate, so broken. The fact that it was your fault that he felt so helpless only added to your already debilitating guilt and regret. Your punishment was making everyone else suffer – you were the reason why everyone was worried. Selfish, selfish, selfish. 

And you want to. You want to stand from your bed and open the door, you want to fall into Geto's arms and sit with him in nothing but that comfortable silence that always followed you when you were with him. You craved it – or rather you craved the normalcy of it all.  

Selfishly, you don't. You close your eyes and telepathically will Geto to just leave. A little part of you hopes that he won't, but the rest of you wants him to.  

You know that he won’t leave though — knowing Geto he was definitely sitting with his back against your door, waiting patiently for you to either respond or let him in.  

A shame that you would do neither. 

Your hands curl into white-knuckled fists with the strength of your grip, keeping your eyes glued shut and praying — no — hoping that Geto would just leave you to rot.  

“Y’know, we can talk about whatever you’re thinking about.” 

You sigh shakily, opening your eyes and staring blankly at your wall. He’d never leave you to rot, even if you shoved and begged him.  

Talk? What would talking do? Would it bring back the piece of you that was ripped from your hands and shattered like nothing? 

Your body turns halfway, ears pricked and patiently waiting for Geto to continue. Shockingly, you want him to keep talking. It’s a nice distraction. 

“I don’t know what exactly you’re thinking right now, and I know that you definitely don’t want to delve into it,” Geto pauses to exhale shakily — it makes you wonder if he’s out there crying. "I want to help you, you've helped me through so many rough patches and the fact that you're not letting me help you now...it's killing me." 

Go. 

Your hands push at your sheets, the cool air from your dorm hugging at your exposed legs. Your body cracks as you stand from your bed, but you ignore the dull ache in your bones. The distance between your bed and the door once seemed like a never ending hallway, one with twists and turns that would throw you off course and make you return to the starting point.  

Oddly enough, now that distance seems much shorter.  

You walk across your room, stepping past your phone on the floor and pausing just as you reach the door. You stare silently at the wood, eyes drifting down to the doorhandle. You were so close, if you just lifted your hand- 

"I love you so much (Y/N). So please, let me help you." 

Your eyes fall shut, body curling back from the door. With invisible hands, your sheets call out to you, beckoning you sweetly to return to what was familiar – back to square one.  

You shake your head, turning on your heel and lowering yourself to the floor, your back sliding down the door until you're sitting on the floor. Your knees curl up to your chest, arms winding around them in a self-hug as you lean your head back, listening quietly to Geto's shaky breathing on the other side.  

< … > 

Bzzt. Bzzt. 

One year. 

You stare blankly down at the reminder, thumb quickly jerking to delete its existence. It had been a miracle enough that you'd made it six months – a year didn't really feel real to you. Not yet at least.  

You knew deep down that it would sink in later, when you weren't surrounded by people and when you were sitting in the twisted comfort of your own sadness. But now, you had to act like a person, not a puppet who just happened to wear human skin.  

In front of you stands Gojo, Geto, and Shoko. For the better part of an hour, Shoko had been trying to teach both boys about her Reverse Cursed Technique, wanting them to be able to heal themselves so that she wouldn't have to exert herself every time that they returned from missions.  

But just like everything else that they did together, Geto and Gojo were about as intelligent as two monkeys attempting to complete a Rubix cube. In any other circumstance, you would have laughed at them and teased them endlessly. 

Now? 

Now you stared blankly at them, eyes devoid of anything that might have rendered you human. All of those sleepless nights had finally caught up to you, claiming your body like a demon would its unfortunate host. You wanted to crack a smile, prove to them that you had healed somewhat since everything had happened – but they knew just as well as you that it would be another one of the many lies spoken by your tongue.  

"C'mon Shoko, you know we can't do this," Gojo complains loudly, his voice an incessant whine as he leans forward, glancing over the rims of his glasses to send a playful glare in Shoko's direction. She rolls her eyes at him, hands holding her hips as she waves a finger in his face.  

"Would you stop complaining?" Geto retaliates, reaching a hand over and whacking the back of the snowy-haired male's head. He yelps at the contact, both of his hands cupping the back of his head.  

"Ow! (Y/N), come and control him!" Gojo turns to you for salvation, but pauses at the expression on your face. Your lips are downturned in a half-frown, eyes staring at nothing in particular. He glances at Geto, who had also turned to look at you.  

"(Y/N)?" he calls out to you. His voice has your head shaking, bringing yourself back to reality and breaking you from whatever trance you had fallen victim to. "Everything okay love?" 

You're quick to nod, sending Geto what you think is a smile – but it resembles more of a poor attempt at a smirk. "Fine," you answer quickly. His heart sinks, he wants so desperately to take every bit of pain that you constantly shouldered, but you were so adamant on dealing with everything on your own that he had simply...stepped to the side.  

Shoko claps her hands together, effectively redirecting all attention to herself – an action that you were thankful for. It was one thing to be constantly doted on by your boyfriend, but to then drag in both of your best friends? Saying that you felt like a complete burden would be the understatement of the century.  

Gojo turns his attention back to Shoko without a second thought; he had never been good with emotions, and watching your downward spiral was something that he just...couldn't help with. He wanted to, God, of course he wanted to. But he lacked the understanding of how to do it.  

Geto is hesitant to turn around, not wanting you to think that he was turning his back on you. The last thing that he wanted was for you to suffer in silence, even though that seemed to be the one thing that you wanted. No, he loved you far too much to let you crumble to your own demons. So he gripped his sword in his hand and fought them at your side – no matter how much you kicked and screamed at him to go away. 

You sigh shakily, teeth catching your bottom lip as the reminder from your phone flickers across your memory again. One whole year.  

Even with a whole year having gone by, that regret and guilt still followed you like a stray dog. The moment that you muttered to yourself, "I'm okay," that dog would nip at you with a force that sent you crumbling to the ground.  

You look upward, blinking away the tears that burn the backs of your eyes and focusing all of your attention on the trio in front of you.  

< … > 

“What do you mean (Y/N)’s gone?” Geto asks with an incredulous raise of his eyebrows, looking at Gojo as if he had sprouted another head.  

Gojo inhales deeply, bracing his hands on his knees as a result of sprinting so wildly at Geto once he had heard news of your sudden disappearance.  

“(Y/N) left. Shoko said that she tried to get her to stay, but it was no use,” Gojo says breathlessly. Geto shakes his head, not wanting to believe anything that Gojo was saying — but the expression on his face douses Geto with the cold reality that this was really happening. You were gone. 

“Where did she go?” 

“No idea, she didn’t say a word,” Gojo answers, taking a mental note of the unbridled worry swirling in Geto’s eyes. “We’re going to look for her, right?” 

“What do you think?” Geto says in a matter-of-fact tone, already striding past Gojo. The snowy-haired male is quick to follow, falling into step with his best friend. 

The silence that hangs over the both of them is tense, neither of them wanting to say anything to the other in fear of further souring the mood.  

Geto’s teeth catch his bottom lip, digging down into the supple flesh. His mind wanders, thinking of where you could have gone and just what you could be doing. He should’ve done more to help — he should’ve been there for you just as much as you had been there for him.  

How had he let you spiral down that far? He felt like a bystander in a situation where he should have been standing right at your side, he should have been holding your hand just as tightly as you had always held his.  

“Hey, there you are,” Geto says softly, smiling so gently at you as you open your door — finally revealing yourself to him after hiding in the shadows for however long.  

You remain silent, rubbing a hand over your tear-stained cheeks. Your eyes, so dead and tired, flicker up to meet Geto’s — which soften upon studying your clear cut exhaustion.  

“Oh sweet girl,” he whispers, opening his arms to you and embracing you tightly as you step into them. Your face buries into his shoulder, absorbing the familiarity of his hug. “I’m here.” 

Your body shakes as another round of sobs wracks through your body, nails biting into Geto’s back. He ignores the stinging sensation your nails leave behind — focusing everything on making you feel comforted.  

“I’ll go look this way, you’ll be okay on your own?” Gojo confirms, casting one last glance over his shoulder at Geto.  

The dark-haired male nods, his focus solely on finding you and bringing you home. He would be damned if he would leave you alone again — you deserved to have someone to comfort you in the same way that you constantly comforted others. 

“Text if you need me ‘kay?” Gojo says, reaching out and lightly pressing his knuckles against Geto’s shoulder. The latter nods, and just like that the tuft of snowy hair disappears into the surrounding crowd.  

As Geto walks, he once again allows his mind to wander — thinking about little warning signs that he overlooked. Maybe there was something that you said or did that had a double meaning, yeah, that had to be it.  

His eyes glaze over with unshed tears as he desperately searches for you among the unfamiliar faces, all of them a blur as he tries to find you. All he wanted was to bring you home, give you the proper help that you so desperately needed.  

If he could just- 

“(Y/N)!” There. There’s that head of hair that he had once spent hours playing with. It turns upon hearing the call of his voice — it really is you. 

But at the same time…it isn’t you. The (Y/N) staring at him feels different to the (Y/N) that he asked out in the serenity of his school dorm.  

This (Y/N) is cold and dead — a walking corpse at best.  

You stare blankly at Geto for a moment, eyes silently asking him what it is that he wants from you.  

“Hey, what’s going on?” he practically begs, bravely reaching out to hold your wrist, preventing you from curling away from him.  

Your eyes momentarily flicker down to his hand, staring at the strain of his fingers before your gaze returns to his — you don’t fail to notice the tears he holds back. You felt awful that you were the reason why he was crying. 

“Nothing’s going on,” you answer indifferently. He shakes his head at you, you were lying.  

“You can’t really be saying that. You’ve been…you changed.” 

“Have you ever stopped to think about why?” you raise an eyebrow at him, voice suddenly laced with a venom that he had never heard from you before. Slowly, his grip on your wrist loosens until he doesn’t hold it anymore, eyes never once leaving yours even as you focus on other things.  

“What?” His voice is breathy, a whisper. He doesn’t understand, why were you suddenly being so brash with him? He had only been trying to help you all this time — right? 

You remain silent, not knowing how to elaborate without getting emotional all over again. You were a Sorcerer, you were meant to protect. The one person you were meant to protect was gone. And now you could barely live with the consequences.  

But Geto just thinks that you’re in mourning. No, no, it’s so much more than just simple mourning. 

“Have you ever stopped to think about why I changed?” you reiterate, tilting your head at Geto. He steps forward, keeping the distance between you both as short as he can — he can’t lose you, not again.  

 Geto mulls your question over in his head, which he then shakes in response. You let out a small sigh through your nose, already feeling that familiar mixture of regret and sadness building in your stomach.  

“Do you know what it’s like — to regret everything that you’ve ever done in your life?” you mutter, glancing up at Geto. For the first time, he notices just how dead you truly look. Those bright eyes now dull, your cheeks sunken in, your lips permanently turned downward in a frown.  

“Sorcerers are meant to protect people, right? We’re meant to step in and help the ones that can’t help themselves,” you begin, finding your footing and finally vomiting out all of the words that had been building up somewhere in your stomach.  

Geto watches silently, not knowing what to say or do. All he can do is listen.  

“What the fuck are we meant to do when we can’t save everyone? The ones who can’t protect themselves die, and what are we left to do?”  

Geto pauses, realization sinking into his bones. Riko. You blamed yourself for what happened to Riko — how the fuck had he not noticed that before? 

He had somewhat of an idea that it was Riko who had caused you to spiral downward, but he didn’t know that it was her death that had turned your entire opinion of being a Sorcerer.  

Just how much had Riko meant to you? 

“You and Satoru might be okay shouldering that guilt. But I’m just — I’m not,” you say honestly, running your hand through your hair and chuckling dryly. Geto steps forward, reaching for you.  

You step back, effectively creating a distance between the two of you. He falters, silently watching.  

“(Y/N)-“ 

“Be a Sorcerer, yeah?” you glance tearfully at him. For the first time in months, you smile, lips turning upward as you nod at him. “Be the protector that people need you to be.” 

Geto shakes his head, stepping forward again and silently begging you to come to him. 

You don’t. 

“Baby. Stop. Just-“ He pauses as he watches you, noticing your body tilting back to follow your backwards steps. 

“Be the shield that people need Suguru,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the footsteps that surround you. He shakes his head again, fingers extending to you. 

Like a wisp in the night, you vanish into the crowd. Geto’s fingers close around nothing, and his eyes desperately search for you amongst the blurred faces. 

But you’re gone, just like that. 

And he would never see you again. 

Spoiled Rotten /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Request: What if Overhaul fucks spoiled rich reader because her dad owes the yakuza money and in exchange Kai takes the daughter as a form of payment using her as his personal stress doll whenever and wherever he wants making her into his perfect little doll

A/N: While I was writing this my roommate asked if I was okay bc cause I kept stopping to fan myself and blush lmaooooo god I’m such a brat. I did change the concept up a bit, hope that’s fine!

This is dedicated not only to the OG requester but also to everyone who read the excerpt I posted a while back and told me they couldn’t wait to see the finished product!! Love you guys ❤️

Tags/warnings: threats, dubcon/coercion, dom/sub, brat taming, degradation, exhibitionism, restraints, mentions of forced prostitution, verbal & physical harassment, kidnapping, kinda breath play?, long

The first thing you notice when you come to are voices. Multiple people talking to each other, speech overlapping in patterns you can’t make out. They’re quiet—not whispering for your sake, but quiet because you’re still half knocked-out and you can barely hear.

The second thing you notice is the pounding in your head and the lingering smell of something sweet spread over your nose and mouth.

The third thing you notice is the fact that when you try to blink your eyes open, your lashes brush against something soft and dark. You’re blindfolded…and gagged, and your hands feel like they’re cuffed behind your back. From what you can sense around you, it seems like you’re hunched in a kneeling position with your cheek flattened against the floor and your bare feet tucked under your backside.

At least you’re still in your nightgown. You can feel the frilly silk of it, a useless barrier between your skin and the cool air, and it reminds you of how you got here in the first place.

A loud noise in the night. Your father’s voice pleading. A heavy thump. The door to your bedroom banging open and a strange man holding you down to your bed…lifting a sweet-smelling rag to your mouth…telling you to “take a deeeeep breath, princess.”

“Hey, I think she’s waking up.”

An invisible hand fists itself in your hair and you whine in pain as your upper body is lifted off the floor. Once you’re properly upright, you hear squeaking, shoes against concrete, and the heat and breath and presence of someone behind you. Something rustles at the back of your head—you’re too scared to move so you stay still—and then the blindfold is being lifted off your face.

Once it’s gone, you have to blink for a moment even despite the low light of the dingy room where you’ve…apparently…been kidnapped. By the freaking yakuza. And for some reason, they’re all wearing bird-beak masks.

You close your eyes, almost wishing they hadn’t taken the blindfold off. You’d prefer to live in blissful ignorance of how decidedly unclean the floor is. How dare they let your face touch it? What happened to honor among thieves?

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Against your will, your eyes flick up to the speaker. He’s the only one sitting, and somehow that gives him a position of power among the others. The leader?

Unsettling golden eyes rest on yours, and you realize he’s waiting for your answer, so you slowly move your head from side to side.

“Didn’t know about daddy’s bad habits, huh?” This time the person speaking is behind you, the one who untied your blindfold, a thin man with lank, greasy blond hair. He’s the one who drugged me, you remember in a surge of panic, and you try to stand up away from him only for him to step on the chain that connects your handcuffs, jerking you back and pinning you—painfully—to the floor.

“Careful, Setsuno. I told you not to leave marks. Let her talk.”

“Got it, boss.” The blond—Setsuno—fumbles at the back of your head and then he’s pulling the gag out of your mouth.

You open and close your mouth a few times to stretch out the stiff muscles. “Oh. My. God. Was that polyester you just took out of my mouth? Do you have any idea how bad synthetics are for sensitive skin? I’m totally going to break out.”

A hush falls over the little room. You could hear a pin drop.

“…Are you complaining about the quality of the fabric we gagged you with?” the leader asks after a second.

“You may be yakuza, but you don’t have to act like savages,” you reply primly, aligning your knees together and sending a proud look off to the side.

“Ohh…little princess deserves better, does she?” Setsuno coos. He edges closer to rub his cheek against yours and laughs when you cringe away from him. “Boss, you shoulda seen her bedroom. All pink and frilly, looked like royalty lived there. Bet they treat you like a real princess at home, huh? No wonder your daddy’s in debt.”

“Daddy isn’t—“

“Your father…took out loans from my gang. My men came last night to collect,” the leader says, drumming his fingers over the armrest of his chair impatiently.

He’s wearing plastic gloves. Why is he wearing plastic gloves? Immediately your mind is spinning, imagining all the different gruesome possibilities of what they’re going to do to you. “That’s ridiculous. My daddy doesn’t need to borrow money—“

“Clearly he does, because it looks like he pissed it all away on his daughter.” The leader’s eyes are cold enough to make you shiver—although maybe that’s just the icy temperature of the floor soaking through your nightgown.

“He had a couple payments overdue, so we stopped by to ask nicely for him to pay up,” Setsuno says, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Didn’t find too many valuables in your house, but then we got our hands on a real treasure.”

“Don’t touch me—“

“You don’t seem to understand the position you’re in,” the leader says. “When I made my contract with your father, he understood that obligations like these are inherited. Since he can’t pay his debt, you’re going to be working it off in his place.”

Working it off? You swallow. Somehow you don’t think he’s talking about your little part-time job as a receptionist at your daddy’s company. “You can’t make me do that.”

“I’m not sure you’re getting the gist, princess,” Setsuno hums. “What we’re gonna do is we’re gonna put you in a room, and then men are gonna give us money, and then we’ll let those men fuck you. All that money’s gonna go toward paying what your daddy borrowed. Sound good?”

For the first time since you can remember, you’re shocked speechless. They’re going to…what? But you’re a quick thinker, and instead of letting these filthy, awful gangters boss you around, you raise your chin haughtily to look directly into the leader’s eyes. “I don’t think so. If Daddy’s the one who got himself in debt, you can make him whore himself out to pay it back. You can’t hold me responsible for something he’s done.”

Another brief silence, and then you hear a whistle echo out from the corner of the room (and you try not to look toward it, reminding yourself that this can only get worse if they know how scared you are). “She’s got a mouth on her, Overhaul,” someone says.

Overhaul. So the leader’s name is Overhaul. How ridiculous; it sounds like a villain’s name.

“Aww, princess,” Setsuno says, and once again his voice is too close for your comfort. “Little spoiled princess doesn’t know how to shut her mouth and suck it up when things don’t go her way? Well…you’ll learn.”

You don’t want to know what he’s talking about, although if you thought about it for more than a second it’d be obvious. You suck in a harsh breath and the cool, damp air stings against your dry throat. “You can’t just make me—“

“Ohh, I think we can. See, if your daddy’s been spending all of the Shie Hassaikai’s money on his precious daughter, don’t you think you owe a little too? Like, this dress—“ you jump as Setsuno’s hand tugs on the thin, floaty silk— “was bought with Overhaul’s money, so it belongs to him, right?”

You keep quiet, not wanting to prompt him to go further, but when his hands stroke up over your waist to grope your breasts in full view of everyone else in the room, you don’t really have to guess.

“And, y’know, your daddy’s been keeping you nice and healthy with Overhaul’s cash, making sure you grow up into such a pretty girl…” Setsuno’s voice is a purr in your ear as his hands squeeze your tits almost lovingly, then pinch your nipples through the fabric. “So hey—if you think about it, this tight little body…belongs to Overhaul too. Isn’t that right, sir?”

You squirm in place as best you can but with the metal cuffs digging into your wrists, there’s nothing you can do to get away from his touch. You’re desperate enough to shoot a terrified glance up at the leader—surely there are rules about treating an innocent girl like this, even for the yakuza—but he looks as unmoved as before. “Get her out of my sight. We’ll give her a rest for the next few days, and then…”

“No!” you yelp, too panicked to keep up the pretense of confidence. “I won’t, I can’t do that, please don’t make me—“

“Shhh. You’ll get used to it, princess. And if you don’t…” Setsuno’s hand combs though your hair and then trails down your neck, tracing the path of your spine between your shoulder blades. “…well, you won’t really have much of a choice, will you?”

And then he’s tugging on your cuffed hands, pulling you to a standing position, but you wriggle away from him and do everything you can to stay planted on the ground so they can’t take you away from here, away from the only man who is capable of stopping this. Overhaul. “Please! I’m— I can work it off another way! I’ll be useful— I’ll—“

Overhaul leans forward a fraction in his chair, and you wonder if you’ve caught his interest. “What, exactly? How do you think you can be useful to me?”

You bite your lip and wrack your brains, not knowing whether the question is rhetorical. What skills do you have that would be valuable to them? Suddenly all the knowledge you’ve gained in your short life seems so meaningless. You’re a decent receptionist (well, decent is a stretch), but if Overhaul wanted someone to answer calls for him you’re pretty sure he would’ve asked.

Why did you spend your life learning such impractical skills? The four-year weekend course you took on horseback riding jumps to mind and you want to hit your head against the wall. Why didn’t you ask your father to sponsor a class in something that would actually matter in the long run? And what would even be useful to these people? Accounting? Bookkeeping? Extortion?

There’s nothing valuable you can offer. You’ve wasted your life, and now you’re going to pay for it. Seriously, the only thing you’re actually good at is keeping your boyfriends (or, rather, the men you cycle through once a month) happy until the novelty wears off and you get bored and move on to the next lovesick target—

—wait. Keeping your boyfriends happy. That’s a skill, isn’t it?

Once, a little bit after you turned eighteen, you’d had a rather illicit conversation with one of your more sexually adventurous friends about being a sugar baby. Your friend had just secured a very generous benefactor, and you’d been so intrigued by all the designer purses and vacations to Cabo that you’d almost considered trying it for yourself. She’d even helped you set up a profile on Seeking Arrangements that listed your physical features and interests, but you’d blanched when it came time to post photos.

“But why do men even like this?” you'd asked your friend after your picture-less profile received its dozenth unsolicited offer. “Rich, successful guys shouldn’t have so much trouble finding girlfriends that they have to resort to paying for sex.”

“It’s a power trip,” she’d replied. “Most men never get the chance to have a woman who’s willing to do and be whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. You’re his ideal girlfriend, his therapist, his wife, and his stress relief all in one.”

At the time, you’d decided against it, deleting your profile and telling your friend you’d rather just keep taking advantage of your real father doting on you than have to fake orgasms for rich men in their 50’s. But back then, you’d had a choice; now that you’ve been kidnapped by a gang who wants you to get fucked by a bevy of strangers to pay off a debt you’ve never even heard of, you no longer have the privilege of a way out. Or, at least, the options are a lot less appealing than before.

You tilt your head back to Overhaul, eyeing him for the first time with real scrutiny instead of prideful disgust. Judging from what you can see of his face under the ornate bird mask (and again, what is with the freaking bird masks?), he’s fairly young, mid-twenties at the oldest. Short, sort of wavy dark hair (you’ve always had a thing for dark hair), a trim suit and tie, and those eyes. Like he can read your mind just looking at you.

He’s…handsome enough, you have to admit to yourself. But it’s not just that. There’s something pristine about him, something untouchable that commands discipline. He’s clean. You and him are probably the only clean things in this hovel of a room.

“Well? I’m waiting,” Overhaul says.

And now that you’ve got the idea in your head, it’s almost too embarrassing to meet his gaze. But you can do this; you have to do this. At least it’ll be your choice, and—you’re hoping—it’ll be better than the alternative.

“I could be yours,” you tell him, taking pride in the fact that your voice isn’t breaking.

His eyes narrow and you think god, his eyelashes are long. It’s not fair. Men never appreciate having long eyelashes. What is he thinking? Is he going to kill you for even suggesting it? But it’s too late now…you have to dig yourself a little deeper if you don’t want to go through with their original plan for debt fulfillment.

You force your muscles to relax, knowing this’ll be impossible to pull off if you’re tense and biting down on the words like they’re going to choke you. If you’re going to make him believe it, you have to make yourself believe it too. “You… This job must be hard. Even for a—a powerful man like you, it has to be stressful, right? Always looking out for the interests of the gang instead of your own…needs.”

Overhaul doesn’t move, but you’re so focused on him it would be impossible for you to miss the way a single muscle in his neck flexes. You’ve hit a nerve.

You take a cautious step toward him, trying to channel the sexually-liberated vixen you consider yourself when you’re not in your nightgown surrounded by men who could murder you with their bare hands and not miss a minute of sleep. “You’re always giving, aren’t you? Looking toward the future of the gang? Doesn’t it get frustrating when—when a pretty thing is in front of you and you don’t even get…a little taste of her?”

Oh god, you can feel the humiliated heat rushing to your cheeks. How can you be saying this? You’ve played the role of seductress plenty of times before, but never in such a risky situation. You just have to keep moving toward him and hope it feels authentic enough to convince him.

“You’ve worked hard. And…like he said, my—my body belongs to you.” Now you’re close enough to Overhaul and he hasn’t stopped you, so you lower yourself onto the floor, knees bumping softly into the cold surface. Kneeling between his legs.

Overhaul stares down at you, gaze as sharp and cold as before—and you’re sick with anxiety, so scared you can feel your hairs raising up on end—but if he wanted you to stop, he would have said something, right? So you shuffle a little closer and nuzzle your cheek over the inside of his clothed thigh like a kitten, then raise your head up to him to give him your best bedroom look, the one that says, I want you. I need you. No one but you. The look no man has ever been able to resist.

“…You deserve something to yourself, sir,” you murmur.

There’s a collective intake of breath as every person in the room simultaneously realizes what you’re offering. Overhaul’s expression doesn’t change, but once again, a tendon jumps out white under the skin of his throat and there’s a creak of latex on leather as his grip on the arm of the chair tightens.

“Damn,” Setsuno says under his breath from behind you. Someone whistles. You’re pretty sure you hear the word ‘slut’ being tossed around, but there’s reverence behind it.

“And what makes you think you’re so valuable?” Overhaul asks.

You close your eyes to ground yourself for a second. He’s interested, you know that much. You’ve never really had to convince someone to want you, but there’s a first time for everything. Besides, you only have to look at him for a second to know he does want you, which isn’t a surprise. Who wouldn’t?

“I’ll do anything you want, be anything you want,” you tell him, echoing your conversation with your friend back then. “Take out your anger on me if that’s what you’re into. When you’re tired of me, you can consider my debt paid and let me go.”

“And?” he prompts.

‘And’? And what? You’re offering yourself to him, your body and your mind—what more can he possibly ask from you? You cast your thoughts around, wondering what else you have to give him. “And…and I’ll do it willingly. You, um—you look like a man who appreciates obedience.”

And that’s it. Your last shred of pride is gone. Not only are you offering yourself up to a man to use as his personal stress doll, you’re saying you’ll be compliant every step of the way. Knowing yourself, you’re pretty sure that’s impossible, but you just need to make him believe it long enough for you to find a way out of here. You can pretend to enjoy getting fucked by a gangster a few times. You’ll live.

But you’re naive. And with the stream of thoughts pushing through your head, you never really consider one thing, one essential thing: how you look pleading up at him in that pale pink nightdress—soft, pure, immaculate against the filth of the underworld, the only clean body that Overhaul’s seen in a long time.

And you’re right. He is a man who appreciates obedience.

“Willingly…so you’d be willing to prove it.”

Your head jerks up and down in response. Yes! He’s taking the bait, now I just have to get him alone and—

“Then demonstrate.”

When a moment passes and you don’t move, Overhaul tips his head to the side, gaze still locked on you, and gestures vaguely at his lap. You blink and then shy back, shrinking under the hungry gazes of the onlookers. “You can’t mean—in front of them?”

“And here I thought you were going to be obedient.” There’s no mercy, no amusement in his voice. No hint of humanity.

So he’s serious. He wants you to give him a blowjob in front of—how many? one, two three, four—four other men!? Your first instinct is to jump back away from him and your next is to slap him for even suggesting it; you can actually hear the jingle of your cuffs as you attempt to raise your hand. You’ve gotten a little kinky before—blindfolds, vibrators, maybe a hand tied to the bedpost with a Hermès scarf once or twice, but this is a whole different level. And the way they’re all looking at you…like they’re itching to see you brought down. How absolutely disgusting.

But Overhaul’s waiting for your answer, and you know full well that you’re not going to deny him.

“O-Of course.” You lean forward over the seat of the chair so your face is just inches from his lap. “Um. My hands...?”

They’re still cuffed behind you, but it seems like they’re going to stay that way when Overhaul gives a curt shake of his head. “Use your mouth.”

Once again, you’re stunned into silence. How are you supposed to—? Without your hands? It doesn’t even seem like he’s going to undo his pants for you. It’s like he wants to humiliate you…oh, wait. As soon as the thought crosses your mind, it’s clear that’s exactly what he’s trying to do.

You give him another doe-eyed glance, bidding him to at least undo his belt, but he remains unmoved. Bastard.

After aiming another glare at him (because as obedient as you’re attempting to be, you’ve never been good at concealing your emotions) you lean deeper in and take the stiff leather of his belt between your teeth, gently easing it out of the buckle and trying to ignore the mixture of earthy and metallic tastes it leaves on your tongue. It takes a few tries, but eventually you’ve got the tail of the belt out of the buckle and you pull your head back to guide the metal down until the belt is hanging open from its loops.

A rush of accomplishment surges through you when you get it open, and then you want to slap yourself. Accomplishment? From doing this with your mouth like an animal—like a dog? You can hear laughter and mocking encouragement from the men watching, but you steel yourself and dip back in to get Overhaul’s pants undone. The button is tricky, especially with your face nudging into the hard muscle of his abdomen through his shirt, but somehow you manage to tug the fabric slit over the button and then—delicately, delicately—clamp the zipper between your teeth and peel it downward.

“Oh, she’s good,” someone says from the background. Setsuno. You look up warily, but Overhaul’s eyes haven’t moved from you.

Now that you’ve got his pants open, you’re face to face (literally) with what you’re going to have to deal with. The outline of his cock is bulging the fabric of his boxers outward, and he’s not even half erect. You snatch a look back up at him—and damn it, you have to stop doing that, because every time you look into those golden eyes and that stupid bird mask you feel like a lamb looking at a bird of prey right before it snatches you from your safe little lamb-house in the meadow and—fuck, you just have to get on with it.

So you dip down and mouth over him through the fabric, spreading the flat of your tongue over the length of his thick cock. Your mouth feels like you’ve been eating cotton (probably because they drugged you earlier) but you force yourself to salivate, letting drool spill over your tongue and dampen his boxers. When you duck and spread your lips down on the place you can feel the tip stretching out, you know the friction must feel good, because despite the lack of even so much of a deep breath from the man above you, his cock is getting harder.

You nudge your mouth over the tent between Overhaul’s legs again, letting the heat of your breath wash over him—but when he doesn’t do anything, you pull back and blink up at his face. Does he expect you to get him off through his underwear? You could, but most of your moves depend on skin-to-skin contact. There’s no way you can get his cock out with your mouth like you undid his pants, so…what? “Are—are you going to take it out?”

Overhaul brings a gloved hand to his face to rub absently at one of the straps on his mask. “…Beg,” he tells you.

Your mouth drops open and you reel back from his lap like he asked you to lick the dirt off the floor. What!? He can’t seriously expect you to—to beg him to put his dick in your mouth when you’re clearly disgusted at the whole situation. When he doesn’t give any indication of retracting the statement, you can’t help the mocking sneer that forms over your face. “Please, sir,” you spit, and a deaf man could hear the spite in your voice.

Now, that gets a reaction. Overhaul’s eyes flash and you take a certain degree of pride back at the anger you’ve clearly inspired in him. But it’s extinguished as soon as you see it, and then he’s reaching down to cup your chin, tilting your head back and rubbing his thumb over your lower lip.

“I think you can do better than that, princess,” he says, and you can hear your own mocking tone reflected back in his voice. “Unless you’d like me to give my men a turn?”

This, more than anything, scares you. He must be able to feel the way your spine goes stiff, adrenaline rushing, your fight-or-flight instinct kicking in at the prospect of what he’s threatening.

“Each of them, one by one. Between the four of them, I think they could cure that smart mouth…although they might just break you in the process,” he continues, and then his thumb is pressing into your lip, into your mouth, and you loosen your jaw to let him in. You can taste the rubbery latex of his gloves and the other men mutter agreement, encouraging their leader to turn you over to them, and you want to cry.

But you hold the tears back. “Please, sir! Please, please may I s-suck your cock sir? Please!” Your voice is more terrified than obedient, but that’s probably what he’s into anyway. When he doesn’t say anything, you babble on, unwilling to let yourself get gangbanged by a group of men who could probably wreck your pussy in a single round. “Please, please, Mr.—Mr. Overhaul, um, boss? M-Master?”

“Sir will do just fine,” Overhaul says, apparently satisfied, and he pulls his hand away from your face to free his cock from his boxers.

You let out a hot sigh of relief and angle yourself back toward his lap so you can zero in on his cock (and, hopefully, do a little to block out how sickeningly degrading all of this is: how easy it is for him to threaten you; how he has all the power and you have none; how the men around you are goading you, taunting you and calling you things that should get their mouths washed out with soap). You can focus on this, and this, at least, you’re good at. You’ve always been good with your mouth.

It’s a nice dick, too, you have to admit to yourself as you stare at it. Perfect length, girth, and a thick, cut head that you know just by looking that you’re going to have to stretch your jaw to get around. All his hair is neatly trimmed and groomed, and he even smells good, clean and fresh like soap. You’ve never been in front of a dick that didn’t smell like day-old ball sweat, so this is a first. It’s got a nice upward curve, too, and there’s a bead of pearly precum oozing out of the tip. The kind of cock that’s made for penetrative orgasms—

No. Fuck. You cannot be thinking this. You cannot allow yourself to lust after a gang leader who thinks of you as little more than an interactive sex doll. A tingle of blood rushes to your cheeks as you feel wetness pool in your panties and you adjust your stance, shuffling your thighs apart under the pretense of getting closer and hoping Overhaul doesn’t notice.

If he notices, he does the merciful thing and keeps quiet (which makes you think he has no idea you’re feeling the way you’re feeling, because he’s probably never chosen to do the merciful thing in his life). He does, however, shift one of his knees farther apart to accommodate you as you crawl close enough to him to get your head all the way between his legs.

So now you’re staring up at that unfairly pretty cock and wondering how the fuck this is supposed to start, but—best just get on with it. Pretend it’s not him, pretend it’s…no, wait, pretend it is him, it is Overhaul, the same bastard who’s looking down at you like you’re trash, except pretend you’re in control. Because no matter how many orders he gives, once you’ve got his cock in his mouth he’ll have to be the weak one. Right?

Lightly, slowly, you trace the tip of your tongue in a wet path up the underside of his cock, sliding up from the hilt to caress every bulging vein with all the delicacy and accuracy of a surgeon. When you reach the tip, you flatten your tongue to curve it around that bulbous head and then slip it off, the suction providing a wet smacking sound as your skin leaves his.

The breath of his barely-heavier exhale ruffles your hair and you relish the knowledge that he’s getting impatient. Yes. The bastard can wait.

You kiss the tip of his cock, barely moving your lips around the slit, only enough to let your tongue flick out against the precum and gather the bitter liquid up in your mouth. And then—right when he’s getting annoyed, when you can tell by the tension in his body that he’s five seconds away from shoving your head down to fuck your face—you duck closer, relax your throat, and swallow.

Like a fucking python. Or so you’ve been told.

The exhale that escapes him isn’t light this time. You can almost hear the barest hint of a groan under his breath, but you’re more focused on holding down your gag reflex as you let that heavy cock hit the back of your throat. Once he’s all the way down (or at least as far as you can get him), you rock yourself back an inch and then take him deeper, forcing yourself to hold still so he can feel the walls of your throat convulse around him, sucking him in, dry-gagging on the mass that’s filling you up.

“Fuuuuck,” you hear someone whine, and it’s not even Overhaul. It’s one of the men watching, and you feel a perverse mixture of hatred and arrogance rise up in you.

Overhaul’s cock is too big for you to properly moan around it, but you give it a go anyway so he can feel the vibration of your voice through his skin. You’re rewarded with a tangible twitch with it sitting on your tongue, and—oh—your mouth is watering out of where you’re clenching down on him at the back of your throat.

Spittle slips out over your lower lip and onto your chin, but you ignore it in favor of jerking your head up and down in fractional strokes, trying your absolute best to get yourself down to his base but knowing that he probably doesn’t give a shit anyway, not with how good your throat feels around what you’re capable of stuffing in.

What were you saying about ‘valuable’, sir? you think, and then you pull your head off his cock, so slow it’s almost cruel, sucking your cheeks in and hollowing out so those wet walls are rubbing up on every millimeter of his skin. When you reach the tip, you savor it, letting your tongue do the dirty work and looking up at him through your lash extensions before you release him with a nasty wet pop.

“Holy fuck, can I have her next?” one of the other men says, but you and Overhaul are too focused on each other to even look and see who’s talking.

His gaze is trained firmly down at you, and—no way, damn it—he looks bored, like he could be waiting in line at the DMV instead of getting sucked off by you, a girl who’s been complimented by every man she’s ever been with (including her first) on her bj technique. You know he’s feeling it—he can fake calm, but he can’t fake the way his cock’s throbbing under your tongue as you lick up the shaft. Still, now that you’ve got it in your head that Overhaul’s not going to make a sound, all you can think about is forcing him to moan. Let him look weak in front of all his little lackeys.

With renewed vigor, you lap up the length of Overhaul’s cock in sloppy dabs, leaving strings of saliva dripping off your mouth and his cock only to slurp them up, audibly, wiggling your tongue over the tip when you reach it. And that, that gets him, because you feel more than see the buck of his hips into your face as he hisses out a curse.

And—oh dear, maybe you shouldn’t have done that—because the next thing you feel is Overhaul looming forward over you, hand gripping the back of your head, and is he going to force you down? You hate that—so you take the initiative, tilting forward to take him into your mouth again, head bobbing up and down so quickly that your hair is falling all over your face, but it’s okay, because he’s got you, he’s got you, got his hands combed through your hair holding it out of your face, pulling so lightly it barely even hurts, but it does hurt, and he’s guiding you up and down on his cock and it’s hitting the back of your throat every time, and—and it hurts.

You really shouldn’t have done that.

“Take it deeper,” Overhaul instructs, almost encouraging, although you’re not given the option to pull off because he’s holding you down, pushing you firmly toward the base of his cock. You sputter around it, gagging, and you’re almost fucking choking, and he won’t let you up.

God, you’re not—not breathing, you can feel your throat choking down on him—“breathe through your nose,” he says, and this man, this villain has no idea what he’s fucking talking about, because you’re trying, eyes stinging and then you can feel tears down your cheeks. You try to squirm back on your knees, but somehow the combined force of every muscle in your body is outmatched by his single hand on the back of your head—and—and—you squeeze your eyes shut, relax, open your throat as much as you can and—

Overhaul forces your mouth down to the hilt.

Fuck, is he going to keep you there? You can’t, you can’t—if you could move, you’d be shaking your head and begging him to let you stop and as it is you’re whimpering around his cock. Your throat is making gagging noises and you’re crying, actually crying, actually fucking crying on a man’s dick. So this is what it feels like to be used?

“Good.” There’s something lower and darker in Overhaul’s voice, a husky undertone from the growl he’s trying to suppress. “Hold still…remember, you asked for this.”

You did. You asked for it. Begged for it. Pleaded.

“Want me to forgive your father’s debt…? You’re going to have to earn it.” He pulls out an inch just to ram himself back in. You make a weak attempt to move your tongue around his shaft and you can feel the shudder all the way through him, his cock twitching where it’s locked in your throat. “Mm…good girl. Just a little—little longer—“

His fingers are tightening in your hair, curling around the strands and tugging instead of just applying pressure to your head. He’s close, you think, and then you struggle back, not wanting him to cum down your throat, what if you choke on it? Like, really choke? You don’t want it, don’t want his cum in your stomach, but then he sighs and tells you again that you’re a good girl, and ohfuckohfuck you must be so scared you’re desperate for praise because you feel heat rush into your cheeks and your cunt when he says it and you try to move your tongue like you did earlier and his hips jerk forward and—he cums. In your mouth.

It’s salty, you think. The next thing you think is that you want to gag, because you’ve never had cum in your mouth before. For all your sexual experimentation, you’ve never let a man cum down your throat like this, always telling them it shoot it on your tits or whatever because you are not a person who should have semen in her mouth, much less ingest it.

But right now, with Overhaul lazily dragging your head up and down for a last couple pumps on his softening dick, your choice isn’t spit or swallow. It’s swallow or choke.

Hot. Thick. The texture is slimy, so viscous you can feel it going down your throat in strings. Part of you wants to throw up. It’s repulsive. Filthy. You hate this.

Part of you has to shift your position again so you don’t have to feel your own wetness slicking up the insides of your thighs.

How. Is. This. Possible. You may have just had to swallow your pride (and not just that), but what about your dignity? You’re a good person…okay, well, even if you’re not a ‘good person’ per se, you don’t hurt anyone with your selfishness. You don’t deserve to be kept as a pet by a sadistic bastard who gets off on watching you almost pass out on his cock, and you certainly don’t deserve the humiliation of finding that you’re turned on by it.

And yet. Here you are. Still held securely in place until Overhaul slides you off him. As soon as your mouth is free you suck in a dizzyingly deep breath, but even that is too much for your battered throat and the breath turns into a cough; you instinctively fold down away from Overhaul so the mixed saliva and cum you’re hacking out spatters in cloudy white flecks across the floor instead of on his clothing.

“Stop that,” Overhaul scolds, hauling you back up by your hair and forcing your mouth closed with a hand on your jaw. “If you make a mess, you’ll be cleaning it up.”

Considering what he just made you do to him, there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s implying you’ll have to lick it off the floor. You clench your jaw, holding back the convulsions of your throat as best you can, and hope he doesn’t press the issue.

Now that you’ve got your coughing under control, you can start to sense things that you had been tuning out before: the men hooting and wolf-whistling and applauding your performance, the traitorously persistent throb of your clit pulsing under your panties, and Overhaul’s hand releasing your chin to pet down your neck. “Now. What do you say when someone gives you a meal?”

Just you wait, bastard. I’m going to tie you to your bed and set fire to it. But you’ve got the sense that that answer won’t go over well, so you take a deep breath and look up at him again, meeting those piercing gold eyes with your own. “Thank you, sir,” you say in a soft whisper because it’s all your abused throat can manage.

“That’s right.” His hands feel colder than the concrete under your legs as he spreads his hand down your neck, only to toy with one of the lacy pink straps of your nightdress. “Stand up.”

You stand shakily, too cowed to even consider stepping back from him. Without warning (much less permission), Overhaul lifts the hem of your stupidly short dress up past your thighs, exposing your panties and lower belly to view.

“Hold this in your mouth,” he says, and after only a few seconds of hesitation you open up and bite down on the fabric so you’re effectively holding up the skirt for him. Overhaul skims gloved hands down the sides of your hips and comes to a rest when he reaches your panties—and why did you have to wear these today? Shiny red satin in the front; the back is just flowers worked in crimson lace. You know exactly how good you look in these panties, and judging by the things Overhaul’s men are saying, they’re more than appreciative of the view.

But Overhaul ignores them in favor of hooking his fingers under the elastic and pulling the panties down until they’re resting stretched between your upper thighs. You don’t have to see them to know there’s a string of slick connecting the lips of your cunt to the fabric, betraying in full technicolor detail how turned on you’ve gotten just from sucking him off. He gazes down at your pussy and then up to you as if waiting for you to admit it, but you stay silent.

“Well, well. What a nicely-trained slut I’ve found myself.” He gracelessly pulls the panties the rest of the way down your legs and lets them fall to the ground. “Do you always get this wet when you let your boyfriends fuck that smart mouth?”

It takes you a second to comprehend that he’s expecting an answer. “N-No, sir,” you reply, voice muffled by the fabric you’re still holding between your teeth.

“I suppose I can’t leave you like this, not after you took me so nicely.”

Does he mean he’s going to get you off? No freaking way. You drop the hem of your dress, let it flutter down over your thighs, try to scramble back, but his hand on your waist keeps you from moving. “I— It’s okay, I don’t need—“

“No, I think you do. I think I’m going to reward my pet for a job well done.” He leans back, eyeing you without sympathy. “I’d have you touch yourself, but—“

The mere possibility that he might remove the handcuffs has you straining against them again, and the sound of metal against metal rings out from behind you.

“—but, I think it’s best to keep the cuffs on for a few days…until you’ve settled down.”

Days? He can’t leave you in chains for days, helpless and powerless, so easy to take advantage of. “You can’t,” you whimper, and even though you mean for it to be a decisive statement, with your throat ravaged and hoarse it’s downright pathetic. Overhaul doesn’t even bother reprimanding you for talking back.

“My men have been patient,” he muses, and an enthusiastic wave of agreement wells up from the others. “Any of them would be happy to do it.”

You may have been through a lot in the past hour alone, but there is no way you’re going to let those rowdy criminals have their way with you. You send a nervous glance around the room and as predicted, not a single one of them looks like they have the slightest shred of control over themselves.

None of them…except Overhaul.

Still eased back in his chair, he looks just as relaxed and unaffected as he did when he was explaining your father’s debts to you. But there’s something flickering in his eyes, something he isn’t going to say to you, isn’t going to say out loud. A challenge.

Maybe, once again, he’s waiting for you to ask for it yourself. And if it’s a choice between him and one of the grimy ruffians who’ve been looking at you like dogs look at meat, you know what you’d prefer. Well—really, you’d prefer option C: none of the above (your current state might be uncomfortable, but you’re not so wanton that you’d rather cum in front of strangers than keep your legs together). Unfortunately, you’re starting to come to terms with the fact that ‘no’ is no longer an option.

Overhaul’s stare flicks from you to an unseen figure behind you, and you can tell he’s about to summon one of them over so you force yourself to move, lurching forward and climbing into his lap to straddle one of his thighs with all the grace you’re capable of. You feel the stir in the air when he inhales sharply, surprised, and his masked face is so close to your neck that you wonder if he can smell the lotion you put on before you went to bed last night.

It’s one of your favorite scents: vanilla, lilac, orange blossoms. You bought it because it smelled pure.

“Please, sir, I don’t want them,” you breathe next to his ear, injecting every ounce of sexual frustration you’re feeling into the needy tones of your voice. “I’m yours. I belong to you, just you. No one else—please, sir…Overhaul.”

He’s quiet for a long, tense moment, and you think he’s going to hit you, or maybe even kill you for your disobedience. Push you off his lap at least. But just when you’re teetering on the edge of jumping back from him and begging for forgiveness for talking out of turn, you feel it—a low rumble of laughter from deep in his chest.

Big, cold hands wrap around the sides of your ribcage under your breasts and his fingernails dig into you through the layers of latex and fabric. He tilts forward, forcing you to arch away and all you can think about is how horribly weak you are compared to him. Are you trembling? Will he be angry if you feels how afraid you are?

“You know, I guess I’ll keep you after all,” he hums, stroking his fingers through your hair and down your neck. “How does that sound, princess? I think you’d like that very much, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The response comes all too easily, even if the words taste bitter in your mouth. You’ve never said the word ‘sir’ so much in your life…but as he repositions you on his lap and slides a single hand up the inside of your thigh under your dress, you bite your lip and decide to hold back your protest.

If you’re going to have to learn manners, you’d better do it sooner rather than later. Something tells you Overhaul’s not going to accept any less than your best behavior if you want to pay off your debt.

take a good look

4 times you gaze at him + 1 time he gazes at you

fic cowritten with @shinaus​, art by @annypuff​ <3. you can buy mel a coffee and anny a coffee. please support them! their work is banging and i love them 🥺 

pairing: vampire!shinso x f!reader

word count: ~4.5k

genre: slice of life fantasy (a tinge of coffee shop!AU), fluff, mutual pining, smut

cw: dom!shinso, size kink, daddy kink (inspired by toshi anon), praise kink, some degradation (he says slut 3x), fingerfucking, nipple play, choking, hair pulling, mirror sex, mating press, hickies everywhere, a cunt slap, overstimulation

first time: the coffee shop incident 

Of course your favorite coffee shop is swamped. This place is the only good thing about waking up close to dawn, with drinks always better than what your office has to offer and not to mention the pastries they make fresh.

Letting out a small groan, you decide to wait it out in the line and do your best to hurry with your breakfast before heading into work. Thankfully, you always leave yourself with enough time to actually sit and enjoy whatever you decide to buy that day, opting for it over greasy break rooms or stuffy smoking areas. 

Once the warm mug is in hand, you make quick work to try and find your usual spot only to find it occupied. While you won’t act possessive over a public seat of all things, losing the chance to enjoy glancing out the window and munching down your croissant seems to screw with your brain. 

You act without thinking, making a sharp turn to go sit somewhere else only for your knee to make contact with the underside of another table. Shit, you think to yourself, hearing the clatter of their cup. You helplessly watch liquid run down the table and into the person’s lap. 

You expect them to flinch, dart up from the table or, hell, even yell at you for your carelessness. He doesn’t yell at you and you don’t expect to see the colour of the liquid running down the table onto the floor to be red. Blood red. Fuck. A vampire. Hopefully, one who doesn’t eat you for your stupidity.

Just as you feel your heart sinking down to your stomach, your eyes flick up to meet the man whose day you likely ruined. You don’t see a hint of anger on his attractive features. In his defence, it’s probably because he’s busy looking at the way you’re gawking at him.

His unkempt hair and the deep eye bags adorning his sculpted face somehow make him look all the more endearing. It even looks like he’s wearing the smallest hint of eyeliner. Or are his eyes just naturally like that? Hard to tell. 

You’re pulled out of your thoughts (and staring session) by him breaking eye contact with you to clean himself up, before rising to his feet and doing the same to the table. It makes you come back down to Earth, and thereby remembering your clownery

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—” you start, but are met with a hand held up in front of your face. You furrow your brows in confusion, having assumed his lack of aggression would mean he’d be more understanding but nope.

“No issue,” he grumbles in response, giving his trousers one last wipe down before swiftly weaving through the others in the coffee shop, flipping his hoodie up and taking his leave. Now, you’re even more confused. 

Sure, you spilled something over him and the table, but you would have bought him another one? Paid for his dry cleaning or something maybe? Yet, off he went, moving so quickly you couldn’t ever hope to catch up to him. Fucking vampires, man, you shake your head.

The confusion eventually fades but not completely. You help one of the baristas doing the last of the clean up before settling into the strange vampire’s seat and letting your mind wander as you eat your breakfast. 

second time: gawking at the gym

It’s a common occurrence for you to make it to the gym right as the rush of 9-5s ends, the perfect time in your opinion. Nobody hogging any of the ellipticals, the water cooler always left unoccupied and nothing but time for you to get through your usual routine.

With this in mind, you can confidently say that nothing out of the ordinary ever happens at the gym. Well, could say. 

Carefully bringing your leg around to meet the other on your way off of the exercise bike, you're momentarily distracted by the sound of a nearby treadmill whirring so much hard that it sounds as though it may break. 

Lifting your towel and water bottle, you make your way over in curiosity. It almost seems as if whoever is on the treadmill moves even faster as you approach. Once you make it there, you’re met with the man who seems to be continuously haunting your surroundings. 

Despite his unruly purple hair in a band and all-black gym attire, vamp man still seems out of place. The athletic wear is a complete change of pace, considering the hoodie and leather jacket he was wearing during your first encounter. 

You rid yourself of any wandering thoughts about the man and focus on him being the reason that the treadmill is about to be on its last legs. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him; the sheer speed of his legs is mindblowing.  And a little ridiculous looking if you’re honest with yourself.

The moment is short lived when he slows to a stop, probably thinking the same thing that you are about the poor machine not being able to last another mile. He looks like he’s barely broken a sweat. Fucking vampires, you repeat to yourself.  

Just your luck, he notices your presence as he dabs the side of his not-even-sweating face with his towel. He begins to smirk at your eyes on him. 

“Little rude to stare, isn’t it?” he wonders aloud, voice much deeper and more luxurious than what you remember. Getting caught fills you with deep embarrassment. You stutter out a quick apology before making your way over to another machine. 

Even with your back facing away from any passing people as you continue your routine, you can practically feel his eyes boring into you.

A few minutes is all it takes for you to turn to check if your suspicions are correct. You’re met with his shameless stare. He’s not even making an attempt to hide his gaze either, leaning on one of the back walls as he watches you, large arms crossed over his broad chest somehow making the skin-tight shirt he’s wearing even tighter. 

This is torture, you think to yourself as you give him a polite smile, only to hear him chuckling at your strained smile.

“What? So you can stare but I can’t?” he tries, fully getting your attention once more as you stop what you’re doing. Sighing and smacking your machine, you come off of your machine and make your way back over to him.

Your confidence about approaching decreases as you see the full height difference between you two. You’re a fair bit smaller than he is. He looms over you even with his back still leaning against the wall.

“If you’re trying to stalk me, you’re doing a bad job. It should be me, after all. I’m the predator,” he lightly mocks you. 

You almost stomp your foot. “I am not stalking you!” you protest. “It isn’t my fault that you apparently go to the same coffee shop and gym as me.” 

He levels you with a delighted look. Humans usually don’t take his teasing well but you seem so much fun.

Throwing an annoyed peace sign at him, you make your way out of the gym.

third time: literally just that scene in the first twilight movie without edward doing donuts in his car into the lot

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing out at this time?” The low voice comes from your side, making every muscle in your body suddenly jolt. You just left your friends. Why do creeps seem to have a radar?

Even as you pick up your pace and ignore the question, it only seems to egg him on more. Right as he starts talking to you again, he’s swiftly cut off.

Feeling a small gust of wind at your back despite the calm night, you turn in confusion. Where did the creep go? Your question is answered when you watch him get slammed against the nearest storefront’s shutters. A much taller figure overshadows over him, hand around the creep’s throat. 

Even in the darkness, you can see the purple hair, unruly as ever starting from the collar of his coat. You stride over and pull on Shinso’s coat sleeve in hopes of ceasing his threatening actions—no matter how much the creep deserves the vampire’s ire. After all, you don’t want Shinso to end up with a track record after, like, a century (you’re guessing) without one.

“Shinso,” you say, eyes pleading as you look up at him—unaware of how much he enjoys hearing you so naturally say his name. He meets your stare briefly then rolls his eyes and releases his hold, watching the man scramble away. The chuckle that leaves him at the scene makes you wonder if he’s a sadist. 

Before you can wonder much more, he grips your hand tightly in his own as he leads you farther down the street. The clasp strangely comforting to you despite his freezing skin.

“You really need to stop being so irresponsible,” he tells you, tone almost mocking as he (somehow) takes every right path to your apartment building. There’s no point in questioning how he knows this. After all, for some reason, the world keeps leading you to him in an array of coincidences that are starting to feel less and less coincidental. 

When you let out a scoff, his hand seems to tighten further and you reflexively try to yank your hand away. He just stops in his tracks and turns to face you. There’s a look in his eyes you don’t question, especially since he speaks up before you do. 

“Don’t make me have to watch your every move to keep you out of trouble, I’d like to have a social life too, you know,” he grumbles, before turning to walk away. It leaves you a little dumbfounded to say the least, since you’re not exactly stopping him from having a life. Y’know, with, how totally unplanned these encounters are and all.

fourth time: the confrontation

Apparently, not one thing can be your own anymore. Not that you’re complaining, of course, but the sheer number of coincidences between you and Shinso is extraordinary and only seems to escalate. You keep running into him even in places so busy that you think there’s no chance of running into anybody you know. 

Now that Autumn is in full swing, the nights are colder and the leaves are dappled in brown and red shades. The perfect time to start going on walks through some of the bustling parks you live near. 

You love the scenery, especially the large lake that lies in the middle of your favorite park. As dusk rolls around, you take the chance to get a walk in to enjoy the now barely visible sunlight and to ponder a certain vampire. 

Not even one lap into walking around the lake, you catch sight of the colour that’s been plaguing your thoughts in your peripheral. 

The deep indigo colour is hard to miss, especially when it’s on the head of the vampire you keep running into. Though this time feels a little different since you finally catch him when he’s unaware of you.

Sitting on one of the benches facing the water, he’s wearing his typical hoodie and leather jacket and is holding what looks to be a book. What kind of book a vampire reads is beyond your imagination. 

All you know is that you finally have the opportunity to take the upper hand. Every time you see Shinso, he worms his way out of your questions. Or he leaves in an ominous distinctly vampire fashion.

There’s no reason for him to be everywhere you go, unless ... You want to confirm your hypothesis. 

The plan is simple. You’ll act like you're still out on your casual walk and you’ll walk up to the bench and sit down in a non-suspicious way. You nod to yourself. Perfect, flawless plan. 

It shockingly works … his book must be really good. You get all the way up to the bench without him acknowledging you. Since he’s only taking up one side, you don’t wait for verbal permission to sit down alongside him.

He still makes no indication that he notices you. His eyes never leave the book he has in his hands. You fixate your eyes on the silver ring on his index finger as he flicks through the pages. 

You lean in close and try to keep your smugness about finally startling him from bleeding into your voice when you speak. 

“You know, I’m starting to think you’re conveniently everywhere I go on purpose.”

For the first time ever, he’s the one caught off guard. Shinso flinches away from you and brings his eyes to meet yours. Without his signature smirk or witty comments, he simply gets up to take his leave. 

Well. This certainly isn’t going the way you want.

After your many encounters, you can pick up on his overall mood through his reactions to you. Though, he’s never reacted like this. At least not since the incident at the coffee shop.

The dismissal ignites irritation in you. Why is up to him whether or not you interacted? Taking the opportunity while you still have it, you follow him. 

It isn’t until he passes a large tree just off of the main path that you completely catch up to him. You realize he’ll easily slip away if you don’t move quickly. So you do, hand coming up to hit the tree trunk and essentially blocking his way. 

His eyes widen at you. However, he makes no attempt at escaping. 

“Why do we keep running into each other?” you ask with exasperation, eyes still on him as he moves to lean against the tree. You don’t move your hand, using it to grasp some control of the situation.

“You’re everywhere I go, it doesn’t matter where or when. You’re always there.” The rant is far from needed for him, he knows this already. But, you keep going. 

“What is this? Were we lovers in a past life or something? Do you have some unresolved feelings?” The way you’re rambling makes you impossibly endearing to him. His classic chuckle slipping out stops you in your tracks.

“Nothing of the sort,” he curtly replies. You cross your arms over your chest at his usual demeanor returning. “No such thing as reincarnated soulmates, at least with what I’ve experienced in my lifetime. Though, the feelings department…” As he continues, he leans closer to you. So much so you can almost feel his breath on your face and smell his warm, spicy cologne. 

“Is there a problem if I do have feelings for you?”

You blink at him. What? You don’t think you’ve ever been so caught off guard.. Feelings? Is that what this has all been about? 

Every previous encounter begins to run through your head and you start picking out small things that back up his statement. The lingering stares, teasing words, protective nature. You groan and drag your hands down your face. Man, you didn’t pick up on any of his hints. He must think you’re an idiot. 

Before you can give him an answer, he pushes off the tree, standing over you at full height. Assuming he’s about to attempt to leave once more, you’re surprised to see him turning back in the direction of the bench. When you make no effort to move, he reaches out and pulls you by your coat until his hand is in yours. 

“I’ll take that as not a problem.” A smirk still on his face due to you indirectly feeding his ego. 

Although, now walking beside him, you don’t miss the way his free hand reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. A gesture you recognise as one of his nervous tics. Did you do that to him? You grin at the idea that you make the great vampire feel that way.

“There’s a scooter rental place down by this side of the lake.” His voice brings you out of your thoughts, realising he’s been trying to hold eye contact with you. “I’ll make a deal with you, if you let me take you out on a ride around the lake, I’ll answer any questions you have, deal?”

The way he’s practically bargaining with you makes you want to laugh, but you keep your face neutral as you agree to his offer. Who turns down taking a romantic scooter ride with a hot vampire? Nobody. 

Of course, he takes any opportunity to tease you, so he rents a smaller scooter so you have to cling onto him.

You don’t complain though. How can you as you enjoy feeling his back muscles flex? Not to mention, he keeps his promise and answers any and every question you have about himself or his past. And, wow, he has an interesting and long past. 

As the sky turns dark and drips stars, you’re left with a feeling rising in your chest that you certainly don’t reject and with the hope of meeting him again—on purpose, this time. A planned event seems likely as you clutch the torn-out blank page of his book with his phone number scribbled across it in your fist.

one time: he gazes at you

“Hitoshi. You already have better night vision than me. This is so extra!” you protest, stumbling through the dark apartment as your vampiric boyfriend maneuvers you to ... his room, you think. 

Hitoshi just rubs soothing circles on your back and you just know the fucker is smirking. You hear the light click on. 

“You can take the blindfold off.” 

Tugging the blindfold off, you stare at the new object Hitoshi bought for his room. 

“Baby, this is a mirror.” 

He nods while leaning against his bed, looking infuriatingly pretty per usual. 

“You can’t even see yourself in a mirror. Why?” You arch an eyebrow in Hitoshi’s direction, trying to explain your absolute bafflement at his purchase. 

“In case you’re here and want to check yourself out.”  

You see nothing but innocence plastered on his facial expression but did you trust it? No. 

A mindblowing second later, he stands in front of you, caressing your face with calloused, cold hands. A nice contrast to the sweltering temperature in his room he set for you. Hitoshi leans in to kiss you, gentle but firm. Your hands go up to fist his shirt as he intensifies the kiss. 

He slides his hands down your cheek to stroke your lip and then slowly skims down your body.  

“It would be a great idea to take this off,” he whispers, playing with the hem of your shirt. 

You eagerly nod as he strips you out of your shirt and pants. Awareness of his plans finally clicks when he turns you to face the mirror. 

The remark on the tip of your tongue dies when Hitoshi rolls your nipples through the thin lace of your bra. You arch into his touch as he gently pinches and pulls them. God, your panties are already drenched and nipples hard. 

“Fuck,” you moan as Hitoshi slides your panties to the side. Letting you lean against his corded chest, he hitches one of your legs off the floor. 

“Go on, spread yourself open. Let me see how wet your slutty cunt is,” he murmurs into your ear. 

You hard swallow as you spread your glistening lips open for him, strands of your arousal clinging to your fingers when you pull them away. Hitoshi digs his hand into your thigh.

“Did I tell you to stop?” He sounds amused as he uses his other hand to pull your hair by the roots.

“No, no, daddy, I’m sorry,” you apologize and move your hand back to where it belongs. 

“Good girl, look at yourself. Wrecked without even being fucked.” You stare at yourself in the mirror with a half-lidded gaze. He’s right. With your heaving chest and puffy, soaked pussy, you look like you’ve been railed. But instead, you continue to spread open your aching pussy for your fully clothed boyfriend.

“Daddy, daddy, please touch me,” you plead as you grind against his hard bulge, desperate for any kind of friction. 

“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” If you were any more lucid, you’d have smacked Hitoshi for his lilting tease. 

“Aren’t I always a good girl,” you whine, hands clambering at his thighs. 

He chuckles at that, kissing your head before somehow gracefully crumpling to the ground with you in his lap. In a blink, he has you spread out in his lap as he plays with your clit. He slides a thick finger inside your tiny cunny as he grazes your shoulder with his canines.

“Look at you,” he coos. “You look so good like this, my darling little slut.” 

You don’t even have a retort, too enraptured by the sight of Hitoshi fingerfucking your sopping cunt with his invisible hand. The way your cunt opens for him and gapes in the mirror spellbinding for both of you.

You moan as your hips jerk up. There’s not much more he loves than how your lips part and your legs shake at how he strokes his finger inside of you. 

“More,” you beg. How can he resist your dazed expression? 

“Such a needy baby,” he tsks as he scissors you open with another finger. 

Another strum of your clit and pinch of your nipple and you’re gone, eyes squeezing shut. Your juices surely ruining his pants as you writhe in his lap. 

He cradles your cheek and then grips your chin to turn you back to the mirror. 

“Look at yourself, pretty girl. Such a fucked out mess.” 

You gaze at the bruises blooming over your shoulders and down your neck and shudder, pleased. The aftershocks of your orgasm leave you warm as you languidly suck your juices off Hitoshi’s fingers.  

“Toshi!” you squeal as he gently deposits you on his bed and pulls his clothes off. The bed is purely decorative and for you considering he doesn’t sleep. Although, even with a bed, you guys still fuck over every surface in his apartment. 

Your sensitivity protests fall to deaf ears as he bends your knees to your chest. This time, Hitoshi is the one to spread you open. He slaps your cunt and you claw at the sheets. Pumping two fingers slowly in and out of you, he uses his other hand to roughly pull down your bra.

His chapped lips wrapping around your nipple and cold fingers groping your other breast feel overwhelming. Hitoshi cages you in, sucking wet kisses over your tits, leaving you no room to evade his overstimulation as you squirm to get away from his fingers fucking up into you. 

Your sore nipples and cunt get a moment of reprieve as he moves down to concentrate on marking bites all over your plush thighs. Instantly, you miss being full. 

When he passes your empty, clenching cunt for the third time to suck bruises on your inner thighs, you burst. 

“Daddy, please, please, fuck me!” 

Hitoshi trails kisses up your heated skin to your throat, laving over the hickies he left.

“Beautiful,” he croons as he finally positions his tip against your hole and pushes in. The praise and stretch make you whine. He stills as your tiny cunt clenches around him. Your warm, drenched walls wrapping around his cock makes him toss his head back in pleasure. 

“My patient good girl,” he groans, pulling at your nipples. 

“Fuck—more, daddy, more,” you curse as you squirm, your hips rocking up to meet his shallow thrusts. He doesn’t reply and grazes his fangs over your pulse point as he holds your hips down. 

Your breath hitches—and he abruptly pulls back.

“Did my baby think I was going to bite her?” Hitoshi gives you a lazy smirk as he keeps his vexingly slow pace, watching his cock drag in and out of your creaming cunt. 

His large hand wrapping around your neck makes you squeak and suddenly tighten around him. Your favorite necklace. Knowing he’s using an insignificant fraction of his strength to please you makes your eyes roll back as your breath stutters.

“That’s it, cum for me, pretty girl.” Hitoshi starts a punishing pace as he strokes your clit with his free hand. His dark eyes never leave his hand wrapped around your throat, your ravishing lightheaded face and your bouncing tits. Hitoshi’s furrowed expression as he drags his tongue over his canines in concentration makes you whimper. 

You buck against him, gushing around him and crying out his name.

The way you cum so prettily for him has Hitoshi hissing your name in your ear as he thrusts deep into your spasming cunt, chasing his own release. Intertwining his hands with yours, he presses you into the mattress to pin you down. Before long, his orgasm washes over him. 

You gaze contentedly at Hitoshi as he pulls out, feeling empty already—and then you realize. 

“Hitoshi! I swear to god if I look like a grape again,” you threaten as you try to stand up to head to the bathroom. 

You don’t even take a step before he whisks you into his bathroom, laughing at you and kissing your forehead. 

Well. You suppose looking like a grape isn’t that bad.

FOR THE HOMIES | SKZ

Pairing: None, though you I don’t blame you if you spot any Ho-Yay moments.

Genre: Comedy | Crack Fic

Word Count: 3.3K

Summary: Felix loves to bake. The boys enjoy the “magic grass.” One thing leads to another and—well, you can guess the rest.

Notes: 

This is inspired and totally based on a post by @hanstagrams​; she deserves all the credit.

Though this is a fun little one-shot, this doesn’t reflect who the boys’ (Stray Kids’) are in real life. It’s a fictional portrayal of real people and thus not the real deal.

Keep in mind this is a) based on my own experience with the “magic grass” and edibles and that b) it’s for written for shits and giggles.

I kept the cast short, meaning it’s only Felix, Chan, Minho, and Jisung. Perhaps a follow-up one-shot might include the other boys—Changbin, Hyunjin, I.N., and Seungmi—because they, too, deserve to have fun.

CLING!

Felix, humming to a song he can’t name nor remember the lyrics to, calmly puts on an oven mitt and takes out the baking tray of recently baked brownies from their dorm’s small oven. Though the piece of equipment is old and ready to be replaced it still heats up and bakes like it’s a new model.

The strong yet smell of chocolate fudge permeates the kitchen and he can’t help but smile at it. It’s somehow therapeutic after a long night of dance practices or long days of promotion. Baking is Felix’s own little thing, a way to unwind and focus on something else entirely.

“What a master baker I am,” he says to no one in particular, smirking. “Five-star Michelin, baby.”

He looks at his pride and joy: an entire batch of chocolate fudge brownies, the perfect shade of brown sprinkled with the perfect amount of chocolate chips. He places the tray on the counter, leans in, and takes a whiff. Not only do they look amazing, they smell amazing too. Waving a hand over the tray in a circular motion, as though to keep the chocolatey scent all to himself, he chuckles. With a pep on his step and the catchy but unnamed tune still being hummed, Felix turns on the ball of his feet and crosses the kitchen from the counter to the refrigerator. He opens it, peruses its contents, then takes out four banana milks, balancing them with great care in two hands.

“For the homies,” he whispers, nodding to himself.

Felix pokes his head out the kitchen and sees his friends sitting on the ground, laughing and complaining, colorful cards flying from their hands onto a ground-level table. Bangchan laughs loudly, smacking Jisung’s knee as Minho cackles, doubling over, relishing in their friend’s awful luck. Apparently he’d been forced to pick up over eight cards.

“Yeah.” Felix finds himself smiling with crinkled eyes. “For the homies.”

The chocolatey fragrance still lingers in the kitchen, oddly soothing and tantalizing. It’s stronger than before, something else entirely harmoniously mixing in with the sweetness.

If only Felix knew what it truly was.

THEN, about an hour before . . .

“How the hell did you get that?”

Jisung asks this as his eyes widen at the paper bag Minho conceals in his hoodie’s pocket. He glances over his shoulder and sees Felix and Chan working on the brownie batter, talking amongst themselves in between chuckles and smacks on their shoulders. When Jisung looks back at his hyung, Minho stares back, impassive.

“I know people,” Minho retorts with a shrug.

A beat. Jisung looks over his shoulder, eyes toward the kitchen, then leans in real close.

“Can I meet them?” he whispers.

Minho glares, flicking Jisung’s forehead. “Definitely not,” the other says, scoffing. “You’ll scare them away.”

“C’mon, hyung.”

“Nope.”

“Pretty please?”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Pretty pretty please?”

“Add another pretty and I might consider it.”

“Pretty pretty pretty—”

Another flick to the forehead. Jisung blinks, eyes toward the ceiling, a blank expression in his face. He smacks his lips and nods, as though to say I deserved that.

Minho sports a devious smirk. “I said I’d consider it not that I’d agree.”

“You’re the worst.”

“And yet you keep coming to me for cuddles.” Minho wiggles his eyebrows. He glances past Jisung’s shoulder and catches a glimpse of Felix stirring something in a mixing bowl. “Call Chan over.”

“What for?” Jisung asks, looking back and forth between Minho and the kitchen. “He’s busy.”

“Just wave him over.”

“Wave who over?”

While Minho merely blinks, Jisung gives a startled jump as Chan stands behind him. He has brownie batter in the tip of his nose, his hands smudged with chocolate and butter. His blond-dyed hair has a blue highlight across his bangs and it’s held back underneath a black bandana. His arms are exposed thanks to a white sleeveless tee. Equally amused and confused, Chan looks between his friends and demands an answer by lifting his chin.

“Something on your minds, darlings?”

“He’s got the stuff,” says Jisung through gritted teeth, pointing a finger at Minho’s hoodie. “The stuff, y’know? The magic grass.”

Chan raises an eyebrow, stifling a chuckle as Jisung nods. Minho, on the other hand, glares at Jisung.

“Subtlety clearly isn’t your forte,” says Minho.

“A lot of things aren’t my forte,” Jisung replies, shrugging. “And I’m still standing.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Chan sing-songs, imitating Elton John’s lilt. He pats Jisung’s shoulder and leans on it. He sneaks a glance at the kitchen before turning his attention at Minho. “We’re doing this?”

Minho nods, tapping his hoodie’s pocket. “Oh we’re doing this.”

“Nice,” Jisung exclaims, fist-bumping Chan. His smile falters as he frowns. “What are we doing again?”

“Aish.”

“OI, Lix, need another pair of hands?”

Felix turns, stirring the batter with chopsticks and skillful ease. Chan joins in the kitchen, Minho close behind him. Jisung stands in the small corridor between the kitchen and the living room, eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. He looks like he’s both amused and nervous, though he quickly looks away and disappears from view.

“Sure,” Felix replies with a shrug. “The more the merrier.”

“What can I do?” Minho asks, surveying the mess in the kitchen.

Felix looks around then passes him the mixing bowl. “Whisk this,” he says, momentarily distracted. “Chan, I need more eggs.”

“Right on it, mate.”

Minho sits on the table and begins to whisk the batter. He glances over his shoulder every now and again and when he’s certain Felix is too distracted to pay him any attention, he extracts the paper bag from his hoodie; the contents are gently placed on the table and hidden in plane sight. Felix comes by, looks over his shoulder, offers a thumbs-up, but just as quickly moves away when Chan calls him over.

It only takes Minho a second to slip the special stuff in the batter.

AN hour later, which is to say now . . .

“They’re done!” Felix exclaims from the kitchen. “What are you guys up to?”

Gathered around a table, conspiratorially looking at each other, Chan, Minho, and Jisung hold cards in front of their faces. Chan smirks at Jisung who, due to a streak of bad luck and constant betrayal by his friends, holds more than twenty cards in his hand. Minho, having played his cards well, simply looks between them and scrutinizes his hand. If all goes according to plan, he’d be able to win in the next eight to nine moves.

“We’re playing UNO,” says Chan, stifling a fit of laughter. “Oops. I meant kicking Han’s arse at UNO.”

Jisung mumbles complaint under his breath, tilting his head in annoyance. “This isn’t fair,” he whines.

Minho wiggles his eyebrows, throwing a Reverse to play his hand yet again. “Life, in general, isn’t fair,” he chuckles and pats Jisung’s knee. “But we know this, don’t we?”

Jisung looks at the Skip recently placed on the table and pouts. “Aish.”

“Lix, c’mere!” Chan shouts, red in the face from laughter. “You’re missin’ out.”

“Be there in a second,” their baker friend replies, his voice echoing loudly into the living room.

“I think he’s tasting them,” Minho whispers, eyes glued to the kitchen. He chuckles then grimaces. “Aw shit.”

Chan nods, as though to convey something obvious. “The whole point is that he tastes them.”

“With us, not on his own.” Jisung pipes up, drawing a Wild Draw 4 and setting it on the table without looking. He does this while biting his lip and snorts, concealing a giggle by clearing his throat. “Chan, it’s your turn.”

“He’ll be fine.” Chan barely reacts to Jisung’s play and adds a Wild Draw 4 of his own. He turns to Minhow and whispers, “You didn’t go overboard, right?”

Minho shrugs. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

“It’s about whether or not we can handle it—”

“Felix has never touched the special grass.” Jisung points out. His eyes widen when Minho adds a Draw 2. “So it’s going to be like that, huh?”

“We’re keeping an eye on him.” Chan’s demeanor suddenly transitions from shits and giggles to team dad in the blink of an eye. “The moment we notice he’s not feeling well, we sober him the fuck up.”

“Deal.” Minho nods.

“Operation Sober Boy is officially a thing,” Jisung adds, smiling at having passed the burden of picking up twelve cards to Chan after drawing a Draw 2 of his own.

Chan nods, pouting with an impressed expression. “That’s a mouthful but I like it,” he compliments and smiles when he sees the cards. “Yeah, no, that’s not gonna happen.”

From his hand, Chan throws a Green Draw 2. Minho stares at it. Unfazed, he draws yet another Reverse and Blue Draw 2 and slowly turns to take in Jisung’s look of utter shock. The inevitable betrayal that comes with playing UNO lingers in the air.

“You gotta be shitting me.”

“We can do this all day, Han.”

“Are you still bullying poor Jisung?”

They all turn when they see Felix join them, baking tray in hand, his every step bringing forth a mouthwatering aroma. He looks at them and smiles, his eyes crinkled with joy and his freckles distinctively present. Jisung plays his hand, drawing the last Draw 2 in his deck, and groans when Chan rebuffs him with yet another Wild Card 4. Minho chortles and responds with a Draw 2 his own.

“Aish, are you two planning this? This is an ambush!”

Felix chuckles, shaking his head. “Cut Jisung a break.”

“It’s just a bit of fun.” Chan waves Felix over, tapping the empty space to his right. “And UNO is the perfect game to build character.”

“This is a massacre,” Jisung whimpers as he begins to draw twenty-four cards. He looks at Felix and pouts, feigning tears. “Look at how they massacre your boy.”

“Hate the game, not the player.” Minho shrugs and, before anyone can correct him, he smugly adds, “If you say it’s the other way around, you’re playing wrong.”

“Let’s go with that.” Felix shrugs and sets the tray on a corner of the table. He smiles proudly. “I reckon this is my best batch yet.”

“It sure smells nice,” says Chan, his voice high-pitched. In the thickest Australian accent he can speak in, he whispers, “Chocolatey.”

“It sure does!” Minho agrees, the faint echo of laughter in his voice.

“Give me an eternity,” Jisung says, still counting cards. “I’m gonna be at this for a while.”

“Let’s eat!” Chan claps and rubs his hands together.

“Not yet, not yet.” Minho reaches out and gently gets a hold of Chan’s wrist. He looks at Jisung with mischief in his eyes. “I’m enjoying this.”

WHEN Felix said it’d been his best batch yet, the young idol and part-time baker hadn’t been wrong.

But while the boys divided an entire brownie between each other, aware that one for each of them would be a tad much, Felix, on the other hand, had an entire brownie by himself. The boys hadn’t noticed until Jisung pointed it out. Apparently Felix had been taking bites from it way before he joined them, which meant he’d started in the kitchen and finished eating it when he joined them in the living room.

The UNO cards have been put away—Minho won, leaving Jisung with forty-nine cards in his hand—and they sit in a circle, eating brownies and giving each other shit. The TV is on, though mostly for background noise, and Chan, in his infinite wisdom, makes a playlist to both set a mood and for future sessions.

Though he looks focused on the songs he’s picking, Chan is trying not to look worried or shocked. Every now and again, he glances at Felix with a worried glint in his eyes. Minho, anticipating what is soon to ensue, carefully watches Felix, smiling that smug smile of his that indicates he knows something his friend doesn’t. And then there’s Jisung, who openly stares at Felix bug-eyed, making obvious comments about the special stuff in the brownies and sporadically chuckling to himself.

Felix, for better or worse, hasn’t noticed any of this. He drinks his banana milk and carries a conversation about baking with Minho, explaining how he made the batch; he’s aware to not pat himself on the back too hard because, as much as he loves baking, he’s still a relative newbie to the whole thing. Minho nods and adds a thing or two but overall simply scrutinizes his friend’s body language.

Having an entire brownie is a recipe for a ripe high.

And just as he gives the final details, Felix feels it.

“So you just leave it for about thirty-five minutes and—” Felix zones out, his eyes widening. He blinks and blinks and blinks until he slowly turns to look upward, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His entire body relaxes to the point where he leans on his hands and stretches. “Crikey.”

Minho smirks and points at him while Jisung leans in and waves a hand over Felix’s eyes.

Chan, on the other hand, claps and sings an improvised song:

   Hey hey, ho ho

  Felix had some of the special dough

“Wh—what?” Felix asks, his eyes heavy. “Who’s a hoe?”

“He is,” Jisung absentmindedly replies, pointing a finger at Minho without looking. “A big one.”

Minho glares and works his jaw. “Dumb prick says what?”

Jisung is about to reply but Felix beat him to it: “What?”

Minho and Jisung exchange a glance and smile as Chan leans forward and gets Felix’s attention.

“How you feelin’, mate?”

“Loose.” Felix shakes his head. Though the gesture is gentle, to him it feels like the heaviest and slowest movement in the world. His eyesight is blurry then clears and everything seems to move in a different frequency and is presented in a strange, one-of-a-kind filter. “Very, very, very loose.”

“How are the brownies?” Jisung asks, giggling.

“They’re—have I ever mentioned how pretty you are, Minho?”

“Once or twice.” Minho winks. “But do go on.”

“See? He’s a hoe.”

“Yah!”

“But you’re my hoe.”

“You little—” Minho motions to punch Jisung’s knee but relents when Jisung blows him a kiss. He scrunches up his face in a mocking face. When Jisung looks away and lets Felix lean on him, Minho softens and can’t help but smile. “Lix, you look like you could use something to drink.”

Felix nods, giggling. “I’d love something to drink.”

Chan looks at his friend’s hand and sees the half-drunk banana milk there. He pretends to hand it over to Felix then shakes his wrist a bit. “There you are, Lix,” he says.

“Heol!” Felix’s eyes widen and he giggles a bit more, a high-pitch sound of pure joy. “You’re pretty fast there, Chan-Chan Man.”

“Sure am.” Chan snaps his fingers, motions finger-guns.

Felix smacks his lips, nods to himself. “This is definitely my best batch.”

“Does it have a name?” Jisung asks, genuinely curious.

“Super Duper Brownies!”

Minho snorts, choking on his banana milk. “Come again?”

“I would need to be hard for that to happen.” Felix giggles. “I can’t come without—”

Chan chokes on the small brownie piece he’s eating. Jisung scoffs, a hand over his mouth to cover his laughter. Minho, on the other hand, rolls his eyes in that way a diva does after hearing the lamest pick up line of the century.

“Whoa, buddy, pal, mate, easy there on the dirty talk.” Chan pats his chest then shakes Felix’s leg.

“What’s the taboo? Sex is sex is sex.”

“Shit.” Minho raises an eyebrow, amused. “He gets all philosophical when he’s high.”

“High? Who’s high?”

The boys look at each other then back at Felix. “You are,” they chorus, apprehensive amusement laced in their voices.

“Come again?” Felix leans forward, groggily blinking. “Did you just say I’m high?”

They nod.

“I haven’t smoked any magic grass.”

“Hey!” Jisung raises his hand, waiting for a high-five. “I call it that too.”

Felix absentmindedly high-fives Jisung. “You haven’t smoked any of it either. Dunno what you’re on about.”

“That’s because we didn’t smoke it.” Chan replies sheepishly.

“We ate it,” says Minho, lifting his chin and pointing at the baking tray with his eyes. “And you ate an entire brownie by yourself. You’ll be pretty fine and dandy for a while.”

“You—what—huh?” Felix blinks and scratches his head. The sensation is both new and familiar, feeling soothing to this touch. “Did you put some magic grass on the batter?”

“Not exactly magic grass.” Minho smiles with that mischievous glint in his eye. “Super duper special butter.”

“Butter?” Felix asks, but he says it in english so his Australian accent comes off very thick. It sounds like buttah instead of butter. “I think you put too much of that buttah.”

Minho nods, grimacing for a fraction of a second. “I might have gone overboard, yes.”

“Why do you say that?” Jisung looks worried.

The question is answered as Minho blinks and nods to himself, lips puckered. His eyes look glazed over as he begins to giggle. The giggle becomes a modest chuckle then hysterical laughter. Minho’s laughter is echoed and matched by Felix’s, a contagious fit of guffawing that is hard to contain. Chan and Jisung exchange a glance then look at their friends.

“It hasn’t hit me yet.” Chan raises his eyebrows and shrugs. His head suddenly feels heavy, sort of forcing him to lie down. “Wait—shit-fuck—I spoke too soon.”

Jisung chortles, shaking his way to show disappointment. “You’re weak, fellas,” he says, reaching for half a brownie. “You don’t have what it takes.”

“Han, sing us a song,” Minho requests, fighting a fit of giggles. “Can you sing opera?”

“I can certainly try,” Jisung retorts, his mouth full.

“Do or do not,” Felix chimes in, his voice high-pitched. “There is no try.”

“Hey hey, ho ho—” Chan sings, his voice cracking.

“—Felix’s Yoda, yo!” Minho finishes, snapping his fingers to a beat that is only in his head.

“Shit.”

Chan, Felix, and Minho turn to Jisung. He’s mid-munch and he looks lost in thought.

“Something in your mind, darling?” Minho asks, dragging himself toward Jisung. “Do you feel relaxed?”

“What was that about us being weak?��� Chan raises an accusatory eyebrow before chortling. “You drongo, you.”

Jisung perks up. “Bongos? Where?”

Minho rubs his forehead. “This is going to be a long night.”

“Chill out, we have brownies.” Felix reaches for the baking tray, picking a bigger brownie than he expected. “We’ll be coolio.”

“Did he say ‘coolio’?” Chan asks through gritted, covering his mouth with his hand though exposing his mouth to Felix and not Minho.

“I can read your lips,” whispers Felix.

“Shit.”

“Language.” Minho snaps. “For fuck’s sake.”

Jisung snorts. “What an example you’re setting for all of us.”

“A terrible one.” Chan giggles, his eyes crinkled. Smoking grass every now and again was fun but eating it was another thing altogether. “We gotta thank Lix for this batch, though. If I had stars to give, I’d gladly give you the whole damn night sky.”

“Bro,” Felix whispers, his voice deeper than the Mariana Trench.

“Bro,” Chan whispers back, tapping Felix’s nose with his index finger.

They move closer and lean on each other, foreheads touching. They remained like this for a while until Felix sits straight and sighs a heavy sigh of relief, as though he’d been tense and is only know letting go of all the weight on his shoulders.

“I’m a great masturbator.” Felix the Idol-Baker nods and smiles, his eyes suddenly and oddly watery. “I’m such a talented masturbator.”

The boys blink.

It takes the quartet a full minute to realize the Freudian slip.

“Fuck! I meant I’m defo master baker!”

Chan sighs in relief. “Had us scared for a second there, champ.”

“But I’m also a wickedly talented mastur—”

“Have another brownie.” Jisung snatches the brownie Minho snatched from Felix and returns it to its original owner. “Before you say something you might regret.”

“Too fucking late.” Minho burps. He stands up and points at each of them. “More milk?”

“Defo, mate,” Felix and Chan chorus, high-fiving at their synergy.

Minho sighs and rolls his eyes. “Be right back.”

It  will take Minho twenty minutes to return. By then, half of the tray is empty, and the boys are playing UNO again—though no one is paying much attention, even while high the inevitable betrayal that comes with playing UNO lingers in the air.

Title: Black Dog - part two Word count: ±2250 words Episode summary: When Sam gets an anonymous phone call with information about his father, Dean receives a text message with coordinates to different location. The brothers clash and split up, one following orders, the other   trusting his instincts. Meanwhile, in the wilderness of Cascade Range, Washington State, Zoë loses grip on a personal case and is forced to confront her demons. Without back up, this might very well turn out to be her final hunt. Part two summary: After successfully wrapping up a werewolf case in Waco, Texas, the boys are on their way again. However, an unexpected phone call might just result in a change of course. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and  medical procedures. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Swearing, smoking, weaponry. Descriptions of  torture and murder. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Descriptions of suicidal thoughts and tendencies, depression, panic attacks, hallucinations. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​ & @deanwanddamons​​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E03 “Black Dog” Masterlist

     Waco, Texas      November 30th, 2005 - Present Day

     “Get your motor runnin’. Head out on the highway! Lookin’ for adventure, and whatever comes our way.”

     It’s early morning in sunny Texas as the black Chevrolet Impala shoots down Interstate 35, just outside the city of Waco. The temperatures are still cool at this hour, but the orange sun that’s rising in the East will change that within hours. It is exceptionally warm for this time of the year, even for this far south. 

     Dean has his window rolled down and joins Steppenwolf’s lead singer John Kay on the vocals. The hunt was pretty straight forward; after a day of traveling and three more to track the creature, the hunters were able to make the kill. He feels ten times better than he did five days ago, the night he got pulled out of the water without a pulse. But the rest, time and a high dose of antibiotics did him good. Deep breaths aren’t much trouble anymore and the cough is as good as gone. Even the sprint to tackle the werewolf didn’t set his lungs on fire. He’s off pain medication, slept horizontally for the first time in days, and is behind the wheel of his Baby; Dean feels good as new. His way of celebrating is by belting out every word of the legendary rock classic Born To Be Wild.

     “Yeah, Darlin’, go and make it happen. Take the world in a love embrace. Fire all of your guns at once and explode into space.”

     His brother, who is huddled in the corner of the door and the front seat, opens his eyes slightly and glares at his sibling through the drowsiness. He’s not sure what’s more surprising, Dean’s unbelievably good mood or the fact that he’s able to hit the notes.

     “Like a true nature’s child, we were born, born to be wild. We can climb so high, I never wanna die!” Dean sings as he drums on the wheel.  

     “Dude, I’m trying to sleep,” Sam complains. “Turn that shit down, will you?”      Dean looks aside, as if his brother just said something vile. Did he just call Steppenwolf shit? The oldest of the two shakes his head; I tried so hard to raise him right. 

     Instead of honoring Sam’s request, Dean lets go of the steering wheel and plays the solo on his air guitar. Startled, the passenger reaches to take control in order to keep the car steady, after which he eyes his brother. As he does, Dean turns the volume button clockwise and sings along again.      “Born to be wi-i-ild!” he cries out.      “Seriously?” The youngest of the two shoots a look of annoyance at the driver.      “Ah, c’mon, Sammy. Why can’t a guy have a little fun?” Dean replies.      “It’s Sam,” his brother reminds him. “And for one, because I barely slept last night, and secondly, because it’s seven thirty in the morning.”      “So? You’re usually the one who’s all chirpy at the crack of dawn. This way we have the whole day ahead, y’know. Make some use of it,” Dean quips.

     Sam lifts one eyebrow and observes the driver for a few seconds. Is this truly coming from his brother, who is anything but a morning person? Bullshit, he thinks to himself.      “That’s the best you could come up with?” he confronts.      Right at that moment, AC/DC’s Stiff Upper Lip starts playing on the radio channel and Dean can’t help but to shout out when he recognizes the introduction.      “Man, I love this song!”      Sam shakes his head. All that his brother is doing is avoiding the topic of conversation. “And Erin didn’t mind you leaving before the alarm?” 

     Dean looks aside, thinking of the gorgeous brunette he picked up at a bar last night during their celebratory drink. “Not sure, she was still asleep when I left,” he admits.      The younger Winchester scoffs. “That’s just mean.”      “It ain’t my style to hang around too long, you know that,” Dean reminds his brother, defending his actions.      “Why the hell are you in such a hurry? We don’t have a lead on Dad, we don’t have a lead on any case at all. Yet you dragged me out of the motel room at 6 AM to hit the road,” Sam questions.

     His brother shrugs and fails to answer the question. Instead, he mouths the lyrics of the song while cheerily banging his head to the beat.      “Dean!” Sam shouts, trying to get his brother to focus.      “What?!” Dean bounces back, getting somewhat annoyed with his brother’s persistence. “I just wanna get to Hillsboro to pick up that lock so I can finally fix the trunk, that’s all.”

     The passenger rolls his eyes at the lame excuse. “That’s not the reason, Dean. And you know it.”      Dean lays his hand on top of the wheel and shakes his head. “You’re seeing things that ain’t there, know that?”      “Funny, though, apparently you know that I’m talking about Zoë, without me even mentioning her,” the youngest returns with an attitude. “And do you honestly think I didn’t notice that you’re driving north?”      “We’re in Texas, Sam. I can’t exactly go South without crossing any fucking borders,” Dean argues. “Not to mention that ‘north’ is a lot of square miles in this country. How the hell would we possibly be able to find her?”      “I don’t know, man…” Sam stares up the road ahead, but then looks aside. “But you did think of it then.”

     Dean sighs, realizing his slip of the tongue. Okay, so maybe he did, but he isn’t going to admit that. “You are the one who keeps calling her every day. You’re full on stalking her, no wonder she doesn’t pick up.”      “I hope to God that’s the reason,” Sam responds, worried.      “She’s probably just neck deep in a case,” the driver brings to mind. “Zoë’s a good hunter, she knows her shit. Why would you think she’s in trouble?”      “I don’t know, just the way she took off. Like she wasn’t expecting to see us again,” Sam recalls.      “You mean that she was nice?” the oldest rephrases. “Look, if she’s in trouble or not, we’d be searching for a needle in a very big haystack. For now -” He turns on his blinker and exits the highway, “- I’m gonna patch up my Baby.”

     Ten minutes later, they pull over on 526 West Elm Street in Hillsboro. It’s a quiet lane on the outer side of the city, on which a little auto shop called Ronny’s Garage and Wrecker Services is situated. It’s not a big place, just a shed, from which the Stars and Stripes flag flutter playfully. A big Chevrolet truck is parked in front of the lawn, and several wreckages fill the large yard behind the house. On the other side of the sober home next to the shed, there’s a small gas station. 

     Dean cuts the engine and gets out of the car. A largely built man with big sideburns and a slight limp in his walk shows up from under the garage door and moves into the sun. Whipping his hands clean with a dirty cloth, he smiles at the sight of the ‘67 Impala. The oldest of the two Winchester brothers walks up the driveway.      “Ronny Davis!” Dean grins as he approaches him. “Man, it’s good to see ya.”      “Long time, no see, Winchester,” the big man says, embracing the hunter.

     Dean pats him on the back and restores the space between them. It has been a while. Last time he saw the brawny guy was at a shady diner in Tampa, where he and John helped Ron out on a Djinn case. It must have been four years ago, at least. Sam just left for college around that time.      “How’s your old man?” he wonders.      “He’s alright,” Dean says, keeping up appearances. “Workin’ another case.”

     It’s not a lie. Well, technically it’s not. He will leave out the part where his father is missing, though. Not telling the truth to the old friend is not something he’s comfortable with, but he will do anything to make sure his father’s work isn’t jeopardized. Sam was eager to reach out to other hunters in order to find him and although Dean wants to track him down just as well, he prefers to keep this in the family, letting sleeping dogs lie. Who knows who, or what, might be listening in. They will find Dad, when he wants to be found. 

     The two men enter the garage, where a 62’ Lincoln Continental lays on the operating table with a bared engine bay. While Dean nods at the car with appreciating eyes, Ronny turns around to  observe the youngest Winchester for a moment, who gets out of the car.      “I see Sam is back in action.”      “Yeah, dragged his ass back into the game,” Dean replies with a trace of regret in his voice.      “He’s an excellent hunter. We can use a few good men like him,” Ronny says. “Especially now that one of the very best was sent on early retirement.”      Dean chuckles at his comment and glances down. “How are you, by the way?”      Ron pulls up the pant leg of his overhaul, revealing the bionic prosthetic.      “It doesn’t even hurt a bit,” he jokes. “Ruguru took it right off, knee and all.”      “I’m sorry, man,” Dean sighs, his sympathetic eyes meeting Ronny’s.      “It’s quite alright, actually,” he assures, smiling at the ground. “I mean, I still have holy water on my nightstand and a sixgun by the door, but instead of killing monsters I fix cars now. Life could be worse.”

     Dean can’t help but to agree on that. A small prick of jealousy pierces his heart, because deep down, he wouldn’t mind living the ordinary life. Sure, he has embraced hunting, or at least acts like he has. He finds fulfillment in the job, saving people who are in need and ridding the world of evil, but it comes with great sacrifice. Who knows, maybe when they finally find the son of a bitch that killed his mother, he can lay down his weapons. Some day.

     The former hunter has walked to his workbench on which a dissected transmission box lays bare. “So, what brings you here?”      “Passing through, just wrapped up a case in Waco,” Dean tells him. “Some scumbag tried to break into the trunk, though. The lock is busted, couldn’t fix it. And since you have six and a half a Chevy in your backyard, I figured you’d be the guy who could help me out.”      “I actually dismantled a 69’ Caprice last week, same lock as the ‘67.” He moves a few boxes around, snuffling through the thousands of parts. In this organized chaos Ron is able to find what he’s looking for and pulls the lock plus keys from a drawer.      “Let’s get to work,” Dean suggests, contented.

     As the mechanics take a look at the Impala, Sam wanders off. Not going anywhere in particular, the youngest Winchester strolls down the crooked sidewalk, taking in his surroundings. None of the lawns in the neighborhood are taken care of, no one made the effort to water the grass. The houses seem neglected, paint is coming off the wooden frames and weeds growing through the tiles. 

     With a sigh he takes out his phone. Scrolling through the list of last outgoing calls, Zoë shows on the display over and over again. Dean’s right; he is stalking her. Despite that thought, he presses the green button and puts his new Blackberry against his ear, since the last one perished in the lake in Paragould.

     “This is the voicemail of Zoë Sullivan. You can leave a message after the--”

     Annoyed, Sam hangs up and walks on. As he enters the small shop by the gas station, a bell rings. A middle aged woman behind the counter looks up and greets him politely. He gives her a nod and takes a few candy bars from the selves, since there is no healthy alternative in stock to choose from. So much for breakfast, but at least this will save them from starvation.      “That will be $ 3,60, sir,” the lady informs while she puts the bars in a plastic bag.      He passes her a five dollar bill and takes the bag and his change. As she wishes him a nice day, he leaves. The sun almost blinds him, still hanging low, but shining brightly already. Sam narrows his eyes and starts to make his way back to the garage, when his phone rings. A bit startled, he hastily takes out his phone, hoping it’s Zoë, but the caller ID isn’t identified on the display. While wondering who it could be, he answers.      “This is Sam.”      “Sam Winchester?”

     A bit stunned, the young hunter looks back at his display to make sure the woman on the other end of the line isn’t Zoë. The voice coming through is different, softer, with a slightly dissimilar accent. Sam digs deep down his memory, but he doesn’t recognize the person on the phone.      “Who is this?” he asks, still cautious.      “I have some information for you.”      Whoever she is, she got his attention. Sam tries to not sound too curious as he responds. “What kind of information?”       A short silence follows before the girl answers, but when she does, her words bring his heart and mind to a full stop.

      “I know where your father is.”

There you have it, the first chapter of the new episode “Black Dog”. I hope I got your attention! Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you  do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or  buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read part three here

Pain in the Ass

Aperçu: When Vince gifts his sister a backstage pass to a show, he is unaware that she is already quite familiar with the band. Specifically, the drummer.

Fic Type: Tommy Lee x Reader, Brother!Vince Neil x Reader, The Dirt fanfic

Warnings: It’s Mötley fucking Crüe, dude.

Author’s Note: This is the first band fanfiction I’ve ever written (let alone Mötley Crüe), and the first actual fic I’ve written in a long time, so constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated.

*_*_*_*_*

Having an older brother had pros and cons. Especially when he was in an internationally renowned rock band. To all the girls in the audience, he was some sort of sex-god, above all wrongdoing and rebuke.

To me he was just a pain in the ass.

A pain in the ass who thought backstage-pass tickets to his show would forgive the fact that he forgot my birthday.

Forgetfulness must run in the family, because I had conveniently “forgot” to mention that I was dating the drummer of my brother’s band.

And that’s how I ended up here, lounging on a dressing room couch, watching Tommy Lee apply lipstick and rouge in preparation for the show. The room was a bit hazy from the cigarettes we were chain smoking, and several empty bottles of beer littered the floor. Clothes and belts were tossed haphazardly around (Tommy had been very indecisive about his costume tonight) and there was a pile of unfinished blow sitting on a cymbal perched precariously on the side table next to me. He had never been the cleanest guy- not that I cared. I had grown up around Vince for fucks sake. And to be fair, those were my boots on the floor, and a couple of the beer bottles had been mine.

“So dude,” Tommy smeared on some eyeliner, “when are we gonna tell your brother that we’re together?”

I sighed, and picked at a loose string from a seam of the couch. I could feel Tommy’s gaze as he watched my reflection in his vanity mirror.

“I mean, he’s bound to find out sooner or later… But you and me both know that he’ll lose his shit-”

Tommy smirked, “‘Cus I’m fucking his sister.”

I laughed, and half-heartedly threw one of my boots at him.

“You’re mean!” Tommy fake-whined, spinning around in his chair.

I rolled my eyes, “C’mere silly, you have coke on your nose.”

---

Vince strolled into the greenroom, half expecting to see Y/N chatting with Nikki and Mick. Well, chatting with Nikki and probably talking Mick to death. She never seemed to shut up.

No Y/N, but he did find the headband he’d been looking for. That and a beer.

“Hey, Nikki,” Vince took a swig of his Heineken and slapped the bassist on the back.  “Have you seen a girl about-” he raised his hand to indicate height, “yea high? Leather jacket and jeans?”

“What, you already lose a lady friend back here?” Mick raised an eyebrow.

“No man, I’m looking for my sister.”

Nikki shrugged, looking agitated. “I dunno, but do y’know where Tommy’s at? We’re on in ten.”

“Shit,” Vince spat.

Last week, he’d forgotten Y/N’s birthday, and in a half-assed attempt at an apology, he’d offered a backstage pass. Of course, she’d laughed in his face, but she took it anyways. Yeah, he kinda felt bad. But hey, he was busy. There were shows to put on, cities to visit, girls to fuck…

Mick looked up from practicing riffs on his guitar as Nikki stalked off to go find the missing drummer. “You have a sister?”

“Yeah, unfortunately.” Vince spun in a circle. “She’s not hiding in here, is she?”

“Fortunately, no.”

Vince collapsed on the couch opposite Mick’s, and downed a third of his beer. “She’s probably just making out with a roadie or some shit.”

“Wonder where she gets it from,” Mick muttered.

---

Nikki was in a sour mood. Well, more so than usual. The bass tech had somehow managed to lose one of the basses he was supposed to be playing tonight, and the replacement lacked the pyrotechnic abilities of the original, which completely ruined one of his favorite effects in the entire show. On top of that, Tommy was missing with less than ten minutes to showtime, and Vince had brought his fucking sister.

She was a pretty thing, though. Dripping with charisma, she wore a smile that matched Vinny’s and had a similar surfer-rock vibe. She had nice tits too. He had decided within two minutes of meeting her though that fucking her would feel too much like fucking a girl version of Vince and the idea of that creeped him out.

He stomped down the hallway, banging on doors in search of the drummer.

God fucking dammit, where the hell was Tommy?

Surely Doc had given him the ten minute warning. He was probably still in his dressing room jacking off or some shit.

Grumbling to himself, Nikki turned the corner and found the dressing room with Tommy’s name on the door. He lifted his hand to bang on the door and give Tommy a piece of his mind, when a noise stopped him.

A voice. A female voice.

Nikki chuckled. Of course that bastard had a girl in there. Very carefully, he cracked the door open, just enough to see what and who Tommy was doing.

Tommy was lounging on the dressing room couch, making out with a girl straddling him. The girl was wearing jeans and a leather jacket and- Shit!

Oh shit.

Nikki shut the door as quickly and quietly as possible. He grinned wildly. Tommy was making out with Vince’s sister. Vinny’s fucking sister!

Vince had to see this. He was going to fucking lose it when he found out.

Nikki flat out sprinted back to the greenroom where Vince was bitching to Mick about Y/N.

“She is such a pain in the ass. I can’t even believe-”

“Vince!” Nikki practically skidded to a stop in front of him. “Vinny, man, you gotta see this.”

Vince whined, “We’re on in like, five minutes! And I still gotta find Y/N!”

“No, really, you gotta see this.”

“Fine.”

As he followed Nikki back down the halls, Vince continued to complain. “Did you at least find Tommy?”

They turned down the last hallway to where the dressing rooms were, and Nikki shushed him. “Would you quit bitching for a second?”

Ever so slowly, Nikki inched open the door till they could see inside.

Tommy had abandoned his shirt on the couch, and Y/N had lost most of her clothing, with the exception of her leather jacket and underwear. She was seated on the vanity, Tommy standing between her legs, hands on her waist.

Vince lost it within the three seconds he had been peering through the cracked door.

“Y/N, WHAT THE FUCK?” Vince stormed in, leaving a bemused Nikki behind him in the doorway.

“Ever heard of knocking, asshat?” She snapped, pulling her jacket tight around her.

Tommy stood there, wide eyes darting between Y/N and Vince.

Just then, Mick appeared in the doorway. “We’ve got two minutes to- Oh.”

Nikki snickered as Mick took in the scene. Vince looked like he was going to strangle Tommy, who was desperately trying to pull his shirt back on and fix his hair. There was lipstick on his jaw. Based on their faces and Nikki’s giggling, it wasn’t too hard to figure out who the half-naked girl sitting on the vanity was.

“Vinny, this is my boyfriend, Tommy,” Y/N hopped off the vanity and pulled on her jeans.

“Yeah. No kidding.” Vince spat back.

“Sorry, man.” Tommy shrugged. “We were gonna tell you, but never really got around to it.”

“Uh huh.”

By this point, Nikki was full on losing it, on the ground laughing.

“What in the HELL is going on in here?” Doc poked his head in and pointed to his watch. “You all need to be on stage RIGHT NOW.”

Reluctantly, Vince decided not to kill Tommy right then and there. But as he walked past Y/N, he whispered, “You are SUCH a pain in the ass.”

She laughed and followed Mötley Crüe out of Tommy’s dressing room.

“Right back atcha, buddy.”

*_*_*_*_*

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Vanish

December 1st It had been two weeks since I’d last seen Harry. It had been two weeks since anyone had seen Harry.

The morning after our karaoke night, I had woken in an empty bed despite the fact I had fallen asleep with him at my side, feeling almost disappointed to wake alone. No one had seen or heard from him since. I had text him just a couple of days after I’d seen him, asking him to come round, and received no reply. I was worried at first, thinking maybe he wanted to call an end to our truce, but when I turned up for our class on the Wednesday, I was met with a notice on his door. I’m out of town. Sorry for the lack of notice. Back soon, Harry. That was it. Nothing more nothing less. It had been two weeks and no one had heard a thing. I didn’t know whether I missed him, but I missed having him around. His lack of presence was noticeable, more so than I would have thought. Our trips to the pub hadn’t felt the same without him there. My nights hadn’t felt the same without having him and his company as an option. I didn’t know whether or not we should have been worried about him. I didn’t know enough about him, if he’d have any reason to leave, or even if he’d come back; I’d found myself questioning if this is what he did when he left places, left that idea lingering that maybe he’d come back, like he’d merely disappeared for a while and he’d return, only to be half way to rebuilding his life again somewhere completely new. I didn’t have a clue about anything, and I found myself questioning it often. “It’s fucking freezing!” Lin whined. “I like Christmas as much as the next person, but I tell you what, December is cold.” Chloe was big into the Christmas season, so on the 1st of December every year, we’d have a slight celebration. She’d buy a shit load of fireworks, and on the land behind her house, she’d light them all and we’d all stand in the freezing cold and watch them go off before proceeding to go indoors and get nice and drunk. We all liked the drinks bit at least. We were all standing in a row, big coats on, arms wrapped around our bodies, stood shoulder to shoulder watching Chloe arrange the fireworks. “I can admit, it’s certainly not warm.” I nodded, pulling my bobble hat on a little lower. “Are they nearly ready?” Libby tried her best to sound like she wasn’t complaining, but she did a terrible job. “My testicles are freezing off. They’re gunna drop on the floor any second now.” Niall was as wonderfully vulgar as ever. “Would you all stop whinging so bloody much?” She whipped her head to scowl at us directly. “This is gunna be great! It’s the biggest one yet, so just hold your fucking horses. We’ll be inside and we’ll be drunk soon.” “I’ll be drunk really soon, I’ve got beer.” Niall lifted his can proudly. “What? Where’d you get that from?” Lincoln sulked. “I want one.” “I’ve got a full crate in my backpack, grab one!” “Sick!” We all chimed in that we wanted one, Lincoln running around to Niall’s back and grabbing us a can each, passing them down the line until we were all stood there, still freezing but with a can each, which certainly eased the pain somewhat, but whatever beer Niall had chosen was blatantly cheap and rather nasty. But it was better than nothing. “OKAY EVERYONE, IT’S TIME! STAND BACK!” She lit them quickly before jogging back over to us, extremely giddy about the whole thing. They were lighting up in seconds, screaming up towards the sky, the lot of us cracking our necks to watch them. I appreciated her excitement, always; being around Chloe at Christmas was like being around a puppy, and I loved that, but no matter how hard she tried, the firework display was always underwhelming. Each year she’d declare that next year they’d be better, she’d spend more money, go to a better shop, get a bigger collection, but then the 1st of December would come back around and it would be as poor as it had been a year earlier. Most of them had a rather loud bang but no sparkle to accompany them, nothing to please the eyes,  practically all of our senses taking a beating. It was so cold it stung at the skin, there was an overwhelming stench of cow shit, it was loud, the beer was god awful, and the one thing that was supposed to be guaranteed was a good sight, and we didn’t even get that. It was over a couple of minutes later, and we all just stood in silence. I even heard someone tut at one point. “Well that was shit.” Niall was the first to speak. “Niall!” Chloe cried. “Chloe, I love you, and this is a lovely concept, but that was shit. Can we go and get drunk now?” “Urgh, fine. Next year, I’ll get more. If I just buy a few more, it’ll be really impressive.” I linked my arm through Louis’ as we began stumbling our way back to Chloe’s, my eyes on the ground the entire time, hoping not to fall. “Y’know what’s weird?” He began. “It feels weird that Harry’s not here, even though he’s never been to one of these before.” “I know what you mean. Kinda used to having him around now.” I sighed. “Has anyone heard from him?” “I don’t think so.” “I hope he’s alright. Strange to just up and leave without saying anything.” “I think that’s what he’s like though.” I shrugged. “I’m not sure he even thinks about it. He’s private, isn’t he?” “I wonder if he’ll stay here.” “I hope so.” I did want him to stay, for many reasons, not all selfish. There was just this part of me that felt like I didn’t know what to predict from him. I’d been trying not to think about it too much, but it seemed we were all getting increasingly attached to a boy who was a possible flight risk, but so quiet about himself that we’d never know for sure. Once we were back inside, we all immediately made our way down into the basement as not to disturb Chloe’s parents. It was expensive in Rosebury, meaning it wasn’t easy for everyone to move out into their own place. None of us had any intentions of living somewhere else, so that would involve getting a mortgage there, so it was a struggle. Houses rarely came up for sale, and even when they did, it would have set everyone back a fortune, despite the special treatment we got from the estate agents because we already lived there. I suppose I’d gotten lucky with my place, in some ways. I didn’t need to worry about that kind of thing. We said a brief hello to her mum and dad before we rushed downstairs. Chloe’s parents were minted, so their basement had a bar and a pool table and everything you’d possibly want for a night in drinking. That was one of the many reasons she’d stuck with them rather than renting somewhere like the other guys did. It wasn’t the kind of house you’d want to leave. Every time we walked in there it looked like Niall had died and floated off to heaven. “Who wants a game?” Lin yelled on his way to the cues. “I do I do!” I chimed. “Good, I need a word with you anyway.” Intrigued, I scuttled over to him, standing close by his side as he topped the cues up with chalk, music being turned on in the background and bottles being popped open. “What’s up?” “I was basically just wondering if you wanted to come to mine for Christmas Day?” “What?” I replied weakly. “Well I know you’ve spent the past few years with Sam, and I didn’t want you to be on your own this year. I spoke to my mum and dad about it, and we’d like to invite you to spend the day with us. If you want.” I felt like crying. I’d been trying not to think about Christmas at all, and I’d have never asked any of them if I could intrude on their days, so I’d been quietly aware that it was likely I’d spend the day alone. I’d thought even an invite from one of them would have been down to last minute panic, realising my dire situation a little too late. The fact that Lincoln had already thought about it, spoke to his parents, and taken me to one side to propose his offer made me well up, tears stinging my eyes. “Lin… I can’t believe you even thought of me.” “Course I did.” He shrugged. “Don’t feel like you have to-” “I’d love it. I was dreading being on my own, I’d love to.” “Sorted. C’mere, don’t get upset.” He swept me under his wing, dragging me into his body and kissing the top of my head. “We can’t wait to have you with us. Don’t cry.” Tucking into his side completely, I cried, just a little, just to get it out of my system, holding him tightly and hoping that was a good enough way to show how much I appreciated him, because words weren’t necessarily an option at the time. I was once again reminded and totally overwhelmed with the love I had for my friends, and the love they had for me.

December 2nd The morning after, I was feeling surprisingly fresh. I’d decided not to open the shop after anticipating the hangover from hell, but I felt fine. The night before had gone as expected. We’d drank a lot and laughed a lot, I’d cuddled Lincoln a bit more than I usually did, Chloe had been sick, Niall had sung a lot of terrible songs, Libby and Louis had gotten deep and emotional at some point. It was all a pretty standard procedure, really, and I couldn’t have asked for anything more. I was in the kitchen making myself some breakfast when there was a knock on the door, shooting my head to look, puzzled which one of them would have been in a fit state at such an hour to come to around to my place for reasons unknown. It didn’t add up. But I wasn’t expecting to open the door to Harry. He was inside within seconds, wrapping his arms around me, kissing me, almost lifting me off the floor with the force and strength he had before I was pushed against the wall, my fingers losing themselves in his hair. I couldn’t stop kissing him, but then at the same time, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. I was so glad to have him back, to be kissing him again, to know he was back in Rosebury and he was okay. “Where the fuck have you been?” I gasped against his lips. “Doesn’t matter, I’m back now.” I should have known I wasn’t going to get a straight answer from him, but I didn’t even have it in me to care. All I wanted was to kiss him, feel him, embrace the fact he was home. “When did you get back?” “Just now. Came straight here.” He groaned. The thought of him coming straight over to see me got me even hotter, that combined with him lifting me off the floor, pinning my body against the wall with his, I was a goner already. I instinctively wrapped my legs around him, kissing him with as much vigour as I could muster, already feeling enough pleasure to produce moans that pressed against his lips. It was only then that I fully accepted that I’d actually missed him. I’d missed his company, I’d missed his kiss, I’d missed the way I felt when I was with him. I didn’t know where he’d been or how long he’d be around for, but I was amazed by how thrilled I was that he was back. I was thankful that I was wearing so little, Harry bunching up my oversized t-shirt so it gathered around my hips, next unzipping his pants and pushing my knickers to the side so my crotch was clear for him, meaning that it was only seconds until he’d thrust into me, my back crashing against the wall. “Holy fuck.” I cried. “Did you get checked out?” “Really? You’re asking me that right now?” He stilled. “You have your dick in me! When else am I supposed to ask? You didn’t really give me an opportunity.” “Sorry.” He chuckled. “Just straight in there, willy-nilly. Literally.” “I’ve fucking missed you, Alfie Hunter.” He sniggered. “I’m clean. Do you need me to get my phone and show you the text?” “No, I trust you. Do you need me to show you mine?” “Depends what it says.” His breath hit my lips, slowly rolling his hips again. “I’m clean.” “May I continue?” He smirked. “You may.” I giggled. He kissed me again, clutching my neck with his hands, gasping and pushing into me, his thrusts harsh but his kiss rather gentle. I’d almost forgotten how good he was, or at least I’d tried to forget, to not think about it constantly in his absence. With the way I’d worried he wouldn’t return, I’d tried to avoid thinking about how good we were when we were together, the ecstasy I experienced every time his body met mine. Even feeling his smooth skin beneath my fingertips was something that brought a different form of life to my body. I was still utterly amazed by the chemistry we shared. It was hard to recall the months where we weren’t like that with one another. “M'so glad you’re back” I gasped. “Gimme some warning before you fuck off next time.” “I’m not going anywhere.” “Good.” Even when he was fucking me against a wall like that, both of us practically still fully clothed, it felt intimate. He was always so close, always so passionate in the way he kissed, the way his hands held me so tightly. I couldn’t see myself tiring of what we did and how we were with one another. His hands moved upwards, dragging through my hair, tongue tracing mine. I could feel the muscles in his buttocks against my heels, obsessed with each and every tick of his body. I could feel the slight tickling of his facial hair with the kiss we shared, something I wasn’t entirely used to. More often than not, he was freshly shaved, but it seemed in his time away he’d allowed his grooming schedule to go awry. I certainly didn’t mind. I could actually think of a few places I would have liked to feel his facial hair. His hand crawled up my t-shirt, gripping at my breast, his pace increasing, his tongue brushing harsh against my bottom lip. My back ached, my head was repeatedly bashing against the wall, but I was so enthralled by the strength he had keeping me in place, the power of his movements, the pain and how uncomfortable it was meant nothing to me. I pulled at his hair, dragging his head back with such force he grunted almost aggressively as I attacked his neck with my lips, licking and pinching at his skin, one foot lowering to land on the floor and steady myself, his movements becoming so harsh I felt like I needed the support. “Touch me.” I begged breathlessly. He reached down between our bodies to oblige, unlatching from my breast to lower his fingers to my nub, forcing my gaze to be back with his by crashing his forehead against mine, next biting my bottom lip. He was so full of fire, fucking alight, fucking burning. “Don’t disappear again.” I urged, the desperation clear in my voice, even shocking me to a certain degree. I’d become too accustom to who we were together, what we were doing. To have him vanish with no warning and come back with no warning had sent a siren blaring through my body that reminded me harshly that I was actually invested in our arrangement, that it was something I’d miss if I no longer had it. The excitement of having him back made me realise how badly I wanted him to stay. It was all so overwhelming. I became alarmingly hot, only experiencing seconds of him touching me and my whirring thoughts before heat burst through me, gripping my eyes shut, like I was trying to shun it, alarmed by the rush of that feeling. “Oh shit.” Harry gasped, sounding deadly serious, genuinely alarmed. “What?” I panicked. “It’s the grumpy cum face, it’s spreading to you.” “You’re such a bellend.” I laughed breathlessly. “You scared me.” “C’mon.” He encouraged, biting his lip, back to the matter at hand. “Finish.” He licked at my bottom lip to encourage me to open my mouth, doing so quickly so that our tongues could meet again, my full body shaking as I let go of the feeling, let it all wash out of me. I cursed repetitively, my body becoming bizarrely limp, so much so that even his strenght could no longer keep me in place. I began slipping down the wall, Harry trying to hold me in place, sniggering as I slid from my spot and our bodies detached. Seconds later, I landed on the floor with a thud, Harry laughing so much that he soon collapsed on his knees ahead of me, clearly finding my feeble state very amusing. “I’m weak. I’m too weak, I literally couldn’t stay up. What’ve you done?” With his hard dick still out, he fell backwards, crashing onto the floor and clutching at his stomach, not at all concerned about my weary state. We stayed on the ground, laughing together. It felt amazing to have him back.

“You missed out last night.” I told him, the two of us sat on my bed tucking into the pizza he’d ordered. “How come?” “We get drunk on the first of December every year, round at Chloe’s. It was fun, you would’ve liked it.” “Anything else interesting happen in my absence?” “It’s bloody Rosebury, what do you think?” The day had passed by in a flash. All we’d done was fuck and laugh and talk, the whole day. Hours had felt like minutes, darkness draping itself over our village without warning, sneaking through the streets like a fox before I’d even be able to comprehend how long he’d been there with me, how easy his company was. “Glad I’m back.” He mumbled after a mouthful. “Seriously, where’ve you been?” I didn’t expect an answer, but I wanted to ask. I think he had a moment there, a short one, where he considered telling me where he’d been. It didn’t last, but his silence was enough of a signal to me. The fact he didn’t immediately brush the question under the ever-growing rug was an improvement in itself. He hesitated, unsure what to say. “Um… Nowhere interesting, really. Nowhere I wanted to be.” “You wanna talk about it?” I offered despite the fact I knew he’d reject it. “Nah, it’s fine. Nothing you need to concern yourself with. Nothing you’d be interested in.” “You’re so fucking mysterious, aren’t ya, Styles?” “No, I’m just boring.” He tried. I rolled my eyes, not buying a word but not wanting to push the matter. His boundaries must have been there for a reason, whether it was the matter at hand, something from his past, or his way of not getting too close to me. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to place him in an uncomfortable position because I was intrigued to know answers to the variety of questions I had about him. I didn’t matter, really. His company was still desirable to me. “I thought maybe you were… in the process of moving somewhere else again.” I admitted shyly. “Nah. I think I’m sticking around. I like it here. I’ve got a good thing going on here.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. I think… this is the most settled I’ve felt in a place. I’m happy here. Being away… kinda reinforced that, so… Sorry, you can’t get ridda me that easily.” “I don’t want rid.” I huffed. “I would have no one to shag without you here. I’d be very sexually frustrated.” “M'just a piece of meat to you, aren’t I?” He grinned. I shrugged, receiving the middle finger from him before we went back to quietly finishing our food. Us doing platonic things together was becoming less irregular. We hadn’t started that way, but ever since that night where I’d taken food around to his house almost a month earlier, I found we were doing things like that much more often. It was needed, I thought; I’d said I wanted our friendship to be placed above anything else, and we’d lost it for a while, become completely animalistic with our attraction. I felt like we’d reached a healthy middle ground. “I was thinking about this.” He put down his half-eaten slice, defeated. “Y’know when you came to me with your rules, about how this is gunna work, with me and you?” “Mm?” “You said I can’t sleep with any of your friends. And like… Well, everyone knows everyone here. Everyone’s friends in Rosebury. So, basically, I’m only fucking you?” “True,” I had to agree, tittering lightly. “But, y’know… When you were away, for example. You could’ve done what you wanted then. With who you wanted. Know what I mean?” “Yeah, that makes sense.” He nodded, before looking right at me. “I didn’t, by the way.” “But it would have been fine if you did.” “You wouldn’t get jealous?” He asked, seeming surprised. “No. I don’t think so. Why, would you? If you knew I’d-” “I think I would.” He admitted. “In a weird way, yeah. I dunno if that’s me being possessive and weird or whatever, but I don’t think I’d like it. If it happened.” I couldn’t believe he’d confessed that. Despite what I was saying, I knew that if Harry had gotten back from his trip and declared he’d been with someone else whilst he was away, I wouldn’t be jumping for joy at the thought. It wouldn’t have made me want to stop, nor would I have been angry, but I suppose I could admit that it wouldn’t quite feel right, either. “Hm. I see what you mean. Maybe it would bother me, I dunno.” I acknowledged. “Don’t wanna test the theory, do you?” He grinned. “No.” “Exactly.” He sniggered. “It’d just be weird, wouldn’t it? I think if you told me you had I’d… Maybe wanna hate fuck you, just the once. Or… go the extra mile. Give you the best blowjob you’d ever had, just so you’d know I was the better option.” “I did it, I shagged someone else, gimme a blowjob.” He fibbed. “Fuck off.” I threw a bit of pepperoni at his face as I laughed. “I get it though. If I found out you’d slept with someone, I’d wanna give you the fucking ride of your life. Fuck the memory of it out of you. Remind you that... some guy can’t satisfy you in the way I can.” I liked that we were being so honest with each other. It didn’t seem to be adding any complications to what we’d agreed on, more like we were comfortable enough to admit that under any circumstance, us being with other people was not the ideal. That buzz of jealousy, no matter how minor and insignificant, was bound to be there. Noticing we’d both finished the food, I put the pizza box on the floor, laying down and staring up towards the ceiling before I spoke again. “So what’re you saying?” “I’m saying… I’m not gunna fuck anyone else. Not whilst we’re doing this. And I don’t wanna take the option away from you! If you… want to know you can, then it’s up to you. All I’m saying is… I won’t be doing it. I’ve got no plans to leave Rosebury again any time soon anyway, so it’s a given. But even if I do… I won’t be with anyone else.” He lay himself down next to me, waiting for me to respond. I rarely left our village anyway, and even when I did it certainly wasn’t to go out looking for sex. I couldn’t even imagine having a one-night stand with anyone. It didn’t feel a harmful addition to our agreement. “Okay. I won’t either.” I nodded. “Just me and you.” “Just me and you.” He repeated back to me. “Okay.” “And maybe Chloe.” “You fucking dare.” “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” He chortled, taking my t-shirt between his fingers and dragging my body closer to his. “I wouldn’t.” He swept me into his broad frame, my face lost against his chest, shooting a weak punch to his stomach, to which he sweetly faked pain. “You better not.” “M'only teasing.” “Good.” I sulked, remaining close but looking up to him. “She’s gone off you now anyway.” “Good!” He cried, to my surprise. “Gets boring and awkward having to side step her advances.” “You’ve rejected her one too many times, she’s done now.” “Thank fuck.” He sighed, moving to bash the tip of my nose with his, speaking softly. “Got my fix with you, don’t I?” He kissed me, soft, tender, getting more of that fix he’d mentioned, his hand reaching up and glazing over the side of my neck before clutching there, the tips of his fingers landing at the top of my spine, quivers sparking from the spot and exploding through my body, such an exhilarating sensation. I threw my leg over his hip, pushing so I was as close to him as I could be, infatuated with the way it felt like his frame could swallow mine, like I melted into him. The kiss cooled, the two of us leaving gradual soft pecks upon the others lips until we stopped completely, Harry wrapping his arms around me to hold me close, resting his chin on top of my head, closing his eyes. I settled there, closing my eyes too, warm and protected. I hadn’t even realised that I’d ended up hugging him, how we both had our arms around each other. His were around my neck, resting at the top of my back. I had one arm wrapped around his body, my other hand on his chest, able to feel the steady beat of his heart. “Mm.” I grumbled, too cosy. “Don’t, I’ll fall asleep.” “Let’s sleep then. I’m knackered.” “It’s weird to sleep so soon after eating.” “We shouldn’t have eaten so late.” “Mm. I can’t believe we forgot.” I sulked. “We were so busy shagging that I forgot to eat. Madness. It’s so unlike me.” He chuckled, still managing to pull me a little closer, his heavy breathing sifting through my hair, feeling the way he sketched the tips of his fingers in small circles at the top of my back, making me even sleepier. I couldn’t fight it. The thing was, we hadn’t slept like that before. Usually as soon as we were tired, we’d distance, dart to one side of the bed and claim it, not even touching one another, our boundaries made clear. We could spend an entire day with our bodies latched, but when it was time to slumber, we dismissed that intimacy, drew the line. There was something different about actually spending a night’s sleep with our touches remaining intact. I’d slept with him physically, I’d slept beside him, but we’d never truly slept together, like we wanted to be in contact even when our consciousness was void. “It’s good to be home.” He whispered the final words of the evening. I stayed cuddled against him, falling asleep with ease, no matter how odd it felt, how aware I was that it was so different to how we’d been before. I didn’t worry. I couldn’t. Being that close with him and feeling so calm, it was impossible to. I didn’t worry. I should have.

.41 ritshou

Thanks for the prompt! This ended up being a little more than a drabble haha but I had fun with it! This also turned into a Ritsu’s birthday fic so happy late birthday Ritsu!

—

Ritsu draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, leaning forward to rest his chin atop them. It’s not a very comfortable position, especially considering the fact that he’s currently perched on the roof of his house, on a hard incline with nothing much keeping him from sliding down to the edge except for friction, but he does it anyway, because it makes him feel like his heart isn’t beating as fast or hard as it actually is and like he isn’t on the verge of a mental breakdown.

The night had started out fine. Ritsu hasn’t had a birthday party in a few years now, but all of a sudden he has people around him that he actually wants to celebrate with, people that want to celebrate with him. So why does he suddenly feel like the world is ending? Under his feet, he can faintly hear music playing as the party goes on without him.

The night had started out fine, but two hours in he’d looked around and realized that nearly half of the faces all around him were almost entirely unfamiliar. Classmates and club members, the student council, members of his old soccer team… he knows them all by name, but he doesn’t actually know them. He isn’t even sure if he can call them friends. Even Kamuro had been there, which had caused him to feel overwhelmed in a whole different way. He’d looked around and hadn’t see any sign of Shou or Shigeo or Teru, the people he’d actually wanted to be there, and suddenly it was like he’d been dunked underwater, the sensation stealing his breath from his lungs and making every step feel like the air itself had been resisting him.

He’d excused himself with perfect politeness, not an inch of his inner feelings allowed to be seen on his face, and made his way upstairs. He’d hardly even hesitated to throw open his window and climb outside, clambering up onto the rooftop where he now sits, wondering why in hell he’d thought throwing a party had been a good idea. He digs his fingers into the denim of his jeans and exhales, his breath colder than the July air outside.

“So this is where you ran off to!”

Ritsu doesn’t mean to flinch, but he does anyway, his body twitching involuntarily in response to the voice that he recognizes instantly as Shou’s. His friend pulls himself up fluidly onto the rooftop beside him and leans forward until his face is in Ritsu’s periphery, all bright red hair and pale, freckled skin and glinting white teeth in the darkness. His light blue eyes reflect the dim yellow street lights below them as he meets Ritsu’s gaze, legs sprawling out in front of him as he settles himself down at Ritsu’s side.

“What’s up? The party’s downstairs, you know,” Shou asks with all his regular flippancy and charisma, the words coming across entirely casual despite their deeper implications.

Ritsu waits a half-second before he replies, “Just getting some air. Did Shige send you?” He has a feeling that his brother, ever so sharp-eyed and intuitive nowadays, had been the first to notice his absence. He wonders if anyone else had, or if they’d been deaf to his presence to begin with.

Shou shakes his head and moves his face out of Ritsu’s line of sight, leaning back against the roof with his hands behind his head. Ritsu lifts his own head and lets his gaze follow him. “Nah, I came to find you when I got out of the bathroom and saw you were gone. It’s your party, you know, you should be there for it,” he replies. Shou’s calm demeanor has an area of effect on Ritsu, whose shoulders sink a little lower as he listens.

“I guess,” Ritsu murmurs, but even if he knows the party is technically for him, it doesn’t feel like it belongs to him anymore.

Shou’s smile falters at this, a hint of concern comes to his face. He props himself up on his elbows, turning to give Ritsu his full attention. “You alright?” he asks. “You look sad, did something happen? You can tell me, you know.”

I look sad? Ritsu echoes in his mind, blinking. That can’t be right. Ritsu is very careful to keep his thoughts to himself, and his expressions are always carefully under wraps. Not even his family can tell when he’s feeling sad, most of the time, though he has a feeling Shigeo sees more than he lets on. Ritsu opens his mouth to produce a scripted response: I’m fine, just a little tired. I ate too much cake and have a stomachache. I was taking a phone call before you showed up. Instead, the words that come out of his mouth are, “There were too many people.”

Shou doesn’t respond right away, which is weird enough in its own way. When he glances in Shou’s direction again, he finds wide blue eyes staring back at him, flashes of recognition and sympathy behind clear, unhidden surprise. “Really? You invited them, though, didn’t you?”

“Some of them,” Ritsu mumbles in response. He sighs softly against his knees and finally lets his body unravel, feet sliding down the tiled surface of the roof as his head and torso lean back against the roof beside Shou. He tucks his arms close against his sides and clasps his hands over his stomach, and feels a warm summer breeze blow his bangs out of his face and to the side. “My parents invited some of them, too, but they’re… all people I know.”

“Well then, you know a lot of people,” Shou says simply, wiggling his legs against the uneven roof’s surface in search of a more comfortable position. 

He’s barefoot, Ritsu realizes, having ditched his shoes somewhere along the way. For some reason it makes Ritsu want to smile; Shou never had cared much for manners or rules, and his rebellious spirit feels so, so refreshing when Ritsu is confronted by his own “good child” demeanor. He hums quietly. “I guess so,” he responds with a shrug of his shoulders, sinking just a little deeper into the roof as he breathes steadily and lets his wound-up limbs relax.

Shou, to his credit, looks perfectly at home, sprawled out on the rooftop with no shoes on. He isn’t wearing a jacket, either, but it’s warm enough out that the breeze doesn’t make him shiver. “Well, you may not know them all that well now, but there’s still time,” Shou points out, after a minute or so of silence has passed between them. “I know you have, like, a persona or whatever, but it doesn’t have to be like that forever. You can talk to them like normal people.”

“I guess that makes you a “normal person”?” Ritsu retorts, but it’s humorous rather than hostile. A faint smile blooms on his face as he tilts his head to the side to look at Shou.

Shou laughs, a quiet, private laugh meant only for him, one that’s so different from his usual boisterous guffaws that it nearly gives Ritsu whiplash every time he hears it. “Normal is relative,” he shoots back, and it feels like a weight is lifted.

Of course Shou’s answer to his dilemma would be simple, his solutions usually are. And, to Ritsu’s surprise, his solutions are usually good, too. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he promises.

Shou shoots him a grin, then sits up with a start. “Oh, that reminds me! I was gonna wait until everyone else went home to do this, but I think now is as good a time as any,” he babbles, reaching for his discarded bag and rifling through it for a moment. He fishes out a wrapped package, one with a little white bow stuck to the top of it, and holds it out to Ritsu. “I got you something. Y’know, like a birthday present.”

Ritsu had accepted more than a dozen gifts throughout the night from many of his guests, some of which he was excited to open, and some of which he’d known immediately would have very little sentimental value, but something about this moment, sitting on the roof of his house in the middle of a summer’s night next to the best friend he’s probably ever had, sends Ritsu’s heart racing all over again. He reaches out and accepts the gift, hears the cheap convenience store wrapping paper crinkle under his fingers, and wonders how much thought Shou had put into picking something out just for him. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Can I open it?”

“Yeah, go for it.”

Ritsu picks at the wrapping paper carefully at first, as though it was necessary to preserve rather than destroy it, and only remembers that wrapping paper is meant to be ripped to pieces when Shou groans and tells him to hurry up already, you’re killing me! And so he smirks and does as he’s told, digging his fingers into the colorful paper and tearing it off in one smooth motion until he can finally tell when the gift in his hands is.

It’s a notebook, one with a hard cover wrapped in a strong, soft material. It feels almost felted under his fingers as he runs them briefly over the cover. When he pulls the cover open, he sees that it’s swiss bound, each page designed to lay perfectly flat no matter what part of the book he turns to. It’s nice, really nice, way nicer than the spiral-bound notebook Ritsu uses for his math homework.

“You’re always ripping out pages of your book to write ideas down on,” Shou says, sitting up so he can lean over Ritsu’s shoulder to look down at the notebook, “but then they end up getting lost or crumpled up at the bottom of your backpack. I thought if you had a book you could use specifically for jotting down your ideas and stuff, you’d be less likely to lose them at the bottom of your backpack or misplace them.” He taps his finger on one college-ruled page, reaching around Ritsu’s shoulder to do so. “What do you think?”

Ritsu is, quite frankly, speechless. Shou doesn’t often show himself to be a very emotionally mature person–neither is Ritsu, in that regard–but the gift undeniably has a lot of thought put into it, something Shou might have heard Ritsu complain about at one point and filed away for future use. “Thank you,” he says again, for lack of better words, “I love it.”

“I’m glad,” Shou says with a grin, pushing himself to his feet. He fiddles with the edge of his t-shirt, moving it back into place after laying down had rumpled it a little, and then he reaches out a hand to Ritsu. “C’mon, we should head back inside before your brother comes looking for us.”

Ah, right. Ritsu had nearly forgotten about the party still happening in the house underneath them. “Yeah, we should,” he agrees, and accepts Shou’s outstretched hand.

Into the Woods

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 6246

Summary: Simon is so done with his roommate's shit. Little does he know he's about to find out why Baz is being weird. Based on "Baz is a secret theatre nerd with glasses and a man bun” request.

Read on AO3

AN: I'm alive! And exhausted because work is a nightmare. Seriously, having a full time job sucks ass. But, WAYWARD SON!!!! I'M SO EXCITED!!!!! Excited and scared, but mostly excited. 2020 can't come soon enough holy shit. Anywho, hope you enjoy this little romp :D

——————————————-

Simon

“What the fuck happened to you?”

I glare at Penny as best as I can with my tired eyes. “What the fuck do you think?”

“He was pacing in your bathroom?”

I sink into the uncomfortable lecture hall bench with a sigh. “Yes, came back late then kept me up until midnight, muttering and humming to himself, again. What the fuck is he doing that requires so much talking and movement. And why does it have to be in the fucking bathroom?!”

Penny shrugs, something usually only I do. “I don’t know, Si.”

“I bet he’s summoning the Devil.”

“Simon, for the last time, he’s an arsehole, not an evil wizard.”

“You don’t have to live with him.”

Penelope sighs and keeps typing on her laptop. I assume my occasional lecture position of arms on desk and head pillowed on arms. One advantage of uni is that professors don’t give a single shit if you sleep through their classes. I know I’m probably wasting my education, but I need sleep. Because of fucking Baz.

“Good morning, Snow.” Ugh, I hate his smooth, perfect voice. I grunt in reply. “Still not a fan of speaking, hm?”

“Fuck off, Baz,” I grumble, “it’s your fault I’m like this.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, completely calm as usual.

I growl, because I hate words enough when I’m awake. And I refuse to use them with him.

He doesn’t answer, the bastard, just walks off. I watch from just over my arm as he sits a few rows in front. He’s easy to spot, what with the tight green t-shirt and stupid man bun. Well, it’s not totally stupid on him. Somehow everything looks good on him. He could wear a garbage bag and still look great. Stupid good looking arsehole.

I doze on and off through the whole psych lecture. It’s not that interesting anyway. And when I wake up, Baz is right in my line of vision, and I keep looking at him. How he re-adjusts his hair every once in awhile. How he spins a pencil between his long fingers. How he lifts his glasses up and down as he looks at the screen then takes notes. Why does he have to be such a good upstanding student and make the rest of us look bad? It’s so bloody infuriating.

I breathe a sigh of relief when the lecture is over. I’m done classes, but Baz has another lecture. I can go back to my room and get a good rest.

“Hey, Si,” Penelope says as I’m gathering my things. “Still wanna study for that English exam together?”

Shit, I promised her we’d study yesterday. Guess my nap will have to wait. “Yeah sure, Pen. Not sure how much help I’ll be. I’m not exactly good at English.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll whip you into shape.” She grabs my arm, and I willingly go.

“Yeah, sure, that’s possible,” I chuckle. We head out the door, but I sneak a look behind me. Baz is talking to a group of people. Huh, that’s weird. Baz and I have been roommates for over a year, and I’ve only ever seen him hang with the same two guys, a freckled redhead and his cousin (I think.) Those two are both standing there now, but for some reason there are a bunch of other people standing around too. Who have big smiles and even bigger gestures. Does Baz have friends now? Huh, he has been out more often. Guess they don’t mind that he’s an annoyingly smart arsehole, or that he looks better than all of them.

“C’mon, Si!”

Penny tugs harder, and I rip my gaze away from Baz. I’ll think about him later.

———————————————-

The only good thing about the student centre is that the chairs are comfy. I’m pretty sure the university invested all their furniture budget into cushy armchairs. I’m certainly not complaining. Especially today, when I could sink into the comfy leather forever.

“And what were the main themes of Fahrenheit 451?” Penny asks.

“Uhhh...” I don’t open my eyes. They feel too heavy. “Books are better than people?”

“I would personally yes, but our prof would disagree. Try again.”

“Blargh.”

“Blargh?” she chuckles. “Simon, are you making up words again?”

“Yes,” I grunt, “because I’m frustrated and tired and probably going to fail all my exams.”

Penny sighs, long and heavy. “You’re not going to fail.”

“You say that because you’re trying to make me feel better because you love me,” I spit out before thinking. I’m tired and have less of a filter than usual.

She scoffs, but in an endearing way. I’m not sure how she does that. “Yes, I love you, Simon, which means I’d never lie to you. You. Are. Not. Going. To. Fail.”

I sigh, because I know she’s right. Penny actually, really believes in me. I’m glad to have her in my life. “Thanks, Pen.”

“You’re welcome. Now, just tell me one theme, please?”

I tilt my head back over the chair, closing my eyes as I try to remember what our monotone prof said. “Uh, censorship?”

“Yes! See? I told you you’d get it.”

“Thank you, Penny,” I murmur, then curl into the armchair. “Now I’m going to sleep for a thousand years.”

Penny sighs exasperatedly, but it’s still loving. “Very well. Want a mint aero bar from the vending machine?”

“Mm, yes please.” I rummage around for my wallet in my back pocket, and pull out (what I hope is) a five pound note. Penny snatches it. I hope she gives me the change.

As I’m sinking into the comfy chair, finally relaxing after hours of discomfort, something gets dropped on my head. I frown and pick up the chocolate bar. I hear Penny sit in the opposite chair.

“Hey,” she says through a mouthful of candy, “look at this.”

“Don’t wanna,” I grumble.

“Simon, open your bloody eyes.”

“Ugh, fine.” I blink my eyes open. Penny is holding a big poster. It’s covered in trees and says "Into the Woods" in fancy letters. Then it lists the school theatre and dates next week. Wait... “Pen, did you steal that off the student events board?!”

“Not important. But look! This is an awesome musical, and the drama club is doing it soon. Maybe we could go see it.”

I twist my lips together. “Hm, I don’t know...”

“C’mon, Si, we’ve both been stressed out. We need to do something fun.”

“And musical theatre performed by probably off key uni students is fun?”

She gives me a deadpan look. “Do we have enough money to do anything better?”

I let out a long sigh. “No, we don’t.”

“Exactly. Now, wanna go see some shitty musical theatre?”

I twist my lips again, fiddling with my chocolate wrapper. “I’ll think about it, Pen. I need to study more if I’m going to pass psych.”

Penelope nods in acknowledgement. “Okay, I get it. The show is next week so we’ve still got time. Now,” she flips her binder open again, “tell me the role of Clarisse in regards to Guy’s character development.”

“Ugh,” I groan, “gimme a minute.”

I put Into the Woods in the back of my mind, and once again try to remember what the fuck our professor said. It’s an annoyingly difficult task.

———————————————-

When I get back to my dorm, Baz isn’t there, again. Man, he’s really been out a lot lately. More than before.

Last year, when he wasn’t in class, he was always in the room. Either reading on his bed or working at his desk. I tried to avoid him as much as possible, because everytime I disturbed him he would glare or make some passive aggressive sarcastic comment. It became clear he didn’t like my presence. So I learned to stay out of his way, but I guess that hasn’t really been a problem lately. And...it’s weird. It’s weird him not being here.

I take a long shower, revelling in the fact that Baz won’t bang on the door and demand I not use all the hot water. After, I curl up in bed, Netflix blaring in my headphones. It’s what I need to wind down after studying. Eventually, I let myself drift off to the sounds of Brooklyn 99.

But I’m woken up again when the door swings open. I grunt but don’t open my eyes. I just listen as Baz softly shuts it, pads around the room, then enters the bathroom. Ugh, fucking hell. He’s pacing and muttering and humming again, and even though he’s quiet, it’s annoying as fuck. I turn up my volume but it’s no use. Just knowing he’s there keeps me up. His presence just overwhelms my brain all the time.

When his footsteps get louder, I know he’s back in the main room. I pull off my headphones and glare at his back.

“Can you not?” I growl.

Baz freezes, head snapping up and shoulders tensing. Guess he thought I was asleep. “Can you be more specific?”

“It’s fucking great that you’re out having fun with your friends, but your late night entrances and obsessive pacing is keeping me up. Some of us aren’t vampires and can’t stay up all night.”

“Sorry my schedule is inconvenient for you, Snow.” His voice is so neutral I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or not.

"Oh fuck off, you prick."

"Incredibly creative insults there."

Ugh, he's so quick tongued. I can't fight him usually, and certainly not when I'm so tired. I opt for grunting and rolling over. Baz quickly goes back into the bathroom to change. (Prudish prick won’t change in front of me.) God, I’m so exhausted. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally too. Maybe I do need a break. Something fun...

I grab my phone from where it’s sitting on the floor and send a quick text.

Simon: heyyyy y’know i think i’m down for the musical i do need a break

Penny’s reply is instantaneous. (She was probably browsing Tumblr late at night again.)

Penny: Awesome! I’ll get us tickets for the last show on Friday.

Simon: sweet :) gonna go to bed night pen

Penny: Night, Si.

I power down the phone and restart Netflix again. Baz is already in bed, his black hair fanned out against the white pillowcase. Yeah, I need a distraction. Anything to keep me from thinking about school and exhaustion. As well as the stupid, annoyingly pretty guy sleeping no more than three metres away from me.

———————————————-

“What took you so long?!”

I ran up to Penny panting, completely doubled over. Christ, my lungs are fucking burning. “Sorry...couldn’t find...phone...bus...was late...so so sorry.”

“It’s fine, Si, let’s just get in there. Curtain is in three minutes.”

She takes my sleeve and drags me inside. She’s stomping, so I know she’s really pissed. I move to hold her hand tightly, squeezing it. “I’m really sorry, Pen.”

Penny keeps stomping, but sighs and squeezes back. “I know. Let’s just get in there.”

I let out a small sigh, because I know we’re still okay.

We rush into the theatre, jittering at the ticket booth and snatching up programs as we run past the poor student volunteer. Penny quickly finds us two seats in a not that shitty place. Surprisingly, the theatre is quite packed. Huh. I wouldn’t expect this many people for a student production.

“We made it,” Penny sighs.

“Yeah,” I reply. “So much for stress free evening.”

She chuckles, almost sardonically. “Yeah, unfortunately agreed. Now shush, curtain’s coming up.”

The whole theatre gets dark, and orchestra music swells. I lean back in my chair. The curtain rises to reveal (what I think at least) is a minimal set with people on it. A few tree silhouettes in the back, a raised platform, a fake fireplace, fake counter, and a fake cow next to a stool. Everything is just so fake. Penny said I had to “suspend my disbelief”. It’s hard to pretend with such little there. This is why I like TV and movies.

All the people on stage are wearing sort of fairy tale clothes. They start singing about what they wish for. To go to a party, for a cow to have milk, and to have a baby. Christ, is this whole thing just about people wanting things? Musicals are fucking weird.

I sort of half zone out, picking up on bits and pieces of the show and dozing off. Baz has been coming back later and later all week and waking me up each time he opens the door. The theatre is dark, so it’s hard to stay awake. I fall asleep at the scene with Rapunzel and the witch, but start to stir again when Jack’s mom throws the magic beans on the ground (ha, idiot.) But since this play jumps around more than a rabbit on a sugar rush, suddenly the Baker’s Wife is walking around in the woods with the cow as Cinderella runs past. She’s running from the ball again and hides behind the Wife. A trumpet goes off as someone gallops ridiculously on stage-

Wait, is that...

“Baz!?”

Three people shush me, but I ignore them, because Baz fucking Pitch is on stage right now, hamming it up with everyone else. He’s wearing a silly outfit that reminds me of a Disney prince, with a white jacket and a red sashs and gloves. His hair is slicked back with gel, emphasizing his stark widow’s peak more than usual. He’s not wearing his glasses either. Huh. I’ve never seen him without them. He looks...good. Well, he looks good with them too, but this is just a different sort of good.

I don’t pay attention to the scene, not even listening to what they’re saying. I’m just focusing on Baz and his amazingly ridiculous appearance. Oh my god he looks so stupid, trotting his feet and flicking his hands like he’s holding reins. When he’s offstage I lean over to Penny, who’s jaw is also on the ground.

“What the hell is Baz doing here?!” I whisper.

“I...have no idea,” she replies very hushed. It’s the first time I’ve heard her admit she doesn’t know something.

The play continues, but I’m paying attention even less. I just keep waiting for Baz to show up again. I’m so jittery. My leg is shaking at lightspeed. Penny kicks my foot in an attempt to stop me but it doesn’t help. The only thing that makes it stop is seeing Baz gallop ridiculously on stage, along with Rapunzel’s Prince.

“Ah, there you are, good brother. Father and I had wondered where you had gone,” he says to Baz.

“I have been looking all night for her,” Baz replies. His voice is like it always is, smooth and commanding. Like he was born to tell people what to do. Usually I find it annoying, but right now it works. He is supposed to be a prince.

The two princes commiserate over their mutual impossible loves. They're both idiots.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel! What kind of name is that? You jest! I have never heard of such a thing,” Baz laughs out.

Rapunzel’s Prince snorts. “I speak the truth. She is as true as your maiden. A maiden running from a prince? None would run from us.”

“Yet,” Baz sighs, “she has.”

Then he starts singing, and my brain short circuits.

Holy shit. Baz is singing. And he’s singing well. His voice is a solid, smooth baritone. It reverberates through the theatre perfectly. I’m totally transfixed. Since when could Baz sing so incredibly?!

“Agony!”  He belts. “Beyond power of speech. When the one thing you want, is the only thing out of your reach.”

Holy. Shit.

I don’t realise how much I’m gaping until Penny pushes up my hanging lower jaw back up. The whole song is quite ridiculous, and Baz sings it perfectly. He looks properly agonized through it. I didn’t know he could be so expressive. He’s, just, amazing.

The songs ends, and Baz exits. I don’t pay attention, what with my mind still spinning. So, Baz, my arsehole geeky roommate, can act, and sing, and looks weirdly amazing in a stupid prince costume. Okay, that’s a lot of new info to process.

Before I know it, the lights come back on, and Penny is tugging on my sleeve.

“Simon?”

I look up at her bewildered. “What?”

“C’mon, get up, I want to stretch my legs, and we can get some snacks. I bet you’re hungry.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, that’d be great.”

I follow behind her with my hands in my hoodie pockets. While Penny goes to the snack bar, I sit on a bench. Something stabs me in my pocket. I pull out the crumpled program. Wait, Penny mentioned this week the actors have bios in the program. I furiously flip through it.

I find Baz’s picture almost immediately. It’s black and white and a bit blurry but I can still make out his face. He looks normal in it. Tight shirt, glasses falling down his nose, hair tied up. But here, he's smiling slightly. Wow, I’ve never seen him look anything other than bored or annoyed. It’s weird, but also nice. I look down at the bio.

Baz Grimm-Pitch - Cinderella’s Prince A witty English literature major with a salt and vinegar crisp addiction plays Cinderella’s arrogant love. In his spare time, Baz plays the violin, studies the development of the English language, and competes in a recreational football league. “Into the Woods” is his first dramatic production.

I chuckle under my breath. Baz really is such a nerd. Even though I already know most of this, it’s kinda...cute? I’m not sure if that’s the right word but it feels right. The little blurb is just makes him sound so adorable. I can almost forget he’s an arsehole.

“Si, you want a cookie?”

I snap my head up to glare at a smirking Penny. She waves the chocolate chip cookie tauntingly. I snatch it from her hand, making sure to glare at her while I take a huge bite. She sits down next to me and looks over at the program.

“Huh,” she says, “at least they got a good photo of Basilton.”

“Yeah,” I reply quietly. “Still can’t believe he’s in this.”

“Me neither. I thought he was just a quiet academic like me.”

“Same, but...he’s actually really good.”

“I hate to give him a victory, but yeah, he is. He’ll probably be good in the second act too.”

I whip my head around to her, eyes wide. “Second act?! I thought the story was wrapped up!”

Penny shakes her head, swishing her curls. “Nope. There’s another part. It’s just as long.”

I look at my phone clock. “We’ve already been here for an hour and a half!”

She takes a bite of her cookie and smiles around the mouthful. “Yup. Welcome to musical theatre, Si.”

I groan and slump forward. The program is still in my hand, and still on Baz’s picture. Well...if Baz has got more songs, maybe I won’t mind staying.

———————————————-

So the second act, from what I can tell, pretty much destroys all the happy endings of the first act. Wow, okay, that’s not depressing at all. Everybody either gets squished by a giant or just generally fucks up. What a pleasant play.

Baz comes back on a few times. First, he and the other prince sing another version of the previous song. It’s the same tune and the same idea, but they’re singing about different impossible women. I chuckle. So Baz’s character is a total bastard. Kind of makes him seem like less of an arsehole by comparison.

Later, as everything in the story continues to fall apart, Baz runs into the Baker’s Wife. After one short conservation, the lights go pink, and the music gets slow. Baz starts approaching her with a smirk.

“Anything can happen in the woods,” he sings. “May I kiss you?”

My eyes pop out. Well, that’s forward. Far more forward than Baz probably really is. I know it’s just the play, but Baz looks so strong and handsome, that I believe him. And, is it wrong that I sort of wish it was real? That Baz would actually be that well, sexy? God, did I just call Baz sexy?!

Baz does kiss her, and it’s so intense that I blush. The Wife walks away from him, but he grabs her again and twirls her into his arms. Together, they glide across the wooden stage, occasionally kissing more. He spins her in and out, leading her around, all while singing a sleezy but beautiful song to seduce her.

“Foolishness can happen in the woods,” he croons. “Once again, please...let your hesitations be hushed. Any moment, big or small, is a moment after all. Seize the moment, skies may fall any moment.”

They kiss again, and I can’t believe how passionate it is. How passionate Baz is. It’s strange and wonderful to watch. All too soon, the Wife is pulling away and the kiss ends. But my brain is still swirling while Baz sings again.

“Right and wrong don't matter in the woods, only feelings. Let us meet the moment unblushed. Life is often so unpleasant. You must know that, as a peasant. Best to take a moment present. As a present, for the moment.”

With Baz’s last line, they walk off stage. I’m still blushing, and very confused by my own feelings.

Soon enough, the play ends. Baz’s character leaves Cinderella and marries Sleeping Beauty. (Wow, what a bastard.) But after all that misery, everyone atill alive is alright, I guess. The actors line up and bow. Everyone starts applauding. Oh shit. I quickly join. All the cast members smile brightly as they bow. And when Baz steps up, he’s no exception. Christ, he actually looks amazing when he smiles. It fits his face far better than a scowl or a thin flat line.

I’ve been learning a lot of new things about Baz tonight.

The cast leaves and the curtain falls. Lights turn back on. People start shuffling out. I’m still a bit dumbfounded to move though. I just saw Baz in a musical, where he sang and danced and kissed perfectly. He was fucking incredible. And I should let him know.

As we’re walking out the door, I turn to one of the ticket takers. “Hey, where are the actors coming out?”

“They should be in the alley to the left soon.”

“Awesome, thanks.”

On the sidewalk, I tug on Penny’s hand. “You can head home, Pen. I’m gonna stick around for a bit.”

Penny gives me a curious look, but just shrugs. “Alright then. See you, Si.”

“See you.”

She saunters off with a spring in her step. I watch her, wondering if I should run after and not do this. But I stay still. Fuck, what am I doing?

The actors trickle out one by one. I notice Baz’s friend and his cousin, but they run off before I can ask them where Baz is. The crowd thins until I’m the only one left, standing there like an idiot. Maybe I missed him. Maybe I should just go-

“Blasted dead mobile,” a familiar voice grumbles.

My head snaps up just in time to see Baz stop in his tracks. He looks like a deer in the headlights, grey eyes wide behind his spectacles. He’s back to his usual style of t-shirt and glasses and manbun. Back to the Baz I know. His mouth hangs open in complete and utter shock.

“Hey,” I say as casually as possible.

“Snow,” he replies shakily, a slight redness appearing on his cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

"I, just saw the show. The one you were in. Obviously. And I just wanted to find you and say you're uh, you were really good."

He visibly gulps, fiddling with his knapsack strap. “Thank you. I...didn’t realise you were a musical theatre fan.”

I chuckle and rub the back of my neck. “I’m not, not really. Penny convinced me to come. I didn’t expect to see you here either. Especially on stage. How the Hell did that happen?”

Baz sighs with both exasperation and what seems like a little happiness, maybe. “Well, if you must know, my cousin was the one who originally decided to audition and I helped him with his lines. I said he was shite, and he bet me I couldn’t audition better. I’m very competitive, so I made a real effort to do well. Then I got in. I was going to turn it down, but Dev convinced me to try. It’s been, weirdly fun. I like performing. And I made new friends. Turns out there’s more to life than studying.”

“Huh,” I chuckle, “that’s pretty neat. So all that pacing and humming in the washroom was you rehearsing your lines?”

“Oh, yeah. I didn’t want you to know because it felt embarrassing. Sorry about that.”

I blink rapidly. Holy shit, I’m legitimately in shock. Baz Pitch just apologized to me. Wow. Tonight has been bizzare. “I-It’s okay. I get it now. Honestly, I just thought you were keeping me up on purpose because you hate me.” I try to laugh that last part off with a nervous chuckle.

Baz looks at the ground, shuffling his feet. I’ve seen Baz cold before, detached and pulled in and what not. But this is different. He looks...nervous. When he speaks, his words are shaky and quiet. “I don’t, you know. Hate you. I never have.”

My world tilts sideways. I nearly stumble backwards from the shock of his words. I look for any sign of deceit and find none. All I see is the anxious sort-of-teenager confessing something apparently really hard to say.

“Oh,” I stutter out. “You...you don’t?”

“No,” he says. “I just, I make arsehole comments when I’m nervous. Especially to those who...make me nervous.”

Huh? What the hell does he mean? “I, make you nervous?”

“Yes. You have almost since we met.”

I’m still confused. I take a moment to study Baz. His pulled in body language, his knapsack fiddling, his downcast eyes, his increasingly obvious blush-

Oh. Oh.

“Oh,” I squeak. Baz sighs in an annoyed way. That probably wasn’t the response he wanted.

“Yeah,“ he grumbles. “Oh.”

Crap I don’t know what to say. I end up blurting out the first thing that comes to my dumb head. “So is that stereotype about guys in theatre being gay true?”

Baz head lifts up to better glare at me. His eyes are like stormy grey daggers. “No, obviously not. It’s a stereotype for a reason.”

Shit shit, I’m so bad at this. I run a hand through my tangled hair. “Right, right, sorry. I make dumb comments when I’m nervous.” I sigh and look right at him, eyes fixed despite my fear. “I guess what I’m trying to ask to in my stupid way is, are you gay? Just, want to make sure I'm not misinterpreting. I do that a lot.”

Baz’s face softens. No more steely glare, just neutral, save for his slightly pulled in lips. “Yes,” he says like he has to force the words out. “Yes, I am.” He gulps, fiddling with his strap like mad. “Are you?”

I shrug, because truthfully the only honest gesture. “Sorta, I guess. At least part of me must be, considering how much I like looking at you.”

He inhales sharply, and the blush starts creeping down his long neck. “Oh. That’s...not something I was aware of.”

“Honestly?” I chuckle, pulling at my hair again. “Me neither. I mean, I’m always looking at you, but I never thought about why too much. It wasn’t until the show that I realised how much I like to stare at you. Um, sorry if that’s creepy.”

“No,” he replies very quickly. “no, it’s uh, it’s actually fine.”

He’s blushing very hard. Shit, am I blushing too? It certainly feels like it. “Oh. Okay.”

We look at each other in silence for a long moment. I’m not sure what to say, and obviously neither does he. We’re just two idiots standing on a driveway. I feel my stomach rumble. Oh man, I’m a hungry idiot.

“So,” I say, rocking on my heels, “do you have anywhere to be?”

Baz shakes his head. “No, not really. I’m supposed to go to the wrap party but fuck that. I was just going to go home to the dorm.”

“Well, in that case, uh, you wanna go get something to eat? There’s a 24 hour diner near our dorm building.”

He looks at me curiously, studying me like a specimen. “Are you asking me as your roommate, a fan of my performance, or...something else?”

I chew my bottom lip. Cautiously, I step forward and and brush my fingers on the back of his hand. He doesn’t pull away, so I hold it loosely. “Something else, preferably.”

Baz looks at me with wide, open eyes, filled to the brim with worry. “Snow, you do remember that we're roommates, right? If whatever, this is doesn't work out, we're still going to have to live with each other for months. That would not be pleasant. And hell, Snow, you barely know me, really. Is this really worth the risk?”

My grip on his hand tightens. He still doesn’t pull away. “Y-Yeah, of course I know this could all blow up in our faces. But, Baz, I really want to try. Like, you currently occupy like 90% of my thoughts. And sure most of them were negative, because I thought were a prick.” He frowns at that. It’s actually adorable. “But now, I’d really like to find out what you’re like when you’re not a prick. So I think it’s worth the risk.” I take a deep breath, making sure to look at Baz right in the eye. “Do you?”

I can see the gears turning in his big head. I’ve seen it a hundred times in class when we have to solve a problem. It’s even more fascinating up close. How his lips shift, his eyes darting back in forth. He doesn’t let go of my hand the whole time though. I catch the moment his face relaxes though, when he makes his decision.

“Yes,” he says quietly, “I think it’s worth the risk too.”

We both grin at the same time. Fuck I never knew before tonight that seeing his smile could make me so happy. I think I want to see it a lot more.

“Well, c’mon then.” I tug on his arm, and we start walking. “I’m hungry.”

“When are you not hungry, Snow?”

I scoff. “I thought you were only a prick when you were nervous.”

“I’m about to go on a date with my roommate who I’ve been hopelessly pining after for over a year. So excuse me, but I’m very nervous.”

Wow, my whole face must look like a tomato right now. Looking over, I see that Baz is in the exact same state. Either this is going to be incredible or a complete disaster. I’m seriously hoping for the first one.

“Don’t be,” I say as kindly as I can, “it’s just a date. We’ll see how this goes and go with it, alright?”

Half his mouth pulls up in a lazy smile. I like him relaxed like this. “Okay. I can live with that.”

I grin. I can’t stop grinning tonight. “Awesome. Now, important first date question.” He looks at me curiously and somewhat afraid. “Where the hell did you learn to sing so well?”

Baz lets out a breathy laugh. “Playing the violin all your life gives you surprisingly good pitch. It only took a few sessions with the pianist to get the songs okay. Not that they were easy. Apparently Sondheim is never easy.”

“That’s amazing.” He examines me for any sign of mocking, but he won’t find anything. I genuinely thinks it’s really cool.

“Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed it.”

“Could I get a repeat performance?”

“No.” I pout as much as I can, bottom lip pushed very far out. Baz stays strong for a few more seconds, then sighs. “Maybe some other time.”

I smile again. “Awesome. Next question, what was it like getting into those tight prince pants?”

“I am not dignifying that question with an answer.”

“Oh c’mon! I’m just wondering.”

“And wondering you shall stay.”

I make a “pbblt” sound with my lips. “Fine, spoilsport. How about you tell me what the production was like? Penny says plays are all drama behind the scene too.”

“Fucking hell it was a nightmare! Dev, Niall, the Witch, and Cinderella were great, but generally actors are self absorbed idiots. First day, Rapunzel came in hungover and spilled her entire coffee on my shirt. Baker's wife was the the world's worst diva. And don’t get me started on the Wolf. He tried to bang every girl in the cast, and a couple of the guys too.”

He goes on like that as we walk down the dimly lit street hand in hand. I interject a bit of commentary here and there, but I just let him talk. He’s fun to listen to. I like his sarcastic, sharp humour. Especially when it’s not directed at me.

I think I like him. A lot.

———————————————-

“No no, I’m serious!” I say far too loud, considering the time and that we’re walking down the hall of our dorm building. “Jamie is gonna kill Cersei. It’s inevitable.”

“He’s already left King’s Landing though,” Baz replies cooly.

“Yeah, but he can come back.”

“I suppose. But I think he’s going to be too busy with the White Walkers to deal with his crazy twin sister.”

“Good point. Maybe it’ll be the finale, when Dany finally storms King’s Landing.”

“Ugh, she needs to do that already. It’s been eight seasons!”

“They’re keeping us in suspense.”

I groan and lean back against the dorm room door. “I know. It’s fucking torture.” I sigh looking at the brown piece of wood. It feels so massive right now. “So, we’re here.”

“I noticed.” Baz stands in front of me, with only a few feet between us.

“First date protocol says I’m supposed to walk you to the door. But we’ve got the same door, so...”

“Yes, I’m not quite sure what to do either.”

We stare at each other. I study his face, like I have been doing all night. I spent most of our meal staring at him as he talked. I can finally admit to myself that I like to do that, and now I can also say I like his laugh, his smile, and the way he talks about his passions. I just keep seeing him in a new light. Everything feels different and new and scary. I love it.

“So,” I say quietly, “did you have fun?”

Baz smiles softly. “Yes, I did.”

“Would you, be persuaded to do this again?

“Is that your way of asking me out for a second date, Snow?”

I shrug up to my pink tinged ears. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Then yes. I would like to do this again.”

I nod rapidly, far too nervous for my own good. “Okay, cool, awesome, sounds good. Do we...just go to bed now?”

Baz shrugs slightly. “I suppose so.”

We immediately go back to staring. But my gaze drifts downwards, to his thin lips that are currently pressed together. I still remember that stage kiss. I know that was all fake, but I wonder what the real thing would be like that. I wonder if that passion translate to real life. To me.

“Simon...” Baz whispers. He’s somehow gotten closer. And my breath hitches, because he’s looking at my mouth too.

Fuck it.

I grab the front of his shirt and kiss him hard.

Baz gasps against my mouth, but very quickly sinks into it. His lips slide with mine perfectly. He presses one hand to my neck and buries the other in my hair. I groan and slide mine across his back. Christ, he’s so fucking fit. I want to tear his shirt off and feel all these muscles directly on my finger.

“Kissing on the first date, Snow?” Baz whispers playfully in one of the few moments we aren’t liplocked. “Scandalous.”

“Oh, fuck you,” I grumble, holding his hips tighter.

After a few more kisses, he pulls away with a small grin. My knees buckle at the devilish glint in his grey eyes. He looks just as sexy as he did on stage. “Well,” he drawls, “if you insist.”

For the second time tonight, my brain completely short circuits.

This is so new and scary, yet, I’m so fucking excited. I suppose it’s going to be an adventure. Into the unknown. Into the woods, I suppose.

I kiss him again, clenching my fist in his hair so hard his man bun falls apart, curtaining our faces in black strands. He pushes a hand under my shirt to feel up my stomach. I fumble with the keycard and get the blasted door open, then pull Baz in by the back of his neck. The door closes, and the rest of the night is a blissful whirlwind.

Hooray for musical theatre.

———————————————- AN: "Blargh" is copyright Theo the Fanfic Writer and anyone who steals it will be sued. /s ;)

So yeah, musicals! "Into the Woods" is my favourite musical of all time and I think Baz would be a perfect Cinderella's Prince. Also I've always thought Baz would be an incredible singer. Simon would be floored lol. Sorry if this is a little rough tbh. Hard to describe someone watching a musical haha. I struggled writing it but, I had fun in the end. I love writing Simon the Oblivious Pining Idiot.  Requests are still open and I will get to them between being dead from work. Hope you enjoyed this :)

The Stormsender’s Daughter |Chapter IV | Hollow

 Chapter III | Chapter IV | Chapter V

@ravagekamisama @aquathemermaidstripper @digitalkanvas @prettyprompto

Special Guest OC: Six Ulric created by @insomniasix

Word Count: 5,954

Three years later…

“Muerlin…..”, a soft voice stirred the silver haired 8 year old from her slumber. 

“Muerlin”. The girl awoke to see her older sister lightly shoving her arm with a light smile. 

“Luna?…”, the young princess groggily manages to speak, in a light accent over the years of living as a Nox Flueret, receiving a small giggle from her more composed, more awake sibling. 

“Rise and shine”. 

The silver haired girl groaned at the bright sun that blinded her through the curtains. “What time is it?”, she asked in a slur. 

“A quarter after 9″. The girl groaned looking toward the 13 year old in disappointment. “Do I really have to get up now?”, the girl complained before pulling her pillow over her head, her voice muffled. “You’re the Oracle, not me”.

“Muerlin”, the older girl firmly spoke, “Lucis has been our alley for centuries. You’re just as much apart of this family as I am. Besides, I promised Noctis that he would see you at least once while he was here”.

Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum of the Lucian Empire was recently involved in a horrific accident, involving a daemon, nearly taking his life and in a desperate act to save his beloved son, King Regis requested the aid of the Oracle to heal him. 

Rolling her eyes at her sister’s nagging, though admiring her devotion, the young princess rose from her pillow to stretch her arms over her head with a yawn. 

“Yes, ma’am”. 

“I’m NOT a ma’am!” the elder sister retorted at her joke. 

“Are so”, Muerlin teased as she made a silly face at her annoyed sibling. 

“Just get ready”, Luna chuckled at her sister’s playfulness. “Mother says to be on our best behavior. Mind listening for a change?”, she smirked before exiting the room. 

“Yeah, yeah…”, the silver haired girl rubbed her eyes before forwarding her brows in offense. 

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘FOR A CHANGE’?”

Some time later, the sleepy princess finally rose from her bed, showered and got dressed. As she fixed the sleeves of her light green dress, she lifted her gaze to her mirror to examine herself. She smirked in slight disappointment. 

She looked strange in light colors. Like she was trying too hard…and what was up with these dresses? They looked great on Luna, but they made Muerlin look sooooo stupid. 

Like….a weird little bunny. 

Especially since Queen Sylva had the servants cut her hair. It was trimmed down to a boy cut, but her bangs still low enough to cover the right side of her face. It looked nice and it was a LOT easier to maintain. 

It was Eirenne’s best feature….now if only she had some decent outfits. The girl sighed lightly as she stared at herself in her mirror. Even though she didn’t really care for the bright colors and frills, the silver haired girl had to admit…she looked far better than she did before. There was a glow to her features. No longer shrouded by lingering depression. No longer at the mercy of others, but actually appreciated. 

Still….why did she feel so…hollow?

Let’s face it…she wasn’t really Luna’s sister…she wasn’t really a Nox Flueret. She had no idea what she was…but she definitely wasn’t this. 

It haunted her so because she loved her family so dearly…but she wasn’t one of them. She didn’t really belong…and then there was this strange print. Still staring in the mirror, she lowered her gaze to her right wrist, currently covered with a thick bracelet. It had to remain hidden…Eirenne had no flaws. 

Eirenne was perfection. Eirenne….was a Nox Flueret. 

Muerlin wasn’t. 

Muerlin was damaged…angry…alone. Flawed. Imperfect. Disgraceful.

How did Luna see beauty in Muerlin? How could she? When all he saw was….power.

Tears began to fill the girl’s eyes as she lifted her hand to her head. It trembled as she placed it upon the area where he clutched onto her silver locks, yanking them at their roots. The pain was still very fresh in her mind as well as his words…his desire to witness her agony and smile. His sinister grin plastered in her memory. His chilled touch still putting goosebumps on her delicate skin. She shivered and sobbed at the sound of his chilling voice echoing through her head.

“You miss me, don’t you?”

“No…”, she whimpered to herself.

“You will come back to me…”

“No…I won’t…don’t touch me..”, she began to panic, his voice growing louder.

“You are mine….and you always will be”.

“Leave me alone…”, she started pounding at her head with her small fist. “Get out…”.

“You can’t escape me…”.

“Get out..”, she whimpered.

The echos intensified, becoming almost inaudible. Like there was 30 of him roaming her head. She sobbed lightly as she curved herself into a ball and released a blood curdling scream before a large freezing hand suddenly clutched upon her mouth.

“Hey”.

A light and calm voice awoke the girl from her trance. She blinked twice realizing she was still standing in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection. The voices ceased. Silence engulfed the room. She turned her head toward the door to see a raven haired boy with deep blue eyes. He was dressed in black and in a wheelchair. Relieved and slightly startled, the girl finally replied.

“Hi”.

“You’re Eirenne, right? Luna’s sister”.

She nodded. “Y-yeah”.

“She said that you would probably be here still”.

“Oh…are you Noctis?”

“Yeah…it’s nice to meet you”.

“You too….”, the girl wrinkled her lips a bit. She wasn’t really good at making conversation, but she didn’t want to seem rude. “Where are you going?”

“Oh…I’m not really sure. I kinda just wanted to look around…I don’t really know my way around though". 

He looked rather shy…like a babe in the wood. If anything she should’ve been more nervous. After all, she was the false princess. Yet, this was such a breeze. She was the one that felt at home. 

“I can go with you”, she offered. “That way you won’t get lost…if you want”.

“Sure”, the young prince accepted. The girl approached the boy taking hold of his wheelchair and began pushing him through the hall. There was silence for a while. Smiles from the servants, friendly waves, as the children made their way to Lunafreya’s field of sylleblossoms on the far side of the palace. She parked the wheelchair in the center of the field and sat next to her new friend. A light breeze blew through their hair.

“So…what’s it like being the Prince?”

The boy twisted his face before giggled lightly at her question.

“Shouldn’t you know?”, he turned to look at her. “You are a Princess”.

“Not really…I don’t feel like one…”, the girl shamefully admitted.

“Why not?…You’re Luna’s sister”, his voice so innocent, “and she’s a princess”.

“I guess…”, she replied in a melancholy sigh. 

The boy was slightly uncertain of what to say to her. He shifted his gaze to his small trembling hands.

“How old are you?”, the girl turned toward the boy.

“Eight”. Same age as her.

“Do you have any friends?”

“Luna…”.

Was that it? The Crown Prince of Lucis, not a real friend in the world, other than her sister. Lunafreya. Just like her. Not a real friend in the world. Although, unlike him, she had no scars.

“My dad…is kind of busy a lot…and I kind of don’t really talk to anybody and then when I came here…I met Luna…she’s been really nice and…she takes care of me”. The boy smiled lightly while he praised his dear friend.

“What about you?”

The girl shook her head as she stared into the horizon. The blossoming blue buds swaying in the breeze.

“What?”, the young prince asked, appalled. The girl noticed his reaction in her periphery. “Not even from school?”

“I don’t go to school. Ravus, Luna and I have tutors”. To be honest, she wasn’t really allowed to leave the palace. The rules are to not go unsupervised, but given the fact that she really didn’t have anywhere to go, she realized that was just a fancy way of saying “no”. Unbeknownst to her, the queen’s worry of her adoptive daughter’s identity and well-being is really why the girl remained cooped up inside House Flueret.

She thought of her sister for a moment and realized…she didn’t really have any real friends either. Of course, she was adored by everyone who met her, but…none of them were really friends. She was sure the Cornw Prince of Lucis had his fair share of cheeks pinches by nice clingy old ladies from time to time too and yet…he had spent more time in loneliness…and Luna was his haven.

“Do you like my sister?”

Noct rose his gaze toward her, with a light blush in his cheeks.

“Well…I mean…we’re friends”, he looked toward the morning sky, “she’s great”.

The girl lightly giggles at him leaving the boy blushing deeper.

“W-what?!”, he stammered over his words leaving her giggling more.

“What’s so funny?!”, the boy exclaimed in embarrassment.

“You have a crush on Luna!”, she teased.

“Do not!”, Noct retorted.

Aside from her amusement, she was happy that he cared for Luna so much…maybe just as much as she did. Maybe more.

“Thank you…for being her friend, Noctis”, she smiled at the boy with such sincerity, his cheeks returned to their natural hue.

“Oh…you’re welcome”.

She returned her gaze to the horizon as the sun peaked over.

“And…y’know…”, the prince hesitantly started, “we could be friends too”.

The girl’s eyes widened at his words before she turned back toward him to see if he was serious.

He was? REALLY?

She nodded in delight. “Okay”. She felt a warmth in her cheeks.

“There you are”, a light voice echoed from behind the children.

They turned their attention toward the source. Lunafreya delicately approached the two with a graceful smile upon her face.

“Oh, hey Luna”, the boy greeted, clearly delighted to see her. The silver haired girl rolled her eyes at the young prince. He definitely liked her. She rose to her feet, dusting off her dress.

“Hi, sis”.

“I see you two have gotten acquainted”, Luna rose her eyebrow slightly toward her sister as she smiled.

That was the face Luna made when she was right about something. A face that was sorely hated by her younger sister especially since Luna was right most of the time.

“Yeah. We’re friends now”. The girl crossed her arms refusing to look at her elder sister.

“I’m glad”, Luna replied. Her tone was sincere. She was actually happy. This shouldn’t have surprised the silver haired girl for Luna was naturally really nice, but for some reason it did.

Eirenne made a friend. That was something to be happy about…right?

“Eirenne!”

A low voice echoed from the other side of the field toward the palace, alarming the three children.

Ravus waved toward his youngest sister. “Come on! Your tutor is here!”

The girl sighed and slumped in a dramatic fashion receiving a giggle from the Crown Prince. She gave him a sassy glare. “Sorry”, the boy responded with a chuckle.

“It’s only for an hour”, Luna tried to reassure her sibling as she retreated toward the palace.

“That’s like….a billion years in dog years”.

Luna giggled at her sister’s offense. “Well, then lets be happy we aren’t dogs”.

“Hurry up!”, Ravus shouted.

“I’m coming, I’m coming! Sheesh…”, the girl retorted as she jogged toward the 16 year old.

“She’s funny”, Noctis commented to Luna in a giggle as she watched her sister in slight worry. Despite her seemingly playful attitude, something seemed…off.

Ravus’ eyebrows forwarded at the child sluggishly walking in front of him. Usually when he walked her, the whole way was nothing less of constant complaining. The reason why he had to walk her in the first place was because she used to hide for the whole hour until her tutor gave up waiting and left, but this time she didn’t bother putting up the slightest fuss and that unsettled the young man. Something was bothering her. He could sense the rain cloud floating above his sister’s head. She was 8 years his junior and her constant bursts of energy often annoyed the heck out of him, but he still loved his sister dearly and she knew it…but she often felt a burden to her brother and because of this, she would never openly tell him what was wrong. Not unless he asked first.

“Hey”, Ravus called to the girl, stopping in his tracks and crossing his arms.

She turned toward him in slight confusion, “…what?” He looked mad. She got kind of nervous as her mind raced wondering what she could’ve possibly done wrong now.

“What’s the matter with you?”

His tone toward her was generally pretty unwelcoming, but it still often rubbed her the wrong way. “What?”, her response slightly sassy.

The boy smirked a bit. He found it amusing when she tried to act tough, but he really was worried so he softened his tone.

“You hate when your tutor shows up. Yet today you seem like you don’t even care”.

“So…?”

“So…that’s not like you. Which means something must be wrong”. The boy pivoted slightly to lean his back against the wall, his arms still crossed. “And we are not going anywhere until you tell me what it is”.

She lowered her gaze to the shiny, speckled floors. Staring at her reflection. Warm tears filled her eyes, her breaths slightly choked by light sobs. Ravus’ eyes filled with concern.

“…am I…bad?…”

The young prince’s heart sank at his sister’s question as she lifted her tearful gaze to meet his. Her face drenched with salty tears that dripped from her cheek onto the floors. Ravus knelt down in front of his sister.

“Hey, hey….where is this coming from?”

“…everyone calls me a princess…but…I’m not really one of you….”.

“Eir-”, Ravus started.

“You all call me Eirenne….Eirenne is a princess….a Nox Flueret…she’s one of you….but…I’m not…I……I don’t even know what I am”, she finally admitted, hanging her head in shame. Her sobs echoing through the halls. Ravus softened his eyes at his dear sister as a sweet smile stretched across his face.

“I know what you are…”, the young prince replied as he lightly placed his finger underneath her chin, delicately lifting her gaze to meet his.

“Hmm…?”

“You’re my sister…no matter what else you may or may not be…to anyone else”.

What?

“And I love you very much”.

“…because I’m your sister?”

“Because…you’re you”, he gently boops her nose, emitting a small giggle from the girl as she wiggled it. He smiled, noticing her sorrows had ceased, before looking toward the clock.

“Well, you’re late…”, he stated before he rose to his feet, “…we should get going to avoid any trouble”. He strolled past the silver haired girl proceeding to take her to her tutor, but suddenly stopped when he noticed she wasn’t following. He turned back toward the girl with a raised eyebrow.

“What?”

“There’s something else…but I have to ask mom”.

Ravus released a light sigh. “Might as well…not much chance of you learning anything at this point”.

The girl rolled her eyes. Looks like he was back to his normal self.

On the far side of the palace, Queen Sylva enjoyed a cup of tea on her personal balcony delightfully marveling her kingdom. Her citizen’s going about their busy days, their smiles bright and carefree. She shut her eyes as she took a deep breath, taking it all in. Absolute bliss.

“Mother…?”

The queen was awaken from her daydreams to her youngest daughter’s soft voice. She smiled at the child as she shyly approached.

“Goodmorning, my darling”, the queen gracefully greeted.

“G-goodmorning”, the girl hesitantly spoke, “..am I interrupting?”

“Oh, no, of course not, love. Come. Join me”, she lightly patted thee plush white chair across from her welcoming her daughter to sit.

As she sat down, a small crystal glass plate of sugar cookies caught her eye. Her eyes widened at the sugary treats, before she lifted her gaze to her mother who responded with a light giggle.

“Go on”, she permitted. The girl hastily grabbing a cookie, shoving it into her mouth.

“Mmmmmmm”. She shut her eyes as the sweet sensation danced upon her tongue. The queen emitted a small giggle as she poured her daughter a cup of tea.

“Slow down, my love, you’ll choke”. Sylva smiled at her daughter as she continued to indulge in her morning dessert. She returned her gaze to her marvelous kingdom as the sun lite up the stone and the streams.

“So, how was tutoring?”

The girl halted at her mother’s question.

“It is still within the hour. I’ve never known for lessons to end so early”.

She raised a slightly suspicious eyebrow at her daughter while still welcoming a smile.

“Um….”, she swallowed making a gulp sound, “I didn’t go…”.

“I figured so”, she replied firmly making her slightly nervous as she bowed her head and stopped eating.

Sweet child….she looked just like her mother. So beautiful, so innocent, yet…harboring such pain and she doesn’t know what to do with it….or how to deal with it.

“What’s wrong, my love?”, Sylva kindly asked her daughter, concern in her voice.

The girl lifted her gaze to her mother’s. “I….um…well….I”.

“Darling…”, the queen smiled at the silver haired girl, “relax”.

The girl straightened herself up, in an attempt to block out her obvious nervousness. “…I want to go to school”.

The queen’s eyes widened at her daughter’s statement.

“That so?”

The girl nodded purposefully. Very determined to get her point across, despite being nervous.

“…and why would you want that?”, the queen nonchalantly asked as she sipped her tea, only wishing to understand her reasoning.

“W…well…I just…I’m not special like Ravus and Luna…and…I just…want to have something…that’s just…me”.

Sylva gazed upon her daughter, impressed with her wishes for independence amongst her siblings, while also feeling a strap of guilt for her sense of lost identity. This whole time the queen wanted nothing more than her safety against those who would rather have her for her power, but all the while, she’s been isolated from the entire kingdom that was meant to be her home.

“Muerlin…”.

The girl lifted her gaze to her mother, her eyes slightly widened, with a raised eyebrow.

With all her grace, the queen gently placed her hand upon her daughter’s plush cheek. 

“You are special…you are beautiful, unique and will amount to wondrous things in the future….you’re much more than you will ever know…”, she smiles reassuringly, “…anyone you meet at school would be blessed by the Gods to call you their friend”. 

The silver haired girl’s eyes lit up. “Does that mean…?” 

Sylva responds with a light nod. “Absolutely, my lo-ooh!” 

The princess leaped from her seat embracing her mother tightly. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” The queen laughed returning her daughter’s embrace. “I promise, I’ll do REALLY good! And I’ll make lots of friends and then you’ll be proud of me!”, the girl insisted in an elated tone. 

“I will always be proud of you, my precious flower, promise me you’ll remember that”. 

“Promise”, the girl replied before her mother placed a gentle, loving kiss against her forehead. 

A few days later… 

“What do you mean he has to gooooooo?”, the silver haired girl whined to her big sister.

“Muerlin”, Lunafreya giggled, “you didn’t think he was going to stay forever did you?”

“Yes!!”

King Regis was returning to Tenebrae to take Noctis back to Lucis today. He was still impaired, but wasn’t far from full recovery.

“Muerlin, he is the Chosen King. He cannot stay here forever”.

“But you loooooooove him!”, the child whined to her older sister.

Luna’s cheeks flushed at her sister’s comment, releasing a small sigh.

“Besides, I was finally starting to get good at this friend crap…”.

Luna turned toward the girl, who was sitting criss crossed on her bed, her arms folded in frustration in a pout. Awww, how cute. She was just upset because she was going to miss her new friend.

“We can visit him in Lucis anytime you want, you know”.

The child lifted her gaze to her sibling who reassured her with a smile.

The silver haired girl returned the smile. “Okay”, she replied gleefully with a nod.

“For now, I better fetch Noctis. The King will be here shortly so make sure you’re properly dressed”.

The child hopped from the bed and curtsied at the baby blue blonde in a dramatic fashion. “As you wish, Lady Lunafreya”.

The elder princess giggled at her sister before returning the curtsy and retreating from the room.

A short time later, the young princess was examined herself in her best white dress. White used to look terrible on her when her hair was longer. She looked like a weirdo, but now that it was short, she figured she could get used to it. White was DEFINITELY Eirenne’s color.

As she marvelled her reflection, her eyes abruptly shifted to the dark figure in the corner of her mirror.

“The princess resembles winter’s snow…beauty above all”.

She turned toward her door with a large smile. “Goodmorning, Gentiana”.

“Goodmorning, Lady Eirenne”.

The girl skipped to the tall woman. “Do you really think I look pretty?”

Gentiana nodded softly emitting a delighted giggle from the girl.

“The King awaits in the fields”.

“Oh! He’s here already?! Well, let’s go!” The girl raced to meet her family and the Lucians, Gentiana following close behind.

When they arrived, the silver haired girl stood in awe as she gazed upon the King of Lucis. He was tall, wore a black suit and looked….like Noctis, but…scarier? As he conversed with Sylva, she noticed a general kindness in his eyes. He shifted his gaze to the small child staring at him from afar. He forwarded his brow slightly while greeting her with a smile.

As he focused onto her eyes, he noticed a slight…familiarity. 

They displayed such innocence, curiosity…they flicked like a calm fire underneath the lagoon surface. Although, the fire didn’t rage…. It…..danced. A playful sensation by such a destructive device. A truly hidden strength. It reminded him of…. 

“Ceres…?" 

His voice was no louder than a whisper. The queen rose an eyebrow at the king before turning to see her daughter standing behind them. As she was about to address her, a woman in a dark grey and black suit with long black hair, a scar that ran across her right eye lightly, placed a hand upon the king’s shoulder. 

"Your Highness….”. 

The King averted his gaze to the woman before he turned his attention into the direction she was looking. Sylva joined the two. The curious girl raised her eyebrow before noticing her sister approaching with the Crown Prince in his wheelchair, looking much better than he did the last she saw him. She skipped forward taking position next to Ravus as the two approached. Pleasant smiles covered everyone’s faces, sighs of relief of the prince’s health escapes their lungs. Everyone was in such a good mood. It wasn’t everyday that Ravus smiled. He was kind of a butt like that, but here he was….happier than he usually seemed. It was so refreshing to see everyone in such high spirits. To finally see everyone happy…she closed her eyes, basking in the joyous moment. Nothing could possibly take this away. 

Or so she thought… 

Suddenly a loud bang awoke the girl from her daze. Her ears rang as the explosive sound echoed through her sensitive ears. A small sting surged through her arm as she felt an unknown object graze her arm. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion as the ringing in her ears rattled the girl’s mind. A familiar shriek alerted the girl. She returned her gaze to her front…to witness Queen Sylva collapse to her knees in front of this large figure….his mighty sword yanked from her chest. 

Tears poured from the girl’s eyes as her mother fell to the ground…dead. Her body paralyzed by her fear and the pain that coursed through her. 

“King Regis! HELP US!" 

She shifted her gaze to her brother, on his knees, his sleeve coated in blood, as he cried desperately to the King. 

"LUNA!!" 

She pivoted slightly to witness the King fleeing, Noctis on his shoulder reaching toward her elder sister who stood calmly in the distance. As the girl reached toward Luna, her arms trembling….her vision was abruptly shrouded by black. 

All was quiet. 

There were no sounds of screams. 

No smell of smoke. 

No crackling of the flames. 

No taste of blood as it coated the air. 

The only sound was of the rapid beating within the child’s chest and her heavy pants as she finally learned to breathe again. Her eyes darted all around. Or at least…they felt like they were. It was far too dark for her to really tell. Pitch black. Like an eternal void of nothing.

A few moments later, the girl was abruptly blinded by the afternoon sun. Though it was slightly blocked by a tall figure in front of her.

“She alright?”

“All seems well…I think you for your aid”.

“No problem…take care, your majesty”.

As the girl’s eyes finally adjusted, the brown eyed Gentiana knelt in front of the princess, worry evident in her face.

“Lady Eirenne…”.

The young girl stared at the woman, confused to what just happened.

“Are you alright?”

She looked around, panting heavily.

“Where are we…?”

“The far side of the kingdom…worry not, we are alone”.

It must’ve been the furthest side of the kingdom. The young princess had never been here before. Then again, she had never really been anywhere before.

“Who was that…?”, the girl noticed the other figure was gone.

“A loyal glaive”, the woman in black replied with a smile.

The small girl rose to her feet and strolled past Gentiana before abruptly coming to a halt. She stared at the kingdom from afar, smoke engulfed the air above the palace. Her home. At that sight…the horror she witnessed, it all came rushing back.

But….it could not be real…it wasn’t…right?

“Lady Eirenne….”.

The girl slowly turned toward the kneeling woman, gazing into her brown eyes. The hot tears that filled her lagoon pools broke Gentiana’s heart as she awaited the girl’s response.

“Where’s my mommy…?”

“…Lady Muerlin…”, Gentiana lightly whispered to the child. She wanted to deny the truth, but she knew….the woman knew she knew.

“Where’s my mommy?”, her tone was louder. Tears streaming down her cheeks.

Gentiana silently gazed into her eyes. The girl unsatisfied with the woman not answering her question turned away to run back to the palace before two arms wrapped themselves around her pulling her into Gentiana’s chest.

“NOOO!”, the girl screamed as she her small body tried to escape the woman’s grip. “WHERE’S MY MOMMY?!”, her small fists pounded against the tearful woman’s arms and chest. “WHERE IS SHE?!” She turned back toward the flames in the distance desperately reaching forward. “RAVUS!!” Gentiana felt a slight pressure against her body that increased the more the girl panicked. She noticed the child’s pearly white glove began to slowly tear, revealing her black fingers. The earth beneath them began to tremble under their feet. “LUNAAAAAAA!!!” The girl’s scream erupted a telekinetic pulse toward a barren land form nearby. Her rage and frustration shattered the massive land form.

Gentiana pulled the girl against her chest, her hand gently placed upon her head in a gently pet, ceasing her scream. The woman’s black garnets soaked with the tears that poured from the child’s eyes.

There was no denying it now….her mother was gone.

Tenebrae was lost.

A several weeks later…

The storm had seemingly ended, but people were still recovering from what it left in its wake.

When Gentiana and the young princess returned to the palace. They were greeted by an army of Imperial Soldiers, much to the girl’s dismay. Memories of depression, betrayal and pain flooded her mind. She remembered that slimy Chief Besithia. She remembered…him. The soldiers present in the room turned to look at her. The fear that roamed her body sent her into a cold sweat. One began to approach her before the woman in black intervened.

“Lady Eirenne wishes to be with her family”, she stated firmly. The soldier paused for a moment before stepping to the side allowing them to pass. The girl looked confused at the imperials. They weren’t trying to attack her or grab at her. They didn’t even look like they recognized her. What was up with that? Maybe he forgot about her….

Then again….maybe not.

Gentiana led the girl into the drawing room where Lunafreya waited. 

“Muerlin…” She sighed in relief at her sister’s return. “Thank the stars you’re alright”, she embraced the child. The silver haired girl returned her embrace.

“Mommy’s dead…”, the girl whimpered.

“I know…”, the elder girl replied.

The child looked around the room. “Where’s Ravus?”

“I don’t know…”, Luna calmly answered desperately trying to soothe her sister. She continued to hold her tightly as Ravus’ faint screaming was heard somewhere in the palace. Tears streamed down the princess’ bronze cheeks as she finally accepted her reality. She was a prisoner…again.

Ravus had been recruited to the imperial army. He was seemingly proud of his position though it wasn’t certain. However, he was very open about his new found hatred for King Regis and the Crown Prince of Lucis. He felt like the benevolent king left them for dead. She and Luna knew the truth…Noctis was the Chosen King…and, of course, his son. They understood…and felt no ill will.

The young princess sat in the drawing room on a sofa opposite of a second sofa where Lunafreya sat reading. Ravus stood in front of the fireplace, in his Imperial attire. The only sound in the room was the fire crackling and the pages of Luna’s book turning. The child stared at her mother’s empty chair on the other side of the room, remembering the talk she and her mother had a few days before her death.

“I promise, I’ll do REALLY good! And I’ll make lots of friends and then you’ll be proud of me!”

“I will always be proud of you, my precious flower, promise me you’ll remember that”.

“Promise”.

She sat there in silence for a moment before she clenched her fists, slightly nervous of what she was about to say.

“I want to go to school”, she stated quietly.

Lunafreya looked up from her book to her sister, her eyes widened slightly. Her sister’s eyes never left the fists on her lap.

“What…?”, the 16 year old turned toward his youngest sister.

“I want…to go…to school”. She rose her gaze to meet his. The reflection of the fire behind him flickered in her eyes.

“Why would you even worry about that right now? Our mother is dead and we have been dragged into a war that had nothing to do with and you want to go to school? Why?!”

“Because mom said I could”.

He stood there puzzled for a moment before remembering the day he was walking her to her tutor.

“So that’s what you wanted to talk to her about…”, he sighed. “Why would you want that now? The kingdom is swarming with imperials. It’s not safe”.

“I don’t care. I want to go”.

“Muerlin…”, Luna tried to calmly intervene.

“Mom said I could go and I want to go”.

“Mother isn’t here anymore!! Don’t you remember?!”, the boy shouted. “The people that killed her are roaming the streets in MASS and you want to walk among them, pretending they aren’t there?!”

“I’m not the one who needs to be reminded of whose fault it is for her death!!”, the young princess shouted back storming toward her brother.

“Muerlin”, Luna stood in an attempt to soothe her sister only to be interrupted by Ravus.

“I know who’s responsible!! The Lucian dogs who abandoned us to this hell!!”

“Regis was only looking out for his family, Ravus!!!”

“And who is here to look out and care for us?! You?!”

“I CARE MORE THAN YOU!”

“COMING FROM THE NAIVE CHILD WHO WANTS TO GET HERSELF KILLED TO GO TO SCHOOL!!!”

“MOM SAID-!!!”

“SHE WASN’T EVEN YOUR MOM!!!!”

The rage in the girl’s chest had finally reached it’s peak as she decked her brother in the jaw with all of her strength. The built up telekinetic force knocked him off his feet onto the floor behind him. Ravus stared at his sister, appalled.

“Muerlin, please!”, Luna pleaded grabbing her sister’s wrist only for the girl to violently shake her grip, staring intensely at her brother while desperately trying not to cry.

“You’re not my brother anymore….”, she growled at the boy before darting from the room.

“Muerlin…”, Ravus began to stand as he reached toward his sister, but she was already out of the door.

“Ravus”, Lunafreya started, clearly disappointed in her brother, “you know how she feels…she is already in hiding because she’s the Pythoness. It haunts her everyday…all she has is a name. Nothing to show for it…”.

“…I made a promise to keep her safe, Lunafreya….both of you. You and Muerlin….you’re all I have”.

“Then don’t lose her by allowing her to lose herself…she loved mother just as much as we did…and only wishes to make her proud. Wouldn’t you want the same?”

Ravus sighed at his sister’s words. She was right. That was what he wanted…but he was loyal to the empire now, and had to show it…for the good of the family.

Later that night, the silver haired princess lay awake in bed like she did every night. Reflecting on the events of her day. She mulled over Ravus’ words to her earlier, grumbling in irritation under her breath before she heard her door open. 

“Muerlin”, Lunafreya whispered, “are you still awake?”

“Yeah”, the child nodded.

The delicate blonde entered, shutting the door behind her. “I just wanted to see if you were alright…you weren’t at dinner”.

The young princess bowed her head. “I wasn’t hungry…”, she softly replied.

“Muerlin”, Luna went on, “you know he’s only trying to look out for you…he didn’t mean what he said”.

“I know…still…”.

“What?”, Luna asked as she climbed on her sister’s bed.

“Eirenne Nox Flueret is your sister. Was mother’s daughter….and she’s nothing”, the young princess explained. “I want to be something you all can be proud of….be worthy of being a Nox Flueret”.

“Alright, but there’s something wrong with that”, the blonde scooted closer.

“What?”

“You’re my sister. You are a Nox Flueret. You will always be worthy to everyone you meet because that is who you are”, she smiled, “and you will make all of your friends happy at school”.

The girl’s eyes widened slightly before she returned her smile.

Behind her bedroom door, Ravus stood listening to the girl’s conversation, smiling to himself. He loved her, dearly, and wanted the best for her…but what good was that if she wasn’t happy?

“I can already see it”, Luna gleefully stated, “’look at that beautiful girl with the silver hair!’” She gently ruffled her sister’s hair emitting a small giggle from the child. “They will run up from all over to speak to you”.

“You think so?”

“Absolutely, they wouldn’t be able to resist”, she insisted. “What would you say back?”

The girl imagined the scenario, taking a deep breath, a kind smile stretched across her face.

“Hi. I’m Eirenne. Nice to meet you”.

Trail of Embers, Ch. 4 - Eyes in the Dark

~*~ Glory, Marta, and David have had a long week. As they head out onto the road and put Halcyon City behind them, the trio takes a moment a breathe, rest, and (re)discover each other- three wandering souls, out in the wild. Read it on AO3 here.  ~*~ Marta dreams. She is sitting on a cliff, gazing out at the sea. Her legs dangle over the ledge and she kicks them, like a child. Her mother is with her, a smudged blur in her peripheral vision, robed in midnight blue- a memory from too long ago, coalescing from fog. She stands, and finds herself in a copse of trees- smoothly, seamlessly, as is the flow of dreams. There is a man sitting cross-legged on the grass before her. His head was a stag’s skull, crowned with antlers, lit from within by a gentle sapphire light. Vines spill out the back of his skull and lie draped across his shoulders, his arms, in a semblance of long hair. He smells like the land; of honeysuckle and tilled soil. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Marta lifts her head, sees the glint of red and gold, tastes the tang of smoke in the air. He is coming. The stag-headed man fixes Marta with his empty gaze, blue fire in an antlered skull. His voice comes out like gravel, like crumbling stone. Do not let him in. ~*~ 

Marta woke with a soft gasp, her cheek resting on smooth fabric. She instinctively nuzzled the cloth before she caught a flash of black and red and remembered where she was. She snapped awake, jerking back and banging her head on the low ceiling of David’s sedan. She mewled in pain, the beginnings of a blush coloring her cheeks. “I am… so… sorry,” Marta eked out, wincing. Glory stared at her, her dark eyes rimmed with red. Unnerving as Glory’s piercing, unblinking gaze was, there was a hint of mirth buried beneath the ice. Glory’s smiles rarely made it all the way to her lips, but they always started in her eyes. “It’s okay,” Glory said. “How did you sleep?” “Okay,” Marta shrugged. “Weird dreams. You?” “I didn’t sleep,” Glory said flatly. “And I don’t dream.” “Oh.” Marta looked past Glory and out her window. They were at a fueling station, framed by trees, fog, and a cloudy sky, with the dim yellow lights of a mini-mart only barely cutting through the gloom. “Come on,” Glory said, tipping her head towards the window. “I was just going to ask if you wanted anything.” ~*~ “Good lord, David, you’re still driving that hunk of junk? It’s so old it still runs on gas.” “Yeah, and you still sell it, so what does that say about you?” The shopkeeper grinned. He was an older man, in a denim vest over a white T-shirt, with a gray beard and a trucker’s cap. Steve Wilk, owner of Wilk’s Fuel Station and Auto Shop (and Mini-Mart), the last little island of civilization before trees and fog took over. “You going on some kinda trip?” Wilk asked, amused, as he scanned and bagged a veritable mountain of protein bars, energy drinks, string cheese and soy jerky. “It’s for a job,” David explained, a growing number of shopping bags hanging from his arms. “I’m going to be out of the city for awhile.” Glory appeared, silent and inscrutable. She dropped another pile of goods on the counter just as Wilk had finished bagging the first- aspirin, rolls of gauze, bottles of quick-sealing trauma spray. Marta followed behind, adding a number of boxes to the pile- tampons, teabags, chemical hand warmers. She glanced up at David. “...I get cold,” Marta said, sheepish. David reached into the pile and picked up a bottle of trauma spray. “‘For the instant sealing of open wounds’,” David read. “‘Like stitches in a bottle.’ ...Y’know, don’t all three of us have some form of healing magic?” “Say you’ve just received a traumatic, painful, bloody wound,” Glory said, tone flat as always. “What would be easier: concentrating on a healing spell, or shaking a spray can and pressing a button?” “Point,” David admitted. Wilk stared at the trio. “Just what kind of trouble do y’all think you’re gonna run into?” “Bears,” Glory said, deadpan. She took an armful of shopping bags and left, Marta following close behind. Wilk watched them go, shaking his head. “There’s an interesting girl,” Wilk muttered. “She’s my boss,” David cut in. “And she’s paying for all this, so-” “Easy, boy. Meant no offense.” David mumbled a non-response, handing over his credstick. Wilk scanned it and handed it back, along with the rest of the crew’s supplies. “Did you hear about the fire?” Wilk asked. David hesitated. “Which one?” “South side. Took out a church, a homeless shelter…” David’s expression darkened. “Yeah. That was a shame.” “There was another one, up at the docks. Some chemical fire. But this one, they’re saying, this one was the gangs. Bunch of thugs bombed the place. Can you believe that?” Shadows flashed across David’s eyelids. The Branded. The mob. The sorceress. The fight in a burning church. The daemon seizing his skin, fighting him for control. David sucked in a breath. “I really can’t,” he muttered. “Nasty. Nasty stuff. It’s shit like this that makes me want to get out of this city, myself.” Wilk smiled. “...Can’t, though.” “Why’s that?” “Come on, kid. I can’t skip town. I gotta wait for everyone else to do it, so I can fuel ‘em up on their way out. You think I’d miss out on all that business? I’d make a fortune.” David chuckled. Grinned. “It was nice seeing you, Mr. Wilk. I gotta go. Say hi to the dogs for me, would you?” “When was the last time you saw ‘em, huh? They’re gettin’ big. Real big. They’ve been dying to see you again.” Mr. Wilk reached out and gave David’s hand a firm shake. “You take care on your little road trip, son.” “Thanks, Mr. Wilk.” “Oh, and David?” Wilk called, with David halfway out the door. “The next time you want to buy me out of jerky and string cheese, you call ahead, first!” ~*~ Scarcely an hour out of Halcyon City, and already the urban sprawl gives way to one-lane roads, thick woods and log cabins. The sky remained gray and gloomy, and fog seemed to follow them wherever they went. It was as if the Nameless Queen’s ghost had risen from the burning ruin of her church, and had come to haunt their steps. Everywhere they looked, it was gray, gray, gray. It was gray in the misted woods closing in around them, and it was just as gray in the shifting shadows of astral space, where David now lurked. In astral space, the light of life blazes like stars. But as David scanned the lodge, he saw only the faintest traces of memory, echoes of its previous inhabitants, glimmering like moonlight through the trees. David blinked, and the faint glow of astral space receded back into the darkness of reality. He eased open the door, pistol drawn. He crouched in the shadows, reaching up to key in his comm. “All clear,” he whispered. The lights came on, and David practically jumped out of his skin- only to feel Glory’s hands on his shoulders in an act of questionable reassurance. “You’re okay,” Glory said tonelessly. Marta stood behind, smiling sheepishly beside the light switch. David exhaled, holstering his pistol. This lodge wasn’t quite like the one David was working at four days ago, when Glory charged in, killed all his coworkers, and only spared him because, he was forced to assume, he asked nicely. That lodge had two storeys, couches, and bedrooms on the second floor. This place, meanwhile, could charitably be called a lodge, when in reality it was more of a ‘shack’. That being said, it was still roomier than David’s car, so nobody was really complaining. “Nice place,” Marta said, glancing up at the lumen strips incongruously set into the walls. “Electric lighting kinda ruins the look, but- Oh! A fireplace!” “Let’s start a fire, then,” Glory said. “I don’t want anyone coming by and wondering why the lights are on in the middle of spring, with hunting season months away. Do we have any firewood?” David poked his head out the back door. “Hopper’s empty.” “I’ll go find some, then,” Glory said. “Do you have a hatchet?” Marta asked. Glory extended her hand razors with a click of metal. “I’ll manage.” She waggled her clawed fingers at Marta, a playful smile in her eyes, before stepping out. “Keeping the lights off is one thing,” David said, “but what about the car?” “I can take care of that,” Marta offered. “Come on. I’ll show you something cool.” Outside, David shut the trunk with a thud, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and stepping back. “Okay,” Marta said, cracking her fingers. “Watch this.” David watched, fascinated, as the tips of Marta’s hair began to shine like hot coals. Traceries of blue light flowed down her arms and gathered at her fingertips in a coruscating cloud of energy. Marta blew a kiss across her palm. The spell dusted across her hands and coiled around the car like wisps of smoke. David’s vision shifted and blurred, like heat haze, and just like that, his car had vanished. David reached out, groping for his car in the seemingly empty air. He could feel it beneath his touch, and could hear himself tapping on the roof. He blinked and slipped into astral space. There he could see it, tinged with the lingering traces of their auras- Marta’s in blue, David’s own in gold, with a shadow where Glory’s should have been- but to his eyes in realspace, his car was as good as gone. David whistled, impressed. “Whoa,” he breathed. Marta beamed. “It’s- It’s, y’know, not perfect. The illusion only works if it’s not moving, so no taking it with us on the go. We can run or hide, not both.” “Still. That’s a hell of a trick,” David said. He looked up at Marta, suddenly sheepish. “But, uh. You can make it visible again, right? All our food’s still in the trunk, and uh… I can’t see where to put the key.” ~*~ Glory returned from her firewood-hunt soon after with an apology and an armful of moist wood. (“It rained last night, remember?”) Fortunately, Marta then used her magic to draw the water out of the wood, making them properly dry and oh-so-flammable, and a spark from Glory snapping her mechanical fingers took care of the rest. Their little fire crackled in the hearth, borrowed, like so many other things- shelter, stillness, time. Who knew how long this safety would last? But despite everything, a moment of calm managed to settle over the trio- a trio who met under decidedly un-calm circumstances. Marta took a deep breath and sighed, savoring the moment’s peace. The three of them were assembled on the floor around a collapsible cot they were all using as a table in the sparsely furnished lodge. To her left was David, gnawing on a piece of soy jerky. He was fiddling with his PDA, putting together a playlist to sync to his comm. Marta could hear the first few muffled seconds of each track as he considered it; plaintive strings, melancholy piano, blaring synth and everything in between. To her right was Glory, also studying her PDA, her eyes fixed in her characteristic intense, unblinking stare. Glory wasn’t too close, but neither was she too far away. Marta was between them, facing the fireplace. She sat in the shifting firelight, their little borrowed hearth so unlike the blaze that had consumed her church. Scarcely a day ago, she’d been a nun, living a life of charity and piety in the service of the Nameless Queen. Now, look at her. She’d fought daemons and sorceresses, pulled people out of burning buildings… She’d stepped out of her life of quiet devotion for all of 24 hours, and now here she was, on the run, with friends old and new, both of whom had already saved her life at least once before. How much difference a day makes. Unlike David and Glory, Marta wasn’t looking at her PDA. She was shuffling her deck of Tarot cards, handmade and hand-painted. They had been a gift from Sister Shelley, long ago, when she’d first joined the abbey. ‘They’ll tell your fortune’, Shelley’d told her, ‘and if you don’t care for what they tell you, you can use just them like regular playing cards.’ Honestly, Marta wasn’t really looking at her cards, either. She was just shuffling them so she had something to do with her hands. It was Glory who really held her attention. Glory, who sacrificed herself, body and soul, to break free of Harrow and The Horned King. Glory, who literally carries the weight of that sacrifice everywhere she goes. Glory, who, even after escaping The Horned King’s grasp, dove right back into Hell to pull Marta and the other kids out. Glory, who, years ago, caught first Marta’s eyes, then her heart. Glory, who, even now, clung to Marta’s thoughts and wouldn’t let go. “Marta?” “Huh? What?” Marta blinked. “You’re staring,” Glory said, peering over the top of her PDA. “Do I have something on my face?” Glory’s eyes glinted in the firelight. Marta sucked in a breath. “Um. Yes, actually. D’you mind if I…?” Glory nodded her assent, leaning closer. Marta reached out with a tissue and dabbed at a few rust-red flecks on Glory’s cheek. In the firelight, one could almost believe they were freckles. Marta pulled away, trying not to dwell on how warm Glory had been beneath her hand. “Blood,” she said, simply. “Don’t worry,” Glory said. “It usually isn’t mine.” “Usually,” Marta echoed, watching the shadows flicker across Glory’s face. “Thanks,” Glory said lightly, returning to her work, while Marta gathered the willpower to finally wrench her gaze away. Marta fixed her eyes forward, embarrassed and annoyed at her own feelings. It had been years since she and Glory had been together. Even then, it was as part of Harrow’s Apostles, his inner circle of wives and, frankly, accomplices. They were just teenagers, then. Just kids. Marta could barely remember it all, through the intoxicating haze of The Horned King’s influence. Then Glory snapped. The Horned King pushed her too far- deceived her into killing her own mother. That moment of grief yanked her out of the fog, and she disappeared. She got the surgery that gutted her magical potential and cut her off from The Horned King, and vanished into the shadows, beyond Harrow’s reach. Then she came back, years later. She rescued Marta, rescued Harrow’s acolytes, and purified the Heart of Feuerstelle, the fragment of The Horned King that Harrow was using to force their obedience when words alone were no longer enough. Their reunion was short-lived. Marta left to rediscover herself, now that she was cut free from Harrow’s poisonous influence. And she promised she’d get back in touch once she’d figured things out again. Well, here she was, and Marta did not, in fact, have everything figured out. She didn’t have all the answers. But she sure kept the feelings- even after all this time, it was like riding a bike. You never really forget. Marta heaved a weary sigh, fanning her cards out on the cot. She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and drew a card, holding it up to the firelight. A woman, robed in blue, seated between two pillars- the darkness and the light- with a banner or veil stretched behind her, separating the conscious from the unconscious. The High Priestess. Patience. Insight. Intuition. The unknown. Marta made a face. “You think that’s funny?” Marta muttered, and shuffled it back into the deck. ~*~ Marta dreams. She half-expects to see someone berating her for still carrying a torch for Glory. Maybe she’d be on a stage, under a spotlight, in front of a leering, laughing crowd. Maybe there’d be someone looming above her, mocking her. Maybe it’d be her parents. Or Harrow. Maybe even The Horned King himself. Marta doesn’t dream of any of these things. Instead, she is back in the Wood. The Heart of Feuerstelle sits before her, his antlered skull of a head lit from within by a tranquil blue light. He sits, serene, even as fires burn in the distance. Smoke drifts into Marta’s face and stings her eyes. One by one, torches appear in the clearing- rising up out of the ground in an eerie imitation of trees taking root. Six. The Heart’s voice rumbles through Marta’s head like a tremor in the earth. Six jewels in the crown of the Horned King. Six torches ring the clearing, but only four are ablaze. Two of them stand unlit, weeping black smoke into the air. The Heart leans forward. He sighs. Smiles, if a skull could be said to smile. A cool breeze passes over Marta, ruffling her hair and whistling through the trees, smelling of honeysuckle and tilled earth. The Heart speaks, his voice like thunder. You’re almost halfway there. ~*~ Daylight came- technically, if not literally. The weather stayed gloomy as ever, with clouds overhead and fog blanketing the road. The loamy earth and sweet honeysuckle of Marta’s dream gave way to wooden floorboards, charcoal, and a sizzling skillet. “I’m sorry about this, boss,” she heard David saying. “I’m, uh, not really a cook.” “That’s fine. These aren’t really ingredients.” “That’s the last time I go grocery shopping at a gas station,” David muttered. “But I meant more along the lines of, ‘this is my first time cooking in a fireplace’.” Marta blinked herself awake, her vision settling into place. She pushed off of her bedroll, sitting up. David was kneeling by the fireplace, Glory sitting nearby. He had propped a grate over the coals, and was tending to a small pan, the smoke making his eyes water. “I feel like I’m doing this wrong,” David grumbled. “I’m getting smoke all up in my face.” “Is there anything I can do to help?” Glory offered. “Yeah, actually. Would you mind chopping up some potatoes?” “Alright. Do you have a knife?” “Just use your claw-thingies.” “You want me to use my hand razors? Do you have any idea where those have been?” Glory turned, and caught Marta’s gaze. She smiled at her- figuratively, as Glory’s smiles so rarely made it to her mouth- and in the dim morning light her eyes glinted like lit coals. “Good morning,” Glory murmured, the warmth in her voice pricking Marta’s heart like a fishhook. “G- Good morning,” Marta returned. The flush across her cheeks was twofold; first, from the blissful thought of simply waking up to Glory, and second, from the embarrassment of such a little thing getting her so flustered. Glory held Marta’s gaze for a long moment. Their eyes glinted in the firelight, brown and amber edged with red, the mark of the Horned King’s influence lingering on them both. Marta swallowed. Even before the surgery, Glory had a habit of staring right through her... “Mornin’,” David chimed in, oblivious, and Marta exhaled, quietly grateful. “Good morning, David,” Marta smiled. She lifted her pendant, the icon of Venus, and slipped it around her neck. “What are we having?” “Breakfast! ...Sort of!” David announced, with something almost, but not quite, resembling pride. “We’ve got eggs, sort of, and uh, sausage, sort of. And potatoes. Those are real. I’m like… ninety percent sure.” “I don’t know if I like those odds,” Marta teased. David made a face. He held out the skillet and Glory dropped in a handful of chopped potatoes, hissing as they hit the pan. “Come on,” David protested. “Doesn’t that just smell delicious?” “Well. I mean...” “It certainly smells.” “Thank you, Glory. That’s… that’s real helpful.” ~*~ For all their needling, in the end, David really could make a halfway decent batch of skillet potatoes. Although, next time, he’d prop up the grate a little higher for better temperature control… and maybe put the potatoes in first, so they have time to get tender before the eggs start to burn. It was still miles better than soy jerky and string cheese, although, admittedly, that wasn’t a very high bar. Marta sat back and sighed, satisfyingly full. Glory and David were both poking at their PDAs; Glory, studying her screen and scribbling notes into a pocket notebook; David, his eyes darting quizzically between his PDA, the still-warm skillet on his lap, a spatula, and a little box of coarse salt. For one reason or another, Marta found herself smiling. It had been a hectic few days. To simply enjoy a meal with friends, old and new, felt comfortingly domestic and mundane. That is, until David snapped to attention. He jumped up and pressed his ear against the wall, the skillet falling off his lap and hitting the floor with a thud. “What-” Glory began. “Get down,” David hissed. Marta dropped flat, her pendant clanging against the floorboards. Glory followed suit. David crouched by the wall, his hand hovering over his thigh holster. Marta felt the rumbling along the ground. She exhaled, sliding into astral space. She saw Glory beside her, a shadow threaded with green, and David by the door, his aura glimmering gold, urgent, attentive. She saw them- a cluster of glowing red, ambling past like a meteor in slow motion. She felt the weight of their tires on the pavement, the rumble of engines. Marta exhaled, vision snapping back to reality. “Two vehicles,” David reported, peering out the window. “Red pickup, then a big white van. Probably driving slow ‘cuz of the fog. Gone now.” David exhaled, returning to his spot at the folding camp bed they were all using as a table. “Sorry, guys,” David said. “False alarm. Probably.” “Better safe,” Glory shrugged, returning to her notes. David glanced at Marta and Glory, looking up from his PDA’s extranet article on how to clean a cast iron skillet when you don’t have access to running water. “You know,” he began, shaking some coarse salt onto the pan and starting to scrape, “I’d meant to ask this earlier, before the, y’know, stuck-in-a-burning-building thing. But how did you two meet?” Marta and Glory shared a look. “It’s a long story,” Marta offered. “We’ve got time,” David said. “We met through Harrow,” Glory said. Her eyes were flinty and hard. “That’s all you need to know.” David withered under Glory’s stare. Eventually, Glory exhaled, tucking her PDA into a coat pocket and rising to her feet. “I’m taking a walk,” she announced icily, slipping out the back door. An uncomfortable quiet settled between them. Marta cleared her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said. “No, I’m sorry,” David muttered. He set the pan aside, half-finished. “It’s a touchy subject. I probably shouldn’t pry.” “That ‘touchy subject’ is the foundation of this whole trip,” Marta said. “I’m just a bodyguard,” David shrugged. “...Who, admittedly, just let his primary walk off into the woods without him. But still. Glory doesn’t have to answer my questions.” “No,” Marta pressed. “If you’re going to help Glory in this hunt- if you’re going to follow her into Hell- then you deserve to know exactly who you’re after and what you’re getting into.” David considered that. Swallowed. Nodded. “Alright,” he said. “Fair enough. So… how did you two meet?” Marta let out a long, tired sigh. “It feels like a lifetime ago…” ~*~ Marta told David everything. Haltingly at first, then all at once, like a handful of misplaced pebbles triggering a landslide. How she first joined the cult as a teenager, sucked in by Harrow’s looks, his charm, his bright lure of freedom, the promise of independence from an unjust, uncaring society. How he put her to work, combing the streets for kids who’d be open to what Harrow had to say- and how, over time, they’d hang on to his every word. She told him about how they touched up an abandoned hunting lodge in the Schonbuch Forest and transformed it into Der Feuerstelle, The Fireplace, Harrow’s compound and castle. She told him about what she became: a face of the cult, recruiter, kidnapper, a den mother to the acolytes, a wife to Harrow himself. Harrow made her dye her hair fire-red, as a symbol of her status. She was favored among the cult; Harrow’s queen and right hand. All this time, Harrow hadn’t resorted to using dark magic to control his followers. He lured them and kept them, with words alone. Harrow’s poisonous charisma was enough to utterly consume Marta’s thoughts. She was obsessed. Poisoned by his words. Addicted to his body. And then, on a routine scouting sweep for potential recruits, Marta found Glory. Glory was homeless. Penniless. Young. Vulnerable. Beautiful. That’s what Marta thought. She couldn’t let someone so beautiful simply starve on the street. So Marta reached out her hand… and Der Feuerstelle swallowed Glory up. Over time, the influence of The Horned King began to grow. Little changes piled up over time, little things that went unnoticed in the haze of Harrow’s worship. His iconography spread throughout the house, in etchings, wood carvings, decorations on the shelves, the walls, the mantelpiece in the lounge. Antlers everywhere. Antlers and flames. Der Feuerstelle might have been Harrow’s house, but it was The Horned King who truly reigned. The daemon’s presence was intoxicating. Harrow’s followers hung on his every word, and leapt at the chance to please him, no matter what his demands. Petty theft. Robbery. Arson. Kidnapping. Assault. It didn’t matter. Harrow spoke, and his disciples obeyed. He was the king of Der Feuerstelle. A narcissistic criminal whose pockets swelled with blood money while lovestruck addicts clawed at his feet. And Marta was the one who gave Glory the invitation. Marta was Glory’s gateway drug. Glory was special. She climbed the ranks much as Marta did, and soon found herself counted among Harrow’s inner circle. Glory commanded respect from the acolytes, and soon became charged with carrying out Harrow’s will on expeditions outside the lodge. If Marta was the matriarch, then Glory was the muscle. Together, they formed the pillars of the household. But then something went wrong. Glory went out on an expedition and never came back. And with Glory missing, Harrow’s influence began to crack. No one knew why Glory had suddenly disappeared; or if they did, no one was saying anything. Some of Harrow’s followers proposed that they search for Glory, Marta foremost among them. But there was no search. Harrow set aside a room of the lodge, placed a shining stone on an altar and declared the room off-limits. And, just like that, the whispers of dissent grew silent. “I don’t remember much after that,” Marta said, her expression clouded. “There’s just a heat, and this stinging feeling, like smoke getting into your eyes. Anyway. A year ago, Glory returned to Feuerstelle with a shadowrunner named Poplar. They purified the spirit that Harrow had press-ganged. That snapped me out of my… trance, I guess. They broke us out; me and the kids that were still around. Glory went back to Berlin. I went to join the Sisters. And, well. You know the rest.” David sat, pensive, his fingers steepled. Marta watched him, wary. She was waiting for the judgment; waiting for the surprise, the outrage, anything. She was waiting, anxiously, for David to react to the years of messy, damning history she’d all-but-vomited onto his lap. She was waiting for him to berate her; to call her stupid, gullible, desperate, foolish. He didn’t say any of that. He didn’t say anything; only met Marta’s eyes in the dark, and kept his maddening quiet. David opened his mouth, as if to say something. Marta leaned forward, expectant. David slumped in his seat. He closed his mouth and heaved a sigh. “Man…” David’s caught Marta’s gaze. “That’s some fucked up shit.” Marta barked a laugh, despite everything. “...Yeah. I’m- I’m sorry to just dump that on you all at once. I just thought you needed to know.” David smiled. “It’s fine. For your part, I think you needed to tell it.” Marta grinned in return. David was right. In her time at the abbey, she’d only divulged her checkered past as a cult matriarch in bits and pieces, hiding behind imperfect memory and ambiguity. There was something truly refreshing about being able to lay the truth bare. She’d known David for scarcely a day, but Marta thought he could be a friend. He made for a decent enough confessor, at any rate. Marta shivered. Marta wasn’t sure what she’d expected David to say, but he’d taken her impromptu honesty hour completely in stride. Her anxiety left her in sighs, in smiles, only lingering in the tips of her fingers. “What about you?” Marta asked, shuffling her Tarot deck if only to occupy her restless hands. “What’s your story?” “Well, shit,” David shrugged. “I don’t have anything like all that. Honestly, I’m kinda boring. Even my aura’s boring. You can read me, if you want.” “Can I, really?” “Yeah. No skin off my nose.” Marta exhaled, sliding into astral space. David’s aura unfurled before her, a pale, smoky gray, threaded with luminescent gold. His magical potential coiled around him like smoke, only coalescing into two distinct spells: the ability to heal minor wounds, and the ability to sharpen one’s aim. Even these two spells didn’t crystallize in his aura like they would a professional, textbook mage. Self-taught, then. Intuitive. Adaptive. He could be an Air magus in the making, if he could get the proper training. “I’m nothing special,” David was saying, as Marta returned to realspace. “I’ve got a few drops of magic in me, but that’s never paid my bills. I never had any real aptitude for book learning, but I’m in decent shape, and I’ve got decent aim, so I went for a career in CorpSec. I was there almost ten years. I was even on track for a position at Knight Errant. But…” “But?” David let out a breath. “...I quit.” Marta blinked. “Why?” “I don’t know,” David shrugged. “It just sort of… happened. That’s when I went freelance, and moved to Halcyon City. I packed up my gear, my coat, my car, and tried to make it on my own.” David smiled, rueful. “It didn’t work out as well as I hoped. I was broke for a while. But there weren’t so many contracts, and there wasn’t as much fine print and corporate PR to sift through. So that was a plus. And, well… I got by. More or less.” Marta nodded. “So how did you meet Glory?” “Glory saved my life,” David said softly. He broke into a grin. “Well, more like she spared my life. I was on a job, guarding some little cabin in the woods. Easy money, standing on a porch and taking in the air. Turns out I should’ve looked into my client more carefully. They were there laying the groundwork for a Firepact cell.” Marta cringed. “...Yikes.” “Yeah, ‘yikes’,” David snorted. “So imagine my surprise when Glory charges out of the woods to kick our goddamn teeth in. Blows out a guy’s chest with a high caliber revolver round. Uses her claws to tear two other guys to shreds. Only spared me, I can imagine, because I asked nicely- in other words, begging and damn near pissing myself. I still wound up getting kicked into a tree because I said something stupid. Blacked out for a bit. When I came to, she was gone.” David shook his head. “Just left bodies behind.” “I’m sorry,” Marta said. “Don’t be too sorry,” David said. “Sergeant Castor was alright, but the other two guys were dicks. Besides, we were rent-a-cops. Mercenaries. Mercs who make it to retirement are one in a million.” Marta nodded. She shuffled her Tarot deck, somber. “Anyway,” David said, breezing past. “I ran into Glory again on another job. That night, if you can believe it. Long story short: she saved my life for real, that time. And then she offered me a job. As her bodyguard, which, y’know, only gets more laughable the more I see her fight.” “Still,” Marta smiled in gratitude. “I’m glad you were with her, even for a little bit. With how much danger she’s been in, with who knows many people coming after her… I hate the thought of Glory facing that alone.” “But she’s not alone, is she?” David asked. “She has you.” Marta’s Tarot deck slipped from her fingers. Her cards scattered across the floor, a flush coloring her cheeks. “That’s…” Marta bristled, crossing her arms across her chest. “...I don’t know what you mean by that.” “Oh boy,” David sighed. He started gathering up the fallen cards. “Look. I’m sorry. I know it’s none of my business. But, if you’d like my unsolicited opinion-” “Which I don’t.” “-I think you should tell her.” Marta’s expression softened. She sighed, picking cards up off the floor. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Marta murmured. “I think you two are adults,” David said, “and it’s better to have stuff like this out in the open instead of letting it keep you in knots.” David handed her his pile of cards. Marta took them, muttering muted thanks. David sighed. He reached out, snagging one last card that had slipped under the cot they were using as a table. “Why did you go with Glory?” Marta asked. “Honestly? A job is a job,” David admitted. “Nothing personal. But it’s personal for you, and for Glory, too. I don’t know this Harrow guy, but he sounds like a real scumbag. He sounds like he deserves every bit of karma coming his way. So if I can help you guys make that happen, I will. In the meantime, I’ll be happy just getting by.” “That’s all?” Marta wondered. “If you just wanted to make a living, you could have stayed in CorpSec. I’m sure that’d be a more comfortable life. If you stay here, you’ll be a fugitive. Is that what you want?” David shrugged. “You could’ve stayed with the Sisters, helped Sister Shelley rebuild the church. The Firepact’s gunning for Glory. Once she left the city, you’d have been safe- now you’re a fugitive, too. Why did you stay?” “Glory’s my-” Marta bit her lip. “...friend. I couldn’t let her do this alone. But you don’t know her, David. The Firepact is dangerous. What if you get hurt? What if you get killed? You don’t owe her anything.” “Yes, I do,” David said. “She saved my life, remember?” “I just…” Marta sighed. “I just don’t want you to die for her.” “Wouldn’t you?” Marta paused. She looked at the floor, shuffling her Tarot deck. “I’m a mercenary, Marta,” David said softly. “I know the numbers. Chances are I won’t retire. I could die working in CorpSec, or for Knight Errant, or as a freelancer. I could die, no matter who my boss is. But what Glory’s trying to do… I don’t know. I want to do this. This feels like something big. Something important. I haven’t known her as long as you have, but I know she’s someone worth following. Even into Hell.” Marta nodded. David handed her the card that had fallen under the table. She held it up to the light- an eight-spoked wheel, so like a compass, with no mortal hand to guide it. The Wheel of Fortune. Circumstance. Change. The hands of fate, spinning out of mortal control. “I don’t think Glory needs a bodyguard,” David said. “But I think she needs you.” Marta took a deep breath. She swallowed. Nodded. “Thank you,” she breathed. “I’ll-” Marta paused as a strong breeze buffeted the cabin, carrying the scent of coming rain. The back door swayed open. A figure slipped inside before the door closed again, a shadow in the dim light. Glory. “You’re back,” Marta blinked. “Where did you go?” Glory decided not to disclose that she had briefly stepped outside to escape bad memories, and then been promptly preoccupied by a stray cat that was wandering through the undergrowth. “I got distracted,” Glory said flatly. “Now’s not the time. Get down. Mr. Wen, the road.” Marta tucked away her Tarot deck and fell flat onto her stomach. David crept up to the window and peeked outside. They could hear it; the sound of engines, of tires creaking over pavement. The sound grew louder, got closer, before it faded into the distance. “Damn it,” David muttered. “Two vehicles. Red pickup. White van. Damn well the same ones from before.” “Pack your things,” Glory ordered. “We’ve stayed here too long.” ~*~ The rain came, haltingly at first, then all at once. It came down in fat, wet drops, turning the ground into mire in a matter of minutes. Marta, for her part, was untouched by rain. Since abandoning the Horned King as the source of her magic, her affinity for water meant she didn’t have to worry about getting wet. A bubble of Marta’s magic kept the driving rain at bay. David and Glory were grateful; but they still weren’t too comfortable, perched as they were in the boughs of a tree. “Four guys on foot,” David reported, squinting through his rifle scope. “Hunting dogs. Five, maybe six. There’s something up with their eyes. A glow, like fire. So, I’m guessing hellhounds.” “Fun,” Glory muttered. “The rain will cover our sound and our scent,” Marta chimed in. “It’s not too late for us to just give them the slip. We can circle behind them, get back to the car, and get out of here before they make it back to their vans.” “No,” Glory shook her head. “We slip away now, they’ll just be back on us later. We stop this tonight.” Glory turned, her eyes glinting in the dim light. “Marta, can you shroud this location?” “Yes,” Marta nodded, “but the dogs are magically active. They’ll sense us hiding, even if they can’t see us.” “The shroud will still keep the hunters from getting a shot off,” Glory said. She dropped to the ground with a splash, flicking out her hand razors. “Stay here,” Glory said, glancing up at Marta. “Stay safe. This shouldn’t take long.” “But-” “Don’t worry about me,” Glory smiled in her eyes, not quite reaching her mouth. “Just stay close to David until we get this over with.” Marta opened her mouth, then closed it again. She sighed. “...Alright.” “Mr. Wen? The dogs, if you please.” “You got it, boss.” Marta took a deep breath and sighed. Pale blue power gathered at her fingertips and coalesced in a glyph around the base of their tree, hiding them from view. David shouldered his rifle and swept his aim, while Glory turned, coat-tails flaring in the wind, and strode out into the storm… ~*~ Two hunters picked their way through the mud and the muck, rifles tucked under their arms, cheap plastic ponchos flapping in the wind. Their pack of hunting dogs had vanished ahead of them into the woods. With the fog, and the pounding rain, if not for their incessant barking, they would’ve lost track of them already. “Shitty day for a hunt,” one of them muttered, boots sloshing through the sodden undergrowth. “Pay’s gonna be worth it,” his partner replied. “The boys are gonna have steak tomorrow.” “Yeah, and if the fuckin’ dogs are having steak, imagine what we’ll have,” the first hunter grinned. “We’ll have some fancy shit wrapped in gold foil. Whassat called? Pheasant.” “Man, there ain’t no pheasant ‘round here. They’re in, like, China.” “We’ll import it, then. We’ll have the money-” An explosion rocked the woods, and the two hunters snapped to attention, their rifles shouldered, peering through their scopes and into the dark. The edges of a red-hot fireball curled into the air, rising above the trees. Seconds later, it happened again: a sharp bang, like a grenade going off, and a curl of flame and smoke. “D’you see ‘em?” the hunter hissed, urgent. “Man, I don’t see a damn thing.” And he really couldn’t. In the dark, and the fog, and the rain, there was nothing in those woods but the glow of distant fires and the shadow in the trees. Movement. Splashing footsteps, flashing steel- The hunter went rigid, reaching for his throat, fingertips hooked and numb. His blood fountained into the air in a ghastly mist, damped down by the rain. His partner swiveled and took his shot. Strong hands jerked his rifle up, and he fired over the phantom’s shoulder. The butt of his rifle slammed back into his sternum, the impact jarring it from his grip. It swung up and cracked him in the chin. He fell to one knee, and had his neck broken by a home-run swing. Glory dropped the rifle in the mud and kept on running. ~*~ The hellhound was huge, by dog standards. It was an English mastiff before its Awakening, already one of the biggest dog breeds out there. But when its spark ignited, its dormant magic transformed it into a beast- a three-foot tall battering ram, corded with muscle, glowing with magma beneath its skin. In realspace, it was a shadow through the trees, only given away by its eyes, smoldering like hot coals. In astral space, its aura, fire-red, blazed like a torch. Three rifle rounds punched into its body and cut its thread, its aura going dark. In realspace, its body did the opposite- it exploded in a huge, bright ball of fire and cooked meat, its volatile metabolism erupting in some catastrophic, arcane reaction. David exhaled, adjusting his scope. He slid back into astral space, hunting for targets, seeking the bright lights in the charcoal dark. “Is it always like this?” Marta asked from her perch, while David fired another aimed burst that set a hellhound off like a bomb. “You watching from a distance, while Glory’s out there, in the thick of things?” “In theory,” David said. He dropped another distant hellhound, its dying explosion throwing up mud and steam. “I mean, I’ve only been working for her for, like, four days. But that’s the plan. More or less.” “I see.” David glanced back at her, his vision sliding back into realspace. Marta was a shadow beside him, stricken and pale in the dim, misted light. “...Hey. She’s gonna be fine,” David said gently. He clicked out his empty rifle magazine, reaching into his coat for a fresh one. “You’ve seen Glory fight, haven’t you? She’s a monster. She can take care of herself.” “I know,” Marta murmured. “I just… wish she didn’t have to.” Marta suddenly grabbed David’s arm. He looked up, sliding a new magazine into his rifle. “What is it?” David wondered. Marta didn’t know. But she could feel it. A tremor at the edge of her aura. A distortion. A whistling- Marta kicked off the branch she was standing on and shoved David off his perch. Three magical bolts slammed into her and exploded in a plume of flame. ~*~ Glory ducked behind a tree an instant before a high-powered round tore a chunk out of the wood. She drew her revolver and coiled out of cover, firing into the dark. Two shots blew out chips of tree bark. The third yanked the hunter off his feet like a bad actor being pulled off stage. A bolt of magic exploded against the tree beside her, gutting its trunk in a burst of flame. The tree toppled over in a cloud of sparks and splinters, nearly severed at the waist. Glory ducked out of the path of the falling tree, only to spot a hellhound bearing down on her, charging through the mud. Fire gathered in its mouth, trailing embers in its wake. Glory spun around the bolt of magic the hellhound vomited in her direction. It seared past the small of her back and exploded against a tree behind her. The hound leapt at her, and Glory followed through with a spinning kick that pancaked the beast against a tree trunk. Glory shot it in the chest. It exploded against the tree, its arcane metabolism igniting like a firework. Glory jerked to the side, spun by torque. A hellhound’s jaws clamped around her wrist. Its weight and momentum wrenched her arm around, the heavy impact forcing her to the ground. Glory cried out in pain as she hit the muddy ground. She rolled to her feet, shaking her arm, but the beast had sunk its teeth into her augmetic musculature and would not let go. Glory grimaced and plunged her claws into its heart. The beast glowed white, and then exploded in her face. Glory dragged herself up out of the mud, dizzy with pain and fatigue. She clutched her stricken arm to her chest, the augmetics straining. An organic arm, she knew, would have been broken and dislocated, or worse. In the distance, Glory heard the frenzied barking of more hellhounds. Just how many of these damn things were there? “David, I need you to take care of these dogs,” Glory said into her comm. Glory coughed, gagging on soot. She tapped her commlink. “David?” ~*~ David hit the ground with a splash, his ears ringing. He should’ve known. The first rule of astral space is if you can see them, they can see you. And Marta was a Mage, more powerful than he was by a country mile. No wonder they’d be drawn to- “Marta,” David breathed, falling to his knees beside her. Marta was sprawled on the muddy ground, haloed by the burning skeleton of the tree beside them. For someone caught in an explosion, she was remarkably, surprisingly intact. Marta coughed, and blinked, her vision settling. She sat up in David’s grasp, the shimmering traces of a pale blue barrier lingering in the air around them. Her fingertips brushed against the icon of Venus hanging from her neck. “Thank you, Hecate,” Marta smiled. David blinked. “Who?” Marta abruptly pulled David behind her, her fingertips shining blue. A dozen bolts of fire sailed through the air towards them. At Marta’s command, a wall of water rose up to meet them. They struck the barrier and exploded into wisps of steam. Through the swirling water of Marta’s barrier, they could see the pack approaching: another half dozen hellhounds, their handlers undoubtedly close behind. The pickup truck and the white van from before. The ones that had passed their cabin twice. It hadn’t been the same ones, after all; there were two teams. Two hunting parties. And just because they managed to get the drop on the first one didn’t mean they were ready for the second. David swore under his breath. He shouldered his waterlogged rifle, misfired, and swore again. “Marta,” David began, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. The pack was closing in. “Can you gather all the water on the ground into one big puddle, deep enough that the hellhounds can’t just run through it? And can you do that while making sure the two of us stay totally dry?” Marta swallowed. Nodded. “I think so. Why?” David drew his pistol and racked the slide, a soft blue glow coming from the base of the grip. “No reason.” Glyphs traced themselves in the air around Marta’s hands. Magic thrummed in the air, the rain and water around them standing to attention, heeding her silent voice. Six hellhounds broke through the treeline. They charged forward in a frenzy, jaws trailing spittle and embers, scenting Marta’s magic in the air like blood in water. Marta’s wave surged around their feet. Their charge slowed to a trot, then a crawl, and finally, a paddle, as the water rose around them and they couldn’t simply run on through. The wave held them, halted in their tracks. In a circle around David and Marta’s feet, the soil became parched and pale. David fired. The gel-tipped phasic rounds burst as they struck the surface of Marta’s wave. Azure lightning cascaded through the pool, surging into the pack of hunting dogs. They shivered, convulsed, and went still, weeping smoke and steam from their singed bodies. Marta exhaled, and released her hold on the wave. The water receded back into the muddy earth, and for a moment, the only sound was the patter of rain. David turned to her and grinned. The rifle round punched through his chest in a spray of red. David staggered took two halting steps forward. Marta caught him in her arms, fear rooting her in place. She stared down at the ragged hole in the back of his coat, looked up and saw the shadow in the trees. The spent shell fell by the hunter’s foot. He slid the bolt back in place, took aim- His shot exploded off of Glory’s shoulder in a burst of chipped ceramite and sparking metal. She let the force of the shot spin her around. She drew her revolver, took aim, and fired. ~*~ Their healing power merged together, the scent of honeysuckle and tilled earth mingling with that of seafoam and rain. David gasped awake, coughing. He sat up too fast, clutching his head when the dizziness hit him. He groaned, prodding at the frayed hole in his shirt and the unbroken skin beneath. “Oh, man,” David muttered. “If I had a nickel…” “You’d have two nickels,” Glory said. “Three if you count the stun round,” David smiled, despite everything. Glory helped David to his feet with her good arm, clutching the other to her chest. Already, the soft green glow of the Heart’s healing power was coiling like climbing ivy around the damaged limb. He glanced behind her, to where Marta was lingering close at hand. “Everyone alright?” David asked. “Compared to you?” Marta asked. “Fair.” David shrugged. “Come on,” Glory said. “There’s something you should see.” David made his way over to the last of the fallen hunters, leaning on Marta for support. The hunter was lying in a puddle, bleeding out from a shot to his stomach courtesy of Glory. Blood darkened the mud around him. The man lifted his head and glowered at the trio. David’s lips curled in disgust. “You shot my dogs, boy,” Mr. Wilk spat. “Well, you shot me,” David grumbled. “So I guess we’re even.” David searched for the tell-tale glint of fire in Mr. Wilk’s eyes, but found nothing. He exhaled. “He wasn’t enthralled,” Glory said flatly. “None of them were. If they were, the Rose Compass would have sensed something, before.” David gritted his teeth. “Every man has his price,” David said, his voice cold. “Don’t you judge me, boy,” Mr. Wilk said, pulling himself up to his elbows. “I’m just a man trying to make a living. To provide for his family. You’re a mercenary too, boy, or did you forget? A job is a job. You would’ve done the same.” “Would I?” David asked. He reached into the mud and pulled out Mr. Wilk’s hunting rifle. He examined the scope, drew back the bolt, then slid it back into place. For a moment, Marta thought David might shoot him. Instead, David simply slipped the rifle into a canvas sleeve on his back and walked away. “...Little vulture,” Mr. Wilk spat, indignant. “Business expense,” Glory shrugged. She turned and left him there in the mud, Marta following at her heels.   ~*~ The rain cleared, but the mood stayed sour. They drove just long enough to put their encounter with the hunting party behind them, before they stopped and found somewhere to make camp. David, normally the most talkative of the three, was quiet the whole way. When they stopped to make camp, he disappeared into the tent and fell asleep almost immediately. Driving must have worn him out, Marta thought. That, or being shot in the back just a few hours before. Marta sat on an uncomfortably moist log, shuffling her Tarot deck to steady her fingers. Briefly, she considered using her magic to dry it out. But after summoning that wave against the charge of hellhounds, re-casting the concealment spell on David’s car, and, most importantly, subconsciously shielding herself from that explosion… Marta sighed. She was spent; magically, physically, mentally. But when Glory took a seat beside her, her heart still skipped a beat. “I can keep watch,” Glory said, flexing her still-recovering arm. “You should get some rest. That tent is really only big enough for two, anyway.” “I’m okay,” Marta said. “Suit yourself.” Marta exhaled, gazing up at the sky. The clouds were clearing, and the moon was shining through. “So this is what you do?” Marta asked quietly. “This is what you’ve been doing, for all this time?” “Yeah. More or less.” Marta shuffled her Tarot deck, her fingers still trembling. “All this… danger. All this fear, and bloodshed. And for what? Nothing. Nothing but your own survival.” “Sometimes surviving is the best you can do,” Glory said, her eyes distant. “I can’t believe this,” Marta said. “All this time, while I’ve been at the abbey growing tomatoes and ladling out soup for the homeless, you’ve been fighting. You’ve been getting back at the Firepact, punishing them for what they did to you. For what…” Marta swallowed hard. “...for what I did to you.” Glory shook her head. “It wasn’t you. It was the daemon.” “Not in the beginning,” Marta pressed. “I fell for Harrow. No magic involved. I ate up his lies. And then I turned around and did the same thing to you.” Glory exhaled through her nose, staring blankly ahead. Her silence was agonizing. “Glory,” Marta asked, her throat tight. “Do you… hate me?” Glory took a deep breath. “A little,” Glory admitted. The words turned Marta’s insides to ice. “If you had never found me on the street, I wouldn’t be where I am now. I wouldn’t be hunting Harrow down, fighting off Firepact assassins at every step. I wouldn’t even have these,” Glory said, holding up her cyber-arms. “...So… yes. Part of me hates you. A small part. I can’t not, after everything that’s happened.” Marta’s voice was tight. “...I understand.” “But,” Glory continued, “I’m glad you’re safe. I’m glad you’re here with me, Marta. And I’m glad you got out.” “You got me out,” Marta whispered. “You broke me free of Harrow’s control. You saved those kids. You saved me. I…” Marta hesitated. “...I love you for that.” Glory stiffened. She fixed her gaze straight ahead, letting out a sigh. “...I think…” Glory said, choosing each word carefully. “...you may be confusing adrenaline for some other emotion.” She reached out, placing a hand over Marta’s. Beneath her cool touch, Marta’s shaking hands stilled. She exhaled, idly drawing the card from the top of the stack. A woman, bearing a sword in one hand and a set of scales in another, a blindfold around her eyes. Justice is blind. But so is love. It was the sign she needed. The courage she couldn’t find. “I love you, Glory,” Marta breathed. “I love you now, and I loved you then.” “What we had with Harrow was not love,” Glory warned. “I know,” Marta said. “He got in our heads, poisoned us to worship him- but what we had was real. What we had was not the daemon’s doing. We’re not the same people we were before. We can try again.” Glory heaved a sigh, squeezing Marta’s hand in hers. “Do you really believe that, Marta?” Their eyes met in the dark- brown and amber, ringed with red- both of them touched by fire, but neither one consumed. There was still some blood flecked on Glory's cheek, light enough that one might hope they were freckles. Marta didn't care. None of that mattered right now. Marta summoned the last of her courage. She traced a fingertip down Glory’s cheek and curled her hand beneath her chin. “Believe this,” Marta whispered. They were so close. They were haloed in moonlight; wreathed in rain. All that lay between them was just an inch of indecision. And very soon after, not even that. ~*~